Monday, November 26, 2007

Five Dollar Freedom Fund


While Project Director PJ Whitt and I have been funding this project completely out of pocket for the last six months, the intense level of interest from participants all over the United States has given us to understand that this is a much larger endeavor than we might have anticipated.

The grant cycle application deadlines are fast approaching, and I'll be right in line . . . so everyone keep fingers and toes crossed that we'll receive funds for much-needed equipment and travel.

Additionally, in keeping with the grassroots nature of this endeavor, I've started the Five Dollar Freedom Fund: donate five dollars today, to help promote freedom of visibility for all persons living with and developing pride in bodies of difference.

Visitors to the Claiming Masculinity Project pages will now find a PayPal donation button, making for a secure, easy transaction. Of course, you're welcome to give any amount you can; every donation is appreciated.

We are also gratefully accepting in-kind donations of any of the following necessary items:


Professional photography lighting equipment . . .

* Continuous and boom/hair lighting kits.

* Flash units with stands, probably two.

* Carry bag, like the Domke F-400 sling bag, to make the lighting equipment portable.

* Nikon D80 Digital SLR, packaged with 18-135mm DX Zoom Nikkor lens.

* More variously-colored muslin backdrops.

* Backdrop support system.

* Computers. I have two Macs in the house, but neither has enough memory or a large enough hard drive to accommodate the huge number of photos I'm constantly processing, so I need one devoted solely to the artwork, and another for running the business end of the project. So . . .


* a 24-inch, 2.8GHz iMac, with OS 10.5

* a 17-inch, 2.4GHz MacBook Pro, with OS 10.5


* Adobe Photoshop CS3, to increase photo processing productivity

Basic business purchases . . .

* File folders.

* Printer paper

* Ink cartridges.

* CD-Rs.

* Travel and accommodation funding. I'm not able to photograph participants waiting in the Midwest, South, West Coast, and Pacific Northwest, until I have grant money.

I'm committed to continuing the project at no charge to the participants. I just have to keep faith that the equipment I need to forward the work will come *s

Feel free to post this list to your favorite sites, where such activities might be welcome.

And remember: the Five Dollar Freedom Fund will prove that a little from many makes a huge difference.

~Emmanuela



Photos, Photos, Photos


Hard to tell by my website, I know, but the project is still going strong, and keeping me very busy *s

Last month, I shot the first in a series with Calyb, who will begin transitioning in December. Peace and blessings, Calyb *s The early photos show a very nervous person, who just started getting a bit more comfortable, as we were losing light. A second session is scheduled for a coming weekend.

Oh, and Calyb is the Incredibly Kind Person who's been working toward creating donations to the project. Much love!

Next, PJ and I were down in Philly on a cold Autumn afternoon, where I shot 18-year-old Meg outdoors, in a park near her dorm. Meg is the youngest person to join the project, and I welcome her thoughtful commitment and generosity of spirit. We'll be doing a second session, after Winter Break . . .

This past Saturday, author TJ Fleming made an appearance at my home, where we were able to complete a quick session, between various holiday commitments. TJ is stunning; I'm hoping to have approval for those photos within a couple of weeks.

Sunday brought great light, after several days of snow and clouds. PJ was once again willing to grace me with her modeling skills, in a new set of figure studies . . . with guitar.

Beyond the second sessions I currently have scheduled, I'll be taking a bit of a hiatus from working on the project in December: my family will be with me, and I'll be photographing all of them *s

Thanks to Joe, who reminded me to post an update . . . you're a sweetheart.

~Emmanuela

Friday, October 5, 2007

Excitement: Thrills and Chills *s


I'm delighted to announce I've found the cover photo for the Claiming Masculinity press kit and grant application materials. Yes, you read right: there's a Cover Boi in town (but I'm not releasing names, just yet) *s

As goes press, we're excited to have the opportunity to partner with the wise and resourceful Pmyner Ltd., led by our fabulous Renair Amin. This is the kind of sponsorship any project would be thrilled to have; Renair can stir up some serious attention *s

The editor who first solicited my photography for that other magazine has left her post, and I've been asked to send images to the new person in charge. We'll see how that goes; cross your fingers . . .

More things are brewing. Check back for updates.

~Emmanuela

And Speaking of Out of Whack


There was always going to be that first photo session that just did not, could not work, for one reason or another.

So far, we've successfully moved ahead, with bad lighting, cramped quarters, new cameras, new equipment, long and crazed drives all over the East Coast . . . and still have managed to not only create some wonderful portfolios, but establish enduring friendships, as well.

The Absolute Wrong Mix finally got us, and there's no pretending a portfolio will come of that.

I'm going to be spending more time listening to all of you . . . and to myself. There are indicators for these types of situations, and I know them well. As I state on my Open Call page: if you and I don't get along well, we're not going to create a good shoot. This is why I reserve the right to refuse to work with anyone.

For purposes of greater focus and clarity with each participant, I'm also changing several of the project guidelines . . .

I'll be working with individuals first. Later, if you want to add a couple or family session, we can schedule that as calendars and energy allow. First, though, I want to know and see you.

The previous terms of agreement have been changed, too. If you haven't visited my site in a while, and are planning to be a part of the project, please read the Open Call page again.

Thanks to everyone who has seen me through the recent shifts to the project. Much love to each of you.

~Emmanuela

Balance Returns


This has been Recovery Week. After ten days or so of annoyances and frustrations, we are moving into balance.

I took a notion to install a new OS. Pretty brave, given that I've always been the girl who calls a guy *s But it's just a disk, after all. How hard could it be?

Turns out, one is meant to install additional RAM, when upgrading the OS. I was unaware. My sluggish, unhappy computer made instant complaints.

A mountaintop in the forest isn't the best place to find computer stuff. After the wrong thing had been purchased and returned, it was a week's wait for memory. Sigh.

Meanwhile, my site disappeared. More fun with computers, phone, and other gadgets.

Somewhere in there, I decided to order more cable television channels for the little one. She's already memorized everything on PBS, and we're looking forward to another long cold season. I thought she might like different kinds of children's programming. Along the way, I learned that our current company does, indeed, offer cable high-speed internet connectivity. So I ordered that, too.

My site reappeared yesterday. Felicidades.

Also yesterday, high-speed internet connectivity appeared.

Today, the long-awaited RAM.

Three definitive cheers.

My computer is still buggy as hell. I long for the days when I could call a geek, make a fabulous dinner, and have a perfect machine in exchange. Ah well.

Things don't always work or blend as we'd like.

Balance returns.

~Emmanuela


Saturday, September 29, 2007

Autumn Begins


Autumn is one of my favorite times of the year . . . now that I know what it is to experience the changing seasons *s Growing up in Southern California didn't afford me much information about that, though I recall the "winter" trips to the low mountains, where deciduous trees did attempt a bit of a show.

While I don't love tourists, I confess I can almost understand why people want to make the drive up here to the forest where I now live: it's almost an impressionistic painting of color. My little one recently asked, in fact, whether someone painted the leaves *s Hey, she's not quite three; this is her first year really noticing . . .

So, new season, new updates.

