Saturday, July 9, 2011

Education


Education

Today, Saturday (July 9), we went to the Africa institute of South Africa, and had a lecture by a doctoral candidate and researcher, Neo Lekgutla. His current research and political advocacy encouraged a shift in the educational curriculum to be more inclusive. He argued that the current South African curriculum, which has not changed even with the end of apartheid, continues to be very Eurocentric. He then proposes an “Africa-centered curriculum,” which “does not imply that students will learn only about African issues, but will learn about other cultures.” This, he argues, would provide a more realistic picture of the current South African diversity, instead of focusing on a European/White-centered curriculum.

As a Chicano/a Studies major, the issue of Eurocentric curriculums is close to me. I grew up learning about White people’s experience in the United States, and unless it was “Black History Month,” would we then learn (minimally) about the experiences of other important members of our national identity.

However, our curriculum is designed to compliment the Educational institution which is guided by a White Supremacist ideology. In order for power to remain unchallenged, people of color, queers, and womyn, should not be aware of their history. The history of both struggle and resistance. If marginalized communities knew of their historical legacy and potential, the status quo would not only be challenged but entirely defeated.

The lecturer however did not think that there should be a new curriculum developed. Rather, he suggested that the curriculum should  include African history as well as European/White history. This liberal/conformist perspective, however, does not challenge the status quo entirely. It merely provides a temporary solution to a larger problem, which I would argue is the lack of access to education for most poor people and communities of color (both in the United States and South Africa).

Black lesbian scholar/writer and activist, Audre Lorde, exclaimed “the masters tools will not dismantle the masters home.” Thus, while it is important to understand that the educational system needs fixing, and thus providing a more African-centric curriculum will empower a few students, the larger problem is with the institution itself. Perhaps, then, we must not find temporary band-aid like solutions to these problems, but find innovate answers that will ameliorate the entire problem all together. 

HIV and AIDS in South Africa


HIV and AIDS in South Africa

The issue of HIV/AIDS is a very personal to me. I have many friends who are currently diagnosed with AIDS/have the virus. I have attended funerals of dear people close to me who passed away due to complications with HIV/AIDS. No one will understand the gravity of HIV/AIDS until it has affected someone personally.

As a result of knowing close friends who contracted the virus, I became a Peer Health Educator through the AIDS Project Los Angeles (APLA) in High School. As Peer Health Educator, it was my role to provide exciting workshops that would attract “at-risk” youth and teach them about Sexually Transmitted Infections, fun and safe sex. As a queer Chicano living in Los Angeles county, I am at a huge risk of getting HIV. Young queer men of color have the highest risk of getting it. Though the numbers do look promising, it will never be enough until everyone knows their status and is protected.

Coming to South Africa, I have learned so much more about HIV/AIDS. It always seems interesting to me, that when we are discussing HIV/AIDS we are not talking about the queer community. Per my academic and also personal development, anything related to HIV/AIDS always involved the queer community. HIV/AIDS has become a national epidemic, and a world-wide pandemic. In this country, everyone is at risk.

Which is why there have been many efforts, campaigns, to raise awareness about healthy and safe sex, status awareness, and empowerment for those who are positive. After arriving from Dundee, we immediately had a seminar with two guest speakers who are working with different HIV/AIDS agencies.

The speaker that most students found interesting: because of his provocative comments and his high energy made some interesting points. This idea of working with private companies to help promote safe sex, while it may seem like an obviously good idea, I still find many reservations. The speaker’s job is to find “cool” ways to engage the youth in condom usage, and other precautions. But what is “cool” is relative, and in my personal opinions (and experiences) other people have MANY more things to worry than to find out what is cool and how to practice “cool” sex. Nonetheless, cool becomes a fad, which will ultimately dissolve. Therefore, finding “cool” avenues is a challenge because it does not solve the problem at the core, but rather find temporary ways of helping the country, but then having to repeat the “cool” cycle.

