Saturday, November 29, 2014

Six Degrees of Separation: Part II

Walking up Pleasant street towards Thorns Market Talina, Nani and I passed an older Caucasian woman who knits colorful headbands and gloves and sells them on the street to make a living.  An older African American gentlemen played his guitar for money and another young Caucasian played some form of string instrument sitting on a bench right outside Thorns.  

As we passed the third peddler, Talina asked me "Why me?  Why did you chose me? There are so many people out here. Is it because of my skin color (referring to the both of us being women of color)?  


After looking within for words to describe why I just couldn't leave her sitting on the ground I looked up at her eyes and said "Because you are me and, I am you,"   


I grew up in fear and uncertainty feelings which later hardened into anger, resentment and insecurity. My father was an alcoholic; when he drank he became vicious and violent towards my mother.  One day he came home from work to an empty apartment - we were gone.  Not yet five years old, our escape and transition are foggy memories of my mother heating our pajamas and school clothes in the the stove's oven. My mother never sought counseling for herself or us.  Up to the age of about 12 years old, I lived in fear of my mother's explosive temper.  There wasn't much we could do to escape the transfer of abuse.  In a fit of rage one morning, my mother charged my sister who with no where no to go backed into a closet in one corner of the kitchen where she was slapped, pulled, shoved, cursed, jabbed with a fork and then bit.  I stood helplessly watching my mother beat my sister.  Afterwards  we were sent off to school walking through block after block of junk yards where tenement buildings once stood while "I hate you; I wish you were never born" rang in my ears.   


By the age of sixteen I was an emancipated minor which meant I did not have a safe, nurturing and welcoming space where I was loved and accepted. 


Talina, Nani and I crossed Pleasant street over to Faces department store. 


"Is Hay Market, alright?" I asked.  "Yes, that's okay," she nodded.  "Can I use the bathroom first?"  Talina asked as we entered Hay Market.  "Of course you can; there's one up here and another downstairs," I assured her.  


There was a woman with her baby waiting to use the upstairs bathroom.  I suggested we go downstairs instead.  We descended down the back stairway to the cozy, dimly lit dining area in the basement level.  We waited for Talina to exit the restroom and then, the waitress helped us get situated in a comfy corner.  Once seated, I took off my coat but, Talina did not.  Talina barely looked up or, directly at me.  I could tell she was uneasy.  There was a grace and humility about Talina which made me feel privileged and honored to have the opportunity  to meet and share with her.   


"I still don't understand...how you see yourself in me?" she said looking up at me.  "Is it because of my color?" she asked.  "No," I said.  "When one of us hurts; we all hurt.  We choose to ignore the suffering of others.  I believe this is why so many of us suffer from dis-eases.  I am doing for you what I would have wanted someone do for me at your age - showed me they cared."  


At the age of 13 I was very short-tempered.  One afternoon, I responded to my mother's verbal abuse by pointing out her own immoral behavior regarding her dating her best friend's boyfriend.  She went into a raging fit and attacked me.  She grabbed an antique doll and hit me over the head.  I lost it when I touched my forehead and saw blood on my fingers.  When she charged at me again I pushed her; she grabbed a stick to hit me with and I grabbed it away from her. She screamed "how dare you hit me?!" And, my older sister came out of her bedroom.  "Vivian, that's your mother!" she exclaimed.  But, I had only tried to defend myself.  I never hit her; I only pushed her away from me.  My mother turned to my older sister and said "either she goes or, I go," pointing to me.  My sister was only two years older than I.  I can't imagine what it must feel like to have to choose between your mother or your sister.  This ultimatum was the beginning of my exile.  From the ages of thirteen to 22 I bounced around to at least six or seven different places.  And, at 21 I was not living on the streets but, I was completely alone renting a bedroom in Washington Heights on the upper West side of Manhattan, attending community college, working and paying rent.  


Even though my older sister lived minutes away from me; we were not close.  We didn't have a loving and trusting relationship.  We didn't look out for each other.  We didn't trust each other.  As a result, I didn't think much of myself.  I was completely isolated from my family and didn't know how to trust people enough to make close friends.  I was severely depressed.  As a result, I was drawn to emotionally unavailable men who lacked honesty and integrity.  Men who often times manipulated me emotionally. Having had no point of reference for what unconditional, protective love looked, felt or sounded like, I was constantly fooled by the 'knock-off' version of love - lust.  