Firstly, I can't see continuing to look at taking a new job at this time of year. There's just too much stress. So, I'm going to reconsider that again in the Spring.

Meanwhile, grant cycles will be hitting deadlines. To date, PJ Whitt and I have been funding the Claiming Masculinity project out of pocket—including all equipment and travel. This is beyond the fact that I do the sessions at no cost. When I initially conceived of this project, I had no idea there would be such tremendous interest. By the time I was scrambling for funds, the grant cycles were closed. I was new to the East Coast last year, and hardly even knew where to begin to look for grants out here. It is imperative, now, that I submit strong proposals, demonstrating the worth of this project.

In one sense, it's good that I had to wait three quarters of a year: now I have a good start on a portfolio of photographs to show.

Hey, so, if anyone has any ideas about funding opportunities, hit me up *s

That will take most of my time from December through March.

My other job has simultaneous deadlines. I'm trying very hard not to be stressed about that.

As I work and communicate more extensively with project participants, I'm learning that I need be very clear about a few things.

I think it's fair to say now that I'm not up for scheduling with anyone who cancels twice without extremely good cause. There are just too many participants waiting to be scheduled. So be sure you're clear about your calendar, if you book with me. Remember: I home office all week, to be with my little one, so I'm limited to scheduling photography sessions on the weekends. If you cancel, I may not have time to fill that slot. It's just poor planning for the project, all the way around. Let's be mindful of one another, please.

Also, keep in mind that, while I'm photographing models for Claiming Masculinity at no charge, I can't shoot a lot of photos unrelated to the project for free. I'll go broke, doing that . . . and really, you want me home as soon as possible, processing your images for public view. If you really need me to photograph other things unrelated to the project, please contact me to schedule a different time and to discuss fees.

Thus far, things are going great. We're getting good press. I'm forming friendships with a good many of my models.

I didn't expect this. I want to remind you all that this is not my project; it's our project.

For that, I am deeply grateful.

Contigo,

~Emmanuela

The End of Summer


August and September simply consumed me with work, so I haven't had a moment to blog. Don't hate me because I'm dutiful *s

The first weekend in August, Dre and I finally got together for a session. And what a remarkable journey that became.

Although Dre's initial idea was to be photographed in his natural environment, the gym, we went first into a tiny, airless yoga studio. The only ambient light was provided by overhead fluorescents. Of course, the amazing PJ Whitt, my co-conspirator, was on hand to hang backdrops, move what little furnishings were available, and—thank all good things—find a fan.

I have to say publicly and earnestly that Dre is one of the best natural models with whom I've had the pleasure to work—his devotion to creating the right photo ranks alongside professional models . . . without the attitude *s

What we were able to create together is available in Dre's portfolio in the Claiming Masculinity gallery.

Note: my site is down for the weekend. The way things have been going lately, I'd give it until the end of next week, before expecting its return. But it's not lost; there's just been a glitch. The geeks are working. All blessings to geeks.

The following weekend, PJ Whitt herself was the subject of yet another session. I'd been holding her photos in private stock, never quite certain which ones should be added to the project, but I finally selected three sets. Check out her portfolio, too.

I did website design and development for the next two weekends, uploading the recent sessions, and giving my whole site a new look and feel. As some participants are requesting family portraits, I wanted the site to be more inclusive, and less singularly focused on my work in figure studies. The Claiming Masculinity Project now has a direct URL of its own, and is accessible from the front page of my site.

Over Labor Day weekend, PJ and I drove to NoHo for a hot, sweaty butch-on-butch shoot . . . that just happened to feature a stunningly beautiful femme. I'm unclear, at this time, whether all three participants are in agreement as to whether that session should be made public.

In the main, all I legally need to show my work in public is a signed Release Form. However, as this project is hugely personal, I'm taking the extra step of asking each participant to approve all photos to be seen by the public. There has been far too much in the way of inaccurate and unwanted portrayals, for the queer communities. I said in the beginning I wouldn't work that way, and I stand by that.

The next session was structured in many parts: a single butch; several sessions with his wife; family portraiture; and individual family member portraits. Eight hours in the Bronx, with some loving, open, truly amusing people. PJ and I were happy to partake in a meal with the couple, then continue working.

When I processed the 2,000 photos, I was beyond annoyed to find that I'd lost over 500 shots to poor lighting. That's on me: I didn't want to ruin the coloration by using a flash, and I didn't request more lighting. Lesson learned. Sigh.

That session should be available online next weekend.

After that, I was once again in my element, shooting figure studies in my home studio. The model had a bad case of nerves, so we're discussing a second session, to ensure we have everything we want. Already, there is such beauty.

I still have to finish processing the 1,600 photos from that day. And that was just last weekend.

There is perhaps one weekend available in October. I'm really hoping not to work through the holidays, though I have a session scheduled for the day after Thanksgiving . . . and I'm actually looking forward to that *s

I should mention my pleasure with the willingness and grace each participant has brought to writing themselves into the project. For each narrative, I receive many emails praising the author. Thank you all for that.

~Emmanuela


Sunday, July 22, 2007

Take a Look


I want to thank innovative photographer Vincent L. Smith for his strong and kind encouragement of my work.

Vincent's Urban Nudes and African Women in America are two of my favorite galleries. This is a photographer who, like me, finds beauty in difference.

Have a look, and tell him I sent you over to say hello *s

~Emmanuela

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Shouts Out


My gratitude to Angela D. Odom of Femme Noir: A Web Portal for Women of Color, for the article on the Claiming Masculinity project and the special focus on poet and Myn Myc host Renair Amin. It comes as a tremendous compliment to be included in the voices and faces of this fine site.

And let's face it: who doesn't love Renair? *s

I'd also like to give attention and props to author TJ Fleming, a fierce and beautiful soul whose collaboration with fantastic photographer Derek Mayo is creating the groundbreaking photo essay on lives of lesbians of African descent, Just As We Are. Check it out.


~Emmanuela

What I Want From You

Now that I've updated my changing availability and rambled a bit about my personal life (pero nadie sabe lo que hay en la jolla menos la cocinera, no? *s), I'd like to get down to some details about the Claiming Masculinity project, for everyone who would like to be involved.

Firstly, I have to thank Dre and Renair for the efforts they've made to get out the word on this. I'm coming into contact with some incredible individuals, and forming friendships as well as a portfolio. You both have my abiding gratitude.

I'm thinking that, as the project continues, I'm going to need to change it up some, in terms of the kind of work I've been doing with participants.

This thing started several years ago, when I was photographing lovers and friends, valuing the uniqueness in style, presentation, and personality.

Because I was singularly working with first-time models, my primary goal was to create an atmosphere of comfort for each individual. I didn't use professional backdrops, lighting, or even a large, intrusive camera, out of respect for those who had for so long felt uncomfortable being seen. My goal was to show them as I saw them, rather than creating stylized photographs.

This project is receiving a great deal of attention, however. The interest from participants alone completely overwhelmed me, at first. Who knew. Now, there are queries from more professional venues, asking to be kept apprised of how the project develops.

I've said from the beginning that this is a collaborative effort. I want to show you the way you want to be seen, and I want the work to be a positive experience for everyone involved.

