To advance global awareness, social justice, human rights and humanitarian development by championing creative works of visual storytelling that inspire activism, compassion and social transformation.
ABOUT SIMA
SIMA 2013 is an international documentary and educational impact media competition honoring members in the independent film and global humanitarian industry. Our objective is to champion and promote the stories of independent filmmakers, journalists, aid organizations and grassroots change-makers that too often remain overlooked, and to provide a springboard for creative media that exemplifies excellence in its potential to inspire change. We are pleased to invite all filmmakers, journalists, TV producers, activists and non-profit organizations who would like to take part in the SOCIAL IMPACT MEDIA AWARDS competition. SIMA 2013 will be open for submission in December 2012.
DOCUMENTARY FILMS
Through the championing of selected productions we would like to assist filmmakers and activists in bringing international audiences closer to current realities of people living in developing nations and providing deeper insights into the politics of global development, international aid, global activism, and the human condition.
The SIM Awards honor accomplishments in the following categories: Best Documentary, Best Director, Best Cinematography, Best Editing, and Best Sound Editing
**Winners of Special Jury Awards receive prizes worth $TBA per category. Winners and Nominees receive optional entry in our educational and humanitarian distribution network, which maximizes the impact of documentary films by facilitating worldwide screenings for community groups and aid organizations to encourage local community activism.
EDUCATIONAL IMPACT VIDEOS
Selected productions will be curated on our YouTube Channel and Online Video Network to encourage skill sharing of best practices in human rights and humanitarian development.
**Winners of Special Jury Awards receive prizes worth $TBA per category and priority placement on our homepage and affiliated media outlets.
WHAT WE ARE LOOKING FOR
DOCUMENTARY FILMS (FEATURES & SHORTS)
We are looking for original, wise, brave and creative productions that will increase the awareness of viewers to global injustices, to the resilience of humans facing depravation, to the politics of international aid, and to efforts and agents of change in developing nations. We seek productions that raise important questions about the state of our contemporary world, and urge people to reflect on the meaning and potential of help for those in need.
We are especially interested in: 1. Everyday stories of individuals or groups living in developing countries 2. Campaigning films geared to raising awareness and calls to action 3. Issues relating to UN Millennium Development Goals 4. Transparency and Sustainability in the humanitarian/ human rights/ global development sector 5. Examples of help brought by individuals, local heroes, donors, international organizations, governmental agencies and NGOs – both positive and those who have not been successful
EDUCATIONAL IMPACT VIDEOS
We are looking for videos that share unique insight into “HOW AID WORKS”, that highlight distinctive approaches, creative models, successful tactics and innovations, emphasizing processes used, failures along the way and impact measurements. NGOs, foundations, local grassroots organizations, and community activists from all over the world are invited to submit their videos and compete for recognition of the process behind their development work. Videos capturing effective development approaches and how-to stories can be between 3 – 15 min long.
We are especially interested in the following themes:
You are a horse running alone and he tries to tame you compares you to an impossible highway to a burning house says you are blinding him that he could never leave you forget you want anything but you you dizzy him, you are unbearable every woman before or after you is doused in your name you fill his mouth his teeth ache with memory of taste his body just a long shadow seeking yours but you are always too intense frightening in the way you want him unashamed and sacrificial he tells you that no man can live up to the one who lives in your head and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more tried to be softer prettier less volatile, less awake but even when sleeping you could feel him travelling away from you in his dreams so what did you want to do love split his head open? you can’t make homes out of human beings someone should have already told you that and if he wants to leave then let him leave you are terrifying and strange and beautiful something not everyone knows how to love. ****
Director, Producer : Andrea Cortes-Juarbe & Christine Mehr Editor: Christine Mehr Co-Editor: Andrea Cortes-Juarbe Special thanks - Lauren Stanton, Sara'o Bery, Ada Pinkston, Isa Nakazawa
Audio mashed by Christine Mehr Instrumental track - Zoe Keating's "Sun Will Set."
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To Be Vulnerable and Fearless:
An Interview with Writer
Warsan Shire
By Kameelah Janan Rasheed
Warsan Shire
Warsan Shire is a London-based Kenyan-born Somali writer whose world I first entered with a poem recalling the mouths of boys, the compromise of backseats, and bleeding skirts. In early 2012, the soft-faced and wide-eyed 23-year old poet published her first book of poetry, “Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth” where raw and unsheltered words meet the warmth and tenderness of her spirit.
