Part One: Modern Prometheus
“It’s Alive!  It’s Alive!” – Victor Frankenstein

At first, I carried no sign.  In 2020, I marched with a notebook and a backpack for my first three protests.  The things I carried were extra covid masks, hand sanitizer, baby wipes (which were hard to find those early days), dark glasses, emergency jacket, water, cereal bars, and an assortment of flyers, newsletters and leaflets other protestors handed out and gave to me, but no sign.  I marched “unarmed”.  

Rally leaders told the “armed” protestors “Hold your signs up high!” as the police and media helicopters circled city hall. “And if you don’t have a sign, put your fists up!  This is what America looks like!” And that to me summed it all.  The protest sign as fist.  Or better yet, knuckle duster.

Cardboard resistance, nonvocal annunciation, creative rebellion. Combined with chanting, combined with physical demonstration, protest signs contribute to the full range of ancient performance poetry.  Integrative poetry.  Similar to what graffiti is to the elements of hip hop.  The written word in sync with the spoken and performed word.

Knuckle dusters showed up as diverse as LA.  Some signs had sticks attached to them to be held like a handle.  Some were just poster boards held with hands.  Some were poor man’s signs—simple sheets of notebook paper with a slogan.  Some people wore their signs.  Helmets of varying types—construction hats, football helmets, bicycle helmets all painted with slogans; or white T-shirts with messages on the front and back written with permanent markers.  DIY fashion as protest.  There was even activist cosplay.  One guy dressed up as Pancho Villa and had a sign that said “Poncho Villa”.

One Juneteenth rally held at the south lawn of city hall was dedicated solely to making signs.  Tables were set up for new activists to construct theirs. Cardboard, colored markers, glue, tape, glitter, construction paper, all made accessible—a total arts and crafts day.  Many of the handmade signs I saw were simple but effective.  When I say simple, I mean Sharpie-on-white.  White cardboard with black writing.

BLACK LIVES MATTER; WHITE SILENCE = VIOLENCE; AM I NEXT?  HOW MANY WEREN’T FILMED?  I CAN’T BREATHE.  If signs had pictures, they were usually of George Floyd’s selfie or maybe a picture of Martin or Malcolm with a quote.  One Sharpie-on-white I liked was “I’M SICK AND TIRED OF BEING SICK AND TIRED” a quote made famous by Activist Fannie Lou Hamer.  I wanted more than just sharpie on white, more than just a bumper sticker slogan re-written on cardboard.  There were tens of thousands of protesters in LA.  A sea of signs.  And they all said what needed to be said brilliantly.  And many of them had so much swagger.  I just felt like disrupting the swagger and bringing a nerd element that was uniquely me. 

Black Lives Matter Los Angeles spearheaded the whole Defund the Police chants.  I wanted to ask the question “And then what?” as a response.  My personal belief is that even if cops stopped abusing their power, other forces in power would still be abusing power.  Defund and then what?  I wanted to say that but not in a slogan.  As much as Fox News hated the protests, Fox News still profited.  Pundits like Sean Hannity, Laura Ingraham, and Tucker Carlson expressed their discontent but still received high ratings.  They were paid to disagree.  It was revolution for some and business for others.  

Working in higher academia I read and listen to scholars who say smart things, but they say the same things the same way and those who debate them say the same things the same way.  Scholars regurgitating the same old information.  The same old way.  Smart thought isn’t always original thought.  And that is an issue that bugs me.  I would like to think of constructive thinking as being composed of critical thinking, deep thinking, and original thinking.  A critical thinker is going to ask questions.  When the studies show that 6 out of 10 men “prefer (fill in the blank) to (fill in the blank)” or 75% of women are most likely to (“fill in the blank)” a critical thinker is going to ask how old are the men, the women?  What educational background of the men the women?  Etc.  Anything to get to the specifics.  They don’t just take research at face value just because it’s research.  A deep thinker is going to look for principles over details.  Core elements.  While activists and social critics criticize capitalism, the deeper thinker will criticize greed and exploitation.  Greed and exploitation being elements in capitalism but are also elements in other things. Did capitalism exist in 334 BCE when Alexander the Great was invading and conquering lands?  An original thinker brings to the table a subjective element.  They address concepts and ideas in a way that is characteristic of their unique way of thinking. 

Growing up in the church I had to read about Jesus.  I always found him to be a true original thinker.  He came out of left field criticizing both the Scribes and the Pharisees and got his message out through the telling of story.  To this day Christians, atheists, and followers of other faiths use the term “good Samaritan” to describe a person who helps those in distress.  It isn’t that original thinkers are saying anything new.  Nothing is totally new.  But due to the fear of sounding unprofessional or inarticulate or too simplistic many adults hide their original thought, thus limiting their full human effect.  Working in higher academia I have witnessed this trend.  A lot of intelligence, but not a lot of wisdom.  Children, I feel, tend to be the best original thinkers.  Original thinkers tend to be childlike but not childish.  One of my wishes in life is to be a Deep/Original/Critical thinker or “DOC thinker” as I like to call it.  DOC thought. It’s something I feel I both achieve and fail at daily.   

Prior to the pandemic I was in probate court for 4 years.  My aunt coerced my grandmother to sign a document while she had dementia in an attempt to make her the sole trustee of the estate.  I was raised by my grandparents since I was 3 months old, grew up and became their caregiver and power of attorney.  I confronted my aunt about it in 2010 informing her that what she did was elder abuse and showed her what the penalty was for such crime.  Her response was “Oh!  Oh!  Okay!  Never mind!”  Three years later, as soon as my grandma died my aunt whipped out the document, used it to evict me and sell the house despite there being a living trust prohibiting it.  My attorney tried to get the unlawful detainer dismissed and take the case to probate but the judge went forward with the eviction.  My aunt had filed the right paperwork in the right court at the right time, before we could file a demurrer, so I became homeless.  I couch surfed.  I slept in my car.  I slept in a laundry room.  My German shepherd went to live in a kennel and I would visit her on the weekends.  When I went to work I would cry on my lunch break then go back to work holding it in. 

I was given a record with an eviction which caused my credit score to go from “very good” to “poor and below average” for a duration of 7 years.  The court garnished my wages to pay my aunt for back rent despite there never being a rental agreement.  Despite having 2 bachelor’s degrees and 1 master’s degree, my academic library job wasn’t enough; so to support myself and my legal fight I took a second job at night working for the caregiving industry and that money went to pay my attorney for probate.  For 4 years I fought to prove that my aunt was not the owner.  I kept my receipts for the mortgage, property tax, insurance, and maintenance bills that I paid for.  I kept my grandmother’s medical records showing that she was being treated for Alzheimer’s.  I compiled a list of witnesses from doctors, clergy, and neighbors in the community.  My aunt had nothing.  In the end I got my money back and proved that my aunt was not the trustee but it taught me how racist court was. 

After my first day of testifying before the judge, my attorney took me to one of the conference rooms inside Stanely Mosk Courthouse inside downtown Los Angeles.  This was the same courthouse that OJ Simpson, and Charles Manson had their cases at.  My attorney goes: 

“Larry, I have to be honest with you.  I’m a White guy, and the judge is a White guy, and you are Black.  And the way that you spoke today, you were calm, you were confident, and you were organized.  That blew him away.  I saw the look in his eyes.  That is going to be our ammo!”  

My attorney was charging me $300 an hour, which meant $75 for every 15 minutes.  I wasn’t going to waste time talking about race, so I changed the subject quick to save money.  But it hung over my head.  How being calm and confident and organized could blow a judge away.  Isn’t that what I was supposed to be?  I’m in court.  Hasn’t a “White guy” ever seen a “calm, confident, organized” “Black guy” before?  What about all those Black lawyers and judges?  What was so special about me?  I remember how difficult it was in the beginning to find an attorney to represent my case.  The consultations were brutal.  In one month, I talked to six different attorneys alone pitching my case.  I had older White attorneys talking down to me at the consultations.  Two attorneys yelled at me and talked over me as if I were their opposing counsel.  Afterwards I still had to pay them for their time—$50 here, $75 there, $100 all to be rejected.  It gave me the conclusion that lawyers are just as racist as cops, they just don’t beat you or shoot you in the back.  But they see you the same way.  A smudge.  Gum under their shoe.  Law goes beyond the gun and the badge.  And so I wanted to show that somehow in my sign. 

There are higher levels of racism.  The unnecessary “game” of probate court got me thinking about a video game “system”.  And what exactly is a system anyway?  A series of different parts working together for the whole.  The circulatory system in the human body consists of the blood, the blood vessels, and the heart and within those components you have a series of arteries, capillaries, veins, atriums, ventricles, and valves.  The cooling system in a car consists of a water pump, a thermostat, a radiator, a fan.  When one part is defective the whole system becomes out of balance.  And that’s America.  That’s the American legal system.  So while the streets were yelling “Defund the police!”, “Abolish the police!”, “Reform the police!” and essentially saying the same things I responded with the principles of D.O.C. thought. 

June 5, 2020 would have been Breonna Taylor’s 27th birthday.  She died by police gunfire on March 18th the same year.  On June 5th I went to a BLM rally outside the Hall of (In)Justice—as the protestors called it—for a birthday celebration in Breonna’s honor.  The event was called “The Rose that Grew from Concrete” named after the Tupac Shakur poem.  Protestors and those in attendance were encouraged to take a rose from a table and place a rose by the memorial.  Later that evening on my caregiving shift, while my client slept, I drew a blueprint for my protest sign at his kitchen table.  “The System is a Racist Video Game” I wrote.  That alone would have been my “sharpie on white” but being the librarian that I am I had to do it up infographic style.  

So, I went deeper.  As my client snored, I drew stick people on paper and made a list of racists up the racist ladder: police, lawyers, judges, jurors, politicians, business owners, neighborhood watch, ordinary people; but I still needed to make it all sing.  I was taking several poetry classes on Zoom led by the great scholar and poet Annie Finch.  Her lessons were all based on traditional poetic meter and the musicality of words.  So, I edited and categorized my list based on alliteration.  Police became Cops.  Lawyers and judges combined became Courts.  Politicians became Candidates.  Business owners became Corporations.  Ordinary people became Communities.  Cops, Courts, Candidates, Corporations, Communities = The tongue-twisting five Cs.   

The next day, Saturday, I skipped the protest and took the time to construct my sign.  Across from the library where I worked was the 99 Cent Store.  Originally, I went there looking for colorful posterboard paper to use as the actual sign itself.  I could place images on it.  But then I saw they were selling carboard trifolds.  The kind kids used for middle school science fair projects.  I found the trifold design was large enough to fit all of my ideas on, sturdier than posterboard paper, plus I could glue the posterboard paper on to it—the best of both worlds.  

