Sensory Overload

Visions and Villains

A year or so ago, I began reading Azar Nafisi's Reading Lolita in Tehran, A Memoir in Books.  I didn't know anything about the book when I saw it, but I was immediately interested in it because it was about exploration of the works of some of my favorite writers: Vladimir Nabokov, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Henry James, and Jane Austen.  I also thought it would be an interesting way to learn more about the politics of Iran, the Iranian revolution, the Iran-Iraq war, etc.  Plus, the book was "free" because I bought two other books that day.

Initially, I was captivated by the writing ~ it was at moments vivid, intimate, uninhibited, and, in certain phrases, simply lovely.  But after a few chapters, I found I couldn't identify with Nafisi and her personal story ~ she seemed to me (from what little I read) to have lived quite a privileged life (her literary and political family, her life before the Revolution, as a professor, as a writer, and later her life in the States).  I couldn't get past the image I quickly created about her; and so I put the book down (actually, I complained loudly and tossed the book back on my bookshelf).

Recently, for some unknown reason, I decided to give the book another chance.  I told myself that I do appreciate the beautiful writing and that perhaps that appreciation would outweigh, or even enrich, whatever criticism I had of her personally.  I also read a little more about her and about the book, and various critiques of the book ~ for non-fiction I do generally like to have the "back story" on the writer and the narrative in general.  I learned more about the wholeness of the story before I went back to consider the particular morsels of the moments that sum up the story.

I reached the chapter where Nafisi discusses how upset one her students becomes when she hears the label the others have placed on her, how they define her ~ whereas one is a poet and another a painter, they sum her up as a "contradiction in terms."  And today at lunch, sitting out in the sun, this part stunned me in its stark reflection of my reality, at this moment in time:

The sun and clouds that defined Nassrin's infinite moods and temperaments were too intimate, too inseparable.  She lived by startling statements that she blurted out in a most awkward manner.  My girls all surprised me at one point or another, but she more than the rest.
~
In class, we were discussing the concept of the villain in the novel. ~~ Humbert, like most dictators, was interested only in his own vision of other people.  He had created the Lolita he desired, and he would not budge from that image.  I reminded them of Humbert's statement that he wished to stop time and keep Lolita forever on "an island of entranced time," a task undertaken only by Gods and poets.

And I sat there on the warm grass, lamenting the cold reality of the visions and villains in my own life ~ of someone creating an image of me so idealistic that there was no living up to it.  And when I failed, as anyone would have, the dark rigidity of the image would not bend to allow any new light into its corners.  The darkness of this helplessness ~ as someone else shapes the ball of clay that is You, and then destroys it, and then never lets you place a hand on re-centering and throwing the ball of clay back onto the wheel, to reshape it ~ it is blinding.

Years ago, through some freak accident, I suffered from Vertigo.  I felt like I was spinning and whirling, completely, for about a week.  Everything around me seemed like it was moving, but then so did I ~ it was like a double dose of a swift orbit ~ around me and within me.  And recently this feeling has surfaced for me not only in the three-dimensional world of my reality, but in the simulated two-dimensional Web 2.0 world: you present and perceive certain images ~ of yourself and of other people.  I see now that when the fluidity of cyberspace and your real personality are confronted by the rigidity of the zeros and ones of our computers...well, reality and flexibility and lucidity are lost ~ and so are you.

And all of these themes ~ control, betrayal of vision, fear, deception, loss ~ are beautifully portrayed in one of my favorite films: Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo.  I adore James Stewart ~ but I was struck more by a simple line uttered by Kim Novak, as Madeleine: Only one is a wanderer; two together are always going somewhere.