Manipulation, lying and, selfishness were the characteristics I grew accustomed to.  I did not understand honesty, integrity, loyalty and commitment; therefore I felt unprotected and vulnerable in them.  Anyone who exhibited patience, kindness, integrity and loyalty appeared weak and boring and hence unattractive.  Everything I wanted: loving, trusting, committed relationships (family, life partner, community) I did not know how to identify, cultivate and much less embrace or reciprocate.  I lived in a world of shame, confusion and fear masked by (a bruised) ego, procrastination and selfish motives.  I have come a long way.  In my teenage and early 20's I wasted my time, income and energy maintaining a white-supremacist standard of beauty.  I dyed my hair, wore light-colored eye contacts and acrylic on my nails.  I purchased very expensive shoes and clothes I could not afford consequently I never had any money to do anything.  All the while my spirit bled to death. I was slowly  giving up on my self - drowning out my inner voice.  


One summer day, I met this elderly man in Washington Heights: Harry.  Harry, was in his late 70's or early 80's and was a former dancer with impeccable style who traveled to Paris during the Harlem Renaissance period.  Harry and I would walk down Broadway street to a street-side cafe for a beverage.  There he would encourage me "you should go to a state university; you have too many adult responsibilities.  At an university you can live on campus and not have to worry about paying rent." I did not understand why this man thought I was smart enough to attend an university.  I had never mentally pictured myself at a state university; I didn't think I was good enough.  


So, I shouldn't write 'homeless and pregnant' on my sign?" asked Talina struggling to understand.  

"Home is in here," pointing to her heart.  "Home is not a place; its a sense of belonging, of self-worth.  Your home is inside you.  I understand you are in a shelter so you don't have your own place to live." I explained.

"But, I feel I'm homeless because I don't pay rent; I'm just staying there [at the shelter]."  Talina insisted.

"So, a bill makes it a home?" I asked.  

"When you stop running from what's in here [pointing to her heart where her emotional and mental wounds are] you will become your home.  Do you know that when you write something down; you bind it?  You solidify your thought.  Meaning once you have written it you have agreed that you have called it into existence." 


To be bound means: tied to, in the direction of, and together with.  So you are speaking homeless and pregnant into your future.  You are not a homeless pregnant woman but you have written you are homeless pregnant bound.  


"Yesterday, I wrote 'homeless belly-dancer; tomorrow I will put 'homeless belly dancer' or, should I write 'out of work belly-dancer?"  Talina wasn't there yet fully but, I could see her slowly trying to release her lie.


"I want you to start telling yourself what you need to be who you truly are.  Start telling yourself 'I am home.'  Talina fell silent, eyes locked with mine and then at a distance.  I knew she was seeing herself; her future - her home.  


"Thank you," I said putting some money in her hand.  "You're thanking me?" she asked.  

"Yes," I confirmed.  
"Why?" she asked.  "When one of us heals; we all heal.  You are me, 17 years ago." 

I knew I had just healed the 17 year old me.  I reached another level of healing.  I also realized I was her 'Harry' - her elder.  


I know one day in the future, Talina will be the elder to a wandering spirit whom she will help to reach home.


I am thankful for the ancestors who have and continue to guard my walls...blessed to know I too am one.


Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Six Degrees of Separation: Part I

"I am not my hair, I am not my skin, I am not your ex-pec-ta-tions noooo. I am not my hair, I am not my skin...I am the soul that lives within." India Irie Songwriter, Musician, Artist, Humanitarian.

I awoke with this song in my spirit this past Sunday.  As I sang this to myself I felt so much love and hope surround me.  I heard a voice say "share this; give it away...it is not yours to keep."


Naa Anyele, my 10 year old 'baby girl' who I affectionately call Nani, awoke.  We cuddled in bed for about 15 minutes.  I apologized for having over reacted about the dishes the night before.  I can be so hard on myself, my child and everyone else.  There isn't a day that goes by I don't feel the problems of the world fixed squarely on my shoulders atop my own.  The injustices I witness and experience everyday: racism, sexism, the ever expanding corporate lobby buying our government elected officials to silence them about the outsourcing of almost all our job market oversees resulting in cyclical unemployment, rising cost of living, rising homelessness, unlivable minimum wage(s), the industrial prison complex and the most detrimental of all the effects - the breakdown of the family unit.  Displaced individuals, elderly, veterans, families and youth literally living in the street is America's new middle class.  It is no wonder any of us are short tempered.  Quite often I lash out about insignificant matters: dirty dishes left in the sink, an messy room, food left out on the kitchen counter.  After unleashing a barrage of accusations and judgments, I feel like a monster, a bully.  I feel guilty, ashamed and confused about why I get so angry in the  first place.  So, for the umpteenth time, I apologized about overreacting to the person I most love on this Earth - Nani.


