The Fire Has Started

Published on by Lisa Category: Feminism


In 17 days, I will be leaving for two months to study, research, and write in the Philippines, my parents homeland and the mysterious keeper of a large portion of my identity.  I enrolled and was accepted into the Philippine Studies Program where I will be an independent researcher studying transnational feminism, solidarity, post colonial feminism, and the impact of westernized concepts of human rights on developing countries.

That’s my academic reason.
My main reason is to go home, to find home, find me.
This trip is not a vacation, it’s not an immersion program, it’s a transformative leap of faith.  I’ve never been to the Philippines and I am preparing for an experience that will lift me and my writing to an unprecedented state of clarity.
I was in New York this past weekend for a conference on Filipino activism and social justice and also for my orientation.  Taking the 7 train to Queens, I walked into the Filipino Community Center.  The sounds of Tagalog and the smell of the nearby Philippine bakery descended upon my senses and I breathed in what felt familiar.  New York, sometimes, is pure magic in its offerings to both lose and find yourself.  Magic, I tell you, it’s magic.
The day was as I imagined – hopeful, awesome, delayed, and running 2 hours behind.  But the spirit, the Sandiwa, the strength of the Filipino activists is alive, strong, and compelling.  I’ve never been introduced to so many womyn who looked so much like me in my life.  I met Pinays who I could have sworn I’ve met in previous lives; other Filipino American womyn who have yearned for something for which there is no word – something in between a sense of belonging and a feeling of fire.  That is what I experienced n Saturday.
I’ve lived my life on knife.  Split by the color of my skin and the color of my environment.  I’ve only known existence on the periphery, and difference, and listening to mostly White folks tell me about their lives.  And rules and concerns.  It’s time for something Else. It’s time to understand what “my people” means to me and how I plan on living, existing, and writing my feminism into transparency so there are no secrets, misunderstandings or shame.
I am so proud, and excited, and in love.
My objective, my goals for this trip are simple – to examine the deepest unknown parts of my identity and strengthen my purpose in my writing, activism, and fight.
I hope to share with you what I find along the way.
In Solidarity –
In Peace,
Sudy

New Edition, New Kids on the Block, Feminism, Ageism

Published on by Lisa Category: Feminism

Trust me, there’s a connection.

Like many 25-35 year olds out there, I was a Blockhead.  A blockhead, for those that don’t know are fans of the 80s group New Kids on the Block who caused many a sleepless night back when I was a TeenBeat, TigerBeat, Bopper, YM, and 17 magazine reader.  NKOTB was a phenomenon.  My sister and I bought the buttons that were the size of a small child’s head, t-shirts, jackets, posters, dolls, towels and taped (!) every performance they had on non-cable telly.  We were completely out of control.  I was eleven.  And nuts.
When life rolled forward and Grunge swept through, then Alternative, Latin pop, and then Dave Matthews, I grew up.  Thanks to YouTube, I still enjoy my NKOTB fix and my iTunes collection is more Hip/Hop, Folk, Soundtrack, and Indie, than pop and candy.
NKOTB recently announced their reunion, plans for a new album, and upcoming tour.  My sister and I are surely going to attend my fourth, her sixth, NKOTB concert.  (Damn, why did I throw away my MC Hammer pants that I wore in ’88?)  And in thinking about how young I was then, I began thinking about what’s changed besides my plans to move to Boston to marry Jordan Knight.
In those archaic tapes in storage, I have more footage of NKOTB than I’d care to admit, and it’s only now that I can fully process a critical detail in the make-up of my favorite coming-of-age band.  . Their producer and manager, Maurice Starr, was also the producer for New Edition, the early sensation group that held Bobby Brown, Ralph Tresvant, Johnny Gill and the others who later became Bell, Biv, DeVoe.
It never occurred to me that Maurice Starr openly admitted that after New Edition he went to form a group with the exact same model –  five kids from Boston (Johnny Gill was a non-Bostonian and was a replacement for Bobby Brown) who could dance, sing, and break little girl hearts.  The difference is here as Joe McIntyre said, “…hey what about New Edition?  There would be no New Kids without them.  And of course, the Jackson Five begat New Edition.  So I guess we were really just the first white boy band.”
Eighteen years ago, it didn’t cross my little ol’ mind what that could mean for music, popularity, consumerism, business, and revenue.  That small but oh so significant racial difference is huge.
Today, it’s old news.  It’s easy now to understand how commercialized music, tv, and film entertainers are when there are products to sell.  How someone/thing looks in the music business is critical to it’s success.  The visual appeal is more critical, in some respects, than the ears.  
In the wake of NKOTB reunion, I’ve linked arms with nostalgic folks thinking about their younger days and who they were back then.  I read NKOTB’s words as they reflect on nearly 20 years later music and what changed in the two decades since we all grew up.  In a walnut shell, I’ve been thinking about what I couldn’t see things because I was youthful, naive, and inexperienced.  I’ve been meditating on
Age. 
AGE.
It’s utterly important to feminism.  Feminism without older feminists, I’ve realized, is a like a chair with no legs.  There’s no difference between the seat and the floor if it’s not raised up.  The legs, the older womyn, are required.  There’s memory, wisdom,  knowledge, and did I mention memory?  Aged womyn are the sacred in learning.  They a make sure we see what has always been there, how history repeats itself; how young women after us will think the same things as we did.
I don’t want to be one of those under 30 folks that speaks too soon, thinking I have something to share when in actuality it’s been said about fifty times over by someone else.  Learning patience, learning how to be educated and well-rounded, and unpresumptuous is difficult.  It’s hard to be energetic and not impulsive.  History, and its story tellers must be prioritized.
Daisy left this comment on my blog a few weeks ago and I’ve been re-reading it several times:
But some of us have been around a long time and can reference other feminist feuds of this sort that predate the internet. In a different culture, we might be asked respectfully and specifically for our old woman perspective and memories. In the USA? Ignored. Feminist blogs? Ignored. And that goes for EVERYONE, WOC and white women and everyone else. Over 50? Go the fuck away. 

