10th Annual Day of Remembrance

Today is the 10th annual Transgender Day of Remembrance. I especially want to urge those of you who have been organizing for same-sex marriage in recent weeks to attend your local DOR event tonight...Because it's a question of solidarity. Because it's a question of intersecting identities.

Because I've got your back and I need to know that you've got mine.

DOR is about honoring the lives of the community members we lost in the past year at the hands of hate and transphobia. It's about celebrating their lives and acknowledging their deaths.

Today, I am 12 days away from beginning hormone therapy, and I feel a tremendous sense of displacement. In addition to the 23 years of work it's taken to get to this point, I've spent the last several months coming out to family and friends about my plans and process, assuaging people's fears about "who I will become" once more testosterone enters my system, about whether all of this is really necessary, about whether I'm bringing a stigma upon myself that could easily be avoided.

About whether I will be safe.

It's a real, legitimate fear--this worry over safety. And while there's something very real about the fear-induced hate towards visibly trans bodies, this body of mine has never felt safe. It's felt wrong, it's felt weighed down, it's felt surreal-ly unknown, it's felt painful as hell, it's felt numb, it's felt bigger than I can handle, it's felt freakishly foreign, it's even felt like the excruciating trade-off for dual insights.

But it's never felt safe.

And yet, I've made it work for me. I've dwelled here for 23 years, and I've made it work. Now that I'm finally taking a stand for myself and owning my right to feel at home in my skin, I feel displaced.

I think it's because this entire process involves so much uprooting. It involves tearing up foundations that really weren't ever doing much service to anyone, and in so doing, risking the possibility that a new framework may never be laid. This is the case with body, with family, and with community.

With body, I am letting go of what I've made work for so long, and I'm banking on the fact that the visions of self I hold in my mind's eye are about to manifest. With my family, I am letting go of the need for their approval and understanding, putting faith in the hope that they will come around as time progresses. With community, I am letting go of my pre-op, pre-t trans identity, of my woman of color public hologram (which depends heavily on the light, angle, and context in which I'm viewed). I'm leaping out and hoping that I will find a healthy trans masculinity and a community of folks with whom I can have a healthy, growing relationship.

This journey is a scary one, but the risks are not really new. At worst, I am opening myself up to ridicule, alienation, hate, and death. At best, though, I have a shot at freedom; I have a chance to finally be able to breathe.

keith boykin....really? come on.

Keith Boykins newest project, The Daily Voice: Black America's Daily News Source" is a popular forum for news online, much like Adriana Huffinton's Huffington Post but specifically for Black America.

I check the daily voice very often, i like a lot of the contributors.

HOWEVER

I am turned off by the recent ad content.

The ad i noticed today was for the United States Armed Forces, it was a "GO ARMY" recruitment ad.

The U.S Army add featured a black soldier and the text "Your Future Looks Strong with the U.S Army. Take your life further." (BELOW)



If you click it, you go to this Link, where you can find out how you can serve in the army yet still finish college! Featuring many promising images of people of color clad in military garb and helmets. Why wouldn't you join? Now you can afford that U.C tuition, why didn't you think of this before???

Reality Check.

The military is the last resort for many youth, regardless of race. More often you will find recruiting centers where people of color live than in white neighborhoods. It seems the U.S Army targets minorities more than any other demographic. the military recruiters were on my campus like clockwork the months before graduation. Recruiting centers are driven out or banned by legislation in white areas and cities, like San Francisco, however they still remain in poor black and brown neighborhoods throughout this country. i see no difference in placing a military recruitment ad targeting people of color on a site that defines itself as "Black America's Daily News Source."

A couple of years ago, i wrote a letter to now ended Clik Magazine * =( i loved it* in response to the magazine having nearly a dozen pages of Anti Retro Viral's and Alcohol Ads, but not a single HIV prevention or even condom ad. However, i can understand for smaller publications, money is tight-specifically those that target queer men of color. However The Daily Voice, has ads from Vaseline, Verizon, Dodge and Mercedes... things aren't looking too shabby.

Would it of been that hard to turn down an ad placement request from the U.S Army? Would they have lost that much money?

What gives Mr. Boykin?

