A week in Life of LIMINAL
This week has been extremely powerful on several levels. With Bree’s historical triumph over the confederate flag, in a time where being a black person in this country is still not safe, let alone nearing any sort of equality, intersectional feminism is becoming more and more essential to the survival of all women and the future of human beings.
What I mean is, the historically white mainstream feminism of the previous waves needs to change in a big way. We can no longer afford to be colorblind, exclusive, privilege-toting twits and call ourselves feminism.
As Jenee Darden pointed out this weekend at LIMINAL, “being friends with black people does not make you an ally.” Similar sentiments were all over my news feed about the straight people that take PRIDE as an opportunity to party half naked and do diddley all year round to support GLBT rights and communities.
We are experiencing a time where we cannot afford to be passive.
On Thursday night, I finally got over to see the Gina Gold Show at 3000 Broadway. She almost has the same name as me and “Gold” is a pen name I considered taking at one point, to get rid of the “BLATT” that every time I say it out loud mimics me in the voices of the elementary school kids who changed it to “go splatter,” “gold bladder” and my favorite Gina “go splat.” Though, like much else ambiguous in life and the way that truth finds its way to the surface no matter how much you try to stifle it, I said fuck it. My name explains me in the ways that it doesn’t. I am a disheveled Jew\not Jew on my mom’s side but Jews claim me because matriarchal lineage, with a name that comes from a father’s stepfather, who was a Jew raising an Italian (who was secretly half Portuguese via the birth father\mother’s high school sweetheart) Catholic.
On Saturday, I hosted LIMINAL’s 3rd Showcase: Archive Alive! The show more than lived up to the name. At LIMINAL, there was a happenstance synergy in the pieces. The political presence of the rights gained on the marriage front, the devastation of black communities in the wake of the Charleston Massacre, as the latest piece of disgusting evidence that we still live in a country full of scared, small-minded, hate-filled fucks who actually believe in white supremacy, and the small but powerful sacredness of spaces where people can gather and express their experiences as feminists, activists, members of the community. There wasn’t any apology necessary for what was brought, what was carried, what was shared, what needed airing.
Xan Joy and Lajuana Decatur of Black Women’s Lives Matters presented on Melissa Alexander (https://www.facebook.com/FreeMarissaNow) and their caravan journey to find out more about Melissa’s sentencing, how as often happens when someone or some people go asking questions about one heinously unjust situations, tons more examples start making their way to the surface. They are making a documentary to expose these injustices and fight for Melissa’s pardon. I cannot emphasize enough that feminism is an active commitment to change, and not just the change that reaches the comforts or confines of your individual existence.
Alana Dykewoman read about the nature of true love, commented on her dream of opening a woman’s space and how if you just live long enough—
Julia Park Tracy
Melissa Eleftherion Carr
Angela Ina Penaredondo
All read poetry that was captivating, raw, and relevant. Thought they were all in attendance together by complete coincidence, the themes and approaches to their work were hauntingly complimentary of each other.
Lyndsey Ellis and Ruth Crossman read fiction about family and relationships. Crossman’s piece centered on tarot cards, with under narratives of hallucinogens and dating. Ellis’ writing captured the love and distain we can feel towards siblings, the ways in which the successes and failures of one is dependent on the relative statuses of the others in relation to the familial whole.
In almost everything there was a ghostly appearance of the weight of the mother. Body and sexuality, the natural world and how we relate to it, were other common threads in the readings of the night.
Octavia Crompton and Erin Rodriquez performed as an accordion and trapeze duo, playful and strong, the dynamic between them natural and captivating.
The strength of each of the people in the room, whether of spirit, of intellect, of physical prowess, or some combination of these and others, was palpable.
We had neighbors in attendance, 2 I hadn’t met and 1 who has been at the majority of events I’ve had so far.
On Sunday, I worked Brunch at The Juhu Beach Club and made Sari not Sorry cocktails in the spirit of Pride. At night I had the privilege of celebrating of a friend’s Birthday with her and other friends of hers, where we talked about writing and dating and gluten. I met a local organizer for various groups including Onyx and Black Lives Matter. She shared with me the heaviness of some of the events she has attended where relatives of Oscar Grant and others immediately devastated by the loss of their family members at the hands of police leaves her needing to hold these feelings, care for herself, renew and go back out and keep fighting.
I feel all sorts of things coming out of this weekend. Grateful, empowered, angry. These are only a few. I am in awe of all of the strength around me, the creativity, and the stupidity.
Let’s keep fighting. Let’s keep creating. Let’s keep taking care of each other. Perhaps enlightment is contagious.