So, I’ve got zine one written up. Now I am going to work on making these written words into a zine.

I decided that I’m going to make one zine for the fundraising package a quarter sized zine and the other one a half sized zine.

Half sized is when you fold a 8 by 11 regular sized paper in half, quarter is when you half that half again.

I’m working on the half sized one first–because half sized is bigger, less intimate, you can put longer, extended thoughts together in it. I plan on also putting together a lot of material around the writing, so that there’s pictures and stuff to look at–I also just like the feel of a more textured sheet of paper. Some people like the feel of a clean page with words on it, I like the way a well placed photo or a complex drawing or a few lines even, can change or give more context to a group of words.

The first thing I did was type up everything I wanted to say. This is not always necessary–lots of times you may want to switch over to hand writing just because it feels more intimate or you like the look better.

For the most part, however–for me, I use typed out words.

So I typed it all up, then printed it off. Because I am going to be using a half page layout, I also used a half page layout on Word when I was typing everything out. I am not going to just turn the the print outs into a zine (although you could do that)–I am going to be cutting things out and layering them–and THEN printing it off and turning it into a zine. But it’s important to print the words off according to the size of zine you are going to make–I didn’t know that for the first zine I made and had everything printed off for a regular sheet of paper. I then had to decide, am I going to dump all this paper, or am I going to sit and cut all these words out, section by section, so that they fit on my quarter sized section of paper?

Guilty good catholic girl me decided to not waste paper.

But I did learn my lesson. Always type out the words that you’re going to use according to the size of zine you’re going to make.

Ok. So now that I have my words all printed out, I’m going to start working on filling out my pages.

This was one of the first things that caused me problems when I first started making zines. How the hell do you lay your sheets out so that they are all in order?

Well, I discovered from this zine–the most effective way for *ME* to deal with that question was to cut out sheets of paper that are equal to the size of zine I’m going to make (i.e. if I am using half sized zine, cut 8 by11 sheet of paper in half) and then work with individual sheets of paper.

So, I’ll have a whole stack of half sized pages–and work on a single individual sheet at a time. When I am done with one sheet, I move on to the next. That way I can lay them all out in order, switch them around, check for consistency, etc–and not have to worry about ZOMG, I just ruined one side but the other side is *perfect*! What am I going to do now?

THis is the step I am on right now–creating each page the way I want to.

You can use your complete imagination on this section–cu up the words, add pictures, use stamps, add an underlayer of words, do double prints (print something off, then print it off again)–whatever you want. It’s my favorite part of making a zine!

Once I get some pages done, I’ll post some pictures (if I can figure out how to get pictures uploaded onto this computer!!!! ARGH! NEW COMPUTER WHERE ARE YOU!!!!)

And then once I am finished with this section of the zine making, I’ll post again about what to do with all your pages! (This section, creating your pages, is the longest, most time consuming out of all the sections).

If you have any advice or questions, leave them in comments!!!!!

News has it that Al Sharpton will be attending a march in Detroit in support of Aiyana Jones. Aiyana’s case has made the national black media circuit–but still sits just on the cusp of the white media circuit (i.e. mainstream corporate media). Some mainstream sites have picked up the story, but it’s not headline news on CNN yet. At least not that I’ve seen (I admittedly avoid the shit out of mainstream news). Democracy Now! covered Aiyana’s murder, but only in the headline news segement, not in one of the 20 minute segments.

So–Al might be coming to Detroit. And because he sits on the edge of the black/white media (white folks listen when he’s saying something inflammetory otherwise they have the ignore button on), with his presence, there will be a massive pick up on the story by white media.

And knowing the history of what happened when other “allies” and “leaders” stepped into communities they didn’t belong to in an effort to bring attention to an ignored story (i.e. New Orleans, Jena, Duke, Dunbar Village among others)–all I can think is sweet god, al, don’t come to Detroit–please in the name of GOD don’t come to detroit.