Coverage of the WAM conference made absolutely NO MENTION of the fact that it was an overwhelmingly YOUTHFUL event. I saw ONE woman in photos, who might have been around my own age. Certainly, no workshops or presentations about old women. And again, this was deemed not even important enough to mention.

Those who do not remember the past are destined to repeat it. (And who do you think remembers the past?) 

(That “someone” is usually young(er) woman of color; 13-20 year olds, in my opinion.)

I agree with this assessment, and it has been ever thus. Maybe we could talk about how this EVOLVED OVER TIME? It did not happen overnight; Rome wasn’t built in a day. Discussion with some OLD women might yield some answers, but you know, that involves LINKING US TOO, replying to us and actually admitting we exist, even if we aren’t COOL. I think we deserve a modicum of respect as old feminists. 

Obviously, some of you disagree and prefer to be age-segregationists. Certainly, do as you please, but don’t go on and on about inclusion, in that case, okay? It leaves a bad taste in this (deliberately excluded) old lady’s mouth.

And she hits the nail on noggin again right here.  Although I cringe at the terminology that uses the “waves” of feminism, the larger point needs to be addressed: age and feminism.
What is it about our obsession with the young?  Granted, yes, they “are the future,” but as we know in feminism, it is just as necessary to inform and correct the past as well.  There’s no way to do that without older womyn.  It is necessary to include the voices of womyn who WERE THERE before us.  Those who are in the midst of transformation themselves and live to tell what their own mistakes were, unspoiled accounts of history, and a wealth of insights unshared.
Young womyn need guidance, they need mentors and modeling.  Are we modeling well when we fail to include older voices?  When we talk about the present, it automatically targets the fastest talkers, most eloquent bloggers, and flashy nuances.  Are we teaching young womyn correctly when we forget womyn who have endured legislature, change, and the impact of time?
There’s one thing I know for certain and that is that history repeats itself.  This cliche is demonstrated within politics and social movements and especially within feminism.  How many times have I (a womyn under 30) shook my head at young(er) womyn, “I’ve lived through that already.  They need to get a clue.”
My head sinks to my desk when I estimate to think how many times older womyn have shaken their heads at me.
So, while I am aware that there are other womyn out there who have broken this issue open, I’m trying to get my head in there as well and sticking my ears out to learn as well.
Why the obsession with the young?
How and why are we so quick to forget older voices?
How do we centralize experience, inclusivity, and vision of ALL womyn?
How do we approach an intergenerational  vision of transformation?
While he’s talking about fame and fans in this quote, Joe McIntyre probably doesn’t know he speaks with profundity for feminists too, “Now as an adult….it’s not about me….it’s about the relationship…”
How is the relationship between youth, adult, and older adult womyn?
How do we build that relationship stronger?
 

