Good Morning Vietnam!

Well boys & girls, I am leaving Tampa in the morning. The first stop will be Santa Barbara, California where I will see the lovely goddess, Asia Wilcox!!!!!!!! I cannot express the excitement I have over this singular event. If my entire travel was only to see Asia's face, it would be worth it all.

We will be staying near Pacifica Graduate Institute where I will meet the faculty and tour the campus where I will be attaining my doctorate. WOOOOHOOOOO!

After two days in a plush hotel in Santa Barbara, I will be traveling down to Los Angeles where I will fly to Seoul, Korea and from there to Hanoi, Vietnam.

USF is taking excellent care of us and we will be staying in a hotel in Hanoi for a couple days. From there we take a bus along the countryside to board a boat where we will stay for one night. We will cruise to an island resort and stay there for two nights. From there we will return to Hanoi and take a train to Vinh City where we will stay in the dorms and study with the locals. My class, Vietnam in Transition will open our eyes to many things and I cannot wait!

We will also be touring Paradise Cave...Google It! I tell you...it is AMAZING!

I fly back to LA and then home to Tampa August fourth.

I will have unlimited text...so please reach out to me whenever you like.

Thank you all for contributing whether spiritually or monetarily or both. I am beyond grateful. I know I will return a changed woman!

While I am gone, Ebony & Ivory (album three) is being mastered by GFI Studios in New York. I should have it released this Fall.

I thank you all for your constant love and support.

~~*~~

RAin Christi.

Milk Does a Body Good

Rain Christi    

June 10, 2015

Politics and Literature

Milk Does a Body Good

            Here in the great United States of America it is pretty much guaranteed that a politician is lying to his hopeful constituents to gain their votes. Most politicians speak in brown sugar coated sentences making promises of what they can do to make our lives better. Most of them rarely, if ever, live up to those promises. Granted, a politician’s life is under constant scrutiny in the public eye. Those that do make a difference are discounted once they commit some “atrocious crime” sending the media into a feeding frenzy. Take President Clinton for instance. He made a tremendous amount of positive difference in our nation and was highly esteemed until he received fellatio from Monica Lewinsky. Public figures must sacrifice their private lives in order to stand before us, honest or not. Once in a while, an honest politician comes along.

            Meet Harvey Milk. Born in Long Island, New York on May 22^nd, 1930, he was the first openly homosexual person to take public office. In the wake of his assassination in 1978, many books have been written; policies on homosexuality approached and even the rise of special schools for gays and lesbians. The Harvey Milk High School was founded in 1985 in Greenwich Village and was segregated to the enrollment of gays and lesbians only (Hedlund, 2004). The Harvey Milk Institute in San Francisco, California was founded in 1994 and focuses on bettering life for the gay and lesbian community (Ellis, Highley, Schaub and White, 2001). Much media has been devoted to the story of Harvey Milk.

            In 2008, Universal Studios released a major motion picture dedicated to his story. Confucius said, “Wherever you go, go will all your heart.” For a gay man in 2008, that is trying enough. For a gay public figure in the seventies, it was a whole different story.  For Harvey Milk, there was no other option than to be himself. A charismatic figure, he entranced his audience with his poise, with his passion. His honesty was a refreshing change in public figures. People trusted him. People believed he would be what he said he would be. People believed he would accomplish what he said he would accomplish. However, being a gay man made his political path that much harder.

            Harvey Milk did not set out to be a politician. In 1970, in a public stairwell, on the eve of his fortieth birthday he met and fell in love with Joseph Scott Smith. His charm convinced Scott to come enjoy his birthday with him and they soon moved in together. Shortly after moving in to a quaint apartment on Castro Street, Harvey decided to open Castro Camera. An enthusiastic photographer, Harvey hoped to make enough money to enjoy his life with Scott. As they were hanging the sign for their new business, a neighboring business owner came over to welcome them. Once he realized that Scott and Harvey were lovers, his tune quickly changed. He warned the men that their shop would never survive. It was about this time that the wheels began turning for Harvey Milk, the politician to be.

            Harvey’s shop became a home away from home for gay men everywhere. He compiled a list of shops that welcomed gay business and a list of those who did not. The gay community only purchased from those shops that were on the support list. Soon, many of the non-supporters were closing their doors forever. Castro Street quickly became a haven for gay men. Castro Camera became more than just a home away from home; it became a spot for political activism. Castro Street drew the attention of more than just the gay and lesbian community. Savvy business owners with political agendas realized how much of an advocate such a thriving community could be. Teamster leaders visited Harvey Milk, and asked for help boycotting Coors beer. They were able to successfully remove Coors beer from all the gay bars winning the approval of the teamsters. Soon driving positions were offered to openly gay men and this is when they received their first taste of power. It was about this time that people began to call Harvey Milk the Mayor of Castro Street.