It’s not that Detroit doesn’t appreciate the attention that people like Al can bring to situation. But interview activists in Detroit. Interview the Detroit community. Interview people who knew Aiyana and loved her. Don’t come to Detroit. We know what your presence did for the Dunbar community. We know what your presence (and Rev. Jesse’s) did for the Jena Six. For the poor devastated woman in Duke. We don’t discount the racism that follows you around and rips apart anything you touch simply because you are you. We know that white folks have long had it out for you because you’re a black man who achieved success and gotten money.

We all understand that.

But we all also understand how media that centers a personality rather than a community more often than not, rips apart the community. We see how when things aren’t as “simple” as a black woman being assaulted by white men–you get worried about your reputation and take off. We see how when it’s pointed out that a woman’s job isn’t the problem (the Duke rape survivor), violence against women is–you hem and haw and then take off.

And no, I’m not talking just about you, Rev. Al, here–when I say “you” I mean you, Jesse Jackson, the Muslim Brotherhood, the rappers who always gotta “make an album” (i.e. use a tragic event for a little publicity without ever interrogating their own role in sexism and violence against women being acceptable) among others.

Detroit knows what it means to be promised “some publicity” to help with their problems and get treated to an endless stream of relentless “death” photoessays. Isn’t it soooooooooooooooooo tragic that Detroit, a once great city, is a decaying slop of death?

We know how that media thing works. It’s been glorying in Detroit’s death for the past 10 years–what is it going to say about a little black girl being murdered?

And what’s going to happen to a community that only just barely began dealing with the *last* “accidental” police murder?

When all the cameras you bring start filing their reports–and FOX news uncovers something horrible and proceeds to paint all of Detroit and grieving devastated human beings as god knows what (I still have the comments re: the Duke rape case where the survivor was called “cum catcher” “N*gger whore” etc etc etc)–will you be there to pick up the pieces? To protect grieving relatives that only want to feel her alive baby body in their arms one more time?

Will you be there to remind everybody that the relentless depictions of Detroit as Murder Capital USA are at least partially inaccurate, because police are doing the murdering too? Will you be there with money and resources when state and federal aid are decreased *again*—because Detroit should just be left to die?

Will you admit that police brutality is something women experience too?

That the original rumor circulated by the police that an old black woman turned tiger and beat the shit out of armed militarized police thereby causing this tragedy *makes sense* because everybody from white slave masters to black movie makers have “made fun of” (i.e. used sexist dehumanizing tropes against) “crazy black bitches” that are “too uppity” and no wonder nobody wants to marry their black asses anyway?

Don’t come to Detroit–not unless it’s to give Aiyana’s family a check from the fundraiser you started at your radio studio. Or unless you’re willing to stick around after all the cameras go home and help with the unglamorous job of staying alive in a city everybody wants dead.

I promise you, I’m not holding my breath. 

By Lisa

Crossposted at My Ecdysis

I never earned a degree in photography, but I call myself a photographer.

No one ever taught me how to write creatively, but I call myself a writer in creative non-fiction.

There’s an illusion of permission, particularly in the arts, that you really should have the right kind of credential or background before you call yourself anything, before you utter the word “artist” or “poet” as a descriptor.

Of course credentials are helpful. There’s no dispute that a formal program or academic certificate offers professional development and advancement. But what I’m referring to is the community level, grassroots, center-of-the body need to create and express ourselves. And the unfortunate tendency is to self-dismiss our drive because we are not really “authorized” to do so. In other words, we – those without permission – dare not dip our toes into the creative process or artistic world. We let it slip away.

Who has the license to create? Who gives YOU permission to move, bend, and contort paper, pen, ideas, words, clay, textile, paint, beads, voice into something that expresses a peace/piece inside you?

Today I was talking to someone about photography and she asked me how I got into photography, if I had ever taken a class. I’d never taken a photography or lighting course. I never joined a club. Hell, I didn’t even own a camera until I took my first job after graduate school.

