Jan. 31: "Media Coverage of US-Iran Relations"

A forum at the University of Washington, Kane Hall. (Click the headline for details.)

Playfield at T.T. Minor

Four friends, women and men
run football drills on the muddy field.
Quarterback looks to the runner
who fakes left, breaks right.
The pass flies a rifled line
straight to her, ‘til she’s tripped up
and tackled by the cornerback,
who slobbers, ears and jaws flapping:
a joyful three-legged dog.

Dear sir,

I didn’t catch you name, as the rain was falling hard
and the heater fan was blowing. I shook your hand,
admired your smile, the glint in your old blue eyes.
I was glad to point out to you the skyline,
honored to pronounce a name you had never heard:
Duwamish. Welcome to Seattle, sir, from Arizona,
whence you came by the will of God, so you said.

You charmed us with your gift of gab, your snow-white hair,
the knowing wink that came along with jokes,
your shiny sateen jacket
from another generation. You start a conversation,
compliment the young banker and his comfy running shoes,
well-deserved, having stood all day in loafers. Your words
were sparks, striking up smiles between strangers,
we who normally ride in silence.

I’m very sorry, sir. Usually I do not yell,
I do not swear at elders.

I began to wonder
when you said calcium was bad for women’s bodies,
that it killed them, but I didn’t blame you.
Each report about our health
is bought and paid for.

The bus arc’d around onto 99
and I felt the conversation turn. Did I hear you right?
That America has prisons prepped
for all the Muslims? I wouldn’t put it past this cowboy in chief,
but I think that’s a little much.

The al-Qaeda, they’re out to get us, just like that September,
only next they’ll go for Arizona, Boston, and every other town.
They’re all around us.

No sir, I tried to say, but I couldn’t get a word in.
It’s all in their religion, you said.
And that’s when something broke.

I’m sorry sir, you’re mistaken.
Al-Qaeda’s just a fraction,
the very smallest portion
of a peaceful people.

No, they’re killers, you said, it’s because of their religion.

How many Muslims do you know?
You only dodged the question.

You, sir. You are al-Qaeda.
You are not like them,
but one and the same, those who only speak of threat,
of danger. You fear your neighbors
but never meet them. You fan the flames
that fuel the tanks. You throw stones
that pave the road to empire. You do not plant,
but only cut the branches
of olive and of laurel. You feed them to the fire
that may broil us all.

Skagit river revising

I use this blog, in part, to let new poem drafts breathe a little, and later I go back and revise them online. I recently revised "Skagit River rising" enough I think it deserves a fresh posting.

Waters swell, silence
rapids underneath,
spread beyond the banks,
turning grassy paths into marsh, indistinct,
erasing boundary between the river and the land.
Eddies churn in circles
and crows watch the eagles skeptically.

Warnings buzz around our heads—
the list of tasks, reminders shouted from room to room,
radio waves and newsprint chattering predictions:
The river will overspill.

The woodpile by the barn, we tie it down
to stop the river lifting it, piece by piece,
to carry out to sea.
We move furniture and handtools
to higher ground, beyond floodwaters’ reach,
and stop to make a pact
with neighbors: our hands
are theirs.

Mount Sauk – its snowfall feeds the river –
lurks invisible behind the house,
behind the clouds we breathe.
Sadie barks. The air is cold and still.

Then the first fat drops
start a clatter on the corrugated roof,
falling heavy on our heads.

As waters gather,
mice abandon burrows, squealing
into open jaws of field and sky,
and the sky begins to sing
its ancient lovesong to the river.

Burroughs Peak

August in Seattle.
“Chance of showers”
turns to dismal drizzle.
Some summer, this.
I’d rather curse the darkness than light a damn candle
so I rev the engine,
head for the mountain in the clouds.

Driving the lonesome road,
living an ad for Rai-
nier
Beer.
I wish Amanda were here.

Past the tollbooth, the winding curves
to the parking lot at the end of the road.

Boots crunch on gravel.
Cool air, matterhorn peaks.
So steep, treetops nearly kiss the slope.
From the water bottle a breath escapes.

I climb and climb,
find little lakes
hear marmot squeaks
stop to sample pine needle scents.
Fingers sticky from a snack.
Chipmunks nibble and scamper.

Boot steps fall to the rhythm
of syncopated strings–
a Turkish diva sings
pop songs in my head.
And I haven’t broken a sweat yet,
stopping so damn much to scribble!
But I came here to get away.
Keep going,
keep breathing.