            By 1973, Castro Street belonged to the gay community; however, this did not ensure their safety. Police brutality was an all too often occurrence. One particular night while treating Scott for a head injury due to the police, Harvey realized that just like the black community, the gay community needed political representation. Standing on a box on which he painted “Soap” he spoke through a loud speaker about the relevant issues of the gay community. He announced his candidacy that day as their City Supervisor. He ran and lost the race for City Supervisor twice; however, Harvey knew that it was not just winning that mattered.

            He stood on every stage, and echoed through every campaign microphone speaking in advocacy not only for the gay community but also for the elderly, the youth, the minorities, and every group big politics had forgotten. His campaign lifestyle was not easy for Scott at times, yet he remained loyally at his side for years. However, after a third loss, Scott proclaimed he could not make it through another campaign, packed his bags and left. Harvey soldiered on. Voting protocols by district had been changed so that those voting for or against Harvey would be voters from Castro and Haight only. He was confident this would give him the winning votes. Once again, he campaigned for City Supervisor.

            On January 9^th, 1978, Harvey Milk was inaugurated as City Supervisor for San Francisco. His years of campaigning had finally paid off. In an interview by Channel Five News he was asked if he would represent all people or only the gay community. He replied with exuberance that he would of course represent all people. His new position brought a lot of new responsibility. He was constantly on the go. Jack, the lover that he began seeing after Scott left was very lonely without him at home and was jealous of his life in the public eye. One night as Harvey arrived at six fifteen rather than six, he found notes strewn all along his apartment. Jack had hung himself and was dead when Harvey found him. With the upcoming vote for Proposition Six right around the corner, Harvey didn’t even have time to mourn.

            On November 7, 1978, Proposition Six was voted out. Sponsored by John Briggs and supported by Anita Bryant, Proposition Six would have banned gays and lesbians and perhaps all who supported them from working in the school system. This would have caused a colossal loss of jobs within the gay and lesbian community. Harvey Milk and all who supported his cause won a victory that changed America forever on that profound day in November. Only twenty days later, the fear of assassination became a reality.

            Harvey stated in tapes he had been making prior to his murder that he hoped tens of thousands would rise in his wake if an assassination became a reality. Over thirty thousand people marched from Castro Street to City Hall to honor his life and mourn his death. Dan White, a City Supervisor who had resigned his post and turned around and asked for his job back was denied. In a rage, he snuck into City Hall through a window to avoid detection of his weapon by the metal detectors. He shot both the Mayor and Harvey Milk that tragic day in November. However, the legacy of Harvey Milk lives on to this day.

            Harvey Milk was more than just the first openly gay man to hold public office. Harvey Milk was a man who spoke the truth, who stirred the crowds, who accomplished great things. I wish he could have taken a sneak peek into 2015 in order to see just how far we have come where gay rights are concerned. More than thirty states (along with the District of Columbia) now allow the right for same sex couples to engage in marriage (http://www.cnn.com). Please see the Reference Section for the full link. As far as we have come on the matter of rights for the gay and lesbian community, there is still a long way to go.

            As a young girl, I already knew that I was different. I knew I was attracted to girls by the age of four. I kept it buried inside me for so many years. My father was a Baptist Minister and my mother a teacher. There was no room for my persuasion in my household. By sixteen, I had kissed my first girl, and by nineteen I knew it was time for me to come out of the closet. I was shunned by much of my family. My great-grandmother called me crying hysterically. She wanted to know what had caused me to become this way. I lost friends. The part that shocked me the most was the judgment laid upon my breast by the LGBT community. According to many gays and lesbians, I was not bisexual; I was confused. I felt like I didn’t belong to any group. It was a very hard period of adjustment for me.

            In our Western society we are trained to focus on an ideal way of being. We are also trained to scrutinize those who are not the same; those who do not fit that ideal. Many have taken their own lives in order to escape the hatred they face daily for not being considered normal by society at large. Many live their life in fear of being beaten or abused. Some choose rather to live a lie and never let anyone know that they are homosexual. It is unfathomable to some, how painful living a life as a homosexual in this country can be. Yet, some still proclaim that being gay is a choice. Harvey Milk spoke out at a time when not many knew how to lift their voices and be heard on the subject of gay rights. Harvey Milk paved the way for many developments in the gay and lesbian community.

            If we hope to see a day when America is not afraid of the color of skin; if we hope to see a day when America is not afraid of the religion of choice; if we hope to see a day when America is not afraid of sexual preference; we must stand up and speak out just like Harvey Milk. It amazes me how bold and brave he was during a time when it was much less acceptable to be gay than it is today. We cannot change what we do not discuss. In the film, there were a couple instances where a young man called Harvey Milk and thanked him. He saved lives. He set young men free. His life was not a life of luxury, but it was a life fulfilled.