But, photography always moved me. The color. The symphony. The patience of waiting for the right moment. I always felt that photography was about observation and timing. And as the youngest of four children, my whole life was spent observing the world around me. There were three eyes on by body, I often thought. The two on my face and the one in my brain, clicking a camera to capture a moment. The way Andrew smiled at me right before I received my first kiss. The shadowed foot steps of my family when we walked the beach in 1992. The electric blue bubble letters on a sign that read “Vote for Lisa” when I ran for class president in 4th grade. My father’s hands as he drummed the steering wheel to old classic music in our Ram van.

The lesson plans of the camera are formidable and can be frustrating. There’s a slight math and science to the camera; a sophisticated vocabulary that must be decoded before one can smoothly operate the camera as a tool. But I stuck with it. It started as fascination, then grew to a hobby, then flourished into a passion. And then I committed to it. I dedicated myself to learning it, with my love for photography tucked under my elbow. That’s when I knew I was a photographer. I not only loved doing it. I committed myself to it.

It’s very similar to romantic relationships. The real-ness of the relationship, what legitimizes it, what affirms the relationship to be authentic and solid and heavy does not come from those outside looking in. It comes from the commitment of the people to one another, to the relationship.

You must commit to the process, to the art as action. You must commit yourself.

Photography, as an art, takes practice. It takes vision.

I told my friend to stop waiting for someone to give her permission. “If you keep waiting for someone to tell you that it’s ok to try something, you’ll never start. And the only person waiting and sitting in disappointment is yourself. There’s no permission needed. Just start creating.”

I thought about that for a few hours afterward.

I thought about how long I waited to try. I waited for someone to tell me that I had an eye for photography. That day never came. It’s no wonder either. The “you have a good eye” compliment never came because I wasn’t DOING anything and therefore had nothing to show; nothing for anyone to reflect upon, critique, or admire. When you wait for permission, you wait in stillness.

Why did I wait for permission? Why do we figure we need to earn something EXTRA before we allow ourselves to draw or sketch or, dammit, even just TRY something creative. To raise our fingers to an unfamiliar block of clay, an untouched canvas, or a blank page takes a steel rod of bravery.

We are moving into an age where the single nomad, crushing himself into a starving corner is no longer the picture of an artist or master creator. Today, artists are single mothers with two jobs
and a bus pass. Photographers can be world travelers or lifetime small town dwellers. The elitism is bleeding out. Art is everyday. Artists should be as common as a worn kitchen table.

We may grow old. We may lose that fresh inspiration that wakes us up in the middle of the night. But the goal of creative work is not to be legendary or even remembered. The goal is to be free.

to all those who say, “there’s nothing I can say…”

Yes. There. Is.

You can say:

*What can I do to help?

*What are organizers in Detroit doing and saying about this?

*Does anybody know the family so we can find out what they need right now?

You can also say:

*I didn’t know that stuff like this happened. I wonder what it means for my own understanding of how structural racism, violence, poverty, sexism, etc plays out.

*I’m going to commit to listening to the analysis of people who live through shit like this.

*I’ve got some money, I”m going to donate it to organizers that are trusted by the community and work in the area.

*I’ve got some money, I’m going to commit to going to community driven events like the USSF and/or the AMC.

You can even say:

*I see that this, and experiences like this, are not “just the way it is in Detroit (or Flint or Saginaw or Michigan or any other place living with violence)” but are indicative of poverty, racism, globalization, industrialization, neglect and lack of resources.

*I don’t think that having an analysis “excuses” any type of violence, rather instead, it attempts to understand it so that we can end it.

*I wonder if we should call for “justice” when “justice” just shot a 7 year old child through the head.

*What is justice?

*I wonder what I can do to help create justice–lasting peaceful safe justice?

And I hope you say:

I am so sorry to all those who lost a dearly loved one. I’m so sorry to all those that are living with this unimaginable pain.

Don’t turn away.

She was a little girl. A year younger than my son. What my own daughter used to be when she was that age. Fresh faced, interested in princesses, a little unsure of the camera.

Don’t turn away.

