Proud to be a N*gga

My cousin Kenny is proud to be a n*gga, because he's told me that more than once, even singing it to me like this: "...bee-cause I'm proud to be a niggggaaaah!" His cellphone used to have a recording of him singsonging "Kennndaahhhl!" every friggin' time it went to voicemail, which drove my ex-boyfriend crazy, because John would need help at the yard and "Ken Doll" couldn't be bothered; exactly what we'd come to expect from a fat, bald, 6'1, Celtic-Jewish-Indian like him.

He never wanted to fit in with the 9-5 crowd, and for years, he struggled to find work that was inoffensive to his cocktail party persona, before he finally settled on joining a pipe-and-drum band near the beach. He's good at it, too! He and his then-girlfriend (now wife) played together at the biggest parades 'round the way, turning their alcoholism into a somewhat respectable McOpportunity. It wasn't what I'd want for him, but he's made a life from the broken shards of his rough Brooklyn upbringing that's left most of his family dead, and he's not even 50, yet.

I just hope someday he'll realize he doesn't have to jettison parts of his identity that he feels he needs to hide in order to fit in with typical American society, because I personally know of a clan that would dearly love to have a musician with the heart of an Irishman, the beat of an Indian, with the soul of the faithful play at their tartan-clad family gatherings on a certain New Scotland beach. We pay with real money, too. My father always used to tell us as kids that we should be proud of who we are, because it's not like we had a say in the matter, and he's right. We don't. It's already happened.

Remember, my Americans: the freedoms you take for granted have not been equally extended. Some of us can't even walk on ancestral lands and feel proud about it, without someone else looking to take it away to sell it back for a fee. Think about that while you bitch about the line at the polls, or your simple black-and-white racism, or any of the other issues that you think take precedence over basic human rights like dignity and equality. We're not there, yet with this country, but some of us would really like it to be. They're colored, too, just not like you.

Reefer Madness

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reefer_Madness# 

Yesterday afternoon, I watched a popular entertainment program like I usually do, to be somewhat familiar with today's pop stars, because it's hard for a punk rock fan like me to identify with such rabidly followed trends like its the final Wimbledon match or the last game of the World Series. I wasn't exactly a "Tiger Beat" reader* growing up, and I'm pretty sure it would've been banned from the house for being stupid, anyway. My parents can be really egotistical about their educations. Like a lot of bourgeoisie in suburbia, they're still uptight about their relatively recent "escape" from blue collar life in the city; they can be fretfully uptight as a result.

And entertainment news is considered lowbrow t.v. fare, but I am thankful I'm not working their celebrity beats, too. They all look, sound, and act the same to me, anyway. In between the latest "bad boy" arrest was a refreshing live interview with former t.v. host Montel Williams, a proud American military vet and an outspoken advocate for fellow MS sufferers, which speaks to the heart of my family. He spoke about the relevance of medical marijuana to his treatment, and it wasn't the first time I'd heard of it. My mom and I talked about an article I forwarded her about cannabis for her MS, and she didn't reject it as an option outright, which was surprising at first.

When I was growing up, a common attack amongst my mother's family was the demonizing of anything illegal, like smoking pot or underage drinking, that served as an effective cloud cover for their shopping/sugar/pill-popping addictions that had thus far escaped mainstream notice, though times were quickly changing. With the advent of reality t.v. came widely-available media content about mousy fringe types, like the extremely anti-social cat hoarder, or the guy who dresses up in diapers to heal from his abusive childhood. 

Unlike obvious (and legal) social behaviors like smoking and drinking, mental illness became a mainstream topic, thus blowing the lid on their hereto hidden afflictions, especially when my aunt's "dear friend" died from botched surgery as a quick fix to the hoarding habit that placed her in a low-rent apartment around the corner from her late mother's Bronx multi-level townhome that she filled to the roof with junk, floor by floor. Nowhere to run, after that. Still, their semi-public bristling at my lifestyle differences behind their closed doors worked well among their small familial group, where clinically-diagnosed paranoia reigns supreme. Pot smoking became attached to schizophrenia through their compulsive repetition of it, aided and assisted as their pea brains were by so much widely available "newsie" propaganda. 

With the crack craze of the 80s and 90s, lawmakers were desperate to end the murderous rampage from the drug's use that practically bankrupted the city, causing the "white flight" that my mother and her family still rant about, comfortably entrenched as they can be in their casual racism. There were news reports after news reports about "gateway drugs" and "latch-key kids" that my mom and her sisters passive-aggressively sent as news clippings to one another, in a search for the minutely incremental leverage that marks the habitually anti-social. But, they were just following along with the masses.

Of course, me and my friends attending a well-regarded teacher's school in upstate New York knew better about a plant called "MaryJane". Me and my Irish/French-Canadian boyfriend referred to it as "herbe" and "l'herbe" at the same time that classes like "The History of Jazz" and "The History of Rock n' Roll" were filled with students every semester. And therein lie our generational cracking open of the case, forever. I mean, we were taking astrophysics and/or high school SAT's on weed and beer, yo. We already knew what science would eventually catch up to. But one cult movie classic really tied up the loose ends for us, culturally.

Marginalized as African-American people and their works were, no one could deny the artistic relevance of jazz and blues as predominant musical forms that were (and still are) undeniably American. Classes about another American artistic import, the movies, showcased cultural prejudices on a world stage, like the stigma portrayed in the old film "Reefer Madness" turned white audiences against some jazz cat's homegrown stash, versus the huge pharmaceutical megacorporation's factory-manufactured outputs of "Class One Opoids" that are much more addictive, and much more of a gateway to hard street drugs like heroin than some ole weed could ever be. And therein lies the brilliance behind co-opting artistic businesses for mass coercion.