            Just before his assassination, two poignantly powerful and excruciatingly sad things occurred. Harvey loved to listen to opera. Just before he was murdered he saw his first and last opera. That night from his bed, he called Scott and told him about his evening. Scott suggested that Harvey call him the next time he was going to go because he would very much like to accompany him. Harvey said he would love to. Scott told him in that conversation just how proud of Harvey he was. It seemed obvious that they would rekindle their love. If only someone had stopped Dan White from entering City Hall that day.

            In 1984, just five short years later, Dan White was released from prison. It is hard to understand what the judicial system was thinking. Two murders and five years later, a man should not be free. His lawyers defense was coined “The Twinkie Defense” claiming that his junk food diet has impaired his judgment. However, Dan White committed suicide shortly after his release and return to San Francisco. Perhaps Harvey’s suspicion that Dan was gay was correct.    

            Harvey Milk made a tremendous impact on the gay and lesbian rights movement. His courage and passion drove him to speak even after recognizing the probability of his own assassination. May we all find the courage to stand for what we believe in. May we all find the strength to march against our opposition. May we all live a life that we can die proud of. “My name is Harvey Milk and I am here to recruit you”.

           

References:

Ellis, A., Highley, L., Schaub, K., & White, M. (2001). The Harvey Milk Institute guide to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer internet research. The Haworth Press, Inc.

Hedlund, R. (2004). Segregation by any other Name: Harvey Milk High School.JL & Educ., 33, 425.

Jinks, D., Cohen, B. (Producers) & Van Sant, G. (Director). (2008). Milk [Motion Picture]. United States: Universal Studios.

Same Sex Marriage States: (http://www.cnn.com/interactive/us/map-same-sex-marriage/index.html). 

The High Road

Rain Christi

June 17, 2015

Politics & Literature

The High Road

            I began my young adult life naïve and disconnected from the general population. I was and am a highly empathetic being yet I knew not the common tales that most people my age knew well. I was raised in a household without television and secular influences such as popular music, magazines, books and movies. I was sensitive to the news and stayed as far from it as possible. I could not believe the things that went on in the world around me. Granted, much of what the general population believes is highly influenced via the popular media. Stories told of war, poverty, famine and the like have political angles that can be hard to register while taking in the message of those telling the story. It then becomes the responsibility of the consumer of knowledge to search avidly for the truth regardless of the propaganda.

            I began working at City Hall in Rochester, New York in my early thirties. I worked there for three and a half years. My function in City Hall was to run the City Hall Café serving those that worked within her walls and even guests from without. I spoke frequently to the Mayor, to Commissioners, to the Chief of Police and so many other political figures responsible for running my city. Prior to my time working in City Hall, I counted all politicians as liars and I had never registered to vote or had any active interest in politics. This, of course, horrified my city officials. My attitude changed when I realized that I played an intricate role within my city. The City Hall Café, under my care, became a place of music, art, poetry, knowledge and a brilliant cup of joe.

            By affecting the way the City Hall mornings began and offering those that frequented our café a place to relax and rejuvenate, I directly affected the operations of my City. I came to know many of the city leaders well. During my employment there Mayor Bob Duffy left in the middle of his term to accept the position of Lieutenant Governor of New York. Our interim Mayor, Carlos Carballada (Commissioner of Economic Development) told me I should run for Mayor. I believed he was joking at first, and when I realized he was not, the comment profoundly changed my life. Carlos and I had forged a friendship and have a great mutual respect for one another. He gave me a list of reasons why he felt I would lead well, and I listened carefully. My perspective on City Hall and the world of politics began to change. Upon my resignation (I moved down here to return to school near my family) I was presented with a Proclamation from the Mayor and the mayoral staff. I would not be surprised if one day I fulfill a political role in leadership.

            Upon leaving New York, I began gleaning as much political knowledge as I was able. I registered to vote and voted for the first time as my vote was counted among those that won President Obama office. I took a Global Conservation class with Dr. Johnny Wong and it opened my eyes to the politics of world resources and those that are in control of them. Dr. Deby Cassill presented a new angle for me to add to my repertoire. In her class we looked at the biological perspective of diversity. Dr. Gaskin-Butler taught us to see from the perspective of individual cultures in her Cross-Cultural Psychology class. Nayvi Hernandez taught us about the culture and religion of the Latino people as she instructed us how to speak the language. She sparked my interest in the politics of literature as she offered me an example with an Earnest Hemingway novel. In this novel he spoke of voodoo and presented his words as fact. Ms. Hernandez was troubled by what this did to the popular culture as they accepted the words presented as truth. All of these things and more whet my appetite and continued my growth. Imagine how excited I was to learn of a class called Politics and Literature.

I knew this was the correct next step in my development as a woman of global presence. I signed up eagerly and began reading our assigned coursework. The first book assigned, White Tiger (Adiga, 2008) broached the topic of the caste system in India. Of the books we were assigned to read, this story remains one of my favorite. One of the most profoundly disturbing images in the story is the author’s description of the rooster coop. Wired in, these animals in the market are packed so close to one another and have no means of escape. They must defecate in this close proximity and wait to be purchased to be turned into food. Adiga uses this as an analogy for the caste system and the fact that there is no way out for those in the lower castes. Yet our white tiger does find is way out; albeit, the price is high.