The library was closed due to quarantine, but I had a key.  I used the conference table in the back room as my laboratory.  I literally became Dr. Frankenstein and was no longer making a protest sign but a creature.  

I Googled video game characters from my middle school days.  Super Mario Bros, the Legend of Zelda, Mega Man, Metroid, Mike Tyson’s Punch Out.  Since I love all things folklore, I see video games as a form of modern-day folklore.  I printed the characters out in color and embarked on the liberating process of cutting and gluing.  Kindergarten had prepared me for this day.

In Calibri font size 72 I pasted “THE SYSTEM IS A RACIST VIDEO GAME!” 

Next to Doc and Little Mac from Mike Tyson’s Punch Out it read:

Level 1

Racist Cops

(Cops Are Just the Foot Soldiers.  Don’t Be Fooled!)

Next to Samus Aran from Metroid it read

Level 2

Racist Courts

(Lawyers, District Attorneys, Judges, Juries)

Next to Link from The Legend of Zelda it read

Level 3

Racist Candidates

(Mayors, Governors, Senators, Representatives, Presidents)

Next to Mega Man from Mega Man it read

Level 4

Racist Corporations

(Corporations Fund Politics; Corporations Run Sweat Shops; Corporations Control the Media)

And finally next to Fire Mario from Super Mario Bros it read

Level 5

Racist Communities

It’s We the People vs. They the People

I gave my creature a gender and made it a she.  I needed a yin to compliment my yang.  I named her Peggy after Peggy Carter, killer of Nazis, and Captain America’s dear heart.  Since Cap carried a shield, I noticed my creature was big enough to function as one.  A large trifold 24 inches tall and 18 inches long when closed, but when opened, possessed a 36 inch wingspan.  One hell of a protest shield.  The creature would protect me from projectiles thrown my way, protect me from the summer heat when used as a parasol, and be padding for my knees during demonstrations where we’d drop to a knee for 9 minutes in the middle of the street.

I Googled pictures of Peggy Carter and found two pictures of Hailey Atwell aiming guns at the viewer.  I taped them to the back of the trifold and then…“It’s alive!  It’s alive!”

One of my concerns was that my sign wasn’t “Black” enough.  After all, many of the marches were inspired by or led by Black Lives Matter activists.  And many of the signs had specific Black imagery or Black quotes.  There wasn’t a single Black person on my sign except Doc from Mike Tyson’s Punch Out.  And Doc was important because of the DOC thought and the pun associated with it.  I even named my creature after a White woman from a comic book.  My creature was more philosophical and conceptual than tangibly political. 

I always got called “Not Black enough” by folks growing up.  I wasn’t Black enough because I liked rock bands or because I liked mayonnaise on my sandwich, because I failed at games like spades, and sucked at the electric slide, or this: the great grand Uncle Tom of Uncle Tomisms I liked a White girl, or two.  Actually, on second thought, it was three—and none of them had curves.  But no matter what I liked I was always Black enough for the cops.  And getting screwed over by them was my racial rite of passage.  To heck with my preferences and that is the reason why I always say swagger is the new superstition. 

After some soul searching, and soul power searching I said fuck it and put my insecurities aside.  After all, it was the pandemic.  I’d be wearing a mask and dark glasses anyway.  Who would know me?  Not a single soul.  And it’s Los Angeles, everyone’s a little off.   

Sunday June 7, 2020 was Peggy’s first call to action and she responded effectively.  I kept her folded up on the train to downtown LA.  We got off at Union Station, walked past the homeless encampments at what used to be called Father Sera Park, crossed over the 101 freeway overpass and made it to Spring Street.  Helicopters circled overhead.  Some LAPD, some NBC News, some drones. 

In the early days of the 2020 LA protests, police on motorcycles would direct traffic so that we could do our demonstrations.  Thousands of us took over Spring Street.  It was more than a parade.  Peggy’s left and right wings opened, and the nerdy video game characters began speaking.  Rather than being the laughed at like Carrie at her pig-blood prom, Peggy was given the red carpet treatment.

“Hey, bro, let me see that sign.  Shit.  That’s a cold one.  That’s what’s up.”

“Excuse me.  Can I take a picture of your sign?”

“Oh shit.  C-5.  I gotta remember that.  Can I take a picture?”

“Did you make that?”

“When all of this is over with, I hope you laminate that sign.”

The streets had our approval, and it was enough to know that Peggy would be back.

Part Two: Axel F

“Stir it up, got to break it up now/
When I think about tomorrow…/
I don´t wanna take it anymore.” – Patti LaBelle, “Stir it Up”

The first R rated movie I saw as a kid was Beverly Hills Cop.  I saw it in the theater when I was 7 years old.  My mother and grandmother both took me to see it.  Two other R rated movies I saw latter on would be the purples.  Purple Rain on VHS and The Color Purple in the theater.  The purples traumatized me a bit.  What Prince did with Apollonia in the barn—Woah!  And then how the White mob circled Sophia prior to the cop bashing her eye with the gun handle—double woah!  I gave up on R for a while.  I stuck to Indiana Jones and the chilled monkey brains.  That was the 80s for me.  Watching how adults acted perplexed me.  I was a kid instructed by the adult world to be good but the adult world never practiced what it preached.  The adult world was too complicated for me.  Some would say no parent should ever take their kid to see such things.  But I’m glad they did, it helped me be a better teenager and an introspective writer at 15.

But Axel Foley outsmarting the cops and those in authority had a deep impact on me.  He was Br’er Rabbit in the flesh and did what Shaft did but in a comedic way.  Aside from Lucille Ball and the Three Stooges, Eddie Murphy was my introduction to comedy and especially the Black/White dynamic on screen.  

Though the streets of Beverly Hills had changed since ’84, the snobbery had not.  How Axel Foley insulted authority was still timely. When 2020 came, I got to be my own version of Axel Foley.  For months MAGA supporters had taken over Beverly Gardens holding rallies.  And week by week their numbers grew to thousands.  They had every right to gather, every right to express their patriotism.  They had every right to vote for Trump.  But these were not just Trump voters, these were Trump cultists.

 Signs that once read: “God and Country” now read “God Guns and Trump”.  There were signs that read “White Genocide is Real”.  On national television during the presidential debate Trump said: “Proud Boys stand back and stand by!”  And after that, very proudly the boys showed up to Beverly Hills.  Proud Boys, Oath Keepers, Three Percenters, QAnon Followers, those attempting to resurrect the Tea Party.  Months later those same forces would storm the US Capital.  

 Together, Peggy and I, marched with 75 counter protestors from Roxbury Park to Beverly Gardens.  Google Maps had it at only 1.2 miles.  Roxbury Dr. was residential.  We passed houses chanting: “Out of your homes and into the streets!  While you’re sleeping, people are dying!  Out of your homes and into the streets!”

 That 1.2 miles felt longer.  Rich liberals came out of their homes and clapped.  They threw up a rich liberal fist.  They knew where we were going but did not join us.  Why would they anyway?  They were rich.  And they were liberal.  As we marched on we wound up on their Instagrams.  If the revolution wasn’t going to be televised it would be tweeted.

We changed streets, turned right on Wilshire where there was more traffic.  The quarantine was lifted, people were out driving.  The noises returned but we made a bigger noise.  Supporters honked their horns.  They knew where we were going but did not join.  We looked like the crew who would put bananas in their tailpipes.  On Wilshire the chants were: “How do you spell raaa-cist?  B-H-P-D!  How do you spell raaa-cist?  B-H-P-D!” 

We made a left on Rodeo Dr.  The street I watched Axel Foley cruise to the Patti LaBelle “Stir it Up” track 35 years prior.  A different decade but same game and same rules.  We paused so the posh could see our black-clothed glory.

“Out of the stores and into the streets!  While you’re shopping people are dying!  Out of the stores and into the streets!”

  The power of attention was surreal.  The posh and the plastic withdrew from their stores for a moment to film us.

“Out of the stores and into the streets!  While you’re buying people are dying!  Out of the stores and into the streets!”

 The audacity Foley had to park a dented Nova next to a Mercedes.  Each one of us a blue Nova in black, our lives mattered.  Picking up the pace, we moved forward.  Patti LaBelle sang in my head but we chanted as we marched passed restaurants: 

“Out of the bars and into the streets!  While you’re drinking, people are dying!  Out of the bars and into the streets!”

“Out of the clubs and into the streets!  Join us!  Out of the clubs and into the streets!  Join us!”

No one did.  Who would anyway?  They watched, filmed us with their phones, and raised their spectator fists in rich liberal solidarity.  So we marched on alone until we turned right on Santa Monica Blvd and there was where we faced 2000+ Trump and MAGA supporters.  75 against 2000.

Beverly Hills was awkward.  The police seemed to let people fight, as long as it was one on one and not a mob attack, meaning if you squared off, they let it happen.  I saw it as their way of saying if you want us to be defunded then this is what you get. 

A White woman with a cell phone videoed a Proud Boy who then slapped the phone out of her hand.

“Did you see that, officer?”  She said. “Oh my God!  Did you see that?!”

The cop saw, said nothing, then looked away.  The Beverly Hills cops were there to stop a riot, they weren’t there to stop what would cause one.

Our signs read Black Lives Matter.

Our signs read No Justice No Peace.

Not a single sign of ours mentioned Joe Biden’s name or the Democratic Party.  For us it wasn’t about partisan politics, it was about something else.  It was about standing up to a political cult, which in a materialistic secular humanistic world is far more dangerous than a religious one.

It wasn’t supposed to be a fistfight.  It was supposed to be a chant off.  Our signs vs. their signs.  Our songs vs. their songs.  The purest purpose of counter protest, and we had a legal permit by the city to do this.  The Beverly Hills Police department formed a line to divide our motely crew from their MAGA crew.  The line was ineffective as folks crossed over from both crews. 

“Hey, Helmet Man!  Hey, Helmet Man!  Let’s go one on one!”  A Proud Boy called out to a member of our crew who wore a safety helmet, challenging him to a fight.  Helmet Man did nothing and walked away. 

“But you’re not Blaaack!  You’re not Blaaack!”  A MAGA supporter yelled to a Latina ally who was holding a Black Lives Matter sign.  

Peaceful protests are subjective.   For some people it means no blows thrown.  But even those types of protests may be void of the spirit of peace.  Nonviolence and peace are two different things when pondering the concept of inner peace.  Neither crews seemed to have had inner peace that day.

I held Peggy up.  She said nothing about defunding the police, nothing about BLM, and nothing that criticized Trump.  Peggy just called out the system for what it was.  And with that she shut up screams. 

“Hey, let me see that sign.” A Proud Boy asked.  I turned to him and let him read.  He gave it a long look, then walked away.  He didn’t debate me.  He didn’t say bullshit, he just quietly walked away. 

