Past Tense

It feels crazy to talk about Fed Up Queers so completely in the past tense, like those were the glory days, and they're so over. But the facts are that I now live in the burbs and am surrounded by mostly heterosexual people, rarely get to do any street activism, and don't have a go-to group of people to make noise with.

I get riled up when people talk about how all of FUQ's drama was because all of us dykes were sleeping together. Sure, there was some of that, but a lot of the drama was an entirely different kind of passion. We cared about our message. We cared about what was right. We cared about making a difference, rattling people's comfort with the horrible things happening in NYC. And it felt fantastic. Exhausting too, but exhilarating to be part of a group that spent every week fighting for what mattered. Not all of our decisions were on target, and we spent a lot of time just spraypainting messages, which also meant a lot of time running from the police. But we also were in the thick of it. We got 10,000 people to show up for a demo in just four days, we got the Diallo protests rolling, we drew attention to every tranny murdered in NYC, Giuliani and his people knew who we were and knew they could expect us to cause him trouble wherever he went. I remember how it felt hearing "Fed Up Queers" on the radio, and on the tv news. The group drove me insane, and I loved them dearly. I remember how it felt when the whole thing fell apart because one person wanted to promote "inter-generational sex" as some radical cause, and all the dykes who'd suffered sexual abuse couldn't stop crying, and we couldn't get him to leave, and so we folded. I remember how angry I felt, and powerless. FUQ had been my power, and it was being taken away by a sexual predator. The whole thing made me mute. How typical.

I wasn't vegan then. I mean, I had been vegan for years and years, but then, when I moved East, it eventually fell away because I didn't know anyone who did animal rights. I was broke and depressed and dealing with massive police brutality in my little town. My head was elsewhere. When I moved to Brooklyn and met other queer activists and eventually became this powerful little gang called Fed Up Queers, I felt like my brain finally un-numbed, and I started to remember things that mattered to me. I remembered them in detail.

When FUQ was infiltrated and our actions started to fail, when we would get arrested before our actions had gone down, we decided to go to a skillshare in the swamp to learn some new tactics. We sold a bunch of "Brooklyn Out of Palestine" t-shirts to fund the trip, and it was there I went vegan again. The whole gathering was vegetarian, and really mostly vegan. My girlfriend and I had decided to spend the three weeks there eating vegan, dabbling with making the commitment while someone else was preparing the food.

Learning to climb was hard for me. Some of our gang took to it like monkeys, understood the physics, learned the knots easily, just excelled. It was slower for me: I had more weight to haul up that rope, was insanely scared of heights, terrible at math. I made it to the top of the scaffolding, but had a breakdown up there before I could come down. I was grateful to meditate with a group at the camp, felt it helped even though it felt funny, self-indulgent.

Then the fights started. Two guys who were too good to camp with us and were staying in hotels decided that the camp being vegetarian was racist. The whole production shut down, hundreds of people in multiple workshops, everyone stopped everything to discuss meat eating and race. No matter that indigenous Brazilians talked about cattle production destroying their land, no matter that indigenous Canadians talked about how, although they weren't vegetarian, that factory farms were against everything they believed in. No matter that people of every color, veg and not, talked about how the camp's basis in environmental activism required that it be vegetarian. Everything stopped to let two guys (whose favorite word was maricon) talk about how they'd lose their culture if they didn't eat meat. And they did eat meat, brought in styrofoam containers from a deli every day.

For fear of being called racist, the camp ceased being vegetarian, the (Iranian) director quit, the kitchen staff quit, and everyone went home having learned half of what they intended to learn. But my girlfriend and I were vehemently vegan from then on, having so many people to make up for.

The camp fell apart, and, despite our best efforts, FUQ fell apart too. I stayed friends with those queers, and sometimes did activism with some of them. All but the sexual predator, and the one woman who supported him and who I ceased to trust. None of them ever trusted our care for animals, either, always thinking "there are more important things" and forgetting that there are many things all at once.

I read a friend's writing about FUQ and about seeing Le Tigre in the 90's in a tiny space in Brooklyn and how we were all freezing and about an action in Central Park in the Ramble when gay men where getting arrested there. And I can tell that she hasn't felt that exhilaration since, that momentum, that belief that anything can happen. And that makes me sad. We've given power over to that child molester, to that infiltrator, to those silly men who think they'd lose themselves by not eating meat. We've gone silent.

capped

It is really lovely to be loafing online, and come across an old friend, with proof that they're working hard and doing well at that work.