Much like the roosters, the White Tiger begins chewing at the wires caging him in. He finally finds his way out but it stains his hands in the blood of the murder he committed and the consequential murder of perhaps his entire family. Those in the higher levels of the caste system have no need to find their way out of it. Some may argue that their system works because it assigns people to each needed layer of society. A system needs people that pick up trash, clean toilets and other less than glamorous jobs. What would society do if there were no one to pick up trash? This story forces the reader to wrestle with the question: what must be done to be free? Is the murder the White Tiger committed justified? Certainly none of us would like to believe we would willingly risk the murder of our entire family for our own individual freedom. What is justifiable in the caged animals pursuit of freedom?

In Sofia Petrovna (Chukovskaya, 1967) we have to ask how successful Stalin’s purges would have been without the individuals who participated in turning in friends and family members. Stalin believed in moving people around and purging those who did not fit his ideal society. If we were considering this from a biological point of view only, it might make scientific sense. However, when considering that each of these units removed from the general population had families, friends, lovers, co-workers, and others who cared for their well-being, the empathy of our nature takes over. So many people during Stalin’s regime turned in their friends or neighbors so they would not be included in the purge. This book left me with the riveting awareness of what the individual role has been in sagas like Hitler’s Nazi Germany or Stalin’s Russia. One can place all the blame on the charismatic leader; however what power would these men have had without those blindly following them?

With every book I read in this class, I felt a pressure building. Each story offered me a building block for my brilliant destiny in the making. We discuss revolution. We discuss war. We discuss politics. We banter and debate our views and philosophies in a class with a brilliant age range. I soak it all in. I am a planet shaker. I believe in the power of the individual. I know we all have an exponential potential we have the power to reach in this life. Why then do some still choose to murder, rape, pillage and destroy? Why do some leaders have the power to raise their fist and command murder while the population at large simply obeys?  Why do some men like Martin Luther King know to stand up and speak and persuade the people to greater things? What causes some humans to be the best of themselves and others the worst? How can one use this awareness for the greater good?

Under the Red Flag (Jin, 1997) really reached me in a dark, disturbing place. It reached me in a place where children emulate their leaders, no matter how corrupt those leaders are. It reached me in a place where men can kill their children due to jealousy and fear. It reached me in a place where women do not have the rights they deserve. It reached me in a place where what you work for does not matter and the people you call your friends will turn on you the first chance they get. It reached me in a place where the construct of society has a power over a people who simply desire to follow; simply desire to be as free as that society allows. It made me wonder what would happen if a society was earnestly formed on “liberty and justice for all”.  What could the individual become then?

I believe if I could go back in time and sit in at the signing of the Declaration of Independence that I might be surprised by what I find. Of course there would be some men present who were doing it for the glory, for the power, for the money. However I do believe that finding freedom from Great Britain and forging a new way in new territory was the driving force in the beginning of this great nation. Yet as our nation developed we adopted the capitalistic way. We did not show reverence for our own Declaration. All people were not treated equally and the saga of power struggles and oppressed people repeated itself right here on our soil. This brings me to Redeployment (Klay, 2014) which covers soldiers in Iraq, mostly Marines and things civilians will never fully understand.

Redeployment is a dark and gritty read. It touches on several Marines and other soliders who face things like PTSD upon their return. It delves deeply into some of the tragic things they had to witness overseas. It makes you feel guilty for saying, “thank you for your service”, which I have certainly said more than twice. It looks into the politics of leadership and the necessity of obedience within a structure built to depend upon it. It again leads me back to the nature of the individual.

In every society there must be some kind of orchestrated structure. In every society, there must be leaders and followers. In every society, there must be punishment for breaking laws forged to govern. In the heart of every individual there must be some personal awareness of their role within their society. In the heart of every individual there must be some personal responsibility for going against their very soul to obey those in power. The individual must know his own place in society and must also know when it is time to disavow said society.

What leader would have power without the obedience of his people behind him? What social revolution could have been possible without the power of the masses? What genocide could have been carried out without the soldiers who obeyed orders to murder other human beings? With plenty of resources on this planet for all people, one is forced to ask the question why we still fight to the death to obtain those resources. Why are some givers and some takers? What is it in our human nature that leads some to become their best and some to indulge their worst? I believe any powerful positive revolution must begin with the strength of the individual. I believe that to reach the globe we must touch the individual heart and soul of every person on it. I believe that we as human beings have the potential to live in harmony. I believe my life is worth offering in pursuit of this profound realization.

References:

Adiga, A. (2008). The white tiger: a novel. Simon and Schuster.