A right-wing media reporter kept trying to get a woman in our crew to talk.  “What’s your end goal?  Why are you here?  Tell us your end goal.”  His camera and microphone followed her every evasive move. 

Back at Roxbury Park we had all been instructed to not talk to right-wing media, so the woman stayed silent.  He was quite larger, and she was quite smaller.  Peggy was large enough to function as a wall, so I stepped in between the two of them which allowed the woman to slip away from the reporter. 

“The goal is to win the game,” I said to him.  The reporter then took the time to film my sign; and just like the Proud Boy he, too, walked away.  I was asked zero questions. 

Damn.  Peggy was a right-wing repellant it seemed.  For better or for worse. 

When I was kid reading those stories about Jesus, there was a tale of him stopping an angry mob from stoning a woman by saying: “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”  But that wasn’t the weird thing that stopped them from stoning.  Jesus knelt and began writing in the sand and as he wrote people watched and one by one they walked away dropping their rocks.  No one knows what the hell he was writing.  Some say they know but the Bible never says specifically what it was.  Whatever he wrote it worked.

I held Peggy high with Christ in mind but eventually a fight did break.  An angry patriot with an American flag wrapped the banner around the pole, then used it as a baseball bat to knock one of our guys to the ground.  I watched the whole thing happen.  He then threw the American flag on the ground committing a sin worse than Kaepernick.  He climbed on top of our guy and started pounding him.  Helmet Man and the other security from our crew rushed in to pull the patriot off.  As they pulled him off the Proud Boys rushed in to fight and the melee followed.  Our guy was still on the ground.

The cops came with their Beverly Hill-billy clubs and began swinging them horizontally at everyone—mostly our crew. 

“Allies to the front,” someone shouted.

Brave White women and White-passing Latinas opened their umbrellas creating a Spartan-style phalanx wall and ran towards the cops.  When nightsticks battle umbrellas, nightsticks always win, but the black umbrellas served as snares snagging the batons once they tore into them.  A blinding net.  This allowed our fallen guy to finally get up and escape from being trampled, arrested or beaten. 

As the clouds parted, a voice arose either from Beverly Hill Heaven or a loudspeaker saying:

The Beverly Hills Police Department has declared this to be an unlawful assembly.  You are now ordered to disperse.  Failure to comply will result in arrest or other police action.  You have 4 minutes to disperse.

This message was only to our crew.  The MAGA rally continued.  So, dispersing is what we did.  $1,000 or 6 months in jail would be the penalty if we didn’t.  We turned around and marched our arses back to Roxbury Park with the BHPD’s Lenco BearCat, it’s armored SWAT vehicle, making sure we did.

We never stopped the cult from believing.

We never stopped the cult from storming the United States Capital building 68 days later.

We never stopped the cult from reelecting The Orange Man who would later have Elon Musk, the richest man in the world, by his side and in his ear.

We simply took a stand for a few minutes just to say no.  

In 2020 I attended 27 protests.  A small number compared to the full-time activists.

Today Peggy sits in my office.  I’ve never laminated or framed her.  I keep her as a conversation piece. 

I show her to younger people, older people, and people of all races.  With her, I tell my story of resistance. 

I start with her and work my way back to the first night I was stopped by the police.  

November 1998:

My grandmother in the driver’s seat and I in the passenger’s.

Her taillight was out.

The Los Angeles County Sheriff asked to see her identification then asked to see mine.  I was just a passenger.  

But he asked to see mine.

When he gave me my ID back after scanning it in his database, he looked at me and said: “It’s a good thing no one in this car is wanted for murder.”

What a random thing to say.

He gave my grandmother a correctible violation, also known as a fix-it ticket.

But the light was never out to begin with.

Let me repeat that.

I said the light was never out to begin with.

The post The Importance of Being Peggy appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Written Transcript

Last month, at a “die in” organized by local high schoolers against the Genocide in Gaza.

I’m sitting on the curb and all these 15 year olds are lying in the street in front of me. They start reading a  list of those killed over the PA.

I find I can’t stop thinking about the kids at my work at an afterschool– Their absolute aliveness.

—–

Sweet moments. Friendship. Terror. Beads spilled on the floor.

Head down on the table sobbing it’s time to stop playing video games.

Running as fast as you can.

—–

I can’t stop thinking about the joy, agony, and work of childhood.

The work!

Pretending over and over again that I know any of the rules.

Trying to convince either one of us that right and wrong exists.

That it matters!

—–

And not being able to provide that for a child:

That you will be safe,

That I will be here,

That no mistake is irreparable.

—–

As an adult, I’ve spent so many

Days watching all of it in the kids

I’ve worked with.

—–

The times you’re selfish.

The times you’re kind.

Cleaning up and starting over again and again.

Childhood is to be alive.

Childhood is incredibly difficult.

——-

The world that revolves around you 

And your best friend and the bracelet

Business you made isn’t a lesser one.

It isn’t a half-existence.

At least in my experience, childhood was overflowing, vibrant, and terrifying.

Learning the world and learning yourself is Perilous even under the best

CIRCUMSTANCES.

——

I can’t stop thinking about how real kids are. There’s so much focus on “What will you be when you grow up?” But here you are, a real, complete, and amazing person.

—-

Here you are, you’re an eye staring at the sun. The world is fast and big and often uncaring.

—–

I can’t stop thinking about your realness.

Your name as a name on that list.

Over and over.

The names on that list as you.

Real and perfect and in a rush and wanting the world to come.

The post On Working With Kids appeared first on The New Absurdist.

That creek was the only thing separating the Davis estate from a lesser property whose  quaint Tudor home had been on the market for years, gradually depreciating with the turning  seasons. The summer sun would fade the roof and burn the finish off the porch until the beams  warped inward like the hull of a Guineaman ship. The falls were mild and didn’t do much  damage. In the winters, though, the pipes would freeze, and when they thawed come spring, the  realtor would pay a plumber to plug the leaks. Yet the sun and wind were petty compared to the wrath of water. For if the creek overflowed, the basement would take on a few swampy inches,  and in the weeks following the realtor would leave the doors open so the carpet wouldn’t mold.  From a mile away you could hear the wet vacs humming and the choppy voices of carpet  cleaners as they yodeled ay-yai-yai into the blades of oscillating fans. 

The realtor was content to let the creek serve as the property line, like the Rio Grande or  the mighty Mississippi. But Jefferson wasn’t about to leave his family’s fate to the whims of a  matriarch like Mother Earth. He drew the brittle yellow deed from a safe that gleamed inwardly  with heirlooms and, assuming his tea-time post atop the third-story veranda, compared the  notarized sketch with the current landscape; indeed, the creek had shifted with the last flash  flood. Whenever it rained for days on end, it would reroute ever-so slightly, the bed deeper, the  bank steeper. This time the momentum had eroded his side of the bend, displacing it as a jut of  earth on the other. Hence, telling by several ancient elms that served as landmarks, he now  owned a fraction of the neighboring property. Just enough to fish from.  

In case of a legal dispute, Jefferson summoned his lawyer to redraft the deed. The two  men conversed over a pair of shared binoculars as would generals before battle. Meanwhile  Keesha took five, turning up the radio and wiping sweat from her brow with blanched hands. When Jefferson caught her in the crosshairs of those binoculars, her image advanced on him like  a darkroom negative or postbellum vendettist, this black woman in whiteface. And since she  seemed closer than she actually was, he said “Afternoon” in a voice she couldn’t possibly have  heard. 

What she did hear was the host of NPR detailing the recent toppling of statues in a  number of city centers and college towns, the movement of her people coming to a head as if it  were a planned tricennial: the ’60s, the ’90s, and now the ’20s. And here she was playing the part. She took some comfort in knowing she wasn’t alone, that there were still the quiet caddies  at the country clubs, the hooting cooks at the hot chicken joints, the humpback shoeshines at  Nashville International. Then there was her father, a former barber. When gentrification  shuttered his shop in East Nashville, she’d dropped out of Julliard Drama to join this farce;  because around here, being typecast still paid better than breaking character. 

Keesha squeezed the sponge like a stress-relief toy then dropped it in the bucket and  watched the two men head indoors after a lot of insistent pointing. If only her employer would  plant some boxwoods. That way, no one would notice the stains left by the rising water. That  way, she wouldn’t have to whitewash the goddamned gazebo again. Waiting for the sponge to  bloat, she let herself be distracted by an acrobatic squirrel; a jet drawing a chalkline in the sky;  the leggy realtor across the creek, teetering in stilettos across a sodden lawn to uproot the For  Sale sign.  

Keesha was halfway around the gazebo when the sun was low enough to look at. She  reviewed the checklist in her mind. She’d changed the linens. Beaten the Persian rugs. Windexed  the windows and Cloroxed the commodes. She hadn’t mopped the floors, but that could wait  until tomorrow since she’d mopped the day before yesterday. Satisfied with the state of the set,  she left the sponge in the bucket so it wouldn’t crust then went inside to ask if there was anything  else she could do before heading home. Jefferson was in his study returning the deed to the safe.  Keesha made a point of turning away before she saw the combination. Backing out of the room  without a word, she drew the curtains in the master so Jefferson wouldn’t wake up when she  arrived early to bake a cake for the new neighbors. And…scene.  

* * *

The boxes labeled BED were in the bedroom. The boxes labeled BATH were in the  bathroom. The boxes labeled FRAGILE were in the kitchen. Jasmine was in the kitchen too,  taking stock of her new home. She stood beside an old coffeemaker, the first and only appliance  she’d unpacked. Bringing a cup to her lips, she blew at the seemingly placid surface then  proceeded to scald herself when the doorbell rang. Not the harsh buzz of a Boston brownstone  but the Westminster chimes of a grandfather clock. She could practically see the full octave  plotted on sheet music, falling for half a bar before rising in equal measure.  E-C-D-G, G-D-E-C.  

Jasmine figured Carl had lost his house key, or else it didn’t fit. If so he would fix it  without calling a locksmith. As newlyweds she’d loved having a handyman for a husband. But  she was starting to see he wasn’t as industrious as he was stubborn. He would cut out his own  tongue before asking for another man’s help. She opened the door. Where she’d expected to find  a middle-aged man holding a blunt key, she found an old man holding a crumb cake. 

“Morning,” he announced with a voice like a bugle, throwing glances over and around  her. “Thought I’d drop by and say welcome.” Jasmine stood quietly with her hand on the jamb,  that slender arm her only barricade. When no one else came to the door, he turned his full  attention to her. “Well, welcome. I’m Jefferson.” 

Jasmine made a platter of her palms, and Jefferson lowered the back of his hands onto the  front of hers as though they were about to play slaps.  

