Letter #6

Dear Veronica,

The dream to someday look into your eyes is holding steady, it's constant beat both calming and excruciating. I just finished my first cycle of ovulation medication, to stimulate the eggs, and it was not successful.

Dr. Liu, in his ever strange ways, seems cheery when I call him, asking him what our next step should be, "Well, just wait until day 35 of the cycle and take a pregnancy test. If you're not pregnant, we'll just up the dosage."

In other words, as he has said it before: quit worrying.

But I am worried.

The face I put on for others is a face of hope and optimism. The words come out of my mouth as I say that I will not be devastated if I cannot have biological children, but the truth is, my darling daughter unborn, I am afraid I will slip into a darkness that will shade me for the rest of my days if that happens. The reality is that life is given to you and there are portions of it which you can exercise control. Most parts, though, are handed to you, as is, and what you do with those parts, what you choose to create or act with it, is entirely up to you. I have trouble coping with that reality.

Someday, I hope, you will sit next to me and we will go over these letters together. I'm sure I will need some prompting about what I was thinking at 29 years of age, and I hope that these words will open a door of memories that will help guide you in your path of choices.

I want to include a picture with this letter. This is a picture of me, your old Mama at twenty years young, with another little girl. Her name is Veronica and she is the little girl you are named after. Taken in 2000, Veronica, now, is around fourteen years old and probably still in barrio Nueva Vida in Managua, Nicaragua.

Back in the old college days, I decided to live in Nicaragua for three months and work in areas that would challenge my ways of thinking. Nicaragua - Veronica - succeeded.

You see, darling, this child in the photo is a living breathing creature, beautiful in skin and hopelessly stubborn in manner. She insisted on sitting on my lap, not allowing any other child in the barrio to sit on her thrown, and when I coaxed embraces from other children, she growled at me and said, "No te hablo." I'm not talking to you. Mhm! She had a temper.

And nearly every day, for years, I thought of her. Ways to help her, buy her a tricycle, give her family food, ensure her health. The problems, though, are too big for me, or any one person to handle. Today, on the cusp of turning thirty with almost a decade that has passed since I last held her, I don't even know if she is alive. I think or hope or pray she is. I have to.

Your name, Veronica, is very special and someday I will tell you all the reasons why this name has burned its letters onto my heart. For now, though, this picture is all you need.

I want you to remember something, my child, in case you ever forget yourself: all children are created equal and therefore you will all grow into women that are equal. This world will tell you different. It will tell you that since you were born in a certain country with privileges, education, and industry, you are worth more. The world will tell you that your place in society is measured by the size of your wallet, the space of your house, the shine of your car, the interest rates of your stocks, the gleam of your hair, the smell of your breath, the shade of your skin, the mobility of your legs, the speed of your mind.

Remember this picture, dear, and remember that my desire for you came from a love of her. So, Veronica and you are, actually, sisters. You share a mother - me - who wants both of you to understand the world will attempt to define you or kill you. It will beat you to your knees with shame and labels.

I am here, living and writing, to tell you they are wrong and you are wrong if you believe them.

There is nothing greater in this world than the measure of what you will do for liberation and for how far you will go to bring a sense of peace to the places that will never know the quiet of stars because their skies are filled with the noise of bombs and bullets.

I make you sisters and gently remind you to care for one another, even if you never meet. Even if you are separated by everything and you find nothing in common, you are sisters. You are binded by my realization that I cannot sacrifice one without sacrificing the other. You need each other in every sense of the word survival.

You will be different in every way - sound, language, speech, and opportunity. But you both are precious in my eyes.

Veronica, my unborn daughter, someday I want you to charge into the world and question it as I did. I hope you turn in desperation, searching for some damn piece of truth that causes you to shake with disbelief and passion. I pray you will find another human being to whom you are accountable and holds you to a sense of humanity and humility far outreaching what you think you are capable. For you, I wish nothing but the most pure sense of life and experience.

That is what I searched for at twenty and that is when I found Veronica.

I found you.

Love,
Mom

Letter #9

Dear Veronica,

In about two weeks, I'll know for sure (well, almost sure) what gender you are and that seems to be a monumental event to everyone but me.

In some ways, I've already known you as Veronica, but you could be Isaiah, and I'm wondering how that will change if I find you are a boy, or girl, or whatever.

I wish I could be more eloquent about this issue, Love, but the truth of the matter is, I don't give a damn what GENDER you are. I just want you here safe, secure, alive, well, and breathing in my ear.

Nearly everyone but you is irritating me these days and I attribute that to my hormones. The hormones that is making my body grow hair like a gorilla, the hormones that are making me want to make love every night at least once, the hormones that make me feel depressed then ecstatic. In other words, the hormones that are making me crazy.

Having a baby seems like the most natural thing in the world. Billions of women have done this well and have survived and yet I feel like I'm the only one feeling like this. Supported, yet, deep down, I feel abandoned. I look at your father and feel this chemical dependency on him that scares me. I never knew I'd feel this way. Other days I feel like I am falling in love with him all over again as I see how his unfolding fatherhood is shaping him and his thoughts. He and I agree on so many things, it scares me. I thought we'd be in disagreement.

My parents are in town this weekend and they keep staring at my stomach, where you are, and smiling, excited for this new life to come roaring out of me. Sometimes, even though you are inside me, I feel very alone. More eyes are fixated on my stomach than on my eyes. So many people ask, "how are you feeling," rather than, "how are you?" and I feel the difference in my sense of isolation. It's as if people don't see me, and only see you.

You matter. I matter. I just don't know how it all meshes together when it feels like the only reason I matter is because you are in me, growing in matter.

I hope you can see through my jumbled thoughts, Love, and know that you are the most important thing in my life. I love you more than you or I can possibly fathom and not even my confusion and attitude can overshadow the earthquake of love I have ready to share with you. I'm human, you'll see, full of imperfections and selfishness and stupid thoughts. It's good that you know that upfront so you'll understand when I screw up but will always come back and remind you that I love you.

Some days when I walk around by myself, I wish I could hear your voice. I wish we could already have a conversation. Your soul is wise, I can tell, and I know I will learn much from you.

I hope I don't let you down as a mother. These days, my insecurities seem to be getting the best of me.

But you ARE the best of me and worth more than any fear I can harbor in my bones.

Let's keep each other strong these next few months.

Love,
Mom

Letter #7

Dear Veronica,

I wish there was a way to explain the world to you in a somewhat simple manner. Most days, I feel after thirty years of observing it myself, I am no closer to a resolution than when I first asked as a little girl.

