"Bite this stick", the doctor might say as we birthed our children one-hundred years ago. The grunting,  whimpering, sobbing, pleading, sweating, stinking, bleeding nudity of motherhood channeled into that sweet gag, silent, as the towels mount to soak up all of the  nasty animal we are as we labor with the promise of life. Bite this stick.  

To date, my most popular blog entry, which reappeared on Counterpunch this week (Of Mice and Moms), is one in which I refuse the bite the stick. It is  vaguely about Mother's Day and it is, honestly, the kind of screaming that does not produce life. Birth is a channeling of the pain, down, not up into the air,  pushing through it, sinking, a kind of focus that for all the animal smell, is  what is truly animal. But the response from other mothers, and even fathers,  people in general, to my scream was huge.  I was a little taken aback. We are angry. We are sad.

Mother's Day is sad and it is unnerving because it is an insult to us. It is  an insult to life. We are angry at this insult. I feel death, unnatural death,  moving in for our children. It is emotional, moral and physical. And each of us  is a mother's child. The facts are apparent. I have little more to add. The
facts are what we talk about very often. I do not desire to watch the executions  of our children, to know the make of the bullets, the details of the poverty and the war, to seek out an argument about the temperature and humidity the day on which we sort the pieces left of the life we have tenderly worked at.

Politics and ideology leave me feeling cold. They are a game played by people who do not know what love is, far, far too often.

I have a name for what I am doing with my life. I have a few. They are the names of the children I have birthed, Mac and Ob, and the names of the other people I love. I think this is what I have in common with every other mother on Earth. 

Solidarity is the principle aim of thoughtful motherhood. This is what I am here to tell you today. Give me a minute and take my hand, I want to explain what I think. 

At one time the idea solidarity meant in German culture "collective debt."  Over time it came to mean the individual taking responsibility for the  community. Later on, during the French Revolution, it came to mean brotherhood  among the underclass. Today it seems to mean some kind of interest, however vague, in the welfare of another. It means a lot of things to a lot of people. I  will accept each of these definitions for now. I will accept each of these  definitions because they each pivot on responsibility, a deepening of what we are each capable of feeling, saying, thinking, doing, from where we start, because of love. Love is  the glue that holds a community. This is the same pivot where we find each other as mothers: responsibility and love. 

There is a limit to what I can do for my sons, for anyone, so long as I do  not make my love political, however. While my politics must not lose its face, in my  case, the dirty little freckled face of my baby son and the deep eyes of my young man. 

Some time ago a woman invented Mother's Day. Julia Ward Howe. She called on  mothers to raise their sons well, to not be tools for war, as she saw happen in the American Civil War, as she assisted happening as the author of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. Quickly this was forgotten; the holiday progressed to honor mothers just for being mothers, not call us to solidarity. And quickly, yet again, the holiday was consumerized. And now as my sons are threatened, and as I scramble with my every ounce of life force to protect them, I will get a card this weekend, maybe with a picture of a teddy bear on it, and maybe some message from a friend about how I am a goddess, to be proud of my stretched and flabby body, as if it is that that I am most worried about as perhaps it is that that  determines my personal worth to the occasional sweet talker with economic and/or social power.

I like Howe’s Mother's Day Proclamation. "Arise, all women who have hearts, Whether our baptism be of water or of tears!" Like many good words, however, I recognize that repeating them on their own doesn't make them understood enough to derive a coherent lesson or change behavior. I think, to be understood, the people in them have to be struggled with as representatives from our own inner lives, which is what they are, as our ancestors or peers. We must be willing to  fully struggle with our culture, and not just mainstream culture, but our closest, most intimate cultures inside it. Howe, for example, may have been conveniently misguided in her thinking that women, in general, teach sons "charity, mercy and patience" -- traits then somehow "unlearned" -- and that moral evil is an inherently masculine capacity for which women are uniquely responsible for  working their sexual or motherly magic against. And like our old mother, Howe, we might too be misguided.

I have begun to see how our idea of solidarity moved from being one of  communal debt to the vague interest in another's welfare. I will not argue with the word, but the animal mother has been tamed. In a recent interview on Democracy Now long-time activist Selma James said "We are civilized by this work [of caretaking], we women...we need men to be civilized by this work...we don't want them working for capitalism...I'm talking about our working to care for others, to be with others." I agree that caretaking is transformative, in a good way, but I have a bone to pick with the word “civilized.” I have been thinking recently that actually the problem is that we are less animal than we should be. We have nothing to base a morality on. We live in the intellectual, professional, ether.

Howe saw the devastation and her politics clearly changed as a result. She  became a pacifist just a few years after supporting a war, a war she supported to support justice for enslaved peoples. And while she may have admitted to friends in private correspondence the change, and to some degree her own responsibility as a writer of rousing words, not simply another mother, for its horrors, it is the Mother's Day Proclamation that is her public writing, and in it, she shares nothing of that. 

The Proclamation seems to me sometimes interesting primarily as a study in how one can make the mistake of eschewing appropriate personal and communal responsibility in order to pursue a more virginal image, and an impossible responsibility, than anyone deserves or can shoulder, and do so very surreptitiously. It reminds me, really, of an aspect of modern American "progressivism," where we blame evil people (like George Bush) for doing evil things (like bombing Afghanistan and Iraq) and feel like, because we say the right words (like peace and solidarity), or even, in some cases, truly suffer in our efforts, we are among the virtuous (while we continue to bomb Afghanistan and Iraq). 

How can we begin to explain, if we are serious people, serious about justice,
the constant murder of civilians all over the world in what so many of us have accepted is a series of wars about dominance? And, even without war, the abuse of workers? Poverty? Are we really so weak that we can't do better? We can see the consequences of an incomplete fight for justice -- a justice most human beings on the Earth say we want, and I believe we do, I think. Is it simply that our mothers did not read Howe's Proclamation and words like it? Is that the problem? Somehow, I think this is doubtful. 