This is the second time I hear people talking about how capitalism (the private market/corporations) are going to help end the HIV/AIDS pandemic. But, it has been the capitalist culture that has caused such a huge number of HIV/AIDS. Poor people are not poor because they want to be poor. Rather, it is under a capitalist society that we have poor people. The rich need a class of people to exploit in order to be rich. Therefore, the poor people have had a history of no access to many important institutions: education, healthcare, etc. These are the institutions that they needed in order to be more cautious. However, they are now infected. And now, the same capitalist society is trying to come back and provide band-aid solutions to a larger problem. Since when has capitalism ever cared about the poor person? Perhaps now that capitalism feels guilty for what it has help create.






Love in South Africa


Love in South Africa

What should have been a five hour drive from Dundee to Pretoria has already turned into an 8 hour trip, and we’re still on the road. We have made two stops: the first for our lunch, and the second one to use the restroom at a gas station.
Fortunately, the program has contracted a fairly comfortable bus that ameliorates the otherwise irritating long ride.

We have seen two films, one required by the professors and another one requested by the group. I wish I could say what the latter of the films was, but I was either asleep or reading “Gay Latino Studies: A Critical Reader,” that will help me shape my Departmental Honors Thesis.

I wish I could take pictures of the beautiful South African sunset that has become my view out the window, but I broke my camera earlier this week. It’s a giant circle, a ball of yellow, orange, red colors slowly hiding in the mountains.

I am going to miss this sunset. But as this sun goes down in South Africa, it’s going up back at home in L.A. I can’t imagine the program is almost over. I have mixed feelings about this.

In a few days, I will be packing my bags once and for all. I will have to find creative ways of making sure that I can fit all the souvenirs in only one bag.

I will finally have access to all the tacos that I want. I’ll be able to return to my non-stop texting habit.  And I will never have to worry about whether or not I will have internet to check my facebook.

But this is going to be a difficult good-bye. I have fallen in love in South Africa. Although, my mom warned me about falling in love in a different country. I can honestly say that I have found something amazing.

No, I have not fallen in love with a man here (even though the possibility was very tempting). But I have fallen in love with this country. There is such a rich history that is often untold and unheard by many. There is a great amount of diversity, and with all that diversity a tremendous amount of love. Though the history often tells the story of oppression, of hatred between races, in the midst of this disenfranchising story lies the overlooked story of love.

It is love that kept the African National Congress fighting during the Apartheid Regime. If there was no love for freedom, peace, and for love humanity—there would be no resistance. So as I spend my last few days in South Africa, not only will I immerse myself in all the history, the resistance, but will take a particular interest in the way that love is displayed.

What really happened in Blood River?


What really happened in Blood River?

Yesterday, Tuesday July 5, we went to two different museums to get two different perspectives on the actual happenings of the Blood River battle between the Boers and the Zulu.

The first museum we went to was the one erected by the White Boers. I knew something was interesting when there were mostly pictures of old White men in their traditional uniforms, and when the museum representative introduced us to the movie by saying “just remember that all these people wanted was a place to farm.”

Immediately, I thought about the Manifest Destiny in the United States that led to the Mexican-American War, only because the Americans thoughts that they were destined to rule the land from one ocean to the next.

They showed us a documentary that tried to recap the historical happenings of the Blood River battle. Their perspective was justified and made seem the only accurate because of written primary documents. While those documents are valid, and should be considered in the construction of a historical account; one must not be so stuck in traditional methodologies of historical analysis just because “the other side” (the Zulu) did not have the “proper” tools to contribute to history. The Zulu did not have the same methods of retelling history, they relied on oral traditions to remember what once happened.

As a Chicana/o Studies major, we are constantly engaging in reconstructing history. History is written by the “victors,” suggesting that the history we know is often Euro and androcentric (written by white men) to justify their actions.

It is important than, to critically engage in the history that we are being taught. It is often claimed to be objective and unbiased. But the differences in the retelling of history tells us that historical accounts can and are contested. Which is an important facet of being in South Africa. We are learning about the history of Apartheid by visiting different places and speaking to different people. Everyone has their own opinion and perspective. They are all valid. Together we can construct a more holistic understanding of the world and the history.  

dundee, where?


Dundee, where?