I remember when I was seven and I slept on the bottom half of a bunk bed, on a blue mattress with white and yellow rockets on them. I woke up one Saturday afternoon from a nap and wondered for the first time, "What if my whole life is a dream?" I waited for the day when I was going to wake up from the real bunk bed of life and discover that I am really a sophisticated genius, dreaming I was seven years old.

In some ways, I think I am still waiting for that wake-up call.

I've been thinking about the pain I am physically in from all the different medications I am taking to ready my body for a pregnancy, hopefully. I've closed down any pathways for alcohol, steer clear of anyone who breathes out cigarette smoke, and try to get some form of physical activity once a day to rejuvenate my spirit. Vitamins, pills, appointments. This morning, I woke to a stomach full of cramps, gripping and squeezing my lower abdomen. Another cycle.

I've finished reading a book called, "The Shack," and your Dad and I discuss all the ways we agree and disagree with it. The book is about faith. It's about God and tragedy, but most of all, the book is about redemption.

I thought of how I might explain redemption to you someday and it almost made me laugh. You, an innocent oval of joy rolling around in my head with nothing resembling a stain or mark of evil or oppression on your skin, would know nothing of redemption because you know nothing of death or pain yet.

Redemption is about making something new, the bursting through of darkness with transformation and purpose. It is a lovely concept, but not many people believe in it. I think it's an odd word, something foreign. I think I put space in my vocabulary from that word because I know it can only come through the despair of tragedy. Redemption is inherently tied to some sort of wrong. I hate wrong.

"The Shack" will be a thing of the past, a dusting on the walls of your books when you learn to read and I am confident there will be a hundred other New York Times frenzies for you to consume. But this book, this particular book came to me in a time where I have been thinking about the possibility of tragedy. My tragedy would not be loss, it would be tragedy of nothingness. Not having you, not seeing you and admitting all the darkest fears in my heart.

A strong confession left my heart and onto a kitchen table with friends as I let out some of my deepest fears of pregnancy and fertility. One of women, one of the wisest I've ever known, turned to look quietly into my face, the face of fear, "You need to come to grips with all that you are hoping and wishing. You need to face all the possibilities of having children and not having children and what that means to you. We'll be here. We're not going anywhere."

Veronica, I couldn't place whether I am more scared to have you in this world with me or to be without you and never experience giving birth to a soul within my soul, light from my cervix, a throbbing bubble of life in the space between my ribs. I am terrified to face the fear that my body may not be capable of the longest desire I've ever known. I am out of my mind frightened at the possibility to bring life into a world that doesn't know anything about redemption except in the contours of novels and films.

Most of all, I'm scared what I will hear within my own mind for the rest of my life if I am infertile, if I am not able to hold life in my body. I am most scared of this small phrase that nearly every single human being thinks and feels, but loathes to admit: I am scared to fail.

My body might fail me. Your father might fail us. I might fail you. You might fail the world. God might fail me. I know I've failed God.

Fail.

Fail.

I'm afraid of failing.

So powerful is this fear that I don't know how else to elaborate its meaning. It's all there in one damning, one syllable word. Fail.

The shame of failure and the perceptions that dance around a dead dream haunt me everyday. The measure of womanhood is often by her body, her health, her decisions, career, family, relationships, mind, spirit. And children. I'm afraid of being seen as a failure, being seen as dry in the soil where life is supposed to thrive. I'm afraid that I have no garden inside me.

I have all the intuition in the world and I still cannot feel where I am headed. I hope, I suppose, toward my own redemption.

And so, even with all those dimming lights, the sadness and trembling, I continue to plow my land, I dig in the areas where the ground is soft, working to create this garden. I loosen the dirt, readying it for rain, seeds, and love. Readying it for you.

Love,
Mama

NWSA

Tribute panel to "This Bridge Called My Back"

Daisy Hernandez


AnaLouise Keating



Maria del Carmen Ochoa


veronica precious bohanan, left
camil willliams, right



Tonight held the session I had been waiting for with curiosity. A Tribute Panel, Bridge Inscriptions: Radical Women of Color Envision - Pasts, Presents, Futures.

Basically, it was a worship session for This Bridge Called My Back.

The panelists were all invited to speak on how this book affected their lives. And while I walked in with no expectations, I left with a similar sensation in my bones as when I left Detroit: spirited, energized, and in community.

There's just something about when women of color get together. I swear, it's something in the air.

The panel was comprised of Aquamoon, a two women artistic team, camill williams and veronica precious bohanan; Daisy Hernandez from colorlines magazines (also co-editor of Colonize This!); AnaLouise Keating from Texas Woman's University; and Maria del Carmen Ochoa from San Jose State University.

What can I say? It was had the most diverse crowd, moving words, and spirited audience. (Don't you love when the panel is speaking about the different oppressed populations and a moved audience member yells, "And don't forget the mother of Jesus!" Ahh, the laughter)

As they paid tribute, I jotted a few of their gems:

Moderator began with this statement, "Our poetry, prose, and theory...for women of color, it is all the same."

Gems from Daisy Hernandez
I found the stories that you never read in school, you meet women on the page.
I once thought that feminism was making poetry out of shame.
Cherrie Moraga said, 'In my dreams, I am met at the river,' and it is because of you I am always at the river.
The 'bridge' may not be the most suitable metaphor anymore. We don't cross the bridge to meet all these different people because they all already met on iChat.
We're not a bridge, but a crossroads, a place where two roads meet and multiply. A place of ritual, sacrifice, choice, conflict. Racism looks different here, we hold imposing powers.

Gems from AnaLouise Keating
Feminism is not a white thing. We. Are. Feminists.
Spiritual Activism is not religion, it is a holistic approach to plitics and transformation. It is the belief that there is more to existence than the embodied world and the spirit infuses it. We are all connected and are accountable for the people down the street, across the border, across the seas.
It is not based on sameness, not about walking in a straight line.
Feminism must stretch to an unseen place.

Gems from Maria del Carmen Ochoa
We must revisit Bridge because of its ability to subvert. From this book we learned how to learn from both critical and creative works.
It is a writing from the lungs. The heart is what usually recieves the metaphorical attention, but the lungs is what takes in air. And we must not forget what the other word is for inhale: inspiration.
Writing=Breathing=Living
We are the changer and the changed.
From Toni Morrison, 'The function of freedom is to free someone else.'