Chukovskaia, L. K. (1967). Sofia Petrovna. J. D. Murray (Ed.). Northwestern University Press.

Klay, P. (2014). Redeployment. Penguin.

Jin, H. (1997). Under the Red Flag: Stories. University of Georgia Press.

            

Climactic.

I am honored to say that I have had some of the most brilliant love on the planet! I have never had a bad relationship and I have learned something (or many things) important from each love in my life. I know that as individuals we have individual preferences, but the answer to a very important problem has alluded me for some time now.

I want to take some time to discuss orgasms.

Almost every time a male engages in sexual play, he has an orgasm. I wish the same could be said of women.

There are, of course, many layers to this dilemma. I have met women who didn't even know how to bring themselves to orgasm. There are men who are selfish and only care about their own orgasm. There are women who don't know how to voice what they need. And the combinations continue indefinitely.

Nicki Minaj was recently quoted on the cover of Cosmopolitan saying, "I demand an orgasm every time". Although I don't think I would take it to that extreme, I have been with beautiful men for years that have yet to give me an orgasm and I have been with men who were more concerned with my orgasm than theirs.

I love giving and receiving pleasure. I really enjoy when a man (or woman) goes down on me. I can bring myself to orgasm quite quickly and those who have cared to learn the intricacies of my body have been able to do the same. I rarely have orgasms from penetration, and really feel that I deserve to have orgasms just as much as my partner.

I realize that it is not as obvious when a woman experiences an orgasm as when a man does, but I do think that partners should concern themselves with the enjoyment level of the one they are trying to please.

Recently I was talking about this subject with a black, male friend of mine. he asked me if the ones who went down on me willingly were black or white. Those of you that know me well know that I have only dated black men for the last several years of my life. I was married to a Native American, engaged to a Jew and I started thinking about it.

I would like to start an intelligent, grown up dialogue about the subject of orgasms and going down on a woman. The men who have never gone down on me have received the favor countless times.

Do black men go down on their women less than white men? Did black men go down on me less because I was white?

I know there are some men who just don't like going down and some women who feel the same way.

Most of my female lovers have ensured that I had orgasms on a very regular basis. I cannot say the same for the men.

I have enjoyed each of the important men and women in my life. If a someone doesn't like going down, there is not much to change that. I just feel like if I have to bring myself to orgasm later on, that I was missing out on something. Am I wrong for feeling that way?

What do you ladies and gents have to say?

Palmettos.

The energy in our body shifts from positive to negative; from negative to neutral and so on. We experience a whole gamut of emotions that lead us across a wide spectrum of neurological responses. Our wellness depends on not only what we eat or how we exercise but also how we think. Have you ever thought about someone you missed only to receive a phone call from them seconds later? Have you ever wished something would take place only to find your daydream coming true? We have the power to manifest (positive or negative) events in our daily existence.

Last night I crawled into bed excited to get a good nights sleep. Out of a deep sleep an hour or two later, I rose to use the restroom, and saw that my phone was blinking indicating I had a message. The message was from my niece and as I was reading it I felt a brush against my foot in the dark. I kicked a little in reaction and put my foot back down on the ground. The second brush was clearly not the cable of my cell phone charger and this time I kicked violently smashing my foot against the bed frame. Ouch! I jumped up an flicked on the light knowing full well what I was about to find. Yep. You guessed it, a palmetto bug. Nasty large beasts in the family of cockroach that fly! Not in my bedroom. Lights on, I am grabbing the poison from the kitchen. I don't like killing things, but I refuse to sleep with that thing in my room.

The whole time I am thinking in my head how I jinxed myself by telling the story of the last palmetto in my kitchen (thankfully over a year ago now) that struggled after I sprayed him. He really refused to die for way too long to watch. I bawled hysterically, really moved by the fact that his life was so important to him and here I was taking it away. I thought that I had gained good karma for being so moved and that was why I had not seen another one in my home in so long. Boy was I stupid for telling that story!

So as I return to my bedroom to spray the intruder, I see him instantly and aim. I hit the edge of his tail and mostly my Japanese sandals that I practically live in. He takes off, under my bed. YAY! All lights on, chills everywhere, I am freaking out and I call my niece Kirstie so I can have some courage while I tear my room apart to find him. She is gracious and talks to me while I begin moving everything. Only trouble is, I don't find him. Kirstie flies over to me and she can't find him either. Great!

We are both hungry (I had fasted the day before) and I decide to take us out to breakfast. We eat, enjoying one another's company and catch up on our lives... When we got home we looked everywhere and still no sign of the critter. It took me a while to fall asleep and less than four hours later, Kirstie and I were up to the alarm getting ready to go about our day.

Eventually I return home, alone. It amazes me that suddenly everything in my house that is the right shade, shape or size is a palmetto. I am looking at every tiny detail of my home waiting for him to show his irreverent face. This is infuriating.

