RISE: Radical Indigenous Survivance & Empowerment officially hit 1,000 likes on Facebook. As a gesture of gratitude we wanted to share with you a new poster/image for our #DECOLONIZEFEMINISM project. Ahe’hee’! XO
Contact us: email@example.com
Demian Diné Yazhi’ (RISE: Radical Indigenous Survivance & Empowerment) hit the grimy streets of the Indian Capital of the World (Gallup, NM) today, initiating our #DECOLONIZEFEMINISM wheatpaste poster project. A special “Thank You” goes out to Ryan Dennison (Deadrezkids Records) for his phenomenal rezstyle Blue Bird Flour wheatpaste mix and for driving through familiar territory as an ally & warrior!
For further information on the posters, please email us at: firstname.lastname@example.org
“First Writing Since”
1. there have been no words.
i have not written one word.
no poetry in the ashes south of canal street.
no prose in the refrigerated trucks driving debris and dna.
not one word.
today is a week, and seven is of heavens, gods, science.
evident out my kitchen window is an abstract reality.
sky where once was steel.
smoke where once was flesh.
fire in the city air and i feared for my sister’s life in a way never
before. and then, and now, i fear for the rest of us.
first, please god, let it be a mistake, the pilot’s heart failed, the
plane’s engine died.
then please god, let it be a nightmare, wake me now.
please god, after the second plane, please, don’t let it be anyone
who looks like my brothers.
i do not know how bad a life has to break in order to kill.
i have never been so hungry that i willed hunger
i have never been so angry as to want to control a gun over a pen.
even as a woman, as a palestinian, as a broken human being.
never this broken.
more than ever, i believe there is no difference.
the most privileged nation, most americans do not know the difference
between indians, afghanis, syrians, muslims, sikhs, hindus.
more than ever, there is no difference.
2. thank you korea for kimchi and bibim bob, and corn tea and the
genteel smiles of the wait staff at wonjo smiles never revealing
the heat of the food or how tired they must be working long midtown
shifts. thank you korea, for the belly craving that brought me into
the city late the night before and diverted my daily train ride into
the world trade center.
there are plenty of thank yous in ny right now. thank you for my
lazy procrastinating late ass. thank you to the germs that had me
call in sick. thank you, my attitude, you had me fired the week
before. thank you for the train that never came, the rude nyer who stole
my cab going downtown. thank you for the sense my mama gave me
to run. thank you for my legs, my eyes, my life.
3. the dead are called lost and their families hold up shaky
printouts in front of us through screens smoked up.
we are looking for iris, mother of three. please call with any
information. we are searching for priti, last seen on the 103rd
floor. she was talking to her husband on the phone and the line
went. please help us find george, also known as adel. his family is
waiting for him with his favorite meal. i am looking for my son, who
was delivering coffee. i am looking for my sister girl, she started
her job on monday.
i am looking for peace. i am looking for mercy. i am looking for
evidence of compassion. any evidence of life. i am looking for
4. ricardo on the radio said in his accent thick as yuca, “i will
feel so much better when the first bombs drop over there. and my
friends feel the same way.”
on my block, a woman was crying in a car parked and stranded in hurt.
i offered comfort, extended a hand she did not see before she said,
“we’re gonna burn them so bad, i swear, so bad.” my hand went to my
head and my head went to the numbers within it of the dead iraqi
children, the dead in nicaragua. the dead in rwanda who had to vie
with fake sport wrestling for america’s attention.
yet when people sent emails saying, this was bound to happen, lets
not forget u.s. transgressions, for half a second i felt resentful.
hold up with that, cause i live here, these are my friends and fam,
and it could have been me in those buildings, and we’re not bad
people, do not support america’s bullying. can i just have a half
second to feel bad?
if i can find through this exhaust people who were left behind to
mourn and to resist mass murder, i might be alright.
thank you to the woman who saw me brinking my cool and blinking back
tears. she opened her arms before she asked “do you want a hug?” a
big white woman, and her embrace was the kind only people with the
warmth of flesh can offer. i wasn’t about to say no to any comfort.
“my brother’s in the navy,” i said. “and we’re arabs.” “wow, you
got double trouble.” word.
