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protest

Guest Posts, Activism, Friendship

Bad A** Feminists

June 9, 2021
catherine

by Tammi Markowitz Inscho

I took my most feminist action on a cold, grey day in January 2017.  I strapped  on my fanny pack with my id., my i-phone and three granola bars. A friend had knitted me a hot pink hat that was supposed to look like a uterus.  She was new to knitting. The hat was too small and looked like rhinoceros’ head.  Still, I stretched it over my head and made my way to the Benjamin Franklin Parkway.  I was ready to protest the inauguration of our pussy-grabbing 45th President of the United States.

I met Catherine at Logan Square—Philadelphia’s version of the National Mall.  Tens of thousands of other women stood shoulder to shoulder with us.  The crowd began to inch its way down the Parkway.  “Racist, sexist, anti-gay, Donald Trump Go Away,” we chanted in unison.

Catherine and I stopped to take selfies.  We huddled together around Catherine’s i-phone. We admired our photography.  We edited the pictures we liked best.  There was one of me with my rhinoceros horn standing at attention, I held up a peace sign with one hand, my LOVE TRUMPS HATE sign in the other. My lips were glossy and just pouty enough-the picture was Instagram ready.

A half hour passed. We crept along with the crowd.  We hadn’t gotten very far.  Catherine looked over at me “I’m cold,” she said.

“Me too,” I admitted.

Catherine nodded her head toward the old Four Seasons Hotel.

“What?” I said

“Want to duck in–warm up for just a minute?”

I wanted to.

We laid our signs against a telephone pole.

We fought our way through the crowded.

The bell boys swung the hotel doors open for us.  The lobby was warm and smelled like gardenias.

“Heaven.” Catherine sighed.

I took off my hat, ran my finger through my hair. Catherine tore off her gloves rubbed her numb fingers together. She looked at me.  There was a glimmer in her eyes and an almost imperceptible smile across her lips. I recognized the look from tenth grade when Amy McGowen would routinely convince me to cut school and hang out in her basement all day drinking clear liquid from her parents liquor cabinet.

Catherine held up her reddened index finger. “One glass of red wine.” she said.

Red wine sounded perfect.  I could hear the crowd through the Four Season’s windows. “Show me what democracy looks like.” The crowd chanted.

I held up my index finger. “One.” I said.  I tried to sound stern.  I think I just sounded thirsty.

We sank into two leather seats at a round candle lit table. It was 11:15 a.m. We were the only ones in the bar. We ordered Cabernet. While we waited we grabbed fistfuls of mixed nuts.

The bartender set down our wine glasses. Grabbed the empty bowl of nuts and came back with a fresh bowl.  We sipped our wine and feasted on the nuts.

“First person to talk about their kids—takes a shot.”  Catherine said grinning.

I agreed.

Catherine and I met in 2011 at a Mommy and Me class.  She had twin boys and a Cadillac  of a double stroller.  We bonded over things like the pros and cons of phasing out the second nap and whether feeding the boys vegetables in squeeze pouches would lead to bad eating habits.  Now that our kids were five we consulted each other about whether to do soccer shots and where to have the kids’ birthday parties.  Our husbands coached tee ball together.

When we finished our first glass of wine Catherine cocked her head to one side. I knew what she was thinking. My body felt warm.

The bartender came by, “can I get you ladies another round?”

We answered in unison. I said, “no.” Catherine said, “yes.”  The bartender grinned and brought two more glasses of cabernet.

“He is cute.” Catherine said about the bartender.  Then she told me that she hadn’t had sex with her husband in a year and half.  I was shocked but, tried not to show it.  She told me how rough their marriage was.  How unhappy she was. How she fantasized all the time about being with men who truly desired her.

I told her about how rough my marriage had been. I told her how we almost didn’t make it –how we worked so hard to get to where we are today but that things still felt so fragile.  I gave her the number of our couples counselor.  She typed the number into her phone.  She told me about the trauma she endured in her childhood.  She cried and so did I.  We kept shoveling in the nuts as we sniffled into our cocktail napkins. No one suggested bringing tissues to the March.

Catherine twirled her index finger in the direction of the bartender. He brought us two more glasses of Cabernet. I told Catherine about Pema Chardron, Eckard Tolle and Marianne Williamson.  She had never heard of any of them.  She typed their names into the notes in her phone. My body felt weightless and my head heavy.  I couldn’t hear the protestors any longer.

We ordered French onion soup.  It was the best I’d ever had.

I admitted to Catherine that even though Dylan was five years old I still checked to see if he was breathing multiple times a night. I told her I knew that was crazy.  I told her I loved him so much sometimes I thought my heart would explode. I said I wasn’t sure it was healthy.

She told me I had to take I shot.  I refused.

It was 4:00 p.m. when I said, “maybe we should get back out there.”

Catherine threw her back and laughed.  I laughed too.

“We are a couple of bad ass feminists aren’t we.”  I said.

