Editor’s Note: OLB invited poet and activist Margaret Rozga to reflect on her experience in DC at the women’s march, which she attended with her daughter, Christine Groppi. The following is her account of the march, among other points of resistance and solidarity that fill her life.
As a small group assembled for a recent Overpass Light Brigade action, I took up two letters, P and O. Perfect! PO. POed, exactly what I’d been feeling since November. The anger fueled a desire for action, and gathering with others at the Ring Street pedestrian overpass provided the outlet I needed. It pulled me out of the sinking feeling, the isolating grief, I also felt.
Trump’s electoral college election threatened to bury all I had long worked for. Since 1965, when I volunteered to work on a Southern Christian Leadership voter registration project in Alabama, my commitment to social and racial justice has continually grown. On some level I must have thought that in my old age I’d be able to sit back and enjoy the more equitable, inclusive, fair-minded, and just world that civil rights volunteers of the 1960s had envisioned and advanced.
Yes, such was my dream. The November election was a rude awakening.
Outside in the cold January wind, the PO I held in my hands were central letters in that evening’s OLB message: TRUMPOCALYPSE. This president pushes toward a mindless apocalyptic finality. What does he think he’ll drink, what will he breathe, when his dismantling of government safeguards like Environmental Protection Agency means all our water is polluted, all the air toxic?
Soon that evening more people arrived. I handed the O to one of them. We talked. She said her first OLB experience was in support of the water protectors at Standing Rock, an issue particularly important to her as an indigenous person. When she arrived at that #NoDAPL event, she expected to find all native people and was surprised to find many other people as well. This time, she found out about the action at the last minute. Without stopping to eat her dinner or change her clothes or shoes, she put on her coat, got in the car with her friends, and came to participate.
I looked down at her feet. She was wearing sandals. Except for a few thin straps, her feet were bare. She never complained about cold feet, not once in the hour we spelled our message for the freeway traffic streaming below us.
Cold feet. Yes, I know about those, too, the cold feet that keep you from getting out and finding those who will buoy your spirit and give you courage.
When my daughter Christine asked me to go with her to the Women’s March in Washington DC, I hesitated. I remembered one Vietnam War protest in DC where the local host greeted the crowd, saying, “Welcome to Washington for the thousandth time.” I remembered some recent demonstrations in DC did not draw enough people to have an impact.
I remembered other mass demonstrations, the one in Miami at the 1972 Republican Convention, where police shot tear gas in massive amounts into the crowd of demonstrators causing utter confusion in the streets not only among those of us there to protest President Nixon’s war policies but among elderly Miami residents and even some tourists who were caught unprepared. The memory of that chaos gave me cold feet.
Then I also remembered a highlighted sidebar in a Miami newspaper article the morning after the arraignment of activists who were arrested. (I wasn’t one of the arrested). The judge said as one young woman appeared before him, “Melissa, it’s not up to you to save the world. Next case.”
I knew then and still believe that judge was wrong. Yes, it is up to Melissa, not Melissa alone, of course. It’s up to Melissa and me and her friends and mine. It’s up to each and all of us. Now it’s also up to people who weren’t even born in 1972. Fortunately, they seem not to be bothered with cold feet at all.
Yes, of course, Christine. I’ll go with you to the Women’s March. Her request proved a great gift.
On the Women’s March, even on the way, my yes was amply rewarded. Action is the answer to that sinking feeling of grief and despair. Social justice action connects you with others who share your commitment to the common good. That’s ever a source of strength.
At our first rest stop at a service plaza in Indiana, we overheard one worker in the food court say to another, “More people going to Washington for the march.” Her co-worker replied, “I wish we could go.”
By the time we stopped again in Ohio, the service plaza was lively with women, many wearing pink hats. I didn’t know why. My daughter took me aside to explain. “Pussy hats.” The women’s rest rooms from here on all were crowded. No one complained. We held doors for each other. We smiled. We knew where we all were going. We were in separate vehicles, but we now knew we had each other. If we had any doubt, all doubt was erased when we waited in long lines that Friday night to exit the Pennsylvania Turnpike and turn south toward DC.
As we headed downtown the next day, a major radio station announced over and over the list of Metro Stations where there was no more parking. Fortunately Christine knew of a public park about a mile from the Vienna station. We walked from there to the station. The train we caught could not stop at L’Enfant Plaza, our destination, because it was so packed with people there was no room to discharge more passengers.
At the next stop, we got off the train and walked toward the rally. We watched Angela Davis and the Indigo Girls within a tight press of people at one of the Jumbo-trons set up in the street. Sally saw a sign she liked, “Girls Just Wanna have FUNdamental Human Rights.” Christine asked if she could take a photo. The person holding the sign said, “If you like it, take it.” Sally was thrilled.
When the march started, it didn’t matter what group we followed. All the streets headed toward the White House were full of people on the march. We passed the Trump Hotel. About a half dozen guards stood in the doorway, fidgety, obviously nervous in view of a crowd that could easily have overpowered them, but no such thing was our intent.
Periodically a cheer would go up among a segment of marchers. I wondered what they were cheering. “We must not have the app,” Sally said. If there was some cell phone coordination, even having the app wouldn’t have helped. None of us were able to get a signal.
After the march, we found a place to sit down and have coffee while we waited for 7:00 p.m. and the Split This Rock Poetry Open Mic where I was scheduled to read. Crowds were dispersing. Already work crews had bagged up the mounds of garbage that overflowed trash containers. While I admired the efficiency, it also depressed me. It signaled a return to normal, a normal that would not be like anything I wanted to call normal. I didn’t want all these beautiful, kind, and concerned people to go their separate ways.
The Split This Rock event brought people together again. People and good words, words with power. After the reading, everyone helped put chairs away. Most lingered. It was as if all of us felt the same thing. With each other, we had strength.
That point was brought home again and again on the turnpike, as we now headed west. Though in our separate automobiles, each time we stopped, we were community again. At one service plaza with a Panera in its food court, the lines were so long that employees struggled to keep up. They couldn’t make bagels, or soup, or salad or sandwiches fast enough. The line moved slowly. Someone among all these participants in the march, maybe some brilliant organizer, maybe some ordinary person, had an idea: let’s keep it going. The crowd became a group. The line became a rally. The buzz of separate conversations became chant and song. The idea went live. The March continues.
Even through Indiana, when the traffic thinned and rest stops were fewer, we met two women going in the building as we were coming out. None of us were wearing pink hats. “Were you,” they began. “Yes,” we said.
Back at home, events and calls to action multiply. We are the majority. It was true when I cast my ballot. It remains true. I see its truth when a poetry reading becomes another rally, when a local pub is filled to overflowing at an ACLU fund-raiser, when my neighbor asks to see my DC photos, when someone in my t’ai chi class asks, “How was it?” I hear its truth as the cars streaming along I-43 honk in agreement with the OLB message, TRUMPOCALYPSE.
I still feel grief, and I don’t want to deny that feeling. I also hope. To hope is a verb of action. Hope for the days ahead comes from acting creatively. I put my senators’ phone numbers in my phone and call every day. I help plan events to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the fair housing marches in Milwaukee. We are going to need local actions and a surge of attention to the issues that a Secretary of Housing and Urban Development like Ben Carson promises to neglect. I continue to write. I’m backing Tony Evers for re-election as Wisconsin’s Superintendent of Public Instruction, particularly important these days when public schools are threatened. I also go to events where I’ll find a cure for cold feet: the heart-warming presence of people gathered to affirm the values of democracy and inclusivity I hold dear.
Editor’s Note: OLB invited writer, veteran and medic Jacob Thomas to document his work with veterans who have served in the U.S. military, but were subsequently deported to Mexico.
There are true American patriots in the world. There are people who believe in the principals set forth by the founding fathers, believe in the inalienable rights of humans, and believe in the Constitution. There are people who believe so strongly in the idea of America that they have willingly defended it in the U.S. military, and say they would do it again in a heartbeat. Some of these people are not United States citizens, but they should be.
As soon as my feet thawed from Standing Rock, a fellow veteran I met there invited me to tag along with him to Mexico, where he’d be interviewing deported U.S. veterans for the oral histories department of the Library of Congress. “What do you mean, deported U.S. veterans?” I asked Alex.
“It’s exactly what it sounds like. United States military veterans, many veterans of combat, are being deported.”
I like to say I’m resistant to impulsiveness, but my initial reaction was to develop an elaborate plan to get these folks back home involving a three meter section of rope, two mopeds, three costume mustaches, a pen knife, a forged document from the Department of Homeland Security and a large baby stroller. In my mind, the plan played out like The Great Escape, except with a happier ending.
Alex laughed and said that it was a little more complicated than that, but pretty close. I calmed myself out of my preliminary Aww Hell No! state of mind and decided it would be best to go down and talk to as many people as I could to see what exactly was going on.
