Browsing Tag

protest

Guest Posts, Racism

Silence is Not An Option

June 12, 2020
option

Black Lives Matter.

Over the past week, The Manifest-Station has been quiet as we watched the world change in reaction to the brutal murder of George Floyd. The subsequent flood of similar stories that continue to emerge is horrifying. The overwhelming number of people harmed or worse by a group sworn to protect is sickening. The growing list of names is heartbreaking. Support of it has to end and ending it is not someone else’s problem.

We all own this problem.

Marching, listening, amplifying…all of that is important, but those alone are not nearly enough. As individuals and as a collective, it is imperative we work for change from the inside out and the outside in. We need to learn what it really means for our black and brown friends to try to thrive in this country, we need to unlearn our own assumptions and bias. We also need to demand change and we need to be relentless in our efforts. When people talk about “doing the work” it is not a trope, it is work and it is necessary.

The Manifest-Station is about being human, and we have worked hard for it to be a safe space for words, for all writers. We are committed to continuing the support and amplification of black and brown voices, this includes the work published on the site and elsewhere. We are adding a “resource” page that will feature ways to get educated and involved. In addition, Jen’s instagram feed is filled with actionable items. If we are missing something that should be included, let us know, this is a work in progress.

At The Manifest-Station, we are proud to add our voices to the call for change. Silence is complicity, and frankly, it is not an option. Change is possible, moreover, if we work together it’s coming.

Guest Posts, Women

Late Bloomer.

October 25, 2014

beauty-hunting-jen-logo-blackBy Jenna Kern-Rugile.

In many ways, I was a lucky kid.

I grew up in a quaint, artsy community called Sea Cliff, which, as the name suggests, sits on a beautiful stretch of Long Island Sound, 40 minutes east of Manhattan. Contrary to the suburban stereotype –carbon-copy houses, strings of strip malls and Fedora-clad dads with apron-clad wives –Sea Cliff was filled with multi-colored gingerbread houses, pottery studios, patchouli soap makers and funky antique shops. In the late Sixties and early Seventies, my hometown was a haven for artists, musicians and hippies.

And Lord how I worshiped the hippies. I longed to be one of those groovy girls with bell bottoms and beaded choker necklaces. I could so easily imagine myself as a peacenik chick. It was all too cool–the Birkenstocks, purple Paisley shirts, acoustic guitars, and the music, oh God almighty the music! The Beatles, Dylan, Aretha, the Grateful Dead, and my goddess to this day, Joni Mitchell.

I was all set to roll up for the magical mystery tour. Woodstock, count me in, man. Give me some free love, freedom marches and feminist manifestos and I’ll be in freakin’ heaven.

But there was a little problem. I was little, as in little kid. Born in 1961, the heady, hippie era was passing me by. I was too young to wear a bra let alone burn one.

Continue Reading…