Terry Graziano is a lovely person all around, but I bring her to your attention because of her beautiful, handmade hats. She always had the fashion sense I lacked. She clearly has the sewing skills I lack, as well. In my next fit of "I have to make my own clothes to avoid the sweatshop monster," I'll be sure to contact Terry.

femme queens against macho crap

Or, not everyone loves a parade.So I've been standing with Irish Queers for a good number of the eighteen years that they and ILGO (the Irish Lesbian & Gay Organization) have protested the NYC St. Patrick's Day Parade. Let me quickly answer the questions this automatically inspires:
1) No, queer Irish people can't march in the NYC St. Patrick's Day parade. They can march in Dublin, in Cork, and in Queens, but not New York. (Chris Quinn, the second most powerful politician in NYC can march with a group of politicians, but cannot identify herself as queer while doing so. She avoids the parade because it brings her worlds together in a way that just doesn't look good for the camera.)
2) Because I don't actually want to march. (Yeah, you guessed it, the question is "Why not go the Queens parade then, or 'your own' parade in the summer?") I don't actually want to march in the parade, but still bother to protest the fact that people can't because:
a) It is a parade thrown by the religious right. See the Ancient Order of Hibernians for more information.
b) City and state politicians march, pretending that it's not a bigoted, Catholic parade.
c) Police officers, fire fighters, and military personnel by the thousands are required to march in uniform, if they are not on duty, and get paid to do so.
d) All this means the city and state are endorsing the exclusive event. Either money or pleasing powerful people are motivators.
New Yorkers wouldn't let the same thing happen if people of color weren't allowed to participate, or people in wheelchairs.
Now, all this said, the St. Patrick's Day Parade is one of my least favorite events of the year. The city is also supporting a whole lot of public drunkenness, groping, and property destruction (for no reason beside drunkenness). It doesn't seem to be called out or punished like it does with the Puerto Rican Day Parade, because, shucks, these folks are so white and rosy cheeked.

When I lived in the city I made the dash to the demo, and then got the hell out of midtown as quickly as possible to not have to deal with one more drunk saying "Lighten up, it's St. Patty's Day!" Now that I live in the Hudson Valley, there's the added pleasure of the Metro North trip. A lot of Irish Americans live here, and that means a train ride of being touched way too much by (drunk) strangers, getting showered with beer regularly, being "treated" to bagpipe music being played in the closed train car, and ducking while things are thrown and the train is torn apart. At least it's a free ride, since no ticket-taker can get through.

I wonder which parade I hate more, St. Pat's, or the Israeli Day Parade. The Israeli Day Parade definitely hosts more outward hatred, hurled at anti-occupation demonstrators. The things said there can knock a person flat. When my friend's mother, holding a anti-occupation placard, identified herself as a Jew to someone screaming at her to "Go back to Jordan," they told her the wrong Jews had been killed in the war. (Of course, she had barely escaped being murdered in the holocaust.)

Then there's the rodeo parades of my youth, though these were mainly about fashion. The animal abuse was saved for the main event. If only all of these parades were really only about an opportunity to wear fancy hats and beaded belts...

self defense

I noticed yesterday at my gym that they're offering new self defense courses. My mind wandered back to the awesomeness that is self-defense training. I took classes about 15 years ago, before some solo traveling, at Brooklyn Women's Martial Arts (now the Center for Anti-Violence Education). Empowered is an overused word, but it was amazing to understand the power of your body and connect with it in a practical way. Parts of the training were terrifying, like learning to break out of a choke-hold, but the instructors and students were gentle with women who had strong reactions to some of the simulated attacks. For "graduation" we broke planks of wood with a karate chop. It made me feel very strong, and safer, and proud to have made an effort to learn how to protect myself.

But of course, self defense can be criminalized, as with the seven New Jersey lesbians charged with "gang assault" and attempted murder for fighting back when attacked. There's a demo this Monday in NYC demanding that the D.A. drop all remaining charges (some indictments been overturned by the appeals court).

Stop persecuting Renata, Patreese and Venice. They fought back to defend each other. Had they not fought back successfully, one or more of them might have been killed or raped. Are rape, death, or prison the only three options open to lesbians who are attacked on the street?

Protest Monday, March 2
noon - 1 p.m.
1 Hogan Place
Manhattan, NY
(corner Leonard and Centre Streets) (A, C, E & 6 trains to Canal St.)

For more info, e-mail: [email protected]

Related "defense" is that abovegroundpool friend and merit badge winner Susan Tipograph is Renata Hill's attorney.

Support this group of women on Monday; support women's safety every day!

use what you've got

There's a guy in Poughkeepsie composing music, amazing music, by hitting the bridge with various tools. This idea isn't so new...people who haven't had much have created musical instruments out of whatever they could find for eons. Those of us who ride the NYC subways are intimately familiar with the bucket drummers who keep us dancing on our commutes.

