When men interrupt me
When men interrupt me
This month was the first month in years that I was able to pay all my bills on time (thanks to two jobs, some temp work, lower rent and foodstamps), and I almost cried from the happiness of finally living just a little further from the brink of financial catastrophe.
But the state of Israel was not created for the salvation of the Jews; it was created for the salvation of Western interests. This is what is becoming clear (I must say it was always clear to me). The Palestinians have been paying for the British colonial policy of ‘divide and rule’ and for Europe’s guilty Christian conscience for more than thirty years…The collapse of the Shah not only revealed the depth of pious Carter’s concern for ‘human rights,’ it also revealed who supplied oil to Israel, and to whom Israel supplied arms. It happened to be, to spell it out, white South Africa.James Baldwin (via redplebeian)
When I receive an unexpected $273 check in the mail
When I try to make an impression in the duderific social theory department
When I hit send on the grant application at the same moment I realize there’s a major typo in the cover letter
There’s so many things one could say about today’s amazing counterprotest against a “Stand With Israel” demonstration and impromptu march and die-in in support of Palestine—the incredibly public support for one thing—here in Chicago
but I’ll just state for now, that with absolutely no sense of the irony, the police gave the pro-apartheid demonstration use of the whole street while confining us by force to a narrow strip against a ten foot tall wall, and when the zionists came up to attack us, we were the ones who got blockaded with horses.
#FreePalestine #FreeGaza #BoycottApartheid
When in the middle of the Sunday grocery store rush, a woman makes me manually enter all the UPCs because she doesn’t want me to expose her food to lasers
Anonymous said: My family fled marxism after finally being allowed to leave the country in 1979. Your disregard for the triggers of others, with trademark uncaring and crypto-fascistic nature of a M*rx*st, suggests that you are indeed one. Rot in hell.
I am also from a so-called “Communist” state. We didn’t flee Marxism, we fled violence and terror and repression (which, unsurprisingly, didn’t end at the “Iron Curtain”). I totally understand triggers. I have them myself. But you’re asking me to not talk about ideas, about politics. You don’t have to follow my blog, you don’t have to follow me. But don’t try and monopolize the experience of violence and repression, because you’re not the only one who has been there.
As for my position on triggers and trigger warnings, please see http://www.psmag.com/navigation/health-and-behavior/hazards-ahead-problem-trigger-warnings-according-research-81946/ which I think outlines some major issues with using them. Additionally, triggers can be innocuous—a certain smell, being touched a certain way. There’s no way to guard against all of them for everyone, and honestly, I don’t think it gets in any meaningful way at the experience of trauma. I know that there is debate around this, but I’m still yet to have my mind changed on the question.
“Most difficult moment for a father:
split his children in all corners of the house
or all in one corner
and die together?”
I’m walking and a man says, “If the Palestinians would just love their children more than they hate their enemy, the violence would be over.”
If only they would love their children.
If only they had chosen the four corners
(so they would die)
or kept them in the middle
(so they would die).
If only they would have brought four-day old Noura back to life.
If only they would kiss their children’s dead mouths and breathe life into them.
If only they would raise their arms to the sun to block the bombs with the palms of their hands.
If only they would dry the rivers of blood in the streets and pour them back into the hearts of their daughters and sons.
Why don’t they?
Why can’t they just pull out their own lungs and stick them into their slaughtered children’s chests?
Why can’t they just sing, 24 hours a day, louder than thunder, to prevent their ears from hearing the sound of bombs?
If only they would love their children, and carry their bodies up into the air, above the siege, past the blockade, into freedom.
If the Al-Batsh boys’ parents had really loved them,
they wouldn’t have let their insides be wrenched apart by the bomb that fell.
They would use their hands to hold their limbs together so that they could stay in one piece.
If only they would stop the vibrations which create sound,
the sound which crashes and bleeds through their children’s ears.
If only they would stop all light from traveling, so that their children wouldn’t have to see their sisters, cousins, fathers, brothers.
Dead on the floor.
Their house turning to rubble.
Their family turning to dust.
Their family turning to nothing.
Their world disappearing.
And why doesn’t their love sustain their children more than food?
Heal the wounds from the weapons?
They had seconds to leave before the bombing began.
They should have thrown their children out the window,
knowing they would take flight
with the wings their love had created.
If only they loved Mohammed, Ahed, Zakaria and Mohammed
to rise above their soccer game and change
the magnetic forces of the Earth,
to pull away the bomb,
headed for the beach.