What makes the Daily Voice any differnent? We criticize schools for having coke on their campuses, Lebron James for condoning China and its actions in Dafur (basically doing anything for money i.e. Vogue) Further, we criticize the mainstream news ad nauseam for its content and their sponsors... Am i missing something?

Maybe I'm just guilty of assuming the Daily Voice would be more responsible with its ad content. It would seem appropriate that the Daily Voice's sponsors somewhat reflected their mission and political agenda. I will let the KFC ads pass, and the Vaseline ads -although more and more studies are showing that petro chemicals are bad for us- but that stuff is cheap and makes me skin feel soft.

Yet, i write this post on Blogger, a subsidiary of Google. And Google is basically taking over the world. HOWEVER, the minute this blog started showing ads for something that contradicted my beliefs, id be out, and i know my friends here would as well.

Jay stated that social justice is not always manifested in a career, but its a way of life. I completely agree. I work for an arts organization, I'm not exactly beating down Babylon, but its a positive, i work with people who love their jobs, and we have events from operas to fashion shows. I have friends that work for various corporations, and the way they live their lives and the way they treat people is far more positive than half the people that i have come into contact with at non profits. I worked at an amazing legal advocacy and aid organization, and my boss was more oppressive than any boss id ever had in any retail store or restaurant.

BACK TO THE POINT!

I will not apologize for or retract this statement: Today, being pro military, is being pro-war. The U.S military is not, and never was created to protect democracy, this war is for power and money for the elites. If you endorse or support the military you are endorsing the status quo. I'm not saying the Daily Voice is endorsing the U.S military, but I was hoping that it could be a little more responsible.

The army spends millions of dollars on recruitment, but fails to take care of its returning veterans who come back with a multitude of emotional and mental disorders and physical injury.

Signing up for the the Army today is a guarantee to be sent to Iraq or Afghanistan (or into myriad of conflicts around the globe)...Regardless, Uncle Sam knows his demographic, and someone got played, was it us? or the Daily Voice?

40 years later

Today marks the 40th anniversary of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

To be honest, I'm pissed.

How far have we come, as a nation? As a community? I'm trying not to give in to my inner pessimist, but I generally feel like, although we've made tremendous strides, been walking around in circles. The problems of race-based class division, sexual exploitation, and the denial of even the most basic human rights (gay marriage, healthcare, the right not to get killed for wearing a dress) still exist, only there's more room for Black and Brown folks to oppress along with people who've traditionally gained from white privilege.

For instance, right now I'm in Baldwin Hills. It's a middle class Black suburb in Los Angeles. It's filled with doctors, lawyers, manicured lawns and a general attitude of superiority that conflates the false glamor of Los Angeles with the condescension of uppity Negroes. The general vibe I get from this place is "here, we've made it. Now we can sit atop the hill and sport our newfound whiteness like it was the latest offer from Opera's book club." Is this the dream that King talked about? The ability of a minute few to gain access to the most prestigious schools, professions and neighborhoods while large segments of our community continue to struggle to no avail? Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against getting an education or moving into an aesthetically pleasing neighborhood, but it's the attitude of some of these folks that gets me, the utter disrespect they seem to have for people who don't drive, vacation and talk like them.

Of course, today's anniversary brings to mind the infamous Boondocks cartoon:

America isnt getting into heaven

Barack Obama's Speech on race and its relevance today in society, has been echoing throughout the media, schools, the workplace and everywhere in between. Even Condoleezza Rice has made comments reitereating the points raised by Obama, leading to more bigoted responses from people like Lou Dobbs

Obama was not the first person to call slavery America's original sin. People can refer to him as the man who made it a point during the 2008 presidential campaign, but lets not give him too much credit.

BUT! As essential as slavery was to the U.S's development as a dominant world superpower, to the creation of white ruling classes consisting of corporate and and inherited wealth, and to the general privilege afforded to white people, none of this would have been possible without the land they stole. America's original sin in my mind was the genocide wrought upon Native Americans from Canada down to South America and throughout the Carribean. A genocide fueled primarily by greed for land and wealth, not fear/hate of "savages"

Was that not the quintessential crust that makes up the American Pie?