She travels between worlds: daughter’s bodies entangled in war are warned, “when the men come, set your bodies on fire” (In Love and In War, 2012) and the moments at detention centers are remembered with discomforting clarity — “I tore up and ate my own passport in an airport hotel once. I’m bloated with language I can’t afford to forget.” (Conversations About Home (at the Deportation Centre), 2012)
In “Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth”, she fills the vacant pages with haunting images of women’s bodies occupied by war and displacement. In Ugly, a girl “carries whole cities in her belly” and a mother cautions that “if she is covered in continents,/if her teeth are small colonies,/if her stomach is an island/if her thighs are borders?/What man wants to lie down/and watch the world burn/in his bedroom?/Your daughter’s face is a small riot,/her hands are a civil war,/refugee camp behind each ear”. Her poetry carries the energy of multiple women, the depth of many generations, and the weight of many lives lived.
“To write poetry, like sincere poetry, it is like performing heart surgery on yourself without anesthesia…in public…You are peeling back layers. You are dissecting yourself…You do not know what they [audience] is going to do when you reach into yourself and rip out your organs to be displayed”, poet Amir Sulaiman shares in his interview on his new album “Meccan Openings”. When Warsan Shire writes, she does precisely that; she opens a wound and as an emotional cartographer, maps the terrain of her trauma and sutures the wound through her poetry. Fearless and vulnerable, she pulls back layers to expose not only the pain, but the healing as well.
On “No Shame Day”, Warsan shared about struggling with Bulimia, stating, “That whole part of my life is almost a myth, I was twenty years old, killing myself and not one person noticed.” Healed by the site of an “oiled and steamed” woman with hips as wide as hers at a hammam in Marrakech, Warsan reminds her reader, “if our secrets are secrets because we are told to be ashamed, then we must share them.” In a later tweet (her tweets always read like micro poems), she shares, “i was so terrified to write about that, because i’m so private, because i didn’t want to live like an open wound on the internet. but you have to tell the truth, otherwise you are a liar.” Warsan is not a liar; at times she is frighteningly honest, so much so that it is a soft nudge for her readers to do the same.
Your names are Warsan Shire. What do your names mean? Who gave you these names? Back on February 25, 2011, you wrote “the birth name”. In this piece you wrote, “give your daughters difficult names. give your daughters names that command the full use of tongue” and ”my name doesn’t allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it right.” Can you discuss these two lines?
Warsan means “good news” and Shire means “to gather in one place”. My parents named me after my father’s mother, my grandmother. Growing up, I absolutely wanted a name that was easier to pronounce, more common, prettier. But then I grew up and understood the power of a name, the beauty that comes in understanding how your name has affected who you are. My name is indigenous to my country, it is not easy to pronounce, it takes effort to say correctly and I am absolutely in love with the sound of it and its meaning. Also, it’s not the kind of name you baby, slip into sweet talk mid sentence, late night phone conversation, whisper into the receiver kind of name, so, of that I am glad.
You often write about “home”–homesick for a home you’ve have never lived in, “com[ing] from two countries/one is thirsty/the other is on fire/both need water”. Where or what do you describe as your home? Is home a tangible place, a feeling, a destination…?
I still feel very homeless. I live in London and have been here nearly my whole life, but it is a difficult city to connect to. I have travelled around and found my body making more sense elsewhere. But I have started to understand what it feels like to belong, so I look forward to exploring different countries and seeing how fully I can feel at home in a place, that at the end of the day, isn’t where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I’m going and never have been before.
I interviewed Safia a while back and she discussed how she became a poet noting that “it has been in her family”. How did you become a poet? What was the very first poem you wrote?
I don’t ever remember not writing. My father is a writer; he is a journalist, publisher, activist, poet. I remember showing him my first poem in his small apartment and I don’t think I’ve seen him smile at anything like that, since or before. The poem itself was about Africa. I think I was eleven years old. It was dramatic. I think it even rhymed.
Any writing rituals? What is your writing process like? Do you keep a journal, write before dawn…?
I write when everyone is asleep. I write with music. I never plan it. But it is a very constant. It feels organic. My poems come to me in images, like film. I can see it very clearly and then this overwhelming urge to write out best what I just saw comes over me. I write best with free writes, where I refuse to edit what is leaving me, where I write within a specific time frame. I refuse to obsess over it, and if it doesn’t come out easily, then I leave it. I don’t write for an audience. I don’t write under pressure. I’m thankful to take my time. The poems happen to me. Sometimes I have no actual idea where they have come from.