5. one more person ask me if i knew the hijackers.
one more motherfucker ask me what navy my brother is in.
one more person assume no arabs or muslims were killed.
one more person assume they know me, or that i represent a people.
or that a people represent an evil. or that evil is as simple as a
flag and words on a page.
we did not vilify all white men when mcveigh bombed oklahoma.
america did not give out his family’s addresses or where he went to
church. or blame the bible or pat robertson.
and when the networks air footage of palestinians dancing in the
street, there is no apology that hungry children are bribed with
sweets that turn their teeth brown. that correspondents edit images.
that archives are there to facilitate lazy and inaccurate
and when we talk about holy books and hooded men and death, why do we
never mention the kkk?
if there are any people on earth who understand how new york is
feeling right now, they are in the west bank and the gaza strip.
6. today it is ten days. last night bush waged war on a man once
openly funded by the
cia. i do not know who is responsible. read too many books, know
too many people to believe what i am told. i don’t give a fuck about
bin laden. his vision of the world does not include me or those i
love. and petittions have been going around for years trying to get
the u.s. sponsored taliban out of power. shit is complicated, and i
don’t know what to think.
but i know for sure who will pay.
in the world, it will be women, mostly colored and poor. women will
have to bury children, and support themselves through grief. “either
you are with us, or with the terrorists” — meaning keep your people
under control and your resistance censored. meaning we got the loot
and the nukes.
in america, it will be those amongst us who refuse blanket attacks on
the shivering. those of us who work toward social justice, in
support of civil liberties, in opposition to hateful foreign
i have never felt less american and more new Yorker — particularly brooklyn,
than these past days. the stars and stripes on all these
cars and apartment windows represent the dead as citizens first — not
family members, not lovers.
i feel like my skin is real thin, and that my eyes are only going to
get darker. the future holds little light.
my baby brother is a man now, and on alert, and praying five times a
day that the orders he will take in a few days time are righteous and
will not weigh his soul down from the afterlife he deserves.
both my brothers — my heart stops when i try to pray — not a beat to
disturb my fear. one a rock god, the other a sergeant, and both
palestinian, practicing muslim, gentle men. both born in brooklyn
and their faces are of the archetypal arab man, all eyelashes and
nose and beautiful color and stubborn hair.
what will their lives be like now?
over there is over here.
7. all day, across the river, the smell of burning rubber and limbs
floats through. the sirens have stopped now. the advertisers are
back on the air. the rescue workers are traumatized. the skyline is
brought back to human size. no longer taunting the gods with its
i have not cried at all while writing this. i cried when i saw those
buildings collapse on themselves like a broken heart. i have never
owned pain that needs to spread like that. and i cry daily that my
brothers return to our mother safe and whole.
there is no poetry in this. there are causes and effects. there are
symbols and ideologies. mad conspiracy here, and information we will
never know. there is death here, and there are promises of more.
there is life here. anyone reading this is breathing, maybe hurting,
but breathing for sure. and if there is any light to come, it will
shine from the eyes of those who look for peace and justice after the
rubble and rhetoric are cleared and the phoenix has risen.
we got to carry each other now.
you are either with life, or against it.
Bio: Suheir Hammad is a Palestinian-American poet and political activist. She has published a book of poems, Born Palestinian, Born Black, and a memoir, Drops of This Story. “First Writing Since” is reprinted in How2 with permission of the author.
Girlysounds meets PJ Harvey’s little sister.
love has no shape
it is a motion above the water
where language skims the surface and
has traveled since I first saw your face in 3D
alive and breathing and beating against the odds
#oregon #landscape (at INDIAN LAND)
photo credit: Demian DinéYazhi’
Demian Diné Yazhi’
Custer’s Last Stand, 2014
As part of the Wendy Red Star’s Wild West & Congress of Rough Riders of the World.
Demian Diné Yazhi’
Digital Ancestors, 2014
Crow woman & Medicine Crow from the Apsáalooke tribe.