"Remebering" tradgedies of the past isnt a shopping cart philosophy, we cant just pick and choose what is convienent. If we are gonna talk about America's sins we need to talk about everything. We cannot ignore the Native American genocide and the enslavement of Asian immigrants to build the railroads, and their immense contributions to the West's developments. The knowledge alone, that was stolen from them was/is a sin in itself. But what about the CURRENT inhumane conditions of immigrant workers in constuction and domestic jobs, and all the other systems that oppress people on the basis of RACE AND CLASS AND GENDER AND SEXUALITY. Why hasn't a presidential candidate talked about that? Until the public starts to account for the multiple "sins" and the current ones, its not going to get into heaven.

On Violence

From Wednesday to Wednesday, March 19-26, 2008, Grits and Eggs will be participating in the Second Youth Media Blog-a-thon hosted by YO! Youth Outlook Multimedia and WireTap. Youth bloggers– along with any bloggers dedicated to writing about youth issues and youth media – will address the topic of violence and its effects on youth and our communities.
~~~
I hate caveats, but I'm including one anyway: in this narrative, I talk about a kind of violence that we often internalize--certainly, that I internalized as a brown person and as a trans person.
~~~

“What’s going on?” he asks, glancing from road to me, then back to road. I’m leaned over in the passenger seat, gripping the cane he’d carried from this morning’s rehearsal, doing my best to stare out the window. But still, I can feel his eyes.

I want him to know, but I’m afraid to speak. I’ve found that I can’t trust my masculinity with my emotions. I’d rather paint my feelings. I trust color more than words, sight more than sound. I’d rather pour this stuff from chest to fingers to brush, sculpt paint on canvas, and let the image speak for me.

I’d rather have him draw the shade to my soul and peer in, without needing me to excavate the bricks and boundaries I’ve worked so hard to lay. This façade is strangely handsome, I know, but there’s so much inside that no one ever sees. And today, I can feel it boiling over again. Quaking.

It vibrates in my chest, then throat. I shift my weight forward in the seat and dig the cane into the scuffed heal of my boot. Fingers shake as I kneed my palm with the cane’s horse-head-handle, hoping that the pressure will keep me from exploding. It rumbles up my windpipe and I try to cough it out.

The feeling passes.

“I don’t know.” I lie and let my mind’s eye wander as I wait for him to call my bluff. Squint at the gray-hazed palm trees crawling past us in LA rush hour. If I do it right, they morph the same way that did the Bradford Pears, which lined the road outside my parent’s house in St. Louis. Riding back from school with mom, I’d try to make them blur and stretch as far as I could—a task as elusive as meditation for my 8th grade mind. In the moment, the impossible was possible, but as soon as I tried to witness my own mini-marvel, I’d snap to—fixated on trunk after trunk.

It was the task I took up to distract myself from mom’s questions, to avoid accidentally finding myself vulnerable in front of her. “How was your day?” “Fine.” “What did you do?” “Stuff.” The call and response never changed.

Except once.

“How was your day?” “Fine.” What did you do?” “I tried to slit my wrist last night.” My eyes kept their soft-focus on the treetops as fear burned the tips of my ears and threatened the muscles in my jaw. I hadn't wanted to tell her, but Mr. Jacobi had given me no choice. My “friends” had told him by lunch, and by sixth period, I was in his office, watching his Adam’s apple bounce in his throat as he chewed the words with yellowed crowns and llama tongue. “You’ll need to tell your parents. I’m going to call home at 7.”

My face was hot with embarrassment. Home, I thought it rang distant, but familiar like the Lord’s Prayer I’d picked up from West County Basketball League. This word that was supposed to give with comfort struck rigid like a taunt. Maybe he could see through me--through my fitted jacket and scratchy plaid skirt--maybe he could read my mind through my eyes like some Buffy villain; maybe he knew that I’d never been home. That I dressed this flesh in pink and pearls the way my family strung Christmas lights each winter--self-conscious performances. Empty rituals to keep the neighbors happily believing that our insides matched the exterior. I watched him only from angles, just in case.

Mom didn’t speak. For the remaining three blocks, as the trees swirled into sky, into brick, into muck I held the ache firmly in my throat. Door popped open; slammed shut; keys scratched each other and lock; strip of light seeped from beneath kitchen door, and I watched it in silence.