Crossing the border into Mexico is painfully easy. Just hop in your rental car and drive south. Cruise down the 5 until you get to the border. A little robot takes your picture as you cross, and just like that you’re in Mexico. Crossing that imaginary line the other way? People die trying. Billions of U.S. taxpayer dollars ensure people die trying to cross that line.
I am picked up by Alex, the founder of the Veterans Action Coordinating Committee, at the San Diego airport. Within an hour of leaving the airport, we cross the border into Tijuana and drive around for awhile. I think Alex is playing tour guide, showing me the sights, but then I realize he’s just lost. My introduction to the city is garnished with intermittent Spanish cuss words muttered by Alex. He doesn’t speak Spanish, but he knows a few palabras. At some point, he shows me where a guy was ‘just domed in broad daylight.’ The departed had been messing with some bad guys, apparently, but we are fine, he assures me. Something inside me doubts that.
Alex and I get to the Deported Veterans Support House pretty late. Hector stumbles to the door to let us in. It feels like a homeless shelter run by its own guests. Hector started the support house after he was deported, and found he had nowhere to go in Tijuana. This is the way the deportation process commonly goes:
1) Get arrested for something.
2) Go to jail.
3) Complete your sentence.
4) Get picked up by Homeland Security.
5) Spend anywhere from 1 hour to 1 year in a holding facility
6) Get thrown in a van.
7) Get driven to the Mexican border in the middle of the night. A gate opens.
8) Get pushed through the gate.
9) The gate closes.
Many of these US veterans have no family in Mexico, no friends, no one to pick them up in Tijuana. This is because they’ve lived in the United States their entire lives. All of them were brought to the U.S. by someone in their family as infants or young children. They are literally tossed through the fence with nothing but the clothes on their backs and left to fend for themselves. Hector saw some injustice in this and set out to create a place for deportees to regroup in their new life.
Here at the support house, affectionately referred to as The Bunker, a 71 year old Vietnam veteran, Mario, quietly shuffles around all day. He is shy and reserved, but it looks like resignation. He is constantly moving from one menial task to another. He cleans the kitchen, makes coffee, sweeps the sidewalk. He sits in an unused wheelchair and looks out the front door.
The Deported Veterans Support House is the cleanest edificio in Tijuana, thanks to Mario and the others. Its sidewalks are the only ones without piles of basura, its gutters the only ones without standing puddles of caca. Inside, there are milk-crate lockers with names of each deported veteran, holding items like a towel, a bag of chips, and a pair of socks until the next time they stop by. A crate with sketchy penmanship indicates “Rodriguez, US NAVY,” and in it is a sole bottle of hot sauce. There are piles of military memorabilia all over: a tattered U.S. flag, a laundry bag of old uniforms, stacks of military books like The Art of War and We Were Soldiers Once. A pair of dress blues lies nearby, with shiny badges and neatly aligned ribbons. It is seldom worn, but still meticulously cared for each day. I feel like I’m in one of my Army buddy’s man caves back home, except here there’s a strange feeling of deployment and danger, hanging over everything.
Every morning Alex and I go get street tacos. The food carts are simply amazing. Hands down, they serve up some of the best food I’ve ever had in my life. Those pickled cebollas… not sure what they are, but I’m in love with them! Everywhere Alex and I go, we get these strong looks like, “What the heck is this gringo doing here?” I’m not sure if there is a nice part of Tijuana. There might be, but I know I am not in it. We go interview our first deported veteran who lives across town. As soon as we get there, about nine or ten in the morning, he pours himself a tall glass of gut-rot tequila. This makes Alex nervous, but I assure him it’s just liquid courage. The man almost immediately starts weeping uncontrollably. He says all he wants is to go home. He says he’s not sure where he belongs because the country he loves kicked him out, and the country he was born in doesn’t want him. His Mexican neighbors and friends make fun of him for being a deportee. They say he’s stupid for serving a country that threw him to the street like basura.
I get back to The Bunker and Mario greets me. We talk for a long time, and he tells me a story about when he was in the central highlands of Vietnam. He awoke one morning and his entire patrol was staring at him. Everyone in his platoon was going crazy, because Private Mario was in his sleeping bag and covered in blood. Private Mario was paralyzed with fear. He had no idea what he was bleeding from, but his face was drenched in his own blood. As he tells me the story, he rubs his face with his leathery hands and looks at them, he looks up at me and smiles, “Leeches,” he says. He laughs for a long time. Just like many veterans, his war stories don’t involve actual combat even though he has been in countless firefights, the stories revolve around little stories of camaraderie and dumb luck and daily life.
Mario was drafted into the U.S. Army where he served with the 4th ID. He did his tour in Vietnam, was honorably discharged and never talked to anyone from his unit again. He has never stepped foot in a V.A. Hospital. I got out of the army six years ago and I am still seeing a head shrinker at the V.A. I talk to guys I deployed with almost every day. It has been instrumental for my personal reintegration into society and deescalation of my personal violence. I believe Mario when he says that he slept next to his bed on the floor for 25 years, but is unsure why. He was homeless right after Vietnam, mostly because of the attitude Americans had of veterans at the time and his inability to find work. Mario was deported as a 61 year old, and has been homeless for the last ten years in Mexico. He works on construction sites, sweeping, cleaning up and doing little chores and sleeps at the site at night. Mario still refers to the U.S. as home, he lived here for 54 years, and says he would join the military again if he could do it all over.
The sentiments in all the interviews are similar. Every man calls the U.S. home. Every man feels like an American. Every man is unsure why he’s still getting punished for a crime for which he already paid his debt to society.
And that’s how it was. Their crimes varied, but they were uniformly a result of addiction or mental illness incurred or exacerbated by war. Two guys were deported because they lost their wallets. Alcohol and drug use were common. But those habits, coping mechanisms really, are all too common in the active duty military as well. As they are all talking, unpacking and unloading their deeply emotional histories in front of my recorder, all I can think is, “I have been arrested more times than most of these guys.” They each say something that hits such a deep personal chord inside me that I too, weep.
“I drink because I keep seeing the war in front of my open eyes.”
“You just start going and before you know it, your entire life has slipped out of your control.”
“When they say they support us, they put a sticker on their car, but they don’t listen to us.”
“I did bad things, but I’m not a bad person.”
“I was just a kid.”
While we are interviewing Mauricio, I can barely hold the camera anymore, because although we’re so incredibly different, I feel like he’s telling my personal story. I never ask him what crime he initially committed to get deported because I don’t care. We broke it, we buy it. He is an American, he is a soldier, and he deserves every right that all American soldiers deserve—like access to mental healthcare. While interviewing Augie, I’m asked who is more American, he who was born in Mexico and drafted and served, or the guy who was born in the U.S. and was drafted and then spent a few years in Canada or college, avoiding service. While interviewing Andy, I realize that these guys have been abandoned twice, twice left with nothing but the clothes on their backs and their own devices. Once after Vietnam—or Iraq—and once at the Mexican border. While interviewing Edwardo, I am told that he gets teary-eyed every time the national anthem is played. I personally have never gotten teary-eyed when the national anthem is played. I personally am very critical of my country of origin, sometimes fairly, sometimes unfairly. These guys are not. They really are true American patriots, forced to live south of the border.
As Americans, we are living inside a political world that seems intent on perverting our national identity and corrupting it into xenophobic nationalism. There are a lot of lines being drawn between “real Americans” and people who aren’t American enough. The ridiculousness of this is too much to handle. The easy verbiage we all fall into using highlights this stupidity: America isn’t even a country, it’s a land mass composed of two whole continents.
Our last interview is with Jose. He wants to be with his family. That’s all he wants. He’s an old man. He’s about to die, he knows this, and all he wants is his family. He says his biggest fear is dying alone in his little apartment and no one knowing that he’s died. I can’t help but feel like a massive turd. I want more deshebrada-style tacos, another ice cold real-sugar Coke in a glass bottle, I want a good round of pinball, I want to go home and have a beer with my friends. I don’t deserve any of those things. I am an American by birthright and I take it for granted every day. I have my struggles with alcohol and violence. But since I just happened to be born in a tiny north-woods hospital in Wisconsin, I’m looked at as a troubled veteran. Mauricio has gotten in legal trouble less frequently than I have, but he’s looked at as a foreigner, a liability, a criminal… I’m telling you, he’s more of a patriot than I am. Our nativist policy is the criminal.
Look at it like this: I value choice over inheritance. If someone chooses a lifestyle or affiliation, I know they actually think about it, question their situation, seek out a better one, and work to achieve that new reality. There are some religions that value converts more than inborn members for this reason. They look at a convert’s faith as the strongest because they consciously choose their faith. I am surprised that in a country which values freedom of choice as much as The United States does, that this same view is not adopted regarding immigrants. I look at immigrants as the true patriots, true citizens, because they choose America over any other country in the world. I was just born here.