This Seriously JUST Happened

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

I was leaving a comment on a blog about feminism.  I try to practice what I preach and use comments as an avenue of supporting other writers and bloggers.  At times, I get nervous that what I’m conveying will be distorted or misunderstood – one of the many hazards of online communication.

As soon as I was done writing, I did one of those letter verification thingys to affirm my non-spam intentions.  And lo and behold guess what my letters were in the mix:
*F U C K * U *
Oh my.
I was startled for a moment and then laughed by booty off.
Happy Hump Day!

More of that Helen Zia Genius Stuff

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

If you’re a regular reader of my blog, you know that I tend to freely admit my idolatry for Helen Zia.  That practice is what I call 

Zialotry: noun.  The continued practice, thought process, advocacy, and idolatry of Helen Zia.

Origin://The Sudy Verr Online Dictionary of Feminist Verbs//
Zia is the host for As I Am, an hour-long radio program that speaks from and to the Asian American experience, which an unbelievably rich and untapped garden of stories.  Gain insight, think of your own culture, and learn from one of the most inspiring feminists alive, tune in to As I Am.
H/T to Jenn at Reappropriate who always shows me more hope in this world.

Choice Hotels Under Scrutiny for Human Trafficking

Published on by Lisa Category: The Philippines Filipino Culture Philippine History

When folks talk about modern day slavery, a lot of folks tend to think of the large scale problems like sex trafficking.  It’s easy to forget that in human trafficking everyday migrant workers are abused and exploited and are, literally, held captive and forced to work incomprehensible hours and endure abuse.

Such has been the case for Gina Agulto, Grace Pineda, Ronilo Pangan, and Ruby Pangan.  Four Filipino workers who have stated they have allegedly been working 18 hour days with no overtime pay and had their visas stolen from them.  Choice Hotels have denied all the claims of abuse, slavery, peonage, forced labor, and human trafficking.  
Of course they have.
Cross posted at APA for Progress

Memorial Day Thoughts

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized



Memorial Day.

It’s one of those holidays that mean something other than it’s actual purpose.  This weekend is usually the kickoff to summer instead of it actually being about remembrance.
I’m not a history expert, nor do I know much about diplomatic or democratic issues.  What I do know is that millions of people and their families have sacrificed more than I can fathom in the name of freedom.
For me, there are fewer freedoms more precious than creative freedom.  Memorial weekend is a hard time to really grasp history and what has been given, gifts that I have always been given. It’s not political, it’s just trying to appreciate and understand ordinary people who have had extraordinary courage and families who endured extraordinary grief.
These photos were taken this afternoon as I took a long stroll around a beautiful spring day.  In these small specks of simplicity, there lies tremendous beauty around us each day, each moment.  Taking a few moments to genuinely love the ability to walk, think, speak, act and exist in a creative freedom is all I could do this Memorial holiday.
Here’s to the grace and beauty of everyday mindfulness and gratitude.

On our way to the movies…

Published on by Lisa Category: Life is Never General, Notes From Home Plate

I haven’t been feeling my best the past few days and so when Nick asked me what I wanted to do tonight, the first night of a long weekend, I thought a movie sounded just fine. Most of the summer blockbusters will open next weekend and so we had slim pickings. We chose Made of Honor to soothe my Patrick Dempsey fix.

Nick was not crazy about going to this chick flick, I think he was just trying to make things as simple as possible for me.

The movie theater is less than a two minutes walk away. It’s a block away and across the street. As we were discussing how much we’re going to miss our 2 minute walk to the AMC downtown theater and enjoying the lovely spring evening, something came into the periphery of my vision.