"I better do some yoga and exercise," I thought.  After breakfast, Nani and I lounged on the couch together while I had my cafe con leche and she her mango tea. We listened to some good music while I gave her some historical perspective on Hip Hop, the culture I grew up in.  After a relaxing hour on the couch I decided "C'mon, let's get ready and go to Northampton to hang out and get some air."  After my shower and while I was getting ready, I began to feel an overwhelming sense of frustration and anxiety again.  I kept envisioning myself at a fork.  I knew I needed to make a decision about which way to go.  One direction led me to an evening of frustration.  The second path led me to spending time with my daughter and self.  Seems like an easy choice but, have you ever been lost and faced the decision whether to turn around or continue going in the wrong direction hoping to find a gas station to ask directions?  Most people continue in the wrong direction trying to find a gas station.  That's what I'd been doing up until last Sunday when I decided to just turn around.  


There are so many things I want to do.  I have always wanted to write books but, I turned away from it for fear of failure.  Now, that I've actually written how I've felt all these years; it just sounds so ridiculous.  All these years I've been crippling myself with fear - no more.  A couple of years ago, different folks suggested I start a blog and my own radio podcast.  I decided to turn that into one of my goals.  I've been co-hosting on various community college radio broadcasts for about a year and half now.  After feeling very frustrated by the lack of freedom of speech and transparency about what is going on in our communities, I ventured into learning how to do an audio podcast.  I still do radio though.  But, the vision which frightens me the most is one I have had for over 14 years.  


Since elementary school, I knew that there was something deeply wrong with school.  I never felt encouraged to think, to question, to explore any one particular topic.  I only remember being told to listen, memorize, regurgitate and obey.  Now I know, schools are institutions of indoctrination and control.  I always felt isolated by teachers and staff; force fed content I didn't see myself in.   As I progressed through elementary, junior high and high school, I felt increasingly invisible and mute.  I have been haunted with a vision of cooperatively owning and operating a 'safe' space for 'higher learning' that empowers youth through practical, experiential-based learning of all the sciences, including artistic expression as a science.


For the last eleven years, I have felt frustrated with the immensity of this vision knowing I could not do it alone  - I prayed for the collaborative to become flesh.  Many times, I lost hope of ever meeting like-minded people who I could work with to bring this 'safe' space for higher-learning to fruition. Every time I lost hope, I would return to pursuing a nine to five cycling through dead-end jobs.  I couldn't see a way to make this big picture full screen, in my life.  Last year, I began to take small steps in words then, in deed.  Whenever people asked "what do you do?" I'd answer: "I am a youth advocate and a homelessness prevention consultant," regardless of whether I was employed or, not.  I determined I define who I am.  I began attending homelessness prevention meetings.  I went to a print shop, picked out a design and had business cards printed.  None of these efforts materialized into a well-paying, stable job nor generated the collaborative I envision.  What these efforts did do is push me in front of the mirror to ask "Who are you?"  


The fork I was envisioning was a physical manifestation asking me "Who are you?" and the reason I was feeling so frustrated. I needed to press in to my gifts, talents, strengths and purpose.  Driving North on Route five, I felt uncertainty.  I really did not know how to get to where I needed to be but, I knew I was going in the right direction.  When I pulled up to Pleasant street in Northampton, I was still in a fog-like state of conflict.  Nani excitedly hoped out the car; I was dragging.  We began to walk up towards Thorns Market when I was stopped mid-stride.  


A young 'Black' girl sat on the ground up against the tree, 'Indian' style with her legs crossed.  She looked so young; eighteen, maybe 20 years old. More than her flawless milk chocolate skin or even the "Homeless and pregnant" cardboard sign at her feet, I saw shame, confusion and fear.  I had reached my fork.


"Hello," I said softly surprised at how firmly my feet were planted.  