There are no selective gems from AquaMoon. I can only describe it as one of the most transparent illustrations of talent and brilliance I have ever seen in person. They embrace hip-hop, "will never leave it," and use it to analyze, poeticize, and create a space for discourse. They rap, sing, make melody out of works. They are human song. They are shine. My only regret in watching the room stand for them is the rest of the world just missed the sky turn gold. In the presence of true artists, individuals who polish their craft, nothing brings me closer to Spirit, than true artists and their work.

The umbilical cord connecting Cisneros to this session was the outcry against a failing healthcare system. Gloria Anzaldua died from diabetes, a dangerous and complicated, but treatable disease. What Cisneros said the previous night about taking care of writers while they are ALIVE is bitter. Had Anzaldua lived, we know she would have been there that night. And it was mentioned again on the panel.

We invoked Anzaldua and all the pioneering women of color who laid down their bodies as the Bridge, no les olvides!

Letter #4

Dear Veronica,

Your Lolo, my die-hard Republican father, called me this morning and said one sentence, "Obama is my president this morning." Oh, how we laughed.

Yesterday was a day that I will tell you about someday when your history text books water everything down and sensationalize the wrong parts of what has taken place these days.

Our first bi-racial President came into office yesterday! But everyone calls him our first African-American president. To me, my darling, he's a man who I see much promise and brings out the promise of others. That's why he got the vote, and first action as a campaign worker, out of me.

I debated as to whether or not I should stand in the cold in Washington, D.C. to be a part of history, or witness history, or however people are phrasing it. And, I decided, I will go and stand on the mall when I see the first womyn take the highest seat. I suppose it would have been worth it to see Obama sworn in, but I feel that I already experienced the best part of history in November, the election day that got us to the inauguration.

That day - election day - is one you'll hear me rave about this until infinity But it was a day I'll never forget and one that I'll never fail to describe. I was able to drive to local campaign office and be partnered up with another volunteer to go canvassing, door to door, and talk with voters to make sure they had exercised their precious right to be heard. Most already had, but what struck me was the feel of my knuckle on the wood, the rapping sound that I caused in a near empty neighborhood and looking into the eyes of a stranger with a smile to ask if Barack Obama could count on their unconditional support that day. Most said, "Of course!"

There were people of every age, a boy on his bike talking about his excitement, a high risk pregnancy woman describing her willingness/ability to still work the phones despite her condition, the fast paced speed at which the organizers spoke, and the long hours I spent with a stranger who turned out to be a physician at a nearby clinic. Her gentle black face and my young brown face smiled for hours as we walked miles and supported one another that day.

Now THAT, my dear, is called being a part of history. If ever you want to be a part of history, remember something: it takes more than just watching. It means sacrificing something along the way and watching your sacrifice unfold in something unpredictable. Being a part of history is a risk, an action. Don't ever just be a witness to history, be one of the holders of the pen that documents it. DO something to make history unfold. They'll always be enough witnesses. Always. Create history instead of witnessing it.

But, still, the majesty and ceremonies was wonderful and the crowds took my breath away on the mall. However, the crowd at Grant Park, the night Obama won, still holds the trophy for wondrous.

Veronica, your father cried yesterday when Obama took his oath and I sprung to my feet and screamed while I jumped up and down in front of our breaking down TV with the largest bunny ears imaginable. No cable choices, we stuck with mainstream NBC to usher us into a new era. I listened as Obama talked about the day you might have children and thought about how your father and I could barely imagine someday having a daughter or son like you to consider, but how the ache to meet you drums louder in our chests everyday.

There are a handful of great days that transpire in life, my love, and yesterday was one of them. Perhaps an even greater day will be the one where I give you a copy of this letter and tell you about this in person.

Love,
Mom

Letter # 8

Dear Veronica,

I've been thinking about how these letters will be if I find out you are, in fact, a boy, not a girl as I have been thinking.

I don't think it will matter much. You'll be either Veronica or Isaiah and what I have to share with you is the same, regardless of what sex you happen to be.

I'm about to enter my second trimester with you and I can scarcely believe it. The picture Dr. David gave me yesterday of you nearly took my breath away. You LOOK like a baby. A head, limbs, and the outline of a body...I couldn't believe it. I also couldn't believe how I already thought you looked so cute. You're, literally, a picture of shadows and, to me and your Pops, you looked simply adorable.

I've been thinking about what kind of world you are about to come into when January 2010 strikes and what captives me most is you are in me, yet not of the knowledge that I have. You have no knowledge of what evil looks like, or how it will pain you once you come into this world. You have no knowledge of what kindness looks like. The only thing you know is peace inside a floating sac of my blood, nourishing you with no disturbances or worry. All of that will change soon.

I shared with your father yesterday that I have observed how protective of children I feel these days. Suddenly, the world seems like a cold, cold place. An unloving and precarious playground with sharks in the pond, strangers leering at the fences, and untrustworthy mystery figures walking about. Isn't it clear? I'm afraid to bring you into this world and the responsibility I will have to protect you as best as I can. So far, the only person I've really looked out for is myself. Selfishly, I sometimes think I will be a good protector because I don't know if I can handle any amount of harm done to you. A selfish mother, indeed.

The wonder and innocence you symbolize to me right now cannot be adequately communicated. You are life, a breathing life waiting to grow and come into the world through my body and I find myself writing about the rights of women's bodies, the rights of our voice and the place of our humanity. Your mom's writing is often misunderstood and I hope you can learn from me. There is nothing wrong with being misunderstood. Actually, it only confirms that the more you speak your own way, the more of your own path you'll find, the more others will misunderstand your ways.

I spoke to you this morning of individuality and trusting the voice you will develop inside you. The voice may not always be certain, but it will be strong in curiosity and wanting to do the most loving thing. That will lead you to where you will need to go. I don't know if you can hear me, let alone understand the little talks we have in the car, but I hope you can soon understand that individuality can and should only exist in the context of community, accountability, and justice. Never, in all the days you will live, should you ever think you are alone in this world or this world was made just for your path. It is a beautiful, intimidating mudball where you will be pressed to find your own path. If it resembles anything like mine, it should be crooked with lots of uneasy turns that are hard to navigate. But it'll be your path.

And then you are to share it with others. Should you ever be misunderstood along the way, know these letters serve as my companionship in your journey. To be misunderstood, my dear Child, is a blessed thing.

Love,
Mama

Letter #9

Dear Veronica,

Bloated, gassy, indigestion, and interrupted sleep. Is that you in there?

