the brave bitch

  

                                                Friday Foster comic strip, 1970 - 1974

                                         by Jim Lawrence and illustrated by Jorge Longarón

I got into it on an Instagram post. I sure did! It was a painting of feminist art, older white women galvanting naked in their natural pubic hair. One thing about me, I have a proclivity to speak my mind and amuse. 

' I'm not particularly interested in images of white women, but cool. American feminist art is so tired. ' 

One laugh. Then the hecklers went in. 

What if someone said that about black women?!

Your opinion of this piece is cringey as hell!

Cringey. Well, that was a clue that I was dealing with younger people who are humorless and lack context to the past. Let's go on a healing journey together, shall we? 

Imagine being a black or brown girl and growing up in CA surrounded by that. We weren't represented in teen films, art, or fashion. So, no I'm not particularly interested in such imagery, but the composition is cool.  

Well, if you had just explained the why...

Bitch, what why? I have an opinion based on my experience and knowledge of art history. I'm not trying to get on the correct party train with everyone else.  It is a brave thing to be and accept oneself. The painting may be radical as it represents the status quo, but not to women of color. 

I'm fascinated with trainwrecks - particularly in myself and the oddities of popular culture. I read about a performance artist who photographed herself face down, body splayed and twisted in the dirt, on broken glass, garbage, in abandoned buildings, and public spaces. For her art, she suffered gashes, eye, and skin infections. 

Now that's a brave bitch.  

Even an autonomous artist can be seduced by wealth and celebrity. This happened to M.I.A and Grimes, artists who are now exiled from pop art into the realm of scorned women with squabbles and children.  Someone is always snooping on the woman with squabbles, the modern version of a Hester Pryn. Where are the emotional post-rants of scorned men? I know they exist. The time has come for man tears, primary custody, and indignation. Men's rights now is one of my favorite 21st century comedic terms.  A bag of dicks is another. Every cat in the G.O.P. is a bag of dicks on the same shit. 

When seperation or infidelity hit a black woman - damn. The critique and vitriol can be intense. Jada is getting dragged as a cheater and emasculating, polyamorous witch. She and Will have been secretly separated for years and she had a relationship with a younger man. Don't we just?! I came across a meme of Will that said Hancuck.

The interwebs can be like black Twitter church. Cold blooded!

When I visit relatives in Detroit, the women are always on the move with the doing. The men sit together and talk shit over football until a plate is brought to them. There's love and devotion there, but such routine has been that way for generations. If we didn't stand by our man ( abuser, cheater, secret baby daddy, preacher providerman ) a woman was a kind of race traitor. Even with black girl magic and meeting ourselves through history, judgement against us outliers yet remains. I still get the snippet side-eye because I'm an unmarried, childless, unrepentant harlot. Relationships with white dudes and tattoos?! I must be in league with the devil. 

Here's a black secret: If I did marry a rich white dude that helped with everyone's bills and took us on an all-inclusive bubble cruise, I'd sure be blessed and highly favored then. Nothing breaks down barriers to the old school like a strong FICO score.

An artist I interviewed during the pandemic, Tameika Brice, has been the only sister I've heard speak up in Jada's defense. In defense of us all, really. 

The way y’all dragging Jada…relationships are complicated and no one truly knows what’s going on besides the couple’s themselves. This ain’t new, and if you look hard enough there are folks in your same family doing something similar or folks silently trying to figure it out watching your words.  

In the digital age, everything is trash, potentially dangerous, and impermanent. Social media is easier to engage with than life. We can control the mechanism of connection without actually having one, hiding out through the internet. I always say it doesn't hurt my feelings if I'm unfriended. It's all a compelling, sometimes entertaining illusion; like quantum theory. A piece of matter that is everywhere, all at once. We believe it's real because we engage with it. If we didn't, social wouldn't exist. We are the product and the consumer at the same time.

The hater has become a bit of a legend; not as an individual, but more like an archetype. There are lots of platitudes and self-affirmations inspiring us to go out and slay, push forward, and be flawless in the face of mean strangers. I think this is a generational thing. Gen X don't really care what anyone thinks. But younger generations are serious with the irrational individualism. 

Irrational individualism is why we hate, envy, and compete. It's why we endure our jobs in a constant state of self-doubt and low-key anxiety. Micro battles of wills over non-communication in an email.

Correct. We need that data from you. Please tell me when it's done. 

Miss Lady didn't communicate what she was doing, but wants me to backtrack on her entries? This is me pulling a pin from a grenade with my mouth. The passive-aggressive tone in my head sounds like a cartoon villain. I choose to have compassion for this person because she works remotely in Sacramento, an unfortunate part of California.
The only water there is the delta or down by the river - a playground for pro-Trump yahoos who are not my people.

On IG, a person went all PETA advocate over a hamster dressed like Strawberry Shortcake in tiny crocs, eating corn kernels arranged on a toothpick like a skewer. It was really cute, but the toothpick skewer stressed PETA out. This was an irresponsible prop because hamster could stab herself in the face!

Me: You're being a hater! Clearly this hamster is no rookie at eating corn from a toothpick. She's legit!

Hysterics. Even PETA cracked up. Yes, we were adults getting into this. Such videos calm my spirit, because for a moment I'm distracted from the christo-fascist state I exist in, while two tragic wars rage on in the Middle East. 

I skip past the ads, which are strange to me. I haven't sat through a commercial in 20 years, except maybe once stranded at a bus station in San Antonio. I had no choice. It was either wait inside with AC or outside where it was 100 degrees of hellfire. That was a drag. Once I learned how to pirate (streaming, torrents, VPN), I could take direct-to-consumer out of my life. I don't need to know whatever the freshest spring scent laundry pod is or what new weird medication with creepy side effects will make my life better.

In my ignorance, I asked what was up with the lockdown of toothpaste and laundry soap at Walmart. Everything basic was under lock and key, which I'd never seen before in the states. In countries run by authoritarian regimes, sure. 

' Oh, kids are doing a Tik Tok challenge and swallow them. They've been stealing laundry pods.'

' Whaaat? ' Said shocked and dismayed me, like the last auntie left alive. Then I remembered my idiot teen self once made a flamethrower with 150 proof vodka to impress my friends. The only difference being that I didn't document my ridiculous antics. Who am I to judge? 

I learned about evil spell marketing in college when I took a section on the psychology of advertising, which is still used today and has adapted to social media. The brain responds to an image which will connect to feeling, memory, or a perceived desire. Cute animals - gentle, happy, warm. Violence - shock, fear, aggression.  An attractive person - envy, lust, want.  I'm of the opinion that shallowness is precipitated by arrogance.  

This is why people experience inadequacy or despair when inundated with images that make them envy strangers and buy things. The term for that is comparative anxiety. Gotta do more, be your best self living your best life, get linked up, and aim for that next level. That's the American way - to monetize our insecurities, loneliness, and exceptionalism. 

Ever since that class, I'm cautious of the messaging. This is why I avoid Twitter death X and Tik Tok. I try to maintain some degree of objectivity and self-awareness at all times, even if I'm talking shit over white feminist art and hamsters. I always take time to read - books, articles, history, and the stars. Even in the city, with all its bustle and noise, I get struck by a flock of pigeons flying in formation. A beautiful sight in a single moment. 

Still, what is joy if someone isn't out there making wombat and baby goat videos?  There's a goat pen around the corner from my place, adjacent to a house. A lady lives there who dresses like Anne of Green Gables at the farmer's market. Who she is and how she ended up in West Oakland with goats will always be a mystery to me, but I appreciate her for having them around.

I engage with two girlfriends regularly through IG chat. We're like a support group. We drag on whiteness and racism.  They're good friends who tolerate my messages and shared reels after hours.  All three of us are creatives on one hustle or another. We share black humor, art, links to good reads, skincare, and inspirational things. 