It does still seem novel to be playing the Mid-Hudson bridge. The compositions will be complete and made public this summer, celebrating the 400th anniversary of Henry Hudson's voyage up the Hudson River. You can listen to a clip here.

And, I don't know if there will be drummers there, but this summer will also see the opening of the Walkway over the Hudson. This railroad bridge, just north of (and visible from) the Mid-Hudson Bridge, was the longest bridge in the world when it opened in 1889. In the 1970s a fire damaged the bridge, and it's been out of use since. It's being re-engineered as a park and walkway over the river, connecting rail trails on either side, and promises to be a stunning public space. Parks and paths and views and drum music make for happy living.

drilling for gays

I went to one of the protests last week about the CA gay marriage ban. I wasn't happy there. Again and again I don't have all the words to explain why. I can bristle at the "God Loves Gay Marriage" banner, I can point out to everyone that 95% of attendees are white men, I can joke about how everyone there seems to be on their cell phone, and still I'm never eloquent about saying why the demo didn't work for me, why this will never be my issue.

Like in other cities, NY had a huge crowd. I hadn't seen a crowd so big so white so male at a demonstration for ten years, since Matthew Shepard was murdered, to be exact. This was the first thing in ten years that made Chelsea come out to a demo.

Gay marriage has never been my thing. As Ms. Mel of readspeakresist says, "I feel like fighting for marriage is the gay equivalent of Drill Baby Drill. It's antiquated. It's a short-term solution and it's only useful to some of us." It causes other damage, that isn't spoken about. It's surface, no structural changes required, a continuation of the "we're just like you" charade. Like mattilda says "no on eight isn't really no on hate."

Two days after this massive demo, about which I'd received a zillion emails, Teish Cannon, a trans person of color, was murdered in Syracuse with barely a whisper. I found out about her murder tonight, and only by accident. No demonstration, no email campaign, no mention anywhere but the local paper.

Gay marriage wouldn't have helped a deviant queer like Teish Cannon. And I'd rather work for her.

the great fake

Courtesy of The Yes Men, we see another instance of the faux being so much better than the real. (1 million copies said to have been distributed in NYC today!)

election night in brooklyn

As luck would have it, I found myself in the Flatbush neighborhood of Brooklyn on election night. Nervous as all get-out and knowing there'd be no sleep, I walked to the store for a beer. On a street where I've never gotten more than a nod, various groups of people chatted me up, all as worked up as I. I was asked at least 5 times in 2 blocks who I'd voted for. And, for the first time in my life, met teenage boys hanging out on their stoop absolutely obsessing over the returns, and afraid to watch. A group of men set up to play chess all sat instead fixed on the tv they were powering from the light post.

I knew I had to vote for Obama. I often vote Green or abstain, but knew that this time, even though it was certain New York would go blue, I couldn't take the risk. Not only did he need to win, it needed to be a landslide.

I knew how it ended before the station I was watching announced it. People screamed. They ran out of their houses, and screamed some more, shaking their arms in the air and jumping. Kids chanted, to no-one in particular. For hours, cars honked and the people inside shouted to anyone they saw.

I surprised myself by crying. It was huge, and I was grateful to have experienced it in this primarily Black neighborhood to really feel how huge.

I noticed agent inkysocks cried, too, when she encountered teenage boys (by definition, unengaged) who cared passionately about what goes down. Now, to make national politics continue to be relevant to this many young men, to this many people on a whole. To make all the days besides election day matter.

**Thanks to BlackPast.org for the photo. That vote was about the improvement of schools in Black neighborhoods in Seattle.

remember

remember sakia gunn, originally uploaded by abovegroundpool.

See more from the murdered queers set at the aboveground pool activist archive.

renata hill back on trial

Free the New Jersey 4

harvest

Because the weather is turning, I've harvested what are possibly the world's tiniest watermelons. One of these puppies had grown out of the yard and developed in the street. Miniscule melons on unruly vines, but so tasty!

You may or may not think of growing or preserving food as radical. To some it might seem downright Martha Stewart like. Either way, it feels good to put the abundance of fresh produce from the season into good and prolonged use. My friends probably really want touch phones as gifts, and instead are getting jars of fruit and veggies! One friend, at least, will appreciate it, since spicy mango* spears will give her a taste of home.

*No, these mangoes were not grown locally. They are from a primarily Indian neighborhood of Jackson Heights, Queens, a whole different kind of "local."

critical mass

granville_bridge_3298, originally uploaded by doviende.

Critical Mass is not an organized group, rather "happenings" that happen to occur in many cities around the world on a regular basis. Critical Mass bike rides bring awareness to the availability of non-polluting alternatives to cars. They also make pretty obvious the lack of consideration city planners give to any form of getting around that doesn't involve cars. In the 'burbs it's worse yet (see pedestrian).