And what I want is to start implementing more of the professional tools that will ultimately show both you and me in the best light.

Now, don't get nervous on me. Take a breath. Think about the context: this is uncharted territory; we're working together to represent something new; we might as well strive to make each session the best we can.

Some of the sessions can still be snapshots, sure. I like a dose of reality. But the art monkey beckons, and I must heed its call. I'm eager to get back to artistry in my work.

I'm going to ask that many of you come to me with a preparedness for a level of professionalism you'll see in a lot of my online work. No, that does not mean anyone has to pose nude, if that's not what you have in mind *s I'm just really looking for those participants who can take instruction from a photographer; repeat the same pose more than once; and generally be treated like a professional model.

For those of you who are really creative, I'm inviting you to really move into that sense of freedom and expansion, when posing for me. Let's go a little wild *s

It's also going to be important that sessions not be canceled without very good cause. Yesterday, a photographer told me, "Let them cancel twice, then tell them they're out of the project." Okay, I'm gonna have to think on that one, but please keep in mind that it's important for each of us to conduct ourselves professionally.

This is your opportunity to shine.

I hope you'll take it.

~Emmanuela

Saturday, July 7, 2007

Order of Things

Is it wrong to love a thing? To feel titillation at the prospect of possession, and the absolute thrill of intensity at receiving a mere object?

If so, call me damned *s

Shoes are captivating, naturally. A pair of black leather peep-toe pumps with six-inch heels and sinfully red soles garnered my instant devotion, as a birthday gift to myself.

And this girl does enjoy her cosmetics. My 14-year-old daughter gave me another wonderful kit from Bare Escentuals, replete with an adorable card, and that high-contrast Sephora gift box. Yum.

For a photographer, though, nothing beats the gift of greater clarity in vision. And the Nikon D40 SLRs are just so very much the absolute zenith of desire.

Upon consideration of the matter, I offer the following poem by Molly Peacock. If you know me at all, you're already inundated with my love of poetry *s

To wit . . .

I love desire, the state of want and thought
of how to get; building a kingdom in a soul
requires desire. I love the things I've sought—
you in your beltless bathrobe, tongues of cash that loll
from my billfold—and love what I want: clothes,
houses, redemption. Can a new mauve suit
equal God? Oh no, desire is ranked. To lose
a loved pen is not like losing faith. Acute
desire for nut gateau is driven out by death,
but the cake on its plate has meaning,
even when love is endangered and nothing matters.
For my mother, health; for my sister, bereft,
wholeness. But why is desire suffering?
Because want leaves a world in tatters?
How else but in tatters should a world be?
A columned porch set high above a lake.
Here, take my money. A loved face in agony,
the spirit gone. Here, use my rags of love.


--Molly Peacock, "Why I Am Not a Buddhist"


So I have the camera. And thus I am deeply pleased.

Won't you look better through my lens, now? And you? Ah, and you . . .

Desire, yes. In balance.


~Emmanuela




Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Shifting the Beauty Paradigm


Received an email today from a prospective project participant, with the subject line, "masculinity and beauty photo project."

In responding, I first had to say I love that subject line. Love the idea that masculine-identified individuals are seeing beauty in themselves. Applaud that wildly.

Over the past weeks, I've had exchanges with many project participants who have been intensely nervous or shy about being photographed. Bravely, they press on, in their willingness to be seen.

Several people have told me they've always wanted to pose for a fine art nude or figure study, but don't feel they're "right" for that kind of session. Too old. Too big. Too scrawny. Too this, not enough that. Not conventionally attractive enough for . . .

For what?

If we are to work towards changing perceptions of what it means to be "masculine," it's my thinking that conventional notions of "beauty" and "attractiveness" are similarly being challenged. And that, I'm certain, is a very good thing.

No such thing as too this or that, no concerns about not enough, I tell the participants.

One says, well, okay, there is this particular type of nude for which he's always wanted to pose. He describes it. I understand the concept, send him an example from my off-line portfolio. He decides to do the shoot.

And it's fantastic. Even his wife, who admitted some concerns about nudity in photography, agrees that it's good work.

During the session, I tell him he's a natural model. One of the best things about the shoot is the way in which his facial expressions change for the camera.

"I watch TV," he laughs.

Later, I'm thinking about the last session I did with La Paloma. Two friends noted that I didn't exhibit any full images of her face.

"Vulnerability," I answer. "Hers. And mine. We're both feeling protective, in different ways, right now."

So, yeah, I do a shoot where she's modeling a contemporary kind of burlesque costume . . . and her face is shadowed, occluded. In the other set, her face is veiled. The expressions she gives, too, are covered.

One friend replies that yes, the face is the most intimate part.

Yes.

To photograph and to model is to be blessed with both vulnerabilities and braveries.

I want to thank the model who wrote me today, wanting to be seen at last on personal rather than industry terms. I feel that.

And I thank each individual who has engaged this project with such willingness to be seen.

Wonderful.


~Emmanuela

More Bull in the Forest. Or Not.

Knock on the door. It's early for me; I haven't even finished half a cup of coffee. Figure it's a delivery person. Who else comes here unannounced.

Guy standing there. Vaguely recognize him. Remember the water was shut off, when I awakened. Had to swish my mouth clean with only dental rinse. Good thing the kettle was still half full.

Ask the guy whether he's going to turn on the water. Hope he's the right person to ask. Realize I've seen him maybe three or four times in a year, and am usually wearing a thin cotton nightgown. Today, I am wearing a thin cotton nightgown. Sigh.

He says there is work being done to repair a leak. The water will be back on soon. Good, he's apparently the right guy to ask.

Then he's holding up a neon orange sheet of paper.

"There's a boil warning," he tells me.

I pause. "A what?"

"Boil warning."

"Oh," I laugh. "I thought you said 'bull warning.' I moved here from the West, so it almost made sense, for a minute."

He chuckles. Waits for me to gather the sense to open the screen and take the paper.

I read the advisory. Have that recurrent strange sensibility at receiving paperwork written in English only, here. This one has a single paragraph in Spanish. I only notice because it's so poorly written. "BOIL WATER BEFORE USING," the words try to say. The paragraph finishes, in choppy Spanish, "Translate it or talk with someone who understands it better." Seriously. I'm thinking class action suit, before I remember where I am and the demographics of the place. Okay then.

Could be bacteria in the water, paper reads. In English. Scan memory for anything involving water, today. Boiled what was in the kettle. Did not put tap water in my mouth. Little one and I always drink bottled water. No ice cubes used today. Check.

Return to thinking about the necessity of a "bull advisory." Try to imagine why, really, that could possibly make sense. Even in the West.

Recall an afternoon when we were living on the edge of a State Park. Our backyard opened onto popular hiking trails. One afternoon, my omnipresent ex/best friend/children's co-parent comes down from the foothills, breathlessly telling me a woman wants us to call the ranger station, because there's a mare on the trail.

"A mayor?" I question, wondering why my ex/best-friend/children's co-parent is always so impressed with celebrity . . . and why anyone would want us to alert the ranger over a politician. "What's the problem with a mayor being on the trail?"