But it is in the example of their profound complication, her complication,  our complication and my complication that I can learn anything, or share  anything. It's never enough, I think, to just recall the facts. We must struggle with them in our deepest selves. And we must do so fully with each other. That is animal behavior evolved to a state of deep morality.

I have said before, because I am a mother and I repeat myself, that colonial thinking (for example: racism, classism,  misogyny), which we all engage in to varying degrees -- in testament to our wretched inheritances -- is ultimately about denying humanity, making people, ourselves even, abstractions, ideas, not flesh and blood people. The idea we have might be violent or it may be sentimental, as our political debates speak to, but the reduction is ultimately an evil. It may be the definition of evil. Indeed, Selma James, in her 1972 introduction to The Power of Women and the Subversion of Community said wisely: “There is nothing in capitalism which is not capitalistic, that is, not part of the class struggle.” 

Whiteness, for example, as a form of superiority, is kind of a new concept which came about as a convoluted result of the movement toward home ownership  and suburbia after WW II (White People were once Irish, Italian, Polish...), and while race  is imaginary (while racism is real), it is possible that what was once "White" culture is, in our current social context, is becoming "professional" culture. Institutional racism and, indeed, caustic bigotry remain huge issues for millions of people -- for all of us really, if solidarity is our value -- but in the United States we now have a Black president and the new MLK memorial has corporate sponsorship --  the same sponsorship that goes to making war and leaving people in poverty, and the same president who sends us into it. Whiteness, a great tool of  institutional evil, is an invention of capitalism as an invention of  imperialism. What other tools are there? Racism is still with us and what else is?

 Our mother James continues:

 "…look at the demands we in England marched for in 1971: equal pay, free
24-hour child care, equal educational opportunity and free birth control and
abortion on demand. Incorporated into a wider struggle, some of these are vital. As they stand, they accept that we not have the children we can't afford; they demand of the State facilities to keep the children we can afford for as long as 24 hours a day; and they demand that these children have equal chance to be conditioned and trained to sell themselves competitively with each other on the labor market for equal pay. By themselves these are not just co-optable demands. They are capitalist planning. Most of us in the movement never felt these  demands expressed where we wanted the movement to go, but in the absence of an independent feminist political framework, we lost by default."

In a folk tale from India (my son Mac loved this one when he was about four) an unwise king does not want his naked feet to be dirtied, so he orders the earth covered in leather. This makes it impossible for the people to live, because they cannot grow food, and when it rains, it floods them out. A wiser man creates the first shoes for the king so that the rest of the world may have the life giving dirt again. The king is not confronted in this way and the people continue to live under him, though thankfully no longer under leather. These are the kinds of solutions James was referring to in the 1970s and the kinds of solutions we continue to support, as opposed to solutions based on any idea we may have of solidarity.

Mariarosa Dalla Costa joins Selma James (in The Power of Women and the Subversion of Community) in saying:

"We want...nurseries and washing machines and dishwashers, but we also want choices: to eat in privacy with few people when we want, to have time to be with children, to be with old people, with the sick, when and where we choose. To 'have time' means to work less. To have time to be with children, the old and the sick does not mean running to pay a quick visit to the garages where you park children or old people or invalids. It means that we, the first to be excluded, are taking the initiative in this struggle so that all those other excluded people, the children, the old and the ill, can re-appropriate the social wealth; to be re-integrated with us and all of us with men, not as dependents but autonomously, as we women want for ourselves; since their exclusion, like ours, from the directly productive social process, from social existence, has been created by capitalist organization."

I read a lot of self-help books, because, like many of us, I need some help. 
One of my favorites is less self-help as it is a primer in skills building to  solve all problems through community building. In The Abundant Community consultants Peter Block and John McKnight assert that “We are colonized by the belief that we are a diagnostic category, that we are a need, not a capacity, and that only a system, a product, a professional service can satisfy that need…the abundant community embraces fallibility and humanness.”

It is in a competent community that as human animals we will find freedom,  which may not be the same as liberty. I believe this strongly and I want you to think about it with me. The allure of capitalism is that it is possible for some of us to attain a kind of liberty so long as we have the tool of capital, money, with which to pay for our power, not negotiate our relationships. This is the power of men over women, the power of Whites over People of Color. It is a power that is both coerced, on an individual level, and consensual, on an institutional level. It is a puzzle.

Block and McKnight say that:

"To reclaim the role of citizen, to go from addiction to choice, the shift will simultaneously restore vital functions to the family and the neighborhood and reconstruct the competence of the community, all of which come under assault in consumer culture."

The strategy outlined in The Abundant Community in which one may reclaim the role of citizen is, however, somewhat counterintuitively, an abundantly personal one. The properties to be attained by the authors’ ideal, fully functioning community are the giving of gifts, the presence of association (wherein the gifts of individuals are amplified), and  compassion, or hospitality (which recognizes that many traditional communities are xenophobic, and otherwise phobic, as we have seen in North Carolina this past week). Their strategy has strengths, to be sure, but I find that the authors do not pay heed, in this list or anywhere in their very good book, to the political, the institutional, environment within which this movement they describe must take place. It is not as easy as making better choices. Our choices are pulled at by forces outside of us.

For some reason this has been a common pattern of weakness in our  culture. That which is political is only concerned with institutional matters,  while that which is personal is only concerned with the individual, the  transformation of the individual usually, and usually to a happier state. It is
a kind of hyper-specialization of interest, and a hallmark of professional behavior, which is capitalist behavior, that drives the whole way we think of
our lives together. 

