Sinister Wisdom 56
Summer /Fall 1995
Publisher: Sinister Wisdom, Inc.
Editor: Akiba Onaua-Sikwoia

Editorial Group for # 56: Akiba Onaua-Sikwoia, A. Miriasiem Barnes, Kyos
Featherdancing, Marianne Hewitt
Poetry editor: Ekua Omosupe
Contributing editor: Gloria Anzaldua
Board of Directors: Gloria Anzaldua, Jacqueline E. Letalien, Julia
Youngblood, Kyos Featherdancing, Lynn Scott
Volunteer Coordinator: Susan Levinkind
Proofreaders: Angela Koenig, Jessica Bucciarelli, Susan Goldberg, Susan
Levinkind, Susan Purcell
Office and Production support: Sauda Burch, Caryatis Cardea, Elana
Dykewomon, Xochipala Maes Valdez
Thanks to Bobby Rothschild and Rebecca Kutlin of Tamed Technology
Mailing crew: Angela Koenig, Caryatis Cardea, Cathy Cade, Cindy
Mortlock, Elana Dykewomon, Hadas Weiss, Heidi Beeler, Jamie Lee
Evans, Jacqueline E. Letalien, Kyos Featherdancing, Lynn Scott, Mady
Shumofsky, Marianne Hewitt, Mary Carol Randall, Susan Goldberg,
Susan Jill Kahn, Susan Levinkind
Readers for the tape edition: Judy Freespirit, Sauda BurchCover art: Franna Blaine Lusson

SINISTER WISDOM, founded 1976
Former editors and publishers: Harriet Ellenberger (aka Desmoines)
and Catherine Nicholson (1976-81)
Michelle Cliff and Adrienne Rich (1981-83)
Melanie Kaye/Kantrowitz (1983-87)
Caryatis Cardea (1991-94)
Elana Dykewomon (1987-94)
Copyright© 1995 Sinister Wisdom, Inc. All rights reserved to individual artists and authors.
ISSN: 0196-1853. Printed in the U.S. on recycled paper.

Sinister Wisdom, Inc. • PO Box 3252 • Berkeley CA 94703 • USA

Summer/Fall 1995

1_________________ Contents
3 Akiba Onaaa-Sikwoia • Notes for a Magazine
6 A. Miriasiem Barnes • Notes for a Magazine
8 Kyos Featherdancing • Notes for a Magazine
9 Upcoming issues
11 Akiba Onaaa-Sikwoia • Giants
14 Diane Doumit • Women on the Edge of a Very Steep
Cliff Chapter Seven: Punctuated with a Tiny Dot
16 Diane Doumit • Women on the Edge of a Very Steep
Cliff Chapter Eight: Twisted
20 JBWiley • I dream
22 Elisa Lucero • Escucha! La Voz de Aztlan
26 Jennifer Tucker • Growing Up in Am'erica
28 Margaret M. Pavel • A Seed
29 Karla Nitchmann • Bubbe's Reflections
34 Leatha Jones • In the Kitchen
39 Pola· The Kitchen Sink
40 Sauda Burch • Like That, Like That, Like That That
There: Art, Language and Culture; an Interview with
Fan Warren
49 K. Linda Kivi • Tabaganne
50 Annalee Wade • Dominga is Speaking
52 April Citizen Kane • Voices
53 Huda Jadallah • For Those Who Ask Me to Talk Politics
in a Calm and Rational Voice

Sinister Wisdom is a multicultural, multi-class, born-womon lesbian space. We seek to open, consider and advance the exploration ofcommunity issues. Sinister Wisdom recognizes the power of language
to reflect our diverse experiences and to enhance our ability to develop critical awareness, as lesbians evaluating our communities andour world.

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sinister wisdom #56 On Language

60 Kyos Featherdancing • In Remembrance
62 Laura C. Luna • The Making of an Amerikan Dream
66 Shahara Godfrey • Hot Comb
68 Ananda Esteva • My-Linguality
73 Sandy Tate • Holocaust Abused
76 A. Miriasiem Barnes • The Voices
79 Liliana Slomkowska • Quenching the Thirst
82 Granete Sosnoff • Hapa New Year
88 Akiba Onada-Sikwoia· the language that hates
90 Annalee Wade • Bar Notes: Eugene Oregon
91 Henri Bensussen • Masbata Loate
92 Amber Garland • The F Box
94 Elizabeth Luciano • love's acolyte
96 Contributors' Notes
102 Books Received
106 Announcements and Classified Ads
110 Letter regarding Seventh International Feminist
Bookfair§ARTcover Franna Blaine Lusson • Music Swims Back to Me
13 Margarita Benitez
19 Julie A. Lawton • Revived
25 Cathy Cade • Gloria Anzaldua
33 Carol A. Johnson • Crone with Child's Reflection
38 Julia Youngblood • Untitled
48 Fan Warren • "Made in America"
51 Julia Youngblood • Untitled54 Carol A. Johnson and Felicia Reim • Opening
72 Mary J. Kerr • I Am Not a Fertility Goddess ...
78 A. Miriasiem Barnes • Rhythm Equals Life
87 Amazing Grace • "Is it a man or a woman?" "What doesit say?"95 Julia Youngblood • Untitled
101 Akiba Onada-Sikwoia • Grandmothers

Summer/Fall 1995

3____________ Notes for a Magazine
Akiba Onaaa-Sikwoia:

In the past six months, since taking on the editorship ofSinister Wisdom, I've faced every expectation one could imagine - both from myself and others. There have been times
when my path shone crystal clear, when I soared far beyond my
expected limitations. Magic on the rise, I marveled at my accomplishments. Thus now, for the first time in eight years, SW
has an office. Several wimmin donated our much needed computer complete with desks . One month ago we sucessfully
produced a 20th Anniversary Celebration and Benefit. Subscriptions have risen and, because of all the outreach, there aremany new faces within the organization - including a new
board of directors.
Transitions can be challenging and I have not been spared.
There have been days when I've experienced fear beyond belief. Days when I found myself paralyzed by the ways in which
this work renders me vulnerable. These are the times when I
ask myself, "Is this really that important?" "Does it matter that
this publication is here-that it survives?" "Why amI working
so hard - who cares?"
I came to SW somewhat naive. Although I clearly held thevision of this publication as a powerful resource for healing in
our lesbian/two spirited communities and believed I could
further support this reality, I was not proficient in some of thepractical skills which would have, no doubt, made my transition easier. As you may know, SW was to have been publishedby a group of us - each with our own expertise - but that fellthrough before I ever got started. Truly, I could not have imagined the enormous amount of time, hard work and constant focus
required of me just to get my first issue out. Mostly, though, I was
not clear about the condition that SW faced financially.
Unfortunately, my first task was to tackle Inland Book Company, our main distributor, who is not paying their bills -4sinister wisdom #56 On Language

unless I call them daily, and with that they continue to be six or
so months behind. Their lack of commitment to pay has createda serious drain on our resources and my energy. A great deal of
my time has been focused on community outreach andfund raising, part of which included the massive mailing I did
back in March, explaining the financial situation that SW wasin and continues to face.
My goal was to generate 400 new subscriptions but we fell
way short of that. Today, we give free subscriptions to about 80
wimmin in prisons and mental institutions (worth $1,500 peryear) plus another 30 or so hardship subscriptions - this constitutes 15 percent of our subscribership - excluding educational and wimmin's institutions.
I've come to SWat a very crucial time for wimrnin's publications and bookstores - some of you may have noticed yourlocal wimmin's bookstore has disappeared - the larger chainsare pushing them out. And SW may not be one of the publications that the larger chains choose to carry. It takes a lot topublish this journal. SW is in trouble - she can't continue
without you. Buy a subscription for a womon who can't afford
to pay. Get your friends to subscribe. Take out sustaining subscriptions.
I am honored to be caretaker of such a gift - our stories. As
a Black womon, I've faced many judgments in this process.
Assumptions have been made, about the direction of this journal, since I've gotten it. One assumption has been, since I am
Black, perhaps SW will become a womon of color publication
although no one thought that when S W was being published bywimmin who were European and Jewish it would become aEuropean Jewish publication. Other concerns have surfaced
because I am not a separatist. Some dykes question whether S W
will continue to be a Lesbian only space - as though separatism and lesbianism are synonymous.
I'm 52. I've been an out-of-the-closet dyke since 1957, longer
than many of the readers of this publication have been alive.
When I came out the word lesbian was not being used. I've
witnessed numerous transitions within our lesbian communi-

Summer/Fall 1995

5

ties. I'm interested in publishing more writings by wimmin ofcolor because I am a womon of color, our stories are importantand our voices have been missing in SW. But likewise, there areother voices missing here - dykes who have things to say that
we need to hear which can help us survive these critical times.
I am concerned with bringing more diversity into SW
Finally, there has been so much love poured into me during
these past six months . Without it, I could not have survived. I
owe much to SW's board, past editors and volunteers alongwith Elana, Ekua, Maria, Lynn, Kyos, Caryatis, Mariasiem,
Heide, Jacqueline, Marianne, Gloria and all the wimmin who
supported my efforts, held my hand, listened to my pain andshared my exhilaration. We, who edited this issue, came together with incredible harmony - amongst intense discussion- with a willingness to learn and feel, committed to holding
a space of integrity when we didn't know if we could.
I am grateful to the wimmin who nurtured this publication
before I came along. At least once or twice-a week I get correspondence from wimmin who say SWis the only place where
they feel safe. I've grown a lot through this process and learned
again - there are no absolutes. I've witnessed another coming
out of SW. Those days when I've questioned my vision havealways been met with positive loving support. Again I'm asking you to support SW ... and yourself. This year is her 20th
anniversary - make sure that she stays around for another 20
years .

• ••We are quite proud of our first issue but submissions were
way down.
Many wimmin have said to me, "I've sent my work to SW
in the past and was rejected - they never accept my work".
While it is true the publication takes on the tone of the present
editor, the greatness of S W is she changes hands often - whichmeans the tone also changes. Besides much needed subscriptions we need you to take that risk and submit your writingsand your art. I know it can be scary. Our stories are our livesthey are precious and when they're rejected, it' s hard. How-6sinister wisdom #56 On Language

ever, in this issue there are at least five or six first time published writers and even more who've never been published in
SW before. This publication has survived because we've needed
it to.
Because my process to becoming a writer and now editor of
SW has been without formal teaching, it seemed the topic of
language would be most appropriate for my first issue. I wanted
to provide a venue to discuss the opposition we face as diverse
lesbians/two spirited wimmin struggling to define our realities in a patriarchal language. Many of our structures are crumbling now. Our realities are constantly being challenged andlanguage is the vehicle used to describe the whole scenario.
This always brings to mind for me the current definition ofracism and how its definition has been changed, over the years,
by Webster and colleagues. Now it's inappropriately linked up
with the definition of bigotry - so that people get to use terms
like "reverse racism" against those of us who have been victimized. Although a racist is a bigot, the boundaries of racism - aninstitution - are far more vast, the effect of which is genocide.
We dedicate this first issue to the wimmin who kep' on yellin'and screamin.' We dedicate this issue to all of you who keep tellin'
your stories so that we can live.

A. Miriasiem Barnes:

I came to SWat the time of ritual passing of the torch of editorof SW, from Elana Dykewomon and family to Akiba OnadaSikwoia and family.
.
I had no idea what saying I'll do my part would really mean.
I soon found myself sitting with a group of women reading
and re-reading writings from women all over the world. I felt andfeel very honored to be given such a gift, such trust these many
writers have in our collective process.
As a group we were multi-cultural, multi-class and multiabled women who identified as lesbians, looking at how we use
language and how our sis ters world wide view and use language.
At times this process was truly overwhelming and yet we allhung in there. We shared laughter and tears, learned to voice ourown fears and projections. Here we experienced a first handSummer/Fall 1995

7

account of the usage of language.
This challenge was very rewarding for me as a writer and ahuman being.
The deeper process of thinking then speaking became veryclear.
I've never edited anything - not even my own words beforeSw.
I didn't just stop at the editing collective. I chose to move on
into the fundraising realm and worked closely with Akiba andSW's Board of Directors to celebrate SW's 20th year and to raise
funds for her to move forward. This process really put a megawatt light on in my head.
In neon light I got how we as a community do or don't support
our own.
SW was born of women, not just women but of lesbians for
lesbians. She has always been women headed and woman steered.
Twenty years ago a marriage took place between the lesbiancommunity and the literary community.
As a community we must embrace SW to secure her
survival.I've heard so many times: "We can only get back what
we've put in!" So far I've found this statement to be true. We as acommunity must keep writing, keep submitting our writings andvisual arts. If we live in the area where SW is housed offer yoursupport. If SW is missing from your favorite bookstore requestthat they order and stock it. Please tell a friend to subscribe.
If SW does not meet your literary needs, write us with yourfeedback and suggestions. Don't just walk away. Mobilize, you
could be surprised at what you might find .
S Wean only be what we as a community would have it to be.
As she grows so do her needs.
We as a community have been a given a wonderful gift -let
us all embrace her and keep her strong. Let us feed her with not
only our gifts of creativity but with the necessities to survive in amaterialistic, patriarchal society - shelter, upgraded office equipment (printer and fax), caretakers and monetary support.
By our silence and immobility we are saying we have no stories
to tell the next generation of lesbians and we are willing to watch
SW die a slow and painful death. Let's keep her alive and strong.

8sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Kyos Featherdancing:
My name is Kyos Featherdancing. My friends call me Koyote.
I am Caddo, Choctaw, French Canadian, Irish, Russian andGerman. I live close to my Caddo heritage. I am Two-Spirited,of two types of wimmin. A wild-dog-dyke and a Spirit healer
medicine womon.
When Akiba asked me to be one of the publishers of Sinister
Wisdom I got very excited but as time went on I realized I was
not qualified to keep up with the pace of SW and Akiba. I'm aslow paced learner with some things. In time I had to decline
but I remained on the board and decided to be part of theeditorial committee.
Editing caused me to realize how judgmental I am of otherpeople's opinions. Editing also made me look at the reason why
I stopped reading. It was hard reading about so many different
opinions because I have not read much for a long time, for fearof taking in other people's ways of thinking. This experiencecaused me to remember my childhood when I would corne
horne from school crying to my grandmother about the lies thatthe history books told about Indun people. My grandmothertold me then I didn't have to read history books if I didn't want
to. She said, "Whatever you take in through your eyes you take
into your heart."
As a child I had only two choices: read lies and lose my soulor close the book and survive - I closed the book.
Now, as an adult, I have many choices. I've made up mymind - I have my own truth and I cannot be swayed.
In conclusion, my prayer for SW while it is with Akiba isthat it do more than just exist. That it be diverse, successful andabundant with new submissions and subscribers.

Summer/Fall 1995

9______________ Upcoming Issues#57 Healing -out in November - don't miss it.

#58 Open - a great time to send in any work in any style!
Deadline: October 1, 1995.
#59 Sexuality - What does this term mean to us as lesbians, dykes, two-spirited and queerwimmin? Clearly there havebeen, within the past decade, new definitions of sexuality. Quite
often I've been angered by the ways in which my lesbianism isdefined only in terms of what someone thinks might be mysexuality. That which gets the most attention tends to be theway in which lesbian sexuality is defined. Many closeted issuesof the past that affect our notions about and experiences ofsexuality are now the everyday topics such as sexual abuse,
AIDS, prostitution, bisexuality, transexuality, celibacy, S&M,.
age, ableism and so on.
At 52, I am very aware that my expectations as a sexual
being are quite different than they were at 32 and 22 - what
about you? I would like to see serious discussion about ourbeliefs, experiences and realities about sexuality. Twenty years
ago, stores like Good Vibrations were places where dirty old
men went to and dildos were "pieces" that only butches carriedand quietly bragged about. Today that is different. And how do
those definitions of "roles" effect our beliefs about sexuality
today? There are generations of us that have grown up in this"sexual revolution" while others of us have watched it come.
How are we bridging the gaps between realities? What kind of
language are we creating to speak to one another about ourdifferences, about our experiences?
I experience great separation in our communities concerning these issues, we all have our camps and our own goodreasons for being there but in my opinion we are not surviving,
we are becoming more and more isolated.
This is not an issue on Erotica although it could be.
Deadline: February I, 1996

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sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Future Issues - we would like to do an issue on dykes inprison. I envision this issue to contain the writings of wimmin
inside and to be edited by wimmin who have been inside. This
could be very challenging because of the editorial process involved . However, there may be someone out there who hasaccess to a group or groups - if so we would appreciate yoursupport and wisdom. Those of you who are inside please feel
free to share your ideas about how we can make this happen.
It takes about a year to get guest editd'rs lined up, contracts
made and all of the kinks worked out. I've received several
letters requesting this. The growing number of requests forsubscriptions from wimmin in prison tells me it is time.