"I dunno," she answers, pausing to reflect. "Maybe it's a wild horse, and the woman thinks it's dangerous?" We both start smiling in that way which means we're about to break into laughter no one else ever understands, because we're continuing the conversation in our heads to its most absurd conclusion.

"No, a bear!" a voice shrieks behind us. We both turn to look at the panicked woman who is still insisting someone call the ranger . . . and now, I know why.

My ex/best friend/children's co-parent is a carpenter with some hearing loss due to industrial deafness. I understand her hearing "mare" rather than "bear."

For me, it's a question of interpretation. I come from a major metropolitan city; it's natural for me to think "mayor" rather than "mare."

I've never had a "boil warning." No idea why my mind translated that to "bull warning," as if that ever made more sense.

Individual interpretation.

Go figure.

I text message Pam about the boil warning.

"Lucky you have a water crock and a fine, handsome butch to bring you refills," she writes.

"No bull," I answer.

~Emmanuela

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Ugly Islands/Innocence, Sans Metaphors

People wonder why I've been so angry. Admittedly, I'm often angered about one thing or another; oppression just does not sit well with me. Speaking openly about this case has been like walking on eggshells, however, because our GLBTIQ communities have been sadly polarized on the issues.

What I've found, in open discussions with friends, is that few people went beyond the media smear to unearth the facts of the case.

I'm going to take a political leap, and post the following article. My own research shows the same facts of the case. In truth, I could go further, but will let this stand for now.

Anyone interested in working to correct this injustice, visit Fabulous Independent Educated Radicals for Community Empowerment, aka FIERCE!


FREE THEM NOW!

Lesbians sentenced for self-defense

All-white jury convicts Black women

Published Jun 21, 2007 2:58 AM

On June 14, four African-American women—Venice Brown (19), Terrain Dandridge (20), Patreese Johnson (20) and Renata Hill (24)—received sentences ranging from three-and-a-half to 11 years in prison. None of them had previous criminal records. Two of them are parents of small children.

Their crime? Defending themselves from a physical attack by a man who held them down and choked them, ripped hair from their scalps, spat on them, and threatened to sexually assault them—all because they are lesbians.

The mere fact that any victim of a bigoted attack would be arrested, jailed and then convicted for self-defense is an outrage. But the length of prison time given further demonstrates the highly political nature of this case and just how racist, misogynistic, anti-gay, anti-youth and anti-worker the so-called U.S. justice system truly is.

The description of the events, reported below, is based on written statements by a community organization (FIERCE) that has made a call to action to defend the four women, verbal accounts from court observers and evidence from a surveillance camera.

The attack

On Aug. 16, 2006, seven young, African-American, lesbian-identified friends were walking in the West Village. The Village is a historic center for lesbian, gay, bi and trans (LGBT) communities, and is seen as a safe haven for working-class LGBT youth, especially youth of color.

As they passed the Independent Film Cinema, 29-year-old Dwayne Buckle, an African-American vendor selling DVDs, sexually propositioned one of the women. They rebuffed his advances and kept walking.

“I’ll f— you straight, sweetheart!” Buckle shouted. A video camera from a nearby store shows the women walking away. He followed them, all the while hurling anti-lesbian slurs, grabbing his genitals and making explicitly obscene remarks. The women finally stopped and confronted him. A heated argument ensued. Buckle spat in the face of one of the women and threw his lit cigarette at them, escalating the verbal attack into a physical one.

Buckle is seen on the video grabbing and pulling out large patches of hair from one of the young women. When Buckle ended up on top of one of the women, choking her, Johnson pulled a small steak knife out of her purse. She aimed for his arm to stop him from killing her friend.

The video captures two men finally running over to help the women and beating Buckle. At some point he was stabbed in the abdomen. The women were already walking away across the street by the time the police arrived.

Buckle was hospitalized for five days after surgery for a lacerated liver and stomach. When asked at the hospital, he responded at least twice that men had attacked him.

There was no evidence that Johnson’s kitchen knife was the weapon that penetrated his abdomen, nor was there any blood visible on it. In fact, there was never any forensics testing done on her knife. On the night they were arrested, the police told the women that there would be a search by the New York Police Department for the two men—which to date has not happened.

After almost a year of trial, four of the seven were convicted in April. Johnson was sentenced to 11 years on June 14.

Even with Buckle’s admission and the video footage proving that he instigated this anti-gay attack, the women were relentlessly demonized in the press, had trumped-up felony charges levied against them, and were subsequently given long sentences in order to send a clear resounding message—that self-defense is a crime and no one should dare to fight back.

Political backdrop of the case

Why were these young women used as an example? At stake are the billions of dollars in tourism and real estate development involved in the continued gentrification of the West Village. This particular incident happened near the Washington Square area—home of New York University, one of most expensive private colleges in the country and one of the biggest employers and landlords in New York City. The New York Times reported that Justice Edward J. McLaughlin used his sentencing speech to comment on “how New York welcomes tourists.” (June 17)

The Village is also the home of the Stonewall Rebellion, the three-day street battle against the NYPD that, along with the Compton Cafeteria “Riots” in California, helped launch the modern-day LGBT liberation movement in 1969. The Manhattan LGBT Pride march, one of the biggest demonstrations of LGBT peoples in the world, ends near the Christopher Street Piers in the Village, which have been the historical “hangout” and home for working-class trans and LGBT youth in New York City for decades.

Because of growing gentrification in recent years, young people of color, homeless and transgender communities, LGBT and straight, have faced curfews and brutality by police sanctioned by the West Village community board and politicians. On Oct. 31, 2006, police officers from the NYPD’s 6th Precinct indiscriminately beat and arrested several people of color in sweeps on Christopher Street after the Halloween parade.

Since the 1980s there has been a steady increase in anti-LGBT violence in the area, with bashers going there with that purpose in mind.

For trans people and LGBT youth of color, who statistically experience higher amounts of bigoted violence, the impact of the gentrification has been severe. As their once-safe haven is encroached on by real estate developers, the new white and majority heterosexual residents of the West Village then call in the state to brutalize them.

For the last six years the political LGBT youth group FIERCE has been at the forefront of mobilizing young people “to counter the displacement and criminalization of LGBTSTQ [lesbian, gay, bi, two spirit, trans, and queer] youth of color and homeless youth at the Christopher Street Pier and in Manhattan’s West Village.” (www.fiercenyc.org) FIERCE has also been the lead organization supporting the Jersey Seven and their families.

The trial and the media

Deemed a so-called “hate crime” against a straight man, every possible racist, anti-woman, anti-LGBT and anti-youth tactic was used by the entire state apparatus and media. Everything from the fact that they lived outside of New York, in the working-class majority Black city of Newark, N.J., to their gender expressions and body structures were twisted and dehumanized in the public eye and to the jury.

According to court observers, McLaughlin stated throughout the trial that he had no sympathy for these women. The jury, although they were all women, were all white. All witnesses for the district attorney were white men, except for one Black male who had several felony charges.

Court observers report that the defense attorneys had to put enormous effort into simply convincing the jury that they were “average women” who had planned to just hang out together that night. Some jurists asked why they were in the Village if they were from New Jersey. The DA brought up whether they could afford to hang out there—raising the issue of who has the right to be there in the first place.