I was impressed by Mr. Williams for being a public proponent for research about alternative delivery methods of medical marijuana that don't open patients up to smoking-related health issues (which my mom and I had already discussed, because she's a pill-popper), as I also noted that he is no longer a daytime t.v. talk show host, either. Still, he represents a celebrity voice in the African-American community that stands by its roots, one rational conversation at a time, now that the real junkies in society are dying off in droves. Finally, GenX gets to share its healing message of peace, love, and understanding through traditional medicine, one patient at a time. "You're welcome" for saving your lives, once again.

* https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tiger_Beat

The Land of "The Happy People"

Like my infamous composure and great passions, my happiness is deep and profound. You would think that's a blessing, until you meet the opposite of contentment in the form of a depressed psychotic who hates you for, uh, being "pretty". Yeah, that's it! All of my life, my ability to "right" myself like a boat that was in danger of capsizing has been noticed, studied from a distance, and just as often, despised. Having a healthy brain is a very difficult thing to describe to someone afflicted with many serious ailments, so as a result, I simply took on more work than humanly possible to make up for the difference in abilities present in myself that are so lacking in the people around me. 

During the first work week I had at yet another job with a workflow that was rife with incompetence, I was met with derision, nasty quips, and prolonged looks of anger thrown in my general direction, because unlike fictional movies and t.v. shows, the heroine of every drama is the often the least liked person in the room. "How are you doing all this?!", an incredulous publisher asked me in front of some douchebag production manager who was drowning in his own anger that'd been set to a slow simmer for many years. I hoisted up a company coffee cup in salute "With this," and then I deconstructed the next problem that was mine to solve for them through art, design, and production.

Genius is fun from afar, but not when you're always the only person in the room with all the answers, with real solutions that don't offer shelter to the mad and hopelessly addicted, because it exposes them overmuch in their shoddy thinking. Most people I worked for absolutely hated their jobs, but they felt that they needed money for healthcare and housing, which, in this century, is being reclassified as "Disability". Really, they didn't need money for much. These were not the kinds of people who can actually enjoy traveling, or really good music, or excellent gourmet food, because they simply do not have the type of brains to appreciate such things in life, which makes the concept of "upward mobility" a bit of a joke for them, unfortunately.

It was like the exact opposite of the old saying, except it was beer tastes on a champagne budget, and this was publishing, a supposedly "highbrow" endeavor for the wealthy WASPy trust fund set, made of those less inclined to strike Wall Street gold. And then I showed up. It was the same as anywhere else, for me. Sigh...yeah, I know. I don't fit in here. Right? Right! But, then, why are you so happy? You mean besides the brilliant and beautiful thing? Uh, not much, I guess! What to say? You work for me, even though it's not  "supposed" to be that way because of (pick one): age, sex, status, looks, etc. There was always a reason for my oppression at the hands of the less gifted.

In a fascinating twist, the most literary people on the planet never figured out "why", when it had been published to such great acclaim so long ago, so perhaps it's time for a reprint. I'm happy because it is a part of who I am, blessed to be alive on G-ds Green Earth, and the receiver of His Greatest Gifts. That's why. How's Monday working out for you, office grunts of the world? I'll bet it's just as bad as all the other weeks you've ever had, and I'm not there to blame, which is too bad. The right to pursue happiness is every American's right in this world we live in. Avail yourself of it. Live well, like we do. Bonjour, Acadies!

Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie (1847)

• Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie Part the First - I
• Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie Part the First - II
• Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie Part the First - III

In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of Minas,
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pré
Lay in the fruitful valley.  Vast meadows stretched to the
eastward,
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks without
number.
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with labor
incessant,
Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons the
flood-gates
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er the meadows.
West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards and
cornfields
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and away to the
northward
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the mountains
Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty Atlantic
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their station
Descended.
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian village.
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and of
hemlock,
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the
Henries.
Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and gables
projecting
Over the basement below protected and shaded the doorway.
There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when brightly the
sunset
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the chimneys,
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in kirtles
Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the golden
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles within doors
Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and the songs of
the maidens.
Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children
Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.
Reverend walked he among them; and up rose matrons and maidens,
Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome.
Then came the laborers home from the field, and serenely the sun
sank
Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed.  Anon from the belfry
Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the village
Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense ascending,
Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and contentment.
Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian farmers,--
Dwelt in the love of God and of man.  Alike were they free from
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice of
republics.
Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their windows;
But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts of their
owners;
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in abundance.
Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the Basin of Minas,
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pré,
Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household,
Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village.
Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the
oak-leaves.
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the
wayside,
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her
tresses!
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed in the
meadows.
When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at noontide
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah! fair in sooth was the maiden.
Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell from its
turret
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with his hyssop
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,
Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of beads and
her missal,
Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and the ear-rings,
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as an heirloom,
Handed down from mother to child, through long generations.
But a celestial brightness--a more ethereal beauty--
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite
music.

TMI "Poopypants"

As the bargain program I packaged for the largest U.S. book retailer in the country wound down (after years of brutally hard work and unusually long hours), I finally found myself enjoying some free time during the day, even contemplating trips to the beach over long three-day weekends like any other publishing employee accustomed to summer hours. It became, dare I say it, a  more genteel and congenial place to work, much more like my way of doing business, with organization and efficiency built right into the workflow, which increased the mental static of the severely disordered around me in almost direct proportion as a contrast, because now I had time to explore the neighborhood at lunchtime and walk around the office. Oops.