I cannot remember the first poem of yours that I read; however, I remember suddenly feeling overwhelmed and confused. It felt as if you opened up another sensory valve. You have many fans–I guess I would not even call them fans because most of your tumblr page is full of love notes that seem a bit deeper than a passing fascination. How have you made sense of the praise you’ve received? On the opposite side, but seemingly necessary side, how have you dealt with critique of your work?
The support is beautiful. Overwhelming. I am grateful. I never imagined that people would want to read what I write. I just wanted to write. I haven’t made sense of it, I don’t think it’s important that I do. As long as I can give anyone comfort, I will. And I understand that anonymity can allow people to be vulnerable. Not everyone is okay with living like an open wound. But the thing about open wounds is that, well, you aren’t ignoring it, your healing, the fresh air can get to it. It’s honest. You aren’t hiding who you are. You aren’t rotting. People can give you advice on how to heal without scarring badly. But on the other hand there are some people who’ll feel uncomfortable around you. Some will even point and laugh. But we all have wounds. Anyway. I guess what I’m saying is that, I’m grateful.
Family always seems like a different and more intimate audience. How has your family responded to your poetry?
They are proud and supportive and beautiful and lovely. My father is a writer. My mother fell in love with and married a writer and secretly wrote poems everywhere. I think they kind of knew what they were doing. My father made sure I read everything I could get my hands on.
In rereading a lot of your of your poems speak of loss, trauma, and loneliness. How often does your poetry draw from your direct experiences? How often is your work a collage of women you know and women you’ve imagined?
None have been imagined. I either know, or I am every person I have written about, for or as. But I do imagine them in their most intimate settings. I meet someone and pick up on something they have said, or I am taken by the way they laugh and a poem drags itself from that moment. I have seen couples argue in the street and written as if I have followed them home. Imagination is important, but the people are real people. Also, I suppose, anyone you can imagine already exists.
Your tumblr features poems under the umbrella of “Warsan vs. Melancholy”. How did you start this poetry project?
I came out of a relationship and wanted a space to write. I had no plan. Just to write. The title is very literal. Warsan versus Melancholy. A year and some change later, Warsan won.
Your first book “Teaching Mother How To Give Birth” published by Flipped Eye is on its way out. What themes will this collection cover? What encouraged you to publish a book? Will there be an audio component?
It’s about women, love, loneliness and war, in chronologic order. Poems that focus on adolescence and young adult hood, married life, divorce, motherhood, growing old and death. It has strong references to Somali culture. All I’ve ever wanted to do was write books.
Speaking of mothering, in your description of your younger sisters, Samawada and Suban, you speak of how you want to freeze them before the “inevitable humiliation” and the “before self doubt” and “before shame tries to conquer them”. In what ways do you mother your sisters through your poetry? In what ways do they mother you?
I helped raise my sisters, they are my best friends, I have mothered them in the real sense. We have a new addition to the family, little baby girl Selma. In many ways I want my writing to serve them when they grow up, like an almost ‘”how to” book. If I can help them through heartache with my poems or if they at least know that I love them absolutely, then they’ll have more than a lot of kids. Ultimately, I just want to love them. My sisters allow me to revisit the childhood I barely had. Children are consistently bright lights; I’m honored to be loved by them.
You’ve read your poems in South Africa, Italy, and Germany. I lived in South Africa for a while so I am bias in that I am most interested about your experience reading in South Africa. Can you talk a bit about your experience in South Africa both in reading and exploring the country?
South Africa completely changed the way I write about home. While I was there I worked with African refugees. I understood homesickness in a more direct, desperate. My homesickness is privileged. Before South Africa I could not even write about home. Visiting the continent for the first time since birth did allow me to find an actual voice for the feelings.
Take us back to your very first reading. How old were you? Where were you reading…what did you read? How did you feel as you stepped on the stage and began to read…how did you feel as you read…how did you feel as you left that stage?
I was sixteen and it was a poetry slam. I was very nervous. I didn’t really understand what a poetry slam was. Then I won. My friends jumped around. I didn’t want to ever do another poetry slam, but I think it has a lot to do with how I approach readings. I don’t like to call them performances; this means that I’m performing, that there is something false about it, that I’m possibly pretending to be someone else. Also, I’m quite shy and sometimes anxious, so I like small intimate readings and I like to feel like I know everyone in the room.
