Quote of the Week

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The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.

--Dante Alighieri 

TEN THINGS MEN CAN DO TO PREVENT GENDER VIOLENCE

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Approach gender violence as a MEN'S issue involving men of all ages and socioeconomic, racial and ethnic backgrounds. View men not only as perpetrators or possible offenders, but as empowered bystanders who can confront abusive peers.  If  a brother, friend, classmate, or teammate is abusing his female partner -- or is disrespectful or abusive to girls and women in general -- don't look the other way. If you feel comfortable doing so, try to talk to him about it. Urge him to seek help. Or if you don't know what to do, consult a friend, a parent, a professor, or a counselor. DON'T REMAIN SILENT. Have the courage to look inward. Question your own attitudes. Don't be defensive when something you do or say ends up hurting someone else. Try hard to understand how your own attitudes and actions might inadvertently perpetuate sexism and violence, and work toward changing them. If you suspect that a woman close to you is being abused or has been sexually assaulted, gently ask if you can help. If you are emotionally, psychologically, physically, or sexually abusive to women, or have been in the past, seek professional help NOW. Be an ally to women who are working to end all forms of gender violence. Support the work of campus-based women's centers. Attend "Take Back the Night" rallies and other public events. Raise money for community-based rape crisis centers and battered women's shelters. If you belong to a team or fraternity, or another student group, organize a fundraiser. Recognize and speak out against homophobia and gay-bashing. Discrimination and violence against lesbians and gays are wrong in and of themselves. This abuse also has direct links to sexism (eg. the sexual orientation of men who speak out against sexism is often questioned, a conscious or unconscious strategy intended to silence them. This is a key reason few men do so). Attend programs, take courses, watch films, and read articles and books about multicultural masculinities, gender inequality, and the root causes of gender violence.  Educate yourself and others about how larger social forces affect the conflicts between individual men and women. Don't fund sexism. Refuse to purchase any magazine, rent any video, subscribe to any Web site, or buy any music that portrays girls or women in a sexually degrading or abusive manner. Protest sexism in the media. Mentor and teach young boys about how to be men in ways that don't involve degrading or abusing girls and women. Volunteer to work with gender violence prevention programs, including anti-sexist men's programs. Lead by example.

Copyright 1999, Jackson Katz. www.jacksonkatz.com
Reprint freely with credit.

Red is still the colour of a soldier's blood

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The way I see it, red is always the colour of soldiers' blood, no matter their sexual preference. Does homosexuality diminish one's heroism or taint one's sacrifice? Of course it doesn't. 

Those who serve our country deserve to hold their heads up high, the way they uphold our flag and constitution in times of peace and war. 

Soldiers fight for us, and we should fight for them.


That's all.  

Deliverance from the Robed Boogeyman

Blessed Father, oh how you have sinned! 

Has it been 5, 15, or 30 years since

the dates infallible Joe Ratzinger omitted? 

This madness, this crime committed:

   Names crossed out

     Faces obscured

        Defilement in Shadows,

     Little boys' screams silenced,

   Truth be damned, 
       MURDERED.

Predators'---yours!--memorized verses

   uttered behind polished mahogany screens,

Robotic rituals--cleansing, you say--,

   Insincere atonement,

     A mockery of (y)our God's Grace.

This sickness, this monster

Boston-Belfast-Berlin Migration. 

 Boogeyman in Sacred Robes,
           May God deliver us from your evil

Once You Label Me, You Negate Me: A Requiem for Larry King

Society declares the others out of those who they neither understand nor able to neatly fill the ideals set forth as norms. The demarcation of social constructs render the other as devoid of worth. The moment that a living, breathing, human being is relegated to caricature or stereotypical othering, it then becomes much easier to commit and justify atrocious acts to our fellow man. 

His name was Larry king, and he was a boy who just happened to discover his true self at the age ten, and had the convictions and courage to refuse to live a lie. He was unapologetically gay, and like many teenagers who have to wear school uniforms, Larry asserted his individuality by wearing make-up, jewelry, and high-heeled boots. 