She’s from Detroit. And yeah, I know, we’re supposed to let Detroit die, and we’re not supposed to care about Detroiter’s until they “clean up their shit and stop whining at us for handouts.” And Detroit’s a wasteland and filled with violence and the cheap punch line for hundreds of late night comics.

Ho ho–Detroit is scary and violent and destroyed. Thank god we aren’t Detroit!

Aren’t you all so funny.

She was shot in the head. That little girl. The one in that picture. Look at her. She was loved. Her grandma tried to protect her. She was loved. There are lives that will never recover because of what happened to her. Her father, who loved her, and was forced to lay in her blood. Her grandmother, who the media is trying to blame for her death, loved her, and tried to protect her.

Look at that child.
She’s a year younger than my own child.

Look at her.

I’ve been working on a lot of Detroit related media making lately. And universally, every single place that media is posted, I get shit. Universal agreement. Let Detroit die. Walk away from it until we “teach them” to stop expecting our money.

Who are you, crazy lazy bitch? Probably some welfare sucking socialist. Get off your ass and get a job! Stop bitching at us because you’re a lazy bitch!

It’s easy to hate Detroit. It’s easy to turn away from crazy lazy bitches. It’s easy to say–just let it die.

But do you have the fortitude to stay and watch it die? To watch her die? To watch her get murdered? To hold the hands and hearts of the people who loved her and will never recover? To open your heart to a little dead girl–and demand life?

Don’t look away. Don’t.

Don’t pick out the code words–Detroit, black, arrest, resisting–and look away.

She was loved.
She was loved.
She was loved.
She’s a year younger than my son.

And she was loved.
Demand life.

IF you’ll notice the little widget over there on the sidebar–you’ll notice that THE FUNDRAISING GOAL HAS BEEN MET!!!!!!!

Sheer. Joy.

Thank you so much to all.

So–the response for the computer fundraiser has been nothing short of phenomenal! Look at that chip in widget over there! WE’RE ALMOST THERE!!!! Somebody is sending 50 bucks through the mail, so we are soooooooooo almost there.

**happy dances**

The amazing thing is that there have been donations ranging from $5 dollars all the way through $300–this is literally a case of every single penny helps. I thank everybody deeply for there donations–every single penny is held in highest regard.

Thank you.

I am also now actively working on putting together the different promised gifts–I’ve put together a huge chunk of the personalized thank you’s and have begun work on the first zine–if I can figure out how to upload pictures to the computer (babybfp got us a donated computer from a guy at her school–thank god, because we’re no longer restricted solely to library computers–but, this computer, while a gift, and thus much appreciated, there’s a reason it was donated. just saying.), I will.

I will probably be able to send out the first batch of thank you’s within a week or so–and will officially begin putting together the first zine shortly after that!

Until then–much love to all!!!
And thank you!!!

I’ve been reading about Erik Prince closely. He’s from the town I grew up in, and oh, just so happens to be the sole owner of the Blackwater corporation. I went to school with some of his family members.

He came to speak in Holland the other day and at the University of Michigan the same day Obama was there.

The part that interests me is that there were actual protests in Holland when he spoke there. Granted, they were small. And of course, they were organized by the churches. But goddamn there were protests.

I heard a report on the speech on Michigan Public Radio. That Prince got a standing ovation in Holland. And it’s appalling to me knowing that he got an ovation because reading through the Democracy Now! interview, he probably said something totally horrible like Arabs are animals that don’t know how to use toilets. And he got applause for that.

I grew up with these people. I grew up with these people as my neighbors and my friends. Holland, for whatever it is now, was then a very small town where everybody knew everybody else. We went to church together (or you were like me, and didn’t go to church, and as such, was vehemently prayed over) ate at the local Denny’s on Saturday night together, hung out in the streets together.

And all the new comers like me, who had only lived in the town for one generation—were all supposed to think like “them,” our neighbors, our friends, the founders of the town, because their thoughts came from God.

One of the things we were all supposed to “know” because *they* knew it and God told them—We don’t hate people—we pray for them. We don’t support clinic bombers, we pray for them. We don’t support atheists, we pray for them. We don’t hate the Mexicans that never buy their own houses and leave every year with the crops, we pray for them.