And that's all I thought about today at lunch ~

On Finding Balance and Reclaiming Past Lives

(Heads up: Sappy Overload coming your way, Sap Attack, Super Sap ~ the following post is pretty damn sappy. Read at your own risk.) Tonight I drove up to the Berkeley campus to meet a student at the Free Speech Movement Cafe and help him with his personal statement for his law school applications. It is so incredibly warm here, and school started last month, so as I drove around looking for parking, groups of undergrads in shorts and Cal t-shirts and backpacks crowded the sidewalks ~ it made me want to be back in school, back at the I-House with my friends, taking a nap on my books, pretending to know something about a lot of things, excited to learn. It's a privileged existence, really, and I miss that blissful angst. Meeting with my student-client was also an eye-opening experience, creating more questions for me than the answers I provided him for his essay and academic/career development. We spent a couple of hours discussing his many achievements and travels, his fight against cancer, and the many questions he has about what he wants to do with his life. It's humbling to have someone look to you for answers about life, and law school, and the legal framing of social issues ~ what do I know, right?. I felt a little overwhelmed ~~ but you know how damn sensitive I am. Here I was speaking with yet another human being, connecting again with someone on a very personal level, but this time not about politics ~~ just about him, and his struggles and studies and society and what the hell it all means. And I drove home, thinking about him and how young he is and how his entire life seems to be in front of him ~ and realizing that mine is as well ~ I have this exciting opportunity I yet have to tell you about, a new beginning maybe, a new chapter in this chaotic life ~~ and when my student-client and I were discussing his personal statement, that's how we broke things down into manageable pieces: the chapters of his life. What chapter am I in? Did I just get out of that creepy dream-sequence, and is the real part about to begin? Am I in the middle of a flashback sequence? There's a lot going on ~~ segments of my past creeping up and sneaking past my present, maybe into my future, but do I want that? On the drive home I thought about part of a poem Saul Williams wrote and included in his "Slam Diaries":

if i could find the spot where truth echoes
i would stand there and whisper memories of my children's future
i would let their future dwell in the past
so that i might live a brighter now

now is essence of my domain
but it contains all that was and will be.....

The "Slam Diaries" are part of the journal that Saul and the other filmmakers kept during the making of the film, Slam. The first time I saw this movie, I was left speechless by its magic ~~ Saul Williams' poetry in particular hit me hard ~~ I mean, brutally honest and passionate and sheer raw emotion ~~ the art of living a way most people are terrified of living.....raw. The filmmakers got real poets to play poets (you must see Beau Sia perform live!), cons to play cons, went to prison for their prison "set" and made real prisoners forget for a few days that they were locked in cages, as their reality was incorporated right into the film during shooting. Slam tells the story of Ray Joshua, an original, gifted young rapper trapped in a war zone housing project known as Dodge City. Unable to find a job, Ray copes with the despair and poverty of his neighborhood by using his wits and verbal talent. In the Slam Diaries, there is this quote by Ray Joshua: "This ain't no metaphor. This is my life."

And do you see now the connection I am finding between George Lakoff's "Metaphors We Live By" and this movie ~ the social constructs of politics ~ the political framework of poetry? So, I have all this whirling around in my head, it feels, like with the force of those waves Hurricane Ivan is hurling at the Coast....and I remembered, went way back into my past and my subconscious, to find this other poem I adore by Saul.....this poem down below which meant so much to me years ago, which my friend Ginger read aloud to me once ~~ and, finally, I reclaimed it ~~ revisited a particular portion of my past, and brought it square and center into my present.....wanting to shape it and remold it into a part of my future ~~ a way to weave love into political activism, the art of awareness, connecting politics to real life. In the Slam Diaries, the Editor writes, "All films are political. If there is zero political consciousness in a film -- that's its politics." And so I feel these days that all life is political ~~~ I don't want my life to have zero political consciousness. And I came home and found the poem ~~ the poem that shouted out at me from the movie screen, the poem I saw Saul Williams perform live, the poem he told me about in person, the poem that meant so much to me in a certain time in my life. And I re-opened the pages, re-uttered the words, rephrased its metaphors, and am reclaiming its imagination:

The Wind's Song

the square root of kiss is a hum
i hum under my breath when i contemplate the drum
of your heartbeat
and my heart beats for your breath
i revel in the wind for mere glimpses

i'm tornado over you
would you look into the eye of my storm
i whirlwind through your life like breeze
and fill your lungs
as we achieve the second power of a hum

i love...

as instruments come to life
through breath
the wind sends my high notes to indigo communions
with Coltrane's Favorite Things

...this is my body which is given for you,
this is my blood which is given for you...