The Daily News reporting was relentless in its racist anti-lesbian misogyny, portraying Buckle as a “filmmaker” and “sound engineer” preyed upon by a “lesbian wolf pack” (April 19) and a “gang of angry lesbians.” (April 13)

Everyone has been socialized by cultural archetypes of what it means to be a “man” or “masculine” and “woman” or “feminine.” Gender identity/expression is the way each indivdual chooses or not to express gender in their everyday lives, including how they dress, walk, talk, etc. Transgender people and other gender non-conforming people face oppression based on their gender expression/identity.

The only pictures shown in the Daily News were of the more masculine-appearing women. One of the most despiciable headlines in the Daily News, “‘I’m a man!’ lesbian growled during fight,” (April 13) was targeted against Renata Hill, who was taunted by Buckle because of her masculinity.

Ironically, Johnson, who was singled out by the judge as the “ringleader,” is the more feminine of the four. According to the New York Times, in his sentencing remarks, “Justice McLaughlin scoffed at the assertion made by ... Johnson, that she carried a knife because she was just 4-foot-11 and 95 pounds, worked nights and lived in a dangerous neighborhood.” He quoted the nursery rhyme, “Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me.” (June 15)

All of the seven women knew and went to school with Sakia Gunn, a 19-year-old butch lesbian who was stabbed to death in Newark, N.J., in May 2003. Paralleling the present case, Gunn was out with three of her friends when a man made sexual advances to one of the women. When she replied that she was a lesbian and not interested, he attacked them. Gunn fought back and was stabbed to death.

“You can’t help but wonder that if Sakia Gunn had a weapon, would she be in jail right now?” Bran Fenner, a founding member and co-executive director of FIERCE, told Workers World. “If we don’t have the right to self-defense, how are we supposed to survive?”

National call to action

While racist killer cops continue to go without indictment and anti-immigrant paramilitary groups like the Minutemen are on the rise in the U.S., The Jersey Four sit behind bars for simply defending themselves against a bigot who attacked them in the Village.

Capitalism at its very core is a racist, sexist, anti-LGBT system, sanctioning state violence through cops, courts and its so-called laws. The case of the Jersey Four gives more legal precedence for bigoted violence to go unchallenged. The ruling class saw this case as a political one; FIERCE and other groups believe the entire progressive movement should as well.

Fenner said, “We are organizing in the hope that this wakes up all oppressed people and sparks a huge, broad campaign to demand freedom for the Jersey Four.”

FIERCE is asking for assistance for these young women, including pro-bono legal support, media contacts and writers, pen pals, financial support, and diverse organizational support. For details, visit www.fiercenyc.org.


Articles copyright 1995-2007 Workers World. Verbatim copying and distribution of this entire article is permitted in any medium without royalty provided this notice is preserved.

This Just In . . .

Butches are crazy-making.

Good thing they're cute.

~Emmanuela

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Things I Don't Tell the Neighbors


I once did an artwork, with the same title as this post. These days, I don't really have neighbors, but I do tend to continue working with the larger communities.

As there are some topics to which I continually return via individual correspondence, I thought I might address them here.

These are things you might not know about me, but which influence the ways in which I work with and respond to everyone.

1. Monday through Thursday (and some Fridays), I am home alone with my two-year-old. I'm thus not able to be at the computer much, and I might well get behind on correspondence. Bear with me, please *s

2. Over the weekends, I rarely sleep. At all. I stay up and work feverishly. That's when you'll receive email from me at 3 a.m. It may not be the most lucid communication, but I'm trying.

3. I am epileptic, with absence seizures. That means my temporal and spatial relations are oddly affected by my differently-abled neurology. I still walk into tables I placed a year ago . . . sigh. I'm therefore not the person to ask about directions. Ask Pam. I also have trouble with calendars and dates. Ask Tina *s And I can't do much with most myspace pages, because they're largely over-stimulating for my poor brain. Sorry.

4. I have PTSD. I don't trust easily (see post below *s). My partner, Pam, is typically around for all photo sessions, although she might not be in the same room. I like the sense of protection, the idea that I can relax into work, and she'll take care of the rest.

5. Beyond the scope of this photo project, I'm also daily working with a number of other concerns. My two teen daughters email, call, and/or text message me each day.
My son, who lives in NYC, is the easiest person I know *s My ex and best friend, co-parent to the children, calls every day. There are two other co-parents in our family, with whom I must coordinate scheduling and resolve parenting matters. Pam's mother provides us with childcare on Saturdays; that is my only child-free day.

6. I am the go to person for all family crises. I also have a very large community, to which I'm completely committed. Two of my closest friends are very ill. Several are dealing with births, deaths, or both. It's my job to be there for each of my community members, as they have been for me.

7. In another life, I'm a writer. I sometimes have deadlines for that.

8. I'm still researching grant funds for this photo project, and I continue working on additional photo projects. I also run my web site, and have to build all pages for that.

9. Once in a while, I actually spend a little time with my Butch *s

10. I'm relatively new to the East Coast, and am still learning to adapt to the modalities of speech and other mannerisms here. Most people find that I speak too quietly. I'm working on that (admittedly, without much success, as yet).

~Emmanuela

Excuse Me, I Just Tripped Over My Own Assumptions


Today, I write a few friends:

I began this day with a question, one admittedly based on an assumption.

I wondered whether it was true that many to most masculine-ID'd individuals consider themselves protective of femmes.

My assumption/bias has been that yes, they do.

Then I have to wonder whether that's only applicable to lovers and partners. I do know many AGs, butches, etc., who are chivalrous toward all femmes . . . at least in social situations.

Next, I consider the professional realm. Does the protectiveness extend to a femme acting in a professional capacity? That's been my experience, but things are changing.

And, finally, the reason I'm whining: does a camera make me a threat?

I'm noting that masculine-ID'd individuals are suddenly much more concerned about their own shyness, vulnerabilities, and such, than considering whether I am putting myself at risk, in agreeing to photograph strangers, either in unfamiliar locations, or in my own home.

My last thought was: "I thought they would be different than men. Guess I was wrong."

And what I think about bio men relative to my experience of safety is not always so happy, believe me.

Is there one or more errors in my logic, here?

A Whiny, Foot-Stomping Femme *s


One sweet, chivalrous butch responds to tell me that most butches are protective of femmes in general, not just in private or social situations.

But I don't see the truth of that, at the moment . . . excepting with that particular butch (to whom I send out a great happy wave and a smile).

In many instances, however, this project is bringing to the fore a great deal of intensity about privacy.

Part of my job, yes, is to offer the most professional assurance I can that all matters will be handled in such a way as to provide for the safety and concerns of each participant.

The guidelines for participation do detail my needs for
clear communication between myself and those with whom I'm working, and that all collaboration leads to a project that is positively effective for everyone involved.

What surprises me is that I'm so often told talking with me is phenomenally easy, and I'm now finding my questions to participants are somehow troubling the waters.

A wise friend says, "Focus on those with whom there's a good fit. That's going to make for the best project outcome. Don't worry about the rest."