We invite them to Jesus. And when they don’t come, we pray.

We trust that Jesus is strong enough to lead them the rest of the way.

But reading what Mr. Erik Prince had to say—and knowing that he gave his speech in a closed off space that you had to pay to get into (the same place where my graduation was held!), I feel just a bit better knowing that I never bought into their line. I tried to force myself to, for sure. And I spent many suicidal nights wondering why I couldn’t just let it go and follow them.

I don’t think it’s because I secretly knew that years from that point, all of my neighbors would be the ones giving standing ovations to a man who helped kill thousands of people and justified it by comparing those people to animals…But more because everything that ever felt “right” to me was almost instantaneously dismissed by “them”—as me trying to follow my imperfect human selfish needs rather than the sacred word of God.

And of course, what felt right to me was things like a woman’s right to choose. Sympathy for LGBT and queer people (at that point, I couldn’t even phathom that I was one of the poeple I was feeling sympathy for), poor people. What felt right to me was trying to understand where another person was coming from and …maybe not respecting that place, per se (remember I was a kid in a horrible town, this was me trying to negotiate a near impossible situation)—but having sympathy for the struggle they were facing.

But the only acceptable way to show symphathy was through God. When a person was on his/her knees admitting through tears their sins in front of the sacred Holy Jesus.

That was the moment our hearts were allowed to reach out to the soul that was suffering. To embrace that person and love him/her. And commit to walking the Road with him/her.

Although this logic seems like the godly thing to do—and the “we don’t hate anybody we pray for them” seems the Christian thing to do—I found it hateful. I didn’t have the word to call it hateful then—but I do now, and I say it clearly. I found it hateful.

It acted as a way to mark a person “different”—an “outsider.” It was a gentle, kind way of doing it. But it was still filled with hate. It was still telling a suicidal kid living in an abusive home that we will not do a fucking thing to help until she admits her sin and accepts Jesus as her Savior. It was still telling a suicidal kid that isolation, abuse, mental illness, poverty would all be better if she accepted Jesus Christ. As her Savior.

And so it was telling a human being that her life is not precious and sacred and necessary.

Everyday. For years.

No, it doesn’t surprise me that Erik Prince got an ovation from my former neighbors and friends. It suprises me that there were neighbors that protested him. Because for the first time since I’ve known them, my neighbors and friends were saying that their love and respect for other people as human beings was unconditional. My neighbors—at least a few of them—-were saying human life is precious and sacred and necessary. No matter what.

Somewhere underneath it all—through tears and with no small amount of reluctance—that suicidal queer girl is smiling.

And sends her regards.

xposted from guerrilla mama medicine

thinking of going to gaza.  srsly.  the calling to go is getting stronger and stronger.  and now that aza is three years old (omg she is three!) some switch has clicked in my head where i feel able and responsible to leave her for longer periods of time.

i have been following the free gaza movement for the past couple of years.  doing some media work for the project and support for our friend theresa in scotland who has done amazing work for free gaza.  she was on the boat that first broke the israeli blockade and landed safely in gaza in 2008.  a truly incredible story of solidarity.  i have watched this free gaza movement and feel that they have done some of the best work i have seen on radical solidarity.  making honest relationships with people w/in gaza.  and challenging the israeli military.

right now they are organizing a flotilla to break the blockade.

On May 24, 2010, the Freedom Flotilla sets sail for Gaza determined to, once again, challenge Israel’s blockade of 1.5 million Palestinians trapped in an open-air prison. Under the coordination of the Free Gaza Movement, numerous human rights organizations, including the Turkish Relief Foundation (IHH), the Perdana Global Peace Organization from Malaysia, the European Campaign to End the Siege of Gaza, and the Swedish and Greek Boat to Gaza initiatives will send three cargo ships loaded with reconstruction, medical and educational supplies. At least five passenger boats with over 600 people on board will accompany the cargo ships.These passengers include members of Parliament from around the world, U.N., human rights and trade union activists, as well as journalists who will document the largest coordinated effort to directly confront Israel’s illegal blockade of Gaza and take in basic supplies.