Summer/Fall 1995

11

Akiba Onaaa-Sikwoia

Giants.
lhave beenin the company of giants
your sight giving reason
to my insanity
i've used your stories
to journey intoand heal the crevices of my life
limbs far reaching
you've stood tall in the murk
being your own selves
not to be mistaken for idols
or martyrs
but human beings
wimminpiercing into
the shifting formsof shadows
tearing down
and re-tellingthe myths of living
i have heard your names
spoken on street corners
in whispers and screamsof agonyof joyyour words
magnificent footprints
have carved rivers
through mountains
for me to swim
my life12

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

i honor you
i honor us
teachers
visionaries
keepers of the way
giving voice
to the ancien tones
yelling hoarse
through the mist
riding the windwhile runningcrawling
standing
sittinglying down
dying
going
stayingcoming backagain and again
to tell our truths
i honorthe sacred circle of voicew here we've dug
in to our painrage
compassion
laughter
our hearts
where vision was fragmented
upheaval a consequenceand healing
an inevitable resultof the utterance
the telling of stories
no one everwanted to hearSummer/Fall 1995

Margarita Benitez
Born August 21,1947 - Died June 8,1994

13

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sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Diane Doumit

Women on the Edge of a Very Steep Cliff
Chapter Seven: Punctuated with a TinyDot
There is a book. There are pages glued to 'the binding of thisbook. There are horizontal lines across the pages of this book.
There are names inked across those lines, And there are othernames not inked across those lines.
The other names are the ones which have been swallowed
down at the jail. And if they swallow your name, no one willknow that you are there. And if no one knows that you are
there, they could do anything to you. They could do everything
to you. Anything. Everything. And when they are done, they
could make up anything about what happened in there. They
could make up everything.
They are in charge of the pens, the paper, the story. They arein charge of the alphabet. They are in charge of the way lettersconnect to form words. They are in charge of the spaces between the words. They are in charge of the phrases, sentences,
paragraphs. They are in charge of the interpretation. They arein charge of your life. And they are also in charge of your death.
At any given moment, they can punctuate your life with aperiod. A tiny dot. They can erase all the commas, colons,
semicolons, dittos. They can erase it all with just a tiny dot.
At any given moment, you can cease to exist. And no one
will know that you are no longer there. No one will know thatyou are no longer anywhere. If they swallow your name, no one
will know that you are no longer anywhere.
They are in charge of the pens, the paper, the story. They arein charge of the prologue. They are in charge of the epitaph.
They are in charge of all the chapters which are written between the two, Between the beginning and the end. And they
could make up anything about what happened between the
two. They could make up everything.

rSummer/Fall 1995

15

Five or six women and me.
Thick, sliding door. Loud hollow echo. Too high, too small
window. Other window too large
The sound of a woman's bloodcurdling scream.
The women in the photos laughing at the man's jokes about
women.
The woman with the soiled black shoes and the very soiled
hands.
The women sitting upon chairs beside a table in a restaurant eating breakfast and swallowing names.
The bullies guised as healers.
The arthritic, wrinkling, graying, balding flower children.
Women on the edge of a very steep cliff
All about to fall.
About to fall. To be punctuated with a period. A tiny dot.
Erased . Swallowed. Buried beneath a pile of wilted petals. A
tombstone not engraved with a name.
They are in charge of the pens, the paper; the story. They arein charge of the alphabet. They are in charge of the way lettersconnect to form words. They are in charge of the spaces between the words . They are in charge of the phrases, sentences,
paragraphs. They are in charge of the interpretation. They arein charge of your life. And they are also in charge of your death.
Another jail cell. No pen. No paper. No prologue. No epitaph. No chapters between the two. No beginning. No end. No
name inked across the lines of their book.
No one will know that you were there. No one will knowthat you are no longer anywhere. If they swallow your name.
If they punctuate your life with a period . With a tiny dot. No
one will know that you are no longer anywhere.

16 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Diane Doumit

Women on the Edge of a Very Steep Cliff
Chapter Eight: TwistedThings are very twisted here. Things are 'very, very twisted
here. In this very white city. In this ·courtroom. Things are
twisted.
Things are in knots. Things are in nooses. One noose isaround our necks . And if we tell them truth, they will tightenthat noose and hang us . While if we tell them lies, they willloosen that noose and free us.
Truth is the electronic lock. Thick, sliding door. Loud, hollow echo. Too high, too small window. Other window toolarge.
Lies are the keys. Are the Sun. Abbey's Arches . Lies are theagain and again.
Things are very twisted here. Things are very, very twisted
here. In this very white city. In this courtroom. Things are
twisted.
The stripes on the flag are black and white. They are not red
and white. They are black and white.
The stars on the flag are black and white too. They are notblue and white. They are black and white.
And the white is where the black should be. While the black
is where the white should be. And nothing, nothing at all isgray.
There are watches on the wrists of the v ery white. There are
handcuffs on the wrists of the women. The arms on the watches
are ticking counterclockwise. The handcuffs do not tick at all.
The women swear to tell the truth with their right hands.
They do not swear with their left hands. They swear with theirright hands. The others swear to tell the truth with their left
hands . They do not swear with their right hands. They swear
with their left hands.

Summer/Fall 1995

17

And left is where right should be. While right is where leftshould be. And nothing, nothing at all is gray.
The words are coming out of the lawyers' mouths backwards. They are not coming out of their mouths forwards. They
are coming out of their mouths backwards.
The juror is handing the verdict to the judge. He is handing
the verdict to the judge wi th his left hand. He is not handing theverdict to the judge with his right hand. He is handing theverdict to the judge with his left hand.
The judge is reading the verdict that the juror handed tohim. The judge is reading the verdict with his left eye. He is notreading the verdict with his right eye. He is reading the verdict
with his left eye.
The justice scale is tipping to the left. It is not tipping to theright. It is tipping to the left.
And left is where right should be. While right is where leftshould be. And nothing, nothing at all is balanced.
The courtroom is swaying back-and-forth. It is swaying
back-and-forth on the edge of the truth. It is swaying back-andforth on the edge of the lies. It is swaying back-and-forth on theedge of the black. It is swaying back-and-forth on the edge of
the white. It is swaying back-and-forth counterclockwise. It isswaying back-and-forth on the edge of the right. It is swaying
back-and-forth on the edge of the left. It is swaying back-andforth backwards. It is swaying back-and-forth forwards. It isswaying back-and-forth in reverse. It is swaying back-andforth on the edge of a very steep cliff.
The women are hanging upside down. The rules are hanging downside up.
The very, very white are in charge of the way things hanghere. The man who stinks of alcohol, shouts orders, and tells
jokes about women is in charge of the way things hang here.
The women in the photos laughing at the man's jokes about
women are in charge of the way things hang here. The woman
with the soiled black shoes and the very soiled hands is incharge of the way things hang here. The women sitting on
chairs beside a table in a restaurant eating breakfast and swal-

18

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

lowing names are in charge of the way things hang here. The
soldiers on the other side of the door are in charge of the way
things hang here. The bullies guised as healers are in charge of
the way things hang here. The arthritic, wrinkling, graying,balding flower children are in charge of the way things hanghere. And all the arms on all their watches are ticking counterclockwise.
Things are very twisted here. Things are very, very twisted
here. In this very white city. In this e:ourtroom. Things are
twisted.
Things are in knots. Things are in nooses . One noose isaround our necks. And if we tell them truth, they will hang us
rightside up. While if we tell them lies, they will loosen thatnoose and free us. If we tell them lies, they will free us rightside
down.
Truth is the electronic lock. Thick, sliding door. Loud, hollow echo . Too high, too small window. Other window toolarge.
Lies are the keys. Are the Sun. Abbey's Arches . Lies are theagain and again .
Things are very twisted here. Things are very, very twisted
here. In this very white city. In this courtroom. Things are
twisted .
Everything is hanging here. Everything is hanging downside up. Everything is hanging upside down. Everything ishanging on the edge of a very steep cliff.
There are watches on the wrists of the very white. There are
handcuffs on the wrists of the women. The arms on the watches
are ticking counterclockwise. The handcuffs do not tick at all.

Summer/Fa ll 1995

RevivedJulie A. Lawton

19

20

sinister wisdom #56 On Language]BWiley

I dreamI

dream I be an Island
Me hair so wispy white eh too fine to pull comb true.
Me neck n snoulders feather-green mango wid lime
cassava n olive fans oh coconut n palm tree
Me breasts smooth an roun wid bark fi purple, black, red,gold, orange, green, yellowgrey, silkcotton, turpentine
an soapwood
wash green wid me dew.
Me moun n hips bush n forest - catch-and-keep, monkey-donclimb n tamarin tree -knotty knobby n smooth hard ...
protectin de sweet fruitness inside.
Coraf grow ova me toes n feet ... sugarsand ring wid blackrock trowed out feh me Mumas heart when sne cry longtime go.
Her waters mix wid mine
soft turquoise green n
mid-night blue.
Whelk n abeng n turtle play tween me toes wid more fishes
den I kyan count.
Stimes me waters sigh an whisper ... slow n restful
Oder time dem be crashin n rockin me - like fi wash sintingway.
I dreamed I be violated.
By 1il bwoy-mens wid nuh hearts n empty eyes.
Dem come fi me pan me waters like tun drop from de sun ...
First one, den noder one, den tree, den many - like de fishes
roun me toes.
Dem be tired from dem journey n feed n res demo
Dem play like chilren in me bounty, dem sey me praises,dem quick fe mek friends wid picknie q.em.
Dem mouths is full fe promises.
But ...
Chol
dem lie tuh me!
Speakin outta side of dem mout ... trick picknie dem ... saying disan duhin sinting doda.
Dem tek n tek n nuten gi me back!
Dem use n beat picknie demo
Dem slash n burn me breasts n mound, crack open de smoothn hart n teef me sweetness den trow eh way on de ground.
Dem dirty ... dem mean.

Summer/Fall 1995

21

Lil bwoy-mens builds dem houses ... pan me breasts ... me tighs... me shoulders.
Dem trow up high walls all roun ... nobody kyan see dem, or talkwid dem if need help
or sinting.
Lil bwoy-mens chase de birds away, strippin me tuh de sun tillme blood, me dews, nuh run nuh moe.
Salt blind me eyes ... dem wake n 01 membry.
Ah cry wid de hurts
but dem don lissen.
Me waters rise up n howls wid me Mumas voice.
Me waters crash n poun n smash dem houses
dem high walls
down.
Little bwoy-mens cry n curse me ...
Me skin grow back where dem burn me. Mango n cassava grown crusn de stone
fe dem houses. Cottonwood push her roots n crack dehroads n factories. Picknies stop wukin n gwane home.
Lil bwoy-mens don see nuttin wid dem empty eyes.
Dem los sinting me kyan nuh gi·back fi demo
But Ah me be Muma's chile,
Wid me Mumas heart n me Mumas voice.
Ah dream ah be an Island long afta dem be gwane.
Glossary
abeng, conch
ave,havedeh,beeh,itgwane, gonemek, make, allow, letnuh,noova, overpicknie, (my) child, children
sinting, somethingn, andbwoy, boyeberyting, everythingfi, feh, tu, to, ofkyan, canmout, mouthoh, ofpan, uponseh, sayteef, to steal, thief~This poem is dedicated to the womyn and men of the Caribbean Islands andto Audre Lorde . Many thanks to Opal Palmer Adisa for Bake Face and other
Guava Stories, Marion Gerlind, Abimbola Adama and our writers group for
listening to this many times.

22

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Elisa Lucero

Escucha! La Voz de Aztlan
For years now I've been imagining myself composing an essay so
profound and insightful about the subject of language that it would
relieve me of all my angst and suffering. To finally put on paper thejoy and empowerment and the agony ani! embarrassment.

Yosoy Chicana. Born and raised in Aztlan, still living in
Aztlan, with a vision of reclaiming our lands . My indigenousroots are in New Mexico and Colorado. With one exception,
mi Abuelita (mom's mom), she is from Mexico City. Her
people are from Teotihuacan. It is known for the great pyramids that our ancestors built for us to remember them by.
She is from the Anahuac people and speaks Nahuatl.
Being raised in the Chicano movement in Denver I was
immersed in pride for my culture. To call oneself Chicano is to
say that you are Mexican-American who identifies with yourIndian roots. It is a militant term that, in essence, reclaims ourindigenous roots to this land - Aztlan. liThe borders crossed
us, we didn't cross the borders."
My Father's family came from the San Luis Valley in Southern Colorado and Northern New Mexico areas. We've lived on
this land since its beginnings and have adapted to many changes
and have struggled to hold on to our traditional ways. We aresurvivors of Spanish colonialism and continue to survive in
Anglo-American colonialism.
Chicanos look at the Conquistadores with pain and anger.
Defiantly accepting our Spanish forefathers who raped andslaughtered our Grandmothers. Therefore creating a new Raza.
The Spaniards were a brutal people, they enslaved the Indians,
forced their religion on them, wiped out millions of nonbelievers and exterminated them with their diseases. It's sobering tothink of this dichotomy tha t runs through our veins. In general,
we Chicanos don't take much pride in our Spanish ancestry.

"

Summer/Fall 1995

23

Ironically, there is one thing that the Spaniards broughtwith them that to this day, "Indian identified Chicanos" embrace with pride and ownership. This is the Spanish language.
It is said that losing ones language is the first step toward
genocide. The Spaniards were extremely successful in dividing
and conquering the people of this land. From the first encounter, Spaniard to Indian (Cortez y Montezuma), language was
the key element. Little did the Indian woman who translated
these insidious meetings know that her name would be dragged
through the cosmic gutters. Malinche the translator/traitor,
has become more than a person or a name. Her name is used asa curse or expletive. It is a word that is spit at someone who lies
or deceives.
Today the Spaniards language has come full circle. We
Chicanos take much pride in speaking Spanish and to someextent even ridicule those who don't speak it. What status
would Malinche have today? We now embrace the languagethat Malinche has been brutally stigmatized for using. However, there is more history to Malinche than just being a translator. She was also said to have been Cortez's lover, or was it
slave?
Knowing this history and seeing this dichotomy, I can still
understand the importance of claiming the Spaniards' language and teaching it to our children. Perhaps it's one way ofshowing our strength and advantages. Even though it is thelanguage of our conquerors, it identifies our cultural heritage
and we can take pride in its beauty. For us there is no otherlanguage that can speak of love and pain with such a flowing
humbleness and dignity. A language that can touch your heartin such a way that it enables you capable of speaking to God insong and prayer.
Many of us Chicanos in Denver do not speak Spanish. I
don't speak Spanish. Sure I can speak a little. There have beentimes in my life when Spanish has come easy to me and sometimes I can't understand a thing. It's perhaps, the most painful
thing in my life. It's a delicate and embarrassing subject for me,a wound that runs very deep. It runs deep because losing one's

24 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

language is part of the pathology of genocide. It divides ourpeople and in many ways it separates us from the beauties ofour culture. It can be a vicious circle.
Growing up, I never felt guilty or ashamed for not speaking
Spanish. I was much more inclined to speak my broken Spanish
without any embarrassment. Of course I felt sad and frustrated, but I never felt guilty or ashamed until I got older. I've
allowed myself to feel this way because of other people's expectations. I know, I look like I shou1d speak Spanish. People
have told me that I have no right to speak of pride for myculture when I don't even speak my language.
The Spanish language identifies our culture and has transformed itself into a beautiful gift that our Spaniard ancestors
have given us . Even though, we Chicanos, have tried so hard toresist our identification with the Spanish, perhaps their language and the desire to maintain this language will help us
acknowledge the Spaniards blood that runs through our veins.
The ancestors of my Mother's Father were among the first
Spaniards to ride into the Rio Grande Valley at Bernalillo, New
Mexico in the 1600's.
I know that the Spanish language will not die at my hands.
It will be carried on through me to my children. I place it as oneof the most important tasks on my life's agenda. Because, eventhough it was easier for my parents to speak English in myhome they still taught me about cultural pride and roots. I lived
my culture and was taught to honor my ancestors . It is important for our survival to remember our people's ways. It enhances all humanity.

Summer/Fall 1995

2S

Gloria Anzaldua in front of her drawings presenting her book:
Borderlands at the Montreal Feminst Book Fair, 1988.
Cathy Cade, 1988
Writers who read their work aloud know the issue of translating
the written word into the spoken word. To get a book of photographs
published, I must translate the photographs into words so wordpeople feel comfortable. Imagine my great pleasure experiencing Gloria
Anzaldua presenting her book Borderlands - in which the issue ofmultiple languages is central - by talking, reading and drawing
about the concepts in her book. With great energy, Gloria treated theaudience to spoken words, printed page, and images as a continous
revelation.

26 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Jennifer Tucker

Growing Up in America
Once upon a time,
The innocent one
Climbed mountains
Traversed deserts
Sailed sea upon sea
But she forgot to pack her bags
Once upon a time,
The innocent one
Asked for help
Sought forgiveness
Hoped for liberations
But she forgot to look within
Once upon a time,
The innocent one
Tried to find
Tried to know
Tried to learn
But she never quite understood
The innocent one
is swallowed
The innocent one
is digested
The innocent one
is excreted
In our not so innocent land .

Summer/Fall 1995

27

Our generation, the post "X" generation, has played spectator to the attempts of American mediator, and has seen how
America strives to "come clean," and look innocent after intervening in foreign affairs.
I wrote this poem in lieu of the times America has spentplaying the supernational hero. But we have only played a rolethat does not entirely exist in this real world. Politicians promise new policies tempting under noses, but when a further stepis taken back, one might agree that America needs to "get out,"
and smell the fresh air. Not only for cutting expenditures, but
for the purpose of our country's morale, do we need to take amore serious look at foreign affairs.
In my poem, I speak of the "innocent one" who strives forfeat, but winds up in a cyclical path to her fate. The stanzas
speak many languages, in that there is no "one" meaning to thewords. The variety of meanings that this poem has for mealone, is endless. If you notice the parallels between the "innocent one," and America, you are on the right track.

28 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Margaret M. Pavel

A Seed"'A seed, Margieschek, what you are holding.
in your hands

is a seed."•
I don't remember if my grandmother said those exact words
or just transmitted them ... Czech accent, brown arms pullingme close to her plaid apron ... She communicated in sign language and through touch, no sounds needed ... kneading mytiny hands in her large hands and placing the seed firmly andgently, just so, in the center like the poppyseed filling tucked in
the middle of the kolatchke rolls.
Especially in her garden, my grandmother spoke so clearlywith little English, without words really. "Too crowded, morewater, more air" as she did the thing needed, with reverence ...
thinning carrots .
She knew lots of practical things about providing the conditions which support life .. . growing food, making clothing,staying warm, getting well, and repairing anything. And in her
spell the world spoke ... carrots, dill, everything unfurled andspoke back ... no English needed, and meant what it said.

Summer/Fall 1995

29

Karla Nitchmann

Bubbe's Reflections
Lottie's gone to Florida
Now who should I speak Yiddish with?
What Jew believes in God?
So not even will I go to synagogue
to speak Hebrew.
How is it I should survive
the stench and deaths of the camps
andneith.er, my children, nor my grandchildren
can talk with me?
Yiddish, Hebrew, Russian even,
but English,
and English only.
I ask
what survival is this,that we gave them?
Who would have told,
you, my eldest daughter,
wouldn't even be literate
in your one American English language.
Carol, your daughter came to visit,
she called me Bubbe.
Oh Lottie look,
she speaks Yiddish!
Oh a joy it was,a fleeting moment, though I knew.
I sat her down, I
told her who she was,where it was she came from.
Who it was that survived, so few.
Who it was that died, so many.

