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Tag Archives: protest

Fire

29 Friday May 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Black Lives Matter, change, fire, genital warts, morning, O-hi-O, priorities, protest

The sun is travelling out now, rising over the water instead of above the pavement in the mornings. We witness its return, soft, silent, and bright. We sip coffee or notice our breathing or stand in tree pose as the morning mist burns away.

This morning before I got out of bed studying the sky, I wondered how to cook the chicken I bought yesterday and realized I have no rice to pair with it. I could feel my face furrow and frown with concern and disappointment and concentration. It’s just too early for this. Then I read the news and I paired my concern and disappointment with pain and that overwhelming helpless feeling. Minneapolis is burning and for good reason.

I am an advocate for loud and inconvenient protest. Nothing changes unless the world sees it and hears it and says, “Well yeah, by golly, maybe cops shouldn’t keep killing unarmed black people.” Yet it seems only meaningful change comes after the wings of fire sweep in. Got your attention, forcing you to ask the question “How did we get here?” Well my dear, it wasn’t via a peaceful knee on a playing field. The sun burns in the morning, a police station burned all night, and I am burning now because I can only type a little screed on a little screen far away and not be with you, wherever you are, to demand equal justice for all.

I am not in favor of harming people or property to deliver a message, though, looking back (and I do so much looking back), it seems we are wired for fire and nothing short of that makes real change come around and *stick.*

Do you know the process for treating genital warts? It ain’t pretty so put your helmets on: by freezing or burning them off. They don’t go away with nice words and fancy words and throwing money at them or prayer. Big change comes after fire, after pain, after enough is enough.

I’ve taken stock of my morning, my life, and re-prioritized. Cooking my chicken is the least of my worries today. My other concerns will be dealt with in some sort of fashion. All I know is, right now, I can’t get “four dead in Ohio” out of my head because our president said, “When the looting starts the shooting starts,” which is not an original thought of his. We are angry. We are grieved. When will real change come and stick?

Pacifice et nimis incommode morior

05 Tuesday Dec 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, Choose, fight, future, keep going, life, protest, stamina, woman

Another day of life, another day I get to choose. Hold on, let me light some sage and pace the floor and forsake the waiting page because I’m not ready yet. Willing, able, but not ready to commit words to page, creating something from nothing.

Another day of life, another day I get to choose not to hate, to clench my jaw, to think and feel and say terrible things though you surely earned it.

Another day I get to give up. To throw in the towel. To say fuck it, nothing matters. (Insert leaping rainbow dolphin meme here.)  Another day to despair and ask, “Why do I give a shit? What’s the point? I’m wasting my time and energy. A woman’s voice does not matter and will never be heard.” Another day to wallow, to feel helpless, to watch things not go my way, to watch sufferings and wrongs that cannot be curtailed by the wave of my wand that means well, but has the exact power of a mythical unicorn. Another day to spend in tears because the child hurts, the women hurt, the world hurts, and can I point to anything at all I have done or have yet to do that will make real, lasting change?

Another day to to choose hedonism in favor of being in this world because wouldn’t I rather just live on Vanuatu and never give another flying fuck about this world ever again? My tick tock clock is countdown calling, and wouldn’t it just be better to surrender to the good life, a life of living moment to moment without sadness for the past or fear of the future, just hand to mouth and embrace that dirt nap when it comes in volcanic soil, without caring that I never had a soul to begin with? It’s just easier believing we are a parasite on a rock, hakuna matata, the end.

Another day to acknowledge the pain in my bones and my skin when I hear that no one believes the women, another day to acknowledge the betrayal of all I hold sacred if I turn my back on us. Another day of life to not give up on doing what’s right. To choose action, to speak out, to make a stand, to do what’s right, parasite or no.

Men and women are different. The guys have the upper body strength, but women have the gift of stamina. We keep going. You and I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t keep up with you all those colicky nights. No matter the shit or the threats, the bruises or the cum on our dresses, our fear to speak honestly because “No,” or “I will have,” “I deserve,” “I need” equals “No one will believe you,” women find ways to keep going.  And if I curl up and say fuck it and stay in my bed and wallow and wait for the soil then how could I ever deserve to requiescat in pace? I know that right now the few are running the world for the rest of us. Lying down and letting them steamroll us hurts our daughters and sons in ways that’s hard to see when we don’t know where dinner is coming from, but we must never give up. It’s hard to see a better future when we’re unbelieved today, but we just  have to keep going.