“Jasmine.” She showed him in. He cupped his ear and she said it louder. “Jasmine. Like  the flower. And you really shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t, to be honest.” Jefferson followed her down the hall, limping a little and halting  to regard an unhung diploma: Harvard, Magna Cum Laude. “My help baked it. I try always to be  forthright.”  

“Your ‘help’?”  

“Maid? Housekeeper? Domestic worker? You’ll have to forgive me if I’m behind the  times. But you wouldn’t begrudge living assistance to an old widower?” 

Jasmine put the crumb cake on the counter beside the blinking coffeemaker: twelve,  twelve, twelve o’ clock. She synched it with her wristwatch. Rounding to the nearest half hour, it  was eight-thirty. Early. Too early for a house call.  

“What did you study?” He pointed his chin at the diploma. 

“Music,” she said. 

“Which instrument?” 

“The lungs.”  

“Sing me something, if you don’t mind.” He aimed his better ear at her. 

“I’m no early bird.”  

“Doesn’t have to be fancy. A do re mi would do.”  

“You wouldn’t prefer ‘Wade in the Water’?” 

“I fear we got off on the wrong foot. That, or you got up on the wrong side of the bed.” “We haven’t bought one yet.” 

“We?”  

The conversation was interrupted by the tooting of a horn. 

“That’ll be my husband with the U-Haul. He’s been driving all night.” 

Before leading her guest into the foyer where the latticework of the Tudor facade showed  in relief, Jasmine took the pot off the hotplate and poured what was left into a travel mug. If he  was surprised to see a white man walk through the door, Jefferson didn’t show it. The white man,  on the other hand, was clearly surprised to find a stranger in his house. Handing off the  brimming mug as carefully as a torch, Jasmine introduced Carl to Jefferson, Jefferson to Carl. 

It hardly seemed worth giving their guest a grand tour of stripped carpet and bare wall, so  Carl suggested they have a slice of the crumb cake on the back porch. When he opened the  sliding door it made a horrible grating noise; he assured everyone it just needed a little WD-40.  The lawn chairs were sitting right out in the open, right in the sun, and without the cushions the  wrought iron was hot to the touch. They ate standing up.  

“What do you make of the neighborhood?” asked Jefferson.  

“So fah so good,” said Carl.  

“Jersey?” Jefferson said of the accent.  

“Boston.” Carl dunked his cake in his coffee, which meant he couldn’t be invited to  dinner parties.  

“And what do you make of the house?” Jefferson asked.  

Carl nodded at a window below their knees. “Basement’s watahlogged.”  

“Floods every April.” Jefferson shook his head regretfully. “You’re in a sinkhole, in case  the realtor didn’t tell you.” 

“Yeah, yeah. She toll us,” Carl said with a mouthful. “That’s why we could afford it.” He  lost the last bit of his crumb cake to the mug. 

“At least she’s forthright,” Jefferson thought out loud. “Had my doubts about her.”

Carl finished his coffee and slung the grounds into the yard. “I’m gonna fix this place up  on the cheap. But don’t worry, it won’t look it. Your property value’ll go up with us next door.” The Davis residence stood on the other side of the creek beyond the willows and reeds,  alone and imposing and white. Jefferson admired it from afar as any outsider might. If for  nothing more than this new perspective, he was glad he had come.  

“Funny,” Carl started. Jefferson saw that he too was admiring the Davis residence. “Me  and Jazz didn’t think no one lived in the place. No one but a ghost, maybe.”  “No ghosts.” Jefferson laughed. “Not as long as I’m alive and kicking. After that I can’t  guarantee anything.” 

“And if it wasn’t a haunted house, we guessed it was a clubhouse.” 

“Wrong again. But you come over for billiards whenever you please. My son Jeff’s  always looking for someone new to hustle. By the end of the night he can’t stand up straight, but  he can sink an eight ball corner pocket.”  

Carl loosened his toolbelt and suggested they walk off the cake. They followed the  boundary of the back lot where honeysuckle grew in clumps along the creekbank.  “So you’re a handyman,” said Jefferson, “and she’s an Ivy Leaguer.” 

Carl was treading around flatfooted in search of mole holes. He hadn’t mown the lawn  yet. The realtor had been paying a teenager to mow it.  

“Can I ask you a question out of sheer curiosity? Promise me you won’t take offence.”  Jefferson waited until Carl nodded. “I pulled some strings, but Harvard rejected my Jeff. We had  to settle for Vanderbilt.” 

“Settle?” said Carl. “Vandy’s all but Ivy.” 

“You said it,” said Jefferson. “All but.” 

“Vandy’s why we’re here, matter fact. Jazz was hired to teach music appreciation.” “Was she accepted to Harvard outright?” 

“Outright?” said Carl, still patching divots with his foot.  

“She’s clearly made the best of it, and she’s to be commended for that.” Jefferson clasped  his arms behind his back and kept walking even after Carl had stopped.  

“Really?” said Carl. “You’re asking if that’s why Jazz got in?” 

“I’m asking if that’s why Jeff didn’t. He can’t land a decent job. Or can’t keep one at  least.” 

Carl would’ve taken offense, but he was a man of his word and had promised not to.  “Jazz is waiting for me to unload boxes.” He walked toward the house without looking back.  “You know, Carl…” Jefferson’s legs creaked like an antique chair when he squatted to  run a palm along the unmown grass there on the ledge of the creek. “My family used to be in  charge of this land. Not just this spot, but the whole kit and caboodle. Everything south of  Kentucky. Speaking of this spot, though.”  

Before he could get to the point, Jefferson was cut short by a sharp grating sound. Carl  was back inside, pantomiming with his wife behind the sliding glass door.  

* * * 

Later that morning Carl was hanging a crossbar for the curtains when he spotted a  trespasser. The man seemed innocent enough, reclined in a beach chair with a foam cooler by his  side. As he came closer Carl saw the chair had cupholders in the armrest, one of which held a  silver beer can. The trespasser himself held a fishing rod between his knees while snoring  through a sunburnt nose. Before waking him, Carl looked him over. A decent-looking man of  thirty something in a half-buttoned shirt, madras shorts, boat shoes. 

Carl cleared his throat, then said “Skews me,” then gave up and tapped the guy on the  shoulder. The trespasser came to as if he had a fish on the line, leaning forward and reeling. He  didn’t notice Carl until he had the hook in hand, vexed by the missing bait. “Dadgum it.” He  fumbled in the cooler for his worm can but came up with another beer, prying it open with a  gritty fingernail. He’d dug up the worms right here on the ledge where the soil was new and  moist, leaving the shovel stabbed in the ground the way a butcher leaves his cleaver in meat. To  either side of the shovel were a hole and commensurate mound. “One more drink never hurt  anyone, right?”  

“It’s ten-thirty,” said Carl. Or it was when last he looked at the coffeemaker.  “Already?” The trespasser slid on the Croakies he’d been wearing like a necklace and  peered up at a sun that was climbing right along with the temperature. “Then it’s now or never.  Fish don’t eat lunch, you know. Only breakfast and supper.” 

Carl was busy today, so he cut to the chase. “What’re you doing out here?”  “Not having much luck, that’s what.” 

“What’re you doing out here?” Carl tapped his foot. “Stead a somewhere else. There’s  plenty more creek down the way.” 

“My father told me this was the spot.” The trespasser peered into a pail that should’ve  been stirring with fins then looked up into the sun again with the beer pressed to his brow.  “This is my back yad,” said Carl. 

“Where are my manners?” The trespasser stood and held out a hand. “I’m Jeff Davis.”

Carl stuck out a hand of his own and Jeff squeezed it harder than anyone ever had. About  that time a cloud came between them and the sun. A few fat drops wept onto their shoulders.  Jeff, shaking a fist at the heavens, stepped under the umbrella of a willow and pulled out a flask.  When Carl followed him in, Jeff offered it up.  

“I don’t drink that stuff. Not straight anyway.” 

Jeff heard possibility in Carl’s reluctance. “Then let’s send for mint and sugar. We’ll  make juleps. We’ll make a day of it. We’ll send Keesha to Kroger. Or you can send yours.”  “Mine?” 

Jeff looked over his shoulder at Carl’s house. “The lady hanging curtains.” “That’s my wife,” Carl hissed.  

Jeff flushed. “Honest mistake. No hard feelings? Truth be told, I envy you.” “Yeah?” Carl crossed his arms. “And why’s that?” 

“Doing what you want to do. Doing who you want to do.”  

Jeff walked out from under the willow. The rain cloud had passed. He arched his back,  opened his mouth as if to scream, and made the most monstrous face Carl had ever seen. Then he  patted his lips with a lethargic tribal sound. “High time I get back to my nap.”  “First I’d like a word with your father.” 

“No can do.” Jeff slumped back down in his beach chair and propped his feet up on the  cooler. “He’s at the chiro.”  

“Tomorrow then.” 

“Tomorrow’s the ortho. Father’s on his last leg, you see. One bad spill and it’s all me.” “The family fortune?” said Carl. 

“The family name,” said Jeff. “That’s why I’m laying low while I can.” 

Jeff rebaited his hook, doubling it through a single worm to form a fleshy tumor. That  graceful rainbow of a cast landed nowhere near the reeds, the line wafting down until it hung like  gossamer in the gnatty afternoon. 

“Fine. How’s about I have a word with you, then you have a word with him?” Jeff  nodded and Carl went on. “Look, I know no one’s lived in our place for a while. But here we are.  And we’re here to stay. Now I don’t mind you dropping by from time to time, but I’d appreciate  if you didn’t make a habit of wandering over without letting us know.”  

Drawing that deed from his pocket, unfolding it according to the creases, Jeff handed it  over to Carl. Carl held it up like an x-ray, the daylight illuminating all but the black contours of  the contiguous estates. He traced the dashed line that followed the course of the creek, faithful  but for a single divergence along this side of the bank.  

“Heck Carl, I don’t mean to patronize you.” Jeff reeled in and recast. “But the  paterfamilias told me to show you that.” Jeff plunged his naked arm into the ice water and  pitched a cold one at Carl’s chest. “Now you just go on and make yourself at home.”  

* * * 

Come late afternoon a boy of about ten found the shovel just where Jeff had left it. He  pretended he was King Arthur as he pulled it from the earth, fencing with his shadow until he’d  slain the dark knight several times over. Only once did he wind up on the wrong end of the  sword, having tripped over a hole in the ground still wriggling with earthworms. He pinched one  between his fingers, pulling it apart, and waited for it to become two. This concept— regeneration—he’d learned in science class. He bored when the worm didn’t grow back right away and, taking the hole as a suggestion to dig, commenced to slinging soil over his shoulder.  Some of it landed in the creek. Some of it showered down into his hair, which was about as  sheeny and unkempt as frayed copper wire.  