We have finally fled the haunted house. I made it out alive without hearing any weird noises, without experiencing any paranormal activity. We have finally left St. Lucia, and there is only one regret that I have: not eating at Braza, the Brazilian restaurant more. I had the spicy chicken at Braza for our least meal, right before our barbeque, and I was amazed. I am not going to lie, I was getting tired of the food in St. Lucia, so when I finally had Braza, I felt like I did my stay in St. Lucia an injustice. However, this is just my “don’t mess with a Mexican’s food” attitude, specially since I have not had any spicy food in a long time.

However, the trip to Dundee was pretty smooth. One of our classmates put on a movie on the bus, to which I fell asleep to. The drive seemed short, but that was probably because I was asleep for most of it.

When we first got to Dundee, I was excited. It seemed like the inner-city of a large urban community. It seemed like a marriage between Brooklyn (New York) and Tijuana. There were street vendors, a lot of people walking down the street, and many retail shops.

We arrived late in afternoon/early evening. I was ecstatic to go and explore the streets of Dundee, home for the next two days/three nights.  But we were encouraged not to go out at night because of the high crime rate in the neighborhood.

My immediate reaction was, “I’m from the hood, I know how to handle this.” But of course, that was my peevish attitude. The community is different here.

The following day after arriving from our visits to the museums and battle sites, we had free time. I took the opportunity to go and explore the streets of Dundee while the sun was still out. Walking was so refreshing. Seeing so many people made me so happy. Walking was not as “scary” as they had made it seem. However, crossing the streets is a different story. It was a “every person on their own” type of deal because the drivers did not seem to care if you were crossing the street or not. I like Dundee. I like the city-feel, over small town St. Lucia. And it does not hurt that we are not staying in what seemed like a haunted house.










dundee, where?


Dundee, where?

We have finally fled the haunted house. I made it out alive without hearing any weird noises, without experiencing any paranormal activity. We have finally left St. Lucia, and there is only one regret that I have: not eating at Braza, the Brazilian restaurant more. I had the spicy chicken at Braza for our least meal, right before our barbeque, and I was amazed. I am not going to lie, I was getting tired of the food in St. Lucia, so when I finally had Braza, I felt like I did my stay in St. Lucia an injustice. However, this is just my “don’t mess with a Mexican’s food” attitude, specially since I have not had any spicy food in a long time.

However, the trip to Dundee was pretty smooth. One of our classmates put on a movie on the bus, to which I fell asleep to. The drive seemed short, but that was probably because I was asleep for most of it.

When we first got to Dundee, I was excited. It seemed like the inner-city of a large urban community. It seemed like a marriage between Brooklyn (New York) and Tijuana. There were street vendors, a lot of people walking down the street, and many retail shops.

We arrived late in afternoon/early evening. I was ecstatic to go and explore the streets of Dundee, home for the next two days/three nights.  But we were encouraged not to go out at night because of the high crime rate in the neighborhood.

My immediate reaction was, “I’m from the hood, I know how to handle this.” But of course, that was my peevish attitude. The community is different here.

The following day after arriving from our visits to the museums and battle sites, we had free time. I took the opportunity to go and explore the streets of Dundee while the sun was still out. Walking was so refreshing. Seeing so many people made me so happy. Walking was not as “scary” as they had made it seem. However, crossing the streets is a different story. It was a “every person on their own” type of deal because the drivers did not seem to care if you were crossing the street or not. I like Dundee. I like the city-feel, over small town St. Lucia. And it does not hurt that we are not staying in what seemed like a haunted house.










Battle of the Sexes


Battle of the Sexes

We all have a gender. The moment we are born, we are assigned a gender. Then, we perform our gender. Most of us suffice by abiding with the traditional gender roles, some of us decide to play with gender and perform against the gender binary system. Though this idea of gender as a performance is epitomized by Western queer and feminist theorists, most notably Judith Butler, we can apply this concept to the people we meet in South Africa. The Zulu people in Kuhla Village are no exception to performing gender. Their society, just like the one we live in, is a patriarchal culture. Meaning, men benefit systemically (and also personally) at the expense of others (women, queer bodied folks, transgendered, etc.)