A man on a bike, from behind us, looked like he was trying to go around Nick’s right side (I was on his left). He was going at a pretty fast rate so I grabbed Nick’s arm and pulled him away from the bike man. Surprisingly, the bike guy kept going around to the right side and it looked like was going to ride straight into a building. He bumped the building and whirled the bike around to come on my side now as if he was trying to run ME over this time. I was getting freaked out and wondered what in the world this guy wanted, and before I was able to sputter any words, he leaned into my face and loudly growled like a wild animal, hungry for a meal.

I looked at him like a strange alien and stopped walking. He biked onward.

We watched in disbelief as he knocked over two more people on the sidewalk.

We hurried to the movie and quickly became absorbed in the cheesy plot. Before we knew it, the credits were rolling and dim lights began to fill the room. The first thing Nick says after every movie, “I gotta piss.” I always reply, “I know, I’ll wait in the lobby.”

We parted ways, Nick to the restroom and me walking in a daze toward the lobby. I was just thinking about how I would have preferred the ending to be when I looked up and saw a young woman screaming at a young man. I thought they were just fooling around because her hands were holding onto his shirt and it looked like he was trying to get away from her.

I kept thinking, “I think Patrick Dempsey looks ridiculously good for a man in his forties….”

The young woman screamed, “Give me my f—ing phone! Give me my f—ing phone!”

At this point I looked up, cleared my thoughts and just saw this man shove her to the ground, but not before she nearly twisted his shirt into rags. I was about to help because I was the closest person to her and I saw it might be getting serious, but something clicked in my head to keep moving, I don’t know why. Keep moving.

A clatter. I look down to see what the noise was and it seemed like something had come out of the young man’s jeans and I figured it was the stolen phone she was screaming about. I look down and I see a black handgun on the floor. I was less than five feet from them and the closest person to the gun.

I turned my head and saw Nick coming, just wanting to get out of there.

There was a flurry of movie goers and AMC employees gathering around the gun. Murmurs guessing that it was a fake or possibly a BB gun began to make their way.

Any thoughts of Patrick Dempsey vanished as NIck and I quickly left. On the escalator toward the lobby, we saw the police rushing upstairs. I slowly shook my head and looked at Nick a long time, speechless over the incident.

As we pushed the doors open into the spring city night, the fresh air swept over my face, calming me down. Nick took my hand and said, “There’s a slight possibility that we’ll see a gun again sometime in our lives, but I don’t think we’ll ever have any fool on a bike growl at us ever again. Now that’s the most exciting thing that happened tonight, huh?”

I just looked at him and shrugged.

Love & Race

Published on by Lisa Category: Uncategorized

H/T to Vox ex Machina

I’m in an interracial relationship and it’s a marvel to think how it would have been illegal to fall in love with Adonis not too long ago.
I cannot wait for the day when future generations laugh their asses off in learning how we put restrictions on intimacy, sex, relationship, and commitment based off gender, race, and state.
On June 12th, I celebrate MY love, Adonis’ love, OUR love.  
It’s also time to bring the same freedom to same sex love.  
NO RESTRICTIONS on love.  How difficult is this concept?

Old Fashion Feminist Talks: Gender and Relationships

Published on by Lisa Category: Feminism

Being in relationship, being in community with peers who support us and mentors who challenge, is critical to a transformative feminist relationship to self and the world. One of those primary relationships is, of course, a romantic partner. In my (usually) blissful world with Adonis, I normally hurdle things like dishes, your-turn-to-scrub-the-loos, I can’t stand hanging out with Matt again kinds of problems. It’s not that I’ve forgotten the acute and crippling paralysis of the break-up bug. I just haven’t visited that particular kind of depression in several years.

Then, last night, one of my dear friends had her heart broken and thus commenced those old talkings between friends of heartbreak. “It” began: the analysis, the reliving, the questions, self-doubt, the RAGE, and the necessity to repeat questions at 3am to make sure it was fully covered, twice. And don’t forget betrayal, facade, and throw the word coward in there about three times, too.

Gender is always a fascinating topic in the traumatic world of post break-up. As my weepy friend sat in her cold, dark apartment until the wee morning hours, I did the best I could but felt myself falling short of being that empathetic person who can GO there (“there” being the daaaaaarrrrark side) in the crashing tsunamic waves of misery.

I need to be a good friend and patch her up with good ideas of self-care and healing. And so I ask, dear readers, for all your pearls of wisdom, for feedback on this famous question:

What got you through your worst break-up?