Carl spotted him first, but Jasmine said she should go. Knowing kids tend to skedaddle  when approached by a stranger, she came upon him quietly but without realizing her shadow had  preceded her. The redhead spied it and, presuming the dark knight had been revived, sprang to  his feet. He charged right into Jasmine’s grasp, braces flashing as he bit into her forearm. She  staggered back and examined the imprint of his crowded teeth. Then she looked at the boy  himself. He’d recovered the shovel and retreated a few steps, lunging and gashing the space  between them so she’d keep her distance, his nose scrunched ferociously, his freckled cheeks  bunched under his eyes. Jasmine resisted the urge to call him a brat or monster or little shit.  

“Whatcha digging?” she asked with a strained smile. He glanced at the hole, now a few  feet deep, before turning one wary eye back on her. “Is it a grave?” she asked. Jasmine didn’t  mean to be morbid. Next to the hole was a pair of twigs that resembled a homemade cross. But  the bark was worn in the middle, meaning the boy must’ve abandoned them after failing to make  fire.  

“Maybe.” The kid seemed to like that idea. “Yeah. That’s what it is. A grave.” When she  asked whose grave, he shrugged. “A dead person’s.” When she asked if he knew a dead person,  he nodded eagerly. “Mimaw. But she’s already got a grave.” When Jasmine asked who the grave  was for, then, if not his grandmother, he said, “None of your beeswax,” and scratching his  cowlick, added, “Maybe it’s for me.”  

Were the boy a man, Jasmine might’ve concerned herself with that last comment. But he  was still a boy and thus immortal in his own eyes. Die! Die! Die! he would yell while shooting bullets from his finger. And if he himself died—a cop or robber, a cowboy or Indian, a Rebel or  damn Yankee—he would lie like Mimaw had in the casket until no one was around, then jump  up and run for his life.  

“But that’s silly,” said Jasmine, “because you’re not dead.”  

“You don’t gotta be dead to have a grave. Papaw has a grave right by Mimaw’s. It’s got  his name and birthday and when he croaks they’ll add his deathday.” 

“Speaking of names.” She knelt so they were eye to eye. “I’m Jasmine.” 

He switched the shovel to his left hand and shook—“J.D.”—then leapt back in a  defensive stance.  

“I see,” she said. “Another Jefferson Davis.” 

“That’s Papaw’s name.” He dropped the shovel to list three generations on his fingers. “Here’s how to remember it. Our names get smaller, just like our ages: Jefferson, Jeff, J.D.” He  explained this lineage with his head held high. Initials were something a boy could be proud of,  stitched as they were into the child’s pajamas, etched as they were into the father’s flask.  “And what number are you, all in all?” 

The boy made a face. “Who’s counting?”  

“Someone, I’m sure. Some kooky historian.”  

“Then why should I?”  

J.D. narrowed a pupil at the sinking sun then reached of a sudden for the shovel. Across  the way Keesha picked up her pace. It’d been two days and she still hadn’t finished the gazebo.  Now that the boy was at ease in her presence, Jasmine snuck up on him and snatched the shovel.  

“Hey, give it back!” he demanded, but she held it higher than he could jump. “Give it!”  When he tired of jumping, he kicked her shin and retrieved it on the drop.

“You little shit!” she said before clapping a hand over her mouth. 

“I’m telling,” the boy sang.  

“Keep digging!” Jeff called from the other side of the creek. “Do your worst, J.D.! Dig to  Red China.”  

Carl made his way onto the scene. He’d been watching from behind the new curtains, and  when the kid kicked his wife, he could stand by no longer. He joined Jasmine, followed the  thread of her gaze through the creek’s parallel treelines. There was Jeff, sipping on a Julep. He’d  climbed up on the veranda to take in the last of the sun. He raised his tarnished cup to Carl and it  caught a ray of light, gleaming with a luster both silver and gold.  

“Now Jeff,” Carl pointed a toe towards the hole, “we got us a little problem here.” “Come on over,” Jeff suggested. “We’ll hash it out over a cocktail.” 

“I don’t want a cocktail, Jeff. I want this hole filled. Someone could get hurt.” “He won’t hurt himself. He’s dug holes up and down the Gulf. Heck, he’s buried himself  neck deep at high tide.”  

“I’m not talking about him, Jeff. I’m talking about us. The people who live over here.” “If you’re that worried, put a fence around it.” Jeff stood as the last of the sun lifted from  the veranda. He made a bullhorn of his hands. “Let’s call it a day, Keesha. You too, J.D. Time to  wash up.”  

“That’s not our responsibility,” said Jasmine.  

Jeff opened the French doors that led into one of many bedrooms. “Alright, lady. Have it  your way. We’ll fill the hole for you.”  

* * *

Keesha was wearing the same overalls for the third day in a row. By now they appeared stonewashed, though they’d been true blue when she’d bought them on Jefferson’s dime. She  spread her limbs like a scarecrow and stood in the sun until the smears dried to her skin, then  took off her shoes and entered through the backdoor—the routine she went through whenever  nature called. She didn’t bother washing her hands since she would just dirty them again. She  simply flushed the toilet and ran the faucet to lap at that cold popsicle of tap water. She thought  she heard the doorbell and turned the faucet off to listen. A woman screamed upstairs, followed  by two gunshots and a blare of music. With Jefferson in his study and Jeff sleeping one off, J.D.  was sneaking in an R-rated movie. How the boy craved violence.  

Keesha wiped her hands and went for the foyer. The driveway was a straight shot of  marble chips and magnolias. She hadn’t heard a car crunching its way forward, meaning the  caller had come on foot. She saw through the cut crystal doorframe that it was the new neighbor.  He looked small standing on the porch between two Grecian columns. He didn’t introduce  himself, just studied her—her clothes soiled and her hair skunk-striped with whiting. “Can I have a word with Mister Davis?” 

“Which Mister Davis? We got three of those.” 

“The oldest,” he said.  

“He indisposed.” Keesha started to shut the door but felt it stick with the wedge of a foot.  “What is it you need, mister? Sugar? Flour? You short of something other than manners?” “That’ll be all, Keesha,” said a voice from the top of the stairway. “I’m happy to chat  with Carl.” Carl noticed the duckhead cane Jefferson used to make his descent, the way he  placed both feet square on each stair. Keesha tried to come to his aid but Jefferson waved her off. 

When he reached the landing he clutched the banister and caught his breath before conquering  the last flight to stand surefooted on the marble. “Little early for billiards, isn’t it, Carl?” Carl was shuffling his feet to keep from losing momentum. Were this his own house, he  would’ve been pacing. “What’s with the flag in my yad?”  

“Your yard?”  

“My yad. Your yad. What’s the difference? It looks like I’m the one whistling Dixie.” “You asked us to fill the hole, so we filled it. And yes, we posted a flagpole so there  wouldn’t be an unsightly scar in our yard.”  

“I thought I heard you up here.” Jeff smiled groggily at Carl, having finally emerged  from hibernation. Guzzling straight from a bottle of V8, he wandered into the foyer with bedhead  and a cheek scarred from pillow stitching. “What’s up?” 

“It’ll never end, will it? Not till one of you’s castrated.” Carl pointed upstairs at J.D., who  was spying through the spindles. The boy would have gone undetected if not for those jailbird  hands. “He’ll have a son, then he’ll have a son, then he’ll have a son.” 

Jefferson poked Carl’s sternum with the heel of his cane. “What on earth are you  rambling about?”  

“This.” Carl presented Keesha. “For Christ sake, man, you even have her barefoot.” Carl  had mistaken Keesha for a pitiable throwback as opposed to the talented guerilla actress she was.  “Come work for me and my wife. We’ll find something for you to do. And we’ll treat you right.  Whatever he pays you, I’ll pay that and a half.” Carl made to spirit her away, but Keesha didn’t  budge from her blocking. “Fine.” Carl patted the seat of his cargo pants. “I’ll double it.” 

Keesha didn’t exactly break character, but she did look to Jefferson as if to say Line? After all, she had bills to pay. Her father’s and her own. 

“Last I checked this was a free country, Keesha. You work for whomever you please.”  Having given that direction, Jefferson stood back to watch the intended dénouement:  Keesha slamming the door on Carl.  

* * * 

Seeing that the neighbor had tracked in mud from his creek crossing, Keesha could no  longer put off mopping. Giving up on the gazebo, she rinsed out the bucket of whiting and  refilled it with soap suds. Then she lugged it inside to slap at the marble and wrench the gray  dreadlocks. Morning passed. Before texting the guys to come down for lunch, Kesha improvised a bit, leaving a fresh layer on the landing between flights and waiting in the trap room under the  stairway until she heard the bony avalanche. One hip would’ve done it, but by the sound of it, she’d gotten both.  

As the other Jeffersons rushed to the foot of the stairs, Keesha gathered her things and  slipped offstage. She lowered the flag to half-staff before making her commute without breaking  the speed limit, like any other day. Once home, she cut and compartmentalized her father’s pills then stood alone before her bathroom mirror picking off streaks of dried paint that pulled her  skin as tight as stitches. Only then did it occur to her that she had toppled the wrong statue. The rusty old figurehead was merely corrosive, whereas the coppertone cupid was newly armed. 

The post Jefferson Davis the Nth appeared first on The New Absurdist.

Making cloth is such a beautiful and humble practice. I am obsessed, especially because so much time and labor are involved in weaving. Within a rapidly changing world which prioritizes tech, my discipline and motivation to produce meaningful thought provoking work remains the same. I am invested in processes that are not digital, or adapted from technology, but human driven. Slow and simple traditional methods which continue to be reliable, with the use of hands instead of computers. In a capitalist world where commerce overtakes creativity for the sake of profit, my only investment is to hand produce work with commentary on what I deem neglected and important. I don’t really care about selling the clothes from my runway shows, or producing seasonal garments; my runway shows are there to tell stories, and my work is there to whisper my obsessive ideas, opinions (and sometimes secrets) to the mass public. 

A Bloodline And Their Rituals.

Growing up in East Los Angeles, we get our nutrients from the corners. East Los Angeles is where my unnamed neighbors sit next to me on the public buses and crowded mercados. It’s where artisan hand painted eyebrows became a fad and rosaries dangle from our throats. Where frightening gunshots get mistaken for fluorescent firecrackers, and add warmth to our atmosphere. Where we spill our teeth over our subhuman occupations during the heat of the summer.

The concrete is meticulously tattooed with graffiti, so pure, however its expression is often misunderstood. Our blood; it gets misplaced with a type of sticky tar. Our skin sizzles in the summer as we congregate under the sun in fields or in manufacturing factories scattered across this country. Our sweat drips and pools around our ankles, as our labor becomes someone else’s commodity. The community I was raised in, it places me under its tongue, and I’m absorbed into its gums. It’s dangerous. 

