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