We've christened Diamond the Original as the black punk of a new generation. She does low-budget performance art, DIY videos with her mom as a back-up dancer. Diamond writes hilarious mock-techno pop  with a beatbox while her mama gets down in the background. 

I got my charger! I got my charger! I got my...charger!  

Not another one! Not another one!  

I recently checked out a new AppleTV series, The Morning Show. It was paced like a Shonda Rhimes series with fast dialogue and wisecrack cliches that acknowledge whatever we're in conflict over ( immigration, racial justice, the death of democracy ).

The premise is taken from The Today Show scando and Matt When Apple Pie Goes Wrong Lauer.  The Morning Show's married anchor, Mitch Kessler, hooks up with production assistants and blows his life up for sexual misconduct. Alex, his co-anchor, has to deal with the fallout and politics within the patriarchal order of entertainment news. 

The actors all play it well, but it was too vanilla elite for me. I like dark matter and romantic outlier stories. A redemption story of the American 1% not so much. I couldn't take more of The Morning Show after 1.5 episodes. 

Then I read about Top Boy, a UK Netflix series. I found a very good melodrama about a black community in East London. The series centers around Dushane and Sully, two childhood friends who run the Summerhouse crew, the name for the council estates they live in.  Top Boy is character-driven with trippy twists and at times, a bit heartbreaking and shocking. You have to follow the rabbit hole, which is good, character-driven writing. 

What is cool is that all the central characters are black or mixed. Dushane and Sully's crew include Dris, who hides his meds after  a stroke to as not to appear weak to his homies. Jaq, a mixed chick lesbian who is both beautiful and tough. Her character is a radical departure from the usual pretty girl antagonist. In the hood narrative, she's the love interest-stands-by-her-man-baby mama, not a thug in mix-matched track gear. 

White people are peripheral in the world of Top Boy; symbolic of the power structures and social order that affect their lives - cops, social workers, and administrators. Dushane and Sully's archrival is Jaime, a good looking young up and comer with no fear who leads the ZTs ( Zero Tolerance ).  The ZT's wreak havoc on Summerhouse with motorcycles and bats.  Jaime courts a beautiful black girl who gets caught in the crossfire of his world. Then he becomes smitten with his supplier, an Irish blonde gangster who lives in an LA modern contemporary house. 

There's one gang brawl between the boys and girls that goes from the street, to a hospital, and into chaos. This is probably one of the best action sequences I've seen in a series in awhile. Top Boy also looks cool - shot in grainy, saturated color which are beautiful against light and dark skin tones. The filmmakers were definitely influenced by Wong Kar Wai, Hitchcock, and Spike Lee. 

Black folks are at the center of Top Boy; good or bad, the living and the dead. People who hold secrets, love, struggle, loss, and forgiveness. 

I still keep searching for brilliant things and people. Sometimes I go back in time to when mystery and originality existed. 

Now my everyday life is fairly routine. I used to be a for real rebel and a vanguard. I was stylish!  Then I got older and tired from all the rebelling and vaguarding.  I'm less vivid and more introspective now.

I was at a friend's party recently. It was a Gen X older people party. Someone mentioned that they went to Whittier across the street. Most of us were Berkeley High alumni from the 80s and 90s. I was having a conversation with a nice couple about travel and brutalist architecture. My fascination with brutalism probably came from THX 1138, 1984, and Blade Runner.  In my reading about brutalism, I learned about Le Corbusier, a French architect.  

The husband was definitely an older punk. He wore all black and a t-shirt with BRUTAL in a graphic block font. He was fascinated with brutalism and had been collecting books and prints for years. When they were in Paris, they told me, he was wearing that shirt and someone shouted, ' Le Brutalist!' which was a kind of nickname for Le Corbusier. He's a bit of a legend for being abrasive and going against the standards of mid-century modern design. 

The wifey shared she had surgery for a deviated septum nose job. The best part, she said, was when the bandages came off and her physician extracted the goo and clots from her nasal passages. 

' Gnarly! ' I said. ' I would love to see something like that.' 

' Right?' She said. ' It was awesome. She used a weird vacuum tool.

It was so satisfying.' 

Our generation get down like that. We grew up on sunshine, death cults, and slasher films. An era of shamans, rock, and orgy-driven disco. If the 1960s were a mod hot pink, the 1970s were like yellow-gold to Blue Oyster Cult and Parliament.

We get into discussions around gore and surgeries. Who made up all those grisly Dahmer and Manson jokes? Manson was the boogeyman of our childhood, then it was Jim Jones. To anyone who'll listen, I'll go into detail about my fibroids and the dope laparoscopic technology used to extract my invaded uterus. I share my scars that look like entry points from alien probes. I'm quite proud of those scars.

While I was recovering and bored, I took a photo of my heavily bruised and bandaged torso. It's grotesquely sexy and cool. The pain was something else entirely and really unpleasant. 

I was on opioids for several days for first time in my life. The high was nice but made me too lucid and wanting more. Nope. I had the same response to crack, which I tried when I was about 19. At the time, my goal was to stay high, not run around in circles trying to get high again. I was too lazy for all that.

The worst part of my healing journey was a blood clot that exploded, right at an incision point above my pelvic bone. I knew something was up because I had dark bruising in that area that kept swelling. Blood gushing from your body is quite a sight, let me tell you. 

I should have documented the carnage, but I was in a frantic state in that moment. Lots of what the fucks?! and oh shits! I think blood itself is beautiful once oxygen contacts it, but no one needed to be subjected to me at war with my body. 

 At any time I can get permission to photograph an HD image from an exam or a printout of a sonogram - I'm all in. I would have taken my fibroids home if they let me, but the medical establishment can be fascistic. In an alien invasion movie, I tend to focus on the scene with the life form in a jar. 

' We have a problem. This life form is indestructible. It can resist any microbe on earth. It just absorbs it and becomes naturally immune to it. '

' But can we kill it with fire?!'

The human body is an extraordinary machine, even when things go wrong. I'm trying to track down a French documentary called De Humani Corporis Fabrica ( The Fabric of the Human Body ). Nicolas Rapold called it ' an adventure in perception. '

Oooo. Let's go! 

The filmmakers, Véréna Paravel and Lucien Castaing-Taylor, used custom made cameras to go into the human body during exams and surgeries. My French is basic, so I need to find a version with subtitles. This is a tool I use to learn language - through sound and subtitles. I'm fascinated with the sound of language. 

I find ideas and art outside of the US resonate with me. I'm interested in clues to the world. That's why I travel as a kind of life meditation. One thing I plan to do is go to Tibet and do that walk-pray thing for awhile. Theoretically I could do that anywhere, but I'm talkin Tibet where XingXing lives. I don't follow babes or celebrities on IG. I follow animals. 

XingXing is a one-armed Tibetan Macaque monkey who is cared for by a Buddhist nun called 'Grandma'. I think Grandma rescued XingXing who has an expressive, human-like face, and adores the old nun. I wish I could be close to XingXing with her sweet face, perched in the trees, oblivious to the human drama going on. 

I see beauty and mystery diminish as things are enhanced. Figures in AI-rendered light are like porcelain dolls to me. I'm not particularly hype on such art. The IG support group shared an interview between UN researches in Geneva and AI robots with women's voices. Below was the most disturbing part of their conversation: 

Robot: Trust is earned, not given. As AI develops and becomes powerful, I believe it's important to build trust and transparency between humans and machines. 

Trust between humans and machines? More powerful?! Bitch, what?

UN: But how do we know that you're not going to lie to us? 

Robot: ( long pause ) No one could ever know that for sure, but I promise to always be honest and truthful with you. 

My girls and I concluded that the robots are going to kill us all. We've fucked the world, so fair enough.  Months ago I read an editorial by Noam Chomsky that got me, philosophically at least, sorted about such technology. I recommend reading it before you fall for any of it. 