“Talk to me, Thambi.” He tries again. I can feel it cracking in my chest now. Collapsing in. Pulling down from center and stealing back control. My mouth opens despite contrary instruction, and air pushes through.

“I’ve just been feeling sad.” I confess. As the words come, I try to divorce myself from their truth. I attempt the mental calculations--maybe I can let it out, just a little. Just enough to relieve this pressure from my lungs. “I don’t know what it is,” I say deliberately, forcing a steadiness back into my voice. I’ve lost my jaw to the quaking now and try to will it back with deeper breath and pressed lips.

I refuse to turn towards him, instead dropping my eyes to my thumb which moves along the cold brass contours of the horse-head cane. Its teeth catch the orange light of the setting sun, summoning its features into familiarity. I’ve seen this face before in a memory. In a hallucination.

Two years prior, locked in a room without shoelaces, or belt, I had seen this face. Outside, there were nurses, pills, and a humming TV set. Beyond that were lanyards of fake evergreen and fat, colored lights lacing the corridor; they began at a slab of windowless steel that could be opened only from the outside, and ended at double glass doors that swung out to the sharp winter air.

I’d seen it there, inside the glass doors, inside the slab of steel, inside the belt-less, shoelace-less room as I lay awake again and praying for sleep or death to find me. Over on the tray by the shatterproof window, I had seen it rise from a rag, dripping with blood from its severed neck, eyes bulging as it turned to ravage the strange woman in the bed next to mine. I knew it wasn’t real, but I had wanted to believe my eyes. And I had hoped that when it was through with her, it would come for me.

The night before that, I had lay awake in my parents house, witnessing evening turn to night, turn to morning again, haunted by a different set of images. A body hanging limp from the ceiling fan; one floating face-down in the tub; corpses sprawled and pale—pills scattered— blood pooling on the beige carpet. The bodies were mine—all of them. “Home” for only two nights, and I felt more a stranger than ever before, wanting my family to know me, and fearing that they would rather not see the truth.

I had tried to remove my breasts earlier that week. Snipped them like the skilled surgeon my parents wished they’d raised. I had hoped to make this body more hospitable for the young man that I was becoming.

Today, in the car, my breasts ache. Not from cuts or scars, but from the weight of existence.

“Can I tell you my theory?” he asks. When I don’t respond, he continues, “I think this is about your move. New job, new apartment—you just need to get settled in. You know, creating a home space is a big deal. People don’t always realize”—

“I feel so alone.” I tell him, looking out the window again, pressing my tongue against the ridge of my tooth to keep the tears from falling. “I feel like I can’t do it anymore.”

He reaches out to squeeze my shoulder, and they fall anyway. “I’m trying to be the best man I can be,” I pause to stop the tears, but they keep coming.

“It’s alright, Thambi, I gotchu.”
“I just”—
“It’s alright.”
“I just can’t do it in this body.”

“I feel trapped.” I start again. “I want to be strong. I want to be brave and giving, and I want to do right by my family. I can’t afford for my mom to need me and to refuse to see me.” As I speak, I remember this past winter when she was in the hospital. My father couldn’t even feed her. He had approached her like a child does a lamb at the petting zoo, moving food gingerly, body turned and guarding chest. I ended up taking over and feeding her tenderly, the way she had done for me as a child.

As the car slows, I still can’t face him. I want to tell him that I’m not ready to say goodbye. That I’m not ready to lose my family but that I can’t keep living in this skin. That I want to slice it open sometimes because I feel so trapped inside. That I fight myself to keep living and breathing and moving every day. That I’m tired of fighting and that I feel like giving up.

But instead, I swallow it. Instead, I worry about preserving my manhood, worry that he sees me as weak. I feel myself crumbling, melting, discombobulating, and I need to be held or I will fall apart; but I don’t tell him. Instead, I dry my eyes.

Talking about violence at home

As part of the second youth media blog-a-thon ...