Have I mentioned I fret over just about everything?

Today, I have learned that project participants are allowing me views of aspects of themselves many wouldn't ordinarily see. I'm honored by that.

Things will settle into a natural groove.

As soon as I dust myself off from tripping over those damned assumptions *s


~Emmanuela



An AG in the Forest

So, I had a shoot recently with a handsome AG who's a dandy. A "prissy boi," she calls herself—"dandy" is my descriptor; I just think it's nicer.

She lives in Brooklyn or the Bronx; I forget which. Says she wants to come here for a photo shoot, because she has enough urban images of herself.

I send her a note to remind her to bring insect repellent. There are biting gnats ("May flies," my lover calls them) and mosquitoes, out here in the forest. For liability reasons, I can't provide things like insect repellent, in case my models have allergies.

The AG writes back, and asks me to just please promise her there won't be any spiders. She can't even look at spiders, she tells me. They make her scream.

I laugh, even while responding:

You want me to tell you there are no spiders in the forest?

Um.

Okay.

There are no spiders in the forest. They all moved to the cities, in 19 and 95.

There might be some things that resemble spiders, but we'll just call them leaves moving in the breeze.

How's that?

She laughs and apologizes for being so "prissy."

Then she writes to ask me whether it's really a nearly three-hour drive from her girlfriend's house to my house. I'm terrible with maps, so refer her question to my partner, who says the answer is yeah, pretty much, but don't follow the map directions you sent; follow these other ones, instead. I'm typing for my partner, because she's walking around, up and down the stairs, doing stuff around the house, while I'm answering email.

"Tell her don't stop around here to ask for directions," my partner calls from downstairs. "And tell her not to look for street signs." She says she's sorry about the lack of street signs, and to warn the AG that, if you ask directions in the back woods up here, people will say things like, "You know Johnny Major's place? Not the old one, but the new one. You know, the one he got after the divorce. The second divorce, not the one from Thelma. That would be Thelma with the two good eyes, not the one with the glass eye. What? You don't know Johnny? Well, how'm I supposed to tell you directions?"

Living in the woods is just a riot.

Around the expected hour, we hear a car in the drive. It's relatively soundless out here, so we're never uncertain when we have visitors. My partner bounds down the stairs to greet our guests. At that precise moment, the AG and her partner are gaining the exterior steps. The pretty femme gasps.

They're embarrassed and apologizing to one another for the startle response, as I slowly descend the staircase. "Don't scare the Black people," I tell my partner, patting her arm in faux sociability.

Everyone laughs. We all stand in the living room for a few minutes, while the guests take in our odd décor. Everyone who visits here is momentarily taken aback by the large artwork and other strange items about the place.

The AG has brought several changes of clothes, and decides first on linen slacks and a dress shirt. Part of the reason she's doing this shoot is to show that all Aggressives aren't hip-hop thugs. She walks cautiously out onto the back deck. Asks whether I want her to go down the steps, onto the land. Lifts one foot slightly and says, "Black suede shoes don't go in dirt."

"You do recognize you're in the forest, right?" I tease her. "And you wanted nature shots?"

"Well, maybe just a little bit of nature in the background," she smiles, ducking her head a bit.

I take photos of her shoes. Then she changes into soft, maple-brown, Italian leather loafers. Those apparently fare better in "dirt."

We walk out onto the land a few steps. She's nervously eyeing the neighbor's house. I tell her no one's over there; they were here the previous weekend, and rarely come up two weeks in a row.

"They're city people," I continue. "You can see how hard they work to manicure their 'lawn,' as if this is a house in suburbia."

"Still looks like the woods, to me," the AG murmurs, not really paying attention.

The nervousness in her body hasn't ceased. I ask her why her shoulders are hunched up around her ears.

Her entire face brightens with a combination of excitement and amused disbelief, as she tells how she and her girlfriend got lost on the way up here, and had to stop at the run-down shack of a local bar down the road.

My partner and I both stare in amazement.


"I've lived here six years, and even I've never been into that bar," my partner laughs.

"I was told that was a bad place for a woman, so I've never even considered it," I smile.

"Well, we were lost," the AG says, in exasperation.

"Neither one of us could get a signal on our cells," her lovely girlfriend adds.

I'm trying to picture the tall, commanding AG nervously approaching that dive with her sumptuous, orange-clad femme partner. It's already a joke waiting for a punch line.

Then they're both talking at once, telling about how they saw all the trucks parked outside, so they figured it had to be some kind of public place but, when they got closer, the AG couldn't hear any sound, and thought it was either closed, or maybe it was a house.

"She made me go up to that door and knock!" her girlfriend laughs.

"Well, I wasn't sure!" the AG offers, in mock alarm.

"Then she tells me, 'Okay, this is the signal: if I tap my foot on the floor, that means we got to get the hell up outta there,'" the girlfriend says, still laughing.

"And we go in," the AG continues, "and do you know there's a beaver on the wall? I'm serious. A dead beaver. And a big ol' deer head. With antlers" she says, spreading out her hands to show the size. "Just hanging on the wall! I said, 'Where the rest of that deer?' And oh, those people lookin' at us in a big hush. I mean: everything just got quiet all at once, and they all just stared."

The femme partner rolls her beautiful eyes. "There were only about seven people in that place, and only half of them even looked at us. The rest were drunk," she says.

"They were staring," the AG insists.

"That when a saloon door opened at the back of the room?" I joke.

"I'm sayin'! I was waiting for some shit like that! Never know what kinda beaver they gonna wanna hang on they wall next!"

We all giggle and shake our heads.

"We told them we were looking for the country club," the AG continues. "You know they were peekin' outside to make sure we didn't have no U-Haul, before they gave us directions."

"Don't let the sun set on your ass around these parts," I agree.

We shake our heads.

The AG looks at my partner, and asks, "They use real guns up here for hunting, huh."

"No," my partner answers, without cracking a smile. "They hunt with sticks."

"You know that hurts," I say, trying not to laugh.

"I used to go camping all the time," the girlfriend says, waving her hand dismissively. "What you really gotta watch out for are the coons. They get into everything."

"Your people aren't from the South, are they?" I ask.

"Did you say you people?" she answers, feigning insult.

"Your people, Mr. Perot," I smile.

"Nope. All East Coast."

"Black girls from the South rarely use the word 'coon' the way you just did," I laugh.

"True," the AG smiles.

My partner, slightly out of sorts whenever she's surrounded entirely by women of color, tosses two crackers from the table over the side of the deck.

The AG watches, and says, "Some bird's gonna be happy tomorrow about that cracker."

"I think she just called you a cracker," I deadpan to my partner.

"I keep tellin' you about puttin' in the pauses for the white people!" the girlfriend gasps.

We all laugh so long and loud there are tears streaming.

"Girl," the AG summarizes, "you know this ain't no place for a big, Black, AG. What kind of people want a dead beaver on a wall?"

Mm hmm.

A week or so later, I write to give the boi this summation of our session.

She replies to say she loves the beaver, and plans to return to the bar to host a queer-straight roundtable discussion on the thing.

Fine, I answer. Just bear three things in mind.