I find it extremely problematic to find a strategy that is either entirely  personal or entirely political to counter the generations of oppression and the ensuing breakdown of community that has made these intrusions more and more  possible. The war we fight is everywhere as mothers, as caretakers,  as maybe the last non-professional relational beings left standing in the United States, hobbling maybe, but here.

Many feminists of James’ generation fought to take women out of the home and into the workplace. This was an institutional, political, strategy not unlike inventing shoes for a king who would otherwise cover the earth in leather. Women took work outside of the home that at best is no more fulfilling than the kinds of work  that the vast majority of men had and have now, which is far from life affirming labor and far from useful labor. All the while the march of colonialism became swifter as our children, now in many cases the third generation with little parental involvement, are raised almost entirely by institutions and the media, which is not only bad for the human animal they are, but which is in service to capitalism. I do not intend to be barefoot and pregnant, but I value the work of caretaking and we all need it. Caretaking should be expanded beyond the role of motherhood. That is the institutional goal, but on a personal level, feeling the weight of motherhood and demanding its respect is on my list.

Where do we even begin meeting these goals? It is all so overwhelming. Martin Luther King, before he was a corporate memorial, began his political agenda in Where Do we Go From Here: Chaos or Community with "The Triple Evils of poverty, racism, and war.”

"They are interrelated, all-inclusive, and stand as barriers to our living in
the 'Beloved Community.' When we work to remedy one evil, we affect all evils. The issues change in accordance with the political and social climate of our nation and world."

Perhaps, if we talk about it, we will identify other things, but we must talk
about it. I propose that we each pick five people with whom we are going to
determinedly interact for the next year, three on the emotionally easy side and two on the hard side, and talk. Talk all the time. Talk deeply. We must identify what is coerced and why in the life of the individual through our neighbors and remedy this through what remains consensual, how we choose to behave as organizations of people. 

If it were me talking, which it is, right this second, political demands we might make as organizations of mothers, as caretakers rather, may well be Guaranteed National Income, for example, a political idea that is often scoffed at as impossible. Income is a big problem in making truly free choices on a personal level. Further, radical, organized, acts of resistance to war would address political issues we find our children and each other faced with, as Howe attempted to address in her invention of Mother’s Day. We must work to free swaths of us from the chains that prevent our connection, but like the chicken and the egg, neither the political nor the personal must be first. 

Personal change may well be what is described in The Abundant Community intentionally for people do not change without connection, the more personal the better.  Despots and saints, however much they are simply in the popular imagination, know this. “One man’s death is a tragedy, but a million deaths is a statistic”, Joseph Stalin famously said. Mother Teresa said something similar: “If I look at the mass, I will never act. If I look at one I will.”

I noted recently that there is a home that you can only find in the depth of
old friends, their eyes and hands, old places, emotional and physical, in the
labor and commitment, or the memory, which has kept the bond whole. One of my favorite quotes comes from Iris Murdoch: "Love is the difficult realization that something other than oneself is real." We are not the same person. We are,  however, mutually dependent and capable of doing much better by each other than we do. I am a mother and I repeat myself. I say these things all the time.

Happy Mother's Day. Really. "Arise, all women who have hearts, Whether our baptism be of water or of tears!" Arise. Take my hand. Better yet, take your neighbor's hand, assuming I am not she.

The color and quality of the light here is, I don't know, dense. I always feel like I am being pushed into myself, quieting, sinking, falling through what is me and through the floor of the Earth when I walk alone here, visiting what seem like the ruins of the civilization I was part of eons ago, like the last survivor of Pompeii, when it was I who left. This is Montgomery, Alabama.

This is where I was a teenager and where I spent my early years as a mother, the place where I worked as a projectionist in a neighborhood theater, a non-profit one screen art house, called The Capri. Alabama is where my mother's family has lived since before the American Civil War, in a small, ever flooding town called Elba, just north of Mobile.I am hardly a survivor as I burn and push through. I used to fancy myself one, feeling the need to keep on breathing through poverty and constant shaming, breathing and birthing a creature I could be proud of. The irony though is that surviving made me ashamed. And birthing is falling too.

I am walking my old walk, my first day in town, through Granny's neighborhood, which is one dead-end block of peeling paint and plastic playsets now, all the old people as dead as where the last house blocks the street that might have been connected, up toward the theater, where I will let myself in, get a soda, just as Mac and I used to, he in his little red wagon, and then I will walk back to my friend's home (where I am sleeping, drinking and bathing), by way of the ditch that always has tadpoles. I am a pilgrim this morning. I call this my Southern Haj.

I think there is a cultural connection between Arabs, Persians, and American Southerners. Our playful, sentimental, tribal, burning, sinking natures. Our grandparents being cast out of the garden of industrial, mechanized Eden, we, in horror, the children of Cain, or the bastard children of Abraham. We are the children who drink from secret springs of fortune and the falling, always the falling.

Isn't it funny, my adviser points out to me in an email exchange, that it is so in vogue to consume local food amongst the very people who have moved away from where they themselves were produced and grown? I am thinking about this. I do a lot of food shopping with Martin, my friend of going on 20 years that I have been staying with. I treasure every litte berry I pick on my walks, to eat the dirt, maybe to make my passage through the Earth easier, to put it inside of me.

There is a home that you can only find in the depth of old friends, their eyes and hands, old places, emotional and physical, in the labor and commitment, or the memory, which has kept the bond whole. We tell funny stories about each other. Do you remember when? There are hands that make the falling move faster, your mass becomes greater, and in so, the falling will disappear, you are moving so fast it looks like stillness, and there are eyes in which the horror dissipates, and this is home inside the rapid and heavy descent.