We learn how to perform our culture from our families, our friends, our culture, the media, etc. We then begin to internalize the heteropatriarchal messages and subscribe them as the norm. Therefore, we begin to hear things such as: “soccer is solely for boys,” and “girls cannot play soccer.” The rhetoric behind the aforementioned statements is similar to comments we come to hear in the United States about the separation of the two genders (even ignoring the possibility of more genders).

Thus being a male in the United States awards me so many unasked for privileges, known as Male Privilege. Many feminist scholars, both male and female, have written intensively of male privilege as an invisible knapsack. Something we carry with us, without consciously knowing we have it. However, regardless of whether someone knows of their male privilege or not, it does not mean that it is not exercised. Even men of color in the United States, or third world men, regardless of their own systemic oppression because of their race or culture, still benefit from male privilege. Male privilege for men of color/third world men looks different than male privilege for White people, because gender and gendered experiences are racialized.

In a country with hardcore fans of soccer, the playing field becomes an important space where power dynamics are replayed. Though this power dynamic exists, they are ameliorated and assumed they do not exist. Thus, the soccer field – one of the few places were the children, can enjoy their situational freedom. The soccer provides an opportunity to not worry about ones social/political position. A game is just a game. A fun activity that allows a de-stresser and an avenue to forget about our problems. While true for many, it does not remove the possibility that the soccer game manifests a great amount of power. The game itself is representative of many of the political/social power dynamics that exist not only in our culture but also in others. Remember the 2nd Wave of Feminism montra: The personal is political. The soccer game is political.

The soccer game is a homosocial space. A space were men can interact with other men and perform their gender at its most exaggerated degree. Thus, any inclination of anything less than a “man,” I would assume, is reason for what I call in my own research, faggetry (taunting/bullying for performing less of his or gender identity, or performing the other gender). There are countless incidents in professional sports that prove the heteronormativity that often leads to homophobic rants. Thus, the soccer field is an important space worth looking at to explore gender.

But if only men are allowed to play soccer, what happens to those girls who wish to be physically active and engage in some type of sport activity. In many instances, there is a female league or a “girls only” team of soccer. But this was not the case during the Holiday Club, where we were volunteering for a week in Khula Village.

Per my academic knowledge of women of color feminism, specifically Chicana lesbian feminism, when the available avenues in a binary do not allow for flexibility of “gender fucking” or expressing gender differently, people (more notably females/womyn and queers), create a third space. The third space is free of constraints and one can and is encouraged to push all types of boundaries.

I felt while I was volunteering and playing with the kids during the Holiday Club that the females, specifically the “female leaders,” created their own space to play a physical sport. They created the dodgeball teams and played during the entire time. During the dodgeball games the young girls ruled the field. The girls did not allow any else run the show. But the girls also played differently. They allowed opportunity for the younger kids to also participate extensively. Even though the older girls were clearly the leaders of the game, they were able to facilitate and negotiate  with the younger kids. They gave the ball to the younger kids so they could throw it evenly. They debated civilly if there was ever any contention regarding anyone being out or not. Even the older boys who wished to play dodgeball (the ones that were not playing soccer), had to succumb to the girls’ rules. But their rules were, in my opinion, equal/egalitarian. They were simple: everyone has the right to play and follow the rules.

In a world controlled by mostly men, regardless of how “equal” we claim to be, patriarchy still exists. Now what would happen if women ruled the world? The dodgeball game provided a figment of what that world could look like. But we have not experienced what an egalitarian society would look like. Even though in theory many Western countries claim to be equal in gender, the fact is that sexual divisions still exist. In the United States, we can look at the underrepresentation of women in Congress. The legislative body of the South African government had an overwhelmingly representation of women, or so that is what it looked like when we went to Parliament. Both countries claim to be equal in so many ways, yet both societies remain to be patriarchal.

This blog post came about after one of our seminar/discussions that we had. Saturday (July 2) night, we gathered around the haunted house to talk about our experiences in Kuhla Village, specifically working with the kids/students via the Holiday Club.