After another long, emotionally draining day of interviews, I get back to The Bunker and again I am greeted by Mario. He is slowly sweeping the sidewalk. He has to stoop because the broom is broken and the shaft is short. He leans the broom against the wall, stands upright and shakes my hand. He smiles as he says hello and asks me how my day was.
Editor’s Note: OLB invited writer, veteran and medic Jacob Thomas to reflect on his experience at Standing Rock in early December, 2016. He sent this manuscript en route from Tijuana, MX, where he is working to document deported veterans’ oral histories for the Library of Congress. For more information on this oral history project see the GoFundMe support page.
I was standing by the port-a-john, waiting, when a very young, hip-looking threesome approached me. They asked me where they should sleep. I looked around, not knowing what, if anything, I should say. I said something like, “Sleep where you can.”
“Yeah, but we don’t have sleeping bags.”
“Ground cover? Anything?”
“Where are you coming from?”
“Did you have any idea what North Dakota was like?” I asked, with that disappointed tone that I learned from my mother.
To be fair, I had been to North Dakota once, in the summertime, and I had no idea just how bad it was going to be in winter. In winter, during a blizzard. My research— a quick googling of temperatures— resulted in my learning that North Dakota is the coldest of the contiguous states. My climatological education would be furthered to learn that it is the wind that makes North Dakota so treacherous. It apparently starts in South Dakota, moves south, speeds up, and stops at nothing, picking up all the cold from both poles before it hits North Dakota. It will knock you over, that is no hyperbole.
These three kids had no idea.
It wasn’t five minutes after I told them to leave, that they would be a burden on the camp, and they shouldn’t have come if they weren’t self-sufficient, when Oceti Sakowin security came by and told them to shake tents until someone had room for one or all of them. He said, “We’re Sioux, we’ll put you up.”
That was my first night, December 2nd, at Oceti Sakowin, and only my first of many encounters with a relentlessly understanding and accepting culture. I’m not speaking of Native Americans, or even the Sioux Nation. I’m not speaking of environmentalists. I’m not even thinking about activists, or liberals, or any other subculture. I’m talking specifically about the people who were drawn to Standing Rock. They were all different types of people, yet similar in their motivation for change.
Over the last month, Oceti Sakowin and its people have been on my mind constantly. Standing Rock was a mind-blowing amalgam of all different types of people, from all cultures, economic statuses, religions, political ideologies, gender identities, and tribes. No two people there would have the same answer as to why they were there. Some folks I met lived there, born and raised on the Standing Rock Reservation. Some were there for Native American rights. I got to know AIM revivalists, Wounded Knee (’73) survivors, and their families. The environmental cohort was strong. But even then, there were factions of revolutionary environmentalists promoting property destruction and violent encounters with DAPL and police. There were also factions of peaceful green protestors, promoting things like divestment and commercial abstinence from non-green companies. I ran into folks who were against the government interfering with capitalism. There were anarchists. There were capitalists. There were people there who had no political or social ideologies at all, but were there to protect civilians peacefully protesting. That is only a start, because there is no possible way to describe it, but it speaks to the overwhelming nuance of the group at Oceti Sakowin. But it is important to acknowledge the nuance in order to weave a single narrative out of so many different voices.
My little thread of voice in this narrative rug began several months ago. I was considering driving out to Standing Rock as soon as I heard about it, in maybe September. I talked about going out there with my dreadlock-sporting musician friend. I was hesitant, for many reasons, but mostly because of an article I read which reported white people had moved into camp in throngs and turned it into another Burning Man-esque music festival. The last thing I wanted was to be another white guy who made something that wasn’t his, his. It wasn’t my fight. My own Native American blood is thin, my inner environmentalist is morally defeated, and my inner anarchist is too afraid of life without cable. I felt that if I went and started to protest on behalf of Native American rights, or anyone’s rights really, I would be commandeering a fight that wasn’t mine. My older sister sent me a link regarding Veterans Stand for Standing Rock and their crowd-sourced donation page. I found out that a local woman specifically asked for the help of veterans. I also learned Native Americans represent the largest percentage of any cultural group to serve in the military. I immediately started packing, all I needed was someone to ask me to come. I was activated by a mission, a call for help, and brothers and sisters in distress, as veterans are wont to be. I am aware my voice is stronger and louder than others’ because of my ethnicity, gender, and economic status, so I have been making a concerted effort to talk less. I talk less in hopes for someone else to start talking, but it took me awhile to get to this point where I can talk less but still act. A big part of that motivation to act without assuming the fight as my own was the rhetoric about protecting Native American’s right to peaceful protest, and protecting the Bill of Rights. Well, hell, I already took an oath to do that! That is my fight!
Although I didn’t truly align myself with any one group or cause represented at Standing Rock, I felt compelled to protect them and their right to be there. All these groups had their own motivations and they seemed to be just as compelled to be there to support their individual causes.
Despite, or maybe in spite, all these disparate ideologies, Standing Rock worked. There were reports of 12,000 people at camp on December 5th . I have no idea if that’s accurate, it would be near impossible determine how many people were there… it was a lot. Rumors said there were 600 indigenous tribes present, that it was the largest meeting of Native Americans ever. Rumors said every continent was represented. Rumors even said that Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson was there, but I can’t personally verify that. There were two things that held that many different people together. The mission and the wind.
There was one clear mission, set forth by elders and reservation leaders: have the Army Corps of Engineers re-evaluate their decision regarding construction of the pipeline under Lake Oahe.
I was asked to march with the elders during their prayer ceremony on the bridge because I was a medic in the Army. As far as I could tell, there were no media or non-natives on the bridge during the prayer. It was a beautiful and incredibly impactful thing to witness. There were three of us medics on the bridge with the elders and medicine women and Akitchita, and several hundred Native Americans on the road behind them. In the middle of the elders was a Contrary. A Contrary is a type of inherited social position in the tribe, a teacher and warrior, who does everything backwards. They would ride into battle on their horses backwards. You greet them with your back to them. You kick dirt on them or throw cigarettes at them when you walk by them. Their role is to make people think about what has become status quo in society. The Contrary and I had a cup of tea after the prayer ceremony while we warmed ourselves. With his greyed cheeks from the cold and frost lining his lashes, he smiled and said, “In my other life, I sell furniture.” I’m proud to say he told me I’d make a good Contrary. The Akitchita were on horseback. The Akitchita are appointed protectors of the Sioux people for a specific duration of time. Based on ones’ abilities and the needs of the times, someone is nominated and appointed as Akitchita until they are no longer needed. The women smudged us and the elders prayed in celebration of their long awaited accomplishment. It was a moment I will never forget. And then my feet froze solid.
Once the blizzard started, and it came up quickly and without forgiveness, it became a struggle for survival. I’m not indulging in exaggeration. It was 20 below with 45 MPH winds. If you were standing outside, you were likely to get knocked down and dragged a bit across the frozen ground. There were throngs of people at Oceti Sakowin who were not prepared at all for the extreme weather, for one reason or another. The medics did all we could for as many as we could. Our duties as medics mostly came down to just calming people and keeping them warm. There was one hairy moment when a tent started on fire and we had to get everyone out, and then find the 30 or so new lodging before they got cold.
But again, it worked. No one died. Everyone came together and came out alive and most were feeling good after the blizzard was over. When survival is on line, and there is a true danger, people come together and get things done. They make it happen. And they will continue to make it happen. The blizzard was a physical threat, but I feel it is a great analogy to any other threat, be it social, like infringement on human rights, or economic, like the widening class gap.
Since I left Oceti Sakowin in mid December, I’ve been asked by many people, of all political leanings, about Standing Rock. I try not to bring it up or talk about it unless asked, and then all I do is address that specific question or comment as briefly as possible. Because I learned that no matter what I say, my point is lost.
With people who lean right, the conversation is about the supposed permanence of fossil fuel infrastructure and capitalist society. I try to bring up that there were a great many political ideologies represented at the protests, including Libertarian and New Republicanism. Many protestors were blue collar heroes, trying not to become forgotten in an ever-progressing technological world that seems to be leaving them behind. My part of the conversation always lands on deaf ears, because for conservatives who weren’t there, it looked like a bunch of wild idealists trying to dismantle capitalism portrayed in their little corner of the media.
With people who lean left, the conversation derails into conspiratorial terrain pretty quickly. I was at a party right after I came back home, and I was asked if I was at Standing Rock. I said, “Yes,” and then I listened to a ten minute tirade about chemical weapons being used on Native Americans and it being the onset of another genocide. I said that that was not true, and I was promptly corrected, being that this person happened to read something on social media about it. I was going to ask if she wanted to hear about it from someone who was actually there a week prior, but I didn’t. She didn’t want to know what it was like, she wanted to hear her conclusions re-enforced. This has happened several times, in several different conversations, so I stopped talking about it. Talking about my personal experiences won’t change anyone’s mind about their own individual conclusions.