30

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

The tears streamed down her face,
the loss filled her eyes,
a deeper loss than her young ness
could know.
How should I tell her,
our language,
it holds so much!
How could she know, when we didn't tell?
Our language is our culture,
our religion is our language.
The way we Jews talk,the way we move,are the language.
She should know.
Our humor is in our language.
Our ancestors are in the language,
Our secrets, they are in the language.
Lottie's gone to Florida,
New York seems so bare.
Without you here, next door,
just a Shalom Chavera through the walls away.
You and me, Lottie,
We didn't have to share,
to remember, there wasan unspoken knowing of the past horrors,
always there, behind our eyes,
our presence soothing to each other.
Our aliveness a gift, a burden,
our Yiddish a delightful embrace.
But the young,now they want to know the past,
Why I ask?
now they want to go back,
How I ask?
Such a price we paid,
for their lives,
for their assimilation,

Summer/Fall 1995

their education,
their success.
Why should we drag it up now?
The smell of dead flesh,
how should we ever express it?
In English?
My granddaughter, she calls me regular,
every so often.
And gone are myoid questions,
Are you in School?
Who are you dating? Is he Jewish?
When are you getting married?
Is your sister still divorcing her husband?
Oh, that's right, you're not Kosher are you?
Now only,
Are you happy?
Are you eating?
Her yeses, they are enough.
If I had it to do over,I tell her,I'd live more like her,free! Without a man,even with a child,without a man.
She called to tell me of my great grandson.
Another non-Jewish father, I knew
I said nothing.
She named him Izayah,
a nice strong Jewish name,and I was so pleased.
I sent a gift,
I knew she'd be happy.
Always searching for approval.
It's the Jewish way.
When will we be good enough again,
When will God create miracles for us once more?

31

32 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

When will we love ourselves?
How is it we should trust this world?
When will we accept God,
When can we go home?
When will we speak our own language,tell our children?
How is it we should live?
My granddaughter called again,
she's with her sister in Jersey.
How much your sister reminds me of my Carol,
Her skin darker, her hair the same thickness,her features so Jewish. I call her Carol,
and when I can,I see the disappointment in her eyes.
She wants to be herself,and so she doesn't call,she doesn't visit anymore,
like you.
Your grandfather died I tell you.
I just don't understand him, the son of a bitch,
everyone is walking on top of the earth,and he lays below it.
You know no one cusses like a Jewish woman.
How should I stay in New York now?
How could I ride the bus alone,
my eyes fail me,
the bastard doctor said the operation would
remove the cataracts.
He lied.
You don't know I know,how you believe me, a hypochondriac.
My failing health, merely an exaggeration.
It's the camp's fault, our lack of breath,the breaking down of our spirit.
Lottie's gone, your grandfather died,
you'll return to California.

Summer/Fall 1995

Maybe I should follow Lottie to Florida,
we'll speak Yiddish together,and silently share our secrets,
remember our relatives.

* Bubbe - Grandmother** Shalom Chavera - A warm greeting for a close
woman friend

Crone with Child's Reflection
Carol A. Johnson

33

34

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Leatha Jones

In the Kitchen
The kitchen was warm with laughter and the smell of sweet
hickory smoke. The yellow chair, hard, weak, from supporting
the weight of my one hundred pounod body. Seem's like I ben'sittin' here all morning watching the lonely strands of my hairfall to my knees . I always be whimpering and whining too
much, my Aunt Martha said as she stood nearby checking on
my cousin little Michael. The smell of burnt hair stings my nose
as another tear rolls down my round cheeks. I can feel my headbeing jerked to and fro' like when I gotta get my doll Temeka tosit straight when I'm doing her hair cause she forever hard
headed . Ouch.
The blue green grease caked around the edge of my hairline
makes me even sweat more. I look like the before and after
permanent relaxer pictures in Jet. One side beautiful, tamed,silky, straight, black. The other nappy, standing straight up likesome kinda wild peas'y headed jungle African . Ouch. Can'tcurse. Just gotta keep sitting still.
It wouldn't be so bad if my mother didn't have to put somuch of that grease. Scorching my scalp with the punishmentof nappy hair. My cousin Lay Lay got good hair. The kind that
only need water and grease to keep straight. It's shiny and red .
But kinda orange like fall. She wears it in curls that lay up
against her light skin, making her look like a model. My plump
little sister over there grinning cause she done for the day.
Pressed, curled, and painted with my Aunt Martha's kiss onher cheek. She teasing me Mommy. Tell her to stop. Laughing
at my skinny dark legs all cramped up. Ouch, that ain't funny.
She over there with her new birthday dress on. Pink trimmedwith yellow edging gazing out of humorous soft brown eyes,
lashes so long when she grow up she won't need no mascara.
She won't have ta stare squinting into the mirror to paint asparse lash like my cousin Riva. Both of them have that glow ofSummer/Fall 1995

35

sun baked peanut butter cookie skin tone. Look so pretty. Ya,
I'm jealous.
Everyone likes my sister better' cause her brown skin wraps
her so deliciously that mine can never get that kinda praise. But
there is one thing wrong with 'er. Uncle Jerry says "She need tostop eating so damn much. Just look at how fat she getting" hesay. "No man want no big ole fat woman." I felt sorry for herthat day, but I laughed too. I didn't want to get teased next . She
still my only sister even if she is fat. Who care about no ole man
anyway. She just eight years old. I don't like him much no way.
He always drunk, breathing all in my face, and he got the nerve
to talk about somebody. Don't treat the woman he got good soany man I' m gonna want better not be one like him.
It's so hot in this kitchen from the blue flame under that hot
comb on the stove to my Uncle Big Michael on my father's side,back in the yard tending to his grubb'n barbecue. Ouch. I see
everybody eating 'cept me. I'm hungry too. "But ya still nappyheaded. Your Mama ain't' even really started working on yourhead yet!" my cousin Lay Lay snapped. I brace myself for the
next coming of the hot comb. Now orange from retaining allthat heat. My mother waves it in the air to try to cool it down.
Clouds of smoke trail behind, I'm sure some curious flies are
suffocating in the process. I relax. I cough. Look up again to see
it coming. My eyes all closed up so tight, only three tears
manage to get through. Ouch. "My butt hurt. Can I go get some
Kool-Aid?" "Child, lain' t even hit the back of your kitchen yet"
Ouch. She mad at me. I can tell the way she drawn that sentenceout like I den asked her to let me go out 'en play with thosefilthy neighbor kids.
My cousin little Michael takes pity on me and gives a contemplating look in my direction. I bet he glad he ain't no girl.
I saw him coming towards me, so I sheltered my heart fromanother joke but instead while smoothing his hand over his
naked scalp, he offered me a small taste of some of his KoolAid. "At least the front's done" he said as he sauntered out theback door to be with his father. Ouch. I bet he going to get someof those ribs. Ouch Mama.

36

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

The grease smells clean and fresh. Can't swang it yet,
Momma'll get mad. Mad like the time we wanting to go swimming. Me and my sister. But only Daddy takes us swimming so
we got into the tub of warm water with our bathing suits on.
She never quite liked for us to go swimming. When we go
swimm'n at the Albany indoor pool we be the only Blacks. I
hadn't thought 'bout it before. About how we use to come backsoggy and wet with hair that went back. It just reminded methat our hair has to be straight all the time. Even when we go
swimm'n.
Our father don't live with us no more . I don't know why. I
don't even remember when he left. They so secretive. All I
know is he lives with Grandma now. One day on a car ride I
asked him, "When you coming home?" He said "If your Mama
let me I will." I'm smart for my age and I know Mama didn't
want him back so I wondered why he holding on to lost hope.
I miss him. Ouch. "Leatha, what you staring at?" my cousin Lay
Lay asked, shocking me back to reality. "Noth'n" I say. Nobody
likes him. Daddy. Nobody but me. So I don't say I'm thinking
about him. He is short, got short hair, and a short imagination.
But long cash. He buys us stuff all the time. 'Seem like anything
we want. Some people say that's whats wrong with us now.
Ouch.
I hope I will be done soon. I always like to toss my hair
before she puts those ponytails in it. What's equally bad iswhen I get my hair corn rolled and braided by Lay Lay. Herbony fingers pull at the few strands of hair I have left into
designs on my head. I wear my hair in plaits my Grandpa calls
them, to school everyday in blue, yellow, red and green rubberbands. Sometimes my Mama lets me pick what kinda style I
want. But she won't let me wear it down in the back. Ouch. Say
it look too grown. I wonder how she gonna put it today.
At school all the people who look like me sit in the back. No
I don't be act'n a fool at school. None of us do. All the white kids
sit in the front. I guess 'cause that old knarled up white woman
wanna be close to her kind. She be up there talking to us like we
ain't got not sense. I know. My Mama's a school teacher. Anyway,r

Summer/Fall 1995

37

Mrs. Keller got brown hair rolled up in a bun like Old Mrs.
Hubbard. Her ole wrinkled up face don't smile at us. Her
clothes look like they from, ah, ah, ah, ah, 1970. She probably
can write a book about the Civil War she so old. Plus ugly. I
don't talk much in school 'cause she never calls on us anyway.
We practice our letters on grey lined dotted paper. I alreadyknow how to write my name. Thank You.
There is one girl, I can't stand in class. Caroline. She lives in
the hills. And so does all her friends. Mrs . Keller would ask her
to go get her mail out the box outside. Well, I don't know if it
was mail 'cause Mrs . Keller never asked me or anybody elseBlack to run her special errands for her. I also don't like Rebecca,
Emily, Emma, Jennifer, the other Emma, Rachel, Heather,
Simone, and Nina. I don't need to tell you their last names'cause it seems they all sprang out of the same thin blond hairedrich white woman in the Berkeley Hills . Mrs. Keller loved themthough. No I was never friends with any of them. Everyday I
wait for one of the Black kids names to be called to escape. But
no . While we practicing the shape of the alphabet, those white
kids be learning something else. Ouch. This starting to get me
mad. I wish I could cuss out loud 'cause if I could, I would
shout, - "Damn I hate those white girls." All they got to do isswing their long blond hair and they get an A. But even when
my hair pressed and curled, it don't swing like that woman on
the commercial.
I don't know why I get treated so bad 'cause of the way I
look. Once in the bath when I was young. I was six then. I tried
to see if the black would rub off my skin but it wouldn't. I
scrubbed so hard some skin came off though. 'Cause I saw
blood.
N ow, it ain't so bad getting my hair done. I can do more stuff
with my hair than Caroline or any white girl named Simone
ever could. I can braid, put it into ponytails, curl it, or wear it
down. I know I can't wear it down now 'cause of Mama butwhen I get old I will.
The touch of the hot comb on my small ears wakes me up.
I start to cry. Aunt Martha comes over to me, with a breath38 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

smelling of grown folks drank, and kisses me on the cheek. She
fussing at my Mother whose arms are tired. Oh no, I think Aunt
Martha going to do the rest of my hair. She more brutal than my
Mother. Well, I know I best be still now. I touch the burned
wrinkly black skin near my neck where she burned me the lasttime she did my hair. Oh, I wish I could take off my head andlay it on the table so they can just fix mY'hair while I go outside
to play with my cousin little Michael. I wish I could. Thatwould be awesome. Or to be able to peel off my scalp like a wig
and let them tangle with it, so I can run wild like a boy.
"Leatha, I'm done with you." "You can get up now," myMother lulled me out of my daydreaming. "I'm done now."

Untitled
Julia Youngblood

Summer/Fall 1995

39

Pola

The Kitchen Sink

hot water, wooden
spoons, pots, pansdishes, cords
knives, hangers
hands, hairbrushes
fly swatters, feetbrooms, eyes, forks
little red wagon
handles, cigarettes
fishing poles, green
limbs, weatheredboards, fingers
tongues
belts, bottles, dicks
good tools to breakfragile spirits.

40

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Sauda Burch

Like That, Like That, Like That That There:
Art, Language and Culture;
an interview with Fan Warren
I walk into the Oakland studio Fan shares with her partner and sister
artist Celia Rodriquez, and Celia's granddaughter Camie. I have
known Fan since we both lived in Chicago, but this is the first time
we have talked about her art. Fan is sitting in a chair against adrawing/painting of a slave ship, casually putting on her shoes. She
stands and walks toward me, smiling, her stride characteristic of awoman who is always on the verge of doing something, or needing
something to do, torso forward, confident. Her southern sensibilities
are evident. She asks whether I would like something to drink, motions me to a chair... The painting of the slave ship is at least seven feetwide and seems near as tall. I have seen many drawings of the vesselsthat hauled millions of Africans from their continent, but it is theenormity of this image, the white painted bodies against the heavy
seemingly aged black paper, that pulls at me throughout the entire
interview. The ship is one of several pieces that Fan has done on the
Middle Passage. This stark and somber painting is an ironic backdrop
to the spirited energy in the studio. Fan and Celia have been commissioned to do an art installation at the Gorman Museum in Davis, CA.
Before I arrived, they had been discussing their individual concepts
for the installation.
It's trippy to be doing this installation now. Celia went backinto her files and found notes from two years ago about thisparticular collaboration. This installation is about the relationships between Africans and the indigenous people on this continent. About Blacks and Mexicans, the intersections of ancientand contemporary culture. I have more opportunities to do
installations now. An installation allows me to work with thephysical environment to create or provoke a certain mood, get
my concept out. It's more challenging when I work with some-Summer/Fall 1995

41

one else, especially someone of another race. When Celia andI work together we discuss what we have in common and also
the stereotypes we hold about each other's races. We say things
to each other- things that happened with a person of that race,that racial edge between people of color. Then we figure out
how we can make art together.
What do you think people think of your art?
I think my art evokes something in people that they don't
quite understand . I remember this Black woman once came up
to me at an opening and told me that she loved my work. She
was talking about how my work made her feel. That's exactly
what I want my work to do, to provoke some feeling, touch
some deeper memory that your subconscious locks in on. You
start smelling something from your past or you have a flashback or deja vu - especially for Black people - that's what myart's about, a message for them. If other people get somethingfrom my work, that's cool too. So, this woman was saying to me"I remember when I was in the kitchen ... " She talked about
things that resonated with my life. I just ate it up. As she wastalking, I went back into my own memory and I rememberedsitting in the kitchen, and the fried chicken, the burning hair .. .
That's what I want my art to do. Remind you where you comefrom, connect you with the times you got certain informationthat allowed you to survive. We were two black women about
the same age. I was raised in Alabama; she was probably raisedin the South. Our sensibilities seemed similar. The way thatpiece made her feel took me years to accomplish. I see a pieceof material, a scrap somewhere in the street. I think, "thatreminds me of when I was seven and my cousin was combing
my hair," or "that reminds me of a time in my life when I felt
secure or when I was learning something about my culture." Isave it to use in my art. It takes a while to get all the materials
I need to finish a piece. What I liked was that this woman didn't
just talk about my work in art terms. When people talk about
my art like that I go, "huh."
You're not comfortable with art terminology?
The way you learn to talk about art in art school is
Eurocentric, presented from a structural, intellectual point ofview. We didn't discuss how the work makes you feel. No one
encouraged us to work from our cultural backgrounds. My art

42sinister wisdom #56 On Language

comes from my culture and I want people to feel something
when they look at it. I opened this art magazine once and there
was this huge review on Celia and me, a show we had been incalled "Home Girls." The reviewer was writing about my art
like she knew me . "African altars provoke ... " blah, blah blah.
It was strange the way she was going on and on. The particularpiece she reviewed was one I had worked on for two years.
That piece was full of medicine. The people who it was meant
for would get the medicine when· they saw the piece. The
reviewer was throwing around this popular art terminology. I
was trained traditionally, I know what these terms mean, butthat wasn't close to what was going on in my piece. I don't
throw words around to flower things up. I like to edit, edit, edit.
H seems you strive to achieve the same "just enoughness"in your art as well.
I may use only one image in a piece but I pay a lot of
attention to building upon that image. For example, the pieceon that wall is of a house on legs with a chain (she points to a
recent drawing). If you diagrammed it, it would seem simple.
But once you consider the textures I use, the fact that there is achain (and you know what that chain has been used for), then
add to that the image of a house on legs, the piece has become
more complicated. Once, while on a reservation in Montana I
found these little pieces of burned linoleum. The linoleum
reminded me of the floor we had when I was a little girl in
Alabama. It not only reminded me of that kitchen floor. I could
go further and say that particular pattern was used in the
1950's. Now I have certain feelings connected with the 50's andeveryone a certain age, from a certain class background might
have a similar relation to that linoleum. Let's take it further. In
the 50's I was a Black child living in the South. Now I have aconnection to that scrap of linoleum that takes me back to what
was happening at that time, the Civil Rights Movement. That's
how provocative a small piece of material can be. So a person
looks at a piece of my art, they look at the crumbly paint andthey are thrown back into their personal history. Exactly what
I'm trying to achieve.
Tell me about your creative process.
I get a spurt of energy that lasts two or three months. During that time I come up with thumbnail sketches of images. I

Summer/Fall 1995

43

take the sketches and decide which I want to build or draw.
Whether I build or draw depends on where I am. I can't makesculpture right now. I don't have the space or the financial
means . But I can draw. When I'm in a place where I can makesculpture, I make sculpture. I have always used basic images,
the house, the cross, the square, the chain. Every culture hasthem. I take my sketches through a factory process. I work andrework the drawings to refine them. While I'm working, I'm
thinking, "What do I want this piece to provoke? What is thestory behind this piece?" I keep notes and work the piece until
I get a final sketch. Then I decide which materials to use, how
to further express what I'm trying to getting across.
You use a lot of wood in your work; what does that material mean to you?
Wood has been abundant. Not in California. But in Chicago
wood was accessible and most times free, at least the wood I
wanted . I could walk outside my door and find something I
could make art with. As someone poor tryiI}g to get an education, I used a lot of materials that were accessible. Chicago is amanufacturing city and there was lots of metal lying around.
When I was doing the Cross Series in my last year of graduate
school I passed a house that had burned. I took the stairs out.
I used that burned wood in my crosses. People dumped stuff inlots and I would go through looking for material. I took discarded store signs off the street. Most of my sculpture is madeof materials I found in the streets, in Chicago, Alabama, Alaska,
wherever I've been.
Are you creating the art you would if you had more financial means or access?
Things happen the way they are supposed to happen, coming at times when I'm in a better place to receive them. I don't
think there's anything I've missed out on. I've pretty muchaccepted that I have what I have. I enjoy the material I workwith. Wood was abundant and it also resonates with me. I likeusing materials that have aged, rusted, deteriorated. At somepoint in graduate school I realized I didn't have the privilege tocomplain about what I didn't have. Here I was with a private
art school education, no matter how I got through. My challenge is to make art with what I have wherever I am. I've
learned to 'milk' those 101 classes. I took a basic photography

44sinister wisdom #56 On Language

course.Now I take the pictures and make the slides of both
Celia's and my work. I have enough.
What kind of art do you like?
Bill Traylor, Sister Mary ... Black Folk artists. The art is sohonest, and pure, and I don't mean naive. The art doesn't hide,
doesn't make excuses. When I first walked through my firstexhibit of Black folk art, I felt like I was entering an inner
sanctuary. I took off my shoes.
Tell me about your Middle Passage series.
I'll tell you why I'm in the Middle Passage now. I went ona "vision journey". I had satin a lot of Native American ceremonies and everybody was always talking about what tribe andnation they were from. We had to declare what tribe we werefrom. I had mixed feelings about it because I can remember
Black people who didn't want to say they were Negro andwould brag about being part Indian. That always bothered me.
Over the years I learned there were and are Black Indians andthat there was a lot of mixing of indigenous people and Blacks
in the South. That changed my thinking a bit, but I still went tothese ceremonies as a visitor. During this particular ceremony
the medicine man suggested I pray about where I came from.
No one in my family ever talked about where they came from,and I never particularly wanted to know. But I decided to try
and I started praying and eating medicine. I went to the Middle
Passage. It was incredibly intense. Words don't give justice towhat that experience was like. All the while I knew my ancestors were with me, helping me out. I went back to the ship. I
went back as the feeling, a gaseous state, part of the atmosphere.
I could see only as much as I could experience. I felt the grief
and the confusion on the ship. I felt the moaning, the despair.
The inside of the ship was dark and smoky, like thick fog over
the ocean. Thin streams of light came through the wood. I felt
I was being buried alive . I was crying and moaning, in deep
distress. Celia brought me back. My emotions had been taxed
in a way I had never experienced. Think about the despair you
have had in your life, and take that and magnify it exponentially. Now imagine how that might feel like in your body. I was
gasping for air like I was being held down under water. It was
horrible. I know I have to go back but it will be years before I do.