Untitled (Still Life), 2011
10 Indians in one room is pretty damn sexy. Come check our work out at Bumbershoot 2014 - Fisher Pavilion.
#wendyredstar #bumbershoot #seattle #nativeart #indigenousart #warriors #contemporaryart #demiandineyazhi (at INDIAN LAND)
The time has finally come for…
WENDY RED STAR’S WILD WEST
& CONGRESS OF ROUGH RIDERS OF THE WORLD
Bumbershoot 2014 - Fisher Pavilion
August 30th - September 1st, 2014
It’s live, it’s wild, it’s the real Wild West. Featuring eleven of the top Native American and First Nations artists and performers, plus 100 horses, buffalo and longhorn steers. Come delight in seeing the most cutting edge contemporary Native American art and artists
The intention of Wendy Red Star’s Wild West And Congress of Rough Riders of The World is to showcase contemporary Native American art and artist through their eyes and perspective. Since Seattle Center was originally built for the 1962 World’s Fair, it brought to mind the complicated history of World Fairs, expositions, and the famous Buffalo Bill’s Wild West in regard to indigenous peoples. In these venues, Native peoples were publicly exhibited, as a main attraction and entertainment for millions. They were usually presented in so-called “natural” or “primitive” state, in dioramas, or even in cages. They were enthusiastically paraded as lower on the scale of evolutionary progress, and represented the counterbalance to dominate Western European civilization. On behalf of my great grandparents who participated in Buffalo Bill’s West, my grandparents who participated in or watched the St. Louis World’s Fair (1904) and the Chicago World’s Fair (1933), I want to produce my own Wild West show. Not in the literal sense, but in the sense that the participants (the Rough Riders of the World: Native American contemporary artists) will be allowed to take back ownership of Native American representations. Native American artists will have a chance to produce, present and disseminate their culture and own nativeness. The artists’ works included in this exhibition demonstrate a thriving and diverse spectrum of Native American identity in the 21st century. They are the rough riders who shatter many of the stereotypical notions placed upon Native Americans.
Join curator and artist Wendy Red Star for this exciting exhibition at Bumbershoot 2014. Red Star is an artist living and working in Portland, Oregon. Red Star has an MFA from UCLA and has exhibited both nationally and internationally.
*Poster designed by: Demian Diné Yazhi’
Untitled (Death by Gun), 1990
Multiple copies of this poster by the Cuban-born Felix González-Torres are displayed in a paper stack, at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Visitors may take copies of the poster from the stack free of charge. In its form and concept it blurs the lines between installation, sculpture and printmaking. The artist conceived of this piece (and his other similar printed paper stacks) as a kind of sculpture, endlessly depleted and endlessly replenished. (Those who buy his paper stacks are obliged to having the image reprinted so that the stack displayed in the gallery is always a specified optimum height).
The poster lists the names of individuals killed by guns in the United States in one week, in May 1989, with additional details, and in most cases, an image of the victim, all taken from Time magazine. Some have committed suicide, others are victims of violent crime. This simple exercise underlines the issue of gun ownership, particularly pressing in the United States, where private gun ownership is more common than in the United Kingdom and Europe. The drama of these violent deaths is contrasted with the simple, matter-of-fact manner in which they are reported, reducing the dead to a few statistics. This print has been produced as an ‘endless edition’ since 1990; as an unlimited edition artwork, it is constantly evolving as the audience participates in its distribution and its life-cycle.
An old sketch of Black Rage, done in my living room. Strange, the course of things. Peace for MO.
Black rage is founded on two-thirds a person
Rapings and beatings and suffering that worsens,
Black human packages tied up with strings,
Black rage can come from all these kinds of things.
Black rage is founded on blatant denial
Squeezed economics, subsistence survival,
Deafening silence and social control.
Black rage is founded on wounds in the soul!
When the dogs bite, when the beatings,
When I’m feeling sad
I simply remember all these kinds of things and then I don’t fear so bad!
Black rage is founded: who fed us self hatred
Lies and abuse while we waited and waited?
Spiritual treason, this grid and its cages
Black rage was founded on these kinds of things.
Black rage is founded on draining and draining,
Threatening your freedom to stop your complaining.
Poisoning your water while they say it’s raining,
Then call you mad for complaining, complaining
Old time bureaucracy drugging the youth,
Black rage is founded on blocking the truth!
Murder and crime, compromise and distortion,
Sacrifice, sacrifice, who makes this fortune?
Greed, falsely called progress,
Such human contortion,
Black rage is founded on these kinds of things
So when the dog bites
And the ceilings
And I’m feeling mad,
I simply remember all these kinds of things and then I don’t fear so bad!
Free enterprise, is it myth or illusion?D
Forcing you back into purposed confusion.
Black human trafficking or blood transfusion?
Black rage is founded on these kinds of things.
Victims of violence both psyche and body
Life out of context is living ungodly.
Greed falsely called wealth
Black rage is founded on denying of self!
Black human packages tied and subsistence
Having to justify very existence
Try if you must but you can’t have my soul
Black rage is founded on ungodly control
So when the dog bites
And the beatings
And I’m feeling so sad
I simply remember all these kinds of things and then I don’t feel so bad!