While I’m wanting to shove my experience down peoples’ throats, cram all I learned into a box and force it on to people, I don’t. That is a lesson I learned from my military service. People truly want to believe whatever they already believe. If they want to believe that all soldiers are mindless child killers, they’re going to continue believing that. If they want to believe that all soldiers are heroes, they’re going to believe that. Whatever we were, and whatever we are now as veterans, whatever we do in our other lives, we can talk less, and act more. We can act by letting other people talk, and protecting their right to talk. When we act, we should chose our battles wisely. We should assess, determine the threat, and develop a clear mission. And we should come prepared.
This has been a year of intense activism focused upon water and indigenous rights in general, and we at the Overpass Light Brigade have tried to use our visibility to give focus to these issues. Last January hit hard and cold and the freezing weather was a match for the frozen hearts of our state legislators who tried to put forward rapid fire bills that would allow landowners and business to dig up ancient Indian burial mounds, as well as bills to allow the privatization of municipal water service and supply. What could possibly go wrong with such forward thinking policies?
Multiple tribal bands and regional Indian nations converged on the State Capitol in protest of the proposed burial mounds bill. On that same day, we worked with some indigenous friends to hold a message at an important, and generally overlooked, mound smack dab in a popular Milwaukee park. It was probably the coldest action we have ever done, and we still get shivers thinking about the windchill of -30 on that evening, as we brought out our message, SACRED SITE, with a flip side of that same notion in Ojibwe, MIKWENIM. Our impromptu round dance was as much to keep warm as it was to celebrate the location, though we were happy that a news channel picked up the story that evening. Though the main resistance was in Madison that day with the dramatic convergence of the tribes, we did help to get the word out in a peaceful and poetic way. The bill was soon dropped.
NO MORE FLINTS has been on our mind throughout the last few years. There was a bill creeping its way through the State House that seemed to suddenly erupt into public consciousness. It would ease regulations around public water supplies, and allow global corporations to swoop in and buy water rights in municipal district – sacrificing long term water access and health for short term profit. People were lulled by the holidays and no one was talking about this sneak-privatization plan. We began some actions at the state capitol and along our beautiful Lake Michigan water front that we hoped would at least get people informed. This coincided with an unprecedented amount of behind-the-scenes organizing on a local and national level in order to stop this bill. The Republican sponsors were secure in their accounting of the votes to pass it, and were smug in their corporatist goals. The outcry grew, from a small few to larger groups concerned about water issues. It began to get picked up by local news, and then by friends around the state. Resistance actions were springing up throughout the region, and the bill, once assured of passing, was tabled. It is never over, but for now, we pushed back and they backed down. “No more Flints,” we say. But we don’t forget that Flint is still there, still reeling from the dire consequences of the corrupt practices of privatization. The fight over water continues…
While we always get charged up by a cause, or a call to collaborate with a group we respect, or a campaign against injustice, we also at times like to explore the creative and expressive dimensions of this medium that we invented. In June, we made plans with our favorite filmmaker to do some water-based stop motion footage. “Wouldn’t it be cool,” we thought, “to visit various locations around Wisconsin with messages about water!” That was a pretty ambitious idea, but we were able to do three amazing photo and film shoots on Lake Monona in Madison, in Europe Bay, Door County, and along the Milwaukee River. All of these sequences involved kayaks, boats, the complexities of getting large groups of people together, the durational endurance of time-lapse filming and some amazingly talented and dedicated people. Here’s the first part out of the effort, with more to come in the future. We think of it as a “love song to water.” Little did we know that within a few months, water issues would take national prominence out in the Dakotas.
By September, the occupation at Standing Rock had grown to be a sizable presence, at least in our social media and political circles. Activists from the area began to ask us if we were going to make a trip out to North Dakota, to join in the struggle against DAPL. Leading up to the Labor Day weekend, we planned an action, got some impromptu approvals, packed some light panels in the van, and readied ourselves for the long trek. It was an intense weekend, not only to see so many indigenous activists, water warriors, and water protectors living, arriving, and thriving, but to be there when private security forces sicced attack dogs on peaceful people. We negotiated more concrete approvals with Sioux elders in order to enable a few actions with lights and our strange “pixel stick” that magically displays programmed imagery when the lighted wand is swept across the sky. Some of these images went viral, and our Facebook site was hitting a 1.6 million person reach for the weeks after. In this way, and on this blog, we felt that we were able to help highlight the courageous and important work being done by so many indigenous Water Protectors and non-indigenous allies. Getting the word has been an important aspect of this struggle, since until only recently mainstream media all but ignored this massive uprising.
We returned in December and were amazed by the growth of the camps, the momentum of the movement, the complexity of the daily negotiations, and the incoming presence of over 3,000 veterans. The provisional “win” came the day after we arrived, with the veterans in full force in support of the Sioux and this amazing indigenous movement. We marveled at the celebration, the discipline of the Water Protectors in their unflagging commitment to nonviolence, even in the face of such extreme and violent repression perpetrated by police and other militarized forces under command of corporate power brokers and their political appointees. Indeed, that was why the veterans showed up, and their presence seemed to shame the State into at least a temporary hiatus of overt desecration. Due to circumstances, we weren’t able to mount another Light Brigade Action, but did have the backing to receive a much coveted press pass, and were able to take some fantastic picture for posterity.
And then the blizzard swept down the plains. We knew it was coming, and hightailed it out of the camps, moving east as fast as the wind pushed from the west. A few hours later, all roads were shut, cars in ditches, smart people hunkered down with cords of firewood dried and ready for the warmth of wood stoves. We drove home, back to our own water wars, back to the reality of our lives in Wisconsin, which has been the petri dish of the new America. We know what it is to struggle, and we know what it is to keep struggling when we feel that all is lost. We know that even when we win, as we have in the actions cited on this page, our wins might only be temporary, that the fight will come around again as soon as a politician craven enough to put a bad bill forward feels that no one is watching or that no one cares. And here we are, at the end of a year, a rough year, a bad year for art and poetry and song and water and climate and education and immigrant rights and electoral politics and democracy in general. And here we are, ready to fight, to organize, to make calls and write posts and hit the street and make videos and do what we can to take care of our sad and beautiful world.
So to all of our friends, our followers, our Holders of the Lights… Solidarity in the New Year. Help us to LIGHT THE WAY!
Last night, Milo Yiannopoulos’s“Dangerous Faggot Tour” came to UW-Milwaukee, hosted by a student front group, also responsible for the somewhat lame exercise in neo-McCarthyism, the “Professor Watchlist.” For over a month, faculty, staff and students have been expressing concern about the known dynamics of Milo Y, a kind of sly and slick performance of white grievance against political correctness, immigrant and muslim communities, as well as LGBT+ campus presence and politics. The administration, quivering in fear of their rightwing legislative budget lords’ threats of defunding, generally evaded the issue of the impact of hate speech to vulnerable communities, though subsequently released tepid but earnest statements regarding freedom of speech and their inability to control the sponsorship of student groups, with the intent to disassociate the UWM brand with a known hate-monger, white supremacist, such as Mr. Y. Cautious hand-wringing has generally been the operative dynamic at play within the crumbling institution.
Concerned students and workers planned and mounted a solid counter protest: we marched, disrupted the jubilee of white resentment, conducted an alternative open mic event near the heavily policed second floor of the student union, and held light panels that proclaimed “DENY HATE.” Our struggling union, AFT3535 bought pizza for the counter protesters, and the energy was celebratory, aggressive, and peaceful.
There was a full house for Milo, and his one hour stand-up game of hate charades was live cast on Brietbart. At 49 minutes into his shtick, Milo projected a picture of a UWM trans student (wink, wink, nudge, nudge), who was undergoing conversion, and “outed” them for making an issue of bathroom access. Bathrooms, right? What an outrage! Milo went on to suggest his own interest in having sex with the student, all while assessing them critically in very specific and demeaning ways. The student’s name was prominently displayed, and everyone laughed.
For over a month, many of us have expressed our concern about the inevitability of this kind of violence towards our students. This is what Milo is known for, and this is where the framing of “free speech” and “academic diversity” has been, to some of us, quite hollow, or, to be more generous, extremely complex in its very concrete implications for the safety of our students.
Immediately following the event, Chancellor Mone released an email to the entire campus, where he expressed that “I will not stand silently by when a member of our campus community is personally and wrongly attacked.” He goes on to say that “I am disappointed that this speaker chose to attack a transgender student.” But this is what Milo does! This is how made a name for himself with the shitfest known as Gamergate. This is why he was kicked off of Twitter! This is what he does in his insidiously amoral stand-up comedically clever campus tour.
How does Chancellor Mone’s refusal to “stand silently” translate into anything other than a vague “disappointment” that Milo did such a heinous and harmful thing to a specific person, while broadcast live to a massive national audience known for a propensity towards vicious trolling and specific harassment?
The student in question sent out a blistering email to multiple faculty and staff after reading Chancellor Mone’s statement. It is long. It is scathing, It is angry and hurt and dismayed and weary and fed up. It is unedited except for the redacting of her name. It is worth reading.