Summer/Fall 1995

45

Go back for your art or for yourself?
For my healing. From that journey I realized why it's hardfor Black people to talk about the Middle Passage. The scar it
has left on our souls is big. To me it explains all the despair you
see in our people today. It is a disease deep inside of us, the selfhate, all of it. As Black people, the Middle Passage was the
beginning of life as we know it. I am also very interested inwhat was going on in Africa at the time to support the takingof millions of Africans from the continent.
When I walked in and saw that ship on your wall "Boom!" Being closed in and not being allowed to speak, tobe taken away from everything familiar and to be plunged
into nothingness. It unnerves me every time.
If you let yourself open up and look at it. It's interesting tosee people stare at the image of the ship and not know what itis, Black people included. I have seen white people get visibly
upset when they were around it. Subconsciously they knowwhat it is, but denial kicks in overdrive. I .told you about the
installation in Cincinnati. Everyone had to go through an installation of the Middle Passage to get to the other installations.
The majority of the audience was white and they didn't knowwhat the Middle Passage was. They had a very hard time going
through, falling and stumbling through a well constructed pathI had built.
The emotions that come up are those that we like to pushdown.
Nothing cute or sweet. I am interested in making art thatcomments on our reality and leaves something useful behind.
The issues we deal with daily, the structure we live under andthat we will continue to live under as Black people. We need totalk about how the Middle Passage has scarred us, get it in the
open and deal with it. Begin to heal from it so we don't take thatpain into the next generation. I don't have the privilege of
doing art for art's sake. Otherwise I could take that wood I'musing and give it to somebody that needs a house.
So how has your Middle Passage series changed you? Is it
part of your personal healing?
When I came out of the vision journey I felt that I needed tolearn how to pray better. How to ask the right questions to get
the answers I'm searching for. Doing the Middle Passage is46sinister wisdom #56 On Language

certainly part of letting the pain of it out. When I first started
the series, I took one image of a slave ship and enlarged it 300x.
The first time I painted a ship Celia was helping me to paint in
the people. She commented how hard it was to do. It was
painstaking. I paint in each of those bodies and as I paint I
understand more. I am emotionally and p~ysically close to thiswork. I can smell the ship and feel the energy of the people. It
has changed the way I interact with:Q;ly own people. I feel moreconnected to Black people, regardless if they want to be connected to me. I am more open and accepting in general and lot
less cynical. I figure now that we are doing the best we can do
considering what we have lost. I understand more about thepain and see the disease. I'm interested in creating solutions tomove towards healing
How does being a lesbian inform your art?
I don't hold anything back.I don't care if somebody has aproblem with my art. Straight women artists {not all of them}
have to have their men okay what they are doing. Their men
have to be secure. I have noticed with straight women artists
that the woman usually respects what the man is doing, but she
isn't given the same respect by him. Nobody is going to comein and build my thing - I 'm going to build my thing. I have
had some people say that they thought I was a man after theylooked at my art. A man of color maybe, but definitely not a
woman. I've gotten that a lot from white men.
Why do you think that happens?
Because my art is bold and they attribute that to men. The
materials are strong. The images are bold. It's so sexist. They
don't ever have to go past their own limited idea of art andculture. They have decided what art is and who does what andwho uses what. The materials I use don't have race and they
don't have gender.
Once you start welding there will probably be more ofthat.
Yeah. Last week was my first class. I am the only woman in
the class, the only Black in the class. I might well be the only
artist. I'm taking the class because it's time to enhance mypieces. I' m interested in doing public art and welding will
make me more employable.

Summer/ Fa ll 1995

47

You mentioned that you were raised in Alabama. How has
your experience in the South informed your art?
I left Alabama when I was about seven. That was the best
part of my life. I was totally at ease. I grew up with my elders.
My great, great aunt Francis had raised my mother, my grandfather and me along with some other relatives . I traced thattype of rearing back to certain west African cultures where theparents would take a child and give it to the elders. The childwould get what it needed so it could be human by the time theparents got her back. My experiences in the South constantly
feed my work. It's the fire behind everything I do . I was soyoung and my relatives were so old. I know they implanted
information in my psyche that allows me to be where I am. Anytime I go back into my past that's where I go. They taught melessons through stories and folktales. I did a lot of listening. The
language I heard growing up and that I speak are a lot different.
I use the language that I remember in those stories in naming
my pieces or even in my concept - the story a piece tells.
How do you name your pieces? Your names are in themselves art.
I'm lucky with titles. I keep a little book of titles. Words andphrases I find appealing and describe my work. When I begin
to build a piece a certain dynamic develops. I talk to the pieceand it talks back. A conversation. Then I write what comes outof that conversation. As I'm building, the piece becomes more
physical and the materials enter the conversation. Then I'mlike a director. I try to direct that title with the conversation.
I like the way you talk about your work, your approach,your respect for the art itself.
I respect the materials. I make as few cuts into the wood as
possible. I treat the materials as if they are precious - they are
precious. No matter how hard I try, I can't duplicate whatnature, time can do . When I come upon a piece of material I try
to preserve as much of its character as possible.
I'm curious. What was the name of the installation you
were part of in Cincinnati?
We called it "Like That, Like That, Like That That There."
But that's another story ...

48

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Summer/Fall 1995

49

K. Linda Kivi

Tabaganne
The Frenchborrowed ita word for getting
somewhere from weather
wizened Algonquins
took itfor a ride
wooden and waxed
westward push and pulllent itto me and my neighbors
on a slippery roadto the place we call homecast it inglistening aluminumin fat dictionaries
so that we could movefaster, always fastersquealing with our new founddelight of an old word
an old world
and I laugh as
I use ittoboggan gathers momentum
speed throws powder
in my face pushes
my tongue into somee
else's heart.
When will we
say thanks - in Algonquin - for thisword, this world thiswise wooden sledcurl carved by Algonquin
ghosts to bend aside
the snow to holdslow - slow loads thatmade centuries
of winter possible?

return it

50sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Annalee Wade

Dominga is Speaking
Here in the Arid Zona one could imagine brown was the firstcolor. Squash, beans, corn, chilies, and marijuana grow withsome coaxing. My husband, Jack, ca.lls the desert his first wife.
I'm not jealous. The rocks, saguaro cactus, and too blue sky are
my lovers as well. We are Yaqui, decendants of those Somandwellers with, a hint of Aztec in their language.
I tease myoId man for becoming slow but he's still a pretty
good dancer. His small feet can still perform the intricate stepsof the graceful matachin dance alongside men half his age. The
matachin dance is of great religious significance to the Yaqui
and is performed by men. Jack, an elder in the society, is proudto take his place among the matachinis on religious holidays.
They show him a lot of respect.
Early in our marriage I told my husband to quit drinking orlose me. He knew I meant it and so began a practice he stuckwith for 45 years. Every payday he handed me his uncashedcheck from the railroad. I paid the bills, bought our necessities,
and stashed a little in savings. In this way he had no money tobuy alcohol. The Mexicans at the trainyard ribbed him forallowing a mere woman to control his finances. One day afterwork he told them as they headed for the bar: "My money can
buy a lot of mescal, but not another Dominga." I wonder if heknows how happy he has made me. We are a race of few words.
We never had children. This fact perturbs the busybodies inour community more than it does us. With no living kin to lay
us in Earth's arms, we have talked about walking to meet our
Mother. When we are very old and can no longer work in thegarden or clip our toenails it will be time to chew the sacred
peyote and walk into the desert as far as we can to have our
final vision together. Many old Indians died this way by choice.
Indians don't fear death the way white people do.
Since Jack has retired we find there is so much to say with ourhands . Between my palms I crush dried leaves for our Indiantea. Mint and manzanilla flowers are good for the stomach. Jack

Summer/Fall 1995

51

shows our old cat she is still loved by holding her in his lap andscratching her neck. She purrs so loud it sounds like construction is happening in the neighborhood . In the garden we pullweeds, water and hoe, mostly in silence. Mother Earth loves thegentle language of our hands and tools. Every day the same
motions, the same ceremonies ...
At night a ceremony as ancient as our blood begins when
Jack takes me in his arms and calls me his medicine bundle
because I make him feel so good . The drum inside his chest
beats faster as I part the slit of his boxer shorts and touch his
clitoris.

Untitled
Julia Youngblood52 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

April Citizen Kane

VoicesWe are the voices who had no body,
We are the voices who swam in iCe
walked on firedanced on bones
chewed pebbles in our teeth
and spit them out as powder.
We are the voices who were abused
who became abusers.
We are the voices who cried alone
who clothed ourselves in shame
like a wet wool cloak.
We are the voices tired of starving
mutilating, silencing ourselves.
We are the voices reclaiming
our body, our language, our breath.
We are the voices who cast out the demons
the parasites, the ghosts .
We are the voices who learned to sleep at nightto speak without anger
to cry without shame.
We are the voices whose will is strong
how strong is your will
how strong is your will
how strong is your will to survive?
We are the voices who chose to be present
who fought for consciousness
who spoke without being spoken to
who learned to sing without musicSummer/Fall 1995

dance without shoes
play without playmates
fly without wings.
We are the voices who sometimes love by letting go
who learn from goodbye.
We are the voices who dreamt of daylight
who sang in the dark
who picked flowers from concrete
who wove words out of stone
who painted roses with the color blue
who dreamt of the ocean
miles away from the comforting soundwho made invisible walls of air.
We are the voices that make up the chorus inside of us.
We are the voices who learned to turn awayfrom an offered hand
who listened cautiously to the wind
who wept sometimes when others were happy.
We are the voices who rolled words over and overin our heads until they were as smooth as sea glass
we are the voices who made poetry
out of fresh baked bread
who made wishes out of snowflakes
promises out of autumn leaves.
We are the voices who tripped on the cobwebs of thepast who had courage enough to ask for help
who were brave enough to weep.
We are the voices who are feathers of the same wing
telling stories which are trueand dreams which are found waking.

"inspired by a public reading by poet Al Hunter

53

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sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Opening

Carol A. Johnson and Felicia Reim

Summer/Fall 1995

SS

Huda Jadallah

For Those Who Ask Me to Talk Politics ina Calm and Rational Voice
Tuesday July 30, 1991 - Journal Entry
Must've been around third grade. I remember mama's voice
resounding in my ear on the playground at school, repeating in
my child's mind as the other children play, trying to make senseout of something insane, "If anyone asks where you are fromyou say Palestine. But if you write a letter to the old country do
not write on the envelope Palestine, write via Israel. Ya Huda,
I remember when I was a child, a teenager and the refugees
came to Ramallah, they stayed in our yard, camping out. We
made big pots of soup to feed them. An old woman came. I sat
with her and she taught me how to sew.
"Your father, he died stateless. He left in 48, one month
before the creation of Israel, so he didn't become a Jordanian
citizen nor an American citizen. Stateless and dead."
My mom and dad owned a grocery store. I remember whenthe Arab store owners in San Francisco were being shot. The
n.ews you remember as a child is different than the news I
remember: the devastation with the Camp David treaty, the old
TV in the old house, the stories of bombs.
"What did you have for dinner?" The neighborhood kids
asked me. "Mahshi," I answered. I didn't know why they didn't
know what it was. "You know Mahshi. Cusa. It's green andlong and grows in your garden in the back of your house. You
fill it with rice and meat. It grows next to al nana, al bundura,
al teen wa allamoon."
Mama reminded, "You can't keep going to school. You mustsettle down. Marrying a Palestinian man with a grocery would
be a good life."
You told me just a few weeks ago that you went to market
with Umpty Zahia as a child, selling the vegetables you grew.

56 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

You remember how you planted and worked with your hands.
You cannot use your hands any more. Arthritis . You cannot rollthe grape leaves nor can you stand for hours making magicwith your hands creating maftoollike your grandmothers did.
So now you open the grape leaves and set them gently on thetunjara so that I can roll them while we· talk. We always havegood talks rolling grape leaves .
We used to drive the cars with Brown grocery bags always
in the trunk because you never know when you will drive by atree with fruit on it. There is always time to stop and ask thepeople if it's in their yard if we can pick some fruit. Mom used
to make us kids do that. "Get out of the car, knock on the door
and ask them if we can pick some." We were embarrassed. We
used to hide if we saw other children we knew. Teen, escadinia,
lemoon, zeitoon, charoub. And if it was in public space such asa shopping center or a tree on a public sidewalk, you just kindof kept an eye out for the police just in case.
May is grape leaf picking season. The women and girls go
for the day on a long drive to "wine country" (as you call it),grape leaf country (as we know it) . We ask the farm workers.
Many of them are Mexican. Mom speaks Spanish with an Arabic accent and asks if we can pick leaves. They say ok. Theybond. The rich white owners and managers are not around .
Mom always warned before we started picking, large brownbags in hand, "Pick the soft, tender young ones and never pickthe leaves that protect the gra pes from the harsh sun." It's an art- grape leaf picking.
We pick row after row sweating in the hot Napa sun until
our arms are too tired and the babies start to cry. Then we finda large shady tree and open the bags of food. We pull out the
butich wa jibna wa chubza arabia wa zeitoon wa al mu imsaqaa.
Our throats are parched. We drink the cool water. We relax andtell stories. We laugh. The babies fall asleep, and we drive
home. But it's not over yet. We have to pour all the leaves in a
giant mound covering the entire dining room table. We must letthem breathe the cool air because they get hot in the car andthey are so delicate and burn so easily. Then we must sit at aSummer/Fall'995

57

table and stack them. Leaf upon leaf, stack upon stack, and cramthen into the jars for winter. Tonight we'll have a fresh pot of grape
leaves. As fresh as it comes, with cool yogurt that mom madeyesterday.
Zahia. Umpty Zahia, I remember you in Filastine and in
Amrika. I wish I could talk to you now. I remember how you wore
your thobe and shaal and how you hid your money somewhere
under your thobe near your chest. You never married, Umpty.
They kept you in a mental hospital for a year. They called it anervous breakdown. They said you needed a place of your own
when they released you. I remember your tiny old stone home in
the ancient part of town, a small room. I wish I could speak withyou now.
I remember when you came to Amrika and you were you, andyou sat in front of our house drinking kahwa arabia and eating
bizzer, just sitting, reading your fortune in your cup with mom. I
was embarrassed that the other children saw you. You were so
foreign to them. They made fun of us. I feel so sad, Umpty, whenI remember that.
In Filastine you built fires each day in the yard to cook our
food. It was like camping out. I remember taking the dough on theseniyas to the furun. We carried the seniyas on our heads, but wewere just visiting and had to hold onto the trays with our hands
unlike the other children who balanced the trays beautifully. I
looked in the oven, so big to my child's eyes, so deep, so hot. We
caught lizards in the sun and drank the fresh goat's milk when theman came door to door. I watched Umpty kill the rabbit we atefor dinner. Red blood at the throat. I remember looking into al
beer. Umpty pulled water from it each day and I watched as shetransferred the water to al jarra in the house - the drinking water
for the day. The water was always so cool, and we used al tosse to
dip right into the standing clay jar full of cool fresh water.
The memories are so many, and so deep, and so much a partof who I am today. It's kind of indescribable why I get angry. Why
I don't talk politics in a quiet voice like you do. I don't have theluxury to separate my experience from my politics. I cannot live
in my land of olive trees on ancient hills.

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sinister wisdom #56 On Language

A few years back, guns pointed at us from rooftops as we walked
along the streets. Soldiers making sexual comments as they walk pastus (guns and dicks) . A man is shot in front of us and mom tells thesoldiers to FUCK OFF. They are surprised she speaks English. They
threw you to the ground mama. Knocked the glass of water out ofyour hand. The young man had a strength ·that shocked you. They
strip searched me, completely naked, and the soldier had a gun. I
shook. I looked into the soldier's eyes . Security. Security of Israel. I
ask another soldier why and he says, flI just follow orders." They
confiscate most of my gifts and personal items. Toothpaste could be asecurity risk.
And you say to me that my beef is that I'm Palestinian andyou want to talk rationally, calmly about the politics. I can't. I
don't have the luxury to. Our lives are on the line. You see, mybrother was supposed to go back and be a Palestinian guerrilla- fight for our land. I was scared as a child when mom said mybaby brother should go and fight on the earth with the rest. I got
angry. He will die mom. He will die. Please don't send him.
How can you do that mom? I was afraid . And now I understandher. And sometimes I want to kill. Sometimes I get scaredbecause I think I must kill and yes I fantasize about it and it isterrifying because I understand the motivation behind the acts
you call terrorism. It scares me because I feel it and you ask me
to speak calmly and rationally.