Path rises into tundra,
steeper now, and narrow.
Water droplets on my cheek
but it’s not rain –
it’s a cloud
carressing the ridge,
the mountain's skin and my own.

Two fingers on my jugular vein
feel the blood course;
red and orange flowers
burst among fragile grasses,
give way to wet black stone
adorned with green lichens’ glow.

Nothing now, but breathing shrouds,
the narrow path, and stones,
all else disappears at a short distance
‘til the sky throws down
a shaft of sun,
falling on the Emmons Glacier
rolling off the shoulders
of these hulking wonders.

Is that rushing sound
the wind
or the river?

I wonder.

At the stony peak
I find the answer.

What I did for the holidays

Leapt down the coast in jetplanes
to a young lover in Oakland
who kept her socks on.

Leapt out of her bed
before dawn, over Los Angeles,
muscles moving with love, blood-deep
and dread of my father's bitter rancor.

Over dinner of crablegs
and sunset, he hands me bricks
one by one, complaints
and ancient grudges
to build a cozy fortress
around us.

I set them aside,
climb down the bluffs.
The tide is low and the moon
is full. I leap from rock
to rock, over tidepools

to touch mottled starfish arms,
run through tresses of ocean grass
with my fingertips, kissed
by the thousand numbing lips
of anemone
folding inward.

the Gringo-thon

A friend just turned me on to this short movie, Gringotón (Gringo-thon), both an amusing spoof on Mexicans' and Americans' perceptions of each other and a biting critique of U.S. militarism. Check it out, if you are amused by the idea of a gringo washing windshields and selling chewing gum in Mexico City to raise money for an armed insurrection against Bush ...

FedUp with FedEx

FedEx is aggressively violating its employees' rights to form a union, firing and harassing those who support the idea. Please click the box above to send FedEx a message, and pledge not to use FedEx services this holiday season. (Both UPS and US Postal Service employees have union contracts and are companies more deserving of your business.)

Happy November 30!

Today (well, yesterday) is the eighth anniversary of the day we shut down the World Trade Organization.

Saturday, Dec. 1 at the Seattle Labor Temple, Community Alliance for Global Justice is hosting a celebration of that victory and discussions about the current state of global economics and social movements. There will be two great DJ's and a party past midnight. Check out www.seattleglobaljustice.org.

The postcard above announces a people's history project about the WTO protests, which will soon go live online at www.realbattleinseattle.org. Check it out.

Public Opinion Favors Teachers in WA Disciplined for Alleged Involvement in a Student Anti-War Walk-Out

A Free Speech Radio News Segment by Jill Freidberg

My journey to Fort Benning, Georgia. Part one.

Earlier this month I volunteered as a Spanish interpreter at the annual vigil to close the School of the Americas, at Fort Benning, Georgia. The SOA, officially renamed the Western Hempisphere Institute for Security Cooperation, is an American military academy known to have trained many Latin American dictators, officers and soldiers responsible for massacres, torture, assassination, and other forms of "dirty warfare." Each November, a vigil outside the gates of Ft. Bennning marks the 1989 assassination of six American priests in El Salvador, their housekeeper, and her 14-year-old daughter. The vigil, started by Father Roy Bourgeois and a handful of others in 1990, has grown exponentially, to include 25,000 participants this year.

***

In every airport – Seattle, St. Louis, Dallas, Atlanta – soldiers walk alone, dressed in desert fatigues and carrying rucksacks. I happen to sit next to one on the flight from St. Louis to Atlanta, dressed in civilian clothes. He’s a member of the National Guard, and spent two years in Iraq, securing a section of Baghdad’s Green Zone, right at its edge. He shows me photos of himself and his buddies in sniper position atop high-rises, and posing with Hillary Clinton, John Kerry, and other bigwigs. Other photos are of car bomb scenes. Iraqis are such a resilient people, he tells me, that once the debris is removed, people go back to their regular business. “If a car bomb exploded in Westlake Plaza, no one would come back for a long time.”

In another photo, a man stands in a jail cell, his hands on the bars, his eyes looking into the camera. His graying hair and beard are getting long, but he looks well kept, and has a warm smile, despite everything. He looks to me like an uncle I haven’t met. The caption reads simply reads “Card_Guy,” meaning he is one of the men most wanted by the U.S., whose pictures were distributed to soldiers as decks of playing cards. I wonder who he is, what Bush & Co. say he did, and how much of that is true. Then my seatmate closes his laptop and says it’s the end of the show, that I wouldn’t want to see the photos lower down the list, of people with their heads blown off. "Of U.S. soldiers?" I ask. "God no," he says, incredulous. "I would never take photos like that."