Out of all the countless times I've given money to a homeless person; this time I knew that wasn't enough or even what she needed.  Slowly, she nodded her head without lifting it.  


"Are you okay?" I asked her.  


Given the writing on the cardboard I was asking a really stupid question except something told me I wasn't.  Typically, folks don't ask a person sitting on the ground holding a "homeless and pregnant" sign "how are you?" No, typically, we assume the worst; that the individual is miserable, destitute and without hope.  But, that is not what I saw.  I saw shame, confusion and fear; all three are a form of discord with your present state of being.  In other words, these feelings are a heightened sense of awareness which only reflects wellness.  


Although I was there; I was not in control.  I felt completely driven by something other than my physical being.  The questions came out of my mouth before I could stop them.


"Why are you here?  Where is your family?" I asked deeply concerned.  She looked up at me but, looked away when our eyes met. 

"My family is in Springfield," she murmured looking down.  


Her voice was sweet with a child-like innocence; there was no bitterness in it. 


"Where are you staying?  Are you on the street?" I asked.


"No, I'm in a shelter," she assured me.  


"In Northampton?" I asked.


"No, in Easthampton," she confirmed. 


My mind raced, something didn't add up.  


Squatting down to eye level I asked "How did you get here, do you have a car?"


"No, but I didn't take the bus today; someone gave me a ride."  She answered and I saw she was wearing green contacts.  


"Do they treat you okay at the shelter?"  I asked.  


"I'm with DMH," she offered.  


"How old are you?" trying to ascertain if she was getting the services she needed.


DMH is the department of mental health but, that still didn't confirm she was being serviced properly as a youth.  


"I'm 22," she smiled revealing two beautiful dimples.  


"What happened to school?" I asked.  


"I went to Putnam but, I didn't complete my trade." revealing a British accent.  


"Are you American," lowering my voice to a whisper.  


"Yes," looking up at me.


My confused facial expression must have prompted her to reassure me "Really, I am.  I just read a lot of books from the 1800's." smiling.


I was not convinced but, it didn't matter.  She was slowly opening up even if it was about her pretend reality. The more she spoke, the clearer her British accent became. 


Suddenly, it dawned on me that she might not be pregnant and, the question came right out the way a mother softens her voice to encourage her child to tell the truth.


"Are you really pregnant," without breaking my eye contact.  


Looking down in shame, she shook her head "No."


I was not upset, instead, I was relieved.  Without the slightest clue as to who I was she couldn't lie to me; it was a victory.  


"What is your name?" I asked softly.


"Talina," she smiled shyly.


"Hi Talina, my name is Viviana," extending my hand to her.  


"What do you need Talina; how can I help you right now." I said.  


Talina, did not respond; she didn't know what to say.  Better yet, she didn't know what she needed.  


"What is your last name?" I asked.  "Hugubug," she answered.  


At first, I thought she might be making up a name.  Talina Hugabug is an uncommon name for an African American girl from Springfield, MA but, not for an African-British Islander.  


"Talina, you are so beautiful...Why are you out here on the street all alone?"  Her verbal responses were incoherent and of no consequence.  More important, were her nonverbal responses; they were honest and revealing.  I was amazed at our exchange; the way she responded honestly to my holding her accountable.  


"Are you Hispanic?" she asked smiling so bright it was easy to forget the circumstances that brought us together.  


"I don't call myself that," I asserted.  "I am Afro-Caribbean; I am an Afro-Latina." I explained. 


"You are Black?" she asked with a child-like curiosity. 


"Don't I look Black?" I smiled.  Talina nodded her head, yes. 


"Are you hungry?" I asked again.  


Watching Talina and I transform from random strangers to trusting acquaintance was equal to nothing I've ever experienced.  Certainly nothing a degree in clinical psychology or sociology could teach me.  


I could almost see Talina's thoughts as she looked inwardly and nodded "Yes."  


"Okay, let's go get something to eat." I offered.  


"Talina, You need to begin telling yourself 'I am not homeless; I am home'.  Start envisioning yourself being home.  Please stop telling yourself you are homeless and pregnant.  Rip up that sign and throw it in the trash; that is not who you are."  Looking into the distance, Talina ripped up the sign.  


"Now, let's go eat," I smiled.  


Stay tuned to Six Degrees of Separation Part II....