my love like the wind, uncaged
blows time into timeless whirlpools
transfiguring fear and all of its subordinates
(possession, jealousy, fear)
into crumbling dried leaves

my love
is the wind's slave
and, thus, is free

my love
is the wind that is shaped
as it passes through the lips of earthly vessels
becoming words of wisdom
songs of freedom
or simply hot air

my love
is the wind's song:
if it is up to me, i'll never die.
if it is up to me, i'll die tomorrow
one thousand times in an hour and live seven minutes later.
if it is up to me, the sun will never cease to shine
and the moon will never cease to glow
and i'll dance a million tomorrows
in the sun rays of the moon waves
and bathe in the yesterdays of days to come
ignoring all of my afterthoughts
and preconceived notions
if it is up to me, it is up to me
and thus is my love:
untainted
eternal
***
the wind is the moon's imagination wandering:
it seeps through cracks
explores the unknown
and
ripples the grass
my love is my soul's imagination
how do i love thee?
imagine

Discovering Roots

My friend Daniel and I counted stars tonight, up on the roof of my building, linking the wine and food and non-sequiturs from dinner to the mysterious light those tiny dots were speaking to us. I wondered what stars are made of, and how they exist ~~ but, speaking with Daniel, a creative genius and gifted wordsmith, I remembered that stars are what we make of them, what we imagine....and I vaguely remember someone once saying, "To know ourselves, we must know the stars." So, after Daniel left, I remembered this Walt Whitman poem that explores the tension between the scientific world-view, the one we are taught in classrooms, and the poet's view, that passion for knowledge that you can find only outside of the classroom:

WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

That tension between intellect and emotion, the desperate search for the right combination of two such powerful forces, the disconcerting schism between active vs. passive learning, the discord between passionate exploration and sterile study, "connecting the prose and the passion" ~~ are all themes I think resonated through my weekend. Up on the roof, under the stars, Daniel said that the Latin root for passion is pati (and the Greek pathos): to suffer or endure. And I wondered how the modern definition of "passion" has come to mean "boundless enthusiasm" or "ardent love" ~~ how you define the word changes how you experience its essence ~~ the Buddha's Awakening describes this process. But mostly I thought about how passion sometimes feels like the difference between what "should be" and what "is" ~~ that's why people are passionate about justice or civil rights or love ~~ to suffer and desire and ache and want what "should be". And, you know, compassion then means "to suffer together" (com = together, pati = suffer). And often I feel compassion, but not in that suffering sense ~~ more in that "true, honest contact with another human being" sense. And so my weekend was a little bit about that.

My friend M. and I drive to Fresno to visit our good friend, Alegría ~~ whose name means "Happiness." Ale and I survived law school together, helping each other untangle that noose of the sterile Socratic method from around our necks, and using the rope to lead each other into uncharted territory ~~ creating more passionate, more creative, more challenging ways to learn the law we wanted to practice, and to serve the communities we are so passionate about. Ale, who is a Staff Attorney for CRLA, has deep roots in a family devoted to the passionate fight for social justice; often, I learn a lot just by being around her, in or out of the classroom ~~ like this weekend, spending two days with Ale and her Grandmother enjoying the Labor Day Weekend, a holiday founded by, and in honor of, "The Worker".

Ale's grandmother is Jessie de la Cruz, who was born in 1919 and who was five years old when she began working in the fields in California. In 1935, Jessie met the boy, another teen field worker, who would become her husband, Arnulfo De La Cruz ~~ they eloped three years later, had five children, and continued migrating up and down the San Joaquin Valley, working on farms and living in the labor camps with other campesinos. In 1965, Cesar Chavez was holding a meeting in the De La Cruz home ~~ he had already held several meetings there ~~ and Cesar asked Arnulfo, "Where is Jessie?" When Arnulfo explained that Jessie was in the kitchen, Cesar said, "She belongs here." And that night, before many of us were even born, Jessie joined La Causa, helping organize the National Farm Workers Association. Jessie is known as the UFW's first female organizer ~~ and as the "Quiet Hero" in the San Joaquin Valley.

