Strangely Familiar

Was it the echoes of bullets from decades ago on the streets of LA, Selma or Montgomery? Have they traveled so far? Have they pierced the veils of time to hunt us in the present? Bringing strips of cotton stained with blood and woven back together to create a new shroud. Those bullets passed through your stores, your children, your leaders Ricocheted off your disco balls marred the brick of your houses and found you even while protected and protecting. These bullets indiscriminately perforating black and brown bodies leaving a trail of broken hearts, dashed dreams for the future, plastic toys littered through time From what fire was this metal forged? Whose hands reach through the flame now, and What do they seek? Justice? Revenge? Power? To catch a bullet is a tricky thing. Your body may be left in the streets and incite riots or the metal may simply pass through you and into the next dark body. If the metal lingers in the minds of the people Your body

Can you walk from the refrigerator to the couch? Can you run (or at least attempt to run) to catch your kids? Can you climb up the stairs to your work or in your home without any difficulty? If so, then you’re likely not one of the 56.7 million functionally disabled persons in the US (also includes hearing/vision loss, dementia, mental health…etc.) I’ve not really questioned my knowledge of disabilities. I trained in a school psychology program focused on social justice and actively take a stance on understanding forms of power, privilege, and oppression wherever they lay, including disabilities. I practice as a school psychologist, helping to identify students with special needs in our schools. Frankly, I thought I "got" it. Just four days ago, I broke my toe (my right, big-toe, to be specific). Fractured. Painful. Swollen. I iced it and elevated it all day when it first happened, but when the swelling didn’t go down the next day, I went to an urgent care clinic

Death and its Spectre (Poonam Desai, 2016) The painted bunting is magnificent. I had never heard of this bird until Sagar sent me a picture of its lifeless form, found outside of our home. I knew immediately I had to attempt to capture it. As gorgeous as it is, I am constantly reminded that the body is a shell to contain our soaring life. I, like the elegant bunting, must go at some time. And so what becomes of the significance of our daily insignificances? How do I balance the gravity of the moment with the utter absurdity of it? ~Body, Mind, and Shadow~ My skin is bruised, muscles sore Plump purple considerations On an otherwise caramel slate But nothing makes me feel more alive Than being a little bit broken I don’t want pretty blue right angles When I can be obtuse and acute And dark enough to blend into the shadows Light enough to be seen I’ll be a ghost Observing the fray from another dimension I’m here Behind my skin Using my eyes to gaze

Deep breath... This was hard for me to read, and I had been avoiding it because I knew it would be. I don't like being affected by things that I don't feel I have the power to change. But her statement is powerful, and by sharing it, I share in her power. http://www.techly.com.au/2016/06/07/the-stanford-rape-victim-delivered-the-most-powerful-court-statement-youll-ever-see/ There are multiple levels of injustice here: the assault and utter lack of consent, the lack of responsibility the defendant and his family are showing, the handling of the case by the defendant's attorney, the probation officer's recommendation for a laughable sentence given the nature of the crime, and the judge's ruling (the latter two of which are unquestionably hinged on whiteness, privilege, and money). All of these factors serve to further rape culture. These are the excerpts that stood out to me. "The probation officer’s recommendation of a year or less in county jail is a mockery o

Has it ever occurred to you that we're living on borrowed time? Our bones are borrowed. Our blood. Our smiles, our speech. All of these things we consider to be "I" have been lent to us for this brief life to do what we can. We can use it gently, or run it into the ground; at the end of the day, we must return it... to... [blank]. I've been obsessing over this thought lately. That none of these moments are really mine, not the laughter, not the tears, not the triumphs, not the fears. It is precious because I want to keep it all so badly, while I simultaneously know I cannot. So I write to make sense of it all: the ugly, the beautiful, the brutal, the sweet, the confounding, the inspiring. And here is my offering this Sunday night. As always, I would love to get feedback. Unusual for me, I wrote this as a rap, or spoken word piece. So read it with rhythm... "Committed" My art is so real it drips red on the pavement it pulls the lovers close as th