Several things occur to me. Perspective, is the first to find its way to the surface. When you are looking for something that is what you will find. All I could think about is that stupid beast and so I see him everywhere in the most ordinary objects in my home.

Secondly I realize that no amount of worry will make him appear or disappear. In the middle of the night when he brushed across my foot, I certainly was not thinking about seeing a palmetto, and after many hours of worrying that I will see him, he has yet to appear. If we allow worry to invade our senses, all the pleasure and insight we could be gaining evades us.

What am I really worried about anyway? He can't hurt me. It could be months before I even see one again, and as soon as I am done thinking about him, there he will be. So, what sense is it to waste so much energy worrying.

This applies to so many other situations. Waiting for that special someone to call, text, or come by. We often worry that they are mad at us, they are more interested in someone else...when all the time maybe they were just busy. The main point, I am trying to make (especially to myself) is that worrying only robs us of joy. I know all of you that are reading this already know this fact of life, however, I also know most of us still worry. I am making it a daily endeavor not to allow worry about what may or may not come to pass rob me of the beauty already in progress.

I hope you have enjoyed my silly roach story. I hope that you live your lives to the fullest each and every day.

I cannot help but think I manifest this cretin either. I truly believed that by telling the story of how I had cried over a palmettos death I had jinxed myself and sure enough there he was. We have so much power with our spiritual and electric energies.

Daily we become stronger. Daily we become wiser. Daily we learn how to be the best of ourselves.

Namaste,
RAin

Sofia Petrovna (my first paper for Politics and Literature)

The rapport of the gavel echoed through more than merely the four walls of the courtroom. The sound carried through the very constitution of my soul. Agape’s name was emblazoned across my chest and my skin burned with the same heat as the famous chest in The Scarlet Letter (Hawthorne, 1992). What if all the district attorney had said was true? What if it was not? How does one know what to believe? Thomas Jefferson once said, “Follow the truth wherever it may lead” but how easy is it to actually find the truth? Nietzsche said, “There is no truth. There is only perception.”

With all the swirling lines of media propaganda and the constant incoming slew of political statements, how does the general public decide what is truth and what is merely illusion? Travel back with me to the age of Stalin (1929-1953) and imagine just how much information the general public was not privy to. To this day, many still believe that Stalin was a brilliant geneticist, scientist, and strong leader due to the imagery propagated to the working class.

Sofia Petrovna touched me deeply due to my own personal saga dealing with the legal system and the stories that weave their way into the public lore. In the beginning of the story, Sofia Petrovna is a very hard working woman, a loving mother and a woman who exists largely to assess the outside world. She is seen analyzing the women around her in her work place. She notes parts of their personalities, their skills and weaknesses and the way a woman may affect the rest of the team. She does not however seem to have a very rich internal world. She is (unlike her son and his friends) not very politically savvy.

            Sofia Petrovna has lost her husband and she finds herself in perfect timing to join the up and coming force of working class women. She has a solid job and is a valued team leader. She is the mother of an intelligent son who is prominent in school and truly stands out from the rest. He is politically active yet she is not the reason he became that way. Suddenly, everything changes. People she knows are being arrested. Her son is arrested. His best friend is arrested. The young woman in love with her son commits suicide. Yet, Sofia still seems to believe the propaganda of her government.

            She wrestles furiously with the world she had come to believe she knew so well. She even suggests that her son must have done something to get arrested. People just do not get arrested for nothing in her country. Looking back upon history, it is obvious to see that the purge of Stalin collected intellectuals, scientists, specialists, reactionaries, aristocrats, and anyone who did not fit the type who would blindly follow their leader. During that time, however, it was not so easy to see what was going on around them.

            Anyone lacking in vigilance would end up arrested. This created a massive fear among the people of Russia. Many began turning people in just so they would exemplify due diligence and not see themselves arrested. This created space for personal vendettas, snitching and outright lies in order to make oneself look good in the government eye. It also left a lot of confusion in the minds of those who could not yet see what was going on. From outside the story, it is easy to judge Sofia Petrovna. It is easy to believe that she should have seen what was going on much sooner. It is easy to assume how she should have felt and how she should have behaved.

            Pravda, the main publication circulated to the people of Russia, means truth. Printed news at this time was a main vein for social knowledge. Within the confines of a social construct, knowledge is dispersed as those in power see fit. The information that reaches the general public is up to them. When Doctor Kiparisov is taken (Chukovskaya, 1967, p. 31) the temperature of the peaceful office Christmas party suddenly changes. Sofia Petrovna is shocked yet she quickly comes up with a rationalization. Kolya had made it clear to her that Leningrad would have to remove certain elements when they proved to be unreliable. Sometimes it is easier and more comfortable to believe the painted picture propaganda rather than the cold hard truth.