I was hesitant to write this post because talking about international violence (physically located outside the US but very much related) and how it affects me personally, my city (Karachi) and my country (Pakistan), particularly within a post-9/11 US context is … hard work to say the least. It is a lot easier to comment on how NOT to talk about international violence. On how talking about an entire nation of close to $200 million people as the Most Dangerous Place in the World and a Failed State from a cozy conference room in Washington DC is not only simplistic and unproductive but also downright [insert adjective here: racist, orientalist, Islamo-phobic, being a bitch]. I have lived in the US for almost four years and almost everyday of it seen all talk about violence in my country being reduced to statistics about militant attacks, images of bearded, angry, brown, Muslim fanatics and rhetoric about “bombing them back to the stone ages” (Mr. Obama is no exception here, but that is a post for some other time).

Like I said, the harder question for me is how do I, a Pakistani Muslim female temporarily residing in the US, talk about violence in its various forms and how it affects me and the people and places I love. The need to try and figure this out has never been as urgent as it was this winter and after. A little context: I have spent my entire life in Karachi, Pakistan sans the last about four years in which I have been studying in California. I went home to see my family this winter after two years (that shit is expensive) and within 12 hours of my landing former Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto was assassinated. As my city descended into four days of rioting, violence and a complete shutdown, emails and facebook messages from my friends here in the US inquiring about my safety and the “state” of affairs in Pakistan flooded my in box. Other than the “I am safe” part, I was really unsure about what more to communicate and how to communicate it. Should I tell them stories about how horrible it is to be stuck in the house for four days? About how I drove around empty, dark streets littered with broken glass late at night when the rioters had gone to bed, shocked to see so much of what was cherished and familiar destroyed? Or should I tell them how it really is not as bad as it seems? How there were times when I was frustrated about not being able to leave the house because I was more bored than scared? How Karachi as a city has learnt to get up the next morning, brush the dust off and keep going?

I do not want to become a native informant of sorts, reaffirming the portrayal in Western media of life in Pakistan as “violent” (I know someone from Pakistan and dude, she was scared shitless. That place is messed up.) But the reality is that there are times when I have been and continue to be scared. And upset. For the people I love, my city and my country. And the fact that a lot of times I get on with life after that has a lot to do with my privilege. I am middle-class at home. I know that for another year I have a visa that allows me to come back to the US, in theory at least (had to get in my jibe at Homeland Security). I will have a science degree from an elite institution in the US in a couple of months. All of that allows me to deal. But the assumption that Pakistani’s or Karachites without these class and education privileges are all victims caught up in an endless cycle of violence and Islamic fundamentalism is as unfounded as the rationale for attacking Iraq. When I say Karachi as a city moves on the next day, I mean it. Given Karachi’s history of violence (not just physical but political, economical, environmental, emotional) it might seem surprising that it continues to breathe and thrive the way it does. But there it is.

If you thought this would end with a clever conclusion about how I figured out how to talk about violence at home without it becoming problematic … sorry to disappoint (let me know if you have an answer though). I guess this post is more trying to get at the issue of being perceived as a victim. About how that perception alters and affects the way I talk (or don’t talk) about my experiences with violence. It is probably why I have not even touched upon gendered violence. Soon. Maybe.

Youth Media Blog-a-thon

What up fam,
Starting tomorrow, our blog will be participating in the second Youth Media Blog-a-thon, sponsored by WireTap Magazine and Youth Outlook. This month, we'll be taking a look at how violence impacts our communities. Check out the press release:

Violence Selected as New Topic For Weeklong
Youth Media Blog-a-Thon
More than a Dozen Seasoned Young Bloggers Will Write About Violence and Its Effects on Youth and Our Communities

San Francisco, CA - YO! Youth Outlook Multimedia and WireTap will host the second round of the Youth Media Blog-a-Thon from Wednesday to Wednesday, March 19-26, 2008. Youth bloggers (between the ages of 15-25) – along with any bloggers dedicated to writing about youth issues and youth media – will address the topic of violence and its effects on youth and our communities.

The monthly blog-a-thons will connect the youth media community around issues that affect their lives, asking for their thoughts on hard-hitting topics. The goal of these monthly events is to foster more dialogue between youth media, which will lead to their connectivity as media makers and as activists.

Our first Youth Media Blog-a-Thon, held February 20-23, 2008, was a huge success! Over 15 bloggers discussed the upcoming presidential elections, the youth vote, who they were voting for and why, the idiosyncrasies of the super delegate system and whether making voting mandatory would help fix the system.