Unfortunately, this annoying little social construct called gender roles dictated that Larry and his choices were wrong. That he chose to be true to himself was a concept that made a lot of people uncomfortable. On February 12, 2008, Brandon McInerney's discomfort at his classmate's so-called otherness led him to bring a gun to school. While inside English class, he did an atrocious, cowardly act: he shot Larry in the back of the head. Larry was rushed to the hospital, but was pronounced dead less than 24 hours later. Just as bravely as he stood up for his choices in life, in death Larry did one final good deed: he donated his organs. 

Brandon McInerney should be held accountable for his actions, but in the end, he is just one person. He could be sent to jail for the rest of his life, but sadly, there will be another person just like him, pulling triggers. We can rehabilitate people one at a time, but unless we challenge and actively exhaust all means to change the system of othering, then more Larry Kings will be slain. It is othering that needs to die. 

Rest in peace, Larry. 

Hapa, "Redemption Song"

Originally sung by Bob Marley, this rendition of Redemption Song by the Hawaiian group Hapa is one of the songs I turn to whenever I need re-affirmation that there is goodness in the world. 99.999% of the time, it is not too late. There is redemption.

I admit; sometimes I can be so rararara speak out! that I sometimes forget that a whisper can be just as powerful as a scream. Sometimes it's the little details that make the most profound difference, rather than a huge act. A whisper can resonate the loudest across the vast expanse of the world and a pebble can produce the most enduring ripple as long as they are constant.

That being said, there is something so powerful whenever I hear a chant or a song from my ancestral tongues. Power. Mana, it is called in Hawaiian. Incidentally, Mana in Tagalog means inheritance. So in the words of my Hawaiian and Pinoy ancestors, Mana is a power that is inherited, passed on from a proud people whose cultures and traditions can never be vanished.

Sometimes I do worry, though, that someday my ancestral tongues will cease to exist. We had been silenced before  by missionaries and conquerors who told us our Native ways were savage. They used God as a justification for silencing our tongues, our songs, our chants, our identity. But they couldn't succeed, because Mana is not created by man and therefore cannot be taken away by man. And so we still speak, though not as loudly as we had before the time of James Cook.

What worries me is that there are some in my generation who think that modernity and progress means letting go of Nativeness, that in order to fly one must abandon roots. I am an American in my home country and yet in here, I hunger for the sound of Hawaiian, Tsalagi/Cherokee, and Maori tongues. I yearn for Bisayan and Tagalog that are not peppered with English words; bastardized BisLish and TagLish have become somewhat of a new status symbol that separates the elites from the non-elites. I long to hear pride and survival with each syllable spoken from my ancestral tongues.

Is that too naïve, too idealistic? Maybe it is and maybe it isn't, but it is my truth.  


 

Let's all contribute to grant Sierra Cooper's Christmas wish for her family

21-year-old raises money for her funeral

Her final Christmas wish

Updated: Tuesday, 22 Dec 2009, 11:08 AM EST

Published : Monday, 21 Dec 2009, 6:12 PM EST

* Amanda Jarrett

CLINTON, Ind. (WTHI) - Just days before Christmas, a young woman with muscular dystrophy is planning her own funeral, so she won't leave the burden behind for her family.

Sierra Cooper, 21, has battled muscular dystrophy her entire life, then she received another blow: Being diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. Now, Sierra faces a grim outlook and doctors said she has little time left.

"If it was up to me, she'd have another 30 to 40 years and she'd bury me," Sallie Cooper, Sierra's mother, said. "You're not supposed to bury your child."

Sierra may only have weeks left. This Christmas, her wish isn't under the tree this year. She's asking for donations to help pay for her funeral.

"I love my parents and I don't want them to be struggling when I'm gone," Sierra said.

Sierra isn't eligible for life insurance. Every day is a struggle for the 21-year-old, as she's hooked to a pack of oxygen and medicine. That's why her mother wants to give her the only thing she can: A proper funeral.

"She'll never get a wedding, so I want to do something special for her," Sallie said. "She's been planning her own funeral, so of course I want to give her the funeral she wants."

While she's planning for her final days, Sierra said she's found peace.