 I left the conversation  with a great amount of mixed feelings. A part of me was happy that we addressed some gender issues, but mostly disappointed at the complacent tone the discussion was. Perhaps it was because it was late and the week was coming to an end so we were all very tired. Or perhaps, many of us are really complacent with how patriarchy controls everyones’ lives. It seemed to me that because we have had several “waves” of feminist movements in the United States’ history, that we must be at a much superior level of understanding what gender is and how it is represented in our every day actions.

The conversation began with one of the students addressing how there should be more programs geared towards men. “Men teaching men” sort of programs that currently exist in the United States, with the intention of ameliorating rape, violence, etc.The reason this came up was because some students felt that there were a lot of programs aimed towards the empowerment of the African womyn. But empowerment for all members of the community is necessary if we want to see the community became a self-sustaining and successful one.
The differences between gender in the Kuhla community began to linger in the conversation.

We can be critical of the cultural differences in the Zulu culture and community, but we should never pass judgment. Who are we to judge a different culture, when we ourselves have not been able to fully address our own heteropatriarchal culture and actions.  When we were volunteering during the Holiday Club we were often contributing to the seperation of genders. The men in our program were encouraging the men, and the women were often supporting the women. Granted, we are not here to educate the community about gender and begin a feminist movement. But what I am trying to say is that we must be conscious of when we engage in cultural deficit thinking, specially when we are talking about other cultures when we can’t even begin to point at our own culture and start addressings our own challenges. Gloria Anzaldua and Cherrie Moraga opened the anthology, “This Bridge Called My Back: Writings By Radical Women of Color” by stating so boldly, “the revolution begins at home.” 

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Karma


Karma

He is leading me on, the same way I lead him on. I don’t know if I have yet learned my lesson. But I am understanding that the feelings that are being displayed in South Africa, I am starting to realize, are a result of my leading someone else on. Therefore, I feel like I am being led on now, knowing that nothing is going to happen.

How did I come to this conclusion? Well, I am sitting in bed right now listening to all this “I love you” music that I recently uploaded to my itunes. As I was listening to the lyrics and kept thinking about specific people, I remembered that I got this music from someone who I am responsible for breaking his heart.

Now, I am not utterly heart broken. I think I am disappointed in myself for allowing my hopes to be unjustifiably high, when I should have known better. Its hard. You know? Sometimes these types of things just happen. And we should always be listening to the clues that people give us, but also to the cues that the Universe is sending us. There are some crazy explanations for some things, not all of course. Reasons we will never understand. But things we should allow to have an open mind to.

I miss being philosophical with love. But, I have been punishing myself for a long time. I think I need to start being bold and taking chances. Even when those chances seem too impossible. Be bold in your actions, Luis, and you will not be disappointing.

I keep thinking about my spontaneous trip to Cabo San Lucas last summer. It was mid-August, and I had to jump on the plane because my life was going ridiculously crazy. I could not handle it. I regret a lot of the things I did. Like call an hour before my scheduled departure and asked him if he wanted me to stay that I would. How pathetic I was. But like I have later realized, all these uncontrolled emotions are a result of some difficult places.

But enough about that, maybe I should write about how beautiful Cabo was, and how St. Lucia reminded me of Cabo in so many ways. Except how I could communicate well with most people in Cabo, I was able to eat all the tacos I wanted, and I had all the time in the world to do what I wanted. Anyways, now I am just venting because I have the power to do so.

Back to this Karma thing. Oh yeah, I have the power to do whatever I want with my life. Well not really, there are institutions that control the abilities and chances of folk, specially queer folk of color. I do have the power to resist and challenge those expectations, however. And I think I am doing a semi-successful job. I just need to use next year as an opportunity of not looking back and just going all out. It’s now or never!

Tired of Caca Talkers



Tired of Caca Talkers

Everyone is talking shit. It’s the last week of the program and everyone has gotten to know each other. Of course I have contributed to a lot of it, but I feel like other people have taken it to another extreme. Most people are self-interested, for a specific reason, and to some large extent those reasons are justifiable. But the cliques continue to talk about each other, everyone is venting about the program, and collectively—irritated at some of the logistics.