I come to realize how my Chicano identity and Latino background has become the originating genes to my body of art work and craft. The working class struggling family and community I was born into aided my drive for innovation, and a lust for “honest art” which to me, is realistic, relatable commentary on underprivileged lives. I come from a culture of people you never see featured in popular magazines or media. Our lifestyle is evident and purely valid, however I continue to find narratives of our existence to be misconstrued. I want to showcase truth and honesty. This is the significance and integrity I wish to provide through destacarse. My apparel work and runway collections have always been really personal and intimate. 

Experience From Losing Teeth

One of my first professional runway showcases featured my Fall Winter 2015 collection titled “The Boy Who Dreamt Of Losing Teeth”. This collection was inspired by my discharge from a psychiatric mental hospital. The collection focused around recovery and phototaxis organisms. The color pallet for the clothing juxtaposed dark colors such as navy blue and black, but with neon orange and faded blues. Some garments also had dead moths sewn into the linings or behind clear plastic. The models graced the stages with bloody noses and bruises (makeup, of course) and I hand constructed metal face masks that also had moths and butterflies clustered onto them. I was twenty two years old. 

Another significant collection was my Spring Summer 2017 collection titled, “Sinnerman”. This collection was really a menswear collection but had very feminine details such as hand pleated tulle ruffles and lace. Some of the male models walked down the runway in knit dresses. This collection was inspired by gender and binary oppositions regarding human sexuality My models also had their arms dyed in Japanese ink to physically represent the “illness” of being queer onto the body. This period of my life allowed the DNA for this collection to unfold willingly. 

The next collection which I feel pushed me to extend beyond personal realities and enter into political commentary was my Spring Summer 2018 collection, “Travieso”. This collection was born in the era where children were being contained at borders in cages and unmentioned presidents were specifically targeting brown immigrants. “Travieso” was a collection that drew inspiration from both the Bracero Program in the 1940’s but also the Zoot Suit Riots. I think American society heavily (and secretly) relies on immigrants for staple industries such as the garment manufacturing industry and agricultural industry. Around this time, I had gotten fired from my job for whistleblowing cruel mistreatment towards the undocumented immigrants in the company. “Travieso ” showcased garments that had hand sketched, tattoo inspired cultural imagery screen printed onto select pieces. 

The layout of this show forced the audience members to be separated by a chain link fence that ran along the runway. Audience members were seated on both sides of the fence, looking at the clothes on the models and the audience on the opposing side of the fence, as a border. This emphasis of separation was crucial to my strategy presenting a blatant division of people that I wanted to provide commentary on. It was obvious and it was cold. Lastly, the model who opened the show was wearing a hand draped chunk of metal chain link fence. This wearable piece was inspired by the reality that immigrants in America always carry the weight of the border on their shoulders.  Intersectionality is a very fascinating format, and with my work, I want to introduce narratives that allow my audience to resonate and understand immigrants, and the underprivileged. I hand construct every garment in my collections, and am hoping to showcase a new collection after I graduate from RISD. This collection will be  titled, “Dolores”, which means Pains in Spanish. My fingers are crossed. 

Left Image: From “Travieso.” Right Image from New Collection, “Dolores.”

Weaving Possibilities

I am currently developing woven textile work and learning how to weave while earning an MFA in Textiles at the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD). I got accepted into RISD with no prior weaving knowledge, and so here is where I am completing my full circle of garment development. I feel like I have enough knowledge and experience on how to produce a garment; the final link that was missing from my skill set was the ability to produce the textile for the garments. Now I am learning how to weave both by hand and machine to produce the woven structures for my garment. I learned how to use an eight shaft floor loom, and soon I will learn how to weave using a Dobby loom and industrial Jacquard loom. Making cloth is such a beautiful and humble practice. I am obsessed, especially because so much time and labor are involved in weaving. 

  My label, destacarse., was formed originally to showcase abstract garments. Since then I have been transitioning my brand to highlight Chicano culture and what I deem as “East Los Angeles realism”. Now, I am in the early stages of investigating how my brand can really produce nearly 100% hand made and housemade goods and artwork without outsourcing. I know after I graduate, I will expand my work and products on a somewhat larger scale. Slow fashion is the way to go, and I am even considering how to find a way to produce all the textiles for my garments as well. 

  I value handmade work. Where there is technology, there is ease and a lack of trial. The trial for error is supremely human. Technology and its abilities are a major crutch on civilization. We no longer solve math problems in our head or on paper, we use the calculator app on our iphones. We have no need to write grant proposals for non profit organizations, we now use AI. Chronic convenience suffocates human motivation. All these shortcuts diminish our ability to think creatively and independently. However, as we, a society continue to use technology to solve all our problems for us, at the same time this is happening, we are beginning to undervalue the ability of craft and handmade. There is a tremendous amount of trade and skill that goes into constructing a garment, so why are seamstresses getting paid subhuman wages? Why are there declining artisans worldwide who specialize in shoes, apparel, handbags etc. Why are there no longer special members in each family who sew clothes for the family and mend on a domestic level? I think one answer lies in the creation of the assembly line, pushed by the industrial revolution. The disassemblage of craftsmanship was caused by the expansive mass producing assembly line; where employees are forced to remove themselves from a “start to finish” process, and only perform a one step task repeated in a production line. Hand making, the skill to be able to build and make something on your own, is a weapon against capitalism and in some ways can be the most political step away from government, because you no longer require monopolizing companies to sell you goods and services. In my opinion, we have to relearn these archaic ways of life. 

 I still find myself unsatisfied by all these absurd systems. At the moment, I find myself caught in the jaw of an art school. My past and future are flashing before my eyes like a fire alarm signaled during a therapy session. I come from a community where art is labeled as “Folk Art”, instead of “Fine Art”. Beyond all this I have realized that my integrity and dedication to my craft has gotten me to where I am today. Since high school, I am doing exactly what I set out to do to my surprise. I still have so much more to learn and experience. I still want to study textiles and denim manufacturing in Okayama Japan, too. Dedicating my life and labor to design and craft has been challenging, but I have a feeling that things will eventually work out. I feel like I am in my own little golden age. 

The post Dissecting Destacarse appeared first on The New Absurdist.

With some help from you, reliable sources, and our editorial team we have put together a brief guide for learning about what is currently happening in Palestine, around the world, and what we can do to support people in the face of genocide and ethnic cleansing. While the New Absurdist is not a news source, it is a place for education, activism, and promoting positive growth in the world. It is both our privilege and our responsibility to elevate the voices of people who are being censored for speaking out for peace and basic human rights. 

At this time, we’d like to invite artists and writers who are passionate about anti-fascism, anti-capitalism, anti-racism, and Palestinian support to consider submitting their work to The New Absurdist, and as always we will do our best to elevate these underrepresented voices on our platform

Introduction 

In the Western world, and as we can see in the United States, many people, including students, are being doxxed for speaking out against the ongoing genocide and ethnic cleansing of Palestinians. And although there has been a slight shift after much public protest to offer a more ‘balanced’ perspective, much of mainstream media has been offering biased reports dehumanizing and downplaying the plight of suffering Palestinians.

In stark contrast, when Russia invaded Ukraine, international leaders applauded Ukrainian resistance against occupation, because they were people that “looked like us” — essentially people that didn’t look like brown skinned refugees — but blond and blue eyed people, “civilized people” that deserved our empathy. 

Gaza is currently, and has been, an open air prison where Palestians have no right to free movement, a situation made exponentially worse by the incessant and indiscriminate bombing by the IDF. Thousands of people have been killed in an extremely short amount of time, with 74% of them being women, children and the elderly. Around half of the Palestinian population are children. Public infrastructure such as hospitals are now practically nonexistent due to Israeli bombing and war crimes. Like many others around the world, we demand a permanent ceasefire, and an end to genocide, occupation and apartheid. 

This article is divided into three main sections which you can click on below to jump down.  

1. The Occupation of Palestine
2. The Humanitarian Crisis in Gaza
3. About the Cover: The Watermelon
4. What can we do to support Palestine

The Occupation of Palestine

For many people in the US and the western world, what is being called the “Israel-Hamas War” seems to have started in a horrifying attack on October 7, 2023 when Hamas killed around 1000 people and abducted around 200 people to the Gaza strip.  For many others, especially those in Palestine, the violence goes more than 75 years back, with Palestinians facing illegal occupation by the Israeli military. 

Nakba

After the Partition Plan (Resolution 181) passed in 1947, Palestine was divided by the United Nations into 3 parts: a Jewish state, an Arab state, and the City of Jerusalem under UN administration. This plan was rejected by the Arab world, on the grounds that it was unfair and violated the UN Charter. Israeli militias launched attacks against Palestinian villages, destroying hundreds, killing thousands of people, and forcing a mass exodus of Palestinians to flee, never able to return to their homes. 

More than 1 million Palestinians were left living in Israeli occupied territories. This forced exodus became known as nakba, translated as “catastrophe” in English. It is considered to be a core part of the shared trauma, history and experience of being Palestinian. 75 years later, Palestinians continue to have their rights denied, whether it’s by dispossession and displacement by Israeli settlements, evictions, land confiscation or home demolitions.

Apartheid 

The situation in Palestine has been aptly described by Amnesty International as apartheid. 

Apartheid may ring as a big buzz-word. There is a misconception at best, and a Zionist sentiment at worst, that the situation in Israel cannot be at all akin to apartheid, at least as people know it from South Africa.  After all, as the Jewish Virtual Library (published by the American-Israeli Cooperative Enterprise) puts it, “Jews are the majority within Israel, but the non-Jewish minority…enjoy full citizenship with voting rights and representation in the government.” It’s giving ‘I’m not racist, I have a black friend,’ or ‘I don’t see color’ energy to justify systematic racism and oppression. The Palestinians in the Bank are considered to be in a ‘different situation’ because of what is called “incessant terrorism” and there is denial of any injustice done to civilians living in Palestinian territories illegally occupied and controlled by Israeli military and settler violence. 

Amnesty International describes apartheid as “territorial fragmentation; segregation and control; dispossession of land and property; and denial of economic and social rights,” Palestinians currently do not have the same rights as Israelis in the illegally-occupied territories of Palestine. Checkpoints, roadblocks, and settler-only roads make daily tasks almost impossible to complete. Getting to work, school, or even the hospital requires an extensive amount of bureaucracy and luck in the permite regime. For these reasons, Amnesty International has written extensively on Israeli war crimes and officially considered the treatment of Palestinian citizens in these occupied territories as apartheid.  Human Rights Watch has also pointed out these injustices, without directly using the label.