Tousles with cops are standard fare at these rides, since some traffic snarling tends to happen when large groups of cyclists ride together. (Especially when they're in costume or naked.) There's been lots of attention in NY to the cop who tackled a rider last week. But anyone who has ever attended a ride knows arrests, permanent confiscation of bicycles, and cops roughing up riders are all too common. Hopefully this media moment will get more bicycle activists involved.

All that, and the rides are still joyous events.

fierce pussy

While we're talking about street tactics and fags and stuff....

It seems I missed the Fierce Pussy book launch and show at Printed Matter!

Fierce Pussy was a early nineties group that came out of ActUp NY, and whose fast and dirty street art warms the heart.

jesse helms dead

For a queer artist of my era who is pro-choice, vehemently anti-racist, and has done of lot of AIDS activism, the death of Jesse Helms has an impact. When Reagan died the media immediately forgot his (many) sins, and focused on his charm, how loved he was. It may be tempting to go there when someone dies, but both Reagan and Helms unapologetically ruined the lives of many, many people, and are responsible for the horrible deaths of many more. When Reagan died, little shrines celebrating his death popped up around NYC, and I couldn't help but be grateful for them. The collective memory loss was too horrible without something countering it. I'm not celebrating the death of a toddering old man, but I am happy about the end of the influence of one BIG white supremacist in the U.S. Goodbye, Jesse, and good riddance.

spotted in harlem

miltary equals slavery, originally uploaded by abovegroundpool.

pride in neckties

I made it to the soggy but spirited nyc dyke march this year, but not the drag march. Because it's still raining and because I missed those crazy faeries, I'm spending my afternoon making neckties (while humming the Church Ladies for Choice tune God is a Lesbian). If you watch the video, I hope the "Liberation" banner at the end warms your heart as much as mine.

to the archives

I have a full belly after a potluck at the Lesbian Herstory Archives in Park Slope, Brooklyn. With plenty of new dykes to meet and vegan food to eat, I didn't get to paw through the archives themselves. There was evidence of fierce dyke activists all around: Lesbian Avenger banners, Dyke Action Machine posters, and many more delicious materials. To make my flashback complete, they even had Joan Armatrading playing on the boom box. I hadn't been to the archive for at least a decade, and probably closer to two, but I feel sure that my memory of it, like sorting through my friend Bob's stuff after his death, had some impact on the decision to begin the abovegroundpool online archive.

The gathering reminded me, too, of ye olde days of potlucks. Back before Isa Chandra Moskowitz was the vegan cookbook queen, and even before Post Punk Kitchen, she was organizing anarchist women's potlucks. These events (held in Park Slope, Prospect Heights, and the East Village) often doubled as planning meetings or info shares, with the constant of good food. (Yeah, there was always someone lazy who brought a bag of chips, but the bulk of the gang made a good effort.) When organizing materials for the abovegroundpool archive recently, I ran across copies of Eat Me, the potluck zine. Isa was sharing her recipes even then.

free tibet

On Friday night I stumbled across a Free Tibet demo in Union Square, that looked much like this one. I first noticed it (from blocks away) because of the chanting. As I got closer I saw that the whole plaza was filled with candlelight spelling out "Martyrs 49th day, Free Tibet."

The scene was completely mesmerizing, with the group chanting, the candlelight, and the whole group seated with multiples of signs about the Olympics and the continued torture of Tibetans. There was also a table stacked with fruit and incense and cakes, to honor the rituals that have not been allowed to be practiced by Tibetans in Tibet.

Not to downplay the seriousness of the issues being addressed by this demonstration, I have to say that this group knows how to make an impact with a demonstration. Visually beautifully, the chanting acting as a pull, and cake to boot.

The controversy over this years' Olympics is making me reflect on the many, many demonstrations of Olympics past and future: Black Power, Indigenous Land Rights, Palestinian prisoners, and much much more.

verdict

The Sean Bell verdict came back this week: cops can use whatever amount of force they like against unarmed people. Murder, when committed by a police officer, is not murder. The police department is considering action, which generally, in these cases, means that these officers will get an extended paid leave.

killed by NYPD, originally uploaded by abovegroundpool.

martha rosler and wack!

This image is part of large series of work called "Bringing the War Home" made by Martha Rosler. She started making these photo montages in 1967, and they're perfectly relevant today.

Martha was one of my professors, always with food in her hair and raving about an offensive commerical or a pbs special she'd seen about documentary film, or how toxic her neighborhood (Greenpoint) in Brooklyn was/is. She was then, and is now, a serious and important political artist—someone who always makes you think and rethink. Her involvement in the anti-war movement and feminist movements are only a small part of her story.

You can see some of Martha's historical work at P.S. 1, along with a school-full of important feminist art from WACK!.