            After her son’s arrest, Sofia Petrovna begins the process of searching for the truth about his case. It is at this point in the story where the shadow self of Mother Russia and the shadow self of Sofia Petrovna begin to arise. She is told not to wait in front of the jail and finds herself forced into the dissonant underworld of wailing children and cold feet waiting to find any morsel of information about loved ones who had been arrested (Chukovskaya, 1967, p. 47). Unfortunately, Sofia Petrovna still does not see. She believes that her son is a rare innocent and the rest must have done something to have been arrested.

            When Kolya is said to have confessed to his crimes (Chukovskaya, 1967, p. 78) his friends know immediately this cannot be truth. However, Sofia Petrovna, staunchly clinging to her faith in the government, wrestles with the conflicting information. The undercurrent of her cognitive dissonance begins to surface although it will be a long time before she is able to see the light clearly. It is exactly this type of staunch belief that a government, interested in socially constructing the world to suit their needs, is looking for.

            As a child I did not have a television. I was not allowed to read secular books or listen to secular music. I was removed from things that my peers all seemed to know. As I morphed into a young adult, I chose to stay removed from popular media. I was too sensitive for the news or current events. I was also a child born into a long line of military men serving the great United States of America. I was a patriot. I believed in my country. I was proud of my forefathers fighting for the rights I had been born with. The day Agape Armageddon Towns was arrested served as a catalyst that utterly changed the way I saw the world around me.

            Capitalism is supposed to be the American dream. What we see around us is opportunity, apple pie and dreams coming true. However, when one faces the fact that minorities compose the majority of the prison population here in the United States, the American dream quickly transforms into a nightmare. The prison system becomes a money-making machine and incarcerated minorities become the slaves of today. Since the 1960’s prison construction has boomed and our government has had no trouble filling its cells with prisoners (Lynch, 2002, p.110). Are there two Americas: one for the privileged and one for the rich?

            Over the past few years, Agape has written me many letters of horrendous occasions within the walls of Attica. Sofia Petrovna received one letter from her son. Agape and I speak multiple times per week. Sofia Petrovna received no phone calls. I have visited Agape as often as possible. Sofia Petrovna never saw the face of her son again. I send Agape money any chance I get. Sofia Petrovna was not allowed to send her son money. I have stayed up to date with Agape’s case. Sofia Petrovna was not offered anything beyond the statement that her son had confessed to his crimes and would be serving ten years. I am grateful that I do not have to live in silence as Sofia Petrovna did. However, I see no more justice in the American prison system for all its pomp and circumstance.

            With every magazine, every television show, every clothing designer, every fast food restaurant, every classroom text, and every Sunday church service, we as Americans are told what to believe. Money is the language with which we speak. Capitalism became a dream for one percent of the population while the ninety nine live in a dark reflection of the great white beast. What we need are reality television shows that actually confront reality. What is it like to live in an inner city neighborhood in America? What is it like to be a poor minority? What is it like within the walls of any given American prison?

            In Capitalism: A Love Story (Moore, 2009), Michael Moore does a phenomenal job exposing the grimy underbelly of such a well-designed system. He delves into many uncomfortable truths about what happens when “the love of money” becomes “the root of all evil (The Bible, I Timothy 6:10).” Like Sofia Petrovna I wrestled with the facts as they presented themselves to me. I had run from the truth for so many years, uncomfortable with the six o’clock news.

            Sofia Petrovna could not handle the weight of the facts upon her chest. She began telling fantasy tales of her son’s eminent return (Chukovskaya, 1967, p. 102). She began telling everyone of the girl he would marry and where they would go for their honeymoon. The one letter she had truly received she spoke nothing of. In the true letter, she learned of his abuse. She hid it under her pillow and in that moment she realized why she must not keep it. Once one arises to political awareness, what is the next step?

            For Sofia Petrovna, she realized she must not keep the letter. She burned it and with that act perhaps lost a little of her sanity. She had fought so long to stay constant with the picture that had been painted for her. She justified and rationalized every act she could find a way to augment to suit her needs. She watched the world emblazoned burning around her and refused to see the truth. She knew there was nothing she could do to fight her government. If she revolted, she would merely be transported away or killed. Her only way out was to resort to her fantasy world. She removed herself from everyone and after many years of living external to herself, she moved to an internal realm where she had never before dwelt.

            How does one fight an entire government? How does one revolt against a system so corrupt? How does one claim social responsibility in a world where those in power paint the picture for the general population to believe? These (and many others) are questions I ask myself every day. Now that I have been outside The Matrix, the girl in the red dress in no longer attractive (Warner Home Video, 1999).  In any regime, the ruling class is a much smaller percentage than those being governed. How is it then that a thousand or so Bolsheviks could rule millions of Russian people? How does the one percent hold so much power over the ninety nine? What made the rise of Hitler’s fist so powerful that millions of innocent Jews were slaughtered under his command? Can anyone blame Sofia Petrovna for retracting to her fantasy world?