In 2022 for the first time in history, the United Nations commemorated nakba, or The Catastrophe on its 75th anniversary, and proposed to make it officially recognized in 2023. Just months after this international recognition of Israel violence against Palestinians, we are once again witnessing Israeli militia indiscriminately bomb people and infrastructure, killing exponential numbers of Palestinian civilians. The Israeli response to the Hamas attack and subsequent kidnapping of hostages, has turned into an attempt at ethnic cleansing and further establishment of a Zionist and Nationalistic military state. 

It is very important to note that governments do not necessarily represent their people, and the Zionist movement does not represent all Jews. Zionism is a Jewish nationalist movement that calls for the creation of a Jewish state, which gathered much more support after the horrifying events of the Holocaust, and as a response to the rise of both nationalism and Anti-Semitism on a global scale. But in practice, Zionists are engaging in settler colonialism, including creating illegal settlements, driving out and ethnic cleansing of indigenous Palestinians with the justification of returning Jews to their ancestral homeland. Before 1948 and the formation of the Israeli ethnostate, Muslims, Jews, and Christians in various empires had coexisted in Palestine for generations. 

 In addition to recognizing that it is difficult to deprogram from philosophies and politics that we may have grown up with, it is also necessary to combat our own anxiety and fears and deprogram ourselves from Anti-Semitism, Islamophobia, and Zionism. Ethnic connotations and stereotypes associated with religion are used as a tool to dehumanize people and ‘other’ them. With the power of the internet and spread of information, people are not only learning about the liberation movement for Palestine, but for the Congo, Sudan, Puerto Rico, Hawaii, and many others. 

The Humanitarian Crisis in Gaza

Gaza is a small strip of land (28 by 6 miles) populated by 2.3 million Palestinians, making it one of the most densely populated places in the world. About 50% are children. The vast majority of Palestinians in Gaza are refugees who were uprooted from their ancestral homes in Israel occupied land. Most of them are unable to leave Gaza.

In response to the 240 hostages taken and 1,000 civilians killed by Hamas on October 7th, Israeli forces have killed 15,000 Palestinian civilians (more than 10 times the amount). 

While it’s difficult to compare tragedy, as a frame of reference, about 10,000 people were killed in the Ukraine War over 2 years, and 3,000 lives were lost on 9/11. Entire families have been killed as a result of Israel’s indiscriminate bombing, and it is estimated that a Palestinian child is killed every 10 minutes on average, since October 7, 2023. 

Palestinians in Gaza face dire conditions in Gaza due to Israeli occupation and international humanitarian war crimes. This includes:

• White Sulfur bombing, an international war crime with a loophole used for ‘signaling’ as an excuse over civilian areas, which can cause severe burning down to the bone. 
• Restricted Water supply and Hazardous water quality – Israel controls the water resources of the West Bank. Palestinians receive only 20% of the water resources, and are unable to drill new wells or install pumps without permits from Israel, which are nearly impossible to attain. They aren’t even allowed to collect rainwater without having cisterns destroyed by the Israeli army.  (See Climate Diplomacy for more information on the Israel Palestine Water Sharing Conflict.)
• Extremely dire living conditions – In some shelters, 400 people share 1 toilet.
• Destruction of communication infrastructure and targeting of Journalists and their families
• Collective punishment involving civilians- international war crime
• Cutting access to food, fuel, electricity, water, medicine, and internet 
• Bombing of civilian areas including Refugee Camps, Schools, Hospitals, and Mosques – An international war crime
• Military detainment of Palestinian children – hundreds of children are detained and prosecuted in the Israeli military court system  every year
• Crumbling War-torn infrastructure

About the Cover: The Watermelon as a symbol of Palestinian solidarity and resistance

We invite you to print this cover and use it freely at Pro-Palestinian protests. 

This cover is inspired by how in  2023, protesters in Tel Aviv used images of a watermelon captioned with “This is not a Palestinian flag” in response to a ban on the Palestinian flag and its colors, enforced by the Israeli military.   

This is not the first time the Palestinian flag and its colors have been banned by Israel. Israel banned the Palestinian Flag and national colors following the 1967 Arab-Israeli War, when Israel captured Gaza, the West Bank, and East Jerusalem from Historic Palestine, displacing more than 500,000 Palestinians and effectively more than doubling Israeli territory. 

In the 1980s, artists in the Palestinian city Ramaallah were forbidden by Zionist forces to use the Palestinian national colors in any capacity. This meant that artworks containing red, green or black could be confiscated by the Israeli police. Not even a painting of a flower, or a watermelon could make it through. This idea lent itself for the watermelon to become a symbol of Palestinian solidarity.

This image, and others like it,  of “Not a Palestinian flag,” or “Not a Watermelon” (paired with an image of a watermelon) might remind you of Rene Magritte’es famous image of “This is not a Pipe.” Artists like Rene Magritte were part of the Dada movement in the early 20th century, who made surreal and nonsensical images in protest and reaction to World War 1, nationalism, violence, and modern capitalist society. 

To add another layer of cultural significance, watermelons were a world-renowned speciality of Palestine before the 1948 Nakba when Israeli Zionist forces destroyed hundreds of Palestinian villages, killing and forcing out thousands of Palestinians to gain territory. As the IDF and Israeli settler authorities started occupying Palestinian neighborhoods, they also drove the large and remarkable Palestinian watermelons out of competition with Israeli seed companies. 

In 2021, after an Israeli court ruling allowed settlers to forcefully evict Palestinian families from their family homes, the watermelon resurfaced as a symbol of protest and resistance for Palestinian solidarity once again. 

Despite how the 1967 ban was officially lifted in 1993, Palestinian flags are still taken down and banned in Israeli occupied territories in the name of ‘keeping the peace’. And in recent crackdowns, Israel’s national security minister Ben-Gvir, has ordered police to ban Palestinian flags from public places. (Hence, the 2023 Tel-Aviv Bus Protests)  Ben Gvir belongs to the far right Otzma Yehudit/ Jewish Power political party (Described by Professor Eva Illouz as a Jewish fascist group)  and is known for his history of racism and pro-settler stance. The ban on Palestinian flags and colors is just one of Ben Gvir’s continued bids for power in government, including trying to make it his position to direct police policy.

As the saying goes, “where one burns books, one will soon burn people.”  When political powers begin to dictate what is appropriate and inappropriate for society in art, such as Nazis labeling art as “degenerate” it is only a matter of time before people start to be targeted and persecuted. The banning of Palestinian national colors and symbolism during protests in Western countries, even in a painting of a watermelon, is yet another example of how systems of oppression are imitated throughout history. Consider how the censorship of media such as arts and literature applies to the censorship of people’s right to exist, such as the Florida Book Bans, which have removed around 300 books in the last school year.

Now, we see these sentiments reborn once again in watermelon emojis and symbolism in a reaction to capitalism, fascism, nationalism, and violence. Absurdity and nonsense in art, writing, and media function to point out the absurdity of the injustices we face in the world. 

What can we do to support Palestine?

A special thank you to contributor and reader Rowan M. for her help with compiling research and writing out ways to help and protest. Read her article “5 Palestinian Films and Documentaries to Watch” on The New Absurdist. 

There is a place for all forms of protest in the face of oppression, and we’d like to emphasize our take on efficient or sustainable protest. For example, protesting in the streets may not be an option for disabled people. For People of Color, speaking out publicly may affect their livelihood much more than white counterparts.

We encourage you to ask yourself what is the way that I can help best: Is it a conversation with your peers? Is it monetary? Is it using your art? Your writing? Are you a good speaker? Do you have a platform? We have compiled some resources on ways that you can make a difference below. 

BDS! Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions 

• BDS is a Palestinian led movement for freedom, justice and equality. This movement uses economic and cultural boycotts against companies that financially support Israel’s apartheid regime and violation of Palestinian human rights. 
• The three main goals of BDS are to urge nonviolent pressure on Israel until it complies with international law by meeting 3 demands.

1. End Israel occupation and colonization of all Arab lands and dismantling the wall
2. Recognizing the fundamental rights of the Arab- Palestinian citizens of Israel to full equality
3. Respecting, Protecting, and promoting the rights of Palestinian refugees to return to their homes and properties as stipulated in UN Resolution 194. 

• Check out the official BDS website to see what major companies to boycott. 
• You can also use https://bdnaash.com to identify which companies do and do not support the illegal Israeli occupation of Palestine. 

Donate to Doctors Without Borders to provide much needed medical care to people in Gaza and the West Bank

• Unlike Israel, which has strong emergency and health care systems, Gaza and the West Bank urgently lack medical personnel and supplies. As Doctors Without Borders puts it, “Medical facilities and personnel must be protected and respected, hospitals and ambulances are not targets”— not that that has stopped Israel militia from bombing hospitals and necessary public infrastructure. 
• Doctors without Borders is completely funded by independent donors to mobilize and save lives when a crisis strikes. Click here to Donate to Doctors without Borders. 

Send an E-sim to Palestine

• In addition to killing thousands of people in the Gaza Strip, Israel has been cutting off power and fuel supplies to more than 2 million people in Gaza. These internet and electricity blackouts mean that families cannot communicate with their loved ones and Palestinians cannot contact the outside world. 
• The internet has been key in debunking falsehoods, and helping spread first hand information and experiences. These blackouts serve as covers for human rights violations in Palestine, preventing people from both receiving and broadcasting vital information and updates. 
• Sending an E-sim helps connect people to the internet, their loved ones, and communicate with the outside world. E-sim cards are pieces of software that act like traditional SIM cards that allow people to activate a new cellular plan with  phone and internet access on their existing phone.
  • To buy an Esim: 
  • 1. Download one of these eSIM charging apps: Holafly, Nomad, Simly, Airolo. HolaFly is the most in demand right now, but all are needed.  
  • 2. Choose the location and number of GB you want to purchase. Over 30 GB would be great, but all amounts are helpful. 
  • 3. Email a clear image of the QR code (not the link, but the QR code itself) to gazaesims@gmail.com. Then @mirna_elhelbawi and the @connectinghumanity_ team will distribute to folks in need on the ground in Palestine
  • Slideshow Instructions from @bintmeetsworld  

Buy from Palestinian Businesses

• Buy an original Palestinian Keffiyeh from the last keffiyeh factory in Palestine here, from Hirbawi.
  • The Keffiyeh is a traditional scarf traditionally worn by nomadic peoples and villagers in Palestine to protect wearers from the harsh sun and sand. Nowadays, it has become a symbol of Palestinian pride, identity, and resistance. 
  • Along with Pro-Palestinian Protests, the Keffiyeh has been banned in many Western countries.
  • While visiting family for Thanksgiving, 3 Palestinian students in Vermont were shot while wearing keffiyeh, and a woman charged with a hate crime assault attacked a man who was wearing a keffiyeh with his 18 month old son. 