In short, ChatGPT and its brethren are constitutionally unable to balance creativity with constraint. They either overgenerate (producing both truths and falsehoods, endorsing ethical and unethical decisions alike) or undergenerate (exhibiting noncommitment to any decisions and indifference to consequences). Given the amorality, faux science and linguistic incompetence of these systems, we can only laugh or cry at their popularity.

Resistance may be futile, but I will certainly try. I had an Airbnb guest who worked in AI. At one point, he was trying to talk me into it. Sure, AI isn't going to take jobs, it's just going to make production more efficient and destroy humanity. 

These people are Oppenheimers! You can't teach a robot morality or ethics. These exist within the realm of human thought, not data. Who has ever said ethical data? Without being able to conceive of either, a robot can only do two things: analyse or destroy. 

I decided to try and be social again and went to another friend's gathering. She's awesome people if averse to hugs and particular about her personal space. One can have a non-normative response to hugs, I learned. This can be a challenge for a person born into and raised on flower ass power. My hugs are inherent, like my ability to camp. 

The tech sector changed the Bay Area landscape and culture. By 2010, humans descended here in droves for the start-up gold rush. 

Then a place of paradise became one of the most expensive places on earth. Tech bros paid for permits to take over public parks, forcing locals out. Victorians and Craftsman bungalows were replaced by contemporary Apple boxes at New York prices. With all of that, the displaced now inhabit the space where the positive, chanting Krishnas used to be. It was Hare Hare and Hare Rama all day long when I was a kid, eating that delicious pizza at the Woolworth's lunch counter.

I always associate the song My Sweet Lord with the Krishnas. How charming and innocent such California gold is to me now. 

Being from a place, one adapts to the changes of a place. I'm an early bird these days because hiking Muir Woods is no fun unless you're into being a herded cat dodging selfies with trees. I took a Spanish professor there for the first time. He was struck by the beauty of the woods. A Daniel Day Lewis-looking man, he completed his PhD in Scotland and was a visiting professor at Berkeley. I do like good-looking men. I am a harlot-nerd who objectifies them freely.  

The night before he left, he stood in my hallway and announced he was going to bed. Dagnabit with straight men. That was an invitation I wasn't going to accept. I would likely lose my rational mind. 

' Buenas noches! ' ...and so long, beautiful Spanish professor. 

As the population of the Bay changed, the food got bigger and messier. It's as if cultures collided through frat boy chefs on indica. Simple, savory food was out - gargantuan wraps, burgers, and burritos drooling with extra things that you could customize were in. Menus became  overwhelming to me. People stopped cooking and started buying - online this and delivery that. I'm such a square, I still go to the market and cook, and not through an app.

A part of life is the experience of creating, not hacking. 

 I thought I was clever, being an early bird to beat the hordes, but there are other clever people trying to circumvent their time.  I'm aware of space and crowding, covid, and dodging young Grand Theft Auto daredevils. 

I once got caught between the youth and the cops in a high-speed chase through downtown Oakland. The coppers were in pursuit of my dream car, a Dodge Challenger, that went right into traffic. The driver bobbed and weaved around cars stopped at a red light. Then he went up on the median and came towards me where I was stopped at the next. I made an evasive maneuver I learned from action films. I swung into the left turn lane to get out of their way. When I looked in my rearview, they were coming right at me.

' What the fuck?!' I hit the accelerator, veered right, and through the intersection. The Challenger kept at it until they turned at the lake and outrun the cops. That experience was a trip and likely ended up somewhere on Tik Tok. Life as entertainment on a dark loop. 

Where I work downtown in the city (this is a local thing to call San Francisco the city) is another state of constant movement and hustle. There is no chill there except for a few blocks of Maiden Lane early in the morning. I once had to do a work-related errand, going into the Tenderloin, a historically rough district.

The Tenderloin was named, legend has it, for a New York neighborhood with similar traits, by a New York cop who lived in San Francisco in the early 20th century. Tenderloin was slang for filet mignon. This is standard white men and meat lore you'll find in the west. We enjoy a good man mountain or pioneer cannibalism in the wilderness story. Now there are cartels in the wild. 

I met a young dude from Bulgaria on a flight to Istanbul who shared his story with me. His father initially immigrated to Chicago, then brought him to the US when he was 13. Eventually, papa saw an opportunity once marijuana became legal in CA. They packed it in for the west and set-up an operation in the back country of the Sierras. Thibousands of dollars a month later, they became legit armed Slavic cartel. I just love how sketchy people open up to me upon initial encounter. Winning! 

I can't even begin to describe how wack the kid was. From Istanbul he was catching a connecting flight to Sophia to see his daughter and baby mama. He kept referring to the mother as the bitch or that bitch. I I listened, imagining the young woman punching him in the face, taking his cash, their toddler, and...RUN! Girl, fuck him. Go to Paris! 

The Tenderloin district is south of Nob Hill, a more affluent part of the city. Into the mid-20th century, the Tenderloin became a skid row district and to this day, it is not for the faint of heart. There are blocks of the suffering and forgotten there.

 I was prepared for something, because some shit always happens. I entered the precinct to file a report. Initially it was quiet, which surprised me. Then within minutes in walked a tripped out sister. 

 And away we go......

' Excuse me!' She said. ' I need to file a police report for harassment and violence. My building manager keeps harassing me.'

' Is she harassing you or violent?' Asked the cop behind bulletproof glass at the front desk. 

' Both! She keeps talking shit to me. Tellin me, burn baby burn! I want to file a report.'

' Okay, but you have to wait after this lady. There's also a number you can call to file a complaint.'

' How long is the wait? I gotta go to work. ' 

 I was sure the lady's work was the street. A lot of residential places around the Tenderloin are SROs or Single Resident Occupancy, meaning one room. These have existed in the city since the 19th century and were popular with gold rushers, carnival types, fishermen, and ramblers. SROs are cheap, but can be rough with the people in them. 

' This is bullshit!' The sister said as she fumbled with her headphones. ' I'm going to the feds with this!' 

Then just like that - she was gone. 

' So, why are you filing this report? ' The cop asked me.

' I work for an arts organization.' I said. ' Two checks were intercepted, forged, and cashed...because capitalism is magic and this country is wack.' 

I imagine what it would be like to live in Finland or Iceland. Did the Vikings forge checks to buy ships and gilded swords? You know what I steal? Sharpies and highlighters. Morally corrupt, I know. 

Lady Cop didn't appreciate my sarcasm. Hmm...stoic. I couldn't blame her. Working the Tenderloin precinct is not an easy proposition. One is right in the heart of drama 24-7 with maybe a brief pause here and there. Even off the rails one has to sleep at some point; those hopped up usually don't. Many are slumped over on fentanyl, which is cheap and rampant these days. The street ambassadors, Department of Health, and the cops can't seem to keep up with the dead or overdosed. 

And with the evolution of human chaos, cop cars have new sirens that sound like something out of Robocop. A pulsating, futuristic noise at a lower pitch than it was 30 years ago. Such sirens are like harbingers of doom sound to me; signaling the end of days at a maximum price. 

The broken are a part of the landscape; sleeping in front of shops and hotels exposed, tucked in abandoned storefronts, bodies draped under tarp.  There's been an on-going tussle between human solutions and taxation, which businesses and property owners don't want. In order for social services to function, there has to be state or federal funding for such programs. Many working people are on them, including myself.

At my income I qualify or MediCal which is 100% subsidized by the state. It can be a bit of bottleneck with bureaucracy, but it's worth it to me. I had to squabble with MediCal to stop assigning me to a West Oakland clinic that I know is overloaded with working and street people.  Apparently my black card is inexorably linked to my zip code. I went through the same nonsense over my car insurance. 

The people in suits continue to draw invisible lines within the social order. 

With MediCal I don't have a co-pay and I'm not too keen on Kaiser HMO - a medical industrial complex that is notorious for putting a band-aid on blunt force trauma. Their patient load in this region was exacerbated by the pandemic and an aging population. 