Chancellor Mark Mone
GO FUCK YOURSELF.
I am the trans student that was attacked and your email is nothing short of insulting. I wasn’t going to write this email at first, even after Milo attacked me, but then I saw your email and I’m SO FUCKING SICK of your goddamn lip service. Seriously go fuck yourself.
Your email? I don’t even know where to begin. Also, I don’t care if you feel “offended” or “harassed”. Welcome to my life. Sue me. I’d be more than happy to defend my free speech in court (since this is what you call it apparently) to lambast your ass for being an ungodly, fucking pathetic “ally.” And quite frankly I don’t care who the fuck reads this email (as you can tell by the CC) or what people think of me. I’m aware of where this email can end up. So be it. My “give a fuck card” was thrown out the window a long time ago. I’m going to write about you and YOUR fucked-up bullshit.
Your words: “I also will not stand silently by when a member of our campus community is personally and wrongly attacked.” That is probably the biggest piece of goddamn fucking bullshit I’ve ever read. What exactly do you plan to do? OH YEAH, NOTHING, BECAUSE YOU’RE A COWARDLY PIECE OF SHIT. Your “not standing silently” apparently consists of a single email mass-sent to the university. That’s it. You don’t get a fucking cookie for that. What else were you going to go? NOTHING. You were planning on doing jack shit.
Did you even attempt to reach out to me? NOPE. Not even an email, nothing. Instead it was supposed to suffice to just send a nice little bit of polished hogwash to the general campus. Is that right? Were you trying to head off student protests calling for you to be sacked or something? You’d like nothing better than for this to just blow over. Seriously what the hell ARE you even doing right now? You say you’re not standing by silently? BULL-FUCKING-SHIT YOU POMPOUS ASSHOLE. YES YOU ARE.
Don’t act like you didn’t know this would happen. You knew goddamn well it would. I lost track of how many people pointed this out to you. And what the hell did you do when students tried to organize and deliver a petition to cancel Milo’s event? YOU FUCKING CALLED THE COPS ON THEM. LIKE WHAT IN THE LIVING FUCK. Your asshole level is off the charts, especially because you feign concern about this with one hand while backhanding all of us with the other. Because there’s nothing like the threat of state violence to keep people in line.
Seriously, you FUCKING CALLED THE GODDAMN POLICE on students at your office who were raising extremely valid concerns about Milo, you forcibly threw students out, and then you want to turn around and act like you didn’t see this coming? How fucking naïve do you think we are?
This also isn’t just a case of a speaker going off an a tangent like that, like some random occurrence. It was not a case where you had no way of knowing he would do this. Quite the contrary: Milo has a supremely extensive, highly-documented track record of doing precisely this. As I’ve already said, YOU KNEW THIS WOULD HAPPEN. WE TOLD YOU IT WOULD. AND WE TOLD YOU AGAIN. AND AGAIN. But you brushed this off under “muh free speech” bullshit.
Do tell me, if someone invited a fucking modern Hitler to campus, would you allow that? Because that’s what your bullshit argument says. How about David Duke of the KKK, can we invite him? Or how about Andrew Anglin, the self-proclaimed Nazi who runs the Daily Stormer website? (Yes, he is an actual Nazi. That is not hyperbole.) Can we invite him? Genuine question. You’ve already allowed a fascist on campus, so can we invite a full-fledged Nazi? Are there no bounds? Maybe we should invite a radical who advocates burning down Chapman Hall, because speakers like that can be found (and no, me typing that sentence is not a threat to destroy property. “Words don’t hurt anyone” as the fascist you defended last night would say.)
Free speech does not cover harassment, and that’s exactly what Milo did to me. But hey, do email about hashtagging #UWMstandstogether as if that fucking accomplishes anything. Damn, you fucking liberals really drive me up the wall. Now you can spend all of 10 seconds making some half-assed tweet, give it a cute hashtag, and go about your day feeling like you did something. NO. YOU DON’T GET CREDIT FOR THAT. YOU ACCOMPLISHED NOTHING. You’re as embarrassing as the people who wear a safety pin and think that counts as being an ally—patting yourself on the back for a job well done—all while you stand silent as fascists attack your students. Some ally. Or making a hashtag that virtually nobody in the city will see, and which will do abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Good grief…UWM “stands together”…as you fucking call the police on students who tried to petition you…as you divide and attack marginalized students while saying you want unity…as you allow a fascist to use “free speech” as an pretense to harass and attack. The amount of doublethink here is just incredible.
And we’re supposed to respond with positive messages, not anger? WHAT FUCKING WORLD DO YOU LIVE IN. Do you have any idea how much fucking privilege you have to even BEGIN saying something like that? WHAT. THE. FUCK. You do NOT get to dictate how we feel. You do NOT get to tell us what our emotions should be. Oh but okay, here’s a positive message: Nobody died! WOO-FUCKING-HOO! Positivity! Go Panthers!
Fuck no. I am done getting repeatedly abused and shit on, and expected to just take it and not be angry. But don’t worry, I’m not angry. I’m way, way beyond that. I am SO FUCKING DONE having to justify my humanity to shitheads like you all the fucking time. Angry bitches get shit done. You say to not respond with “anger”…goddamn you haven’t the slightest fucking clue what pervasive marginalization is like.
Do you even know what Milo said about me? Do you, asshole? Here, I’ll type a bit out for you, because I highly doubt you actually know what that fascist said about me from his podium in front of hundreds of people (and live-streamed on Breitbart in front of thousands):
>>> Context: Milo just finished mocking feminists who critique the very harmful phrase ‘man up’ <<<
Milo: “I’ll tell you one UW-Milwaukee student that does not need to man up, and that is (Student’s name).”
>>> Milo puts an image of me, taken from last spring when I was earlier in my transition and appeared significantly more masculine, on the main screen<<<
Milo: “Do you know about (Student’s Name)? Have any of you come into contact with this person? This quote unquote nonbinary trans—you’re not laughing now, are you, you know him—this quote unquote nonbinary trans woman forced his way into the women’s locker rooms this year. Who knows about this story, any of you?”
>>>Milo looks around, people laugh<<<
“I see you don’t even read your own student media. He got into the women’s room the way liberals always operate, using the government and the courts to weasel their way where they don’t belong. In this case he made a Title IX complaint. Title IX is a set of rules to protect women on campus effectively. It’s couched in the language of equality, but it’s really about women, which under normal circumstances would be fine except for how it’s implemented. Now it is used to put men in to women’s bathrooms. I have known some passing trannies in my life. Trannies—you’re not allowed to say that. I’ve known some passing trannies, which is to say transgender people who pass as the gender they would like to be considered.”
>>> Milo directs the audience’s attention to the image of me.<<<
>>>Audience laughs. <<<
Milo: “The way that you know he’s failing is I’d almost still bang him.”
>>> Audience begins laughing a lot, keeps laughing <<<
Milo: “It’s just…it’s just a man in a dress, isn’t it? I should reapply my lipstick…”
And all you can say is you’re “disappointed” he attacked me? Disappointed? Are you fucking kidding me? How about ENRAGED or INFURIATED. What the fuck is this use of disappointed? Tranny is the equivalent of faggot, and you’re disappointed? Really? REALLY? YOU FUCKING THINK???? Goddamn. Oh but you condemn it. Okay, that forgives everything. Not.
You: “I would not deprive students or our community of opportunities to hear diverse viewpoints.”
Translation: I would never deprive students of the ability to collectively harass and verbally assault another student, because it’s “free speech.”
I was at Milo’s event. You have NO FUCKING IDEA what that was like. NO. FUCKING. IDEA. I knew this event would bring out all the worst people on campus, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. Standing in line was bad enough. Luckily at this point in my life, I look substantially more feminine than I did last spring (when almost everybody perceived me as a “boy in girls’ clothes”), and I’m correctly gendered as a woman probably 90%+ of the time now. Anyway I’m in line waiting, and in front of me two dudes are making hateful comments about trans folk. Yet 10 minutes after that, one of them was looking at my chest and checking me out. In my mind the only thing I’m thinking is, “If this person knew he was sexually attracted to a trans girl…holy shit…” because asshole boys like him tend to get extremely aggressive if they realize a girl they found attractive has a penis.
But that was still bearable and I was prepared in case they realized I’m trans (thankfully they didn’t). I also knew Milo was going to regurgitate a profound amount of racist and transphobic hate. What I did not anticipate was being specifically targeted and called out in the way he did. I hadn’t said anything or made even the slightest disruption: He had his harassment of me planned out well in advance. I’m sitting there and I hear him say “(my name” and I just froze up. I have never, ever, ever been more terrified in my life of being outed. Ever. He put my picture up, which as already stated, was taken from a prior period when my masculine features were significantly more sharp and extremely noticeable. And I am sitting there frozen in total terror that somebody around me would recognize me, point me out, and incite the mob of the room against me. Nobody did point me out, thank god. But do you have ANY idea how much power Milo had and how it feels to pray that your ability to “pass” doesn’t fail you now? That’s what it was like. Fuck, you can’t even appreciate what I’m writing. You say you do but you really don’t. You do NOT have this perspective. I was looking at the stage, consciously aware of trying to not look “suspicious” and reveal I was the person he was talking about (even as I could feel the color draining from my face), but also not looking at Milo directly ‘lest he recognize me and instantly set off dozens of people screaming at me.