I'll have a better idea tomorrow.

It's almost two weeks since my little happy dance that I ovulated and your father and I are trying to keep our hopes reasonably low while I get up in the middle of the night because of gas pains and cramps.

"It could be my period, that's all. But I really hope not."

The wondering is torturous.

I remember in 1997, I went to one of those ridiculous fortune tellers who read my palm and told me two things. First, she said that my professional career would be diverse, that I would try many, many things before I made up my mind. She said I'd work with children, adults, in different disciplines and settings before I settled. Well she was certainly correct about that.

The other was that I would only have one child and that child would be a son.

I don't know what these letters will look like if you turn out to be a boy, but it doesn't really matter to me. I've fantasized about you, Veronica, a small piece of existence coming into the world through my body and should you turn out to be Isaiah, well, I'll love you just as much.

It's hard for me to focus on anything but my body right now and it's glorious possibilities and horrendous limitations, but I keep my eyes forward. Not up, not down, just forward. I am setting my heart on hope, with a lot of strength.

Should you continue to exist only in my heart, I will continue to move forward in dreaming of what might be and being the kind of person I would have lived out as a mother - kind, stern, loving, challenging, understanding, and faithful.

Come to us. We're waiting.

Love,
Mom

The Last Ungendered Day

I started using the self-descriptive term "feminist" about five years ago and although my life's work to create a better world extends much longer than those five years, the lens of feminism - my feminisms, to be precise - has positively enhanced the way I experience and percieve the mystery of socialization and gender.

Tomorrow, I have my 20 week ultrasound. Before pregnancy, I didn't know that 20 weeks is a milestone. Usually with prenatal care, an "anatomical" ultrasound is done, which means Adonis and I get to see the baby growing in my uterus. We see the face, ears, feet, hands...everything...including its genitalia.

Many things have surprised me about pregnancy, but none moreso than the impact of hormones in my body. My memory has been underwater, my moods sometimes swingy, but my emotions have been fairly calm. I've felt peaceful. One of the few pieces of anxiety I've been experiencing relates to gender and finding out the sex of the baby.

I've been pretty open about my feelings concerning my pregnancy through my letters to Veronica, my unborn daughter, which I started a long time ago...well before I was pregnant. And one of my fears is not just having a child, it's about having a son. I think that my fear dwells in my uncertainty if I can teach a child and have a larger impact than the rest of the world. All the lessons this child will learn will have to be undone at some level. It begins tomorrow. It begins the moment the ultrasound technician will say "boy" or "girl."

And the barrage of texts, emails, FB messages, and comments wanting to know will begin. Along with the pink and blue bull that I don't believe in.

Facing the reality that I am carrying life within me has meant coming to the reality that I am deeply responsible for the wonder and destruction this child shall bear on the world once it enters this life and takes its first breath.

I am faced with the reality that the men who rape women once had mothers too and I wonder what they learned (or didn't) about loving and treating women, both in personal relationships and strangers. I think about the way teenage boys careen by the waterfountain at school and mock the budding bodies of womanhood and adolescence out of their own insecurity. I am, essentially, afraid of what boys because, after working with violated women and children, I know what they are capable of.

I don't want to raise a son contributing to another woman's disempowerment.

But feminism has also taught me that not only are men capable, and actually prefer, to be loving, active, energetic leaders for goodness and wholeness, it's also taught me that women are not grouped together in their fight for equality. The bullying, the cut throat competition, the hidden jealousy, the betrayal...raising a daughter now terrifies me just as much as raising a son. After I've work with violated women and children, I'm afraid I'll raise a daughter who doesn't care about her worth and values her sexuality only at the price set by society and media.

Whether son or daughter, I'm afraid she'll give up on herself.
I'm afraid, quite simply, they won't care about the world they way I do and I won't be able to stand their selfishness.
I'm afraid that when they ask me questions about what I've done to make the world better, I'll look in the mirror and only see a half-worn human and full blown coward.

Somehow, in the years I've contemplated and studied gender and advocated that all persons are equal, I'm petrified I'll find that I've only kidding myself because I know the world can and will knock me on my butt with its cruel, streamlined, flick of the wrist power to teach domination, selfishness, individualism, and greed.

Knowing this child's gender makes it all real, too real, because once I know "boy" or "girl," I'll inherit an entire set of specific strategies the world has planned to brainwash my kid. I don't have anything except what I *think* I know, a lot of guessing, intuition, and a loving partner.

I hope those seeds are enough.

Will they know how to love, truly love themselves and another human being?
Do they know the world is not fragmented and we, all of us, are inexplicably connected?
Does having this much fear dictate what kind of mother I will be?
Who will be there to save me when I'm the one in trouble?

In some funny way, I want this child to forever remain as it is right now - perfect, growing, dependant on nothing but amniotic fluid, oxygen, and my voice. Not only do I fear about this child hurting, but I'm afraid of the harm the child will be capable of doing as well.

Tomorrow I will know if I am having a son or daughter.

Letter #1

Dear Veronica,

Someday you'll read this and I hope that when you do, my words will make no sense at all. I hope that you actually throw your head back in such laughter that I even got emotionally invested in this moment because in the time that you absorb my words, that period will have come to pass a mentality of such openness and progression, this letter is filed archaic.

You're only an image in my mind, a daughter who I hope to meet in the future. I think of you often in when I am working for a better place or even making a lousy choice. In either instance, I wonder how my actions will affect you.

Today is November 4, 2008 and these hours rest on the anxious ballots across the United States as we elect a new leader of our nation. You'll read in history books that all sorts of records were broken - even now, before I know who has won the general election - so much has transpired that has changed the face of this nation and so much is still going to change in the years before you and I officially meet.

You come from a family who supports two parties - Republicans and Democrats - which is why Sunday dinners always last too long with your cousins and Titas and Titos. We have much to discuss.

It's important to me for you to know why this day is so important. For eight years, I've been changing my mind. I've been looking for the best and ideal political environment and I now realize that not only is that never going to happen, but that's not what I should be living for. It's not the end result of perfection or the ideal outcome I'm looking for, what matters most is what I did in these years to make this place better for you.

I want you to know that I voted today. I voted for a presidential candidate for my third election and I voted Democrat. I've voted Republican before, even identified as such. Voting Democratic, however, is not as significant as the lessons I've learned about laws, infrastructure and the reality of how the system works in this country and around the world. If you are my daughter, most likely, you will be a daughter of privilege. You will be a person of education, services, healthcare, and choices. With these options, you must apply yourself and learn for yourself how this world will work for those around you. Learning for myself of how this world works changed the way I live, the way I vote, the way I love.