To a tumblr admirer, you once wrote about your love for Anais Nin: “…anais nin, one of my favourite writers since i was a nine year old reading her erotica by way of corridor light.” What drew you to Anais Nin’s work at such a young age. At 23, why does her work still resonate with you? What other writers do you admire? Why?
I read everything in the library as a kid. Anais Nin just fell into my hands and it felt electric. It still does. We enjoy writers that say what we cannot say the best way; it is almost narcissistic. I love writers who i relate to most. The lovers, the tragic, the lonely, the big hearted, the slightly peculiar. Sylvia Plath. Hafiz. Neruda. Ai. Miranda July. Rumi. Anais Nin. F. Scott Fitzgerald. Many of them are dead. Writing that transcends time, culture, age and gender. Incredible. No? Yes!
In addition to your own writing, you have edited an issue of Sable LitMag. How is the process of editing and vetting the work of other writers different from writing? Is editing something you may want to do more of?
Absolutely. My editor, an incredible poet Jacob Sam La Rose has shown me how much mastery is involved in editing. I know its no small feat and takes a patient and well trained eye, but it is definitely something i want to grow in to and learn.
I know you have a BA in Creative Writing. I have often heard that school cannot teach you how to be a great writer, and I would agree with that. If it’s not serving the purpose of teaching you how to be a great writer, to what degree was your program useful?
My degree was incredibly useful in making sure that I would not become frightened and decide to become a hair dresser (I had always wanted to own a beauty salon, or be an archeologist).It allowed to me to study my craft, to embrace critique, to study the English language. I want to continue studying creative writing until PHD level. For me, it’s important.
Clearly, you are not “just a poet”. In your biography, you comment that you curate and teach workshops around the art of healing through narrative. Can you describe the structure of these workshops? Why did you begin these workshops? What is you favorite moment from these workshops?
My workshops are around the idea of using poetry to heal trauma, and I begun these workshops because I wanted to share with people how I had found healing, through creating…the cathartic ritual of letting go and using memory and confession as a form of creation. My favorite moment is when we share the work. And the recognition of safety. The trust that we have built in such a small space of time. The permission to be vulnerable.
Thinking about myself as an artist, I have encountered the labels of “Muslim photographer” or “Black Artist”. What service do these labels serve, if any?
Labels only to make those who are categorizing you feel more comfortable.
While I think all writing can be categorized as “political” in some fashion, you wrote something…”the water”…talk about the motivation behind “the water”.
I don’t like to talk politics. But water was about apathy. Apathy is making the world rot. We need to care more.
I have been dreaming about collaboration between you and Saul Williams. Something feels magical about this. Who are you interested in collaborating with?
Saul Williams is incredible. I agree it feels magical. My favorite book of his is ‘she’. I’m interested in collaborating with people who create beautiful things and their art reflects their heart. Recently i have begun working with different video artists. I like the idea of bringing together different art forms and show the fluidity that can be found in merging people and process.
Warsan at 33?
insha allah.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++
About Kameelah Janan Rasheed
Kameelah Janan Rasheed is a self-taught photographer, arts & culture journalist and educator based in Brooklyn, NY. The former Amy Biehl Fulbright Scholar to South Africa is the co-founder of Mambu Badu, a photography collective for women of African descent, an Assistant Editor of Interviews and Photography for Specter Magazine and a Visual Arts writer for The Liberator Magazine. Her writing has appeared in various publications such as The Nation (online) and Pambazuka: Pan African Voices for Freedom and Justice. Her essay, “Lines of Bad Grammar” is included in the book I Speak for Myself: American Women on Being Muslim. You can view her work at www.kameelahr.com.
The heartbreaking loss of lives in Newtown, Conn., moved the Louisiana-born poet Yusef Komunyakaa to put his emotions into words. The global distinguished professor of English at New York University knows too well how it feels to lose a child and poetry's power to calm and heal.
We leave you tonight with a poem by Yusef Komunyakaa. He wrote it last night after hearing about the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary. And we asked him to read it for us tonight. It's called "Rock Me, Mercy."