• Use Palestine Portal to buy Palestinian goods
• Palestine Online Store is an activist-run store whose mission is to promote Palestine through its handcrafts, foods, films, books, and solidarity apparel.
• 8 Palestinian businesses for you to support

Contact your Representatives

For our US readers, Jewish Voices for Peace and US Campaign for Palestinian Rights both offer instructions and caller scripts for how to contact your representative and senator’s office for a permanent ceasefire and refusal to send American weapons and funding to the Israeli military. 

Consume, Elevate, and Support Palestinian voices and content. 

For example, consider these independent journalists in Gaza who are showing their experiences first hand, in a raw and powerful way on instagram:

• @hindkhoudary
• @byplestia
• @wizard_bisan1
• @motaz_azaiza
• @ahmedhijazee

You could also follow other influencers on social media who are sharing updated information on the ongoing genocide. Some examples of who you can follow on instagram are:

• @wissamgaza
• @rosypirani
• @jenamatari
• @quillmistress
• @voice_of_palestinians_
• @resist_zine 

• Watch Documentaries and Films by and about Palestinian people. See Rowan M’s article “5 Palestinian Films to Watch” on The New Absurdist. 
• Read both Short and Long Form Content about Palestine. The following links have reading lists for books regarding Palestinian history and perspectives, including colonization, violence, economy, LGBTQ, culture, and fiction.
  • Decolonize Palestine Reading List
  • Haymarket has a Free Palestine! reading list. All of these books are currently 20% Off, and come with a free ebook where available. 

Protest

We invite you to print this cover and use it freely at Pro-Palestinian protests.

• Shut it Down for Palestine has information on marches, walkouts, sit ins, and other forms of direct action
• Resist Zine has visual guides for:
  • Dealing with Police at Protests 
  • Guide for Youth Protesters 
  • Protest Anxiety

Resources and Useful Links

• Jewish Voices for Peace
• STOP GAZA GENOCIDE Ceaasefire Now Public Tool Kit 
• Contact the White House 
• American Friends Service Community 
• The United Nations: The Question of Palestine: Timeline of Events
• Reuters: Mapping the conflict in Israel and Gaza

Thank you for reading. Once again, at this time, we’d like to invite artists and writers who are passionate about anti-fascism, anti-capitalism, anti-racism, and Palestinian support to submit their work to The New Absurdist, and as always we will do our best to elevate these underrepresented voices on our platform.

The post This Is Not A Watermelon appeared first on The New Absurdist.

September is the start of New York Fashion Week, making it a prime time for brands like Dove to launch their new advertisement campaigns. With these subway ads, a quippy hashtag, and the help of Dove pop-up stands – or “pit stops”— giving away free merch and MTA cards, it makes sense that the ad campaign has gotten lots of praise online in the last few days in the press.

If Dove’s ad campaign was the final drop in the bucket of confidence you needed to bare your armpits with pride, that’s great! But it’s important to understand that Dove cares more about your wallet than your pits. Dove is not aspiring to create a social movement that makes women feel confident unless they are spearheading the ‘movement’ with their own merchandise. 

The first red flag is that for a campaign that claims to be about not judging armpits, especially unshaved ones, there’s not a single bushy armpit in the bunch. At most, there’s a slight hint of stubble.

Ad images of Dove’s #Freethepit campaign sourced from Ogilvy

It’s no coincidence that Dove has chosen NYC and Times Square to debut #freethepits when this is a central location to #freethenipple protests. And with women’s freedom to go topless, or even braless still being a controversial social issue, it feels as if Dove has chosen to appropriate one women’s liberation movement in the name of creating their own social media campaign.

Dove’s #freethepit campaign is just the latest, local example in what is called Commodity Feminism, also known as “Femvertising” and “Empowertising.” 

Commodity Feminism

Commodity Feminism refers to the way companies will align themselves to feminist ideas and imagery, all because it will help them sell more products. Similar to how companies use Greenwashing to create a false public image of being eco-friendly, companies use feminist buzzwords to sell products to women, such as alway’s #likeagirl campaign.

If you’re not thinking too hard about it, these campaigns may seem full of liberal or progressive ideas, but keep in mind these are giant multi-billion dollar companies. These movements come out of allegiance to their investors, not grassroots activism. Logically, it only benefits companies to keep women, their main clientele, happy and buying. If dissing women would have made these companies money instead, you can bet they would have.

The way these commercials work is to associate women’s power in society with their buying power. Since women have money, they have power, and with this money they can buy things to pamper themselves. 

These ‘pamper products’ tend to be geared towards unpleasant ‘luxuries’ like shaving, waxing, disguising odors, and dieting- all things to make a woman more conventionally sexually attractive, if not to men, then at least themselves. This in turn increases a woman’s self confidence. Femvertising creates the illusion of an equal society, where the more money women spend, the more power they have. 

Often, this ‘type’ of ‘feminism’ is targeted at middle to upper class, heterosexual white women and neglects the experiences of BIPOC, trans, and disabled women. But where there’s money to be made, the ‘inclusion’ will eventually follow, if femvertising is not an example in itself!

A deodorant by any other name would smell just as sweet. Whether you call it Commodity Feminism, Femvertising, or Empoweritsing, the fact remains that the visual and written language of this advertising still is meant to obscure how Dove is still marketing off the insecurities of women.

How Feminist is Dove, Really?

In the same survey that Dove sources to use as slogans and quotes for its advertising campaign, “80% of women believe society promotes an ‘ideal’ underarm; most say the ‘ideal’ underarm should be hairless, smooth, odorless, and even-toned.” (Dove Underarm Confidence Survey).

You don’t see the mention of anything other than hair in Dove’s slogans because… well, to encourage women to not judge armpits based on odor would be a bit counterintuitive to the interests of a deodorant company.

This isn’t the first time Dove and OgiIvy’s partnership has encountered controversy for their ads. In fact, the debut of the “Dove Campaign for Real Beauty ” in 1994 is considered to be one of the first ‘Femvertising’ Campaigns.  As part of the “ Dove Campaign for Real Beauty,” there is no digital retouching in any ads, and all photographs are approved by women. And yet, in their casting calls, Dove has continually searched for women with “no tattoos, perfect skin,[and] bodies that aren’t too curved or too athletic.”

In this new #freethepits campaign, we see that the ‘no tattoos’ rule has been lifted, but the models chosen still fit within a restrictive standard of beauty (light, clear, unwrinkled skin and uncontroversial body types.)

And for an ad campaign based in New York City, there are no South or East Asian women featured in the photographs, with South Asian/ Brown girls being one of the primary demographics in America historically especially to be ostrasized for having body hair. The ad campaign also didn’t consider representing anybody older or visually disabled.

Compared to the other full upper body shots of the ad campaign, there is one close up of an ethnically ambiguous woman that perhaps is meant to serve as an all encompassing diversity figure for any body that wasn’t otherwise represented. 

Femvertising aside, when we dig a little deeper and recognize that Dove is the baby of its much larger parent company, Unilever, Dove’s integrity regarding its pro-women campaign seems compromised Unilever has come under fire for human rights issues in its supply chain, including slavery and forced child labor in palm oil and cocoa plantations.

I’m all for freeing the pits, but I think Dove should work on liberating people – or not enslaving them– before it “liberates” women’s armpits.

If you’re interested in learning more about Commodity Feminism, I recommend “Postfeminist Media Culture: Elements of A Sensibility” by Rosalind Gill, where I sourced much of the information about commodity feminism in this article. I also sourced information from “The Rise of Femvertising: Authentically Reaching Female Consumers” by Elisa Becker-Herby.

The post Something Stinks with Dove’s New #freethepits Campaign appeared first on The New Absurdist.

It’s contradictory, though, because the highest positions as a journalist – editors, columnists, or even just long-form reporters – have job descriptions that are essentially the opposite. Instead of avoiding opinions and angles and experimental styles, these upper-level professionals make their names from these things, pushing boundaries and staying dynamic. These jobs are what everyone in the industry aspire to, but landing one is impossible without some connections, skill, and goodwill – all of which require ‘playing ball.’ Its stupid, then. If every journalist aspires to be a creative columnist, then why do we spend so much of our careers working on precisely the opposite?

That, essentially, is the idea behind Realpolitik, a zine (self-published, cheaply reproduced magazine) that a few friends and I spent our winter semester putting together. Any budding journalist has dozens of opportunities for surface-level reporting work, at school newspapers, internships, or on blogs. My idea, at least at its beginnings, was to create a space for the typically excluded young and outspoken voices to share more complex pieces of writing, like personal essays and op-eds, specifically in the always-tumultuous field of politics.

Our zine has no theme besides the loose definition of what is political, and as we worked on the first issue, both print and digitally, a whole lot of ideas about structure and design were changed on the fly. Zines are a medium firmly planted in the 20^th century, with roots in punk-rock fandoms and feminist/LGBT advocacy groups. It’s a medium I’ve always been interested in since stumbling upon some old comic zines, and one that I think captured the same energy I wanted to channel in my zine. The zine culture is a really cool legacy to be a part of, and my intention with Realpolitik was take their unique aesthetic and remix it for a post-internet, specifically political perspective.

I’m a writer, first and foremost, and 100% did not realize what I’d be getting into when I settled on producing a 48-page print magazine. While I had tons of friends and friends of friends each chip in with some writing of their own or some accompanying art pieces, assembling the zine, something I had hardly given any thought in the planning-stages of this whole crazy thing, ended up being far and away the hardest part of the project. I suffered a rude awakening at my less-than-adequate Photoshop skills, and realizations as simple as having to make a writing piece fit a whole page, or that the pages of a printed book have to be a multiple of four ended up being big headaches in terms of redesigning entire sections. Still, all my collaborators were so cool about irritating logistics like those mentioned and were more than happy to help in any way they could. To say it was a relief when I finally held a printed proof in my hands – without any major errors – would be an understatement.

Making a zine was a ton of work, way more than I anticipated at least, and the majority of which was spent not working on our initial mission statement, that of hosting a platform for young, student, and alternative op-eds. But still, I think the process of taking this project from idea to printed matter taught me a lot, in terms of writing, editing, publishing, marketing, and even in terms of the actual content we published. I got a bunch of really smart people to contribute columns on stuff that I barely know anything about, and I think this huge variety of voices, tones, and topics is what made our first issue a success like it was. Even something as simple and supposedly-expected as having people react strongly to essays in the zine – both positive and negative – has been a really cool experience. More than one conversation (or argument) has been started in-person or over Instagram DM with people reacting to an essay in Realpolitik. That, I think, more than anything, shows that our original intent, to make this space for essays and for debate, was a good idea. It makes me more excited, even more than before, to publish again, and build this little zine into something a little less little.

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