Glossarymahshi: squash stuffed with rice and meatcusa: squash
nana: mint
bundura: tomato
teen: figs
lamoon: lemon
umpty: paternal aunt
maftool: a dish similar to couscoustunjara: large pot
escadinia: loquats

Summer/ Fall 1995

zeitoon: olives
charoub: carob
butich: watermelon
jibna: cheesechubza arabia: arabic bread
mu imsaqaa: cold water
Filastine: Palestine
Amrika: America
thobe: traditional garment for women
shaal: shawl
kahwa arabia: arabic coffee
bizzer: roasted watermelon seeds
seniya: tray
furun: town ovenbeer: water welljarra: big clay canister
tosse: metal cup

59

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sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Kyos Featherdancing

In Remembrancelam
a caretakerof the Earth
my relationshipto the earth is
my relationshipto myself, my ancestors
all my relations
show themselves to me
through the ways
I listento the Earth
all of the elements are
my tools andmy protection;
my dreams and visions
are my allies
in great times of need
my gut feelingkeeps me in line;
my choice is the results;
either I listen,orIdon't
the Earth is
keeping me alive;
it is
my inspiration to live
I prayfor the Earth andall living things,
danceSummer/Fall 1995

for our survival
I sing in her honor;
she heals me;
as I heal,
she heals
I sit on a rockI feel as solid;
I hug a tree,
I am as rooted;
I gaze out at the ocean,
my mind clears
I make a list of things
I want to change
and I burn them,
I am transformed
I honorall my relations;
I prayfor the ones
who lost their way
so I don't do the same
I am a reminder
to people,
wherever I go,of older ways of being
I walkin the path of
the Red Way,
the Earth Way
this is the language
I speak;
I am committed
remembering is
the work I practicewhen I forget
who I am61

62 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Laura C. Luna

The Making of an Amerikan Dream
Hello, Miss Garcia, I'm Dr. Starlite. Now, why don't you tellme what happened?
What difference does it make?
I want to hear your side.
Why?
Because, I do .
You have it all there - she glances towards the folder on thepsychiatrist's desk
Yes, but it doesn't include your side. Your side matters.
Why? It never has before - not to them anyway.
I know. That's what I'm here for. To help you.
But I don't need any HELP. It's them not me who's the
problem. Send them to a shrink.
Why don't you tell me what happened so I can clear up
this matter.
What do you care anyway?
I care that you've been expelled from school and you're
locked up here.
Okay, okay, fine - and against her intuition that had beenmauled beyond recognition she began - I never had any troublein school. All you have to do is to look at the records, look at'em, from my elementary school. It wasn't 'til I got bussed tothat school. It's mostly the history teacher Mrs. Franchot andthe math teacher Mr. Smith. First it was her. On my first test
she gave me an "F" and accused ME of cheating! She wrote on
it "you shouldn't cheat off others and she wrote on my friend's
paper, you shouldn't let others cheat off your paper!" She had
no proof! I don't cheat. How come she didn't accuse Anne ofcheating, huh? I'll tell you, it's' cause Anne's white, that's why.
Mrs. Franchot says, you threatened her.
Threatened her? I stood up and told her she was a liar. It's
the truth. I told her to prove that I had cheated. AND I told

Summer/Fall 1995

63

her she had no right to treat me that way.
He began his scribbling. Okay, now tell me about your friend
Anne.
What do you mean?
Tell me about her. You know. How close you two are.
Well, we're best friends. Even though her mom doesn't
want her mixing with Mexicans from the "flatlands." That's
what they call where we live you know.
So, tell me more about Anne and you.
I don't know what you want to know - she shrugged we're friends.
Yes, but how CLOSE are you?
How close? I told you. We're best friends.
Well, what's this about your physical contact after school?
Physical contact? What do you mean? Ohhh - you mean
when we got busted for wrestling out in the hall? Shit, what's
everyone making a big deal out of that for anyway?! So weweren't suppose to be HORSE PLAYING, big deal!
So, how close are you?
I don't know what you're getting at. I told you, we're best
FRIENDS!
Do you have any romantic interest in boys?
Hahahahaha! - you gotta be kidding! Heck no! Why?
Should I?
Does Anne?
Hell, I don't know, ask HER!
(Scribble, scribble) Okay, so tell me about Lincoln Jr. High.
What about it? Washington Jr. High kicked me out and I
got bussed all the way to Lincoln. I wanted to go to Downingwhere I should've gone to begin with. It was near my home,
you know.
Right. But why didn't you mix with the other students from
Lincoln? It says here you only associated with the students youwere bussed with.
Well, shit. Of course! They're from my side of town, we
ride the bus together! Why shouldn't I?
Why did you strike Heather and knock her to the ground?
Because, she ASKED for it. That's why. I got tired of her

64

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

and her friends always trying to scare me and threaten me.
When she called me a "spick nigger lover," well, she calledme out and I punched her out! I won't have anyone calling me
or my friends names.
Okay, good. Very good. Now, it s~ys here that you threw achair at your Spanish teacher, Mrs. Jones . Why?
Why? Why? (She leaned forward) Because I was FED UP.
SICK AND TIRED. She always blamed me for talking when
it was the white guy who sat in front of me. Look, neither ofthem schools wanted Black or Mexican kids bussed to theirschools. She yelled at me, ridiculed me in front of the class.
I got tired of it. I've had it with all them prejudiced assholes!
Okay, okay, don't get too excited. Now, tell me what happened when the police picked you up?
What happened? They arrested me that's WHAT HAPPENED! Now are you gonna help me get outta here or what?
We're not through here yet. It says here that you struck an
attendant. Why?
You mean hit? Yeah, I hit him. Hey look, they come up tome and try to make me take pills. I didn't even know what
they were FOR, so I said what are they? And he said nevermind, just take them. NEVER MIND? JUST TAKE THEM?
Bull shit! I have a right to know what I'm taking. Shit! it
could've been fuckin' POISON for all I know! So, I refused.
Then he grabbed my arm and said if you don't cooperate
you're coming with me. Ain't no one got no right to grab on
ME!! So I popped him one. Really, it was more like a push.
I don't need no drugs and if I did, believe me, I know where
I can get some, and they'd be better shit than any institution
could ever give me. So hey, can you get these fuckin' shackles
off my ankles and take these fuckin' straps off my wrists? I
can't even pick my fuckin' nose, y'know?
Okay, hold on. He put his pen down and leaves the office tocall for the attendant. As the attendant wheels her out he says,"We'll be in touch"
Psychiatric Intake Summary:
13 year old Mexican-American female admitted to hospital under
51-50 for violence. Intake findings as follows:Summer/Fa ll 1995

65

Continue hospitalization as Miss Garcia is a danger to others.
She has no insight into her behavior and blames others for her
acting out.
She is anti-social as is evident by her failure to mix with her
peers either at Washington or Lincoln Jr. High Schools.
In addition, Miss Garcia has homosexual tendencies as isevidenced by her lack of romantic interest in boys and her "special" relationship with a female friend, Anne. I suggest that contact between the two girls be cut off so as to thwart any further
deviance.
Furthermore, Miss Garcia is a rebellious and angry teenager as
is evidenced by her behavior towards teachers at both Washington and Lincoln Jr. High. Although Miss Garcia was somewhat
cooperative in this interview she is of an uncooperative personality type as is evidenced by her behavior with hospital personnel.
In addition, Miss Garcia is delusional and paranoid as isevidenced by her suspicions of being "p<;>isoned."
But, until we have her full cooperation in the testing phase,
it will be difficult to determine the exact nature or cause of her
disorder. When administering the Rorshach test, Miss Garcia
would sarcastically respond, "ink blot" when asked. what theblots suggested to her. At this time she proves detrimental tosociety as well as herself. Her delusions of persecution support
these initial findings . I recommend that until Miss Garcia cooperates in taking the tranquilizers of her own volition, she should
remain in four-point restraints and be given the medication
through injection. This will also serve to protect the attendants
from her hostile behavior and ensure manageability.
Addendum:
Miss Garcia's course of treatment could be extremely difficult as she believes she has no disorder. As you well know, these
are the most difficult cases to treat. Therefore, I recommend thefirst phase of treatment to focus on breaking down her denial
so that we can make her see how sick she is .
Dr. Starlite, Psychiatric Intaker66

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Shahara Godfrey

Hot Combhardbackchair withmetal legs.
black comb,
brown brush,
red canwith asilver top,royal crown.
white stove,
white rag,
black burner
withblue, yellow flame.
hot kitchen.
hot comb.
smells of burnt hair
mixed with royal crown.
sitting
betweenher legs,
trying not to cry ...
nana
spits
the "Comb,
cooling it down.
pulling
my head,back.

Summer/Fall 1995

trying not to jump ...
she says,"hush,
be still,
don't move your head,
now,
hold your ear."soft,
gentle,brown,
fat fingers,
brushing,
combing,
parting
my hair.
twisting,
yanking,
one strand,
over another,thenover another,pulled,tight,
a braid.
black bobbi pins
hold in place.
this daily ritual.
nappy
hair,
now straight.
for who?

67

68

sinister wisdom #56 On La nguage

Ananda Esteva

My-Linguality
My preschool teachers forbade me 'from participating ingroup activities when I spoke in Spanish. (One teacher told
me, 'ants would fly in my mouth' if I didn't speak English.)I spent so long with my tongue in my pocket, I forgot I could
talk. They wanted me to speak just like them so I shut up.
We moved from Chile to San Francisco when I was three. On
Sundays, we opened the door joining our apartment with our
Mexicano neighbors and threw big dancing parties. We spoke
Spanish with our friends - political refugees from Guatemala,Argentina, EI Salvador. I remember the smell of black beansboiling in pots bigger than me while hearing the sounds of salsa
y cumbia rhythms and shuffling feet across the linoleum floor.
Mama used to sing with Valenzuelo from Argentina and everybody clapped to their ritmo.
After a while, the parties stopped. We quit talking about
our times back in Chile. We ignored the growing dolor we heldin our chests. Too many of my parents' friends had been tortured . The newspapers said they were disappeared. Isn't that asafe verb, "To be disappeared," as though it occurred magically, when, in fact, the disappearances were calculated andintentional. Intending to erase the voices of el pueblo, the Chilean government dragged people from their homes and killedthem!
My Mama worked with the leftist/ art community in Chile,
the primary targets of the military regime, she sang strong folksongs through the night and day with her comradas. Even after
we moved to S.F., her voice could hold her soul in Chile, butthen she stopped singing.
I missed her voice and the golpes she struck on the guitar.
As time passed I felt sure she'd lost these songs, that they'd dry
up dead without renewal, just as I'd lost my native tongue. I
didn't expect to conjure up their spirits again, but when Poetry

Summer/Fall'995

69

for the People demanded we write from urgent moments andin our own languages, I began to write myself home.
I sat in my cheap closet-room trying to recapture the part ofme with something to say! I started rummaging my brain formemories but they all seem dumb. Then I threw my favorite
records onto the turntable the ones we brought from Chile. Isang and listened as the sun set in the sky.
Atahualpa Yupanqui's song "EI Aromo" seeped out of the
speakers and invoked shivers in my body. I let the lyrics germinate inside me. I sang loud as I could, holding tight to the spirit
thundering through that song. I started to remembering thestories my parents used to tell me of how I came to be: how myMama lost hope in her body after the doctors forced forceps
and experimental drugs in her body, how fear snatched hervoice when she lost her water two months early, how I was
drying up inside her for twenty-five hours before they cut open
her belly and she didn't say a word . I knew I had to write apoem to remind her how strong she is .
My poem, called "Mama if you only knew your strength,"
wove in vital strands of Atahualpa's song. It had to; his songgave me breath! My song-poem tells of how my Mama would
sing his words as she walked along the water's edge searchingfor strength and place.
She cried when I sang her my words. I didn't withhold any
breath. I gave it all to the words, tones and memories living
inside it. I gave it to her. After that, I kept on singing my poem.
I sang it to the poetry class and at public readings. One night,
I read at a bookstore, Booklover's Haven in Vallejo and a bunchof friends from our first years in San Francisco showed up.
Wow! Seeing them was shocking enough. After the reading,folks lined up and hugged my Mama, tears dripping, teeth out
and smiling! The last line sounded: "Mama,! if you only knew
your strength/ perhaps today / you'd dance!
Some nights
she'd walk along the waterand sing the song of Atahualpa Yupanqui

70sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Hay un Aromo nacidoen la grieta de una piedra
parece que la rompio
por salir adentro de ella
(an aromo bush is bornfrom the crack of a rockit appears that it broke lferpassing through)Her first childmelted in the heat.
Gloved, White hands dug into her
like overworked miners
full of brisk and businessto rid her of the body.
Full moons of yellow deathcalled hepatitis
shrouded my Mama
the Meica, the Shamanstarvedand the doctors wouldn't touch her then.
Such a long winter within her belly.
The neighbors left food by the door on Sundays
Papi boiled eucalyptus leaves
but my brother
didn't breathe.
After her fever dieddoctors labeled her a dust-bowl,
plowed by forceps
dry through drought
Doctors claimed her land infertile
with regal script.
She relived the colonial songs ofwomen caught between
the old way and the new.
La pericona se ha muerto
no pudo ver a la MeicaSummer/Fall 1995

Le faltaba su milcao
por eso, se cayo muerta.
(the woman died.
She could not see the Shaman.
Missing her milcao - her payment she fell dead.)
The tantrums of the winter ocean
cracked rocks against the cliffs
until Spring set inand so did 1.
No one knew I lived.
I hung strong like kelp
withstanding storms of blood and fear.
Two bleeding cycles passed by me,
while the medics read her rights.
She thought she owned
only
half a body.
She cried along the water's edge,
many mornings too.
She threw my brother's ashes there.
She thought
her thirsty body crumbled there.
Mama, if you only knew your strength
perhaps
today
you'd dance.

71

72 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Summer/Fall 1995

73

Sandy Tate

Holocaust Abused
Through the years I have heard the word holocaust used, abused
and misused . "The Holocaust:" the original name given to denotethe death and destruction that befell mostly Jews, but also Lesbians and gays, Gypsies, people of anti-Nazi sentiments, disabled,and numerous others; the concept we conjure up as death camps;
the period of time in Europe just before World War II and ending
sometime in 1945 when the last of the death camps was shut
down; that period of atrocities continues to be called to mind
when we want to describe something horrible, something unspeakable that occurs in society. I think the word holocaust is usedbecause we simply don't have a good enough word to describe theparticular horror of which we speak at the moment.
It is common to hear people referring to the specter of nuclear
devastation as a "nuclear holocaust." One can hear reference
made to the centurIes of witch burnings as a "holocaust." And ina final twist of irony, anti-abortionists refer to legalized abortion
as "America's holocaust," their own particular bigotry in
misnaming what a woman should have the right to do, and what
men would have the right to do if they became pregnant. TheAIDS
epidemic has been described as a "holocaust." It may well killmore than six million people before a cure is found. But it is not"The Holocaust." Slavery in our country is a disgrace and a shame
we must never forget. But it was not "The Holocaust."
All of these references serve to water down the memory, themeaning and the concept of "The Holocaust." It serves well the
purposes of those Jew-haters that attempt to deny the existence of"The Holocaust," dismissing the torment of millions as lies andexaggerations. The Holocaust is not a comparison of numbers(although six million is a formidable amount). Some people thinkthat if more than six million are involved in death and destruction,that signifies a worse catastrophe than "The Holocaust" and cansomehow be seen as more heinous, therefore deserving of that

74

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

awful label. The burning of witches, numbering 13 million, is yet
another unspeakable tragedy, not to be compared or placed in a"one-up mans hip" juxtaposition if you will, to the horrors of thedeath camps of Nazi Germany. Witch burning, spurred on by
patriarchal church dogma and hatred of women, reflected theattitudes of the time. But it was not "The Holocaust." Comparisons, conceived and wrought byOmales, are for the purposes ofpower, greed, and belittling others so that they can feel better
about themselves. Comparisons are used in war games and sex
games (my gun/toy is bigger than your gun/toy so I win the" territory and the women); in sports (I can hit a ball further than
you and am therefor, better than you); in business (mine grossed
more than yours so I'm smarter and deserve more).
Comparisons confuse the issue and invalidate all but the chosen winner. This is a deadly game, not to be used when describingnightmares that individuals have suffered through at different
times. We're not in a contest to see whose tragedy is the worst.
Wilma Mankiller described how the United States government forced tens of thousands of Cherokees, and tens of thousands of other Native Americans from their homelands in the
Eastern United States to the Indian Territory west of the Mississippi from 1830-1850. Mankiller refers to this ''Trail of Tears" as theCherokees' holocaust:
It was not a friendly removal. It was ugly and unwarranted. For too many Cherokees, it was deadly. The
worst part of our holocaust was that it also meant thecontinued loss of tribal knowledge and traditions. 1
Nuclear annihilation is a real threat because of male-defined
attitudes and hatred. The end of all life on our planet is more of a
possibility than we care to admit or think about. But it is not "The
Holocaust."
Every time the word "holocaust" is used to describe yet another tragedy we become desensitized to the horror it describes.
We become more comfortable with the term holocaust, and so it
serves to trivialize and render less potent "The Holocaust" visitedon us by Nazi Germany.
I am not saying that Jew-haters started this or perpetuate this.