(SOUNDBITE OF MUSIC)
YUSEF KOMUNYAKAA: (Reading) The river stones are listening because we have something to say. The trees lean closer today. The singing in the electrical woods has gone down. It looks like rain, because it is too warm to snow. Guardian angels, wherever you're hiding, we know you can't be everywhere at once. Have you corralled all the pretty wild horses? The memory of ants asleep and day lilies, roses, holly and larkspur? The magpies gaze at us, still waiting. River stones are listening. But all we can say now is mercy, please rock me.
(SOUNDBITE OF MUSIC)
RAZ: The poet Yusef Komunyakaa reading his poem "Rock Me, Mercy."
(SOUNDBITE OF MUSIC)
RAZ: And for Saturday, that's WEEKENDS on ALL THINGS CONSIDERED from NPR News. I'm Guy Raz. A quick recap of what we know about the tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut. We now know the alleged gunman, 20-year-old Adam Lanza, forced his way into that school. We also know that all of the children killed on Friday were between the ages of six and seven - all first graders.
NPR continues to report this story throughout the evening on our website, npr.org. Please join us on the radio again tomorrow night. Until then, thanks for listening, and please keep the families of Newtown in your thoughts.
Three days before 20-year-old Adam Lanza killed his mother, then opened fire on a classroom full of Connecticut kindergartners, my 13-year-old son Michael (name changed) missed his bus because he was wearing the wrong color pants.
"I can wear these pants," he said, his tone increasingly belligerent, the black-hole pupils of his eyes swallowing the blue irises.
"They are navy blue," I told him. "Your school's dress code says black or khaki pants only."
"They told me I could wear these," he insisted. "You're a stupid bitch. I can wear whatever pants I want to. This is America. I have rights!"
"You can't wear whatever pants you want to," I said, my tone affable, reasonable. "And you definitely cannot call me a stupid bitch. You're grounded from electronics for the rest of the day. Now get in the car, and I will take you to school."
I live with a son who is mentally ill. I love my son. But he terrifies me.
A few weeks ago, Michael pulled a knife and threatened to kill me and then himself after I asked him to return his overdue library books. His 7- and 9-year-old siblings knew the safety plan—they ran to the car and locked the doors before I even asked them to. I managed to get the knife from Michael, then methodically collected all the sharp objects in the house into a single Tupperware container that now travels with me. Through it all, he continued to scream insults at me and threaten to kill or hurt me.
That conflict ended with three burly police officers and a paramedic wrestling my son onto a gurney for an expensive ambulance ride to the local emergency room. The mental hospital didn't have any beds that day, and Michael calmed down nicely in the ER, so they sent us home with a prescription for Zyprexa and a follow-up visit with a local pediatric psychiatrist.
We still don't know what's wrong with Michael. Autism spectrum, ADHD, Oppositional Defiant or Intermittent Explosive Disorder have all been tossed around at various meetings with probation officers and social workers and counselors and teachers and school administrators. He's been on a slew of antipsychotic and mood-altering pharmaceuticals, a Russian novel of behavioral plans. Nothing seems to work.
At the start of seventh grade, Michael was accepted to an accelerated program for highly gifted math and science students. His IQ is off the charts. When he's in a good mood, he will gladly bend your ear on subjects ranging from Greek mythology to the differences between Einsteinian and Newtonian physics to Doctor Who. He's in a good mood most of the time. But when he's not, watch out. And it's impossible to predict what will set him off.
Several weeks into his new junior high school, Michael began exhibiting increasingly odd and threatening behaviors at school. We decided to transfer him to the district's most restrictive behavioral program, a contained school environment where children who can't function in normal classrooms can access their right to free public babysitting from 7:30 to 1:50 Monday through Friday until they turn 18.
The morning of the pants incident, Michael continued to argue with me on the drive. He would occasionally apologize and seem remorseful. Right before we turned into his school parking lot, he said, "Look, Mom, I'm really sorry. Can I have video games back today?"
"No way," I told him. "You cannot act the way you acted this morning and think you can get your electronic privileges back that quickly."
His face turned cold, and his eyes were full of calculated rage. "Then I'm going to kill myself," he said. "I'm going to jump out of this car right now and kill myself."
That was it. After the knife incident, I told him that if he ever said those words again, I would take him straight to the mental hospital, no ifs, ands, or buts. I did not respond, except to pull the car into the opposite lane, turning left instead of right.
"Where are you taking me?" he said, suddenly worried. "Where are we going?"
"You know where we are going," I replied.
"No! You can't do that to me! You're sending me to hell! You're sending me straight to hell!"