I have fallen now clear through, as I write this, back to my children and Washington DC, or rather the Maryland suburb, where we live. Driving the rural roads since I left my cousin Wes' place, having discovered a new setting on my GPS that allows me to avoid the interstate. The more things change the more they stay the same.

The drive is misty and the pushing through Tennessee is so beautiful and so worth it. The rusting church roofs set on white cinderblock squares, the mountains being swallowed by clouds and vomiting up the remains of towns. I have a Cheerwine. It makes the skin above my upper lip and my tongue a very gross, like cheap ass uncooked hotdog, shade of pink, my upper lip in a messy crescent. But I am in a car, so totally alone, and it does not matter.

I think I know now why I like to look at and touch old doll houses. They feel to me like these towns I barrel through, like the meaningful to me corpse of what used to have its own meaning.  

A man at a gas station tells me to keep laughing my big raucous laugh that he overhears. Southerners are so violent.

I return to my children. I have returned to my children, with many food gifts. Ob snuggles into me. He keeps smelling me. I wrap my arms around him and I make my chest his home again, pulling him close, for the fall.


Mothers Day is less than a month away. This will be my 16th as both daughter and mother. I get grouchier every year. 

I have poured my life into my children. I've given them myself, all of it, to  give them to you. They, I have to tell you, are awesome. I think you might be too.

And you know what? Fuck the stupid media debate going on right now about who gets to stay home with their kids and whether or not one should. Fucking "Mommy Wars." You know what? The mothers I know -- from sex workers to hippie crunchy mamas, to lawyers -- do not sit around having this debate. We just do not. Yes, there is a basic hypocrisy in saying that an upper class woman should stay home with her children and a lower class woman should not. Let me tell you, hypocrisy from the dumb asses of the world is the least of my concerns. 

And this crap a few months ago about Rush Limbaugh calling someone a whore and  the War on Women from the Right -- only from the Right? I am here to testify that I have been called a whore, to my face, by men I love, by politically better men than Rush, if by better one means Leftist. "Blah blah blah, misogyny is bad, blah blah blah; by the way Windy, I am unhappy with you, I will call you a whore now, in words and deeds." I have been bewhored up and down and all around for no other reason than someone with good progressive, Lefty politics was angry with me and that was how he knew to hurt me the most deeply. And you know how I made him so angry? By prioritizing my children over him because I am a mother.

I have been told I both work too much and work too little by both men and women because I prioritize my children, if the person in question needs something else from me, even an emotional ax to grind.

I'm grumpy. I've been writing about solidarity and love all day for school.  In 10 minutes I'm going to pick my younger kid up from the bus stop. 

I just don't get us. Peanut allergies are bad, so we ban the peanuts, stridently. War is killing mother's children by the truck load, poverty is killing mother's children by the truck load, lack of education is killing them, lack of medical care is killing them. You know what we do? We "blah blah blah, misogyny. Blah blah blah blah, Mommy Wars. Yeah, that's right... Mommy Wars. Did I cite the right people?"

The media debate about abortion. Also stupid. Not only do we clearly not have a  problem murdering anyone, baby or adult, in this country, but speaking as a former teen mom who is not anti-abortion -- does not think it, unlike war and poverty, is murder -- I can tell you, if you do not know, that abortion is often a sad thing worth preventing. If you care about women and if you care about babies, for god's sake, do something to make it possible for us to raise our children in peace. Stop offering to take our children from us. Stop telling us anything but our full right to have motherhood or to not have motherhood is what we are fighting for. Stop putting our babies in ROTC, stop bombing our babies, and feeding them pink goddamn slime with a side order of bullshit and brainwashing in school. Jesus. Stop degrading our babies' mothers and stop killing our babies. Even our grown up babies.

You know what mothers want? We want our children to grow up healthy and strong and good and moral. We'd like some help. We don't give it even to each other far too often. Why is this so hard? That is what I want to see in the media. I want to see an expose on why this is so hard.

There will be more on this with less primal scream. But I need to scream a
bit right now as I countdown to Mother's Day.
I have to get to the bus stop now. Happy Mother's Day, mother fuckers.

Should I end this with a smiley face?

The night before our wedding, with family and friends.
"What are you going to wear? A white t-shirt with your jeans?" That's what my friend asked the week before I married John on this day in 2003. I was the kind of person who wears the same grungy crap a few days in a row, maybe even sleeping in it, because I was obsessed with organizing. Or, that is the story I told myself.

"No. I'm going to wear a dress."

"A wedding dress?"

I wore a wedding dress. I did. It was off-white. And I carried flowers. And up until I threw it at John's face a few years ago, I wore a ring that had his name inside and the date on which we were married. I have that ring now, and his ring too, in a handmade wooden box that says "I love you the way you are."

Oh, John. Life is so short and friends are few. I love you. Maybe I can say that and mean it and know what it means to love someone else because you taught me. We taught each other, maybe, because maybe that is the way love works. In the end it was you who taught me, and I who taught you, though I have said all kinds of awful things in the past about the kind of pain I was in with you too. As have you, though you were never as emotive as I. 

We've been so shitty to each other, by accident mostly, and so, so good to one another too, mostly on purpose. The forgiveness between us is real and deep. There is something to be said for that.

For the rest of you, this is what I have learned from my marriage. John and I took vows on our wedding day that we wrote ourselves. They were about our commitment to the community. That's all we said. We were a work team devoted to the world. Guess what, activist friends? That did not a marriage make, and in the end, that did not a good work team make either.

We fell apart, as people. We're still picking the sharp little pieces of broken heart out of our flesh.