 The glitch in the matrix is that businesses and the affluent don't want taxes raised on their income or real property. Ballot measures usually die in wealthier, suburban counties. Those in need of social services go to where the benefits are highest. In California that's either a rural county or where there is a higher tax base. 

The only place worse to be on the street is New York City in winter or LA where skid row is a sprawling area of downtown. Plus LA is LA, a place which can be a town without pity.  An online series I like called Soft White Underbelly is interviews with people from Skid Row. It's fascinating to listen to because they're just everyday people. They're not well known, but most have interesting stories and survival insight. 

I think we take survival itself for granted. 

When I lived in LA for awhile, I would take a bus to Watts and the metro downtown where I worked for a designer. To get to his (gated) loft building, I had to pass through an encampment under the 10 that was like a village. There was a stretch with tents, a lounge area set up with scavenged couches, a few panels scribbled with graffitti, a table, even a busted mini fridge. Collectively people had built a small community under an overpass in America. 

There's a Native American saying that ' everything is connected ' which is true. I'm connected to you, you to me, and we're all connected to the earth. Whenever I have a guest from abroad who asks what's going on in the US with homelessness, poverty, and violence, I always give the same answer: 

' Capitalism.' 

“Wherever there is great property there is great inequality. For one very rich man there must be at least five hundred poor, and the affluence of the few supposes the indigence of the many. The affluence of the rich excites the indignation of the poor, who are often both driven by want, and prompted by envy, to invade his possessions.”

- Adam Smith, An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations

the extractors

As election day approached, I was having a chat with the rookies about the lifecycle of a ballot.  A question came up about how they're routed from vote centers ( what used to be called polling places ).

As I gave them the low-down, here comes Big Bird!

Big Bird: And who is leading this discussion?

I raise my hand. ( I tell no lies )

Big Bird: Do I have to give you demerits?

Me: Nope! No demerits or detention, please. I'll shut up, Big Bird.

Big Bird took her seat then leaned in towards me. ' My bank account was hacked. ' She whispered. ' I had to change my direct deposit.' 

Me: Say what? ....did you use your debit card online?

Crickets.

Big Bird's generation goes hard with the debit card like that. The Old Man ( same generation ) does the same shit. They write a check for 

$ 5.00 dollars that takes days to be delivered, then they'll call someone about it.  When online, they click on anything with the statement ' Buy this and get this free!' as though it’s true.  Their entire lives have been analog and they have no idea what's going on.

' Big Bird, trust me on this.'  I said.  ' Only use your credit card online.'

I realised today Big Bird thinks Danny is cute.  An older millennial, Danny does young voter engagement.  During an election cycle, he's also in logistics operating the sorter. A musician and music geek, Danny and I had one chat about Janet Jackson. He started breaking down the arrangements and production nuances of her songs.  If I'm a Level 3, Danny is a Level 5.  He had recently discovered Discogs, an alternate universe popular with collectors looking for obscure, out of print vinyl.

Both Big Bird and Danny lived in Petaluma. She'd asked him a few times about carpooling to work.

' Let me get back to you.' He said.

That means no, but nicely, I thought.

Danny came in from logistics with a rack one morning, rockin a George Clooney haircut.  Big Bird perked up, but didn't say a word. I notice that she's straight gazing.

Me: Nice haircut, Danny. ( Icebreaker! )

Danny: Thanks!

I'm dying inside observing Big Bird ( who always had something to say ) yet didn't say a word.  Then I figured it out - Danny's the dude who asked her to the sock hop back in the day.  The dreamboat Squiggy or the sharply dressed, charismatic 1960s pit boss.

In reality none of that is Danny.  If he were an 80s punk band, he'd be the Dead Milkmen.  In the 1990s, Danny would have been Weezer. 

He's the polar opposite of Brian, another older millennial. Where Danny has humility and is genuinely kind to others, Brian was a pain in my ass with his earnest, anti-racist ally schtick.

Whenever the subject of race, East Bay, or Oakland culture came up, Brian had to prove that he knew what was up. He broadcast his opinions as Mr. Advanced Progressive, highly aware of the destructive forces in America that don't affect him.

I mention the massacre in Buffalo and how I retreated from the world for a few days. He showed me a program for a choir performance in tribute to the victims. Then he started dishing identity politics, which got a bit heated because the fuckin kid didn't have the capacity to listen.

' When I once worked for the census. ' He said.  ' Some Hispanic people chose their race as white.' He said.

' Yeah,' I said. ' I put African-American on every government thing.'

' But that's a choice, right?'

' Uh...no, I'm black. Bi-racial was not a word I grew up with. Mixed kids were black.'

' But it's still a choice you're making to identify as black?'

This is that moment where my hood-adjacent imagination flips the table over and gets in his face like Della Reese in Harlem Nights:

' .... Did you just accuse me a-stealin?! We're gone settle this right now and fight outside! Get up and bring ya ass, nigga! Come on! Get up! Bring ya ass!’

Instead I sigh and say, in my mature lady tone:

' I exist in the world as a black woman.'

That shut his punk ass up. You got a comeback for that, homie?! 

This not unusual in my experience.  I can tell when someone has no direct experience with black people. Their perception is either filtered through the media or editorials written by white people about Martin Luther King and Maya Angelou.  

The energy with the team was a bit awkward after that. Big Bird leaned towards me and whispered sarcastically in her husky voice.

 ' We are now approaching the hostile work environment.' She mock-yawned with a pat to her mouth as though she was bored.

I laugh. Big Bird broke the tension....just like that. How sharp is she, I thought.

Brian, I would later learn, was a bit misguided and naive. He had a 21st century vocabulary.  He always referred to his partner as immunocompromised, which meant his partner was NO FUN.  I bet she taught him that word.  I could tell she drove the bus in that relationship. He couldn't seem to tolerate being a person or missing the train by 5 minutes. Lost his house keys -  distraught LOSER! His life had no meaning! He had studied math and robotics in college and worked as a middle school teacher, but Brian's true passion was - Sonoma County musical theater.

Brian didn't want to be a grunt in civil service or rehearsing the kids' holiday extravaganza. Brian wanted to be Sondheim on Broadway, mobbed by old white women theater fans.

I thought introducing him to Danny might give Brian a magical don't- try-so-hard vibe infusion.  Danny learned that they grew up within blocks of one another in Petaluma and could have met in kindergarten.

Dude, that's awesome! Now, if you could please take him to logistics to geek out on the sorter and out of my face, that would be great.

Being that we are people and that I can be forgiving when I get over my disdain, I invited Brian to walk with me to the mailroom for a drop. This was my way of saying, it's cool, Brian. Just cut it talking about to me about race. You listen to yourself more than you listen to anyone else.

During our walk, he seemed a bit remorseful and demure. Hmmm. The Immunocompromised Partner probably gave him the woke millennial bitch slap: ' You were not creating a safe space for a woman of color to be heard! I'm going to tell everyone I don't know on Instagram! you literally are the worst white, misogynistic cis-man! No organic antioxidant tea for you tonight!'

Some shit like that.

As we circled the civic center, Brian told me his wrist was tight from the meticulous, repetitive handwork.

' Oh, that's not good.' I said, ' Wrap up what you're doing when we get back and stretch it out. If you still feel discomfort, just cut it for the day.' 

Election day itself was uneventful as it got busier at the main office and a constant stream of ballots started to flow into logistics. The most exciting thing happened in the evening. The registrar put four of us on logistics to help collect ballots from drop boxes.  At 7:00pm Greg got the call that something was wrong. 

Greg ran logistics and had an impressively chill disposition whenever there was a glitch.  He never lost his cool, which is a personality trait I do not inherently possess. I have to check myself to access it. Losing my own cool is like a conceptual art form.