Summer/Fall 1995 75

Many Jews themselves parrot "The Holocaust" model for crimes
and atrocities, unaware of the power of language to undermine
and belittle events.
The epidemic of breast cancer suffered by women in the UnitedStates has not been sufficiently addressed by our society and ourgovernment. One could call this a "holocaust." The large numbersof women and girls in our society who are incested, battered,kidnapped, mutilated, raped and murdered are far greater innumbers than "The Holocaust," witch burnings, AIDS or breast
cancer statistics combined. Yet past and present violence against
women is not considered a "holocaust."
Anti-Semitism, a euphemism for Jew-hating, is another distortion of the language that slides off our tongues so easily. Noone
ever asked me if I was a Semite before they leveled a Jew-hating
remark at me.
The decimation ofEastern European Jewry and the disa ppearance of the Yiddish language are part of the legacy of "The Holocaust."
My grandparents, fleeing the pogroms of Rumania and Russia, emigrated to the United States at the turn of the century,
bringing with them the universal Jewish language, Yiddish. Theirchildren, one of whom is my mother, grew up hearing mostly
Yiddish in the home. I regret that I can't speak the language except
for a few words and phrases that rubbed off on me from mygrandparents. It saddens me that a language that goes back to myancestors' origins is dying out.
We need to use language in a way tha t respects the experiencesof others. We need to be reminded of "The Holocaust" so that it is
not repeated.
We need to remember that the next time they come for the Jews
- they're going to come for you!

1. Mankiller, Wilma and Michael Wallace, Mankiller: A Chief And Her People,
New York. St. Martin's Press, 1993. p. 47.

76

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

A. Miriasiem Barnes

The Voices
The orchestra of voices
nah ...
the mass choir plays
over and over in my head
Even the deadtake lead solo
planting seeds in my head
Babiesy' all think babies don't knowy'all be sadly mistaken
babies know
they sing solos in my head
The voices
an orchestra
a mass choir
singing in my head
If you plant a seed in fertile soil and tend it carefully it will grow

They been singing all my life
baby Barnes girlno namepoor, poor, poor
no moneydamn she small
2.S1bsDon't do this
don't do thattake that look off your face
better straighten out them eyes girlYou ain't got no right
can't you stand up straightSummer/Fall 1995

sit up straightstraighten up girlYou ain't gonna get nowhere in life
acting like thisSlow down and speak english
how you speck me to understand"Ain't," ain't no word girllisten to me when I be talking
what you standing there looking in my face forget your behind out of my faceget back here I ain't finished with you yet

And the choir sings on
and thenthe ensemble appears
sings sweet
sweet songs of peace
strength and confidence
over and over in my mind
even the dead take lead
And the solo voices ofWitches
CronesAmazons
Wild women
play on in my mind
they now plant the seedsof the Oak and the Willow
which they are ever so careful to cultivate
I am a Black womanroots
I am freewings
I am a healerroots
I am healedwings
I am an artistroots
I now make the musicwings
And the orchestra plays on
the mass choir sings on
now the ensemble lives on in me

77

78

sinister wisdom #56 On Language+

Rhythm Equals Life
A. Miriasiern Barnes

Summer/Fall 1995

79

Liliana Slomkowska

Quenching the Thirst
I. Some Names

For a long time I had the following fantasy: On her death bed
my mother would turn her head towards, us her children, lined
up at the bedside, leaning forward anxious to hear her lastwords - the possible long awaited link to her past. Then withthat telltale gleam in her eye, which always told us she felt
secure enough, safe enough, happy enough she'd say, "Yes,yes, I'm Jewish after all."Such an admission would certainly tie up a lot of loose
ends, i.e.: How a Polish Catholic woman became a Holocaust, orthe term I prefer, Nazi genocide, hard-labor camp survivor. It
would give me, at long last, the ready answer so many people
expect: So, you're Jewish? The right word . The more readily
identifiable identity.
Another fantasy I nurtured for some time was that mymother was a lesbian . It, too, was false and was added to mygrowing list of lesbian oxymorons: Lesbian Polish, Lesbian bigot,
Lesbian classist, Lesbian racist, Lesbian anti-abortionist. Over timeeach one of these assumptions has been proven wrong. In theproving came growth, a letting go of a naive and idealistic self
and a letting in of community. Also, came a deepening of identity, a naming of the self: Polish-American, raised-Catholic, homosexual daughter of a female Nazi genocide survivor.
II. Using Language For I Against Us
I've often thought of language as a vehicle. Writing anarticle on language feels a lot like riding a train without adesignated stop. The ride meanders. The destination is known
only when we get there. So it is with my relationship to languagelidentity. Each word becomes a journey.

80 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Having been raised in a multilingual home, I learned earlyon that a perfect synthesis of language and object does notexist. A cup remains a cup, something from which I drink,
whether it is a Polish filizanka, a German tasse, an American- 'English cup, or a French tasse. Linguistically, what matters isthe cupness of the cup - the word - while in reality the objective
is getting the drink, quenching the thirst.
All these languages were spoken in my home, but notequally. Though closely allied linguistically, the German cup
and the French cup delivered markedly different tastes . My
mother made her way in German with a superficial ease bornout of terror. German left a bitter aftertaste, tinged with hatredand unresolvable diminishment. French was inspired by myfather's familiarity with the French-Canadian culture. In myninth grade classroom it was developed into Parisian French.
But neither French nor German nor American-English evoke or
quench the emotional, psychological or intellectual thirst that
the Polish filizanka stimulates and, oftentimes, satisfies.
Polish, my birth language, is the language in which mymother sang lullabies, told stories and taught me The Lord's
Prayer. It is the language most closely associated with security
and nourishment, protection and support. Polish, more thanany other grouping of sound and recognition, is at the core of
my identity. Though the security and nourishment often turned
into abandonment, and the protection and support into betrayal, by taking Polish out of Poland and bringing it to America- insisting on it in America - some wonderful alchemy occurred. What was, and still is, essentially a male-driven language became my mother's language, my language - a language
owned by women.
In the forty-one years I have shared my mother's language,
I have witnessed her speech and accent being insulted, ridiculed,
mimicked, dismissed and discounted by a variety of antagonists.
The most emotionally lethal was my father. Others were lesspredictable, like the inattentive drug store clerk who sent her tothe produce section of the grocery store to seek a remedy for thecorns on her feet.
I never thought such dismissals or diminishments would

Summer/Fall 1995

81

happen to me. After all, I was born in America. I speak andwrite in American-English with no discernible accent. Though
I translate Polish poetry into English, I rarely speak in Polishand when I do, it is to my mother, my sister or the rare Polishspeaking friends. However, similar dismissals have happened
to me, and when they do I feel as humiliated, diminished andenraged as I imagine she did.
My rage and the occasions of my rage have taken a variety
of forms. I will mention three.
When my older brother was turned away from public school,
sent home to learn English, I felt the repercussions. I was tornby the knowledge that the words I had spoken for several years
were not adequate and were to be left at home with the otherremnants of infancy and early childhood. This changed the courseof my relationship with my mother and language forever.
Like the cupness of the cup, what mattered here was myPolishness. In order to survive in this hostile environment myidentity,like my mother's, went underground. In the first grade,
I learned and employed a tool, a weapon, which to this day
remains in my writing/language arsenal. That weapon is irony.
The second and third occasions of my rage exemplify astaple of linguistic bigotry: The Ethnic joke. Last year, while, I
was in the hospital with suspected pneumonia, an x-ray technician took a cursory glance at my chart and greeted me withthe following "joke:" "Do you know why most Polish names
end in "ski?" The inevitable answer stereotypes the Polish race
as ignorant, this time as evidenced by a lack of spelling skills(Because they can't spell toboggan) . As a matter of fact, I am a
deplorable speller. But the issue here is not the mechanics ofwriting, but bigotry. .
A stranger's ignorance hurts and diminishes, but bigotry ismore painful still when it comes out of the mouths of those youlove and trust. When my lover (Yes, the one with whom I
thought I was going to rock my way into the sunset) left me, she
did it with a Polish joke.

82 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Granate Sosnoff
1/22/93 1 :00 am (Lunar New Years Eve)
Before my mother died.

Hapa Noew Years
It's not even the way I lookalthough that's part of it.
Without a clear reference pointof racial and cultural identity
I am drawn to many cultures.
Try to appreciate the parts I cantry to imagine w ha t it feels liketo be all one thing
All Korean
All Asian.
My mother is the Korean one
so maybe that's why I find comfort
in Black hair,compact bodies
fingers smoothly peeling an
apple
Silenceand one liners that keep on
describing my life.
"The universe is so large, you are so ~mall . "My mother taught me all the important things .
That Asian was still Oriental
No matter what word you use
AndSummer/Fall 1995

83

that she wasindeeda dragon,always a lady
but nodragon lady.

***
She taught me
how to move.
I pattern her ordinary, familiar movements.
On a long drive I bring my left leg up, bend my knee and rest
my foot on the seat. I sleep with the same bent knee, face down,arms around my pillow. And so does she.
A child of my mother'sEurasian to her, for lack of a better term. Not something that she
has really thought about much.
I'm just an American daughter
third born
thick
mix of two
bloods.

***Nine years old and my cousins in Korea stare at me. They are
unsure of my relationship to them. Where has all the Asiangone. Where is the hair, the eyes, the skin, the tongue.
When I was young I thought I had my mother's hair, wavy,
wanting to curl, long, once dark brown, now lighter each year I
swim in chlorine. I imagine one day that I will wake up withbleached out dirty blonde hair down to my ass andI will still be who I am.
'Cause it's not just what I look like, though that's part of it. I always
thought I had my Mom's hair and then I found out that she's been
perming it since the beginning of time. And now she dyes it jet black.

84

sinister wisdom #56 On Language***
When I visited his home for the first time my hair scared Uncle
Yong Kee's small dogs. He asked someone to translate this to'me. And I told him, "Sorry,
Uncle,
didn't mean to scare the dogs":'
In Korea, my arms seem big and burly next to the young womenin my family. The older women have more substance though
they all kind of lean forward at the waist some - their backs
bent from squatting and washing vegetables and rice and clothes
all day.
Like everything else, they prepare kim chee on the floor. And
Connie and I join them as we try to be good Korean daughters
during our two week stay. I feel clunky, another species,
undelicate, ugly, American. Some of the women stare at me,
want to touch my hair, tell me that I look like Lindsay Wagner,
the bionic woman.
It's not really necessary when they add that I do not look Korean.
Though they expect me to act like one. At least in front of them.
Even Mom has a hard time in Korea. Everyone is talking, talking, talking. Kim doesn't care. Doesn't care that adjumoni isangry at sister-in-law because sister-in-law said something tooldest son. Kim came to Korea to eat and relax. Not to fix all thesmall town hurts in Seoul. A city with over ten million people,
and somehow about fifty of them, relatives of mine, know ourevery move.
Since I've done it once before I no longer go to Korea on myown. I need a buffer, some of my American family around me.
Or else one wrong move and bang, it's one big telephone broadcast all over town.

Let me treat you like family in Korea. Watch me weave this misunderstanding all around you . Tight in the web of your homeland, let's see
if you can remain unbroken, whole. Let's see if you can leave at all.

Summer/Fall 1995

85

I spent three months in and around Seoul, and other parts of
Korea, by myself. It is a tiny country. Even smaller cut in halflike it is. Appalled at not having the right to go to North Korea,
I am told I have no relatives there. Only perhaps the ghost of my
Uncle In Kee, my mother's youngest brother, abducted as ateen during the war.

***
I imagine that the villages and landscapes of the two Koreas are
the same. In the hilly countryside of South Korea there is nosign of crashing waves of rapid economic growth. Traffic, thatrude monster, is nonexistent. Five star hotels, international
shopping, cheese, Olympic Stadiums, are all gone.
Golden green, tiered rice patties encircle the hills one uponanother. An old man bent from doing the same thing forever,carries a weathered basket on his back. Its shape and design istraditional, unchanged since the beginning of rice.
I didn't expect it to be so beautiful.
One cousin of mine, a very bright, sometimes drunk, youngman, tells me that "you could spend a lifetime exploring thiscountry." And this makes me pause and feel a familiar sadness
because I know that it is true, and not for me.
I know that I want to go home. Want to leave the arms of these hills
that root me to this ground. This beautiful land where all theancestors lie buried. I take a small stone from the gravesite ofharaboji and halmoni and try to remind myself where this place is .
Through two rice fields, around a bend, east of the big mountain.
The path to my grandparent's tomb, my great grandfather's
remains, this countryside where they all have come. Where
they all have been for five thousand years.
I want to leave it.
Even though there are no words to describe the longing andloneliness I have for this peninsula.
Buddhist temple where I remove my shoes, bow low and mean

86 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

it; gorgeous lake of red peppers drying in the sun; coloredsilken strips of fabric; taste and feel of everyday.

Even though they are unlike me in so many ways.
I know I will be back again. And though I will still speak little
Korean and some of them will.speak no English at all, we willknow each other. Our kinship has become simple, a fact.
We are descendants of the last King of the Silla Dynasty
And though I have not always had a good name for all ow wholam
I know that I am and always will be part of this clan.

Glossary
adjumoni: aunt
haraboji: grandfather
halmoni: grandmotherhapa: a Hawaiian word meaning "half."Summer/Fall 1995

"Is it a man or a woman?""What does it say? "Amazing Grace87

88 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Akiba Onaaa-Sikwoia

the language that hates· the language
Inthat hates me
ising
and attempt to make words
to articula teloss of tongues
severed from cultures
my people
tongues ripped out
empty mouths left
to mutterfor surviving generations
songsof past deeds
and future possibilities
spiraling rainbow soundsof whole people
flattened
to linear form
replaced by a language
a fearful way
the white way
an empty way
disconnected from origin
seeking to conquer
its destiny
death
intention diffusedthrough complexity
by theoryand facts

Summer/Fall 1995

millions died naked
stripped of connection
to ancestors
ways to pray
paths to remembering
the songs of livingeyes turned inward
my ears listen
for clues
devastation lines the edgesof questions unansweredrage births my sounds
I follow my screams
to songs i can't sing89

90 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Annalee Wade

Bar Notes: Eugene, Oregon
Behind the bar, Gordon pOUl;S. His hands are a pair of miniature angels - swift, calculating. This queer hole in the wallloves my need. Outside the street is satan's own hot skin. The
town simmers in apathy ...
Growing up in southern California, I found the heat of
Mexican kitchens quite tolerable. Cumin smelled like sweat,
tortillas plumped on iron griddles like bald pudenda. In thedesert the sun isn't a pitchfork - it's a stoic reminder of what
was: In the time of four genders parents didn't fret over theirdaughter's mannish ways. They knew a good thing when theyhugged her. Today some handsome brown dykes come of age
in bars. Pitchers of gold beer replace council fires. Modern corn
women flirt wordless - their white teeth cut their smiles open.
Meanwhile the desert is surviving, not thriving. Does the desert
remember caresses of moccasined feet?
The language of moccasins is ancient, we no longer speak it- we pale Mexicans of the big cities. If we could decode thesilence of our longing, we would become Indian again and feel
connected to everything in nature - the lizard, the coyote, themoon and sun.
Joan Baez still sings out for justice. She was my first secretcrush. " AbeautifulMexican role-model" my grandmother said.
"A communist" my mother said. Today many strong womensing out for justice. I like to think Joan paved their way.
The language of guitars is revolution but I'm not listening
anymore. Have I grown too cynical for hope? Bury me in thedesert with my best friend, Stillness. The old ones believe, oncein the ground, you dream. If this is true, I' ll dream a past I neverlived - a past before alcohol when queers were vital like water.

Summer/Fall'995

91

Henri Bensussen

Mas ba ta Loa teShe was jailed five years
for treason
in her South Africa homeland,sentenced by white judges
for leading student uprisings.
Released at 29,
she returned to her familyin Soweto township.
She spoke thenagainst "necklace death" young men of Soweto
pulled burning tires downaround the necks of peoplesuspected of working with whites.
She said there are better ways to resist
than killing one's neighbors.
The young men of Soweto
did not want to hear.
Enraged, theyhunted her in the streets
slashed her with knives
clubbed her with axes
stabbed her till she died .
Masbata Loate, woman of courage.

92 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Amber Garland

The F Box

I am furious that there are always only two boxes: M or F. Pickone. Pick only one. Pick it or have it picked for you, for life. It
is your most crucial definition.
I am joyous in my femininity, my voluptuosity, my roundbreasts, long hair in the wind, delicate graceful movements, thejewelry of seven queens and my ability to build masonry walls
and clean up the mess.
I am furious that my lovers are stared at in women's rooms
and stared at in men's rooms and that all that piss goes into thesame putrid sewer instead of returning drop by drop, gently,
into the Earth.
So many ofmy lovers have had scruffy chins three days after
shaving and I have loved that scratchiness against my face.
Whether they were men or women, or some other category neveroffered, is really none of your business; and whether they
were born or chosen or would have chosen otherwise is aquestion each one of them would have answered differently.
I am joyous in my lesbian, two-spirit, dyke, queer, women's,
womyn's, wimmin's, yin-shaped, Earth-toned, cunt and amazon sisterhood community; and I claim the right to be a mother,daughter, maiden, crone, nurturer, provider, healer, teacher,dancer, lover, fa ther, brother or strong and gentle son if I choose
to. Don't tell me I can't. By definition.
Define this: My friend was born a hermaphrodite. The parents
were offered a choice: Do you want a boy or a girl?
They chose to leave the male genitals. Is he a man? How do we
define gender? Are there only two? Would he, this same person, havebeen a woman if his/her parents had chosen to amputate thepenis? Is he a woman now? Who should choose our gender for
us? Parents? Doctors? Elders? Whoever knits the first pair ofbooties - pink or blue?
My friend thinks they picked wrong.
Define this: My brother and I both chose to adopt children.