I ask where he’s going. “To Benning, to see my little brother graduate from basic training.” I tell him I’m headed to Fort Benning, too. He asks about the white arm band I’m wearing. I explain it has written the name and age of someone killed by a graduate of the School of the Americas. He looks confused a moment and then his face changes, hardens a little, but we keep talking. I explain to him about the SOA, the training manuals leaked to the media detailing lessons in counter-insurgency: torture, assassination of civilians, targeting priests, students, union members. “War is a very nasty business,” he says, “by definition.” He doesn’t explicity condone such tactics, but he doesn’t condemn them either.

Two years in Iraq marked him. When he returned to his family, his eight year old daughter always wanted to be with him, to hang her arms around him, to sit on his lap. He asked his wife to keep her away from him. About the same time, the nightmares began and he began drinking heavily. “Luckily I caught myself before it got too bad, went and got some help from the V.A.” Later he starts to rant a bit about politicians, saying taxes are too high, and that if people need drug treatment or the like, they should pay for it themselves.

I am thankful this man chooses to speak so openly with me about his own experiences despite our political differences; he says he feels the same. When we transfer to the 30-seat plane that takes us from St. Louis to Atlanta, I hear him share a few words with a young female soldier already buckled in, her hands gripping the armrests, staring at the seat in front of her. “You coming or going?” he asks. I don’t hear her reply, but he pats her on the shoulder and says, “You take good care, now.”

***

At the Denny’s on Macon Road, in Columbus, Georgia, a group of peacenik Spanish interpreters gathers to discuss how we are going to tackle the weekend of workshops and rally speeches. At the two nearest tables sit military families. At each one, a young man wears fatigues and sits next to his girlfriend, along with parents and siblings, eating burgers and salads and sandwiches. One of the soldiers looks barely 18 years old. He sips a chocolate milkshake and the waitress calls him “sweetie.” Both families are quiet in their celebrations.

***

We are definitely in a Southern military town. Almost every block and shopping center along the broad suburban avenues has a military surplus store, a tattoo parlor, a strip club, or all of the above. Even the Cannon Brewpub, a hip hangout spot in the polished Uptown district, displays Dixie flags among its eclectic décor. I am constantly reminded I am a stranger here by people’s rich Southern accents. To my ears, some sound tinny and nasal, but most voices like cornbread dipped in honey-butter.

***

The interpreter team is about half people who I worked with last year, half new to me. There’s the Nicaraguan man whose humor sometimes has a bite. The DC tenant organizer, young and sharp. Her housemate, a silver-haired Colombian woman who is as warm as a winter wool blanket. Her friend, a former nun, all smiles. Both work for a community clinic in the DC area. Then there’s the gringo who married a Puerto Rican and speaks fantastic Spanish, often quoting literature and off-color jokes, and the fabulous, funny gay Mexican-American man from the historic Highlander School. We all quickly establish a good rapport. It’s easy to do, because we have a lot in common. Everyone is charming and ready to work hard all weekend.

***

For the second year running, I celebrate my birthday the night before the Vigil, the centerpiece of the weekend gathering. We take turns buying round of drinks, but mostly I drink for free. I never knew that shots of Patrón Silver tequila went down so smoothly. I have quite a few of those. Later the gay man and the young woman from DC and I go another bar and and the conversation goes deeper, on topics personal and political. We sip Mexican beer, dance to Michael Jackson songs, and improvise our own karaoke to “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

***

At the end of the weekend, the interpreter who is a former nun gives me a handful of “goals for 2008” on colored construction paper, the size of raffle tickets. Each has a calligraphied message in Spanish, such as:

To strengthen my sense of humor, since Satan fell to Hell for being annoying!

Spread the Word: We need more extremists: extremists of love (-Martin Luther King).

To be the loyal memory of those who gave their lives for their people.

School of the Americas vigil, 2007

I returned late last night from Columbus, Georgia, where for the second time I attended the annual vigil to close the School of the Americas. I hope to post some thoughts about the experience, and in the meantime recommend reading a summary of this very powerful event at soaw.org, and viewing a photo slideshow at soaw.org/article.php?id=1617.

Want to read about my big project? Click here.