Thursday, November 20, 2014

The Rise of Puerto Rico's Nationalist Labor Movement: The Politics of Resilience


And here, I had always been (secretly) ashamed of being the descendant of native-born Puerto Ricans. I have no recollection of a history lesson in primary, secondary or post-secondary schooling of Boricuas fervently fighting for their political, economic and social independence. Growing up in the South Bronx, the cruelest insult you could hurl at another child was to say “That’s why your mother’s on welfare.” I felt deeply ashamed of the way Puerto Ricans in particular were stigmatized as 'Welfare-leros' or the ‘Welfare People’. Upon entering my teens - I rejected finding myself there...in an island where the people did not love their blackness or their independence. Instead, I identified with the Dominican Republic and later with Cuba and West Africa where I traveled to do further research... 

This blog gives voice to my African heritage and pride but, also serves as an antidote to the silent discontent towards the political, economic and social conditions many Afro-Caribbean people living in the United States and their respective island homeland(s) have come to accept.


In my three years as a Holyoke resident, I have never heard of or been invited to a political gathering hosted by and for the Puerto Rican community that is, until last week. A friend sent me a Facebook invite to attend a lecture by Mr. Jose Lopez, the younger brother of Oscar Lopez Rivera. Rivera passionately narrates his older brother’s bitter-sweet legacy of a ‘Politics of Resilience’…


“During the Vietnam War the US's Army policy was to use Black and Latino males as scouts; they would send them first because their lives are seen as expendable.”


Oscar Lopez Rivera was drafted into the Vietnam War and it was there that he had an awakening.

“My brother he was 5’4, had Asian-slanted eyes and jet black hair. Oscar’s battalion of 25 men was ambushed. All were killed except my brother.”

As a result of the ambush, Rivera was shot in the head but, his helmet protected him from death. Rivera locked eye contact with a Viet Kong, raised his riffle, but it would not release on his target. It was in this split second, Rivera questioned...

“My people were fighting the Vietnamese but no Vietnamese had ever hurt me; how could I be fighting a people in the same condition as me?”

Rivera earned a Bronze medal of honor for saving the life a soldier in his regiment. Witnessing the oppressed conditions of his people upon his return to his hometown of Chicago, Rivera refused both the medal and his uniform. Instead, Rivera took up the cause of fighting colonial imperialism in Puerto Rico; becoming one of the most effective community organizers in the 70's. Rivera and his brother Lopez helped to conduct research for the first study published in 1970 documenting Puerto Rican high school dropouts in the city of Chicago.

“The oppressor could never be creative because he is always thinking about oppressing. The oppressed are always thinking about freedom and, freedom is creative.” Jose Lopez

Rivera and Lopez became educators which further raised their consciousness about their privileged status as “fair-skinned” Puerto Ricans. Determined to address the socio-economic disparities Puerto Rican high school students suffered, Rivera and Lopez founded The Pedro Albizu Campos High School, an alternative school designed to provide equitable education in a culturally affirming environment.

Why would Oscar Lopez Rivera want to fight for Puerto Rico’s independence from the United States?

This intimate gathering at Salsarengue, a small local restaurant bar in Holyoke, MA penned yet another chapter rich in political, economic and social history. My journey to further uncover my Afro-Latino heritage continues...

Rivera’s 1943 birth in Puerto Rico was cradled by the island-nation’s 1930’s heated, class struggle to regain political, economic and social autonomy from US imperialistic capitalism which rested solely on a one-crop slave plantation economy.

The North American ‘Fair’ Trade Act which (currently), installs corporate factory farms and insular governments in Mexico to protect US corporate interest while consequently, driving small farmers out and forcing them to immigrate to the United States in search for work, works in similar fashion to the Jones-Costigan Act of 1930. The Jones-Costigan Act imposed a quota on production and exports of sugar to the US causing 15, 000 laborers to lose their jobs and join 150,000 unemployed laborers in Puerto Rico. Small and medium growers were penalized by mills whom refused to grind sugar and by US banks who denied financing of their crops. As a result of the quota, small and medium Puerto Rican sugar growers faced possibility of losing their crops and land.

According to an article published by Emilios Pantojas-Garcia titled: Puerto Rican Popularism Revisited: The PPD During the 1940's "Throughout a five year period (1931 – 36) a total of 207 laborer and small/medium farmer strikes occurred; 91 happened in less than one year from July 1933 – June 1934."