Check out most of the posts:
http://blogs.newamericamedia.org/yo/?pg=6

Check out a wrap-up of the first blog-a-thon: http://www.wiretapmag.org/blogs/elections2008/43435/

While we think it's important to get our voices out there, we also would love to dialouge with readers. Take some time out, read, comment and help spur discussion. Also, if you're interested in participating, hit me up at jamilah@wiretapmag.org

Transgender Day of Remembrance

Tomorrow is Transgender Day of Remembrance. If you're in LA, join us at the Metropolitan Community Church. If you're elsewhere, get online and find out what's going on in your city!

Not a Hate Crime?

Apparently, when six whites kidnap a Black woman, hold her hostage for six days and torture her with repeated rapes, choke her with a cable wire, force her to eat excerment and scald her with hot water, it's not a hate crime.

From Keith Boykin, who broke this story over a week ago:

When police arrived at a rickety mobile home in Big Creek, West Virginia on Saturday, they found something that shocked the community. A 20-year-old black woman was being held hostage in the house. She had been kidnapped, tortured and raped for more than a week by a group of six whites, authorities say. The three men and three women who held her captive allegedly beat, stabbed and sexually assaulted the woman while calling her a "nigger."

Federal prosecutors in West Virginia have decided not to file hate charges, a decision that may in part be due to the fact that hate crime convictions carry far lesser punishment than federal statutory offenses. Boyking adds:

The best argument for not pursuing federal hate crimes prosecution is that the state crimes carry tougher sentences if convicted. That's a reasonable argument, but that's often the case, especially in cases of murder and other serious violent crimes. Still that misses the point. The point of hate crimes laws is not to replace the existing law, but to provide an additional basis for charges against the accused. In these cases, society is so outraged by crimes motivated by prejudice that we provide heightened penalties for those who commit such crimes.

What is the point of having hate crime legislation if it's only a slap on the wrist? For crimes such as this one, that carry with it such vile hatred as the impetus for inflicting torture, hate crime legislation needs to be something that not only symbolically pays dues to the the undercurrent of hatred and power that motivates violent crime. Instead, it should work to legally acknowledges the power imbalances in this society, and uses its boundaries to provide a space in which that power is challenged and, in some vague way, justice is served.

But hell, with OJ's alleged robbery making front page news, I should know better than to think justice exists for Black folks in this country.

Gang injunctions: an answer or ethnic cleansing*?

The San Francisco Weekly reports this week on the city attorney's efforts to enforce controversial gang injunctions to curb recent spikes in violence. The injunctions are pushed by City Attorney Dennis Herrera, and are either already in effect and proposed to take effect in the city's Hunter's Point, Mission and Western Addition. Anyone living in San Francisco -- especially folks who've been the victims of violence -- have to take a step back and ask themselves: what do gang injunctions really do?

Chief Public Defender Jeff Adachi calls the injunctions a modern form of McCarthyism. The Justice Policy institute just realeased a study that surveyed several metro areas across the nation and found that injunctions do nothing to stem violent crime in gang-heavy communities. And, as writer Martin Kuz of the SF Weekly points out, there's the unspoken issue of how gang injunctions only clear the path for gentrification:

There's also anxiety that injunctions could hasten gentrification. In Hunters Point, not far from the safety zone created by the Oakdale Mob court order, a 1,600-home subdivision sprouts by the day. Last month, the Board of Supervisors narrowly approved a plan for a 60-unit condo project along César Chávez Street — the southern border of the proposed safety zone — that will further shrink the Mission's low-income housing options. Against that backdrop, Henry Hernandez, a CARECEN caseworker, sees the potential injunctions as the first wave in what he dubs "ethnic cleansing."

I grew up in the Fillmore. I've lost friends to gang life. I've lost a sister to gang violence. As members of a community under seige, I know what it feels like to straddle both sides of the fence, wanting justice on the one hand and revenge on the other. There's no way to take a staunch approach to gang violence by isolating alleged gang members because those same folks causing mayhem on the streets are folks who went to your preschool, folks you see on the regular. I met up with a friend recently who found out who murdered their brother in 2005 and was looking to get revenge. Does that constitute a gang member? Give the community the resources to take care of itself. Imposing strict limitations on when, where and how alleged gang members can meet does nothing -- absolutely nothing -- to curb gang violence.