Summer/Fail1995

93

They give us different names. I am a mother, they tell me. He is not.
Why? They tell me men can't be mothers because they can't
give birth. I didn't give her birthday parties when she was fouror five. I didn't put bandaids on her scraped knees. I adopted
her when she was fifteen years old. They gave me a piece of
paper. It says I am her mother. My brother will hold his little
child, bottle feed it, take it to the playground. He will be far
more mother than I by the bonding definition. There's no word
for the adult who loves the individual child, no word for thedaughter of my partner's ex-lover. There's no word for the
relationship I have with the child crying in my arms .
Define this: I loved a lesbian who discovered he is a man. I
made love with her as a woman. I made love with him as a man.
Am I bisexual now? Did I make love with a man? He still has
a uterus.
Were we out of place at the gay 12~ step meeting? Were weout of place at the straight 12-step meeting? Can he pray inwomen's space? Can he pray in men's space? Is my womanhood my culture? Is it his? He was raised woman. He will neverlose that no matter how many male hormones he takes, nomatter which operation he does or does not have. I will tell you
this: twenty years later, I made love to my ex-lover. He was thesame person who had been my lover. He says he has always
been the same gender. Yet I know that I made love with a man.
I know I made love with a woman before. I know neither one of
us is incorrect.
You should see him. You would understand that he is male
now. You should talk to him. You would understand that histhoughts were formed in a woman's mind and experience.
He checks between the boxes when they ask for gender. He
is brave.
Is it necessary for everyone to know whether or not I havea vulva? If I have one does that make me a woman?
The boxes are very small. M or F. No time or space for
explanation, exploration, no allowance for growth or change.
They want an answer. And it's always the first question, sometimes even before "Name."94 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Elizabeth Luciano

love's acolyte
Many have loved you with lips and fingers
and lain with you till the moon went out
many have brought you lovers' gifts
and some have left their dreams on your doorstep
but I, youthful among your lovers,
come as an acolyte to worship
my thirsting blood restrained by reverence
my heart a wordless prayer
the candles of desire are lighted
I bow my head before youa mendicant who craves your bounty
ashamed of what small gifts she brings.

Summer/Fall1995

Untitled
Julia Youngblood95

96 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Contributors' Notes ____________
A. Miriasiem Barnes - 35 year old Afro American Lesbian.,
Born on the east coast transplanted to the west. She lives withmultiple physical challenges. Herjoys and talents include music,
writing and doodling. Currently working on a major doodle
collection (okay girls - a drawing). She plays alto saxophonewith the San Francisco Lesbian and Gay Freedom Band. Her
current dream is to look up one Tuesday night and see many
more women of color at band practice.
Amazing Grace Harwood was born on Cinco De Mayo, 1947,
in Galesburg, Illinois. At 23, published her first book of poems One
Half a Loaf at Half the Figure. At 28 she founded the worlds firsthuman right's journal, Match Box, a publication of Amnesty International in the U.S. At 38 she bought her first camera and has
devoted herself to photography since then. She practices yoga,
meditation, studies Vedanta, and looks after her cat, Sita, when
she isn't working evenings at a big ass San Francisco law firm.
Amber Garland - I am a teacher working with drug addicted
youth who are often gang involved, homeless, abused and or
abusive. These children are my elders and my main teachers. I
am full-blood North Sea People, born and raised on Turtle
Island. I am 12 years into recovery from addiction and mydaughter is getting married. This year I have begun a new
relationship with a lover and I am surrounded by dear friends
and a strong spiritual community.
Annalee Wade - 36, good union job, I write when I can. Before
the advent of the Christian Right the only thing I truly feared
was cancer.
Ananda Esteva just started speaking up for herself and hopes
her voice will carry her far ... it better!
April Citizen Kane is currently finishing her Masters in Literature at Hamline University. April is a lesbian poet, stand-up
comedienne, and performance artist. April recently won a Loft
McKnight mentorship award, and was invited to study withpoet/ novelist Claribel Alegria for one month. April is currently trying to publish her first manuscript of poetry, andSummer/Fall 1995

97

trying to get her motorcycle running in time for Gay Pride.
Carol A. Johnson is a lesbian visual artist exhibiting work within
California. She has exhibited at spaces including Luna Sea, ProArts
Gallery, Orange County Center for Contemporary Art, Red Dora's(Bearded Lady Coffeehouse) and Brick Hut Cafe. Currently her
work is included in Mission Sole at Collision and Vulv Art Showat 848 Communi ty Space in San Francisco. Her work is in painting,drawing and mixed media.
Cathy Cade has been a lesbian feminist photographer since theearly 70's. She is working on a photo book about lesbian mothering and she lives in Oakland with her two sons.
Diane Doumit - Author of Women on the Edge of a Very Steep
Cliff (oppression of women by patriarchal mental constructs),
includes "Twisted" and "Punctuated with a Tiny Dot." Four more
books beckoning publishers: I Know of a Road (search for calm,
order, and fulfillment in a kinetic, complex, and clock-oriented
world); Imaginings (woman's romant'ic travels across deserts,
canyonlands and mountains); Journal of Roads (introspective);and Women in Flames (oppression of women healers).
Ekua Omosupe is a professor of English at Cabrillo College in
Aptos, California. She teaches writing, Women's Studies andAmerican Lit. Ekua lives in Santa Cruz. She is a single motherfor three children and is a business woman. She and partner,
Maria Davila, are co-owners of an ethnic jewelry, arts and crafts
business known as MAKUA PRODUCTIONS.
Elisa Lucero - I'm a 31 year old lesbian revolucionario. I live ina little adobe house in the village of Corrales, New Mexico whichis in the Rio Grande bosque. I am accompanied by my constantcompanion, my puppy dog Rasta, who is 11 years old. Unioncarpenter by trade. I sit on the Board of directors for New Mexico's Publici
Community Radio station, KUNM, and I'm also on an advisoryboard for the New Mexico Commission on the Status of Women.
Elizabeth Luciano is a poet living in Tucson, Arizona. She believes that the personal revelation becomes the universal communication filling the silences that connect us to each other. It is in
this spirit she creates her work.
Felicia Reim is a creative spirit who manifests her creations ina range of forms. She has focused her talents on photography,
painting and writing.Currently she is also studying

98sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Enviromental Science in Santa Cruz, California. Her favorite
imagery is nature and people in portrait form.
Franna Blaine Lusson - I work with fragments and pieces(which become a metaphor for life as I experience it. These
images are a collection of symbols,' a language used to express
the great confusion and loss I experienced after my mother'ssuicide and my grandmother's death. They also explore what it
feels like to be the only surviving member of a family.
Granate Sosnoff is hapa, Korean and Russian Jewish, living in
the East Bay and currently working on a longer piece on aspedsof hapa experience.
Henri Bensussen spends most of her free time co-editing Entre
Naus, a monthly newsletter for lesbians. Her poems have been
published in Blue Mesa Review, Garden Variety Dykes, Dream
Machinery, and Wilde Oaks." Masbata Laate" is based on a newspa per report.
Huda J adallah is a Palestinian lesbian. She was born and raisedin the San Francisco Bay area. She is the founder of the ArabLesbian, Gay and Bisexual Network, P. O. Box 460526, San
Francisco, CA 94114. She is currently compiling an anthology
of writings by and about Arab lesbians and bisexual women.
JBWiley is a Lesbian-of-Color living in Berkeley. She is a writer,
artist, environmentalist and an activist for womyn's and immigrants' rights. Currently she owns and operates DRAGO Design, a graphic design and computer consultancy.
Jennifer Tucker - I am a senior in high school, and attend
Idyllwild School of Music and the Arts (known as ISOMATA).
I am a "creative writing major" at my school, and am an avid
short fiction and poetry writer.
Julie Lawton is a freelance artist who has been producing
artwork for over twenty years. Her recent works represent the
women's community, reflecting the energy and life from within.
The colors are brilliant and the figures are sensous. Collectively, they provide a depiction of women and a lifestyle shewholeheartedly embraces. Julie resides in the Albany, NewYork area.
K. Linda Kivi is an Estonian-Canadian country dyke from BC
She lives on women's land in the woods with her carnivorous

Summer/Fall 1995

99

cat, Aya. Her books include Canadian Women Making Music(1992), and a novel, If Home is Not a Place, and a collection oflesbian stories, Living at Random, which are due out in 1995. She
is currently in a poetry phase.
Karla Nitchmann is a happy woman to be writing again. I am
especially pleased to be able to write this piece about myGrandmother's deep thoughts on her (my) people's culture
and spirituality. I have written two unpublished books that I
am currently considering bringing out for view. In the mode
again, I am preparin ag piece on death row, (one of my books isabout mothers in prison and what happens to their children).
Kyos Featherdancing AKA Koyote - 44 years of age. I am
Caddo, Choctaw, German, Irish, Russian and French Canadian. I am a writer, poet, singer, drummer - performing artist.
I am a survivor of many abuses. My story and a poem is published in The Courage to Heal. I, with a·lot of help, have turned
my life around. I am living proof of a womon walking her
power, surrounded by love because of my native Grandmothers' influence. I am also a visual artist. I make sacred objects ofhealing. They contain my prayers, my heritage and the different medicines I walk with. I am a lover of life and tradition true ways of old.
Laura C. Luna - I've been writing since I was a child and mywords have been used against me. My writing went hidden
packed away in boxes and my voice silenced. With much support, I now feel strong enough to share and speak my truth.
Although at times I wondered, I know that the years of violenceand "treatments" bestowed upon me failed to extinguish my
spirit. Of the many labels tagged on me, my favorite is "borderline personality disorder," considering that I'm a Chicana living in the u.S. For now, I live in Northern California with mytwo girl dogs, Yogi and Hodgi. This is my first published piece.
Leatha Jones is a 21-year-old African and Blackfoot Indian
womanist raised in the diaspora of United States of America.
She was a founding member of Berkeley High School's Gay,
Lesbian, Bisexual, and questioning support/ social group. She
served as Editor in Chief of the international newsletter, Ins ide/
Out produced by and for Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender100 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

and questioning youth based in San Francisco, California. As aboard member of The Women's AIDS Network she is developing
her skills as a community activist. Under the leadership of author
Jewelle Gomez she is currently studying the genre of creative'
writing and working on composing more short stories and poetry.
Liliana (Lusia) Slomkowska is a Polish-American lesbian who
has lived, taught and been an ac~ivist for lesbian-feminist issues in
the United States and Eastern Europe, particularly Poland. My
writing seeks to explore my identity as a Polish-American lesbian
writer and that of a daughter of a Nazi Genocide survivor (mymother). Within the last several years I have translated approximately fifty Polish women poets and poems. For this work, I wasawarded a grant from the Barbara Deming Foundation. With that
support I hope to continue to widen the circle.
Margaret M. Pavel- Dr. Margaret Pavel has been pioneering
new work in the field of eco-psychology. She has recently returned from Finland where she co-led an expedition to the
Arctic Circle. In August she is participating in the 50th anniversary of Hiroshima and teaching ecology and peace-making for
four weeks in Japan . She is co-author of Random Kindness andSenseless Acts of Beauty, with Anne Herbert, and Handy Tips for
How to Behave at the Death of the World .
Marianne Hewitt is a 38 -year-old poet, student, tutor, waitress, mother and lover. She is currently engaged in writing- awork-in-progress, The Poetics of Motherhood.
Mary Kerr - I was born in Youngstown, Ohio and moved toPhilidelphia nine years ago to be with my partner. I have a BA of
Fine Arts from Youngstown Unive.rsity and a MSA from the University of Miami, Florida. Right now I am a District Art Coordinator for the Department of Recreation, City of Philidelphia.
Pola is a member of the Osage Tribe of Indians of Oklahoma
and a student of the human condition. She loves the sun, sky,water and things orange. She uses writing to get to the truth ofher experience.
Sandy Tate - I am 60 years old, Jewish, working-class and a
Dyke Separatist. I dream of living someday in a Separatist
community at the ocean.

Summer/Fall 1995

101

Sauda Burch is a thirty-four-year-old Black lesbian writer andactivist originally from Chicago. She has lived in Oakland forseven years and is currently at work on her first novel.
Shahara Godfrey is African-American, completing her doctoral studies in Counseling Psychology and lives in Emeryville,
California. She quotes Diane Reeves, "I am an endangered
species, I am a woman, I am an artist and I sing no victim song."

Grandmothers
Akiba Onaoa-Sikwoia

102 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Books Received._______________
About the Books Received List: I've listed most of the books we getin the mail. Unfortunately, there is never enough room or time to'review everything we'd like to - altl,1.ough, in the future we plan
to do many more whole book reviews. If you're interested inreviewing books please let us know. I've listed all the books of one
press together. While I feel all of the books listed here are important - our perspectives need to be heard - we have not actuallyreviewed them. Many of my comments are taken from th~
publisher's press release. Therefore, what is written here should
not be viewed as an endorsement of a book. When I have readparts or all of a book, I've put my comments in brackets. - Akiba
Where the Girls Are: Growing Up Female with the Mass Media deciphers the decidedly mixed messages conveyed to girls
over the last four decades and show how the American mass
media has influenced and helped shape not only society's perception of women, but women's perception of themselves, by
Susan J. Douglas. 1995, pb $14.00, Times Books, 201 E. 50th. St.,
NY, NY 10022.
We Know Where You Live - one of a new mystery series. PI
Maggie Garrett and assistant set out to expose a web of corruption that extends far beyond the Gay community, by Jean Taylor. 1995, $9.95, Seal Press, 3131 Western Ave., Suite 410, Seattle,
WA 48121.
Midlife: Meditations for Women - includes daily affirmations
and sage advice on hot flashes, mood swings, innocence lost,
and wisdom gained, by Maureen Brady. 1995, $12.00, Harper
San Francisco, 1160 Battery Street, San Francisco, CA 94111.
Succulent Heretic - a succulent feast, a moving and diverse
collection of lesbian "sistah" poetry [her first book - real goodreading], by Terry Jewell (Black poet). 1995, $12.00 ppd, Opal
Tortuga Press, PO Box 23154 Lansing, MI 48909
Lesbian Erotics - the first anthology to investigate the cultural
constructions of sexually charged images of lesbians in film,
law, literature and popular culture in general, essays by 16
lesbians edited by Karla Jay. 1995, pb $17.95, New York University Press, 70 Washington Square So., NY, NY 10012

Summer/Fall 1995

103

Solution Three - a thought experiment in the psychology andethics of tampering with gender and genetics. Another science
fiction work by Naomi Mitchison. 1995, $10.95, The Feminist
Press, 311 E. 94th St., NY, NY 10128.
Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls - a clinicalpsychologist's look at the dangers facing adolescent girls today
by Mary Pipher PhD. 1995, $12.50, Ballantine Publishing Group,
201 E. 50thSt. NY, NY 10022.
On Intimate Terms: The Psychology of Difference in Lesbian Relationships - this provocative exploration of the internal logic oflesbian relationships argues that they are not patterned after
heterosexual ones but rely on the interplay of psycosexual
differences between women, by Beverly Burch. 1994, $12.95,
University of Illinois Press, 1325 So. Oak St., Champaign, 1L61820.
Provoking Agents: Gender and Agency in Theory and Practice essays by 15 feminists edited by Judith Kegan Gardiner. 1995,$18.95, University of Illinois Press.
Double consciousness/Double Bind - this work takes an unprecedented look at the relationship between Black literature andcriticism and the complex ensemble of western literature, criticism and philosophy by Sandra Adell. 1995, $25.95, University
of Illinois Press.
Out Culture: Gay, Lesbian, and Queer Essays on Popular Culture30 lesbian and gay writers offer critical and theoretical perspectives on film, television, popular music and fashion, edited by
Corey K. Greekmur and Alexander Doty. 1995, pb $22.95, Duke
University Press, Box 90660, Durham, NC 27708.
Odyssey With the Goddess: A Spiritual Quest in Crete - depicts aspiritual journey from death and despair to healing and rebirthby Carol P. Christ. 1995, $18.95, Continuum Books, 370 Lexington Ave, NY, NY 10017.
Songs From the Native Lands - an exquisite "ceremony" of
poetry [her first book - very compelling], by Victoria Lena
Manyarrows. 1995, $9.95, Nopal Press, 2440 16th St. #146, San
Francisco, CA 94103.
When Women Stop Hating Their Bodies: Freeing Yourself From Foodand Weight Obsession, by Carol H. Munter and Jane R. Hirschman.

104 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

1995, $22.00, Ballantine Publishing Group, 201 E. 50th Street,
NY, NY 10022.
The Woman-Centered Economy: Ideals, Reality and the Space in
Between - 28 women of multi-class and multi-culture (some 'lesbians) identity - including Minnie Bruce Pratt and bell
hooks - present a diverse collection of essays and interviews
exploring economic aspects ofuthe culture that has grown up
around the Women's Movement in the United States since 1970
[interesting reading], edited by Loraine Edwalds and Midge
Stocker. 1995, $15.95, Third Side Press, 2250 W. Farragut, Chicago~
IL 60625.
Healing the Whole: The Diary of an Incest Survivor, by Yvette M.
Pennacchia. 1995, $14.95, Cassell, 215 Park Ave So., NY, NY
10003.
Talking Black: Lesbians of African and Asian Descent Speak Out.
The first anthology by black lesbian writers in Britain. Powerful and important works celebrating the lives of 12 dykes ofAfrican and Asian descent living in Britain [I find this bookexciting and quite thought provoking]. 1995, Cassell.
Separatism and Women's Community - reviews, debates in separatist theory, historical narratives by members of separatist
collectives and utopian novels that envision how collectives
might be formed by Dana R. Shugar. 1995, $30.00, University of
Nebraska Press, 312 No. 14th St., Lincoln NE 68588.
Upside Down in the Dark - a deep and sensitive collection ofpoems about being womon, mother and lesbian [good reading], by Carol Potter. 1995, $9.95, Alice James Books, Universityof Maine at Farmington, 98 Main Street, Farmington, ME 04938.
Ransacking the Closet - blends snapshots of daily lesbian life
and ironic self-portraits with sketches of challenging subjects,
like safe sex and therapy, filtered through her quirky lens, by
Yvonne Zipter. 1995, $9.95, Spinsters Ink, 32 E. First St., Duluth,
MN 55802.
Hangdog Hustle - the third Nell Fury PI mystery, set in San
Francisco's Castro District, part of Spinsters Ink's feminist
mystery series by Elizabeth Pincus. 1995, $9.95, Spinsters Ink.
Martha Moody - a fantastical western embracing both the ordinary and magical details of women's lives in the west of the1800' s - an old fashioned love story [fun reading that challenges

Summer/Fall 1995

105

notions of size], by Susan Stinson. 1995, $10.95, Spinsters Ink.
Journey to Feel: A Collection of Poetry and Artwork - a visual andpoetic journey of healing and reclaiming of self [firs t publishedbook], by Laura Irene Wayne. 1994, $15.00, JORAPublications,
PO Box 221850, Sacramento, CA 95822.
There Will Be No Goodbyes - a story of contemporary lesbian lifeand love and friendship, by Laura DeHart Young. 1995, $10.95,
Naiad Press Inc., PO Box 10543, Tallahassee, FL 32302.
Forever - a sensuous, passionate love story, by Evelyn Kennedy.
1995, $10.95, Naiad Press.
Someone To Watch - the fourth book in the Robin Miller Mystery series, by Jaye Maiman. 1995, $10.95, Naiad Press.
Greener Than Grass - both asks and answers questions about
friendship, love, intimacy and lust, by Jennifer Fulton. 1995,$10.95, Naiad Press.
Whispers - a mystery by Kris Bruyer. 1995, $10.95, Naiad Press.
Cabin Fever - third in the Laney Samms Mystery series by
Carol Schmidt. 1995, $10.95, Naiad Press.
Open House - fourth in the Helen Black Mystery series, takes
Helen from Berkeley to Mississippi to face her past, by Pat
Welch. 1995, $10.95, Naiad Press.
Night Songs- the second in theGianna Maglionne/Mimi Patterson
series which leads the two unexpectedly into a high echelon of
government, by Penny Mickelbury. 1995, $10.95, Naiad Press.
Getting To the Point - an authentic indelible portrait of a family
in today's south and how they come to terms with a lesbiandaughter and her very out lover, by Theresa Stores. 1995, $10.95,
Naiad Press.
Once More With Feeling - where you will find the challenges aswell as the joys of love and friendship, by Peggy J. Herring.
1995, $10.95, Naiad Press.
Devotion - a film and now also a novel of romance and drama,
by Mindy Kaplan. 1995, $10.95, Naiad Press.
For Love and For Life: Intimate Portraits of Lesbian Couples - interviews with 10 couples of varied ages, ethnic and economic identities, who have been together from 15 to 37 years - five of thewomen are over 70, by Susan E. Johnson. 1995, $14.95, Naiad
Press.