I pulled up in front of the hospital, frantically waving for one of the clinicians who happened to be standing outside. "Call the police," I said. "Hurry."
Michael was in a full-blown fit by then, screaming and hitting. I hugged him close so he couldn't escape from the car. He bit me several times and repeatedly jabbed his elbows into my rib cage. I'm still stronger than he is, but I won't be for much longer.
The police came quickly and carried my son screaming and kicking into the bowels of the hospital. I started to shake, and tears filled my eyes as I filled out the paperwork—"Were there any difficulties with… at what age did your child… were there any problems with.. has your child ever experienced.. does your child have…"
At least we have health insurance now. I recently accepted a position with a local college, giving up my freelance career because when you have a kid like this, you need benefits. You'll do anything for benefits. No individual insurance plan will cover this kind of thing.
For days, my son insisted that I was lying—that I made the whole thing up so that I could get rid of him. The first day, when I called to check up on him, he said, "I hate you. And I'm going to get my revenge as soon as I get out of here."
By day three, he was my calm, sweet boy again, all apologies and promises to get better. I've heard those promises for years. I don't believe them anymore.
On the intake form, under the question, "What are your expectations for treatment?" I wrote, "I need help."
And I do. This problem is too big for me to handle on my own. Sometimes there are no good options. So you just pray for grace and trust that in hindsight, it will all make sense.
I am sharing this story because I am Adam Lanza's mother. I am Dylan Klebold's and Eric Harris's mother. I am Jason Holmes's mother. I am Jared Loughner's mother. I am Seung-Hui Cho's mother. And these boys—and their mothers—need help. In the wake of another horrific national tragedy, it's easy to talk about guns. But it's time to talk about mental illness.
According to Mother Jones, since 1982, 61 mass murders involving firearms have occurred throughout the country. Of these, 43 of the killers were white males, and only one was a woman. Mother Jones focused on whether the killers obtained their guns legally (most did). But this highly visible sign of mental illness should lead us to consider how many people in the U.S. live in fear, like I do.
When I asked my son's social worker about my options, he said that the only thing I could do was to get Michael charged with a crime. "If he's back in the system, they'll create a paper trail," he said. "That's the only way you're ever going to get anything done. No one will pay attention to you unless you've got charges."
I don't believe my son belongs in jail. The chaotic environment exacerbates Michael's sensitivity to sensory stimuli and doesn't deal with the underlying pathology. But it seems like the United States is using prison as the solution of choice for mentally ill people. According to Human Rights Watch, the number of mentally ill inmates in U.S. prisons quadrupled from 2000 to 2006, and it continues to rise—in fact, the rate of inmate mental illness is five times greater (56 percent) than in the non-incarcerated population.
With state-run treatment centers and hospitals shuttered, prison is now the last resort for the mentally ill—Rikers Island, the LA County Jail and Cook County Jail in Illinois housed the nation's largest treatment centers in 2011.
No one wants to send a 13-year-old genius who loves Harry Potter and his snuggle animal collection to jail. But our society, with its stigma on mental illness and its broken healthcare system, does not provide us with other options. Then another tortured soul shoots up a fast food restaurant. A mall. A kindergarten classroom. And we wring our hands and say, "Something must be done."
I agree that something must be done. It's time for a meaningful, nation-wide conversation about mental health. That's the only way our nation can ever truly heal.
God help me. God help Michael. God help us all.
liza long is an author, musician, and erstwhile classicist. she is also a single mother of four bright, loved children, one of whom has special needs.
Republished with permission from the Blue Review, a non-profit publication affiliated with Boise State University that publishes a mix of scholarly essays and journalism. The original post can be found here.
I stood in the rain last night here in Chicago under a tree filled with 500 wooden stars. Each star listed the name and age (when known) of a person who was killed in Chicago so far this year.
by Sarah Jane Rhee (12/15/12)
The vigil was organized by members of Occupy Rogers Park and the crowd was small but hearty. As I looked up to watch Jim G tie the 500th wooden star to a tree branch, I thought of each of the lives represented. I thought of the 17 year old who would not be able to attend his senior prom and perhaps the 28 year old who would never be a mother. I thought of the 6 year old who won’t be playing in the snow this winter and the 50 year old who won’t get to hold his grandson again. I was overwhelmed with anger and not yet grief.