The greatest blow to the US domination of the Puerto Rico was the 1934 Sugar-workers rejection of the Federacion Libre de Trabajadores (FLT) a local affiliate of the American Federation of Labor. The FLT formed a “Coalition” with the Partido Republicano (PR) or, the Republican Party whose aim it was to protect sugar interest. Laborers and small/medium farmers become suspicious of the FLT's "Coalition" with the Republican Party protesting a contract signed by the FLT with the PR which they denounced as treason to the labor union's interest. The laborers and smaller farmers reject the FLT's policy of 'Conciliation' and invite Pedro Albizu Campos, President of the Partido Nacional to lead the 1934 Sugar-worker’s strike.


This alliance between the interests of workers and the nationalist petty bourgeoisie had the potential to produce a strong anti-imperialist alliance. The PN was the only party calling for the immediate liquidation of colonialism and questioning the very basis of North American domination in Puerto Rico.

Fearing this alliance, US corporations granted all the worker’s demands only after Albizu Campos is invited to lead the Sugar-worker’s strike. By doing so, the US hoped to end collaborations between Nationalist and field workers. Having reached their goal of dividing the PN and laborers, the US imposes political suppression via the installation of military General Blanton Winship as Governor of Puerto Rico and Colonel Elisha Francis Riggs as Chief of Police.

Immediately after the 1934 Sugar-workers Strike the US government unleashes further political repression directed at the PN’s leadership as evidenced by the 1935 and 1937 Massacre of students at Rio Piedra and Ponce, respectively. The insular government imprisoned PN leadership and harassed and persecuted insurgents opposed to US domination. Sound familiar?

In an unprecedented move to preserve US corporate interest in the island nation and under the guise of ‘Reconstruction’ and ‘Emergency Relief’ President Franklin D. Roosevelt executed the deadliest and most insidious political repression via the installment of Welfare programs euphemistically named: The Puerto Rico Reconstruction Administration (PRRA) and the Puerto Rico Emergency Relief Administration (PRERA) which served to mobilize political forces on the island and to preserve US interest via a political machine based on patronage.


Growing up in the South Bronx one of the many US annexes for generations of poor ousted farmers and field laborers - I now know the shame we felt was by design. But, just as Roosevelt's attempt to monopolize and control the sugar economy failed so did his efforts to impose an legacy of 'Welfare'.


Pa,pa,pa...pa, pa!


The 'Clave' is the sonic embodiment of resilience. Enslaved Africans used the 'Clave' to unify sonic and physical movement and communicate messages of revolt and rebellion. The 'Clave' is present in all Afro-Caribbean music: Guaracha, Sone, Cumbia, Salsa and Merengue. As such, Puerto Ricans are spiritually imbued with a 'Politics of Resilience' which like the 'Clave' survived the horrific middle passage to unite us under one rhythm.


Brother, Elder and political prisoner Oscar Lopez Rivera has been unjustly incarcerated for over 30 years for the thought-crime of seditious conspiracy. Rivera has never been accused of attempting or committing any violence against; his only crime - being a voice for liberation.


For more information on the lengths to which our government will go to punish and silence voices of liberation, please visit: WWW.UPSIDEDOWNWORLD.ORG


Please purchase: "Between Torture and Resistance" it is a vivid tale of human rights abuses in the U.S. which are largely unreported. But it is also a story of hope—that there is beauty and strength in resistance.


Many thanks to Jose Bou owner of Salsarengue Restaurant and Bar for hosting Mr. Jose Lopez, Professor at Northeastern University.

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

The FBI Destroys American Communities in the Name of "National Security/ the War on Terrorism"

This morning I made a simple decision to say "yes" to a friend's call to action in support of an upstanding member of our community who was not willing to become an FBI informant against his fellow Muslim community in Springfield, MA.  There is something to be said for following your "inner voice".  Having done so, I unknowingly encountered another opportunity to walk in my calling...to Break the Afro-Latino Yoke in Western, MA.

That is not what I thought I was doing when I finally determined to get dressed and head out to Springfield, MA a city where I lived from 2003 to 2009 and which, neighbors Holyoke (The Yoke) where I now live in Hampden County.  I was just simply supporting Arise for Social Justice, an organization which back in 2003 jumped in to help me at a time when I was facing imminent homelessness.  Arise has been in existence for much longer however for the past 11 years I have witnessed them take up the cause of the poor, homeless and disenfranchised.