Another day of life to choose to keep going.

Another Look

09 Thursday Mar 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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conservative, Equality, liberal, point of view, PP, protest, women

Complicated mix of feelings about the use of International Women’s Day as a day to remove herself from society for a day; no work, no purchases, and wear red for solidarity.  I understand their mission statement and goals for A Day Without A Woman when I read it on a laptop screen, but I just couldn’t get completely behind it. I hate to tell you, ladies, but the world is gonna go on without us.  You know, tides, time clocks, hungry tummies, calves, earth’s rotation, traffic, the stock market, and the sun will still set all without us, red shirts, pink hats, outrage and all. What did we earn, what did we gain on this day?

I spent the day focused on women’s writing, on women who came before us who made so many things possible for us, things I take for granted. I focused on what being a whole woman looks like and feels like, where my deficiencies are, and what can I do to help the sun go down in kind, tangible ways for others.  Twasn’t easy, especially since I began the day in an irritated state, but the reading helped it abate.

This morning’s news held no surprises for me. I wasn’t expecting a wall-to-wall woman blackout, massive protests in the streets or even across the world.  International Women’s Day was celebrated yesterday, as it has since its inception in 1909, but in a muted kind of way. I do so hope that women across the globe took a moment to learn about its history. Fascinating it’s a national holiday in Russia. One only has to look at the reason why.

We are very lucky, perhaps the privileged few, who can step out on a job for a day. One wonders if the bodegas that closed in the cities on A Day Without Immigrants had a lot more to lose. A helluva lot more.  I hope this intersectional movement will stand for being much more than hard feelings towards a president.

I took to the internet to keep up with the news, then the usual social media outlets to keep up with the noise. This morning I came across something that rocked me back a little. An acquaintance posted her approval of a conservative news article that painted A Day Without A Woman in a bad light. The comments were a fascinating snapshot of conservatism. I read these articles and comments to keep myself grounded: I will lose if I stay in a silo. So more than 3,000 comments on this article, and they all basically said the same thing: They object to the disgusting, pink pussycat hats; the protesters are liberals, college age, still living with parents, no responsibilities; they are clueless snowflakes, delicate ornaments that can’t handle losing the election. More importantly, the commenters said, “I love and respect my wife. My husband loves and respects me. I’m raising my daughters/grandchildren better than these protesters. I’ve always worked hard for everything I have, I’ve always stood up for myself. I am a strong, happy woman, these protesters don’t speak for me.  They need to get jobs and stop whining.  Me and my husband work at the same hospital and we make the same, good wage.  My boss is a man and he respects me, how do I know, because he tells me so. I work on a ranch, I don’t get to take random days off, I am respected by my coworkers, I work hard, I am proud to be a woman, and I don’t know what these privileged girls are whining about.”  Three thousand people replied to this article, 9,000 shared it, and I spent more time than I probably should have reading them, but I needed to.

Three thousand people said they were never sexually harassed on the job, are getting equal pay, they are happy and proud to be women, and have very narrow, disgusted feelings towards protesters.  Hmm.   I wonder if I’m on the wrong side of the fence, here.  Did my little feelings get hurt when he said, “I moved on her like a bitch?” Should I just get over it, let it go for the locker room talk that it was, take the high road and be the best person I can be?  Did my little feelings get hurt when my boss, a woman, didn’t promote me to lead person because I didn’t suck up to her, buy her lunch, and worship Sara Palin?  Do I believe women are victims of their gender that are seeking a place to lay the blame?  What could we have done differently to get the job, the promotion, the next pay grade if gender wasn’t the issue–what did we do to hold ourselves back?  Are we spending too much time reading comments on alt-right web pages wringing our hands in fear that that’s us they’re talking about? We let our daddies down and we only have ourselves to blame?  Three thousand people seem to think so. Maybe that’s what they mean when they say, “Fuck your feelings.”

One of the commenting multitudes suggested that the real protesters should be white men because they’re getting the short end of the stick on everything. They’re the ones suffering.  I sharpen my pencil and get ready to write my sad, snowflake feelings on what will probably come to be known as White History Month.

Meanwhile… the new and improved healthcare act will cut funding for Planned Parenthood.

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