Community is something you don't just work for. It is a relationship. And you can't have a relationship with something as huge as "the world" or even "the neighborhood" if you don't know how to have a relationship, an intimate one, with another person, because you cannot know the reality of others without this experience. And you cannot write your own vows to the community. It is a negotiation. 

In The Sibling Society, author Robert Bly relates the story of the Hindu god, Ganesh, who, as a youth, is asked by his mother to guard her privacy as she bathes. He unknowingly is guarding her from her husband, his father, who had been so long gone he does not know him. Indeed, the father had left the family in a rage eons before because his wife, the goddess who bore Ganesh, conceived him in an act of trickery against him. In the ensuing fight between Ganesh and his father, the boy’s head is cut off.  His mother, upon seeing this, is filled with grief and rage. To mend him his father takes the head of a baby elephant and places it upon Ganesh's shoulders. Bly interprets the story in terms of the damage we do to young men in our culture of libertarian ideals, leaving them without mentorship, to feel as if
they are protectors of their mothers, not themselves sheltered.

The myth is also reminiscent of the awesome, if somewhat delusional, responsibility of the activist, the deformity, and the weight of a professional head -- a non-human head -- that has colonized us, a head that does not quite fit on our very human body.

Jeff Noonan wrote recently:

"A future new left must be positive and constructive if it is to be anything at all. A positive and constructive new left, while mindful of the structural contradictions of capitalism, cannot treat these as a reason to not act in the present on demands that make some people's lives better but leave structural problems unaddressed in the short term. Theoretical models of wholesale alternatives to capitalism have a place, but have not proven capable of mobilizing large numbers of people in Europe and North America in ways that have effectively institutionalized real gains. Instead, the losses continue to mount. The first crucial task of an effective new left must therefore be to work out a short term agenda that builds mass support and that can be realized within existing institutions, but at the same time pushes those institutions away from their current life-blind function toward their life-valuable reason for being."

Their life-valuable reason for being.
Their life-valuable reason for being.
Their life-valuable reason for being.

My friend, poet and teacher, Lee Furey, wrote in her poem Penelope about her 20 year long relationship with another activist:

I hate this movement
that has stolen you from me.

I hate it because it denies
its own love of conflict,
it denies
the beauty of imperfection
and forgiveness.

I hate it because
it finds those who live in peace boring.

I hate it because
I don't know where you left the guitar.
I hate it
I live on the ground.

Yeah, Lee. We all do. We all live on the ground.

A Friend who is a friend (FYI: I am an atheist Quaker sunday school teacher) told me, told all of us, about this song today at Meeting.

There will come a day
When we will all stand before the throne
On that day, some will say:

"Did we not prophesy in your name?"
And they'll say:"We drove out demons in your name"
I know some will say: "We performed many miracles in your name"
Some will say: "So many works we've done in your name"

Then the Lord will say: "Depart from me, ye workers of iniquity I never knew you"

That's why I know

Everybody talkin'  'bout heaven ain't goin' there
Everybody talkin' 'bout heaven ain't goin'
Everybody talkin' 'bout heaven ain't goin' there
Oh my Lord

He was talking about  peace, about how many of us talk about peace, but we may never see it, relating Palm Sunday to April Fools Day, with Jesus entering Jerusalem as a fool in Matthew, on two animals, triumphantly riding to his death.

I am feeling this song as a message about solidarity. 

Not everybody talking about solidarity is going there. Not hardly. And, it is
the nature of solidarity, I think, that makes it so that if not everbody goes,
none of us do. I always thought, when I was a Christian, that heaven would be  the same, because without someone we might love, there could be no true heaven. 

Our whole idea of heaven is the reverse of everything else Christianity is. It
is about material comfort. Not love. 

To me, colonial  thinking (for example: racism, classism, misogyny),
which we all engage in to varying degrees -- in testament to our wretched
inheritances -- is ultimately about denying humanity, making people, ourselves even, abstractions, ideas, not flesh and blood people.

The idea we have might be violent or it may be sentimental, as our political
debates speak to, but the reduction is ultimately an evil. It may be the
defintion of evil, I think.
In my experience solidarity is a word we use to mean superiority in the colonial experience we are all having, not the shared responsibility to the human one that is hurting in the face of it.

Franz Kafka once wrote: "In the fight between you and the world, back the
world." This is not an admission of defeat, for me, but a call to negotiation,
to the belief in the reality of others and its awesome power. Be a friend and
have friends. Make peace with and love and understand your family. Your
relationships are your work and your bread. They are who you are. There can be no heaven, no solidarity, without you and without me.

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_On Personal Love in a Political Culture

This Sunday, at the Friends Meeting I attend, I shared a long, rambling account of my personal soap opera, which is what I call it, my life, my relationships, when I am not willing to be vulnerable about it all, but I still need to vent, and well, my reality, when I am, when I am willing to share.

Short non-vulnerable version: there is a divorce, there is another long-term romantic relationship gone bad, so bad in fact I have begun describing my feelings around it as a "deranged ghost that lives outside of my body" as I search and search myself for any truth to which I can hold -- to hang my feelings of love -- then there are are things like a diagnoses of PTSD, which I suffer from, and for good reason, and my struggling to finish a degree program in which I am writing a thesis on solidarity behavior while I struggle with a general grumpiness about solidarity in my life and the unnerving prevalence of a philosophy of personal liberation in our culture that says, wrongly, it is actually a philosophy of community. I feel alone in facing the deranged ghost, though I am the subject of much sympathy, and I am often told the best thing to do in response to my haunting is ignore it, not try any further to mediate it, because, ironically, trying to mediate it will result in my being alienated, as honest mediation just makes others uncomfortable. I want to scream.

Someone told me after my deep sharing that my statement was a challenge, a call to community, a catharsis, for her. God knows it was for me too. That is my clearly personal thought for the day.