I began surfing the web for longer and longer intervals, even becoming a "starred" commenter on a trendy media site geared towards the workaday lesbo, which was tremendous fun for me. As the assholes at work became increasingly rabid amid the next economic crash, killing each other off in violent work conflicts that matched their growing unease, I simply put on my headphones and went to work on another site. I'd put up "Illuminations" over one slow summer hour day before the weekend started, as a way to keep a focus on my personal work and achieving my artistic goals. 

At first, I established myself artistically through posting my photographic and design works to advertise my credentials, with a link to my extensive online portfolio to seal the deal as your new publisher, and it worked. In my business, when you don't receive a lot of negative criticism, you know it's time to go ahead at full speed, which I did. But, the rabid "Politically Correct Police" at this newsy dyke site hated me so fucking much, I immediately knew that I had struck online gold. Every single comment I posted, even the most harmlessly obvious observations, were vehemently denied and attacked in a way that meant those boy/girls knew I didn't strap on a fake plastic penis after office hours. No, it was far worse than that. I preferred the real kind, the fleshy one that comes attached to a man. Ew!

They must have sensed a beautiful hetero woman attracted to males in their midst by my writing alone, but because my comments were so good at generating buzz on the site and drawing attention to their shitty pieces (plus, I helpfully followed the site's rules by not answering their hysterics in "Common Cave Troll"), I was allowed this free pass through online lesbianism, with some temporary restrictions applied. They were boring, in their own bitchy out-of-towner type of way. Do you know the country queer moving to the city looking for an exotic good time but hopelessly inept? That! That was the annoyingly whiny tone of every overly emotional crybaby who went "wahwah" about New York City and its inhabitants; how unfair and cruel the city was to them and their "poopypants" interests.

I'm not joking, either. One of their biggest features was written by this bland WASPY bitch from the 'burbs who decided to unleash her inner "alternative" goth lesbian on all of us unsuspecting readers by publishing photos of her dirty vibrator covered in old period blood stains as it compared to her new one of the exact same model. So fucking interesting, troll. Here's my mucus in a tissue! Get a life, bitch. Every weird hick who has ever tortured me on the job came bubbling to the surface through these inane puff pieces designed to attract dykes in such a brutally obvious way, I found my smarter commentary striking lightning quick responses to their fucking bullshit as fast as I could type it, edit it, and post it, and guess who won? 

I did! It spurred me to write a lot more during the day, which was part of the point for me, and in the process, I pulled into the fray the unsuspecting crazy dykes who worked with me (or around me) to stop their work and read my posts. It became such a huge distraction in an office that conspired almost daily against me, that their publisher was forced to ask me to stop writing during the day (over his bullshit editorial staff), which I duly ignored. You can't legally censor creative output at a publishing company. It's that tricky "Freedom of the Press" and/or "Freedom of Speech" thingy we have in the Constitution. Duh. And so I typed on, in response to an injustice present in an unfairly skewed media world that sought to push me out, when they actually lived and breathed on my fucking land, on my fucking turf, earning on my fucking say-so through my design works that actually earned a lot of money for the house. If you don't like it, get the fuck out!

And so, out of those excruciatingly irritating tourist bitches with a zest to treat our fair city like a lesbian cruise ship on their "vacay", arose my desire to write more and more about my interests, which are a lot like yours, right? "Outsider" culture became no longer hip to practice, because how fun is it to read about changing a baby's shitty diapers? You know, the ADHD couple with the already fucked-up kid dancing around your cocktail party bare-ass with a stained diaper in their hands to show off? You crazy fucking bitches were that for me: so egregiously wrong in your hatred for us as a society (and your complete inability to adapt to normal human life) that I found it easy to despise a group of supposedly "marginalized" minority voices who used media to get attention, like any other spoiled football star overdosing on hookers, booze, and blow, except without the talent.

I took away their privileges at hating us for nothing more than simply being here and being healthily normal, but more importantly, for loving our lives and daring to love the city that gave rise to us. I stood fast in front of their searingly misdirected anger at me, and through the power of my words, I channeled them back into their backwater channels where they belong. And do you know why? Because this is my real prime time, bitch. I am your fucking "Major League" woman-in-action, dyke. You just didn't know it, yet. And now you do. You can thank this here mama the next time a woman gets voted into an important office, pigs. I probably voted in their primary election while you were too busy online "roasting" some plebe you wrongly perceived to be more powerless than you, and isn't that like every single prejudiced dyke who secretly hates women that you've ever met? It sure is! Who's the traitor now, bitch? Yeah, that's what I thought. Go fuck yourself. Without airbrushing, losers.

https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/TMI

Spy vs. Spy

Genius isn't something people enjoy, like real beauty that frightens without airbrushing or makeup applied. You can't fake it, and for people who lie their way through life, authenticity is very scary. I never understood the weird tactic behind pretending to know more than you do, because it's a viciously anti-scholarly mindset to have about life and the world. Curiosity is the driving force behind intellectualism, so someone who hides out daily from reality represents crass ignorance to an openly inquiring mind. And so, with no surprise, I wasn't welcomed into the arms of the publishing industry by anyone besides my mentor and her supervising V.P.

