Daily Prompt Love <3 Bigotry
18 July 2019
“Bigotry dwarfs the soul by shutting out the truth.” ―
Make art about the damage of bigotry, about fighting back against bigots.
Image by Vytalis Arnoldus from Pixabay
Posts tagged ‘racism’
Daily Prompt Love <3 Fighting Back
16 July 2019
Make art about or that fights back against racism.
Want to learn what white people can do, using that privilege, to fight racism? Check out Derrick Clifton’s article at Everyday Feminism
“10 Simple Ways White People Can Step Up to Fight Everyday Racism”
Daily Prompt Love <3 Not So Blind After All
9 June 2019
Make art about injustice, about the flaws in our justice system, about a moment of fighting injustice.
Daily Prompt Love <3 Words, Skin
16 April 2019
“I have so many words–“chink” words and :gook” words, too–that they do not fit on my skin.” — from The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston.
Make art about the words you have, the words imprinted on your skin.
Monday Must Read! Juneteenth, Ralph Ellison
How desperately we need Ellison’s wisdom now.
Juneteenth is Ralph Ellison‘s second novel, published posthumously in 1999 as a 368-page condensation of over 2000 pages written by him over a period of forty years. It was originally written without any real organization, and Ellison’s longtime friend, biographer and critic John F. Callahan put the novel together, editing it in the way he thought Ellison would want it to be written.
“Ellison’s literary executor, John Callahan, has now quarried a smaller, more coherent work from all that raw material. Gone are the epic proportions that Ellison so clearly envisioned. Instead, Juneteenth revolves around just two characters: Adam Sunraider, a white, race-baiting New England senator, and Alonzo “Daddy” Hickman, a black Baptist minister who turns out to have a paradoxical (and paternal) relationship to his opposite number. As the book opens, Sunraider is delivering a typically bigoted peroration on the Senate floor when he’s peppered by an assassin’s bullets. Mortally wounded, he summons the elderly Hickman to his bedside. There the two commence a journey into their shared past, which (unlike the rest of 1950s America) represents a true model of racial integration.”
Learn the History of Juneteenth Here
“Traveling as Family,” Still, and Always, No Matter the 100 Days
from Citizen, VI [On the train the woman standing]
On the train the woman standing makes you understand there are no seats available. And, in fact, there is one. Is the woman getting off at the next stop? No, she would rather stand all the way to Union Station.
The space next to the man is the pause in a conversation you are suddenly rushing to fill. You step quickly over the woman’s fear, a fear she shares. You let her have it.
The man doesn’t acknowledge you as you sit down because the man knows more about the unoccupied seat than you do. For him, you imagine, it is more like breath than wonder; he has had to think about it so much you wouldn’t call it thought.
When another passenger leaves his seat and the standing woman sits, you glance over at the man. He is gazing out the window into what looks like darkness.
You sit next to the man on the train, bus, in the plane, waiting room, anywhere he could be forsaken. You put your body there in proximity to, adjacent to, alongside, within.
You don’t speak unless you are spoken to and your body speaks to the space you fill and you keep trying to fill it except the space belongs to the body of the man next to you, not to you.
Where he goes the space follows him. If the man left his seat before Union Station you would simply be a person in a seat on the train. You would cease to struggle against the unoccupied seat when where why the space won’t lose its meaning.
You imagine if the man spoke to you he would say, it’s okay, I’m okay, you don’t need to sit here. You don’t need to sit and you sit and look past him into the darkness the train is moving through. A tunnel.
All the while the darkness allows you to look at him. Does he feel you looking at him? You suspect so. What does suspicion mean? What does suspicion do?
The soft gray-green of your cotton coat touches the sleeve of him. You are shoulder to shoulder though standing you could feel shadowed. You sit to repair whom who? You erase that thought. And it might be too late for that.
It might forever be too late or too early. The train moves too fast for your eyes to adjust to anything beyond the man, the window, the tiled tunnel, its slick darkness. Occasionally, a white light flickers by like a displaced sound.
From across the aisle tracks room harbor world a woman asks a man in the rows ahead if he would mind switching seats. She wishes to sit with her daughter or son. You hear but you don’t hear. You can’t see.
It’s then the man next to you turns to you. And as if from inside your own head you agree that if anyone asks you to move, you’ll tell them we are traveling as a family.
Mary Carroll-Hackett: Poetry and Prose 
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