I was trapped in fear and went numb. Completely numb. I felt nothing. I was having a severe, emotional, traumatic response to being fucking called out and directly targeted by this transphobic asshole in front of thousands of people, and my body’s main coping mechanism for severe stress is to shut down all emotions. I couldn’t even cry, and that’s probably a good thing because it would’ve outed me. Even after the event, I still felt nothing and was “fine.” It wasn’t until hours later, as my body began to process it, that I broke down sobbing uncontrollably. I can handle transphobia (you’re basically forced to as a trans girl) but Milo went way the fuck beyond that in what he did to me.
Do you have any fucking idea how hurtful this is? Do you know what it’s like to be in a room full of people who are laughing at you as if you’re some sort of perverted freak, and how many of them would have hollered at me (or worse) if I was outed? Do you know what this kind of terror is? No, you don’t, because as a cis person you do not understand. Sorry-not-sorry, but you don’t and you can’t. You don’t understand how misgendering is violence. Yes, VIOLENCE. And did you miss the part where Milo was talking about having sex with me? Aka shoving his dick up my ass, and joking about applying lipstick to seduce me. How the fuck is this acceptable? This is both gender and sexual harassment. What court upholds this as free speech? Answer: NOBODY. THIS WAS SPECIFICALLY TARGETED AT ME. WHAT FUCKING COURT HAS EVER UPHELD THIS SORT OF HARASSMENT DIRECTED SPECIFICALLY AGAINST A STUDENT AS “FREE SPEECH”? Just wait, now an apologist for fascists will find one lonely example, amidst a plethora that protect students from harassment.
If you actually cared about students, you would have blocked this student org from bringing Milo here, and had they fought it in court you would have battled back and prevailed. The difference here is Milo harasses specific people and incites violence against them. That is not protected, and other universities have successfully blocked him because of that. But you’re too busy kissing the ass of trans-hating republicans running the state and letting fascists attack whomever they want.
But whatever, let Milo joke about fucking me (up the ass). Who gives a fuck about sexual violence. It’s not like I’ve been raped or anything before (actually, I have). Universities regularly push that under the rug in order to protect their sorry-ass reputations. I sure as hell wouldn’t put that past UWM either. And Milo is the Dangerous Faggot after all. Let him repeatedly commit violence against me by erasing my identity and painting me as some sort of male sex predator preying on women in the bathroom. Because who cares if a student is slandered? WHO THE FUCK CARES ABOUT THOSE GODDAMN CODDLED STUDENTS? Who cares if they get harassed?
Perhaps this might be an explanation you can somewhat, partially understand on what it’s like to be misgendered and how this is violence, Mark Mone: Pretend you go to a restaurant to order a meal, and when you arrive, you’re given a gendered greeting of, “Hello woman, how may I take your order?” After placing your order, “Thank you ma’am, that will be such and such.” Then when you receive your order, “Oh hey, did you know you’re STILL not a man? Because you’re not. Oh and here’s your food, thank you!” And whenever anybody interacts with you, you’re called she all day, every fucking day. Imagine a similar scene again an hour later at the gas station. Now imagine it CONSTANTLY happening, on a DAILY basis, every week of the year, EVERY GODDAMN YEAR OF YOUR LIFE. You get to a point where it really, really severely fucks with you. The endless invalidation and relentless attack.
Oh who the fuck am I kidding. Why am I bothering even trying to explain what it’s like? It completely escapes your mind the very real violence Milo intentionally committed against me by calling me a man over and over in the name of “free speech” and slandering me as a sex predator.
You will also never know what it’s like wanting to die every day, you don’t know what it’s like attempting suicide multiple times, you don’t know what it’s like looking down 20 stories to a concrete ground and being an inch away from plummeting to death, you don’t know what it’s like putting your neck on a railroad track, only to chicken out right before the train got there and cursing yourself for not going through with it, (to your fucking bullshit police, no I am not suicidal right now but you fucks will try and twist past-tense into present. you pretentious assholes), you don’t know what it’s like to look in the mirror every goddamn morning and see a face you don’t recognize, YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE GOING THROUGH PUBERTY FOR THE WRONG FUCKING GENDER. THIS IS A HELL YOU CANNOT, AND WILL NOT, AND ARE UTTERLY FUCKING INCAPABLE OF UNDERSTANDING. And then being denied medical access for years and years and years. Do NOT have the audacity and gall to say you “understand” our concerns. NO YOU DO NOT. You don’t know what it’s like being in poverty and unable to pay for physical transitions, and locked in the wrong body. You have NO FUCKING CLUE what it’s like to be in our shoes and having to pretend everything is fine and dandy. And then to have the university defend a speaker that targets you by name and puts up a masculine-looking picture of you to laugh at…regardless if I had been there in person (sitting in terror) or hiding in my home, HOLY FUCKING SHIT. FUCK YOU. JUST FUCK YOU.
Honest to god, if any student said or did that to me, it would be a complete and total violation of university policy on harassment. NO student could say those things and get away with it. NOBODY. BECAUSE FOR THE 100TH FUCKING TIME, HARASSMENT AND VERBALLY ASSAULTING PEOPLE IS NOT FREE SPEECH. But if they bring in an outside speaker who does THE SAME EXACT FUCKING THING, then apparently it’s okay because “free speech.” Seriously, do you not comprehend how contradictory and fucked-up your logic is?
Can I bring in a speaker who goes on a tirade and personally insults, attacks, and makes crude sexual jokes about a student in the Turning Point USA org? And then do it again for the next student, until every student in that organization is thoroughly trashed? Is that free speech?
NO YOU ASSHOLE, IT IS NOT. HARASSMENT IS NOT FREE SPEECH. AND YOU FUCKING KNEW MILO WOULD DO THIS. WE TOLD YOU. YOU REFUSED TO LISTEN.
But you know what, I’m not done ranting against your transphobic ass yet. I’d like to tell anybody who is still reading this email the other bullshit going on in this hellhole. You have rung me around ever since last January with your locker room bullshit. You do realize there are trans and intersex people on campus who 100% avoid the locker room and Klotsche Center because YOU still insist on policing their body parts? And yes, I say YOU personally because YOU approve of the unpublished “interim policy” that does just this and still forbids any nonconforming body part from being exposed for so much as a second. This is where you’re truly a transphobic ass. You are no ally. If a transgender man changes clothing in the men’s locker room, and someone sees his breast, YOU would seek to punish the trans man for the so-called “crime” of changing his clothes. Nevermind how totally fucking inverted this reasoning is.
And you won’t commit to putting a locker room policy on paper either, so instead you have something that’s transphobic as fuck yet only verbal, making it harder to track and challenge. You’re taking ZERO leadership on this and are instead stalling for time, waiting for the issue to be forced and decided in the courts. Yet you’re “proud” of the work the LGBT resource center does? Goddamn if that’s the case (it’s not; you’re a transphobic asshole), then either be an actual trans-inclusive leader or get the fuck out of the way.
I knew when I went public last spring with all the transphobic bullshit YOU were putting me through that trolls would pick up on it. I was ready for that. But what I’m NOT going to gloss over is your contemptible pandering to trans and intersex folk, and your fucking self-righteous email and related bullshit you put forth claiming to stand with marginalized people like me. NO YOU DO NOT.
Your administration never wanted to allow me and other trans and intersex folk locker room access in the first place. You fucks originally tried to force me into the men’s locker room (which ironically, I couldn’t change clothing in there right now either because I have breasts…or are you so incredibly transphobic you don’t recognize that my breast development is indeed female breasts? I can’t change clothing anywhere under your goddamn policy unless I run off and lock myself in a stall), or to force me into a completely segregated, single-user space that lacked a sauna and pool access. It was only—and I repeat, only—because your attorneys advised you that you had to allow access that you ever let me back in to the locker room after originally banning me. And even then, you insisted I follow special restrictions (which by the way, I long, long, long ago disregarded. You’re in another fucking world if you think I’d submit to that bullshit.) And you continue to marginalize other trans and intersex individuals in locker rooms to this very day. If someone who appears trans wants to use the facility, you’ll have them yanked aside and given a body-shaming lecture where they are told they must always cover up in a locker room…a fucking locker room where undressing is expected…fuck you really are backwards. It’s apparent our bodies will never be acceptable to you.