"I'm going to be with God and I'm going to be pain-free, no oxygen, no pain pump," Sierra said. "I'm going to be normal for once and be able to do the stuff you guys take for granted."

For now, she's living life one day at a time. Sierra prepares for a final Christmas. She's hoping for help as she leaves her family behind.

If you'd like to help the Cooper family, you can make donations to the Sierra Cooper Benefit Fund at any First Financial Bank location . Contact First Financial Bank at 812-238-6000.

First Financial Bank

PO Box 220

Clinton, IN 47842

Jose Protacio Rizal, "Mi Ultimo Adios"

¡Adiós, Patria adorada, región del sol querida,
Perla del mar de oriente, nuestro perdido Edén!
A darte voy alegre la triste mustia vida,
Y fuera más brillante, más fresca, más florida,
También por ti la diera, la diera por tu bien.
En campos de batalla, luchando con delirio,
Otros te dan sus vidas sin dudas, sin pesar;
El sitio nada importa, ciprés, laurel o lirio,
Cadalso o campo abierto, combate o cruel martirio,
Lo mismo es si lo piden la patria y el hogar.
Yo muero cuando veo que el cielo se colora
Y al fin anuncia el día tras lóbrego capuz;
si grana necesitas para teñir tu aurora,
Vierte la sangre mía, derrámala en buen hora
Y dórela un reflejo de su naciente luz.
Mis sueños cuando apenas muchacho adolescente,
Mis sueños cuando joven ya lleno de vigor,
Fueron el verte un día, joya del mar de oriente,
Secos los negros ojos, alta la tersa frente,
Sin ceño, sin arrugas, sin manchas de rubor
Ensueño de mi vida, mi ardiente vivo anhelo,
¡Salud te grita el alma que pronto va a partir!
¡Salud! Ah, que es hermoso caer por darte vuelo,
Morir por darte vida, morir bajo tu cielo,
Y en tu encantada tierra la eternidad dormir.
Si sobre mi sepulcro vieres brotar un día
Entre la espesa yerba sencilla, humilde flor,
Acércala a tus labios y besa al alma mía,
Y sienta yo en mi frente bajo la tumba fría,
De tu ternura el soplo, de tu hálito el calor.
Deja a la luna verme con luz tranquila y suave,
Deja que el alba envíe su resplandor fugaz,
Deja gemir al viento con su murmullo grave, 
Y si desciende y posa sobre mi cruz un ave,
Deja que el ave entone su cántico de paz.
Deja que el sol, ardiendo, las lluvias evapore
Y al cielo tornen puras, con mi clamor en pos;
Deja que un ser amigo mi fin temprano llore
Y en las serenas tardes cuando por mí alguien ore,
¡Ora también, oh Patria, por mi descanso a Dios!
Ora por todos cuantos murieron sin ventura,
Por cuantos padecieron tormentos sin igual,
Por nuestras pobres madres que gimen su amargura;
Por huérfanos y viudas, por presos en tortura
Y ora por ti que veas tu redención final.
Y cuando en noche oscura se envuelva el cementerio
Y solos sólo muertos queden velando allí,
No turbes su reposo, no turbes el misterio,
Tal vez acordes oigas de cítara o salterio,
Soy yo, querida Patria, yo que te canto a ti.
Y cuando ya mi tumba de todos olvidada
No tenga cruz ni piedra que marquen su lugar,
Deja que la are el hombre, la esparza con la azada,
Y mis cenizas, antes que vuelvan a la nada,
El polvo de tu alfombra que vayan a formar.
Entonces nada importa me pongas en olvido.
Tu atmósfera, tu espacio, tus valles cruzaré.
Vibrante y limpia nota seré para tu oído,
Aroma, luz, colores, rumor, canto, gemido,
Constante repitiendo la esencia de mi fe.
Mi patria idolatrada, dolor de mis dolores,
Querida Filipinas, oye el postrer adiós.
Ahí te dejo todo, mis padres, mis amores.
Voy donde no hay esclavos, verdugos ni opresores,
Donde la fe no mata, donde el que reina es Dios.
Adiós, padres y hermanos, trozos del alma mía,
Amigos de la infancia en el perdido hogar,
Dad gracias que descanso del fatigoso día;
Adiós, dulce extranjera, mi amiga, mi alegría,
Adiós, queridos seres, morir es descansar.