"No justice, no peace! No racist, police!" could be heard from the East Columbus Side parking lot across from the Hampshire County District Court.  The closer I got to the chanting, the more I felt like a river joining the ocean; freedom to grow. I immediately pulled my android out and started video recording; not because I went to be a spectator.  There are struggles happening all across our nation right now around social, political and economic oppression towards the working class, poor and people of color. Our government is utilizing federal, state and local law enforcement to execute their agenda(s) to keep us in a constant state of fear and from defending our civil and human rights namely: the fifth amendment which protects your right to not incriminate yourself by remaining silent or if an attorney has been attained through said attorney and the right to protest. It is imperative we video record or live broadcast our local and/or budding struggles against injustice to build solidarity and common cause across the nation and world.

After capturing the charge in the air and its affect on locals walking in and out of the court as well as those driving by, I joined my fellow freedom fighters.  I believe we speak into the Uni-Verse and it mirrors what we say.  As we chanted "No justice, no peace!  No racist, police!" I could feel an trans-formative energy elevating my consciousness.  No one either walking nor driving by failed to acknowledge our sound as evidenced by the prolonged looks, the pauses in step or the horn-honking.  At 9:30 A.M. an ocean of sky blue T-shirts with the emblem of a bird flying out of a cage poured into the court house. Going through the metal detectors I could not help but notice the African American security officers exude admiration.

Bro. Ayyub-Abdul Alim is originally from my home town of Harlem, NY.  His Muslim Latina mother, a native of the Caribbean island of Borinquen (renamed by Spanish Colonizers as Puerto Rico or, rich port) and African American father were members of the Young Lords and Black Panther Party; two very prominent Political and Social activist groups. Both groups fought to defend civil rights and reclaim communities of color away from drugs and violence.  Both the Young Lords and Black Panther Party were known for implementing community-based food and educational programs to feed and educate our community.  Both programs were targeted by the US FBI's counter-intelligence program COINTELPRO. Ayyub's birth into an Muslim heritage via the  Mosque of Islamic Brotherhood "taught him life as an American 'Black' and 'Hispanic' Muslim would mean he would never be free from government surveillance." (www.justiceforAyyub.org).

On Dec. 9, 2011.  Bro. Ayyub was forcibly abducted by local police under the direction of the FBI unit which had for years been soliciting, targeting and watching his every move to no success.  Bro. Ayyub was detained on his way to a grocery store, searched repeatedly without cause or, provocation and then framed on gun charges of which there is no evidence.  Bro. Ayyub, was propositioned by the very same FBI agent who had been surveying him for years to corroborate with the FBI as an informant of the Muslim community.
 “They said that they would give me the names of specific people who they wanted me to target, and I would use anti-government propaganda to incite them to violent action. They implied that they would provide me with guns and bombs to give people.” Hisgen and Sheehan did not record the interrogation.http://www.thenation.com/article/182096/how-one-man-refused-spy-fellow-muslims-fbi-and-then-lost-everything
Bro. Ayyub was charged and indited on fabricated gun charges and has been imprisoned at Cedar Junction maximum security prison for over two years awaiting his trial.  In the interim, the FBI stripped Springfield, MA Winchester Square's of a man who believed and invested in his community; founder of The Quran and Sunnah Community Center which offered free meals and prayer services and Connections Transportation which transported persons to visit their loved ones in prison.  Bro. Ayyub, was also a small-business owner, an apartment complex manager and husband and good father figure to his wife's son.  To find out more about the lude, criminal and destructive tactics used by the FBI against our communities of color and American Muslims please visit: Justice For Bro. Ayyub-Abdul Alim and Arise for Social Justice.

Also, join me Tuesday nights for my segment:  "Tidbits of Us" on the Reflections - Grown Folks Mix Show where I provide further research-based insight on the history of independence struggles to free The African Diaspora from US and European imperialistic colonialism. I am currently discussing Cuba's 19th century wars of independence.

"In reclaiming my voice, I aspire to inspire you to reclaim yours." Viviana de Jesus

#AfroLatinaLivinMyPassion




Monday, November 10, 2014

November 4, 2014 Voting Polls: Is Our Government Racist Even With A Black President

Breaking the Afro-Latino Yoke in Western MA...