This day, I witnessed an excitement in every kind of person imaginable. I witnessed a respect between folks of difference, across race and party lines. It was the first day of a political event that I felt a part of, not a spectator. Of every ethnicity, religion, ability, I saw people working the voting booths. Pregnant women, men in business suits, the elderly in wheelchairs, families with strollers - nearly everyone showed up today.

And so, my dear, you continue to remain a dream for me. A bright dream which keeps me walking and serving those around me, hoping someday, that you will do the same. And you will tell me funny stories of the people you met on election day. I will tell you the day I worked for the first black president of the Unites States of America and by then you will wonder what the hell the big damn deal was in 2008.

Your father and I bought a bottle of champagne and splurged on a package of gourmet cheese. Your father loves George Stephanopoulos and I love anyone but the Fox anchors. We hope that is one of those nights we'll remember the rest of our lives and bore you to tears about what we witnessed and lived through.

Love,

Mom

Letter #8

Dear Veronica,

I have high hopes for this month and trying to contain my excitement and impatience is a lot more difficult than you'd think. You'll find that people are much more accepting of children being explosive than adults. The expectations for adults is that we should be even, controlled, and mature. That's not what your mom is these days.

Finally, a bit of good news on the ovulation tests. It looked good and I squealed and woke up your dad to share my overflowing joy. We snuggled as I clutched the stick, two lines growing deeper in truth as each minute went by. I smiled at my body and prayed for good health and possibility.

Your father and I are Catholic and we plan to raise you that way as well. In our faith cycle, this past week was the most powerful week all year. As someone said, "It's when the impossible becomes possible." Funny how all this occurred during Holy Week. It felt somewhat miraculous and difficult to believe.

Faith is a choice, but also a gift. It comes in many forms, different languages, symbolism, and tradition. If you ever decide to leave the Catholic Church, which many people decide as an adult, the only thing I would encourage you to do, Love, is to stay with whatever draws you deeper in mystery and challenge. Stay with what draws you closer to a mysticism and Love of others. I found it in faith. You may find it in something else, but always keep one hand on the rail of belief because, I do believe there is more after this life. There is so much more than you and I will possibly be able to understand. That unknown used to frighten me and I tried to believe for a period of time that there was nothing else but my body, this world, our earth.

But deep, deep inside, in the cavernous echo of my heart, I always believed there was something Else out there.

Years ago, when I worked in the University, I often laughed at bumper stickers on the backs of cars with which I was stuck in traffic. There was this one I never forgot. On the right side of the bumper it said, "Militant Agnostic." The other side read, "I don't know and neither do you."

Precisely!

No one knows for sure...which is why it's called faith.

It might be a toss of a coin and I might be wrong about everything I believe. But if I, your old farty Mom, lives a good life where I can help improve this planet, where I create something that brings joy to others, or work on behalf of those who are in need - and if my faith is the backbone of those actions - than even if I'm wrong, I'm still in a good place.

I take in what energizes me to live a decent life. Faith is the oxygen to that action.

When you come to us, you will have moments where you hate what we tell you, you'll be bored and angry when you want to do something else and make you learn what we have grown to love so passionately. But, I will tell you that I understand your frustration and I do.

You'll wonder why in the world I'm teaching you things that seemingly do not translate to your life and I will tell you to stay with it, to revisit the stories and keep thinking. You'll resent how I will tell you to ponder mystery and move forward with no easy or clear answers. I'm sure you'll even leave for a while or express disinterest for the things I find so critical to your faith development. Even with all of that, I am so excited to pass this gift to you.

It's messy and hairy and full of contradiction and ambiguity, but you'll find, dear Child, that the challenge and reward of faith is a reflection of the deepest way to live life, your life. You need not come with answers, only a willingness to love.

Love,
Mom

Veronica Rose

The idea of birth,
cracking pain,
pulsing rivers of blood
and widening vessels
where
gushing streams are
rushing out of me,
out of my tiny,
sacred cave
Doesn't scare me.

Whether she'll be seen
or heard
or even acknowledged
with a nod
is what distresses
me
Not dresses
or tresses
but how she'll be addressed
causes me
alarm

And whether my maternal instint
will be instinctive enough
to keep her, shape her,
sharpen her
keeps me
up at night

I worry that her father's height
won't carry far
because her mother's brown skin
will communicate
an indigenous freight
about some untrue inferiority
that she'll start to believe
herself

I worry that her half-ness
will split her into pieces
and drown in weakness
forcing her to spend her
time needling her fingers,
lingering
to sew herself back together
when she was never broke
to begin with

The idea of her is miraculous,
a flickering light yet to be;
but what the world may do to her,
may convince her,
terrorizes me.

Letter #5

Dear Veronica,

"One disaster at a time." Those were the last words told to me by my doctor, one of my partners in this process of trying to make you into a cradling reality. Today, I had a hysterosalpingogram which is fancy word for shooting dye through fallopian tubes to make sure they are clear and functioning properly. Your only Tita, my wonderful sister, spoke her usual positive words when I told her that the discomfort was like getting a papsmear multiplied by fifteen, "Well, you never, ever, ever have to get that done again. Ever." And when I told her how they stuck cold metal up my Precious and then inserted a long application into me, and then filled me up with a fluid that made me feel like I was either going to die of cramps or explode, she replied, "Mhm. Sounds great - like reverse birth."

Humor, my dear, will be the key to surviving life. You'll learn that when you are born.

Your father was made to put on a safety apron because it was in an x-ray room. It was scarlet and tightened around his torso with a big piece of velcro. He looked quite anxious when he noticed stains on it, but he tried to keep me laughing. Or maybe both of us to relax before the horrible test I was about to have.

To distract myself from the pain, I tried to imagine what it might feel like to actually be pregnant with you. It's worked so many times before. The discomfort and sense of invasion was so thick, I could hardly get away in my thoughts. That's rare. I'm usually the kind of woman that cannot be followed in the secrecy of my mind. I can usually escape in a moment, but not today.

To make things even more complicated, I have some sort of tear in my - hold onto yourself - my rear end. A fissure, is what it's called, and feels like I am passing GLASS once a day. Yes, glass. More fiber, water, exercise, yoga. I'm doing everything I can, but the pain is so traumatic, so acute. Today it was so consuming, I cried in the shower for a long time. It's been weeks of pain, my dear, and with the thoughts that you may or may not be realized only makes me hold tighter to a thread of possibility that may not even be real anymore, but I still hope.