Besides deliberately and purposely preventing a trans-inclusive locker room policy, your list of shit also includes throwing ALL of your trans and intersex employees under the bus by refusing to fight for their right to have medical procedures and treatment covered by insurance. You are PERFECTLY content with the status quo of denying medical service, as much as you may pretend otherwise. In fact, you recently had a prospective hire walk away from a job offer because they were transgender and you refused to provide medical benefits. But do continue blaming your bullshit on third party “outside of your control” crap and doing meaningless shit to change that.
I can keep listing more things but you know what, just go fuck yourself and in all honestly, drop your T from LGBT. Quit pretending. You do not stand for or represent trans folk and you ignore our needs. Asshole. You are LGB at best and a complete transphobic jerk. I’m done with you. Coming to this university was one of the single-most, worst mistakes I have ever made in my life. At the time you were supposedly ranked 5 stars for LGBTQ+ friendliness and sold me a colossal amount of bullshit to that effect. HA! WHAT A FUCKING JOKE. I really do genuinely regret ever coming here. It was a mistake.
Believe me when I say no matter how much you might dislike (or resent) this email, any pain you feel from what I wrote is but a tiny fraction of the pain I felt, and still feel in my chest and throughout my body, when Milo attacked me, and the pain trans folk feel just for existing in this society. You are so, so incredibly blinded by your privilege and place in society. Fuck you.
Former student at this godforsaken university
Pronouns: They or She, not that you actually give a shit in the greater scheme of things
P.S. To Mark Mone and your cronies: I’m not going to respond to any phone calls, emails, or attempts to have me speak with anyone. I am never returning to your goddamn campus again. Ever. GOODBYE BITCHES. And very specifically to you Mark Mone and other spineless liberal assholes that fully support bringing a fascist speaker to campus who is EXTRAORDINARILY well-known to harass and target specific students: From the bottom of my heart, truly, FUCK YOU.
Overpass Light Brigade invited Margaret Noodin, an Anishinaabe poet, to write a piece about the struggle at Standing Rock for this blog. This is what she has to say:
This poem was written in the midst of the historic show of support for land, water and indigenous life and culture. We all need to raise our voices and be heard. We need to integrate awareness of the rights of nature into our lives, now as we stand with Standing Rock and long after this crisis when the cycles of industrial capitalism continue to place profit before lives.
The poem is written in one of the languages of the Three Fires Confederacy in honor of the members of the Seven Fires Council. The Ojibwe, Dakota and Lakota people have been warriors together for many centuries and this time they are clearly greeting this new dawn together.
The image by the poet’s daughter reminds us there is strength and memory in the stones placed as grave markers beneath the stars and in all the lives who sustain the ecosystem of the prairie.
Aaniin Idamang? How do we speak of this?
Poem by Margaret Noodin
Illustration Shannon Noori
Today, Chief Arvol Looking Horse held a ceremony around the sacred fire. The purpose was to hear a report from the UN representatives who have been investigating the allegations of human rights abuses and to bless the belongings of the people who had been jailed.
The UN representative, only introduced as Roberto, announced that the result of their investigation is that a representative of the US Secretary of State’s office will be arriving in a few days and more investigations will ensue. She is also going to facilitate a meeting with the Standing Rock Sioux, Morton County Sheriff, and a representative from DAPL. This is guardedly optimistic news.
The Morton County Sheriff returned the possessions of those who were jailed. They were thrown into plastic bags marked with the numbers the prisoners had on their arms. Because possessions, especially clothing, hold the energy of the owner, it was important to bless and cleanse the belongings as if they were living beings.
Also all the possessions from the north Treaty Camp that were torn apart in last week’s attack were put into four storage crates that were being brought back to camp that night, including teepees and poles. They called for four volunteers with pick ups with trailers to go retrieve them after the ceremony.
photo by Kellie Stewart
Chief Looking Horse introduced the Buffalo clan singers, who sang the song of the White Buffalo Calf woman. He then said a long, beautiful prayer in Lakota, while the drummers and singers sang a song about the four directions. We started facing west and slowly turned to all four directions as a young warrior was busy with sweet grass and sage, smudging the pile of plastic bags laid out like body bags with the sacred, cleansing healing smoke.
As we stood under the last afternoon sun, and the smell of the fire and the sage and the sweet grass filled the air, I was again transported deep into prayer. I felt so honored to be present in this ceremony. I may never experience anything like this again. How gracious and loving this was in the face of what had happened: giving thanks to the Morton County Sheriff for returning the possessions and sacred objects of the people they had just beaten, maced, hit with LRAD and microwaves, fired rubber bullets at, killed their horses, and caged like animals, all the while allowing DAPL to dig up the graves of their grandmothers and continue building the deadly black snake that will destroy the water. To me, it was hard to be thankful. How does one be peaceful and gracious in the face of all this?
As I stood there in prayer, I understood. In order for us to endure past what Chief Looking Horse called “the point of no return” we simply must learn such humility and grace. This is indeed the front line of the new world peace movement. It is Gandhi, Jesus, and Mother Teresa, all rolled into an ancient culture born of a deep love of Mother Earth, one that cherishes all life, including the animals, plants, and even possessions as equal and living beings. One that begins and ends each day with deep prayers of gratitude.
After the ceremony, I lingered at the sacred fire for a long time, in awe of everything I have seen over the past three days. As the sun set, there I sat on my last night with my little blue mason jar filled with Superior, on the altar of the front lines of the point of no return.
By Barbara With, October 29, 2016
All photos by Barbara With, except “Boys On Horses,” by Joe Brusky
Today I made my first visit to the Sacred Stone Camps, the now-famous water protector settlement in Standing Rock, North Dakota. I arrived at Standing Rock casino well past midnight and arose early the next day to get to camp. In the casino restaurant, I met two elders, a man and a woman, who had just been released from jail after being arrested two days ago. I bought them both breakfast and listened to their story…
She had a “#1” on her arm. This was how law enforcement marked the people arrested. Seeing the number on her arm made me think of the Jews during the Holocaust. She told us that about 80 women had been kept in dog kennels and were made to sit on the concrete floor for hours. There were young girls in the cages, and the guards were hanging off the sides of the cages, harassing them. At one point, all three of the girls were removed from the cages. She said no one knew where they had been taken.
Even though the Red Owl Legal Cooperative arrived in Bismarck with cash to secure their release, officials refused to set bail, waiting until too late in the day for the detainees to go before the judge. The couple was then separated, and she was taken to Devil’s Lake jail, a four-hour drive to the north. She did not know where he was taken. The legal collective drove to Devil’s Lake, and still they would not release the prisoners.
He related how they destroyed the teepees and sacred objects at the front line camp. Many people lost everything. Luckily the couple had loaded most of their stuff into their truck, drove it to a safe place, and gave someone their keys. Many others lost their cars that have been impounded as “evidence.” People have no idea where they are or if and when they can get them back.
They told us about the young man and the elder who had been ripped out of their sweat lodge where they were holding ceremony, thrown to the ground, handcuffed, and not allowed to dress. Video footage from the front lines confirmed that. They apparently were made to sit in the cell with only their shorts.
The couple said that they were some of the last to be arrested, as they were sitting in their prayer circle. The militia had surrounded them, but was waiting until everyone was gone, thinking they could make their arrests with no risk of getting caught on camera. She said after everyone had been pushed back, the officers ripped an elder out of the circle and beat him, and then ripped a young woman out as well and threw her to the ground before they were all arrested.
Even though there was a no-fly zone put in place to prevent drones from filming, the camp journalists flew them anyway and then anonymously contributed their footage. Sure enough, everything she told me is on the drone footage.
At one point in the struggle, two different herds of buffalo came thundering over the hills, much to the joy of the water protectors. She told me that the buffalo were running in front of several young people on their horses, who were driving the herds towards the front line. When DAPL saw what was happening, they chased the young people, firing their rifles at them. One of the horses was struck in the leg with a bullet. When they missed the young woman rider, a DAPL security guard overcame her and rammed his ATV into the back of her horse. She and her mount went flying, breaking both of the legs of the horse. Later, sadly, the horse had to be put down. It was a miracle that none of those young people were shot or killed.
As of this morning, they still have not accounted for 101 arrestees from yesterday. The chairman of their tribe was also arrested, along with archeologists, lawyers, and many other water protectors whose only goal is to make sure there is clean water for everyone.
The presence of these two water warriors was stunning. As I sat there crying, they, on the other hand, were filled with a light, talking about how inspiring it was that their chairman was also arrested. And they recounted their happy moment when they found each other again. He was released first, went and found his truck, and laid down in the back to wait for her. When she arrived, they grabbed each other and thanked the creator for their good fortune to be together again.
He described what is happening at Sacred Stone Camp simply: “It’s like being the one always being bullied on the playground, and then, people suddenly start standing up for you. It feels so good!”
Today was a relatively quiet day on the front lines. DAPL and Morton County sheriff have blocked off the road while DAPL continues to tear up their sacred sites, desecrate their ancestors graves, and move closer to the Missouri River.