106 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Announcements and Classified Ads,_ _ _ __PUBLICATIONSCONMOCION, revista y red revolucionaria de lesbianas latinas, a
new national publication with 100% Latina lesbian vision, seeks
writings and art by Latina l~sbians in Spanish, English or
Spanglish, any form. Subs: $13 for 3. Info: 1521 Alton Road
#336, Miami Beach, FL 33139.
ESTO NO TIENE NOMBRE, revista de lesbianas latinas en
miami, is a forum for latina lesbians with a Miami twist. Opento all forms (Spanish, Spanglish, English), $10 per year (checks
to: Tatiana de la Tierra). Guidelines, subs to: 4700 NW 7th St.
#463, Miami, FL 33126.
MAIZE, A Lesbian Country Magazine. Land dyke networking
since 1983. Sub: $10/4 issues. Single issue $3.50. MAIZE, POB
130, Serafina, NM 87569.
WE ARE HERE - national resource guide for lesbian and gay
youth, by Gay Youth Comm. Coalition of the Bay Area, $5 (pay to
We Are Here) from: 2215 Market St., #479, SF, CA 94114.
TEEN VOICES - by, for & about teenage and young adultwomen, sample $2: Women Express, POB 6009 JFK, Boston,
MA 02114.
DYKE REVIEW MAGAZINE - "We don't judge it, we justpublish it." Looking for features writers from your area; all
publishable forms of dyke expression. Call 415-621-3769 or
write: 584 Castro St., Ste. 456, SF, CA 94114.
LESBIAN CONTRADICTION seeks non-fiction from women
who've experienced the Far Right around lesbian/gay &women's issues . Ongoing column. LesCon, 584 Castro St., Ste.
356, SF, CA 94114.
SHORT FICTION BY WOMEN, new guidelines available SASE to: Rachel Whalen, ed., Box 1276, Stuyvesant Sta., NY, NY
10009.
VAMPIRE JOURNALS, a new lesbian & bisexual quarterly,seeks writers and readers. Send SASE for guidelines, info to:
The Queen, P.O.B. 681, San Leandro, CA 94577.

Summer/Fall 1995

107

VIRAGO, a new quarterly for lesbian veterans, seeks all formsof writing. Queries: POB 1171, New Market, VA 22844.
CALLS FOR SUBMISSIONS
Lesbian couple constructing anthology based on FIRST-TIME
EXPERIENCES OF LESBIANS. Interested? Write for info: POB
458, Monroe, MI 4816l.
BLUE COLLAR, WORKING CLASS AND POOR LESBIANS'
identity anthology: who decides who's a lesbian? What a real
lesbian looks, acts, sounds like? What we call ourselves? For
info, send SASE to: POB 8939, Minneapolis, MN 55408.
BLACK LESBIAN CULTURE: PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE let's be hones t and claim ALL we are, have been and will be for
centuries! For guidelines, info: SASE to Terri Jewell, POB 23154,
Lansing, MI 48909, running deadline.
RIPENING LESBIANS, an anthology; seeks all forms from all
dykes on growing older. Queries, submissions w /SASE to Tirzah
Gerstein, 85 Newbury St., Hartford, CT 06114.
RISING TIDE PRESS, a new lesbian publisher, seeks full-length
lesbian novels. For guidelines, send SASE to: Rising Tide Press,
5 Kivy St., Huntington Station, NY 11746.
SPINSTERS INK is seeking feminist writing by women of color- novels and non-fiction works. For more info: POB 300170,
Dept. C, Minneapolis, MN 55403, (612) 377-0287.
VISUAL AND PERFORMING ARTSTHINK IT'S NOT WHEN IT IZ (TINWII) is a theater company
dedicated to promoting positive gay and lesbian imagery in the
media. The company's first play, SENSUALITY, examines thecatharsis that many lesbians experience in coming to termswith their sexuality. The company's second play, CHOICES,isa lesbian soap opera based on lesbian life in the 90's. For information or to book a show in your area please contact Sonya M.
Hemphill at (718) 949-3864.
LESBIAN VISUAL ARTIST (LVA) a promotional & networking
organization whose purpose is to netw ork among lesbian visual artists and to promote their work. For more information

108 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

contact Happy /L.A. Hyder, 870 Market Street #618, San Francisco, CA 94102, (415)788-6118.
EVENTS/ORGANIZING/CONFERENCES/RETREATS
THE LIFE AND LEADERSHIP OF ELIZABETH CADYSTANTON: A Centennial Celebra·t ion of The Woman's Bible,
keynote by Gerda Lerner, Oct. 6-8, 1995. Info: V. Fowler, Dept.
of Religion, Columbia College, 1301 Columbia College Dr.,
Columbia, SC 29203.
THE FATE OF FEMINISM: IS THERE ANEXT GENERATION?
S. Conn. State Univ. 5th Annual Women's Studies Conference,
Sept. 30-0ct. 1, 1995. Info: V. Neverow, Women's Studies, SCSU,
501 Crescent St., New Haven, CT 06515, E-mail:neverow@scsud.ctstateu.edu.
LESBIAN NATURAL RESOURCES (LNR) is a new organization dedicated to developing rural lesbian community, providing grants & assistance with land purchase, establishing land
trusts, tax exemption & land skills. Emphasis on making thisresource available to lesbians of color. For more info, write:
POB 8742, Minneapolis, MN 55408-0742.
OLOC - Old Lesbians Organizing for Change helps form newgroups of lesbians over 60, provides ageism education, stimulates existing groups to confront ageism. OLOC, POB 980422,
Houston, TX 77098.
COTTAGES AT HEDGEBROOK - A Retreat for Women Writers grants cottages and meals for writers for a stay of up to threemonths. Application deadlines: Apr. 1 and Oct. 1. For applications: 2197 E. Millman Rd ., Langley, WA 98260.
NORCROFT - A writing retreat for women provides spaceand food for up to four weeks between May & October. Write
for 1995 applications: POB 300105, Minneapolis, MN 55403.
AD(VENTURES)
JOIN US ON BEAUTIFUL WIMMIN'S LAND! Cabin, campground, furnished outdoor kitchen under roof, firewood, solar
show er, swimpond, bookstore. Women only. SBAMUH #SW,
PO Box 5853, Athens, OH 45701 or (614)448-2509.

Summer/Fall 1995

109

SUPPORT

AILEEN WUORNOS DEFENSE COMMITTEE postcard campaign to demand a new trial for Wuornos. Postcards to: Florida
Supreme Court, 5th Judicial Circuit, 300 S. Beach St., Daytona
Beach, FL 32114. Call 415-995-2392 for more info.
LAVENDER L.E.A.P. is the Lesbian Emergency Action Fund ofmoney given anonymously, available to any S.P. or Alameda
County (CA) woman-born lesbian of poverty or working classbackground who needs it. Lavender L.E.A.P.'s long-term goal
is to diminish economic disparities among lesbians. Send checks,
queries to: L. Leaf, POB 20921, Oakland, CA 94620.
SPINSTERHAVEN, INC., a retirement haven for older women
and women with disabilities, promoting physical, cultural andspiritual well-being of women. Membership info and donations, POB 718, Fayetteville, AR 72701.
WHIPTAIL WOMYN'S COLLECTIVE provides a womyn-only
dyke-identified, drug-smoke-alcohol free space in S.P. & needs
all the help it can get. Send $, questions, energy to: 3543 18th St.
Box #29, SF, CA 94110.
PEN CENTER USA WEST is offering grants for writers withHIV / AIDS. Applications are available from PEN Center USA
West, 672 S. LaFayette Park PI, #41, LA, CA, 90057. App. deadline Sept. 29, 1995.
LESBIANS IN CRITICAL NEED have been sending us increasing numbers of requests to run announcements for their personal funds. Instead of printing these individual appeals, weurge you to contribute frequently and generously to local organizations. Imagine if we just told you your childhood bestfriend, your favorite gym teacher, an admired dyke activist or
your first lover had metastatic cancer and couldn't pay thedoctor bills; or had developed E.I., could no longer leave herhouse and had no way to get or pay for groceries. Then makea contribution to Lavender L.E.A.P., The Dykefund, the Charlotte Maxwell Clinic, The Women's Cancer Resource Center(these are S.P. Bay Area resources, find the ones in your community). We need full support networks as well as money - dykes
willing to shop, drive, talk, listen, organize.

110

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

February 8, 1995.
To:
International Advisory Board of theInternational Feminist Book Fair, 6th IFBF,
Friends and Supporters:
It is with great sadness thaf the Organizing Commission for
the Seventh International Feminist Book Fair announces its dissolution. Our Commission resigns as a whole. We wish to communicate the events which have led us to this decision.
Although we are very different in many respects, (such as age,profession, academic, ethnic background, political party andworldview), as feminists we all shared the dream of holding theSeventh ICBF here in Brazil, and invested work and money toward that end. As we stated in our presentation of July 1994 "In
Amsterdam (1992), we proposed to organize the Fair here in
Brazil, considering that we are experiencing a fertile period offeminist and women's literary production, and now is the time totry to shift the axis of emphasis from the Northern Hemisphere toencompass the South, and from the predominance of Anglo-Saxon
writers, to be more inclusive."
After a year and a half of work, we were surprised and taken
aback to learn by reading the program of the Melbourne Fair thatthe decision to hold the IFBF in Brazil in 1996, made in Amsterdam
in 1992, had been called into question and a new decision was tobe taken during the IFBF in Melbourne.
We believe that a feminist manner of proceeding would havebeen to have confidence in the group originally chosen; any questioning of this decision would need to have a stated reason, clear
procedural outlines for taking another decision and clear indications of what was lacking in the information we provided. We
experienced the communications from Melbourne as unclear andimpositional, and they interfered in our work at a time when it
was necessary to accelerate our efforts.
During the Fair, we received a fax stating: " ... but many questions
have been raised about Brazil 1996 that no one here can answer. At
the same time, the Phillipines, who were well represented here, havepresented a strong bid. This, combined with the fact that your funding depends on the upcoming elections has moved the group to aconsensus in support of the Phillipines' bid for the 7th IFBF inSummer/Fall 1995

111

1996." We were told to try again in 1998. (fax from the 7th IFBF
Location Group, 29 July 1994).
Another major difficulty was the withholding of information
crucial to affirming (or not) the decision that Brazil would be thesite of the Fair in 1996. Only after the Melbourne Fair did we learn
extra-officially that there were questions involved which had
never been communicated to us: to wit, a supposed split within
our commission (this was never the case); a requirement that theelections in Brazil have a predetermined outcome (we would haveworked successfully with whichever government had been elected
and never did our project" depend on the upcoming elections" asalleged in the 29 July fax), and an issue over the extent of lesbianparticipation in the organizing of the Fair. The withholding of
information regarding the REAL concerns of the organizers constituted an effective barrier to our REAL participation in any
decision.
One of the strong points of our bid, was the commercial aspect:
never has a Feminist Book Fair been staged inside an event withpublic attendance of the dimensions of the Sao Paulo Book Biennial - a public of 3 million in 1994. Further members of ourcommission were, and are, perfectly capable of organizing large
scale events and have the track record to so demonstrate.
After the site was summarily removed from Brazil in July, we
received indications of renewed interest on the part of the international organizers in December and January. What happened to the
proponents from the Phillipines? We hope that their experiencehas not been as difficult as ours.
With sincere hopes that these problems can be corrected, we
caution that treating each other with mutual respect based on theassumption of credibility is an essential operating tenet of feminism. We do wish you success with your next efforts.
Sincerely,
Zuleika Alambert
Miriam Bottassi
Nelly Novaes Coelho
Silvia Cintra Franco
Lucia Pimentel Goes
Danda Prado
Ann Puntch
Alzira Rufino

112 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

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114

sinister wisdom #56 On Language"

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Lesbians Loving Across the Lines

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116 sinister wisdom #56 On Language

Rising spirits Healing and Learning center, Inc . , is It New York
based not-tor-profit organization creat~d by African-American and
Latina co-founders, Vanessa M. Marshall, CSW and Santa L.M . Mol i na,
csw .
We draw on our own experience qs women of color, we honor ,celebrate and learn trom the strengths, struqqles and achievements
ot our sisters.
Our vision is designed to promote healing andcommunity by supportinq qrowth, empowerment and poss i bilities for
all women and their tamille ~.
Our mission is to provide
individuals, groups and social/non social services organizations
the opportunity to explore and learn about di!!erent forms ofalterna tive healinq methods, includinq a holistic (mind, body andspirit integration) approach to individual , couples, family andqroup psychotherapy .

Our plan for the next five to ten years is to develop a druq andalcohol tree retreat/resort center on 70 plus acres ot beautiful
green land on the Eastern Shore of Virginia (space which has been
secured for the use of Rising Spirits Healing and Learning Center) .
At tha center women and children from allover the country , and, ofall 3ges, ~ltures, ethnic groups, economic backgrounds and sexua lorientations come together to learn trom each other, throughworkshops, training and personal experiences . People come to heal,
rejuvenate, honor and respect themselves and one another.
Ourelders will coma to retire while our children come to teach andlearn to be stronq lovinq human beings that wi ll shape the futureof planet earth.
The center in Virginia will be a place where all involved(staff/messengers), will be seen as healers, committed to healing
themselves and others.
Where healinq throuqh love starts themoment you step on the land, a place WHERE SPIRITS RISE AS WE LEARNTO HEAL.

I t you believe as we believe , that i t is time for a place like
Risinq Spirits Healinq and Learninq Center, we ask that you join
your eftorts with ours.
Make a donation to our CAPITAL CAMPAIGN
FUND.

Together we move mountains and make visions realities, so pleasecontact us . We welcome your support, feedback, and ideas. Call or
write us tor more information about us and how you can get
involved.

May peace and love always be with you,santa and Vanessa
540 West 55th Street
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Summer/Fall 1995

117

sinister wisdom
Some Current & Back Issues#55 An open issue explores issues of racial identity and sexeual identification#54 Lesbians & Religion: explores questions of faith and community from many
directions (Elana Dykewomon's last issue as editor).
#53 Old LesbianslDykes: guest edited by 9 old dykes, features the work of 38
womyn over 60, including Del Martin, Phyllis Lyon & Sally Miller Gearhart.
#52 Allies includes 10 interviews by Jamie Lee Evans with lesbian activists.
#51 An open issue where lesbians lay claim to our lives.
#50 Not The Ethics Issue we had planned (read it to find out why). Butthere is great
work on ethics & more. Guest edited by Caryatis Cardea and Sauda Burch.
#49 The Lesbian Body: here's where flesh and theory meet - includes lesbians ofcolor, roles, disability, body image, fat, sex, menopause and more.
#48 Lesbian Resistance: investigations into the activist heart of our courage including messages from dykes in prison.
#47 Lesbians of Color: Tellin' It Like It Tis'. Special 160-page issue edited bylesbians of color, includes new work in all forms - essential reading.
#46 Dyke Lives. New, international fiction and ·poetry.
#45 Lesbians and Class. The first issue edited entirely by poor and working classdykes includes analysis, personal narrative, poetry, fiction & a graffiti wall.
#43/44 The 15th Anniversary Retrospective. 368 pages, over 90 lesbians' work fromthe second wave. An amazing, indispensable source collection!
#42 Lesbian Voices. Our first intentional all-lesbian issue.
#41 Italian-American Women's Issue. Guest edited by Denise Leto & Janet Capone.
#40 Special Focus on Friendship. Essays, fiction, editorial discussion transcript.
#36 Special Focus on Surviving Psychiatric AssaulUCreating Emotional Well
Being in our Communities. Includes testimony, prose, poetry and essays.
#35 Passing. Investigations into trying to appear other than we are.
#34 Special Focus on Lesbian Visions, Fantasy, SciFi.
#33 Special Focus on Wisdom. Lesbians of Color, non-violence, war stories, incest,leaving a will, assimilation & The Real Fat Womon Poems.
#32 Special Focus on Illness, Death, Mourning, Healing, the disappeared, hunting
season, dealing with suicide, cancer, new ritual observances.
#31 Special Focus on Sex and Fiction, coming out in the south, found goddesses.
#28 Special Focus on Women & Work; Body Image, Size & Eating.
#26 Special Issue: To Go To Berbir by Jill Drew, a book on being in Beirut in 1982.

We recently found a case of slightly damaged copies of #39, On Disability ($5 ea.).

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one month for delivery.

118

sinister wisdom #56 On Language

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