Blizzard

 A dog is a man’s best friend… is this true? Blizzard, my Border-terrier mix, helped me through the most difficult parts of my life. Animals provide something not every human can provide – unconditional love.

You see, around this time last year, I found myself in a behavioral health center, also known as a mental health clinic. The events leading to this feel completely unreal now. At first, I began thinking rapidly, too fast for my brain to process. I soon found myself in an uncontrollable full-blown manic episode. I was having illusions of grandeur, thinking God was speaking to me… I mean, real crazy shit. From all of this, I can remember Blizzard by my side, freaked out because I was not calm, yet she was still there allowing me to pet her. I remember sitting in my room, reading Cherrie Moraga’s “This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color” and thinking to myself that I had completely gone insane. Feeling incredibly schizophrenic, I would come out of the room only to yell at my family, and then retreat once again to finish reading Moraga’s work. Throughout the entire episode, I found myself turning to my loyal companion, Blizzard. She stood by my side as I cried and screamed. Her presence soothed me. The fact that another being depended on me for survival created a sense of urgency in me that forced me back into the real world. However, it was not so easy to face reality again. Without the help of Blizzard, I am sure it would have been much harder.

In the hospital, I was confused and disillusioned. The only thing I could focus on was my puppy.  I remember freaking out and being paranoid, but when I thought of Blizzard, I was able to calm myself down.

Is it silly to say that she saved my life?

After 3 stints in mental hospitals, totaling about 46 days, I was happy to come home to my family and especially my puppy dog. Confused, my family did not know what to do when I came home from the hospital. I had been diagnosed with bi-polar type I. I have many thought on my hospital stay and my diagnosis, but that calls for another blog.

In all honesty, I cannot say how much Blizzard means to me. She was there when I was sane, and most importantly, she was there when I was insane. She helped me find my reality again and made me realize the importance of love.

She sleeps with me every night, wakes me up with her wet kisses every morning and I cannot imagine a better companion. With her by my side, I feel I can take on the world.

I am inspired by this always.

Audre Lorde:
The Uses of the Erotic
(Extracted from Cool Beans)

There are many kinds of power, used and unused, acknowledged or otherwise. The erotic is a resource within each of us that lies in a deeply female and spiritual plane, firmly rooted in the power of our unexpressed or unrecognized feeling. In order to perpetuate itself, every oppression must corrupt or distort those various sources of power within the culture of the oppressed that can provide energy for change. For women, this has meant a suppression of the erotic as a considered source of power and information within our lives.

We have been taught to suspect this resource, vilified, abused, and devalued within western society. On the one hand, the superficially erotic has been encouraged as a sign of female inferiority; on the other hand, women have been made to suffer and to feel both contemptible and suspect by virtue of its existence.

It is a short step from there to the false belief that only by the suppression of the erotic within our lives and consciousness can women be truly strong. But that strength is illusory, for it is fashioned within the context of male models of power.

As women, we have come to distrust that power which rises from our deepest and nonrational knowledge. We have been warned against it all our lives by the male world, which values this depth of feeling enough to keep women around in order to exercise it in the service of men, but which fears this same depth too much to examine the possibilities of it within themselves. So women are maintained at a distant/inferior position to be psychically milked, much the same way ants maintain colonies of aphids to provide a life-giving substance for their masters.

But the erotic offers a well of replenishing and provocative force to the woman who does not fear its revelation, nor succumb to the belief that sensation is enough.

The erotic has often been misnamed by men and used against women. It has been made into the confused, the trivial, the psychotic, and plasticized sensation. For this reason, we have turned away from the exploration and consideration of the erotic as a source of power and information, confusing it with the pornographic. But pornography is a direct denial of the power of the erotic, for it represents the suppression of true feeling. Pornography emphasizes sensation without feeling.