I have to believe that since the dye cleared my tubes, my surgery was successful, and I am surviving some of the most physically painful times of my life that I am a mother in training. I shovel snow, have my tubes inked, write manifestas, and cook mean meals that stick to your ribs. I am woman.

Hear me roar.

If you are ever born inside me, you'll be the first to hear it.

Love,
Mom

The B-Word

Veronica reclaims BITCH.

H/T to Debbie at Bitch Magazine.

Letter #3

Dear Veronica,

It's Saturday morning and two days since my surgery to "spiff up" my ovaries to someday have you.  Darling, I feel like someone rammed a spatula into my stomach and starting smacking everything red.

What was supposed to be an hour and fifteen minutes took over two and a half.  Much to my amusement, I learned that your father was devouring any reading material possible in the lobby and then switched to TV when NO ONE came out to tell him why I, his wonderful wife - the mother of his future children - was still in surgery.  Poor guy.  You know how he hates to be out of control.

Alas, Dr. Liu came out and told him these words, "It was complicated, but successful."  Apparently, there was enough scar tissue to wrap all of eastern Europe in its own casserole and needed to be removed from my insides.  That extended as south as you can go in my uterus and ovaries into my northern stomach region.  The stitches around my belly button are as sore as sore can be.  It feels like they reorganized my entire reproductive and digestive system.

On a funny note, I am passing gas like it is my job.  To see as much as possible through a small camera and light, the doctors blew up my body during surgery.  Some was still in there after the procedure which is why my belly looked like I was 7 months pregnant when I left the hospital, and it leaks out every 20 minutes or so.  I'll take a teaspoon sip of water and belch like I just ate an entire plate of Italian food goodness.  I'll take one step and leave a wind of gas behind me.  It makes me giggle, then I grip my belly because it's painful to laugh.

Your father is trying his best to be everything to everyone these days and I watch him from the couch, or bed, doing laundry, cleaning up, washing dishes, trying to get me DVDs I'd like to watch, and sprinting to Pearl of the Orient for my scallop and shrimp lo mein.  About two weeks ago, I came down with a common bacterial infection that put me in the worst mood. Shortly after that, I was diagnosed with strep.  Then I had this surgery and am farting and burping like a mindless second grader.  All in all, I wonder how your father still manages to sit at my bedside and whisper, "my beautiful bride," into my ear while I am waking up or how he runs his hands into my hair and looks at me with a longing to feel better.

I wish that for you, my love.  I wish for you a soul who will love you tirelessly and without knowledge of rest.  The way your father loves me is a gift from I don't know where.  I just know that I want you to someday find it in a person who is endlessly fascinated by your thoughts and post-surgery farting habits.  Someone who looks at pictures of your tender ovaries as if they were pictures of God's face.  Most of all, I hope your father and I set an example for you of what is possible in this world.  

It IS possible to love someone so much that it feels like a miracle.

Love,

Mom

Letter #2

Dear Veronica,

This has been a week that you must know about.

First of all, my beloved ob/gyn decided to throw me to a specialist five miles away because I am going to need surgery. Dr. David decided that my ovaries need to be "spiffed up" and thus need a laparoscopy. In a nutshell, it's like Inspector Gadget is going to go in there and remove any scar tissue from my last surgery in 99 and to remove another sprouting dermoid tumor.

All of this in your name, my sweet.

Your father is quite anxious at the doctor's office. He makes ridiculous comments and tries to make me laugh. I shake my head at him to stop and I feel like a principal telling a misbehaving 10 year old to shut his mouth.

My other doctor, Dr. Liu seems quite optimistic about the surgery and I felt he was nearly giggling at inappropriate times when I asked a question. Your father thought laughter was a good sign; it means we're not going to be the 12% of couples whose efforts to have a child are saddeningly null. Laughter from doctors, your father contends, means we have minimal to worry about.

My mouth was set in one straight line, unamused. THIS IS SERIOUS BUSINESS, don't they know that? Of course, I ended up stuffing a smile back when doc was examining me and inserted a strange looking instrument into my vaginal canal and showed me my empty uterus and fuzzy looking ovaries with strange masses around them. He, your pops, and a medical assistant leaned in and studied the screen like the state lottery numbers were popping up and they were going to win a 300 million dollar pot.

It struck me at that moment, my dear, that the world rests on the shoulders of woman who go through extensive circumstances to have a child. I have been thinking through how far in this process I want to go and decided I will give it my all to have you for about a year or two and likely will stop before Dr. Liu suggests in vitro. I think at that point, I'll look into adoption.

Last night I went to bed feeling sick to my stomach. I ended up sleeping for about 14 hours today and then went to urgent care. Strep throat was my diagnosis. I was so sick and frustrated. It seems the universe does not want me to have this surgery. First, I waited two months to see a specialist and then it was nearly canceled because of insurance coverage and now strep. I'm determined, though. I hope you can someday appreciate what we're going through to someday welcome you into this world.

But, Dr. David, Dr. Liu, your pops, and I, are highly optimistic that all of this is going to work. I took my first prenatal vitamin on Thursday and nearly squealed with excitement. It tasted like acidic garbage, but the thought of it making you a nice red womb to float around in and feeding you into a healthy body make it worth it. I'm going into surgery in three days and I'm hoping to start the most amazing journey of my life shortly after the new year.

Love,
Mom

"Radical," Feminism, Boston, and WAM: Free Write

This is just a free write about some topics that have been circulating in my head from the weekend. This is my last post about WAM (Women, Action, and the Media Conference).

There are two things I want to blog about right now: the term radical and my WAMmo experience.

First question - Do people understand what 'radical' means to individual feminists? Do people see that insignia on blogs that reads, "Radical Women of Color Blog Ring," and think terror? Do people understand that it's a natural group dynamic to find comfort in a name while still expressing differing opinions on the actual definition?

1) Radical is derived from the latin word for ROOT. Getting to the bottom of things, the truth of the matter. Dilly dallying with the petals and surface is not my feminism. Mine is rooted in the rich soil, the dirt that gives life. I'm radical because

2) I'm anti-excessive consumerism. READ: I'm not anti-money. I'm anti-excessive. Adonis and I want to have little feminists running around someday and they need a roof. They'll need food. We have a car and I buy tofu and meat. But, I build a strong wall around consumption and believe that excessive consumption, selling, buying, and money/power-driven economics is the darkest shadow of the proverbial "Women's Movement," that celebrates icons instead communities, marketing instead of distribution, and trends instead of justice.