The clearly political one that I want to draw your attention to is this quote from Newt Gingrich on Saturday night, in one of my home states, South Carolina:

“The debate we’ll have with President Obama mark the outlying of two Americas, the America of the Declaration of Independence, the America of Saul Alinksy, the America of paychecks...The America of dependence, the America of independence, the America of strength in foreign policy, the America of weakness in foreign policy.”

As fascistic as Gingrich is being here, I think he is onto something he does not mean to be onto. Alinsky was a wounded man. He lost his wife in a drowning accident in which she was trying to save someone else. He lost his brother in childhood. There is a machismo to his ideas, a cruel efficiency, a survivalism that I think shows this pain, and a reaction to pain that appeals to many of us. He believed in enemies you must destroy, or at least have a desire to. Nowhere is Alinsky vulnerable in his public writing, as far as I know, and if he were here to tell me off for saying so, for making it an issue, I bet he would. Alinsky would hate my guts.

Alinsky's machismo is stamped on our activist culture, and, just as Gingrich posits the whole thing like the somehow simultaneous dullard and sociopath he is, our country's debates are often flat on the inside even though they look potentially incendiary on the outside. Believe me, Alinksy wanted an America of paychecks. What else was he doing in the slums of urban America but fighting for that, and for independence? "I love this goddamn country, and we're going to take it back," Alinksy said. Sound familiar? There is so much more to fight for, to work for, though, and this debate we are in about taking back America sounds, to me, autistic. Every time I hear it from whomever I hear it from. It is an industrially organized effort, lacking empathy, alienated, and obsessed with irrelevant details.

The two Americas Gingrich is being a nutball about exist, but both are missing something crucial, married together in a death embrace, I think. This reality he is talking about is one in which machismo -- lack of vulnerability, lack of true community, solidarity based community, *inter*dependence -- lack of real values kind of talk, where enemies abound, and fear is about fear of not having personal power, not the fear of losing the love that makes us human, these things are the foundation of our thoughts.

Both Americas Gingrich is talking about think brotherly love is a higher state, a static noun, a yogic pose or a prayer or something, not a moving verb that is about our behavior, our willingness to engage in the messiness that is life with solidarity. And romantic love is like a mental illness we either accept with or without shame, depending on our personal beliefs. This is what passes for personal beliefs, anyway. Love requires a relationship, I think, any form of it, and relationships involve care and care involves some loss of liberty because you don't always get to do what you want when you have to negotiate a reality with someone else who is real, because you care. Community is hard work and love requires being serious about and with community. We need a new tribalism that is not about taking America back, but taking ourselves, our hearts, our families, back from these two Americas, this bi-polar thing we have created.

I think a lot about community, solidarity, my life, life in general. Here's my marriage of the personal and political. I have talked about the importance of being a good neighbor for several years. I often fail at this goal because I still care about the life I left behind, the life of the Leftist, the serious political person. I still want to be validated by a world I no longer agree with on crucial things. All people want love, food, companionship, solutions that get people what they need. I'm from the American South. I know, there is nothing saintly about any of our ideas about how to do that. We just need to be more present to one another.

I advise people all the time to be active in their own homes, neighborhoods, churches, anything that is organized more around people than an ideology. You may disagree with me on the churches part, religion being a kind of ideology, but churches are people based, I think. Look at the Civil Rights Movement. When I became an atheist I remember taunting people, saying that I didn't need a church to have a social life. I thought I was seeing through some hypocrisy. Well, it is a hypocrisy, the relationships that are more important than the ideology, that I now wish was more prevalent in all institutions. 

The Occupy Movement has been trying to do this too, I think. I think that is what the tent encampments were or are, in some cases, about, and certainly the reclamations of people's homes from banks and landlords. This is what excites me about the Occupy Movement, though even here, we have so far to go, so much ground to cover, and I hope to god we manage it. We are going to have to work really hard, together, in our homes, neighborhoods, and churches to see it happen. Justice, like my own search for truth in that nebulous failure of a relationship, has got to be moved from being a deranged ghost that lives outside of our bodies. It does not live in a tent, or a non-profit, or anywhere that is not you touching another, making a circuit, living the mess. Gingrich verses Alinsky is not the conversation we need to be having.

I am making a choice today to do more for my Meeting and with my Meeting; do a lot, most even, of my activism there, through there, with, as I like to advise others, the people who know and love me best, or have the potential to, get a normal working class job doing something I just enjoy, part-time, in my neighborhood, which is something I have fought against for whatever reason. I will write, certainly, since I can't help but not, and welcome the relationships I have and the ones I will have as a result. I'll let let you know how it turns out for me as it keeps turning out.
_Are we writing people's history in a way that supports a people's future?

For the past two years a friend of mine has been playfully pushing me to write a little book on Mother's Day. His interest is in the pacifist roots of the holiday in the United States, dating back to Julia Ward Howe's Mothers Day Proclamation of 1870: "Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause/ Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn/All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience..." 

Howe is curiously not mentioned as an intellectual founder of Mother's Day in some places where she should be, such as in the on-line Britannica profile for the holiday, though her work in this role is not exactly unknown. This fits the pattern of popular forgetfulness of popular movements that Howard Zinn highlighted for us in 1980 with A People's History of the United States and cultural workers like Pete Seeger have fought against for the better part of the last and this century. My friend thinks, like many of my friends and I, that knowledge of our radical history will awaken within us, today, some desire for the embrace of a better heritage than the elite one in our history books -- that our muddled thinking will be cleared -- that we will rise up in a powerful, revolutionary love through stories, repeated, like a meditation. 