Either way, this was bound to happen when you put 30 people from the United States in one large trip to a different, unknown country. For me, this has been a different experience: forced to live with a bunch of students who come from more privileged backgrounds.

I am currently rooming with someone whose both parents are lawyers, and with someone else whose father has a Ph.D in Biochemistry. Many of the students come from comfortable backgrounds. It has not been a challenge trying to communicate with them, but rather I have had difficulties trying to connect with them. Most of them have noble intentions, a lot of them really care about the world—but they speak of their passions with such confidence and pompousness. To them, their life is so simple, yet they complicate things. Because they have had and still do have so many opportunities and options, they freak out when the answers are not so clear to them. But to me, it has been different. I have had to fight in order to have one or two doors open. To me, my life has been about one step at a time. I do not freak out about my future, because I have already come a long way of what I was expected to be at. I am taking one step at a time.

A lot of the things I hear at this place is peevish complains about the complications of what kind of life we are living in now. I feel like I am progressively retreating from the rhetoric behind and asserting a more self-realization dialogue with myself.

This program has definitely  helped me define who I am. Even though I am, by the government’s definition, middle-class. My upbringing has been that of a working class. My mom is a penny-pincher, and my dad never carried money with him. They taught me the value of hard work and finances. Sadly, I do not practice it. At least, not until now that I am in this place with people who did not grow up with similar economic situations, but those I (in my head) always aimed towards. 

Did they fuck?


Did they fuck?

Everyone is talking about it. Did they fuck? Why does it matter? Well let me break it down. After leaving Cape Town, one of the tour guides from the Team House has been accompanying us through the rest of our trip. While in St. Lucia, the cook/Zulu instructor and the tour guide got really, really close. They were always together: eating, walking late at night, at the bar, in her room.

Now, why does it matter? Well everyone seems to really admire the tour guide. He has been married for over twenty years, has two children (one in college, and one who just turned 17), and seems like a reasonable guy.

But, the sexual tension was evidently there. I felt the sexual tension. Then again, I seem to sexualize a lot of “non-sexual” feelings. I would argue though, that I am able to interpret sexuality differently than most people. However, I was not the only one who was able to asses the sexual tension that was being built between the tour guide and the Zulu instructor.

People are upset that he, such a fine man, would even do such a thing. I am not that concerned about that. I am mostly intrigued in the way that most people have also villainized the Zulu teacher. To what extent is his cheating on his wife, her fault? Even if she knew that the tour guide is married, do we deny her the ability to have sexual feelings and want to have sex with someone? Of course not. But is she at fault for acting on those feelings? Who are we, as outsiders, to pass judgment on her sexual desires?

When I was “cheated” on before, I always wanted to know who I was being cheated on with. But never took any particular interest in finding out much about that person. Any issue I am going to have with is, is the person in the relationship who is cheating. The one who helped in the cheating is simply the accomplice. But usually, the accomplice is as guilty as the actual villain.

I am all for fucking. I am all for honest fucking.

Thus, I am confident that something happened. I proposed a 99% chance of him masturbating to her, even if they didn’t physically fuck. If there was no vaginal intercourse, I also hinted of the possibility of her just giving him head, or maybe he ate her out till she came all over his mouth.

The sexual possibilities are boundless in my imagination. I will leave you all with two words, and perhaps the most visual and most exciting of my suggestions for what really happened: titty fucking. 

Dundee, where?


Dundee, where?

We have finally fled the haunted house. I made it out alive without hearing any weird noises, without experiencing any paranormal activity. We have finally left St. Lucia, and there is only one regret that I have: not eating at Braza, the Brazilian restaurant more. I had the spicy chicken at Braza for our least meal, right before our barbeque, and I was amazed. I am not going to lie, I was getting tired of the food in St. Lucia, so when I finally had Braza, I felt like I did my stay in St. Lucia an injustice. However, this is just my “don’t mess with a Mexican’s food” attitude, specially since I have not had any spicy food in a long time.