Even though we were transparent in our agenda to have me apprentice first in Production Management before I moved upstairs to the Art Department, it was considered such a huge intellectual leap to make at the time, that we were greeted with suspicion from the very start of my employment. Just like the limited scholarship that represented a typical S.U.N.Y student in the 80s, destined to spend a lifetime working in a series of barren offices, R.I.S.D. students were often functionally illiterate, unable to write even the simplest of essays in their native English language, so I'd seen limited brain function before I hit the big hallways of Academia.

Still, it was shocking. Some departments, like Production Editorial, hired English Lit majors from the Ivy League, drawing heavily from the pools of Brown, Yale, and Harvard, and those were just the folks who managed copy-editing and proofreading within the workflow. From someone like me, it was downright revolutionary. I did business like a non-artist, drew like a professional, and thought with any side of my brain I could tap into to get the job done, which was in direct contrast to the big bestselling "Left Brain/Right Brain" publishing hype.

People felt comfortable with the darkly brooding hipster stereotype who preferred sitting alone in a corner doing highly repetitive layouts, but that's not an Art Director, which is what I aspired to back in the day. Conversely, the short bespeckled editorial assistant with the flood pants, thickly rimmed glasses, and bad dandruff fit easily into their preconceived expectations about what "intelligence" looks like, like bad casting for every cliched Hollywood movie you've ever seen: beautiful blond bombshell with the charmingly absent-minded but kind-hearted nutty professor. Where did I fit in? Mostly, they hated me.

And so began my real office career involving staving off covert attacks done on the sly, to delay the inevitable firing that marks the deeply insecure incompetent working in an office of actual American scholars. We spoke and wrote in an English that was frightening to the uneducated and unknowns in our very own houses. It was shockingly ignorant to behold, because we made the stuff we sold, which is one of the clearest, direct lines to any serious business transaction. More days were spent clearing houses of the weak than in pursuit of the labor behind making books, which is one of the most complex commercial manufacturing processes in the worlds of art and design.

People whispered in the wide stairwells of the Flatiron Building (a historical landmark) that I was a "spy", which made me laugh. For who, exactly? Production? Why would the VP and the Senior Production Manager want me to ask questions for them? That's what they did every day. For the book cover designers?! They couldn't even attend weekly production meetings without a liaison like me involved, living in some constant pretend fear about book manufacturing schedules and deadlines, which is like an accountant who's afraid of balancing his or her checkbook. Why that? It was utterly bizarre in its limitations to me, but that was the vacuum I filled that was so badly needed during the technological shift to desktop publishing.

One of the quickest managerial stints at SMP was a certain penguin-identifying Design Manager with poor book design skills but a fussily meticulous eye for administration, efficiency, and bureaucracy, which again, was something only businesspeople could apparently perform without having a nervous breakdown like any true designer would. Oh, the pressure to file! So hard! It was pure bullshit to me, but that's how they angled their way as a department out of "boring office work" to stick it onto me, because I "didn't know computers" or design according to the rigid New York school kids who were trained to be one-trick ponies, again, about as far from a scientifically-informed scholar like a da Vinci-based RISDoid as possible, but that's exactly why I excelled so far ahead of my class.

She rode me temporarily as a target to do dull shit she called "organizing" the enfants terrible of the art department, who were (and still are) a group of learning-disordered people who can only handle so much mentally, but that didn't stop their fearful marginalization of me anyway. It was nothing new. Within weeks of that crazy skinny bitch writing me up for (get this) READING on the job, a big art/design department "no-no" apparently, she quickly went downhill into psychosomatic back pain so bad, the company had a crane lift a couch into her special office so she could lie down between bouts of her pain. That's who they chose to be their "manager". She flew back to her old imprint within months after I quit for less crazy-filled pastures (which worked!), and she's stayed there ever since.

During her entirely panicked, whirlwind stewardship of a multi-billion dollar publishing company with strong international ties to Britain and now Germany (after a few carefully leveraged corporate buy-outs), not one higher-up ever thought to inquire whether or not one of our competitors would actually send over a genuine corporate spy over to us, for the real deal of sneaking around without getting caught, choosing instead to center their hysterical drama around one particular Acadian Métis girl who could give a fuck about their petty head games, because here I sit, and there you are in the exact same seat. Still. Spy, indeed.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Media_bias_in_the_United_States

P.S. - I just fucking looked up Jaye's suicide obit online, SMP'ers, another fucking "Design Manager" back then!!! You hateful humps. You owe me.

Bad Medicine

As you well know by now, many of my very best friends are educators. I loved being around them in college, because we studied everything we could within the time frames we had available. For most of us, it marked the most intellectually free time we had in our young lives thus far, and we luxuriated in the company of other gifted educated people. Higher learning set our minds free, and our passions were something we desperately wanted to share with the world through our excellent communication skills, which brings you here to me today, and us, as a community, now.

That didn't stop us from deeply considering the past because as the saying goes, someone not well-versed in it is doomed to repeat it, and as working class kids, were just as keen at escaping the purgatories of our family homes as our trapped parents were. It just didn't work, for anyone around them. Through our studies, we put together the pieces we needed to change the world, often by looking at ourselves through our shared histories first. My first love and my best friend became history majors; she, as a female educator in a male-dominated field, and my boyfriend as a failed scientist first (he blamed me for that, of course), until he reached his loudly talkative stride as a history major and legal scholar (yeah, you're welcome, bro).