The erotic is a measure between our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings. It is an internal sense of satisfaction to which, once we have experienced it, we know we can aspire. For having experienced the fullness of this depth of feeling and recognizing its power, in honor and self-respect we can require no less of ourselves.

It is never easy to demand the most from ourselves, from our lives, from our work. To encourage excellence is to go beyond the encouraged mediocrity of our society is to encourage excellence. But giving in to the fear of feeling and working to capacity is a luxury only the unintentional can afford, and the unintentional are those who do not wish to guide their own destinies.

This internal requirement toward excellence which we learn from the erotic must not be misconstrued as demanding the impossible from ourselves nor from others. Such a demand incapacitates everyone in the process. For the erotic is not a question only of what we do; it is a question of how acutely and fully we can feel in the doing. Once we know the extent to which we are capable of feeling that sense of satisfaction and completion, we can then observe which of our various life endeavors bring us closest to that fullness.

The aim of each thing which we do is to make our lives and the lives of our children richer and more possible. Within the celebration of the erotic in all our endeavors, my work becomes a conscious decision - a longed-for bed which I enter gratefully and from which I rise up empowered.

Of course, women so empowered are dangerous. So we are taught to separate the erotic from most vital areas of our lives other than sex. And the lack of concern for the erotic root and satisfactions of our work is felt in our disaffection from so much of what we do. For instance, how often do we truly love our work even at its most difficult?

The principal horror of any system which defines the good in terms of profit rather than in terms of human need, or which defines human need to the exclusion of the psychic and emotional components of that need - the principal horror of such a system is that it robs our work of its erotic value, its erotic power and life appeal and fulfillment. Such a system reduces work to a travesty of necessities, a duty by which we earn bread or oblivion for ourselves and those we love. But this is tantamount to blinding a painter and then telling her to improve her work, and to enjoy the act of painting. It is not only next to impossible, it is also profoundly cruel.

As women, we need to examine the ways in which our world can be truly different. I am speaking here of the necessity for reassessing the quality of all the aspects of our lives and of our work, and of how we move toward and through them.

The very word erotic comes from the Greek word eros, the personification of love in all its aspects - born of Chaos, and personifying creative power and harmony. When I speak of the erotic, then, I speak of it as an assertion of the lifeforce of women; of that creative energy empowered, the knowledge and use of which we are now reclaiming in our language, our history, our dancing, our loving, our work, our lives.

There are frequent attempts to equate pornography and eroticism, two diametrically opposed uses of the sexual. Because of these attempts, it has become fashionable to separate the spiritual (psychic and emotional) from the political, to see them as contradictory or antithetical. "What do you mean, a poetic revolutionary, a meditating gunrunner?" In the same way, we have attempted to separate the spiritual and the political is also false, resulting from an incomplete attention to our erotic knowledge. For the bridge which connects them is formed by the erotic - the sensual - those physical, emotional, and psychic expressions of what is deepest and strongest and richest within each of us, being shared: the passions of love, in its deepest meanings.

Beyond the superficial, the considered phrase, "It feels right to me," acknowledges the strength of the erotic into a true knowledge, for what that means is the first and most powerful guiding light toward any understanding. And understanding is a handmaiden which can only wait upon, or clarify, that knowledge, deeply born. The erotic is the nurturer or nursemaid of all our deepest knowledge.

The erotic functions for me in several ways, and the first is in providing the power which comes from sharing deeply any pursuit with another person. The sharing of joy, whether physical, emotional, psychic, or intellectual, forms a bridge between the sharers which can be the basis for understanding much of what is not shared between them, and lessens the threat of their difference.

Another important way in which the erotic connection functions is the open and fearless underlining of my capacity for joy, in the way my body stretches to music and opens into response, harkening to its deepest rhythms so every level upon which I sense also opens to the erotically satisfying experience whether it is dancing, building a bookcase, writing a poem, or examining an idea.