1.) Define what you mean by "beaver." Point to the thing on the wall, for reference.

2.) Define what you mean by "roundtable." Drunks have a tendency to walk and talk in circles, and may become disoriented, if they think you want them to sit spinning.

3.) Define what you mean by "discussion." People around here often speak aimlessly, and may be surprised to learn they're not actually responding to what you asked.

Those caveats in place, it should be fine.

I'll keep the car running outside *s


~Emmanuela

Sunday, May 27, 2007

Ugly Islands/Innocence


On visiting one of the people who inspired this project . . .

Rikers sucks. Just so you know.

Be attentive to the fact that, if you're going to visit any of the people who prompted your latest craze to make a difference, you'd best speak with some of their attorneys. Research attorney information. Leave messages.

Don't be surprised, when one attorney calls at 7 p.m. Remind your lover that you've already explained defense attorneys don't keep bankers' hours. Feel abashed when you pick up the phone and say, "Hey," because the ring tone you hear is assigned to one of your closest friends; the display says "PRIVADO," and that's how conversations always start: you say, "Hey"; he says, "Hey, what're you doin'?" Tell the attorney you thought she was someone else. Immediately drop into what your children call "Dr. Intense mode."

Bemoan again your inability to match the conversation style of people on the East Coast of the U.S. This woman talks hard and fast, asking pointed questions in a staccato delivery, like a finger jabbing repeatedly in the face. Say you are answering her questions. Try to speak more loudly, so you're heard. Listen to her tell you at least five times, "Doctor, I'm not trying to make you defensive. I just need to know what you want from my client, so I can take this to my colleagues." Tell her again and again what you're doing, until she repeats it back, so you know she's heard you. Listen to her position on presenting press credential: it allows for two hours with detainee, rather than one, plus paper, pens, and a tape recorder are allowed. Insist that you don't want to meet these girls as a member of the press; you don't even want to write about them: if they want to tell their own stories, you're willing to provide space for that. Wonder whether the attorney is intrigued or annoyed by this stance.

Give up on talking with attorneys. Figure, if the one representing the lead girl in this case knew anything at all, he wouldn't have let her be convicted. Anyway, he never returned your call. Recognize detainees don't need attorney permission to have visitors. Determine to let the lead girl decide for herself. Wonder whether to send her a letter first. Decide to just go.

Read the instruction sheets for visiting Rikers several times, to familiarize with rules. Check again, before leaving. Think you have a good understanding of what can and cannot be brought to or done at the facilities.

Drive three hours across three states, and through insane NY midtown traffic. Play loud music. Fuss with cosmetics, at traffic standstills.

Stop at parking lot, across the bridge from the Island. Stand in line to get on the bus. Realize you're totally over-dressed for this; everyone else is wearing t-shirts or tank tops with denim or cheap skirts.

Ask someone how much the bus costs. Step onto bus; take out two dollar bills. Be annoyed, when told the driver says the bus doesn't take bills, only change. Make everyone nearby in the thronging crowd unhappy, by slowly digging out two dollars in coins. Feel pleased that several people offer to give money. To the people who loudly ask one another, "What the hell she doin'?" answer that you weren't ready to give only coins. When they yell, "Well, you best be ready," say, "This is my first time. I'm workin' on it." Watch their faces turn to sad nods of understanding. Appreciate the sense of community.

Arrive at the entry port. Stand in line again. Ask someone how to get to the Rose Singer facility. Learn that everyone must first go through general processing. Try to hear the guard at the front of the line. Realize there's no way to hear him, over the clamoring voices of the visitors.

Show the guard ID. Realize he doesn't even look at it. Walk to the next line, in front of the building. Be glad people continue to be helpful, like telling you to take a filthy, broken white bin. Hold the bin with the two bags of stuff for the girl you're visiting, plus the bag you always carry -- the one you've emptied of everything but a wallet and cigarettes.

Stand at the first security checkpoint for a long while. Hear everyone complaining about the heat. Keep trying to listen to that guard down below. Finally hear him say that cigarettes are contraband. Ask the guy behind you whether you heard correctly. When he says yes, admit you have cigarettes. Feel assured, when he says you'll only be asked to put them in a locker. Be annoyed, later, when it turns out the cigarettes and lighter were taken from your bag at that checkpoint. Be more annoyed, when it's seven more hours and another state away, before you can actually find a place to purchase a pack of the brand you smoke.

Breeze through first security checkpoint, minus cigarettes, with no conversation. Watch young Black man behind you have his one item, a wallet, inspected several times, each currency bill pulled apart in a search for contraband. Note racial profiling. Think maybe it was a good idea to dress differently. Debate whether to feel stupid for thinking that. Hear your friend V. in your head, chastising you about "using your little light-skinned privilege."

Over the course of the day, remove shoes five times. Show ID six times. Note that only once is ID actually inspected, at the window where you get a set of two cards to complete, in order to visit a detainee for the first time. Run bags through security devices three times. Run body through security devices three times. Perform a light strip search once. Remember to tell girl you're visiting you had to take off your clothes, just to see her.

Arrive 11 a.m. Find way back to parking lot, across bridge, at 3:30. The allotted visit with detainee is one hour. The rest of the time is spent sitting in plastic chairs; walking from one check point to another; taking buses from one area to another. Do not stand on or beyond blue lines, ever. Do not approach doors, ever. Sit precisely where you are told. Stand when you are told. When on buses, always stand back. Farther back. Sit down, if possible. Hold on, if unable to sit. Become accustomed to the barking of guards, repeating these instructions. Do not pause to think, else suffer the wrath of guards who find the pause suspicious.

Try not to panic in the airlessness and oppressive heat of the rooms swarming with people. Fight the memories of growing up in institutions with these same hard floors and ugly chairs. Pretend you're outside. Do not attempt to go outside for any reason, unless directed to do so.

Assess the demographics of the visitors, in an effort to understand how so many individuals and groups can be there on a Friday morning. Realize they're mostly women with small children, or older women. Mental note: 98% Black and Latino/indigenous. A few White faces. No memory of Asians at all. Two women are sighted reading books. Everyone else eats small bags of junk food from the vending machines, talks with one another, tends to small children, or some combination. Don't eat anything. Just watch.

Don't ask too many questions. If you must ask questions, assess friendliness and patience factor of persons in vicinity. Realize there is no way around this, when the only guard present answers your question about how to open your locker by saying, "What does it look like I'm doing?" It looks like she is helping the primarily Spanish-speaking, generally drunken little man who's been asking one person or another for help since the first rooms. Say you don't know what she's doing. Flinch, when she retorts, "Well, let me know, when you figure it out." Watch her for another three seconds. Recognize there's a strand of keys attached to her belt, and she's holding one. Say, summarily, "So you have the keys." Watch her roll her eyes and walk away. Realize she'd be really fucking hot, if her attitude didn't suck donkeys.

Be prepared to have items you brought the detainee to be rejected. Be surprised, when the colored pencils are the only things not allowed. They're on the list of approved items. Don't argue. Listen to the guard's muffled voice, through thick bullet-proof glass, saying that next time you should only bring one book. Out of sheer curiosity, ask whether she means the books of literature or the composition notebooks. Don't be surprised, when she holds up one of each, and you can't understand her answer.