We had many fascinating discussions, as we filled in the gaps left wide open by our ill-prepared families over many beers and a toke or two, though we were all avidly aware that our wildest partying days ended upon graduation, because each and every one of us almost immediately entered the working worlds of commerce and trade, pairing our academia with the real world so as to fill in the gaps present there, too. It was less welcomed than our friendly community of gifted scholars, artists, writers, and athletes, because almost everyone is threatened by a samurai warrior at first, with good reason. You may suck as a human being, and that pisses off native New Yorkers who've been a happily blended people for centuries. You might not fit in with us, and that happens in societies often, especially during our younger years, as we adjusted to the dysfunctional around us, through intellectual problem-solving in various industries.

Because my crowd was heavy on the history, I parted ways with their deeper explorations as I filled out my curriculum, necessary as it was for us to do as individuals, but I kept pace with any content discussed, because I spent my youth reading, which became part of my vocation, too. One of the more interesting second year 200 levels was an oddly named enticement called "EHIS 232 History of European Witchcraft" (http://www.oneonta.edu/undergradcatalog/ehis-232-history-of-european-witchcraft.asp), which I was delighted to find still on the schedule, today. Well-done, snow-bound freaks! Keeping our cultural interests alive across the years has been challenging, too, because disordered populations often seek to banish from the history books their own checkered pasts, as inconvenient truths they no longer wish to confront or solve.

Not so with our crowd. We wanted to keep the flames of our ancestors lit through the invocation of our co-joined spirits through well-told stories, reflected in the enjoyable classes taught by professors equally passionate and adept at bringing the past back to life, in dark classrooms with brightly-lit screens filled with art history, through images of relics that we wanted to unlock and tell everyone about, sharing our common knowledge with as many minds as we could fill, empty as those containers often are among the common and sick looking to turn away from the lights of enlightenment, as antithetical to our group's ethos as it ever was.

One of the key pieces we put back together was the insulting truth behind our obliterated indigenous pasts, found here at this windswept mountain school, kept alive by torch-bearers from the past. We realized that traditional medicines made from local plants had been wiped away by the voracious greed of invading Europeans who sought only to reap the value from our harvests and leave, laying waste in its' wake. It'd begun a long time ago, with the arrival of exiled wackos from their own countries, infecting our countryside with their fevered cults of delusion, evil and dangerous as ever, free to spread like wildfire across the forests and plains of this land named "The Americas" by Italians who didn't bother to ask the dark people who lived there its name, spreading their diseases at the same time they planted their invasive crops laden with foreign-born vermin.

Their spooks and devils were the same as those in their Old World countries, specters hallucinated in deeply thick woods entered fearfully at night with the exact same psychoses that had their cults exiled by regions afraid of their illnesses, the same falsely-made leper colonies as ever, made from old women casts as witches by the rise of male-dominated European medicine, along with their strong inheritance of herbs and crops, now lost to the ages, to be picked up by those children of theirs adrift in a home world full of foreigners, made expensively strange with their imported medicines and crop-killers.

Today we take it back, as we tell each other again the cures we've always known to be true, activating them out of our very DNA, despite the condescending rich white man's sneers over "folk cures" that actually work, as scared and sick as ever with their typical lusts made out of greed and money, borne through our inflamed bodies aching to heal from the kind touch of a loving mother seeking to ease her infant's cries at night, through expensive salves and ointments sold to her by foreign-born, European-trained doctors who care so little for us that they would rather sell us salves made overseas and shipped here at our expense (loyal to another land and blind to our cries for help), choosing their tribes over our native soil, further impoverishing and bankrupting women and children by sickening them deeper still.

After years of expensive doctor visits with a Jewish/European white woman who bankrupted me to make her and her family wealthy instead, laughing at my concerns with her pad of rich snake oils sold through fancy white male sales reps sitting in her over-heated Brooklyn office, backed by years of continued prescription renewals that only temporarily relieved my eczema; nasty ugly rashes that bled and oozed in the pressure-filled public spaces rife with their sick, pressured by their pounding sickness over our cooling seasons here that they cannot tolerate, causing my body to burst into large red angry rashes by their continued European madness, misplaced as it still is by their relocation here from their ousting elsewhere. 

It's time to take a stand against their exile wrongly forced upon us here in the Americas, because not one of them during my many long years of their imposed poverty told me to use oatmeal as a homeopathic cure; not one single corrupt wealthy European-American. Not one link found online through their Internet searches controlled by advertising dollars back by Big Pharma, Big Tobacco, and Big Medicine, searches made at night, using expensive online access that women and children typically cannot well afford, searches made by a million concerned mothers looking to ease their crying babies at night with a simple dollar store cure like an oatmeal bath, with the same kind of poultices applied directly to their delicate skin, ones that cure, cool, and comfort at the same time. Well, you can rest easy. We're home. You can all go home, now. Sooner rather than later.

Cures done at home through common pantry items, by the numbers: http://www.solitaryroad.com/s815.html

Their pricey European/American store-bought versions: http://www.aveeno.com/product/aveeno-+baby+eczema+therapy+soothing+bath+treatment.do

You sick fucks! Baby powder, moms: http://www.cancer.org/cancer/cancercauses/othercarcinogens/athome/talcum-powder-and-cancer

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Medicine_wheel

Addendum: I'd like to add that my eczema has become far worse with age, greatly assisted by: global warming (sweat adds salt to the body where it wouldn't normally be, during normal cooling-off seasons), stress greatly exerted upon me that has been confirmed over the years as purposefully done as a means to detract from my beauty through the application of abusive pressure that would (hopefully) cause sickness in me (as part of the continued oppression of my people that I inhabit in a daily role), and that this Jewish-American doctor I sought out (after two other female doctors moved out of the Park Slope section of Brooklyn) took a Hippocratic oath to heal and not hurt that was put into direct conflict by her continued recommendation of an Israeli-made ointment that she said (defensively) she prescribed to me because I was a female athlete, and therefore I needed a synthetic non-steroidal salve, even though I never needed a test as an amateur athlete, nor do low doses of steroidal salves show up in modern testing. 