As a former teenage mother, as a mother who has faced poverty, as a mother who is also an activist and an organizer, he thinks also that I should be less shy about my writing and carry Howe's message about powerfully subversive motherhood to, as we say, "the people," as a representative of such. Sneak up on them, though: maybe in the form of a cute little book, not much more than a card really, with violets and roses on the front, sold for $5 at a checkout counter where "the people" thought they might just pick up a few flowers in their day of consumer obligation, in their appreciation for their mother's incontinence and tense nerves. Even assuming I was able to do such a thing -- find a publisher, much less research and write the tiny book -- I have been reluctant. He's so right, as he often is. I am indeed shy. But, I think it's more than just that.
I often don't know what I am feeling until I write about it so I often talk to myself about myself in diary format, and in this way, I have talked to myself about my friend's idea. I love a good graveyard, I say. Bones and stones rattle and speak through me like a radio station picked up by the tooth fillings in my head. My best stories are death stories and ghost stories, where life ends its reality for one and becomes fair fantasy for the rest of us. When I was a teenager my crushes were on long dead movie stars and the men of non-fiction. Most infamously, when I was 12, I was completely in-love with Peter the Great.

And, boy, do I now enjoy radical people's history. I enjoy hearing it, reading it, making sense of it as a form of cultural explanation and as metaphor. I see the heroes of people's history as intellectual, cultural ancestors of mine. I share the stories with my teenage son who shares it with his friends. Those who came before us are hungry to be heard and we are hungry to hear. Jesus spoke in parable two thousand years ago and still many of us are familiar with at least some of His stories: the master and the servant, the good Samaritan. In the American Left, in our people's history, more commonly than we talk about Mother's Day, or Jesus for that matter, we still talk of Bread and Roses, the slogan of the 1912 textile worker's strike in Lawrence, Massachusetts, where the women sang:

As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men,
For they are women's children, and we mother them again.
Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;
Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses!

I eat this stuff up. I do. But is it instructional on its own? Why do we repeat this story, this poem, and more like it really? I'm not suggesting we should not. But, what is our motivation? Why don't I want to tell this people's story about Mother's Day in a little book, even assuming, self-importantly, I could, and leave it alone?

I like the Mother's Day Proclamation, just like I like the Bread and Roses poem. But like many good words, I recognize, as I write this, that repeating them on their own doesn't make them understood enough to derive a coherent lesson or change behavior. I think, to be understood, the people in them have to be struggled with as representatives from our own inner lives, which is what they are, as our ancestors. We must be willing to fully struggle with our culture, and not just mainstream culture, but our closest, most intimate cultures inside it.

I suspect I like Howe's Proclamation because it makes me feel good. I'm being a good mother, according to my interpretation of its words, and these are the words of what I recognize is a woman whom I respect. She is fully of my culture, the culture of the American Left. As I read it, I appreciate myself, my cultural history, a little bit better, because in a way, Howe is a mother to me, to us. One, if I were of normal interests, I might know better than the mothers I am genetically descended from in her generation. I have been teaching my two sons all that she calls upon me to teach in her Mother's Day manifesto, I'd like to feel, and up until recently I had never even read it. 

I think though, as I introspect, that Howe may have been conveniently misguided in her thinking that women, in general, teach sons "charity, mercy and patience" -- traits then somehow "unlearned" -- and that moral evil is an inherently masculine capacity for which women are uniquely responsible for working their sexual or motherly magic against. And like our mother, we might too be misguided.

Let me now explain to those who are innocent that Howe is also the author of The Battle Hymn of the Republic, which became the powerfully moral soundtrack to the American Civil War, a military action in the United States that both lifted the legal institution of slavery without meaningful reparations being made to its thousands upon thousands of Black victims, men, women, and children -- leaving the barbaric institution's survivors and descendants traumatized and still, institutionally, unequal citizens to this day -- and, as for the Whites, it left the large rural under-class traumatized -- violently traumatized and perhaps a little crazy -- for generations. The elite of the South, the criminal class that was rightly targeted in Howe's words, was actually the minority of the South's population. If you want to understand why the American South has such peculiarly self-defeating popular politics, the popular wisdom is study slavery, the Civil War and Reconstruction. 

Howe saw the devastation and her politics clearly changed as a result. She became a pacifist just a few years after supporting a war. And while she may have admitted to friends in private correspondence the change, and to some degree her own responsibility as a writer, not simply another mother, for its horrors, it is the Mother's Day Proclamation that is her public writing, and in it, she shares nothing of that. This is our people's history. 

The Mother's Day Proclamation seems to me interesting primarily as a study in how one can make the mistake of eschewing appropriate personal and communal responsibility in order to pursue a more virginal image, and an impossible responsibility, than anyone deserves or can shoulder, and do so very surreptitiously. It reminds me, really, of an aspect of modern American "progressivism," where we blame evil people (like George Bush) for doing evil things (like bombing Afghanistan and Iraq) and feel like, because we say the right words (like peace and solidarity), or even, in some cases, truly suffer in our efforts, we are among the virtuous (while we continue to bomb Afghanistan and Iraq).  

How can we begin to explain, if we are serious people, serious about justice, the constant murder of civilians all over the world in what so many of us have accepted is a series of wars about dominance? And, even without war, the abuse of workers? Poverty? Are we really so weak that we can't do better? We can see the consequences of an incomplete fight for justice -- a justice most human beings on the Earth say we want, and I believe we do, I think. Is it simply that our mothers did not read Howe's Proclamation and words like it? Is that the problem? Somehow, I think this is doubtful. 

But it is in the example of their profound complication, her complication, our complication and my complication that I can learn anything, or share anything. It's never enough, I think, to just recall the facts. We must struggle with them in our deepest selves.  And we must do so fully with each other.