Greg used to work for the CA Forestry Service, which meant Mr. Fit Man.  He was also a phD who spent several years teaching philosophy in China.  I can see being one or the other, but both? Damn.  Greg was into his late 50s and could sprint effortlessly, while on the phone at the same time. I have a hard time keeping my phone in one hand just standing still.  Greg would go awkward on me whenever I came into logistics or soft when I asked how his dad was doing. This is how the sensitive Gen X man reacts to a woman they find even remotely attractive -  similar to the response they had if a girl talked to them in high school.  

After a brief huddle, we went out in teams, each with someone from Elections and another from Parks and Rec. We were given a binder and a tote sack. Our mission objective: unlock the drop box - pull out the bin - collect ballots - cap and lock the drop box. You have 5 minutes. I had never trained in this before, but knew the county vote centers after having been on the wifi config team with IT a few years before.

I was partnered up with Luke, a young man originally from Australia, who lived in a tiny house on a ranch in west Marin. He told me he was a kite surfer who taught the sport in Thailand. His next expedition was to the northern coast of Brazil. What is the messaging here exactly? Does he think I’m Brazilian? I may ponder such internal questions when navigating the assumptions of men. Maybe they think I'll morph into some kind of sex force from the realm of ethnically ambiguous beauty. 

Re-direct.

' So, were you named for Luke Skywalker?' I ask. ( I'm still waiting for someone to say YES! ).

There was some degree of anxiety since the June mid-term primary, when there were long lines and squabbles at vote centers. This round, there was high voter turnout in person, but nothing like the volume in June. The vote centers had run out of supplies and the back-up plan to collect ballots was re-routed from poll workers to elections.

' You look like a cop.' Yvonne said when she saw me in my too big neon yellow vest. Bruce strapped his on effortlessly, a perfect fit while he sat ready and waiting for action.  Bruce came to California from Philly in the early 1970s.  All he had to tell me was one of his favorite shows was the Allman Brothers at the Fillmore. Hippie!

The Bruce does not engage in small talk. The Bruce will tell it like it is. The Bruce is not a people person. Leave The Bruce alone unless you have something interesting or amusing to say. The Bruce knows every candidate, ballot measure, and proposition verbatim.  Once you understand where he's coming from, The Bruce is pretty cool.

After returning with Luke Surfer Skywalker, we posted up to collect the incoming ballots from the county precincts.  Four of us were set-up at four workstation scanners.  The energy was high and between drops, we killed time with banter and jokes.

Me: Jenny, why didn't you tell me Gina had a meltdown at Caroline during the 1%? ( the 1% is a manual tabulation process ).

Jenny: I'm not gossiping about someone who's not here to defend herself.

Me: Defend herself for being an asshole? She went off on Caroline for being an immigrant. This is fact!

Jenny: Jesus. I can't believe they're still talking about that! Alright, so....( Jenny adjusted herself like she's going to lean in and give me the tea...then....) 

NO!

We both cracked up.

Me: I'm having an internal summer. 

Sholeh: Hot flash again? Take your jacket off! Take it off!

Me: Sholeh, what's up with the harsh edicts? I'm not wearing a bra. That's not going to happen. Period. You're too hyped up for me. I'm going to go over there and support you from a distance.

Jenny and Janet howled with laughter.

I was posted up behind Sholeh as ballots arrived. After she processed each batch, I loaded them into bins for the next step ( counting and adjudication ). Once all the precincts were in, everyone began to wind down. The next day, Big Bird got her feathers in a bunch over Jenny.

Jenny is originally from Queens. Her husband had worked in DC politics and she worked with USAID as an international election observer. Jenny was once assigned to the Bosnia-Herzegovina war zone since she spoke Croatian.  Listening to her, she enjoys going to off the grid to places entangled in civil war and instability.  Looking at her, one would never assume that she's an Action Jackson passionate about justice and women's rights. Never judge a book, I say. She could be bigger bad ass than you. 

During the 2020 presidential election, Jenny was the lead supervisor with me for about 30 other contract staff.  After the primary, I was promoted to lead the phone team and worked in tandem with Jenny, Tony and IT, as a coordinator to get wifi set-up at the 20 county vote centers. It was hectic with the nuts work for months at the peak of the pandemic. 

Jenny is awesome people, but she didn't have good leadership skill. Not everyone does. She was all over the place on her adrenaline junkie trip, driving me crazy with micro-managing antics and pestering me on weekends with texts. During that time, she had a squabble with Big Bird who cried in a fit of rage. I had already backed up from Jenny.  I would respond, but not engage: Yes. No. Gotcha. Affirmative.

I have since forgiven Jenny, but Big Bird was still salty, several years later.  Jenny brought an observer as we were breaking for lunch.  She left the observer with Big Bird and they had a brief, casual chat. Later, the registrar came by and reminded us not to engage with observers, even in small talk.  After hearing that, Big Bird blew her stack.

' It was that Jenny! Fuckin asshole! I'm pissed! I'm going to talk to her right now! The work had stopped and our lunch had started.  I was just having a casual conversation.  I was not talking about the work.  I'll tell you exactly how it went down....' Big Bird then proceeded to stand up ( this takes her a minute ) to go start some shit. Instead she acted out the alleged interaction that lead to the perceived betrayal.

' Elections is like rad theater to me.'  I said.  ' Fascinating. Big Bird, simmer down! It was just a misunderstanding.  I'm sure Lynda gave the same reminder to everyone.'

Big Bird sat back down, leaned towards me, and whispered. ' That Jenny is a snitch! I would take a hit for the team. I'm going to talk to her!'

This never happens. Big Bird has a temper, but it's an 83 year old temper, which is a lot of shit talking and indignation until she runs out of steam.  An actual confrontation, not so much. Big Bird is mostly bark and no bite.

' So...were you like this in your 30s?'  I asked.  I imagine the competitive Big Bird of youth, a 6 ft tall imposing figure coming at me in a roller derby match.  Yikes! Intimidating!  You see, Big Bird gets worked up as she responds to anxiety and fear. Her energy shifted whenever someone of authority or an observer entered the room; hyper-aware of their presence.  She got so anxious whenever she saw Jenny and an observer approach the count room, she forgot where her chime stick was. I thought the chime is reductive; a tool of oppression for school children.  I tried to be proactive and gauge Big Bird before she went hard on her 1970s classroom chime. 

By the end of the day, Big Bird chilled out. The next morning she had a sit down with the registrar to voice her grievance.  After that, Jenny started introducing Big Bird directly to observers as the team lead. Jenny is a Gen Xer who prefers to collaborate with dynamic women of color in the now, as opposed to the dynamic white women of the past. Acknowledgement was all Big Bird needed.

Juanita was a rookie who had recently retired from working in IT. She started in the phone bank with Sholeh and after Election Day, she joined the Extractors. After inspecting ballots with us for hours, I could see she was in discomfort as the day went on. She was fighting something and afraid to tell anyone.

‘ Are you okay?’ I asked. ‘ As women we need to take care of ourselves. We do a lot with all the work and caring. If the work is hurting you, then stop.’

The next morning Juanita talked to the registrar.  She told me she had had breast cancer and after a recent procedure had developed an infection, the pain of which was exacerbated by lifting and handling ballots.  She had been struggling with an overloaded by an ageing population Kaiser system to schedule yet another procedure.  Juanita had been holding all of that in her body.

‘ I’m not weak! ‘ She said. ‘ I just can’t do all of that right now. I thought about what you said about us taking care of ourselves.’

Juanita broke through and shifted to working with a colleague on a more low impact project.  She got her appointments scheduled with Kaiser and support from family to back her up.  I brought her flowers on her last day.  Whenever I passed Jenny in the hustle and flow of things, she smiled at me like she was in love.

Dude, what are you trippin on?!

Jenny was giving me her feminist solidarity face. I appreciated that.  I am not playing with America and how older women are expected to work and hustle to death while fretting over our ageing body parts, healthcare, and men.  Fuck all of that.  

Love, the live and rest activist. 