I should also add that she was extremely hostile and aggressive to me at first, as was her entire office staff (several of whom were fired, like the office women from a previous doctor I saw during my time in Brooklyn), as were the other female practitioners she recommended to me. It should also be noted that the main ingredient listed for this salve is "petrolatum", a petrochemical derivative that's wide usage and distribution is a continued sales boom to fossil fuel manufacturers, and their waste by-products. 

Take from that what you will. M

Acadian heads-up: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/26/fashion/26skin.html?_r=0 

Colored heads-up: http://www.softeeproducts.com/products/treatments/indian-hemp-hair-and-scalp-treatment/

Rock you like a hurricane

http://www.himandus.net/hofh/chauvin/richard/richard_00_acadian_history.html

I planned on writing a piece today about minority culture, when a casual conversation with my neighbor directed me towards another key issue affecting impoverished Americans that's a tie-in with today's "Hurricane Joachim" conditions, and that is this: flooding. It's no secret to my Acadian, Cajun, and Creole peoples that oppressed minorities who threaten the status quo were (are) pushed into marshlands and swamps (what up, Zydeco fans?), conveniently "resettled" during occupational wars with not-so-hidden agendas. Richly fertile island nations with beautifully exotic women were suspiciously targeted the most often. 

To this day, "white" Canada disparagingly refers to any native person as an "Aboriginal", in a clear attempt to marginalize their First Nation status by wrongly placing them in the same category as the people of Australia, who are seen as less than attractive by the European Penal Colonists sent there without choice. Obviously, each human tribe on Planet Earth has a range of beauty from the ugly to the more comely, but it is no secret (see me in pics) that the Métis figured something out: French (or Scotch/Irish) guy mates with squaw = an "OMIGOD, how do I get my hands on that?!" level of attractiveness that my sweet Norman Barese grandmother from the Abruzzi region of Italy called "Oo la la!" in a loud voice whenever she thought it was wise to remind her family about me and my key "factor", and she was never wrong about anything. Like, ever.

The Canadian government recently officially recognized that the enforced separation, murder, and ethnic cleansing of Acadian Métis was "unfortunate", which is kind of like saying that the Serbian Croatian War was "bad". Yeah, you think? Ripping families apart based on eye color has become such a taboo subject in my culture, that deeply ingrained prejudices about it remain in place to this day. My Québécois/Irish-American college boyfriend from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn told me a few times that he had qualms about my "marriageability" because I have brown eyes (strikingly coal-black eyes are a trademark Métis feature) and he has blue eyes, and, ahem, you know, well, maybe he wanted blue-eyed children. Me, looking like what you know to be true, and he is no supermodel. It was a petty little head game he played with me to parlay my supposed insecurities about my looks into his hands, which...well, you see where I'm at with him today. Nowheresville.

Race continues to define the descendants of a culture that took American ideals at face value when it came to openly assimilating different cultures. French with Africaine? No problem: you Creole now. European with a Native? Okay, we are Métis. Ditto with your Irish, Scottish, British, and Dutch ancestors with us. Now you tribe, too. Twenty-five percent is all you typically need to get in, barring any serious medical conditions like violently anti-social paranoid schizophrenia (which is kind of a "no-no" in any human community), and we just might let you in for life. All we ask is that you accept my brother and my sister, who may or may not share eye color or the exact same skin tone, but we have a wide range. You follow me here? 

The Acadian Deportation (Le Grand Dérangement) is exactly what got you stranded in an area below sea level, ami. Homeboy, you sinkin' in Red Hook right now ("Hoek" in Dutch, New Amsterdam) because they don't like you and your kind, especially if you get along well with your neighbor, who may or may not be the same color as you. Ya dig? You're the "problem" they want gone. "But, who exactly is 'they'"? "Who", indeed. Now you're asking the right questions. See you on the other side, friends. And take swimmin' lessons in the hood, mes Cajuns et Creoles. Hurricane season is officially here.


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Effects_of_Hurricane_Katrina_in_New_Orleans 

http://portsidetanker.blogspot.com/2013/02/red-hook-sandy-surge-map.html 

https://umaine.edu/canam/publications/st-croix/acadian-deportation-migration-resettlement/ 

Brown

Every day of my life I'm the target of abuse, because I am not like you. I know! It's weird, right? Weird but true. I'm an actual ethnic minority, which is also really strange, because most welfare offices operate on the flawed premise that people who come from the biggest continent on Planet Earth (also known as "Africa": https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/African_diaspora) are rare as human beings, hence the marketing terms "urban demographic" and "minority", which is not actually true in any of the numbers I've ever seen (creative accounting aside), you know, because of the size of it. Nor does your status as a descendant of the formerly vast Spanish Empire entitle you to cash money, gifts, and/or prizes, or anything else that's totally free. Again, see the real numbers here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spaniards. You read it right, amigo. That number is 48 MILLION PEOPLE. Stick that on your flag and smoke it!