For the last few years, I've been researching the roots of the Free Company of Catalonian Volunteers, a unit of the Spanish army in the 1700's that was instrumental in the colonization of what we now call California. I've been cooking up a plan to write a historical novel about them and the Chumash peoples they encountered in the land where I grew up, illustrating the human costs of imperial conquest. This week I updated and revised a description of the project to share with foundations, colleagues and friends, and I have just posted it online. I call the project "At the Edge of Empire."

[Update Jan. 2011: This project evolved into a master's thesis, now completed and online at http://losmigueletes.blogspot.com.]

Poetry on Buses Launch Party & Reading

In my father's country

voices rise and fall like gentle waves
on this slender neck of sea,
a melody I’ve always known

like the features I see in faces
crinkled eyes smiling, noses proud,
echoing my aunties, my cousins, my own

But on the streets, the bootblacks,
schoolgirls in uniform, stubbly fishermen on the bridge
ask Nerelisiniz? Where are you from?

And in that moment
my tongue becomes a fish
flopping on the ground



rev. Oct. 23

2007 election thoughts.

I'm posting here an email I received from Curt Firestone, who, joined by other seasoned local activists I respect, provides suggestions about how to vote in the upcoming elections for Seattle, King County, and Washington State. Regarding the issues below that I know something about, I agree with their positions. Some of them I know very little about, but I generally trust these folks' judgment.

---

Dear friends,

Here is my list of how I am going to vote. It is a little different this time. First, it is signed jointly by Phil Bereano, Cindy Domingo, Dan Merkle and myself. Second, after much discussion, we have decided to make no suggestions regarding any candidate elections this year. Each of you has been following the candidate campaigns and I am sure that you will use your best judgment.

I hope that you find the following guide helpful.

*I-960 No. ( makes it more difficult to properly set taxes)

*Ref 67 Yes. (Makes insurance firms more accountable)

*SJR 8206 No. (Removes some budgetary flexibility from the legislature)

*SJR 8212 No. (Brings private industry into our prison system--we are not Louisiana)

*HJR 4204 Yes. (Makes school tax levy passage by simple majority instead of 2/3)

*HJR 4215 No. (why would we want to gamble with our education funds in the stock market?)

*KC Initiative 25 No. (Election of Elections Director. This position should be based on professional credentials not on political opportunity)

*KC Prop 1 Yes. (Keep those ambulances running)

*Transportation Prop 1 No. (Roads- no; Mass transit- Yes. Why be bought off to increase global warming; Sound Transit will be back to the ballot with a mass transit measure).

*Seattle 17 Yes. (A nice charter preamble written by Peter Steinbrueck)

*Seattle 18 yes. ( Support Nick Licata in requiring the Mayor to make the State of Seattle presentation February of each year)

Happy voting,
Curt Firestone, Cindy Domingo, Phil Bereano, Dan Merkle

Un Poquito de Tanta Verdad / A Little Bit of So Much Truth

As mentioned earlier on this blog, a great new documentary has been released by Jill Freidberg/Corrugated Films, and it premieres in Seattle this week, Oct. 3 & 4, at Central Cinema. Shows are at 7 and 9:30, but arrive early -- the last time she premiered a movie there, all four shows sold out.

The Sweet Arab, the Generous Arab

Here's the original poem by Naomi Shihab Nye whose Spanish translation I posted the other day. I hope she doesn't mind that I'm putting her poem online. If you like it, please go buy a book of hers, such as You and Yours, from which this is taken.

The Sweet Arab, the Generous Arab
by Naomi Shihab Nye

Since no one else is mentioning you enough.

The Arab who extends his hand.
The Arab who will not let you pass
his tiny shop without a welcoming word.
The refugee inviting us in for a Coke.
Clean glasses on a table in a ramshackle hut.
Those who don't drink Coke would drink it now.
We drink from the silver flask of hospitality.
We drink and you bow your head.

Please forgive everyone who has not honored your name.

You who would not kill a mouse, a bird.
Who feels sad sometimes even cracking an egg.
Who places two stones on top of one another
for a monument. Who packed the pieces,
carried them to a new corner. For whom the words
rubble and blast are constants. Who never wanted
those words. To be able to say,
this is a day and I live in it safely,
with those I love, was all. Who has been hurt
but never hurt in return. Fathers and grandmothers,
uncles, the little lost cousin who wanted only
to see a Ferris wheel in his lifetime, ride it
high into the air. And all the gaping days
they bought no tickets
for spinning them around.

Bolivia’s Evo Morales Wins Hearts and Minds in US

an article by by Deborah James and Medea Benjamin

El gentil árabe, el generoso árabe

Porque en estos días nadie te menciona.