English translation below the cut: 

Different Faces of Christmas

I won't pretend to know what it's like to call a splayed out cardboard box home, and the closest thing to hunger pangs I feel is whenever I have to forego food and water for 24 hours to get my blood drawn the next day. I don't know what it's like to spend a year in some God forsaken war zone, knowing that I could be killed by a stray mortar round or friendly fire. I don't know what it's like to go begging for food on the streets and being routinely ignored by passersby intent on getting the best deals at  Bergdorf's big sale. I don't know what it feels like to be a 70-year-old nursing home resident, waiting in vain for children and grandchildren to come on Christmas morning.


But I know that I could very easily be in these situations, and it is merely a twist of luck that I was born into this world not being personally exposed to these kinds of lives. To say that I feel blessed to not be them is somewhat patronizing, as though I am better than them. (Of course I am thankful for my blessings, but to say I am blessed to not be group/person X is a different story.). Far from it. I did nothing to deserve being born into a family that is able to provide food, clothing, and shelter.



Growing up, my family had all these Christmas traditions. November was when we started decorating the house in festive decor. Well before December, our Christmas tree would already be overflowing with presents in all shapes and sizes. Starting on December 16, we would wake up at the crack of dawn to attend the nine days of Misa de Gallo. On Christmas Eve, our huge extended family would gather around for a huge Noche Buena meal. Jamon Serrano, queso de bola, morcon, lechon, lumpia shanghai, leche flan, pot roast, cakes, ice cream...it was a veritable food orgy. It was the one time of the year wherein the gated community we lived in would allow children from disadvantaged backgrounds to enter, so that they may sing Christmas carols in exchange for food and money.


It was, needless to say, a very sheltered and privileged upbringing. Truthfully, I took a lot of things for granted as a child. Having close contact with people who come from similar lifestyles, I took it for granted that the luxuries I had been blessed with were also afforded to every child.Halcyon days of childhood.

I can vividly remember one of the first times I became aware of socioeconomic disparities. I had a  lunch pass when I was in elementary school, which allowed my momma to take me out during the 90-minute lunch period. There I was, a pudgy little pig-tailed Catholic schoolgirl, sitting in an air-conditioned car during a short traffic jam. I remember being sulky that day, because my momma bought me a milk chocolate Toblerone bar instead of the white chocolate I wanted. There was a rap on the car window, which irritated my grandmother because she didn't want the windows to be muddied or dirtied. I looked outside the window and there she was, a little girl about a year or so younger than me, dressed in a graying, oversized tank top. She rapped on the windows with her left hand, and held garlands of flowers on her right.


She was working, and I doubt her parents--if she still had them--even allowed her to go to school. I never knew her name, nor had the chance to listen to her story. I wanted to buy a garland from her, but my grandmother was convinced that the little girl had criminal ties, and would attempt to snatch something from us the second we rolled down our windows. Perhaps she felt as though this little girl's dirty exterior was a representation of what lay within her. It was an awakening. That day something stirred deep within me and awakened my humanity. And so I began to see. Listen. Hear. Feel. I was on my path to becoming what it meant to be a human being.


As an adult I understand that Christmas isn't about the elaborate meals or the number of presents under the tree. Its meaning has been buried beneath the sales at the malls, luxurious vacations, and festively decorated houses. Christmas began as a celebration of hope. A redemption. A child was born in a manger, and this child would grow up to bring a light to those who have lived in the darkness of persecution and inequity. Somehow, we have lost sight of this as the glaring neon lights of materialism blinds us.



This Christmas and for always, I hope that we all go back to the beginning. Back to the basics. I pray that we go back to hope and that we heed the words of Albert Schweitzer in that "[w]e must never permit the voice of humanity within us to be silenced. It is man's sympathy with all creatures that first makes him a man."

The hunger for humanity can sometimes be the sharpest pang