However, the trip to Dundee was pretty smooth. One of our classmates put on a movie on the bus, to which I fell asleep to. The drive seemed short, but that was probably because I was asleep for most of it.

When we first got to Dundee, I was excited. It seemed like the inner-city of a large urban community. It seemed like a marriage between Brooklyn (New York) and Tijuana. There were street vendors, a lot of people walking down the street, and many retail shops.

We arrived late in afternoon/early evening. I was ecstatic to go and explore the streets of Dundee, home for the next two days/three nights.  But we were encouraged not to go out at night because of the high crime rate in the neighborhood.

My immediate reaction was, “I’m from the hood, I know how to handle this.” But of course, that was my peevish attitude. The community is different here.

The following day after arriving from our visits to the museums and battle sites, we had free time. I took the opportunity to go and explore the streets of Dundee while the sun was still out. Walking was so refreshing. Seeing so many people made me so happy. Walking was not as “scary” as they had made it seem. However, crossing the streets is a different story. It was a “every person on their own” type of deal because the drivers did not seem to care if you were crossing the street or not. I like Dundee. I like the city-feel, over small town St. Lucia. And it does not hurt that we are not staying in what seemed like a haunted house. 

Do they love themselves?


Do they love themselves?

Empowerment beings with the self. We can’t simply empower a community. In fact, we shouldn’t. it is not my job, as an outsider, to come into a community of which I am not a part of or know fully, and exclaim that my role is to empower the people of the community. No. In my Women and Internship class (Womens Studies 120), Dr. Bays remarked how one cannot empower someone or a community, but rather provide avenues for that empowerment to develop and facilitate the growth.

Which makes me wonder how do we provide those paths for empowerment?  If empowerment begins with the self, then it only makes sense that we begin there. But how do we do that? The Indigenous Model of Education, as used in M.E.Ch.A’s de UCLA’s Access Project—Xinachtli, suggests that we begin understanding the self by exploring the historical political and social factors that make us who we are. We must begin by exploring our histories.

All this ideas of loving the self reminds me of the sociological experiment in which young black students were asked to choose between dark dolls and white dolls. Most often, they chose the white dolls to represent the beautiful and smart dolls.

I wonder which dolls the kids we worked with at the Holiday Club would choose.  We speak so much about trying to empower this community, but we have to begin by exploring the kids sense of self. Do they know who they are? Do they know of their rich history and cultural traditions?

I heard stories of their mothers leaving them because of their abusive fathers. Other stories of their fathers in prison. And many stories of the violence that they encounter on a daily basis.

Violence is not unique to South Africa. But how we deal with the act of violence is relative. Unfortunately, the kids I spoke to had to deal with it. They had very few options. They had bright spirits and spoke with so much passion.

But do they know themselves? Do they really know who they are? Do they love themselves? Do they want to buy whitening soap and try to look prettier? They already want to speak “better English;” but at the expense of what? Loosing their Zulu accent.

I don’t really know if they know themselves. I can only hope that they learn how to love themselves. Only then, can we progress towards empowerment. 

Monday, July 4, 2011

This movie sucks!


This movie sucks!

The movie further others the othered. It continues to center the White man.
It alienates the Zulu. Represents them as savage and weak. Native. Tribal. And replaceable. In the movie the Zulu warriors do not speak. Their voice, and ultimately their agency is ignored if not removed. And without agency, they have no humanity. They come en masse, and die in groups. Who are they?

We laugh at their naiveness. We cringe at their savageness. We detest their dirtyness. We suffice with their stupidit.

But the White man, historically, is closer to the animal without consciousness. He is thirsty. He is possessive. He yearns for more. There is nothing natural about greed. Its disgusting and distatesful. But the desire for power and land is more savage-like, it shows ignorance and self-consciousness. You want more because you are less. You desire material happiness because you are eternally sad. You want to control others, because you have no sense of self.

You don’t know yourself, and will therefore not allow others to know themselves. You will claim him as the other, and you as the norm. You will kill those that challenge you, and brain wash those that do not dare to speak their boldness. You want them, because you can’t be them. Daddy has taught you well, and hundreds of years later, you are doing the same.