El árabe que extiende la mano.
El árabe que no deja a uno pasar
por su tiendita sin una palabra de bienvenida.
El refugiado que nos invita a una Coca-cola.
Los vasos limpios sobre la mesa, en una choza destartalada.
Los que no toman Coca-cola, hoy la tomarán.
Bebemos del ánfora plateada de la hospitalidad.
Bebemos mientras tú inclinas la cabeza.

Por favor, perdona a los que pronuncian tu nombre sin respeto.

Tú, que no matarías a un ratón ni un pájaro.
Quien se siente triste a veces sólo al partir un huevo.
Quien hace un monumento de una piedra
encima de otra. Quien guardó los pedazos
y los llevó a un nuevo rincón.
Para quien las palabras explosión y escombro
son constantes. Quien nunca deseaba
esas palabras. Sino poder decir,
hoy es un día y lo vivo con calma
entre mis queridos. Eso era todo.
Quien ha sido lastimado
pero en cambio no lastimó a nadie.
Padres y abuelas,
tíos, primito perdido que sólo querías ver
una noria, subir a lo alto de los cielos
una vez en la vida. Y todos esos días desgarrados
en los que no hubo boletos
para girar en ellos.





By Naomi Shihab Nye, from You and Yours, BOA Editions Ltd., 2005.
Translated by Jeremy Orhan Simer and Norma Angélica Ortega
revised December 9, 2007

"Greenbridge" in Real Change

A friend tells me she saw my poem "Greenbridge" in this week's issue of Real Change. Unfortunately, they don't post their poetry section on their website, but if you're in the Seattle area, you can pick up a copy this week, and anyway, the poem is posted on this blog.

Speaking of "Greenbridge," stay tuned for a photo project I am slowly, slowly working on to accompany it: a sort of stop-action animation of a building's construction, in the White Center housing project by the same name.

Vis-a-Vis Society: the Movie

hidden truths.

Looking online, I misspelled a poet’s name, searching for Ted Kooser.
My computer asked me, Were you trying to search for Tend Boozer?

Fun ways to help Heather do her research.

A message from my friend Heather Day, acting director of Community Alliance for Global Justice:

YOU ARE INVITED to TWO BENEFITS FOR MY RESEARCH OF ALTERNATIVES TO WATER PRIVATIZATION:

<<< please forward/tell your friends! >>>

Thursday Sept 27: Screening of "Thirst" documentary at Agua Verde Cafe: 7-9pm, $10 donation (pay at the door)

Agua Verde food & drinks available! At 7 I will do a short presentation of my
research for Other Worlds, about the many inspiring examples of vital, public water systems around the world, as well as resistance to privatization, that I have been learning about. We will show the excellent documentary, Thirst, from 7:30 - 8:30.

Sunday Sept 30: Guided Moon-light Paddle of Seattle's waterways from Agua Verde: 7-9pm, $40 minimum donation

Reservation required for historical kayak tour: contact Travis English at 545.8570, extension 23 (see more info about tours: http://www.aguaverde.com/kayak.htm)

As many of you already know, I am currently researching successfully run public water utilities around the world for Other Worlds, a project documenting successful alternatives to neoliberalism (please see more info below). The purpose of this research is to demonstrate that privatization of water is not necessary or desirable. These events are fundraisers to help pay for travel to Asia this Fall to document the public water utility in Penang, Malaysia. The funds will also be used to support the writing of a chapter for a book about multiple examples of vital parallel economies, tentatively titled Tomorrow, Hacienda Victoria: Globalization, Gender, and Just Economies.

Both events take place at Agua Verde Cafe & Paddle Club, 1303 NE Boat Street, in the U-district. Questions? call me! 206.724.2243 or email hrd99@igc.org. Let me know if you would like to donate to Other Worlds, but can't come to these benefits.

xoxoxo
heather

Un Poquito de Tanta Verdad

After an intense year of filming and editing, my friend Jill Freidberg (Corrugted Films) has completed her documentary on Association of Peoples of Oaxaca (APPO), which was born out of the schoolteachers' strike last year in Oaxaca state, Mexico, and blossomed into a powerful movement against the corrupt governor. "A Little Bit of So Much Truth" highlights the importance of grassroots media outlets to sustain and inform popular movements, such as when a group of women took over the state television, planning to challenge its steady stream of misinformation with a simple on-the-air statement, and ended up running the station for weeks.

The film has premiered in Oaxaca and Mexico City, and is coming soon to a grassroots screening near you, including October 4-5 in Seattle ...