Listen to the other visitors joke about the pomposity of the guards. Note that these women all seem far too familiar with this scene. Watch the sadness and fatigue written on their bodies. Remember every day room, visitors' room, and holding room, ever. Try not to dissociate.

Ask whether you can buy a bottle of water. Decide against it, when the guard answers that, if you do, you will lose your chance for a visit, if you're at your locker when called. Remain thirsty for seven hours.

Sit in another chair. Wait to be told whether the detainee will see you. Wonder why there is a television set blaring some court TV program. Find that ironic.

Further note that's it's difficult to hear anything at all, including the television or the guards, with the enormous free-standing floor fan blowing. Watch the guard with the suck donkey attitude say something. Wonder whether she said, "Next." Realize now she's really pissed at you, because she actually said "Miss," and she meant you.

Stand and go to her. Remove articles of clothing, as told. Stand behind screen, when told. Reposition clothing, when told. Don't bother asking why someone so young and otherwise hot has such a shitty attitude.

Sit in yet another room with ugly chairs. This time, be prepared, when a new guard says, "Miss." Hesitate only because there are at least five other women sitting there. Wait for her to say, "You, in the white." Don't hesitate, even though you're wearing mostly black, with a white overblouse, and there's a woman wearing a white dress; the woman in the white dress is staring at the wall. Give the name of the person you came to see, as directed.

Next, become accustomed to being called by the name of the person you came to see. Allow a moment of confusion, when a guard looks at you, and says that name as a question. Say, "No, I came to see her." Nod, when another visitor explains that, from now on, you'll be called by the detainee's name. Okay.

Stand. Go into yet another security screening booth. Show hand under black light, illuminating stamp from when you entered this final building. Be waved into yet another room. Wonder whether this means the detainee has agreed to see you.

Sit in some seriously ugly chairs: all primary colors, with mauve thrown in for distraction, around low, tiny tables with white block numbers. Go to table 21, as instructed. Sit again.

Be surprised, when the detainee comes out, even though you know her story, and have seen photos of her. She's tiny. She looks all of twelve years old. Watch her cross the room, in her baggy grey jumpsuit. Try not to think of your own daughter in lock-up, at an even younger age. Try not to make this about you at all. Stand, shake her hand. Introduce yourself. Know you'll have to say your name into the noise of the room ten more times, before she gets it.

Talk about the details of her case. Shift between casual and professional modes of communication. Recognize no cause or project fits this girl. Ask her only what she needs. Listen.

Know that talking with her for that one hour makes everything you've done worth it.

Know this is just the beginning, and from now on, you'll know the system better.

Wonder whether you'll ever stop loathing institutions.

Follow directions to the building next to the one where the shuttle leaves you. Approach a group of about seven guards; ask how to break a twenty dollar bill to get back across the bridge. Attempt a smile, when one man grins, "How good do ya swim?" Listen to them all give different answers. Say, "Seriously. One answer will do." Listen to them joke about how each of their responses is the best. Finally get a consensus, and go find a van service.

Wait in the heat for twenty minutes, while the van driver eats an orange, smokes, and tells a visitor how to hook up with a guard who will apply money to a detainee's account during off hours, for a three dollar fee. Watch that transaction.

Watch how everyone is depleted, after their visits. Gutted.

Hate gridlock traffic through Manhattan, and all over the bridges. Wonder what kind of scam allows for toll fees. Sing and take photos out the car window, when traffic is at a literal stand-still.

Come home to more email than you can handle.

Try to imagine a life where there's time and energy enough for everything.

Feel good, thinking there are far worse concerns.

Ask yourself again how you're going to help this child who's facing five years minimum.

Try not to hate.

Remember her leaning forward several times, saying intently, "There's a reason for everything. Even this."

The day of sentencing, know her face, her small hands. Know, too, the voice of a person in authority who can defend his position by stating judges are not inanimate objects, and are therefore entitled to permit their strong personal opinions to influence sentencing. Girls such as these should recite nursery rhymes, he says, and walk away from harassment.

Ask yourself why anyone needs be reminded that a girl, too, is a sentient being. Consider the possibility that the judge doesn't have a girl he loves. Acknowledge that he rarely, if ever, walks the streets and, when he does, has the power of the judiciary to mete out his punishments for any perceived harassment. Tell yourself again that girls, young women, everyone has the right to self-defense.

"There is a reason for everything," she says. "Even this."

Wonder how she'll feel in five, ten years.

Try to recall being a teen. Wonder whether you were ever that innocent, that clean.

Yes.

Wonder what happened to you, to innocence.

~Emmanuela

A Word For Studs and AGs

Okay, this post is definitely going to constitute more than a word or two. There might even be a rant involved, though I'm gonna try to keep my head clear.

One of the most compelling factors to push me forward in this photo project came when I was working on a tribute for Sakia Gunn. Around the same time, Patreese Johnson and the six Black lesbians who accompanied her to NYC in August were convicted of "gang assault," amongst various other charges.

Patreese, who is 19, has been convicted of first-degree assault. The attempted murder charge against her was dropped, but first-degree assault carries the same potential sentence.

I'm looking at all that, and feeling completely gutted, when the Village Voice runs that wholly ridiculous article, "Girls to Men." Along with the article, there is a gallery of images, by photographer David Yellen. The pictures aren't bad, if you like studio sets with paper backdrops and conventional lighting. The captions are what really annoyed me.

I know the communities have been outraged over this article. I feel that. I know a lot of good people are working to make a positive difference out of something so harshly inflammatory.

What I don't know is what that photographer said, what he promised, what he proposed, to earn the trust it took to have the AGs featured in that gallery pose for him.

I do know everyone's mad about it. Hell, I'm mad about it.

And yes, I've extended an invitation to studs and AGs to participate in my photo project.

I want you all to hear me now, when I say, clearly and with absolute certainty: I do not misrepresent anyone in my work.

You come to me, you get what you want. If you don't like an image I've selected for inclusion in my web gallery, that image is simply not seen by the public, evah.

Let's make a positive difference. It matters.

~Emmanuela

So, I Started a Photo Project . . .


Several years ago, I began photographing butches, studs, and transpersons who were my lovers, my friends. All were first-time models; few wanted their images publicly displayed on the internet. I have a great repository of photos I cannot include in my public portfolio, in respect for the subjects.

Eventually, people began coming to me by referrals from friends. These new subjects actually wanted to create a new sense of visibility for the non-traditional types of masculinity they represented and with which they identified. I was able to begin building a small public gallery dedicated to my love of butches, studs, AGs, and masculine-identified trans persons . . . but my work was still local.

So I put out an open call to the various LGBTIQ communities. The responses have been overwhelming and, despite the fact that I work on the East Coast of the U.S., there is considerable interest from the West Coast and Canada.

As a femme, I can't pretend to know realties other than my own. All I can do is respect each person who wishes to participate.

The project is worthy, because the focus is on those too often unseen, willfully misinterpreted, ridiculed, and reviled. I want to be a part of changing that.

Read more about the particulars for this work by following the link on this page.

~Emmanuela