Are we doing this when we share our culture's stories, our "people's history"? I don't know that we are. And this troubles me.

_It was pointed out to me recently by my friend Zein, who, as "writing coach" is helping me to find the umph I've been missing to write like I would like to while living the way I would like to (which I'm sure, one day, I will), that there are an awful lot of people in the current American economy who have begun freelancing. These formerly middle-class people, without healthcare, without a nice office to go to every day, have skills and time on their hands and are perhaps noticing how nice it is to have time on their hands, if indeed their basic physical needs are still being met through the work they create. This may be dubious, I know. I know all too well. These people, though, thought Zein and I, might very well be in a state of mind where they can participate in the world of children, in the moral instruction of children.

I know that the meeting one's basic physical needs and leading a wholesome life in our culture is dubious, however, because this is kind of what I am trying to do, and if it were not for the kind support of my ex-husband, I would not be doing. And I am intentionally unemployed. Let me tell you about the book I'm trying to write and publish. It's a child's journal of development, designed to both document the future conscientious objector status of a young child and create learning opportunities, through the use of thought questions and lesson suggestions, in the development of pacifism. My teenage son is the illustrator. 

The big idea I have is really in the giving of the book. The book is meant to be a gift from a concerned adult. Since "god parent" is a relationship in decline -- even if one has a god parent they don't actually help to raise you and support your spiritual or moral development -- this book is meant to be a tool in, not only the effective moral instruction and protection of children, but in the establishment of an adult/child friendship that works to be benefit of everyone involved. It is a tool for the re-establishment of the "the village."

Here's my puzzle. And because of John, my dear former husband and baby daddy, the puzzle does not yet quite involve money for survival (though if I ever want to have any savings and not be in serious debt, it does now): the puzzle is how in the hell do I live the way I want, being available to my children, my friends, to life and to joy, and focus the way I must to write a book? I keep coming back to involving more people in the production of the book. That must be the answer. I don't know how to do that, however.  

People don't just come out of the woodwork. What do I ask for? What if what I ask for isn't given? Should I ask for money (ala kickstarter) to pay for services I need to make myself available -- a housekeeper, some childcare every so often, an editor, some recreation, some restaurants, supplies...the list could go one and on. Things that we don't share the responsibility for in our world, yet I need the sharing of in order to share myself at all, in person or in the writing of this book.  And if I ask for money, do I only ask for money, or do I ask for specific help too, and who and how do I ask? How do I know what is possible? What does cooperation mean, really? Does it mean my being available but not getting my own needs met? Can't be. I'm not just a nice lady. I want solidarity. Where do we start when the vision of solidarity requires, perhaps, not having it in the moment? Is it a matter of social skills, as I have long thought? And if I am awkward, which I am, having been only partially parented myself, what then?

What say you? This making a living and being in the world is hard stuff.

_I took my family out to a restaurant for dinner the other day. There was a television. Silence of the Lambs started up. I told the waitress, who was Vietnamese, "you may not know this, but this is a movie about a man who eats people." She looked puzzled and asked if I wanted then to change the channel. Yes, I did. The restaurant was buzzing, it was packed.

The next thing we watched was CNN. Pictures of dead people, pieces of people, dead children, covered in bruises and wounds from torture, in Syria. Everyone kept eating and chatting and glancing at the news cheerfully. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, I can't eat and watch people being hurt." Did I want to change the channel? The wait staff looked confused and a little annoyed. John said, "There are dead people on TV." New channel.

It was the weather. Some show about tornadoes ripping up people's homes and leaving them shattered and lost.

The clink of glasses, spoons and bowls, a beautiful Fall evening with my glowing family, these children I love, to the tune of a screaming world, out there somewhere, background noise or entertainment, coming closer.

Silence of the lambs indeed.
_What is the "propinquity" with which I am so obsessed? It was first the idea that the people over which we have the most influence are the people who know us best. Parents have enormous influence over children, for instance. Children, in my experience, also have enormous influence over parents. I was, in fact, radicalized, by the birth and circumstances around the birth, of my first son, when I was a very young woman. My love for him taught me, a child who still existed in a Victorian romantic fantasy, to look at the animal world. The real world in which even Dickens was wasted and soiled. Our poverty was physical and so was my neighbors. It was my love for him that led me to understand what we were doing to children all over the world. It's a story I tell all the time.

I wanted activists to use their influence over those who love them. Our friends and families. I was offended by, among other things, campaigns in which organizers were "parachuted" in, in "blitzes," where one goes in like a soldier, like a navy seal with a clipboard, and a rating system in which the people one meets are assigned a number based on their agreement with the leadership of the organization and their ability to convince others to agree as well, their own leadership potential in combination with their loyalty to "the message." I was offended by having an assigned "turf," like some street dog, in which I rated others and my job was to never deviate from the recorded message. And certainly to never have real, organic relationships with those I worked with, or for, or with what seemed to me the subjects of our organizing, something like the subjects of an experiment in a mad scientist's lab. It never felt like justice. And I couldn't be convinced that even winning the goals of an organization's leadership, even though they may be sound goals in and of themselves, was truly a win in the context of the culture this kind of organizing created. It felt like fracking for freedom. I was never sure this was possible. Freedom and justice and love and solidarity can't be dug for like natural gas. These are not physical resources. They are spiritual.

Can you do cultural violence and in the end have the kind of community competence necessary to keep on winning, winning something more than a 10 cent pay-raise, or a new bus, or whatever resource that community needed in that moment? It always seemed that the resource we most needed were social skills, the kind that put us in touch with each other, our best renewable resource, with which, if you are a believer in organizing in the first place, are the way we can move mountains. We are our own golden egg laying hen. When we frack for freedom, do we kill the hen?