3) I'm radical because I believe in the equality of womyn of color. I believe that stairs are more than stairs when there are no elevators for womyn who cannot climb them. I believe that jokingly threatening EXECUTION to a crowd of women that has womyn of color in it in the name of safe space and confidentiality is wrong and hurtful. I am radical because while I may not agree with others, I will stand by their anger and support their voices. I'm radical because equality means more than just additional sidebar links. I'm radical because I detest stealing ideas and not citing the author and blogger from where you found the information. I'm radical because I have found "normalcy" to equate complacency. I am not a feminist who will sit in silence while Brown and Black and Yellow and Red womyn become displaced and pretend that pickets and online petitions are enough. It is not enough.

Radical is not negative, folks. There seems to be a misunderstanding that when womyn of color are angry, it's all negative. From the WOC I am in community with, there is anger. Lots of it. It's in our blood from a life line of violence, rape, and racism. I think people hear what they want to hear and what they want to hear is the anger, it makes WOC easier to dismiss. But, the creative energy, the laughter and light is ten fold the anger. I'm angry, sure, but I'm much more than the anger and I believe in more positivity than I do in bitterness.

How does that relate to WAM?

Veronica talked about her good and bad experience of WAM and I agree with several of her points. I don't speak for anyone else, not even those who I housed when I say that WAM, like so many other conferences I have attended (e.g. NWSA) have much work to do with regard to racial divides. WAM is the brainchild of the Center for New Words, a non-profit org here in Cambridge that prioritizes, yes prioritizes, marginalized voices. The programs that I have attended have been provocative and stirring. Their rich history is a celebration of perseverance and will. Why should I not believe that WAM would be the same?

Thursday 9pm
I am giggling. A lot. I'm so excited for everything to unfold. I throw myself on a hotel bed and joke, "There better not be any pro-Hillary pundits telling me how to vote. I'm going to vomit."
Hee Hee Hee - that's not gonna happen, Sudy.

We are eating indian food and are laughing over everything and nothing. Folks are staring because we are loudly laughing. They are glancing over their shoulders and their backs feel like walls. We tip well and leave.

We enter a book store in Harvard Square. "Do you have Andrea Smith's Conquest?"
No.

Thursday 10:37pm
We're on the train, giggling about anything and everything. A tall man closes in and leans toward us, "You girls look like you're having a good time. Do you want to hear some jokes?"
BA and Nadia are sitting across from me. I look at Wifey. She can already sense trouble.

Even though my nose still stings from any contact with fabric because of my piercing, I bury my face in Wifey's armpit as this man shoots out disgusting racially charged and sexist jokes. I cover my face with my hands. Peaking briefly across the way, Nadia and BA have done the same. Nicole, a friend, utters, "I think that's enough of the jokes, Sir." He tries one more. Dead silence. He leaves us alone.

Friday 11am
One of the most contentious issues with any feminist conference is the politics of attendance. The can-attend and can't-attend is something I take seriously. (You know, I'm radical like that.) For the can't-attends, LIVE BLOGGING is a great tool to channel the wisdom and information to those who could not afford the conference, take time off of work, be away from families, or find adequate means to spend a weekend in Boston. What is shared is passed on to readers. It's a tool commonly called LIVE BLOGGING, I'm old school and call it, SHARING.

As I took pictures and wrote down quotes and springing ideas, out of nowhere it was stressed that no blogging, publicizing, or quoting was allowed. Got it, says me, the lady with the Nikon SLR. Laugh, laugh - we'll execute you. Got it, says me, the lady with the Nikon. No, really, we'll execute you if you threaten this safe space of confidentiality. Got it, says me, the lady with the Nikon. Execute you. Execute. Execute.

This is a journalists' conference. This is, "Where women's words matter." Oh, it matters alright.

Ok.

But, if I say anything, I am breaking confidentiality. Well, I'm not quoting, posting photos, or doing anything less than writing my experience. Hey, I'm just a radical Nikon lady trying to get out the goods others. I guess voicing threatens other's safe space. It was not a safe space for me though. "Execute?" Ooops, that was a quote.

Friday 8pm
Opening keynote..."Bitch is the new black."
"Someday we'll have own female Don Imus."
Swhaaaaaaa??
Did Saturday Night Live just squeak its way into this conference? Is that a Hill endorsement?
Did you just suggest that we need a female racist to utter spiteful comments into the radio waves so we're equal?

This is liberation?

Friday 10pm
I'm running around, trying to get folks settled, fed, and happy. BFP needs a Shamrock shake and some hot womyn tries to pick her up while she's walking out of McDs. I'm waiting in the car. Flashers are on, illegal parking. Stressssssss. No time to process what just happened today. Yet.

Saturday 12:30am
Security asks us to be quiet. It's the Marriot, not a libary! We don't want to get kicked out. We shush eat other's voices for the next hour and a half while we gently plan our session. We muffle our laughter with pillows.
BA asks, "Is there somewhere in Boston where we can just laugh and be ourselves?"

Saturday 10:56am
I am driving wild. But I live here in Boston and that's why I fit in. The panel on Immigration is superb but I am wondering why people think that getting coverage on Bill O'Reilly's show is worth talking about. Why are we even talking about people like Don Imus and Bill O'Reilly? For a few moments, I am having an out of body experience.

Saturday 11:28am
BFP is soaring and I watch her wings with love.

Saturday 12:30pm
I am carrying my sandwich and cannot wait to devour it while we have or Radical Womyn of Color Blogger's Caucus.

Saturday 12:54pm
Lex and I discover our room is double booked with a film screening. We walk to information, Our room is double booked.

"That's not possible."

My sandwich feels like it weighs 10lbs and my WAM bag is getting sweaty from my wet hands.
Blood sugar is dropping. I need sustenance. Now.

Our room is double booked.

"Did you check the program?"

I am having another out of body experience. Blooood sugarrrr drrropppinngg. Thank God for Lex.

Saturday 1:03pm
"There's a room now."

Saturday 1:20pm
We talk goods. We talk struggles.

Saturday 2:oopm
Our glorious session begins. A room full of womyn express their wishes for the world. A womyn brings 6 generations of Black womyn's struggles into the room. My heart is overflowing with joy. I keep thinking, "THIS is who we are." If only everyone else could see what we can do when we have the space, time, and freedom to create and Speak ourselves into existence. Jill and Octo make my heart smile. The energy fills me. The world, I feel, is so full of goodness and beauty.

