Heaven Must Be Like This!

Feeling like a fool for driving across the Bay Bridge this past Friday evening when I could easily have taken BART, I endured the 50 minute drive across the upper deck into foggy San Francisco while listening to static-filled Reggae music  broadcast by a radio station that never identified itself.  I arrived at the 3.9 Art Collective on Fillmore Street, right across the street from Yoshi’s Jazz Club, right on time.  

The occasion was a Meet & Greet. I walked into a lively room that immediately embraced me with color!  The spectacular art on the walls, the myriad of folks mingling, the table piled high with fabric scraps begging folks to weave them, the world music singing out from the DJ’s corner, and the Spirit of freedom that permeated the room -- all came together in the creation of an artistic masterpiece!

The 3.9 Art Collective is an association of artists, curators, art writers, and art enthusiasts who live in San Francisco and bear witness to the city’s dwindling black population.  The Collective is dedicated to reversing this trend and has set out to do so by drawing attention to the historical and ongoing presence of black artists in the city.  This Meet & Greet event, free and open to the public, brought folks together to appreciate the artwork of several Collective members exhibited on the walls.  The event also celebrated the artist in each of us.  While music and drumming harmonized, some of us crocheted, others painted, and we shared conversations about how art has had its way with us.  As I sat crocheting and groovin' to the sound of the drum, Melorra, the sister next to me, smiled and proclaimed, "Anything can happen here!"  One of the Collective members who shared welcoming words at the mic said, "You won't find news about things like what's happening here tonight on the front page of the Chronicle." 

We were all connected by the desire to live fully, freely.  And for the 3 hours that we spent together on a cool July night in San Francisco, we did that with precision.  Heaven must be like this!

For more information about the 3.9 Art Collective, visit: www.threepointninecollective.com

Mama Bear

I’ve come to realize that I’m a pacifist.  I find it difficult even to look at a gun closely – I can count the number of times I’ve done so on two fingers.  When I find it necessary to confront someone, I’m driven by the need to resolve conflict rather than wanting to humiliate, exact revenge, or in any way keep conflict going. However, I’m also a mother.  Years ago when I saw that my 4-year-old son’s safety was at risk due to a neighbor’s idiotic behavior, I became MAMA BEAR!  The only thing on my mind was making sure that my neighbor regretted the very thought of endangering my child. 

As a pacifist, feeling the surge of this Mama Bear energy has been rare.  And as a pacifist, I also know that this energy is purposeful – it’s supposed to be directed at the source of a problem in order to immediately and effectively eradicate it.  So, where do I direct this energy when it rises in response to the idiotic, self-serving, criminal behavior that permeates the various systems of our society, endangering our lives?  There is no tangible receptor for my righteous rage.  My rage has thus become pain, a pain that I must learn to manage if I am to live a healthy, productive life.

Or so I’m told.  You can’t save the world.  These familiar words gently grace my ears, whispered from the lips of those who love me.  They worry that my carrying pain is unhealthy, and they  believe that I might enjoy more inner peace by directing my energy toward a single cause where I might actually see some positive impact. But I'm in pain because it's my compassion that makes me want to "roar." Wouldn't managing my pain also require me to "manage" my compassion, essentially denying who I really am?  Hmmm.

My son, now 27, lives 3000 miles away in New York.  I was so sure that once he grew up  and became independent, my Mama Bear energy would go into long-term hibernation.  Little did I realize that his independence would actually enable me to see beyond his immediate well-being and bring into my view the fundamental threats to our society and our world:  white supremacy, global capitalism, and a general disdain for Mother Earth and all her non-human species.

I am a pacifist.  I am also Mama Bear.  And yes, I must “roar” -- I must feel my full compassion and let it profoundly guide me rather than managing it in efforts to protect myself from being deeply pained.  I also believe that each of us knowing who we are and being true to who we are is absolutely necessary in order for us to truly transform our society and our world.

Copyright 2013 by Dianne Durham

Okay, here's what we need to do . . .

These words are what I so longed to hear from someone charismatic and wise on this morning following the Zimmerman verdict.  Instead, I heard birds singing and the heavy footsteps of the people who live upstairs.