by Sarah Jane Rhee (12/15/12)
When I got home, I did what I always do when my feelings threaten to submerge me. I turned to poetry to try to make sense of the world. I reached for the complete poems of Dylan Thomas and read “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night.” Below are two verses that always speak to me:
Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
I let the words of the poem wash over me. I felt the anger slowly seeping from my pores. I took deep breaths.The Overpass Light Brigade took part in the vigil. It seemed fitting somehow. Everywhere they go, they illuminate the pressing social issues that we confront. They literally bring light.
by Sarah Jane Rhee (12/15/12)
So it was that last night a group of us gathered to remember the fallen, to lift up their names and to refuse to avert our gazes. Bearing witness has a way of changing the moral trajectory of the universe. I believe that profoundly. There is a short story that I appreciate by Sharon Mehdi called “The Great Silent Grandmother Gathering.” Below is an excerpt:
Network news broadcasts all led with the same story: In towns and cities across America, hundreds of thousands of women, many of them grandmothers, gathered in public parks, school yards, vacant lots, and on the steps of churches, synagogues, mosques and Buddhist centers. They carried no banners, shouted no slogans and belonged to no organizations. When asked why they were gathering, one of the grandmothers said, “We’re saving the world.” The FBI is investigating.
In our small community gathering, no one carried any banners or shouted any slogans, though I think that many of us belonged to several organizations. We stood in the rain together to remember. We stood together to re-commit ourselves to action. Some of us were there to rage against the dying of the light. Perhaps a few even came to save the world.
A young man named Malcolm London who is a talented artist spoke at the vigil. He shared an arresting and deeply moving poem titled “A Change Gone Come” with us. I encourage you to listen closely. In his words, you’ll hear the cries for justice of many, many young people in this city. Malcolm is like the dozens of young men who I meet in the course of my work. He knows what it is to live in a war zone. He knows what it is to struggle. He is resilient and brave and talented. He is what keeps me going even on days when I worry that the light is dying…
A Cidade das Mulheres is a 72-minute documentary directed by Lázaro Faria that explores the Candomblé, an African derived religion that gave black Brazilian women power and a voice in a society where African descendants were discriminated against, excluded and devalued. Below are descriptions of the film. The first by the director himself, Faria, and the second taken from the Maria Preta website. Check out the film trailer below (with English subtitles).
In the late 1930s, American anthropologist Ruth Landes came to Brazil with the intention of studying race relations in Brazil. When trying to compare racism in Brazil and the United States she encountered two different realities, but no less exclusive. Blacks in Brazil were not only discriminated by skin color, they were kept in ignorance and misery. The poor remained devotees of the religion, Candomblé, which at that time was forbidden and persecuted. Returning to the United States, quietly expelled from the country for her studies of Candomblé, Landes launched the book Cidade das Mulheres (City of Women). She recounts with clarity and with some astonishment, the strength of a Baiana (Bahian) woman, this woman that invented in Brazil an unprecedented matriarchal system, developed around the cult to the orixás, where power is of the mother. Through the bonds with the saints the women went to the markets, took to the streets with their food and their exotic costumes, which enabled their economic freedom. Cidade das Mulheres honors the strength of this woman through Mãe (mother) Estela, Yalorixá (chief) of the Axe Opo Afonjá terreiro (house of worship), the greatest symbol of dignity and giving, a life devoted to her people. Her story, her philosophy and her legacy will be preserved through their testimonials. The main objective of this documentary is to show the power of these women, confirm the Bahian matriarchy with the affirmation that Bahia is the City of Women." - Lázaro Faria
"The documentary Cidade das Mulheres (The City of Women) is an absolute joy to watch. This documentary, directed by Lázaro Faria, it presents an intimate view of Mãe Stella de Oxossi who is perhaps the most influential figure in African religious traditions in Bahia. She is the head priestess from Axé Opó Afonjá founded in 1910, and which is one of the most important “terreiros” or African-Brazilian spiritual communities in Salvador, Bahia. In a gentle, yet self-assured manner Mãe Stella, who has always been ahead of her time, explains from a feminine perspective the history of Candomblé in Bahia, and the matriarchal system of power created and controlled by the women who practice these traditions. Mae Stella also reveals details from her own life story and how she was called to her position. A tribute to the many notable women who appear in the film, Cidade das Mulheres also pays tribute to Ruth Landes, the North-American anthropologist, who during the late nineteen-thirties, came to Bahia to conduct research and was surprised by the spiritual, cultural and economic power held by women in Candomblé. She published her findings – The City of Women in 1947. Her intimate thoughts and impressions are illustrated in this sensitive documentary by images of popular festivities which celebrate African spiritual traditions, and the stunning natural beauty of the city of Salvador. - MariaPreta.org.