That self-connection shared is a measure of the joy which I know myself to be capable of feeling, a reminder of my capacity for feeling. And that deep and irreplaceable knowledge of my capacity for joy comes to demand from all of my life that it be lived within the knowledge that such satisfaction is possible, and does not have to be called marriage, nor god, nor an afterlife.

This is one reason why the erotic is so feared, and so often relegated to the bedroom alone, when it is recognized at all. For once we begin to feel deeply all the aspects of our lives, we begin to demand from ourselves and from our life-pursuits that they feel in accordance with that joy which we know ourselves to be capable of. Our erotic knowledge empowers us, becomes a lens through which we scrutinize all aspects of our existence, forcing us to evaluate those aspects honestly in terms of their relative meaning within our lives. And this is a grave responsibility, projected from within each of us, not to settle for the convenient, the shoddy, the conventionally expected, nor the merely safe.

During World War II, we bought sealed plastic packets of white, uncolored margarine, with a tiny, intense pellet of yellow coloring perched like a topaz just inside the clear skin of the bag. We would leave the margarine out for a while to soften, and then we would pinch the little pellet to break it inside the bag, releasing the rich yellowness into the soft pale mass of margarine. Then taking it carefully between our fingers, we would knead it gently back and forth, over and over, until the color had spread throughout the whole pound bag of margarine, thoroughly coloring it.

I find the erotic such a kernel within myself. When released from its intense and constrained pellet, it flows through and colors my life with a kind of energy that heightens and sensitizes and strengthens all my experience.

We have been raised to fear the yes within ourselves, our deepest cravings. But, once recognized, those which do not enhance our future lose their power and can be altered. The fear of our deepest cravings keeps them suspect and indiscriminately powerful, for to suppress any truth is to give it strength beyond endurance. The fear that we cannot grow beyond whatever distortions we may find within ourselves keeps us docile and loyal and obedient, externally defined, and leads us to accept many facets of our own oppression as women.

When we live outside ourselves, and by that I mean on external directives only rather than from our internal knowledge and needs, when we live away from those erotic guides from within ourselves, then our lives are limited by external and alien forms, and we conform to the needs of a structure that is not based on human need, let alone an individual's. But when we begin to live from within outward, in touch with the power of the erotic within ourselves, and allowing that power to inform and illuminate our actions upon the world around us, then we begin to be responsible to ourselves in the deepest sense. For as we begin to recognize our deepest feelings, we begin to give up, of necessity, being satisfied with suffering, and self-negation, and with the numbness which so often seems like the only alternative in our society. Our acts against oppression become integral with self, motivated and empowered from within.

In touch with the erotic, I become less willing to accept powerlessness, or those other supplied states of being which are not native to me, such as resignation, despair, self-effacement, depression, self-denial.

And yes, there is a hierarchy. There is a difference between painting a black fence and writing a poem, but only one of quantity. And there is, for me, no difference between writing a good poem and moving into sunlight against the body of a woman I love.

This brings me to the last consideration of the erotic. To share the power of each other's feelings is different from using another's feelings as we would use a Kleenex. When we look the other way from our experience, erotic or otherwise, we use rather than share the feelings of those others who participate in the experience with us. And use without consent of the used is abuse.

In order to be utilized, our erotic feelings must be recognized. The need for sharing deep feeling is a human need. But within the european-american tradition, this need is satisfied by certain proscribed erotic comings-together. These occasions are almost always characterized by a simultaneous looking away, a pretense of calling them something else, whether a religion, a fit, mob violence, or even playing doctor. And this misnaming of the need and the deed give rise to that distortion which results in pornography and obscenity - the abuse of feeling.

When we look away from the importance of the erotic in the development and sustenance of our power, or when we look away from ourselves as we satisfy our erotic needs in concert with others, we use each other as objects of satisfaction rather than share our joy in the satisfying, rather than make connection with our similarities and our differences. To refuse to be able that might seem, is to deny a large part of the experience, and to allow ourselves to be reduced to the pornographic, the abused, and the absurd.