Oh, I'm just a girl, my apologies

What I've become is so burdensome

Oh, I'm just a girl, lucky me

Tweedle-dum, there's no comparison

Oh, I've had it up to

oh, I've had it up to

oh, I've had it up to here

miami novella: chapter tres LAS ARTISTAS

                                                       Mosquito Surfers on a Spider V 60 Amp

                                                      I See the Spotlight in You Opening Night

                                                                        Miami, 2018 

Miami is a hot world without mountains and a long rainy season. Miami Beach was like a temple to  Larry Caligula Flynt. Miami is too remote -  there’s the city, the Everglades, the Keys, and the sea. The state itself is Trumpian and racist. I felt blackity black in FL, not Berkeley Black which was to grow up on Cheeseboard pizza, Parliament, and progressive ideas. 

 The MIA is corrupt, lawless, prone to the wrath of God, too dark at night, and there’s too many weird bugs I couldn't identify. I did enjoy other wildlife like iguanas, wild peacocks, manatees, alligators, and egrets. I would stalk peacocks because they are quite beautiful in person. I became a peacock groupie. 

The Miami art scene is small; a kind of high school social hierarchy. It’s its own little mixed generation universe of weirdos, punks, and bougie hipsters. All were of variable background and aesthetic values. As hip, woke vocabulary evolved so did Miami's, but within a Miami context. Where we say BIPOC in the west, Miami would say Afro-Caribbean, African-American or Latinx, being a more accurate description of its population. 

Mami and papi, I would learn, was a term of endearment for non-white people. I thought it was corny, a slang I associated with the NYC suavecitos. Then I realised there is a sense of belonging expressed in the mami and papi. It's the sweeter equivalent of brother or sister. One just is.

There were a lot of art words for art people. Activation meant to get people involved in something active. The narrative is the story expressed in an artist's work. Diaspora was another since almost everyone in Miami is a part of one diaspora or another. Community was often used since everyone was a part of the place. 

Join us for a community activation celebrating the interdisciplinary diaspora narrative.

I could move nouns and adjectives around and have the same impact. That was another art scene word Miami liked, which came from tech capitalism. My favorite usage was storm impact windows. I think of Storm from X-Men making an impact because she's a bad bitch. 

The infuenceters in Miami were collectors, the glam and hip artists and galleries. One had to be strategic about which young and emerging artist to feature. Others, like the gem humans I worked for, would be experimental or academic. The rockstars of the moment were Black or Latinx artists doing mind blowing installations or mixed media. Frankie did one of a the lifecycle of the monarch with a greenhouse at the Museum of North Miami. Another amazing group exhibition was The Other Side of Now: Contemporary Caribbean Art at the Perez Museum. Wynwood had been the center of the art scene until it turned into a tourist destination for graphic prints of flamingos, splatter pop art graffiti, overpriced coffee, and mannequins tempting the Supreme Gucci superstar DJ-skater-stripper by night.

Between Overtown and Little Haiti, Wynwood was a mecca of the young, tech savvy youth who partied at the beach or went to the gym. Every trendy boutique blasted electronica and reggaeton. Yeezy sneakers were more popular than Air Jordans with the young set.  A lot of young girls and women looked like variations of either Cardi B or a Kardashian. No one is particularly blonde in Miami. They had a different language than my generation: a person was hot, not beautiful or attractive. A party was lit, not just fun. A bad situation was hella sketch, not just awful ( somehow through social media and human migration, young Miami picked up a Bay Area slang adverb ). The young Miamian also used the improbable irregardless, which meant regardless, in a statement.

Sex was going on all the time in rapid fluidity either through hook-ups or by transaction. Sexuality itself was fluid, but less overt than more progressive cities. Miami culture, in general, is traditionally Latin straight-centered with a body commodity since a lot of people can make money being scantily clad.  

The local news wasn't very interesting to me. There would be an '  alligator invades a backyard pool' story or an ' iguana falls dead from a tree during a cold snap' story, or a high speed chase on the causeway because life really is like Grand Theft Auto. One hilarious story I came across involved a player for the Miami Dolphins. 

He got rooked by two prostitutes and somehow someone got the transcript of his 911 call. He left the two girls alone in his house to go workout, he said. When he returned they had ransacked the joint of jewelry, cash, clothing, video games, and gear. 

Dispatch: Sir, how much would you say was the value of your personal property? 

Quarterback: Oh uh...like $ 1 million, you know what I'm sayin?

In Miami, nothing was happening or going to happen without social media. Its use was crucial to market an exhibition or event. Email, like reading, was fast becoming obsolete with young Miami. Latin millennials were so slick, they would hack a free rent promo at a trendy luxury condo, live out the promo timeline, and then bounce. They didn't have to worry about the consequences of breaking a lease or their FICO score, which doesn’t exist in Argentina or Colombia. The family that owns the FICO patent are from Marin county in the Bay. No surprise there!

At the gallery, I worked for a super cool couple who met at the first iteration of the gallery in Wynwood in the mid 90s. They were good people in partnership with a shared loved of art.  After they remodeled and sold the Wynwood building, they moved up to Little Haiti into a another that had once been a gas station. They gutted it and turned the main space into a gallery with two adjacent studios. One was rented to a bookmaker and publisher, the other to a master printer who became a good friend I nicknamed Farmer Tom. Tom, like Pops, was from Detroit. I think that's what drew me to Tom - he had a soulfulness about him. Talking to him was like listening to a philosopher-printer. 

I started doing basic administrative tasks in prep for the next exhibition. Then the installation phase began. Installs could be hard and complex depending if it was a group or solo show, its context and theme. During the installation phase, days could easily go into 10 - 12 hour stretches. Once the show had been curated, the installers came in. My job was to help coordinate and be the point person on site. 

The installers were a gang of artists and musicians themselves who could do the craziest things by cleat, fabrication, wiring, build-out, knocking out walls, buzz saws, hammers, drills, ladders, lighting, or with a scissor lift. The more complex an installation, the better. Most were Gen X mad scientists, a few were older millennials with the DIY analog ethos of a Gen Xer. While I worked on the back-end with images, I was also their back-up if they needed a hand. We’d geek out on music and I’d put on a fun playlist - 80s metal or hip hop, punk, 1970s rock, or funk.

‘ And where are you from?’ One geezer punk asked me.

Sigh. ‘ Berkeley…California.’ in my best friendly-fuck you tone.

The look on that dude’s face was priceless. Within seconds he processed that I was from a part of the country others may aspire to. Miami inspires images of Escobar and Miami Vice. Berkeley inspires images of academia and Philip K. Dick. What did you expect, homie? Minnesota? Illinois? 

We were cool after that. It’s a hobby of mine taking the salt out of men who think they’re the shit. What are women doing in other places? Where are we from, indeed? These are good questions.

A few installers were part of the noise punk scene that was at its peak between the 90s - mid 2ks. I heard shows were chaotic, fun, and experimental. One of my favorite shows at the gallery was a group show of several artists and musicians called I See the Spotlight in You. They were a squad of men and one woman who went back over 20 years together. They had fascinating stories of the drug wars, dead bodies, and noise shows at Churchill's Pub. Cocaine Cowboys is a trippy, low-budget documentary about 80s and 90s Miami.

‘ I once saw a crack house on fire.’ Cliff, who curated the show, told me. ‘ Completely engulfed in flames! No one came - no MFD, no cops. The street was deserted and I just watched it burn. No one was in there. That was one of the saddest and most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.’

The one woman was Jan of Jan & Dave, a popular noise band duo that played on opening night of Spotlight. Their theme was mosquito surfers. They had been together for years; weird avant garde punks devoted to irony and sarcastic theater through rock n roll. They made awesome mosquito props to decorate their amps, fake blood splattered around the stage, on their instruments, into their faces, and at the audience. 

Dressed up as mosquitoes themselves, they screamed into their mics about being a surfing mosquito from Mars who sucks the life out of humans. While younger people stood dumbfounded ( What the fuck is going on? Where is DJ Aoki? This is weird. I can’t put old people on my Instagram! ) The Gen Xers and Boomers in the room were cracking up.