            For the crime Agape Towns was accused, a white man would have received a three to five year sentence. As a black man from a low income demographic, his sentence was seventeen years. Since his incarceration, my whole life has changed. No longer do I have the luxury of ignoring the presence of corruption all around me. No longer do I have the ability to ignore the current events of my country, of my globe. I have risen to social consciousness and unlike Sofia Petrovna, I have decided to dedicate my life’s work toward leaving this world a better place. I cannot allow myself to escape to a fantasy world although I can understand why she did.

            Do I believe it will be easy to stand up for what I believe? Do I believe that a system so well constructed will be easy to change? Do I believe that the one percent will stand down and share their funds with the rest of the starving world? Do I believe that those in power will sit down and pass their baton to me? No. However, I do believe that this world is ripe for change. I do believe that I am not alone. I do believe that oppressed peoples deserve freedom and justice and liberty. I do believe that those in power must be held accountable. I am not naïve and I do recognize that the entirety of the history of mankind is marked by the struggle between those in power and those subjugated by that power. I also believe in the power of a different kind of dream: the kind of dream dreamt by Martin Luther King.

           

References:

Chukovskaia, L. K. (1967). Sofia Petrovna. J. D. Murray (Ed.). Northwestern University Press.

Hawthorne, N. (1992). The scarlet letter. Wordsworth editions.

King, M. L. (2012). I have a dream. Random House LLC.

Lynch, M. (2002). The culture of control: Crime and social order in contemporary society. PoLAR:

Matrix. Warner Home Video, 1999.

Moore, M. (2009). Capitalism: A love story [Film]. Beverly Hills, CA: Overture Films.

When the way to the sky crumbles...

On May 9th, 1980, the twenty one thousand, eight hundred and seventy seven foot Sunshine Skyway Bridge was struck by a freighter, knocking out the center of the bridge. Thirty five years ago, thirty five people were killed when the bridge collapsed. My great-grandmother, who we lovingly called GiGi was on that bridge. I remember the excitement of my family as we heard the news and what seemed like an eternity later as we learned that GiGi was gratefully still alive and well. It is always interesting to me to learn the stories that form the psyche of a human being.

I love being up in the air, but for years I was quite frightened to be on bridges. My father is one of the best drivers I know and as a child the family and I used to be driven around to many different places (including locations that took us over the Sunshine Skyway Bridge). Still, the dreams found their way into my nights. I dreamed often as I became old enough to drive that I was driving on the Skyway and either lost control of the car, flew off the side, or had dreams where I was on a bridge that turned into a pier that turned into a dock that deadends in the ocean. Not the ideal Sunday drive.

The recurring theme lasted with me for many years. Once I had the dream and I was driving on a very high, voluptuously curvy bridge bordering on too fast to maintain control of my vehicle. The bridge turns into a pier and then turns into a boardwalk quite close to the surface of the water, and very quickly there is no more surface to drive on, only water and sky. On this occasion, I jumped out of my vehicle as it went over and into the ocean and I sat down at the edge of the dock where it met the sea. My friend Somer was there with some other friends of hers that I did not know and they were all mermaids. The mermaids and I laughed and joke and spoke of pleasant things. I feel that the dream was my way of facing a fear that began in my childhood.

Dreams are avenues of the soul to face our fears, conquer our demons, explore new territory, etc. Since that dream where I met with the mermaids, my dreams of bridges are more secure. I now find myself driving on curvy bridges, often times at high speeds, sometimes bordering losing control but that is as intense as it gets these days.

My doctorate program at Pacifica Graduate Institute will focus on Depth Psychology which relies heavily on the works of Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud. Like Jung, I love the power of dreams.

Based on ancient Native American lore (in which I am part) I make dream weavers. Unlike dream catchers, these are designed to invoke the dream realm and open pathways to our dreamworld to allow spiritual guidance and personal growth. My personal dream weaver hangs above my bed complete with a plethora of feathers which were given to me or landed in my lap (or at my feet) thanks to Mother Nature.

Today, my friends Shana and Jorges son was celebrating his first birthday. The party forced me to drive over the Skyway. I don't believe I have ever controlled the wheel driving over the bridge. I have been a passenger many times, but I do not recall every being the driver. It was liberating and the views from this very tall bridge were astounding. Would that I could have taken some photographs.

The collapse in 1980 saw over 1200 feet of the bridge collapsing as thirty five people plummeted over 150 feet to their watery grave. We develop so many constructs in the name of progress in this modern world. As a child all I knew was the bridges would not necessarily deliver you to the other side.

Today as I crossed Tampa Bay, I was swept away hovering gingerly between the waking world and the dream world. I have had the dream at least a thousand times, and every time I wake with something new, something reborn, something that alters my awareness.

We have the power to augment and grow, live and flow in this world within a world within a world within a dream.

You just have to believe. You have the power to be free.

~Live. Love. Laugh.

and most importantly,

~~dream~~

RAin.