I longed for clear, inspiring instruction on how to effectively respond to the Trayvon Martin case, but found none.  And finding no comfort, I felt alone, helpless, angry, and utterly defeated.

And this is how I’m supposed to feel in a system that survives on illusion.  If I were to feel engaged and powerful and righteous, I would surely expose the illusion and live according to truth.  I believe we all know the truth -- or at least we all know better than the lie.

So, before we vote for another political candidate, or sign a petition, or participate in a protest, the questions are:  Are we willing to live accordingly to the truth?  How do we live according to what we know is true?  The problem is that what we know and what we accept are very different matters.  So, we begin by accepting the truth about ourselves

     in everything your greatness is not you

     it’s your eyes

    they are your salvation 

and then we open our eyes!

Copyright Dianne Durham, July 2013

Name-calling As Art

What's in a name -- recognition?  Power?  Understanding?  Without attempting a scientific explanation, I will say that when I can call something by name -- whether a person, place, or thing -- I feel more confident about that thing.  I have pinpointed it, which results in a very real sense of satisfaction.

Art is a way of naming how we experience something.  It helps us to reason, to make sense of our world, giving rise to the phrase, Ahh, I see it!  To belittle or in any way treat art as merely an object -- something that can be provided or not, in public schools; something that can be made accessible or not, to poor people; something that is possessed and purposeful only to the extent that it is personally beneficial -- is a tragic misunderstanding of ourselves.

We are intrinsically artistic, having the ability to label our experience using words, paint, clay, movement, instruments, touch, textiles, song.  Our insistence on making art, of naming our experience through various means, will maintain our humanity and will provide a sense of satisfaction that just may see us through every difficult circumstance.


Copyright 2013 by Dianne Durham

Can't You See Him?

What’s next, reinstatement of the Fugitive Slave Act?  This is the question my brother asked incredulously when the Supreme Court gutted the Voting Rights Act last week.  Of course, I wish I could say that he was joking, but honestly, he wasn’t.  His question pinpoints the reality that even though the Supreme Court, during the same week, sensibly ruled the Defense of Marriage Act  (DOMA) to be unconstitutional, there are those who remain determined to continue setting limits on our quality of life. 

My niece, who just finished a session of student teaching, witnessed an elementary  school teacher praise and  hand out doughnuts to the children who did well on their standardized testing; none for those who didn’t do so well . . .  My nephew had an eye appointment recently and was told he’s in the early stages of glaucoma, a disease which, if left uncontrolled, causes blindness. My nephew has no medical insurance; a 30-day supply of his eye drop medication costs $200 . . .  The U.S. imprisons more people – and more people of color – than  any other country in the world.^1,2. . . Last week President Obama reassured us that the NSA isn’t actually listening to our phone calls – they’re simply monitoring when, and to whom, and for how long, we talk. 

There he is!  Can’t you see him?  He’s a huge gray elephant with yellowing tusks and big floppy ears, and when he bellows, my palms don’t protect my ears from the blaring sound.  Can’t you see him?  His name is Calamity.  I often hear folks complain about him – how disgusting, expensive, insensitive, and dangerous he is.  I join in and we talk as though he exists in some faraway place like Mars . . .  but now I can see him everywhere I turn – in my dining room, and my bathroom, and in my public library  down the street.  He muscled his way through airport security and managed  to get on my fully-booked flight to New York a few weeks back.  He’s in the exam room at my doctor’s office, and whenever I go to the pharmacy, he’s right there, standing in line.

We refuse to see this elephant named Calamity in our every space, and until we do, he will continue to have his way with us.  Only when we acknowledge his intimate presence and call him by name will we be able to figure out how to make him go away.  If we fail to do these things, one day sooner than we think, this mighty elephant will raise his huge body on his powerful hind legs, cry out triumphantly, and then trample us!

Written by Dianne Durham

¹ As reported on the International Centre for Prison Studies website, http://www.prisonstudies.org/info/worldbrief/wpb_stats.php?area=all&category=wb_poprate

² Alexander. M. (2012). The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. New York: The New Press.  (Page 8).