         

On August 20, 2014 I entered the City of Holyoke’s City Hall auditorium to attend the mandatory Poll Worker training. I noticed Mike Carlson of LHS Associates, the trainer, had no LCD screen to project images of the ballot machine and, no microphone.  The crowd murmured they couldn’t hear Carlson.  Amongst the mostly retired white female senior citizens I spotted a sprinkling of Latino and African Americans.  Carlson didn’t speak about the voting process, how to steward recently moved residents, incomplete voter lists, or how to educate voters without influencing their vote.  Despite having worked in my ward last November and attending the September training; I never received a call to work.  The day before the election I called Brenna McGee, the City of Holyoke’s new Registrar of Voter Clerk.  After some phone tag, I received a voicemail.

“Actually, my bilingual person called out so, I do have an opening but you need to get back to me right away.”  

I returned the call and confirmed myself for the morning shift at Falsetti Towers - a housing project for senior citizens in a predominantly Latino community.

“I am here to work,” I insisted pointing to myself and then, inside. A white police officer signaled me to enter the polling site with his index finger.  

“She’s here to work,” Susan Rosa yelled over to Larry Ryan, the poll Warden.   

Larry walked outside on his cell phone returning with another Latina woman.  When I looked up I realized they were both walking towards me. Larry bent over my table and quietly informed me

“Uh, I just got a call from City Hall; this woman was previously scheduled and she’s supposed to be here.  They called you but, I was just told to ask you to leave.”  

“I am not leaving, “I refused.  

“I don’t want any problems; I will leave,” the Latina woman offered.  

“No, we should both stay.  Why can’t there be more than one bilingual person when this is a predominantly Latino community?”  I questioned.  

“We, don’t need more than one; we don’t get that many,” Lynn, my table partner, whispered. The woman left.  

“I’m so sorry,” Lynn apologized.  From across the room, I heard Larry say

“I don’t get paid enough for this bullshit.”  

Voters streamed in non-stop and 75 percent were Spanish-speakers who bypassed Larry, Sue and Carol coming over to me.  Latino male elders posted outside the voting site ushered voters straight to me because I would help them.  In between streams, Lynn asked

“So you think our government is racist even with having a Black president?”  

“Perhaps that young man in Ferguson was a thug but, it just kills me about that other one...what was his name?”

“Trayvon Martin?” I offered.  

“Yes, oh, that just kills me every time I see it.”  

Most of her references were based on mainstream characterization of people of color asking me

“Why are Black neighborhoods so dirty?”  

I overheard Larry ask a Spanish-speaking woman at the registration table

“Who’s stupid, you?  I’m not stupid.”  Larry greeted residents mockingly “Kielbasa!”  

I overheard a son helping his mother.  

“We need you here.” I said.  The young man smiled.  

“You can do this; it’s not hard.  Go down to City Hall and request an application to work as an election poll worker, next year,” I encouraged him.  

“Really, where do I go?” he asked.  

“Just go right over to,” I started.  

“Could you help this man?” Larry demanded pointing to an English speaking voter I had already helped.  

“I will,” I answered.  

“No, go now!” Larry shouted.  

“I will go when I am finished talking with this young man!”

Later, Sue brought over a senior Native American, resident of the housing development.

“Her name is N- E-P-A-L,” she over annunciated in a loud voice as if I was hard of hearing.  

Ms. Nepal’s difficulty to speak and walk made her commitment to her civic duties all the more honorable.  I felt truly humbled to be in her presence; Ms. Nepal wasn’t the only one though.  Ms. Basilisa Maldonado an Afro-Latina senior resident stood straight as an arrow waiting patiently to vote and be checked out.  Ms. Maldonado’s graceful yet deliberate stride stole my attention and, I had to ask her PCA her age.  

“She will be 103 years old December 1st,” she confirmed.

I wanted to sit at her feet and relish her wisdom.  But, I settled for asking her permission to include her by full name in this article.  As Ms. Nepal left the voting site I overheard Sue telling Larry

“She’s Indian.”

“What?” Larry asked.  

“She’s Indian!” Sue repeated louder.  “You know, bwhoobwhoowhoo!” mockingly beating her mouth with her hand.  

I believe this account answers Ms. Lynn Seward’s question:

“Do you think our government is racist even with a Black president?”