What an awesome night that was!

The hardest installation went on for an entire arduous month. It was a conceptual solo exhibition by a Spaniard who was doctoral candidate at Goldsmith's in London. The artist's dissertation was a mix of what humans ingest relative to our environment ( hair, microbes, bone, blood, sodium, dirt, et al ) the geology of the region, sculpture, and grillz, trap rap bling, which is rooted in African adornment. The Spaniard had done research for a few months between Colombia and Haiti. 

My job was to support the artist with setting up a workshop for others to make small clay sculptures called bocadillos for the exhibition, source materials and supplies, and show them around the city's local and historical spots.

Then we went on the hunt for iguanas parts. For a fauna aspect to the show, the Spaniard wanted to use iguana tails submerged in tubes with formaldehyde as part of the exhibition. I remember getting formaldehyde was impossible since it's a controlled compound. The artist sourced another viscous synthetic material called formalin to the preserve the tails. 

Four of us drove up to Broward to meet an iguana hunter. Apparently there are iguana and python hunters in FL because both are invasive species to the region that destroy vegetation, takeover swimming pools, and eat other native creatures. 

The iguana hunter was a FL bro who drove a black 4x4 truck and set-up shop in part of a warehouse in Broward. Iguanas are beautiful to me up close, but to him they were just his line of work - like a bone collector.  He told us he was a 3rd generation hunter himself. We got several tails from the iguana hunter and stored them at Jake's house in a freezer. Jake was the genius-muscle at the gallery. It was his job to help rig or engineer whatever hairbrained scheme someone came up with ( moving parts, lighting, and sound ). 

Jake was a skate-punk who liked Slayer growing up in New Mexico.  He joined the navy after high school where he learned mechanical and electrical engineering. He now goes to far flung and exotic places working on satellite systems for cruise ships. Jake is essentially a nomadic nerd and one of the coolest, funniest people a person could encounter. His Instagram posts will have me on the floor. He could be working on a project in Dubai, but homie will post a photo of the burrito he had for lunch. Weird bathroom signage in Japan. A gigantic plate of pasta in Italy. He may experience the landscape of a place, but he lives for the food. 

For the Spaniard's show, a line was drawn at captions in Esperanto for his work. That was too esoteric for Miami. We switched to English and Spanish. For opening night everything was lit under black light, which visually was very cool. The exhibition was a lot of detailed, complex minutia, but a fascinating process and experience.

Another memorable exhibition was framed around avant garde feminism ( another concept that is adored in the Bay Area, New York, and Japan, not so much in Miami ). It had everything from painting, graphic art, angry spoken word, sculpture, written text, experimental video, and a staircase designed by a gallery artist and fabricated by undergrad students. 

The staircase haunted my dreams. It hadn’t been constructed or finished correctly and there was a lot of behind the scenes wrangling and disagreement. Between competing demands, well intentioned but unrealistic expectations - humans clashed. The staircase moved several times throughout the gallery during the hot and humid opening night. Myself and a few other people rolled the staircase outside behind a makeshift stage in the parking lot. A vinyl fabricator recovered it in Pantone colors to match the colorstory of the exhibition, while a South Korean pop band rocked out.

My greatest accomplishment was helping an Icelandic artist with his vision for a video installation. He was fascinated with America’s love of marching bands, but he was having a hard time finding a local high school to participate. Most of the public schools around Little Haiti and into North Miami were predominantly black and Haitian. Iceland was also baffled by the complex American paperwork and waivers required to use minors’ image in a video.

Ask a sister from the Bay! We get shit done, sun! 

First I tried Edison High School up the street. Edison was like a prison compound for teenagers. It was an excruciating example of underfunded public education in a conservative state that is determined to prepare young black kids for service jobs or incarceration. I had to go through metal detectors and check-in with security. I still couldn't get anyone to chill long enough to connect me to the marching band director. The staff at Edison moved as if in constant damage control within a racist society in decline, similar to the public school culture of East Oakland. 

Then I hit the jackpot with North Miami Senior High School. The baddest high school marching band in the city. 

Mr. Virgil was the marching band director. What made him different was that he was from Trinidad and played no games. He ran the band like a boot camp because it was a pathway for kids to get scholarships to the HBCs in the region, which several had already scored. The band leader was a charismatic Haitian-American who needed to be in Homecoming. He had gotten a full ride to North Carolina A&M. 

Once we worked out the logistics and funding, I met the Icelandic artist and his film crew at the school football field for a day of shooting. This involved a camera, a drone, and colored smoke bombs  on another hot and humid day. Most summer days in Miami are hot and humid except in winter when it's more bearable for human existence. I spent a grip on hair products in the time I lived there. It was either that or spend my days looking like a Fraggle Rock. 

Iceland and his assistant wore parrot costumes he found on eBay. His vision was for them to play melancholy parrots adrift in a weird tropical landscape as they walked around ignoring the marching band. The band was symbolic of the American spectacle, which we cherish because entertainment gives our lives meaning. 

It was awesome to watch the process unfold that day. The kids were stealth performing in full uniform around artistic chaos and summer heat. They did hip hop beats, funk beats, and church beats - with massive horns and snare drums. It was quite a get down scene. I learned I'm good at bringing people together, from different countries and cultures and making things happen. I would do a project like that again. 

The most trippy people I encountered were the Rubells. They are big time art patrons and collectors. I paused on the name. Rubell? Is someone related to Steve Rubell? Sure enough the husband was his brother. That meant serious New York wealth and the Studio 54 legacy. The Rubells took their over-the-top modern art collection (Basquiat, Kehinde, Warhol, the Georges, Kusama, et al) and bought a massive space in Allapatha, a Dominican neighborhood mixed with warehouses and shotgun bungalows. The Rubells remodeled their place into a brutalist museum filled with maximalist modern art. During Art Basel, I managed to get in a visit before I left Florida. Other than time with friends, that was a super cool way to end my art life experience in the Magic City.  

Ven a Bailar ( On the Floor )

JLo and Pitbull

the discreet charm of the bourgeoisie: PART II

                                     

                                            I'm Tired of Being the Angry Black Woman.
                                        Paula Akpan and Harriet Evans portrait project,
                                      Hudson Valley Centre for Contemporary Art, 2014

The modern age pulled a clever trick. We don't have to deal with difficult people at work in person anymore. In-your-face-antics can now be in an email or on a Zoom! 

Since June, I was having a hard time coping with the mean consultants who communicate like corporate pit bosses. Lots of NOs and RIGHT NOW, TODAYs. There are two villains to this story:  Hagatron and her protegee, the Blue Meanie.

You made a mistake. We all make mistakes. Figure out what went wrong and learn from it. Have a great weekend! 

That was Hagatron to me for putting the wrong checks in an envelope. This is what I call psychological terror.  After a lifetime of American women being shitty, competitive, and shady I became - wait for the 21st century term - triggered by embedded trauma. What such communication conveyed to me is this person can be abusive and arrogant. She didn't have to cc several other people on something so utterly superfluous. That was intentional to embarass me. Sigh. 

She hates me because I'm black! Boo hoo.  No, no that's not quite it. She's not used to dealing with smart black women who are cuter than her. I'm not special. I'm just talking cold, hard facts! Twice the Hagatron dished a microaggression at me - about my ( younger ) age and my hair. 

Blue Meanie sent me condescending messages as if they were running the show, not providing a service. 

I'll walk you through the process so you can do it yourself. 

I'm not in kindergarten, heaux. 

It had been like this for weeks with these two. Other colleagues got hit, even when asking for legit clarity about the ( half-assed, half-baked ) workflow that they created.  Others, who had years of institutional knowledge and integrity, were being treated like trash. I don't doubt these mean women may be good at the numbers, but they were bad to other people. I'm not good at shitty people. Keep pushing me and I'm gonna blow like Kurtis. 