We high fived.

I went home.

I described the day to my husband as “empowering and invigorating.”

I didn’t feel guilty.  I wasn’t lying.

Tammi Markowitz Inscho is a reformed trial lawyer turned writer. She lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania with her nine year old son, Dylan and husband David. She has written pieces that have been published in the Philadelphia Inquirer and is currently working on her first novel. Additionally, Tammi leads writing workshops for kids and teen girls.

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You know it’s an amazing year to be a reader when Emily Rapp Black has another book coming. Frida Kahlo and My Left Leg is remarkable. In this book, Emily gives us a look into how Frida Kahlo influenced her own understanding of what it means to be creative and to be disabled. Like much of her writing, this book also gives us a look into moving on (or passed or through) when it feels like everything is gone.

Pick up a copy at Bookshop.org or Amazon and let us know what you think!

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Are you ready to take your writing to the next level?

Two of our favorite writing resources are launching new opportunities for working on your craft. Circe Consulting was formed when Emily Rapp Black and Gina Frangello decided to collaborate on a writing space. Corporeal Writing is under the direction of Lidia Yuknavitch. Both believe in the importance of listening to the stories your body tells. If you sign up for a course, tell them The ManifestStation sent you!

Anti-racist resources, because silence is not an option

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Click here for all things Jen and on being human

Activism, Guest Posts

A Non-Black Body

February 16, 2021
BLACK LIVES MATTER PROTEST

By Joelyn Suarez

I watched the 8 minute, 46 second video of George Floyd’s murder with my brother-in-law. He propped his cell phone against a centerpiece of fake, white orchids on his dining table. We scooted our tufted chairs together near the round, glass tabletop. There’s a confrontation between two males, one who looks more like my brother and the other who looks more like me. My brother: Black male, 34 years old, 6’2”. Me: Filipino woman, 29 years old, 5’3”. George Floyd is pinned on the ground by the knee of a white officer against his neck. He cries for help, I can’t breathe. He calls out for his Mama.

“Why won’t he get off of him?” I ask, frustrated. My brother shakes his head. We try to shake what we just watched in order to tend to our mixed kids playing nearby.

*

I carry guilt in this non-Black body. I can tell by the way that strangers willingly approach me that they deem me to be less threatening. Petite. Asian. Female. I’ve known my brother-in-law since my teenage years. He’s always been much more reserved than my siblings, and me, who can be raucous and confrontational.

What kind of privilege affords us the comfort in confrontation without being considered a threat?

My guilt weighs heavy in the realization that the fate of George Floyd would more likely be my brother’s than mine.

My guilt weighs heavy in the realization that someone may actually hear my cries for help, because of my race.

My guilt weighs heavy in the realization that my white husband may serve as my voice, the only audible voice, in such a situation.

What kind of privilege affords us the feeling of guilt over the hunted?

*

As a country, we indulge in the success of Black athletes. We show up to games, we root for our teams, we parade the streets after championship wins. We analyze sport statistics with the utmost conviction, and marvel at the athleticism of the Black body.

Until we don’t.

As a country, we are told that a Black body should be mourned, but briefly. Thoughts and prayers. Period. It was only one bad officer—or four—in a sea of honorable ones. Don’t be so angry. Don’t be unreasonable. How many Black bodies do we lose before our collective anger is reasonable?

When, as a country, will we defend a Black body as much as we defend a shopping center?

*

Exactly one week later, I’m back at my brother-in-law’s dining table and we are celebrating my niece’s promotion to middle school. My sister, an activist at heart, is not with us—with her daughter to share in this moment—because she is out organizing protests and bailing protesters out of jail. Every cell in her body is shouting: BLACK LIVES MATTER. DEFUND THE POLICE. She tells me she’s tired, inspired, and reluctantly hopeful for change. She tells me she has to get back to work. Our celebration seems so small.

*

In his last moments, George Floyd called out for his Mama—for the kind of protection that is loving and unwavering.

I’ve spoken to friends and family, white and minority alike, who see this as a time for self-reflection and action. We talked about how we are accountable, how we are privileged, how we can forcibly change course.

We are at the beginning of a different kind of movement. This movement isn’t polite or passive; it does not use the Black body as a shield to protect other targets, other non-Black bodies. It will call out racism wherever it lives in this broken system. It will manifest the guilt of all non-Black bodies into societal change.

Take in this moment. Let it sink in, and turn from guilt and grief to utter outrage. Then, let that compel you to move.

Joelyn Suarez is a writer from San Diego, CA. She has been published in The Rumpus and Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers.

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Verge, by Lidia Yuknavitch, is out in paperback. These short stories will grip your heart and mind.  The writing is sharp and the empathetic portraits of broken people will stay with you long after you finish the collection.

If you haven’t already, pick up a copy at Bookshop.org or Amazon.

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Anti-racist resources, because silence is not an option

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Click here for all things Jen

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.