Continue reading →

the twilight series has given Teh Feminists a massive collective heart attack for years. and rightfully so. babybfp said she wanted to read the series, so i sat down and read it first to make sure it was ok–and was appalled. how *familiar* so much of it sounds–no, don’t feel sad that you sliced my face up! you couldn’t help it, you’re a werewolf! i should’ve *listened* to you!

i told babybfp no, she’d have to wait until she was older and had experienced a better kind of ‘love’ than this twilight love (she was only 9 at the time) before she could read it.

so she read about Harry Potter falling in love with Cho Chang and then with Ginny. About how Ginny existed quite happily away from Harry. About how Harry respected Cho Chang’s choice to go out with a different boy and then break up with him–even though he didn’t like it. About Hermione loving Ron but refusing to be with him until he grew up. About Lilly being best friends with Snape, but refusing to be with him after he treated her like shit.

We read other things together too–Percy and Anabeth, the Spiderwick Chronicles, Eregon, the Charlie Bone series–and quite a few others. we talked about how girls are treated in the series, how the boys treat the girls, what reaction to the boys the girls had, what seemed realistic, what didn’t…

even after we had all these talks, i still resisted her reading the twilight series. what is it going to teach her? is she ready yet? when are girls old enough to hear and see the logic of abuse and not be tempted by it or fall for it?

but then girls at school were suddenly all reading it. and playing twilight board games at recess and spending the night at each other’s houses, watching the movies together. and one day babybfp even told me, i don’t care if you won’t let me read it, X and Y told me the entire story. I know all about it.

the girls spent weeks and weeks talking about the series. one girl even brought in fan mags where they talked about how hot edward was and other things that sorta made me puke. i had a conversation with one girl about the werewolf attack thing, and she earnestly defended the attack and talked about how the “girl had to comfort him, he felt so bad.” my skin crawled.

but then one day, i got an email from babybfp. and i noticed her sign off:

Babybfp–Not obsessed with twilight or any other of those lovey dovey books…..

turns out that for all her bravado about reading the books anyway (hahaha, mama, u lose, i win!), babybfp actually was sick of all the talk going on about the series. she stopped hanging out with her group of friends because she was sick of hearing how “hot edward’s chest” was. she told me that she likes boys who make her laugh and boys like edward who are so serious “freak her out.” she thinks bella should’ve run like crazy when the car was chasing after her (in the first book), and can’t understand why she would be so stupid just standing there staring at it. and most of all, she was sick of the attention of her friends being so focused on “lovey dovey crap.” (yes, she said that). she wanted her friends to play again, to move on to other subjects. she eventually even got a small group of girls to start playing four square with her every day at lunch, instead of standing around talking about edward. and then there’s her email signature. and she did all this, figured all this out, while i was worrying and refusing and deciding things for her. she did it all on her own.

turns out that twilight can teach girls a lot more than we thought. and that maybe the point is not to decide for girls what is pure shit, but to help them develop the tools to decide for themselves. to let them explore within reason–and be there to catch them if they fall or get in too deep. to hug them close every single night and whisper to them that you love them, not matter what they decide they like or want to be as they fall asleep. so that they fall asleep dreaming about who they are, and they wake up knowing. Secure.

Babybfp recently invited a friend over on a play date. The two of them played Zelda the whole time. She’s still friends with the twilight girls, and even spends time talking about twilight occassionally. she also knows more about the goings on of miley cyrus and the jonas brothers than i thought possible, seeing as she isn’t allowed to watch disney.

but after her friend left, she told me that she liked being able to express her *full* self. that she’s part twilight girl, but part zelda girl too. and it was nice to have some time being a zelda girl with a friend.

and i just sat back and admired this beautiful amazing girl who is discovering all by herself who she is, what she likes, and how to stand up for the boundaries she built with her own hands and heart.