1993 Warsaw Gerald Veasley - b, Amit Chatterjee - g, Rodney Holmes - dr, Jonathan Joseph - dr, Robert Thomas Jr - voc,
Joe Zawinul promoting his solo album 'My People' at the Hamburg Jazz Festival, 1996. Richard Bona (bass), Amit Chatterjee (guitar), Mokhtar Samba (drums) and Abdou Mboup (percussion).
Voices of Blackis a Providence, RI production duo comprised of Baba Ali and Jules Born. The two craft innovative electronic concoctions that have been featured alongside labelmate and friend Nicolas Jaar as well as in fashion house Yves Saint Laurent ads.
For Africa In Your Earbuds #13, Baba Ali — whose father grew up in Nigeria as a relative to the Kuti family — gives us a slow burning excursion into “how Africa often exists in the mind as a concept… [as] an idea in the same way that one would consider blackness.”
The mixtape’s first 15 minutes are low-key and pensive, patiently building to a captivating Afrofuturist progression. On his choice of cuts Baba states,
“I sourced music from the African diaspora and also artists that are considered to exist outside of any perceived sphere of “African” existence or identity. The result was a musical journey across the globe —starting in South Africa, to Paris, Minnesota, Peru, Nigeria, Germany, NY, Brazil, and then finally, Japan.”
Stream and download AIYE # 13: Voices of Black below! And a big up to Underdog for hooking up the cover art!
TRACKLIST
Abdullah Ibrahim – Ishmael
Al Quetz aka Quetzal – Stolen Land (The Imf Vs Africa)
Nomo – Nocturne
Faraón Bantú – Westbound Train (feat. Quantic)
Tony Allen – Asiko
Faraón Bantú – Macaco Mata el Toro (Batata Remix) [feat. Nova Lima]
Henrik Schwarz & Amampondo – I Exist Because of You (Henrik Schwarz Live Version)
Push/Pull featuring Buster Phott – Zulu Man (We’re One Nation)
Northwestern University’s Poetry and Poetics Colloquium, together with Northwestern University Press, is pleased to announce the second annual Drinking Gourd chapbook poetry prize, a first-book award for poets of color. This will be an annual award combining the efforts of Northwestern’s Poetry and Poetics Colloquium and Northwestern University Press in celebrating and publishing works of lasting cultural value and literary excellence.
Showcasing the work of emerging poets of color, volumes in the Drinking Gourd series are selected by a panel of distinguished minority poets and scholars and feature a short introduction by a senior minority writer.
Drinking Gourd Chapbook Prize Guidelines:
Award
Winner receives $350 prize money, publication by Northwestern University Press, 15 copies of the book, and a featured reading.
Judging
Judging will be conducted by a panel of senior minority poets and scholars assembled by the Northwestern University Poetry and Poetics Colloquium.
Eligibility
Poets of color who have not previously published a book-length volume of poetry. Simultaneous submissions to other contests should be noted. Immediate notification upon winning another award is required. Winner must be available for a reading in January of 2014.
Deadline
Reading period begins January 15, 2013. December 31, 2012. To be notified that your manuscript has been received, please enclose a self-addressed, stamped postcard. The winner will be announced by March 15, 2013.
Submission
Complete Submission Form to be included with manuscript packet.
Send two copies of a single manuscript. One manuscript per poet allowed.
Author’s name should not appear on any pages within the manuscript.
Enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope to receive notification of results.
Manuscript must be typed single-sided with a minimum font size of 11, paginated, and 25-35 pages in length.
Manuscript must include a table of contents and list of acknowledgments of previously published poems.
Manuscript must be unbound. Use a binder clip—do not staple or fold. Do not include illustrations or images of any kind.
Manuscripts not adhering to submission guidelines will be discarded without notice to sender.
Due to the volume of submissions, manuscripts will not be returned.
Post-submission revisions or corrections are not permitted.
Reading Fee
$15. Enclose check with submission, made payable to Northwestern University.
Direct packet to:
Northwestern University Poetry and Poetics Colloquium and Workshop Drinking Gourd Prize Chapbook Series University Hall, Room 215 1897 Sheridan Road Evanston, IL 60208 Attn: Susannah Young-ah Gottlieb