But be careful because we still remember and will not forget. Hasta la victoria siempre!

Yes the movie is a historic fictional one. And though it has an important story to tell, so we wont forget about the previous wars. The cultural message the movie portrays is a key element that we must not ignore. For the politics of the movie are as important as the historical message it is reminding us of. 

Tu [no] me vez.


Tu [no] me vez.

I am just so upset, because its always the same fucking thing. Every single time. I don’t know what it is about me. Perhaps it continues to be karma, but I don’t think I fucked up to this much. Maybe I did. Maybe I am meant to learn so many fucking lessons. But this really upsets me. Wait. No. it doesn’t even upset me, it irritates me. It makes me so fucking sad. Every single time. It’s always the same story. It’s not the first time this happens, it’s happened before and it will probably happen again. I will fall for the wrong person. The person I believe is worth something, unlike the rest, but in reality is not. In fact, he’s a feckless representation of something that does exist yet I continue to yearn towards.

You are not one of a kind, but you definitely caught my attention.
Now I cant help myself but stare at you, hoping you’d glance at me too
I keep thinking about you and us, and our times together.

The pain is real. I can’t deny it. Except, its dangerous. That I feel as such. I must learn not to compromise who I am for something that I want. Because then I am no longer myself, but rather the fakeness that I have become in order to get it.

You have spoken your truths, and I have listened.
Distancing myself is hard. Hard like you are to me.
But you’ve shown me what you want.
And I must be okay with that.

Falling for someone is always a learning experience. No matter how small or large these feelings are, they are lesson worthy. Because every single time, we learn something new. Something we didn’t know about ourselves before. We are reminded of our philosophies and ideals. And, at least for me, I am reminded of how weak I can get.

Te miro, pero tu no me vez.
I see you, but you don’t see me.
Te platico, pero tu simplemente me hablas.
I speak to you, but you only talk to me.
Te escucho con todo lo que tengo, solamente para que tu no me olles.
I listen to you wholeheartedly, while you only hear me.

The hardest part is admitting that there is something fundamentally wrong about how I divulge my feelings and express them. I have not been single for too long, but I have forgotten what it’s like. I spent most of my year learning about myself, but have forgotten about others. Now I must embark on a journey of relationship-building with lovers, friends, and family.

Happy Birthday Amerikkka


Happy Birthday Amerikkka

It’s Fourth of July. No one really cares here in South Africa. This is not the United States. But we began to celebrate the day of our indepdence with a shot. A shot to America the free. Okay, so this shot was the Republicans idea. Thank you for the free shot, that I do not mind having. (Note: this strategy is known as what Emma Perez calls “strategic essentialism). I am American out of convenience. I am Mexican when I need to be. I am straight when I have to be. I am queer when I am free. 

Therefore, save myself money and get the free shot and thus I am American.

But, I will not cheer to America’s birthday.

Yes, this country has granted me many opportunities. Those that I would have never been able to experience had my parents not decided to immigrate to this country.

But at the expense of what? Of who?

Dare call myself free when NAFTA has killed hundreds of mujeres in Juarez. Should I be proud of this country who cannot admit to the genocide of millions of American Indians, those indigenous to the land? The country that claims to practice all forms of democracy but has gone into many countries to alter the electoral decisions?

Yes, I am thankful for all those privileges. And yes, I have taken advantage of many of the richness that the United States has to offer.

But I am still part of a country that continues to control the lands and resources of millions and millions of people world-wide. And I, like the rest of us, are responsible for it. Because, I have not challenged or denied myself of these chances. And while I am responsible, and admit my guiltiness, I still yearn for change.

But is that fair? That is my 4th of July question. Is it fair that I take advantage of these resources at the expense of those that do not? If so, then how conscious am I really? Am I a fake activist? Activism should not be about personal gain but about communal success.  And the complexity of our consciousness continues to linger in these thoughts and the unfounded answers to the countless questions.

And this is my feckless contribution to my resistance. I will gladly take the shot, but continue to challenge those Americans that think this country is home of the freest an land of the bravest. This is the land of the privileged.