The erotic cannot be felt secondhand. As a Black lesbian feminist, I have a particular feeling, knowledge, and understanding for those sisters with whom I have danced hard, played, or even fought. This deep participation has often been the forerunner for joint concerted actions not possible before.

But this erotic charge is not easily shared by women who continue to operate under an exclusively european-american male tradition. I know it was not available to me when I was trying to adapt my consciousness to this mode of living and sensation. 

Isla Vista

Reflections on the Unseen Pieces of Isla Vista

Graduation week passes in a blur for those non-graduates and leaves those moving on in a blank stupor when confronted with this thing called life. During commencement week those left behind see the grads running around attempting to finish up their last classes, buying or renting their caps/gowns, trying to control their friends and family while everyone comes into town to visit. This graduation madness continues while the non-grads try to tough it out till their fourth year graduation (hopefully). This past week, finals and dead week actually, I keep reflecting on the past four years at the lovely, beachfront property that is Santa Barbara. Let’s face it. The reason most come to this school is not for the academics, but for the location. As they say, it is all about “location, location, location”.  

So if you are still wondering why do people come to college? Well, I cannot speak for all of the University of California population, but I personally came to college in order to avoid life, which seems to be the reason of many, definitely not of the few. Being a fourth year, I stop to consider this celebration, this ceremony, this event that concludes a joyous, sorrowful, difficult, easy, and mostly memorable four years of my life. These past four years full of partying, procrastinating, studying, sleeping, drinking, dancing, crying, cooking, and everything in between will never leave my mind; I am sure of that.

However, have you or do we ever stop to think about the minorities in our community? Do well-off students or young adults, as we think we are, stop to consider the unsafe space that Isla Vista is for the queer community, the people of color community, the children growing up in Isla Vista, the homeless people, the can collectors? I highly doubt most of us do.

Think about this. When we are off struggling to pass or achieve A’s in our classes, the families in Isla Vista support their children by working at Panda Express, Wendy’s, or Domino’s Pizza on campus.

While we frolic in the water, surf at the beach, wake board on the shore, walk puppies on the sand, can collectors (most trying to support themselves and especially their small children) scatter themselves throughout Isla Vista seeking for precious aluminum to recycle and return for money; aluminum which we, as college students, take for granted by tossing all the cans away after long games of beer pong.

 The hardest thing to stomach as an undergraduate in this community – at least for me— definitely revolves around the hate crimes popping up on campus and around Isla Vista. How can we come to a school intended to serve the public (I mean, it is a “public school”), but watch with almost no resistance as the queer community and the queer people of color community struggle to find safety among the University walls which most of us consider a second home? How can we stand by and watch as racist acts happen around us, as sexist acts occur on a daily basis, and as some students who have every bit of right to be learning here just as much as others do, get shoved to the sidelines, sometimes violently.

Recently, another hate crime in Isla Vista happened, and in order to not make names public, I will only mention that it is unfair to the communities living near the University and the underrepresented populations attending this campus to be harassed, slandered, chased, yelled at, and beaten up just because of the color of their skin, class, social standing, or sexual orientation.

I believe we are better than this. The UC system should be better than this and in my opinion, we – the students— need to change this instead of standing to the side while watching our brothers and sisters, our peers, hit the concrete and fall to ground because of our community’s lack of support for minorities.

In all honesty, it is time to stand up against oppression, to finally resist, and reclaim the University space for everyone. It is in all our best interest to fight against the injustices we see now in the world instead of waiting until we are off in the so-called real world where it is much harder to stop these large problems; these “isms” we hear so often in our humanities classes: “racism, sexism, classism, etc”.

It is time to accomplish this resistance now, where it is easier to achieve in this environment rather than in the corporate world or the job market of today. Before you leave this bubble of Isla Vista, think about those you have stepped on, because we all have done so, at least once in life, in order to succeed and consider attempting to help those less privileged than you.