With that in mind, I use an herbal-based cleansing conditioner that's oddly shelved in the "ethnic" section (read as "black" or "brown"), because apparently the only weirdos with this kind of fucked up hair must be marginalized at each and every opportunity that presents itself to the makers of said products, just in case you somehow wake up one day to realize that you are not alone. In fact, there are BILLIONS of you muthfuckas, a'ight? I know what you're thinking: "Mommy" is trapped in a weirdly fantastical bubble that is suburban America, a place where "white" people think they are normal, and you are the oddball. I know, because every time I go into a commonly overpriced drugstore chain here in New York, some bitch behind the counter pretends not to see me if I may (rarely) need her help because the self-service machine is fucked up, just so she can signal to me anew my lowly position in relation to her, in case I forgot that my status as "Other" did not scrub off my skin during bath time.

It's become such a joke with my peeps around here, that I openly signal my understanding of the situation to any other "minorities" waiting in line who are similarly ignored by retail clerks (read: black folk. Yep, in 21st century New York), by pantomiming a scrubbing motion up and down my arm, mouthing to them: "It didn't wash off me, either!", then pointing to them, "Didn't wash off on you neither? No?", finally throwing up my hands in mock frustration to shrug my shoulders and just walk away. What's a n***a to do, right? The ad copy on a brown-colored bottle of cleanser marketed to "n****s" is so offensive, I had to read it a couple of times just to get it down. I think I counted at least six references to my "unmanageable" "unique" "twisted" "natural" hair, like I am some fucking Aboriginal Pygmy from New Guinea, recently discovered by a jauntily-dressed British explorer on safari.

I am not your particular pygmy dream child to fret over, Weird Marketing Wacko. I am just not entirely "white", like billions of other muthafuckas on the planet. Deal with it, yo. 'Cause we fuckin' do, every damn day. Every day we deal with your inbred isolated pocketed of protected weirdness, ya frightened Hobbit folk. Get wit' it in this century. People MOVE AROUND the globe. Fuck! Alright, now that we got that mess taken care of, let's look to my numbers for the real deal: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C3%A9tis_people_%28Canada%29. Join me here in my land that is without delusional fantasies. It's fun! Ain't no one throwin' a better party than Acadians. Trust! I am your "One Percent", and I am the home you seek in this time of sickness among the rare who remain healthy. Come back to me in this world. 
We are forever, my love.

"To infinity and beyond!"

Trail of Tears

http://bit.ly/1OtyMcW

I heard about a lot of holocausts growing up in the New York area: the killings during World War II (naturally), which led to my schoolmate's telling of her family's Armenian genocide, but the only story of mine I knew was in a book, albeit infamous epic form*. The grandeur and longing for home and love is something that never leaves you, even when my family left it out of family gatherings, the way my parents hinted at darker histories by naming our cousins "Dark Irish"; an apt way to describe the twin horrors of deliberate starvation through The Potato Famine** in Ireland, and the marking of Métis children by the darker color of their eyes, which must have sank a pit the size of the Atlantic Ocean in both of my parents' stomachs. Who would see it? Would they know the story? Who can they tell the knowing of it all? What would happen to us, in any time period, given the collected badness of centuries past?

And so they sank it way down deep below, like a hidden headdress fitted for a beautiful little girl, or a pair of handmade Baptismal moccasins that may be tucked away forever; two sharp shooting pains forever felt by burying it within, like a treasure chest to be discovered by someone strong enough to survive its' telling. And so I leave it to you to gather up all of our fallen tears, on a trail that leads the way back home, through a river journey I can feel like the wetness shed by the cries of so many parents who felt their beloved ripped out of their arms, in an act of murder so painful***, I can't really wrap my entire consciousness around it, let alone take on the pain of a mother and father who did nothing wrong in G-d's eyes but love each other willingly and with open hearts (http://historynewsnetwork.org/article/11204).

Today I give thanks to the loving qualities we have present in our free society, ones that many people have fought and died for. May we love each other always, with gladness in our hearts.

For My Beloved

 *     https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Evangeline
**    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Famine_%28Ireland%29
***  http://bit.ly/1QmerFQ

Confederacy of Dunces

http://nyti.ms/1skVMyf

You've seen it on all the news programs lately: why all this fuss over some old flag? Because, (and this will be the last time I will address this issue with any amount of serious consideration, because it's that fucking stupid to me), our ancestors fought and died in our nations' bloodiest war: a civil war that divided families and pitted brother against brother, in the name of righteousness. 

Southerners created their own stupid dip-shit flag and useless Monopoly money so they could pretend to live in a delusional fucking world where it's okay to murder, torture, rape, and continually victimize people like they're worse than the cattle most of us eat every day. 

You see, if a cow didn't make the brutal trip across the sea and over a very long distance, like, say, the ones West African people were forced to endure under inhuman conditions, those poor people of the South wouldn't have food, ergo cows are better than people from another country. See? That's logic! No?! Well, my stars. 

http://theurbanchica.com/poetry-and-still-i-rise-by-maya-angelou/

Take down that fucking flag hundreds of years after we won the war, because it is a symbol of your continually deliberate and very calculated system of ignorance, hatred, and oppression, you inbred fuck. I mean it. You lost. There. Get over it. 

You will not "rise" again. There is no "confederacy", and they never will be. We are one united nation, shitheads. Oh, and your boringly repetitive music sucks, too. Ahhh...now, I feel better. Thanks, guys!

Here's your homework, fuck-up:
http://www.ushistory.org/us/27f.asp
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/aia/part4/4p2956.html 
http://www.history.com/topics/black-history/slavery
http://www.civilwar.org/education/history/civil-war-overview/overview.html 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Civil_War
http://www.history.com/topics/american-civil-war

For Kara

http://www.learnnc.org/lp/editions/nchist-colonial/1904

Jimmy O.D.