Saturday 4pm.
An embrace I still feel.

Saturday 5pm
I am appointed driver of a huge minivan and cram it full of womyn of color feminists. It feels like family. This is my family. I drive like a wild womyn and need to wash my mouth out with soap for what I said to an unstable cyclist on Tremont and Boylston Street. We retire to my pad to rest up for tonight.

Saturday 7pm
Um, the Queer WOC and Allies reception is the same time as the WAM party. I tell Adonis, "I wanna dance tonight." The WAM party's got a DJ, but the other party's got my name on it. He seems perplexed at the dilemma. Is it a misprint, he asks. I wonder if anyone notices this. Uh yeah, everyone brings it up. Is this social segregation?

The Queer/WOC/Allies party rocks hard and it's a beautiful space full of laughter and comfort. BFP and I air-guitar during Pour Some Sugar on Me. Passerby-ers of The Tavern gawk at a dark room full of womyn dancing, rubbing, kissing, laughing, and drinking. Nothing to see here, just us, being...us.

I could count the allies I met on one hand.

Sunday 1am
BFP and I drive back while others go to IHop.

Sunday 4am
Nadia calls. Can you let us in?

Sunday 11am
I attend mass because I'm a radical Catholic like that. I pray for strength, peace, unity for feminists. I ask G*d for all kinds of things and hope She didn't hear what I said to that cyclist.

Sunday 1:30
Black Seed Cafe charges your first born child for a pastrami sandwich. We eat. Wifey and BA are leaving soon. My thoughts are beginning to turn sad as their departures begin.

Sunday 2:17pm
Wifey's purse is gone. The blue canvas, "Obama is My Homeboy" purse that I coveted is gone. How is that possible, I wonder, when I sat across from her the entire time? Her phone, iPod, wallet, Greyhound ticket, ID, LIFE is in there.

Sunday 2:30pm
Call the police for a report. Call credit cards to cancel. We are instructed to go to one of the police's kiosks down the block to write a report. We arrive. No one is there. We call again.
Please hold. Please hold. Please hold. Please hold.

An officer arrives at the kiosk contradicts the officer on the phone. "You can't make a report here."

Please hold. Please hold. Please hold. Please hold.

"Take the train to Haymarket stop. Look up and there's the police station. That's where you make the report."

Wifey's on the phone with Wachovia Bank who are giving her a difficult time. Why won't anyone help her?

Two officers in a car. Lex asks, "Please, can you give her a ride to the station? We're from out of town, she needs to catch a bus. She has no ID. "

"No. You need to ask someone else. We don't work with the Boston Police. We're a different department."

Please, someone. Help us. We're walking around this city with luggage, long faces, and 2 friends who need to leave.

The officers pull away from us in their car, literally.

I yell, "Her purse was stolen and no one will help us. Can anyone, someone please help us?"

Stares.

Of course stares. A bunch of womyn, a lot of color, and luggage. A yell. Must mean trouble.

We get on the train. Haymarket. We go to the info desk, "Where is the police station?"

"Oh, you go up the street. It's up there, if it's still there."

'Scuse me?

"It may have moved."

The police station may have moved? Thanks.

We march onward. The air is cold and the city is colder. My friends ask me if the city is always like this and I reflect. It never has been that way to me. How are all of these things happening? Is it because of who I am standing with? A bunch of womyn of color who need help and have a voice? Maybe. Maybe not. What I do know is that frustration is mounting and I am exhausted.

The police station is worse.

"What's the address of the place it was stolen?"

Wifey is being too kind, she freaking calls 411 on someone else's phone to get the address for the person taking her report. Do they know what a phone book is?

"Do you have a picture ID?"

BA looks like she will assassinate anyone that breathes. Lex, BFP, Nadia and I are incredulous. She JUST spent the last 15 minutes explaining how EVERYTHING was stolen. Nadia goes to smoke.

I contemplate beginning to smoke.

Sunday 4:28pm
BA and Wifey head toward Greyhound. The rest retire to my apartment.

Sunday 8pm
Lex's plane is supposed to depart from Logan aiport.

Sunday 8:32pm
Lex is asked to get off the plane because it is too heavy. Lex weighs approximately 97lbs and is bumped to help the plane get its butt off the ground.
She heads back to my place.

Sunday 9pm
We all eat and celebrate the weekend. My eyes begin to droop at midnight.

Monday 1:15am
We hug good night.

Monday 4:30am
Bfp and Lex get to airport. The planes are at even weight apparently.

Monday 7:00am
I drive Nadia to the airport.

Monday 10am
Process with Adonis, my sister, and Self begin.

What do I need to say about my WAM experience? It had its moments. It has its clouds.
I know how much work goes into conferences and how much of one's Self goes into planning, work, and detail. I respect that and all the hours that went into it. But there were things that transpired there that had nothing to do with the conference details, but about the general "Women's Movement" atmosphere. A much larger issue than one conference exists. I don't believe that everything that happened this weekend is an indication of a divide, but I do think that portions of the conference speak to much larger problems that exist between feminists.

I also don't believe that simply putting a womyn's face where a man's face once was is going to solve our problems. Mainstream media will never hear the voice of Real Womyn and by Real Womyn I am talking about womyn of color, incarcerated womyn, migrant womyn, womyn at the border, womyn gripped in violence, rape, and war. Mainstream media does not cover these stories and when it does it narrows the experience and distorts the truth to make is sensationalized and flashy. Feminists who believe in telling true Stories of womyn will struggle in media "reform." For those want Justice, get to the Allied Media Conference.

What I don't want to do is feed the binary feel of feminism - across race or religion or citizenship - or anything. There is a place for honesty and anger - always. But I also feel that there is a need for critical analysis of why division exists, what is gained AND lost when separation occurs in feminism. While I remain critical of mainstream feminism and its flaws, that critical analysis is not absent from the communities that I identify. What can I, a womyn of color, do to bridge this divide?

The highs and positivity are what I want to focus on. Most of the highs were provided by the company I kept and the womyn and allies in our session. I can't say enough about Jess Hoffman and how excited I am to work with her on make/shift. There's not enough vocabulary to express what transpired in our session with all those other womyn. The space provided where womyn can safely create, remember, and piece their vision together is the face of feminism to me.

That is what radical means to me.