We walked to the front line in prayer, with the drum and songs. A group of jingle dancers did a round dance, and we prayed some more. At one point, Chief Arvol Looking Horse, who was leading the prayers, walked over to the security forces and had a talk, but nothing changed: the barricades remained, US law enforcement continued to protect a multinational corporation with a record of leaking pipelines, and a band of water protectors continued to pray and remain peaceful and vigilant.
If you haven’t gone to Standing Rock, get there. Not only are you needed as a water protector, but you will be forever changed by the power of these amazing people. Peaceful prayer as a protection is the most powerful force there is.
If this pipeline goes through, we will all be called upon to stand up and protect our water. Why not do it now, before it’s too late?
No matter what the outcome of this epic stand, the Standing Rock Sioux have already won. Love trumps hate, prayer beats weapons, and nonviolence will be their legacy. They are on the right side of history, and I am betting even those men in the militarized militia cannot drink oil.
Memory is long in Indian Country and histories get obscured through the haze of stories untold or skewed in the telling. By the late 1800s, the nomadic Sioux had been relegated to 320 acre plots, their children sent to boarding schools for assimilation into Christendom, and the great buffalo herds all but extinguished. Their once fluid land base had been reduced to an area the size of the state of South Dakota, and then reduced again to the roughly five reservations they now occupy. In the 1890s, a spiritual awakening intermixed with millennial anxiety, rebellion against the oppressors, and cultural expression of autonomy swept the destitute tribes. It was known as the Ghost Dance; a consolidation of secular round dances conducted with the conviction that earnestness and spiritual alignment would rid the land of its brutal occupation, and bring back the buffalo, the disappearing birds, fish and plants, and the old ways.
The Ghost Dance scared white settlers and their BIA enforcers who saw it as a call to arms, a resurgence of a powerful warrior spirit. Perhaps it had those elements, as the warrior spirit of the Sioux runs deep, but when people are starving and facing the harsh Great Plains winter dressed in rags and without shoes, it is very difficult to amass a credible threat to the cancer of colonization. In spite of the reality of the situation, BIA agents asked for troop reinforcements, claiming that Sitting Bull’s leadership posed a great threat to westward expansion. Panic set in among the white settlers, Sitting Bull was arrested for not intervening in the illegal dances, and was subsequently shot and killed in suspicious circumstances. The Ghost Dance continued to sweep through Native American tribes.
To the settlers, the dancing was seen as ritualistic, primitive, Dionysian, and the ululations, pitch-singing and drumming heard as cries for revenge of all that was lost. At Wounded Knee, a Lakota dance began near the banks of a little river. Earth was thrown into the sky as an offering to the heavens, a pathway for the return of lost animals, a holy offering. Was it a signal for rebellion? A gunshot was heard, and the massacre began. White soldiers, still humiliated from the Battle of Greasy Grass (Little Big Horn), and hungover from a night of hard drinking, opened fire with carbines and mounted Hotchkiss guns, and when the roar of bullets cleared, the blood of 153 Lakota seeped into the tall grass prairie. Escaping women and children were tracked for miles, slain where caught.
Memory is long in Indian Country, and the devastation of colonization continues. We witness thezealotry of security as they release bloody nosed dogs who lunge at their leashes to bite and rip at bodies. We see the glee in the troops as they pepper spray point blank in the faces of peaceful and prayerful people. We understand the genocidal consequences of our continued investment in economies of extraction, our attack on the water of life itself. Helicopters whirl overhead, surveilling the camps, and militarized police mix with private security to protect corporate interests as they plow through sacred sites of what once was legally decreed Sioux land. Police are armed, protectors are not. There is money at stake, a lot of it, and South Dakota seems wholly owned by petroleum industries.
“But things are different now. Wounded Knee could never happen again,” you might be thinking. Yes, things are always different, but history repeats itself, or more accurately, is not finished. This is the same history. As Digital Smoke Signals’Myron Dewey says in a video post, “So we got this in reference to the Ghost Dance. When they were in prayer, they were in circle, and then they (the soldiers) created propaganda andwent in, and that was the issue. We do not want to repeat history.”
This is followed up by a direct call to action from Joye Braun of the Indigenous Environmental Network, who makes a direct plea for our participation in this ongoing and escalating standoff:
“We need everyone to come to camp now! This is not pretend anymore… Pack up, get your bags, and come here now! Come through the South Dakota side, and get to Standing Rock! …This is ground zero. Now! We need you here, right now!”
Memory is long in Indian Country. The ghost of Sitting Bull watches over the protectors. At night, drums thud to the fire’s glow, and northern lights arc across the open sky. There is singing, ululation, laughter, prayer. As you drift into sleep, you just might hear the hope and promise of a Ghost Dance of the Great Plains whisper through the buffalo grass. There is a lot at stake here, and we have a slim chance of getting it right, maybe this time…
History is always skewed, but there is that arc, they say, that sometimes bends towards justice.
The Madison City Council unanimously passed a resolution expressing solidarity with Indigenous resistance to the Dakota Access Pipeline on Tuesday night.
“WHEREAS, the proposed Dakota Access Pipeline would carry as many as 570,000 barrels of fracked crude oil per day for more than 1,100 miles from the Bakken oil fields of North Dakota to Illinois, passing over sensitive landscapes including treaty protected land containing recognized cultural resources and across or under 209 rivers, creeks, and tributaries including the pristine Missouri River, which provides drinking water and irrigates agricultural land in communities across the Midwest; and,
WHEREAS, the proposed pipeline violates the collective environmental human rights of the people of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe to life, health, clean water, and a clean environment, treaty rights secured to them by the 1851 and 1868 Ft. Laramie Treaties between the Oceti Sakowin and the United States, as well as by the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, Art. 3, 25; ICCPR, Art. 6; the UN Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous People, Art. 7, 24, 29; and the American Declaration of the Rights and Duties of Man, Art. 1.; and,
WHEREAS, despite deep opposition from the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe as well as farmers, scientists, more than 30 environmental advocacy groups, and other Tribal nations along the proposed route, and without Tribal consultation or meaningful environmental review as required by federal law, in July, 2016 the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers issued a permit allowing construction of the fracked oil pipeline to move forward; and,
WHEREAS, in a show of monumental cooperation not seen in the 140 years since the Battle of the Greasy Grass or Custer’s Last Stand, members of the Lakota Standing Rock Sioux Tribe have united with the Oceti Sakowin, the Seven Fires Council – which include the confederation of Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota Nations – and established a peaceful encampment in Cannon Ball, North Dakota known as the Sacred Stone Camp to resist the construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline with a cultural and spiritual presence; and,
WHEREAS, on August 15, 2016 the Standing Rock Sioux Tribal Council led by Tribal Chairman David Archambault II called on Tribal nations and Indigenous people around the world to issue resolutions in support of the Standing Rock Sioux and the Sacred Stone Camp; and,
WHEREAS, more than 200 tribal nations and a growing number of US cities have formally passed such resolutions; and,
WHEREAS: the City of Madison is located on the traditional homelands of the Ho-Chunk people and their ancestors; and,
WHEREAS, the City of Madison recognizes the importance of maintaining government to government relationships between tribal governments and local, state and federal governments established by treaties between tribes and the US Government and has recognized Indigenous Peoples Day since 2005; and,
WHEREAS, all 11 federally recognized tribal governments in the State of Wisconsin have formally expressed their support of the Standing Rock Sioux in their treaty rights to free and informed consent, and their human rights to clean water; and,
WHEREAS, the City of Madison is home to a thriving American Indian community, including members of all 11 federally recognized tribes as well as tribes from across the continent; and,
WHEREAS, the State of Wisconsin, County of Dane and City of Madison have codified protection of sacred and otherwise culturally important sites in law and ordinance; and,
WHEREAS, the highest concentration of Late Woodland effigy mounds is centered in Madison and Dane County, although most of them were destroyed by the middle of the 20th century; and,
WHEREAS, the City of Madison understands the vital importance of protecting our natural resources, in particular the water,
NOW, THEREFORE, BE IT RESOLVED, that the Mayor and Common Council of the City of Madison, stand in support of the Indigenous opposition to the Dakota Access Pipeline and call on all residents of Madison to raise awareness about this important struggle for Indigenous sovereignty and environmental justice and to support the Sacred Stone Camp efforts in any way they can; and,
FINALLY, BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED, that the City of Madison calls upon the United States and the Army Corps of Engineers to obtain the free, prior and informed consent of the Standing Rock Sioux and any other tribe whose resources could be impacted by the pipeline prior to taking any federal action regarding the DAPL that would harm or destroy tribal ancestral lands, waters and sacred sites.
Madison City Council resolution sponsored by Rebecca Kemble, Marsha Rummel, Samba Baldeh, Ledell Zellers, Shiva Bidar-Sielaff, David Ahrens, Mike Verveer, Sara Eskrich,and Amanda Hall and Mayor Paul Soglin
We need every city in America to pass similar resolutions. What are you waiting for?