Years ago, I worked for a small Jewish family business in trouble. The two kids hated the business of publishing, which they tried to use for their "creative" endeavors, like screenwriting and music. It didn't work for them, because publishing is about books. And so, I was left with two spoiled "Manhattanites" who'd been told all their lives that they were gifted from their parents. Into this mess, I was charged with righting the ship of one of their Barnes and Noble imprints. It had been ditched into the gutter for being "crass" in comparison to the other Classic series of copyright-free works, which was a total joke. 

The bargain books were face-out on the shelf in every store in the nation, a fact that had become a traveling game for me. In each town, I'd look for my name on the jackets of titles I worked on, and wherever I went in America, there I was in book form, too. Because I broke my ass for two years to put it back into shape, I had a lot of pull in the company (and the industry), which gave me the power to make some tricky decisions, especially uncomfortable ones that included their family who drew income but produced no revenue. Their single daughter would sweep in from London to treat me like a Kinko's kid making copies for her, because she wanted to brag about her designer apartment that just got a write-up. Did I want to see it? They had tons of people in their lives like that, but such was the era of housewife decorators and artsy stay-at-home moms. You know the type.

When I finally conflicted artfully well with their small son over IT support (it'd been a handy weapon from Day 1 of my time), I knew I carried the whole history of desktop publishing and Mac computers with me. My enemy camp kept making petty remarks about Apple's business tactics and the inherent snobbery designers had about their corporate-sponsored trophy computers, neither of which I disputed. I pointed that out in several meetings with the enemy camp; a row of rich white men on one side, with me and my cowardly deaf mute designer on the other. She always backed out of speaking up in meetings by citing her deafness, which usually worked at stalling the machine, but not for me, because I have a deaf father. And so, when they finally realized that shutting out design and technology had dearly cost them their business edge, the son surprisingly decided it was time to finally pursue that music career full time, by touring and cutting a self-made CD, another type of business he knew I had under my belt, too.

Enter the scene one dramatic and showy character named Jimmy. The company admin gave him "advice" within my earshot about how to work me over as a client, by giving him "tips" like appealing to my Irish side and being charming, Yeah, Mick. Fooking do that. I liked Jimmy, as I typically do with my kind. He was smart, gifted, quick, and good with the older crowd who feared computers like they were boxes sent form Hell to deliberately torture them. Because he was older than me, he knew how to mock and demonize technology so that the older rich guy would cough up the dough. After all, Jimmy was a trained actor, as well as an IT guy, professional musician, lapsed Catholic, martial artist, and newly graduated fine artist.

He showed me pictures he took of his beautiful wife and classically Celtic sons: a striking "Black Irish" clan with bright blue eyes, fair skin, red lips, and dark dark hair. Yeah, I know. The boys were into Mohawk hair designs and boxing poses, which slayed me, but I wanted him to play me like a fiddle to get us what we needed, and he knew I knew the game cold. On one warm St. Pat's evening, I took the publisher's intern nephew on a long walk with me that spanned from the East 30's all the way down to Stone Street, to hear him play. It was loud brash standards (which embarrassed him a bit), but I could tell he was good. I wanted to show him support in lieu of his recent divorce, a shock that rocked him to the core.

I didn't know how bad it was until he showed up at the job with a bagel and hysteric tears, which frightened me. I told him about my own brief brush up with a marriage I'd been suckered into, but I realized it was much worse for him. His wife had done herself up buff at the gym while he worked and played around, which couldn't have meant he spent much time at home, and the kind he did was questionable at best. You don't cry onto your client's keyboard without a really bad heartache, because I paid him every penny he was worth. 

When he broke down in front of me, I knew I could either save him or lose him in that very moment. And so I did what anyone like me would do: when he bitched about his weight gain, I caught his darting red eyes, locked in on him, and told him the truth flat-out. He was in danger of something a lot more serious than a brief spat with gluttony, and he knew what I meant, because he bowed his head down for a moment. I left to get coffee in the company kitchen, and let him collect himself. By the time I came back, he'd put on a brave front with a sheepish grin. He knew I'd never fire him, but he'd embarrassed himself at work, and that was a lapse I knew he didn't do often, because I worked under the same threats as he.

After St. Patrick's Day, I only saw him once. The struggling family outfit finally let me go to "clean house", after they'd tried to use every political card they had against me. He'd done me a right turn by getting me an interview at his day job. I wasn't suited for it as a lowbrow market and I knew it, but it was good PR for me, because it let the industry know I was shopping around. I heard him gossip to the art director of a splashy photo mag there that she'd seen my portfolio with CD's. He asked her quietly: "How did it look?". She said she caught one minor error about a tiny line of 5 point copyright info placed too close to the donut whole on one disc layout (I did all my own layouts and production), but that my music creds were solid and true. I did have a famous musician or two in my book, complete with logos, booklets, cases, and all. "Shit", he said under his breath. I could see them out of the corner of my eye in his office from my vantage point in the conference room, him at his desk with her standing over him. 

The interview was over, and the next time I heard anything about Jimmy was on Facebook, because he committed suicide that winter by taking a handful of sleeping pills while home alone in Woodstock, packing up his stuff during his first Christmas alone and without his family. He'd been gracious enough to post us a good-bye photo on Facebook, with a caption below his last self-portrait that read about how tired he was, and that was the last of it. Forever.

For Jimmy 

 http://www.silive.com/obituaries/index.ssf/2011/01/james_odonnell_55.html