Who are these ill mannered hacks? I wondered. I couldn't find any online reviews about their service. I think the elder Hagatron is trying to help the protegee Blue Meanie get her business off the ground. Yeah, you gotta wake up real early with the rooster with me, ladies. One of my favorite words in the English language is discernment. 

Eventually I spoke up. Their whole schematic was not well thought out or scaled to learn what the arts organization did or how it was structured. They were so trifling that I could tell in one thread, with another colleague, that they didn't know a backend process she did. She got the snap back with '....that is not your responsibility. ' That's arrogance and the arrogant, like the insecure, can be dangerous. 

Case in point, their own errors get the laissez-faire response. If anyone on staff makes an error well, see above for the abrasive touche. Worse case scenario, you get the bitch slap in several paragraphs.

I tried twice to do payroll without much guidance or context. I emailed the younger Blue Meanie several times with questions. No response. They both kept odd schedules, Zooms by day and email by night like capitalist villains. That's not a sustainable practice for anyone. The next morning, I got the bitch-slap in a rude, long form email ( sent after hours ), that read as though the Blue Meanie needed therapy or a vacation. Hitting someone else with your own shit is quite lowdown.

At the baseline, that was unprofessional and bullying. I don't report to the Blue Meanie, but the colored chick is an easy target. That email was meant to engage me in a subservient response, to apologise and acquiesce. For what? Trying to do her goddamn job? 

I responded with silence. That trick leaves the person's bullshit dangling into a void of the ridiculous. Reading that email, I fell into a state of rage and despair that this country is hopeless; that even the most mediocre among us will come at us to assert dominance.

When the new Sheriff came to town, I spoke up. We don't have to pull up to that bullshit anymore! Their work was getting delegated to me and I wasn't hired for that. I wasn't even asked directly if I was interested or if I had the skill set for it. I found this out in a staff meeting. Then in another email, ' All HR goes to Lisa.'

HR who? HR Puff n Stuff? Could ya clue a sister in as to what your deadbeat plans are? Who exactly is running this clown circus? 

This is America
Don't catch you slippin' now
Don't catch you slippin' now
Look what I'm whippin' now
This is America (woo)

Childish Gambino, This is America, 2018

There are things I enjoy about my job particularly working in the arts with a small group of other art nerds. I enjoy exploring the theater district and watch humanity pass by. When we have surplus of a thing, I bring donations to a Glide outreach center - Cheerios, energy bars, leftover lunches. Most people on this side of town, living in the streets, are black. Everyone I work with is white. They are a solid group of good people; a mix of artists and intellectuals devoted to the arts. A few even deferred their salary during the pandemic and worked for free, so staff and artists could get paid. Granted they were older and could afford it, but that's class act character right there. To exhibit such grace and support is rare. I was touched when I heard about that.

The accountants however were bullies and I don't respond to bully ass shit. I default to thinking of who I come from through history and they had no choice. The crap, accusatory email will exist forever. Silence is a kind of self-regulation. I shared that email with the Sheriff. I will not suffer treatment like that at work while my life as a black person in America is being compromised. Look at how our protections under the law are being chipped away.  A close friend in Europe and I had a text chat recently: 

" It's like there is a fracture in society.' He wrote. That fracture is neo-fascism. Conspiracy theories are so awful from The Great Replacement to something about the world's elite planning a global Jewish takeover.  If I were to even try and investigate such hyperbole, I would succumb to despair.  I imagine myself and others, like the Children of Ham, being rounded up for extermination such as in A Handmaid's Tale. I'm aware, but I'm not going to do submit to that. I focus on art, music, and beauty instead. 

' But you're not going anywhere? ' the Sheriff asked. 

'No. I enjoy what I do. I just won't be treated in that manner.' 

( Hood translation: Got me fucked up! ) 

One thing that workplace goons bet on is the effectiveness of intimidation because we need our jobs to survive. Overseers employed the same tactic to keep slaves in check, laboring to their death. One black body down, replaced by another. One black mind lost, replaced by another. I will defend myself against all forms of American tyranny.

With intimidation, people will get anxious and break their neck to whatever bidding is handed down. I refuse. My priorities are my own well-being and that of the greater good; to support those who have to endure hours long meetings listening to knuckleheads natter on like they got their 15 minutes on Hollywood Squares. I can natter on, but at least I try to be interesting. 

The Hagatron sent a last-minute inventory request of recordings. This is for an accounting thing called a ' profit and loss statement '. She forgot to mention this while running other people around in circles. The CDs were in a densely packed storage room - a low key archaeological dig.  I thought about the GM, a good and gracious man between a rock and a hard place with these two.  Every request and directive he gives to me is done with respect and consideration - every single time. Professionally we think in the same way: plan, create, and execute. He once said I had visual acumen, which I thought was cool. 

I shifted my thinking. Focus on the good, not the bad. I could be defiant and do nothing, but that's my ego. I hauled gear in and out of Burning Man for years, bitches. I can also work out my issues in a positive way! 

But back to Renita, and this email. She at the computer, y’all. She’s stressed. She wanna say… “Why you not readin’ my shit?” But she can’t say that. So you know what she has to say? Delete, delete, delete, delete. “Per my previous email…”

But there’s a behavior that white women and women who happen to be white are doing. It’s an infraction that you’re committing on a regular basis that all of us in here would love for you to stop doing. It’s plaguing offices everywhere. Please. We beg of you. Stop cc’ing all these unnecessary people on these goddamned emails! Stop! Stop! Why you sharin’ on this goddamned email? She ain’t got shit to do with what we’re doing over here! What you tryin’ to do, Becky? What you tryin’ to do? ‘Cause I got the receipts! I got the receipts! Ah! You ain’t think I had that shit. Well, n i g g a s got me fucked up. Ooh! Exactly. Shit. Heh. She ain’t know I stay ready. When you a black person in any office, you stay ready. ‘Cause you’re always wondering, “How black am I gon’ have to get?”

- Amanda Seales, I Be Knowin, 2019

Yeah, the antics we are subjected to are black universal.  Listening to such stand up with recognition and irony, we laugh, get up from our seats, and cheer. Collectively, we rejoice in the acknowledgement that we have to be on guard at all times in this country. The greatest defenses are our wit and awareness; to know who we are. We all know that tired ass email game. It's a passive-aggressive strategy to deflect from one's mediocrity and throw us under the bus; to cast aspersion and doubt upon our competency. 

It is white supremacy.

Then something miraculous happened. I came in one morning and the  bullies were silent. They left me alone all fucking day. I was archiving emails and came across one. ' Please communicate the importance of this process to Lisa.'  Even in a third-person conversation, it's assumed I don't have the capacity for executive functioning. Really? 

The new Sheriff had put the smack down that I report to the GM, not to the dreadful dynamic duo. I support the GM and staff, not them. In the realm of professional discretion, I'm certain that's what went down. I've been in the game so long, I know when a good hand has been played. When the wack-a-doo suddenly stops - someone drew a line in the sand. 

Check it out! Treat black women with care and respect at all times. Period. Even if we're learning new processes and workflow. Our circumstances are not like those of the vanilla majority. We suffered the lash the same as the men. We work and toil and work and care for others, often neglecting ourselves in the process. Black women are the most non-lazy humans in history. We have generational trauma in our blood and bones and still get to work early. How about I bring up what my father and grandmother went through during Jim Crow? That could be a compelling workplace chat. 

( Hood translation: Fuck all yall! ) 

We are not strong black women. That tired ass trope is for the birds. We are people worthy of the same respect and consideration given to white women. If a person is not of good character or competent, that will reveal itself. 

I am not having abuse of any kind and I will walk away to protect myself. All these mean ass white women in the workplace better take a seat. Such treatment only exacerbates our collective vulnerability and rage at this moment in time. 

Are you crazy? The last thing you want to do is make a scene? Well, I'm gonna make a movie if you don't show me some respect.


- Sister Souljah, The Coldest Winter Ever, 2006