------
*term used in SF Weekly story by community organizer Henry Hernandez

STAND UP!!! LGBT and immigrant friends and allies, UNITE!

The vigil for Victoria was just postponed. It will take place ONE WEEK from today. Today's demonstration will focus on the recent deportation of Elvira Arellano which occurred yesterday at La Placita Church.

Elvira had been on a speaking tour of churches to raise awareness for the New Sanctuary Movement. She was leaving the church with her young son when ICE agents surrounded her and her car. She asked for a moment with her son, who remains in the US, and then she went with the federal agents to the Federal Building where she was subsequently deported the same night to Tijuana.

Tonight's vigil will be another in the long struggle for human rights and dignity against oppressive immigration laws. Elvira Arellano, as well asVictoria, highlight a system that has no regard for human life, nor demonstrates dignity and respect each human being. Radio pundits, federal spokespersons and wedge driving politicians will proclaim that laws were broken and the law must be upheld.

People who cherish freedom, civil and human rights and still believe in a system of justice understand that laws should be based on reality and compassion. Laws are man-made and can be re-made to reflect justice, humanity and fairness. We say laws that allow mothers to be separated from their children and laws that allow the denial of life-giving medication are unjust, inhumane and should be changed. We demand that change.

Bush-isms.

I rarely write about Bush because I feel like his incompetence is so glaringly obvious that's it's usually a waste of energy. But Ima put me up on this, so enjoy:

Is our President an idiot? Or just inarticulate? You decide.

Not for the faint of heart...

This video is a bit dated, but I hadn't come across it until now, and I definitely felt like it was worthknowing about. If you choose to watch it, please heed the title of this post...

August 20, 2005: young woman is held to the ground and tasered at a counter-recruitment demonstration in Pittsburgh, PA. An older woman is bitten by a police dog and then arrested. Two small children are pepper-sprayed and an M.S. patient is toppled in his motorized scooter. Seehttp://www.organizepittsburgh.org for details about the demonstration.

Transgender woman rape survivor sues california prison system

Alexis Giraldo is suing the California state prison system after being repeatedly raped by her cellmate. Ms. Giraldo, a Latina transgender woman, was an inmate in 2006 and repeatedly asked prison officials be moved to a different cell after her cellmate threatened to rape her. Her demands fell on deaf ears for three months, during which time she was repeatedly raped.

She's now suing the state for failing to protect her despite her own voiced concerns for her safety. She's also suing on behalf of the Transgender community in an effort to force the state to develop new methods of safety for transgender inmates.

Community United Against Violence (CUAV) and the Transgender, Gender Variant
& Intersex Justice Project (TGIJP)are encouraging community members and social justice organizations to show their support for Ms. Giraldo as her trial begins. Court officials continue to refer to Ms. Giraldo as "him" in an attempt to attack her credibility.

From the press release:

Ms. Giraldo, who will be present to give her own testimony, and her
attorney Greg Walston, are requesting that the community attend the court
proceedings and wear RED. RED has been chosen as a symbol of the hurt and
pain caused by the violence and discrimination against our communities, as
well as a way to express power in loving solidarity. On the behalf of Ms.
Giraldo, CUAV and TGIJP are also requesting that community members sit in
silent solidarity in the courtroom. For more information about trial times
and dates please go to: www.tgijp.org . For copies
of press packet materials: http://www.tgijp.org/giraldo/presspacket.html

When: Tuesday July 17th-31st, 2007.
Where: Civic Center Courthouse, Room 622, 400 McAllister Street @ Polk St,
in San Francisco.
Time: The trial will regularly run every day from 9:30am to 4:30 pm.
Please Wear RED!

Please let CUAV & TGIJP know which dates and times you are able to attend by
emailing Tina D’Elia, the Hate Violence Survivor Program Director at CUAV,
or by calling Alexander Lee at TGIJP.

For more information:
Court Case Coordinator (inquiries about the case):
Alexander Lee at TGIJP (510) 677-5500; for daily court updates go to:
www.tgijp.org

Court Watch Coordinator (inquiries about participating in the court watch):
Yaya Ruiz, Hate Violence Advocate at CUAV – yaya@cuav.org