I know all this about Jessie because I read the book Gary Soto wrote about her, Jessie De La Cruz: A Profile of a United Farm Worker. What I didn't learn in the book, I discovered this weekend, sitting around a table listening to Jessie's soft voice recount powerful memories while Mexican music played in the background. She told us how she still misses her husband every day ~~ he died suddenly of a heart attack 13 years ago ~~ and about her children, and then the funny story of how she met Pedro Infante, the famous Mexican artist and actor.....Infante was giving a concert in town but Jessie and her sister couldn't go because they had to stay in the fields ~~ later, before they left town, Infante went to the field where they were ~~ the only thing they had for him to autograph was a prayer book ~~ so, Infante signed the prayer book: "Yo soy Cathólico también!" ~~ Sunday morning, when the three of us came under attack by a single Japanese Beatle, Jessie grabbed a broom and rushed out to the back patio to save us as we screamed and ran around, laughing at our hysteria over such a big bug. Jessie, who turns 85 on September 13, is clearly stronger and faster and more fearless than all of us put together. If you don't already know about Jessie, read about her, and discover the history behind this "Quiet Hero."

The weekend theme of Heroes and Passion and Causes and Strong Women also floated through the movie we saw Sunday night ~~ "Hero," directed by Zhang Yimou, which has finally been released, three years after it was made. The story explores the interplay and the conflict between the sword and the heart ~~ the passion of defending one's ideals, the idea of a land without borders, the concept of a soul without constraint. The cinematography alone will make you cry ~~ the different primary colors used to tell each version of the story, the colors and light becoming more "real" as you reach the truth of the tale. Tony Leung Chiu-Wai and Maggie Cheung, who were so amazing in "In The Mood for Love" are mesmerizing here as Broken Sword and Flying Snow ~~ I mean, you cannot take your eyes off of them. The distance between the sword and the heart is measured here in passion ~~ on the screen, in the color palette, in Chiu-Wai's eyes, in Cheung's crimson lips, and in the discussion you'll have after this movie.

"Passion is emotion that endures. It must survive all obstacles, not the least of which is the burden of its own intensity."

Choose Trust

It's nearly 80-degrees here in Oakland on a Friday night ~ nearly midnight ~ and I am sitting with the balcony doors open, smitten by the silky light streaming in from the nearly-full-moon, relishing the amazing weather and the laughter from the small party two buildings over ~ a few of the guys over there, I can see them through my kitchen window and across my neighbor's rooftop as I sit here writing this, they are playing guitars, and singing "El Cuarto de Tula," one of my favorite songs, a Cuban son ~ the version by Cuarteto Patria is my favorite, off their CD "A Una Coqueta" ~ the song is a usually played as a descarga (Cuban jam style) and the neighbors are really hitting it ~ it's soothing ~....

I'm still up because my friend E. and I went to see "Garden State" tonight, the film written and directed by Zach Braff.  Ai, I can't say too much or I will spoil the movie for you but YOU MUST SEE THIS MOVIE NOW.  Braff is brilliant, sublime ~  and Natalie Portman is divine, complex, lovely, and strong.  In the film, Zach's character, Andrew Largeman (who is on all sorts of medication prescribed by his psychiatrist), has been numb to his life, not having experienced any emotions that he should have ~ then he travels back to New Jersey for his mother's funeral, and he discovers his own reawakening and rebirth.  There is this scene early on in the film, just after he meets "Sam," played by Natalie Portman, where she asks him how he would even know if she were lying about something ~ and he says something like, "Well, I would just choose to trust you," and she asks, "you can do that?"

Can you?  Can you simply choose to trust someone or something, or, gulp, yourself, your intuition?  I have a friend who told me once that every morning she woke up and chose to love her husband ~ he might make her angry, or she might feel like she hated him during an argument, but ultimately she knew that she had made a conscious decision to love him, that day and every day, and she trusted in that.  ~~~ Me, I have had a love-hate relationship with Trust ~ she has kicked my ass a few times, Trust.  Yet she calls me back ~~ like the sirens sunning themselves on the rocks in that sea of your insecurity, singing that song you know the lyrics to, the song you can't get out of your head ~ Trust sings its dangerously sweet melody to me, and invites me to believe in her again ~ to risk crashing into those rocks again, to risk swallowing more than pride, to tread water in a pool of possibility.

And that line in the movie screamed out at me, despite the subtlety onscreen.  The way Andrew stated, pointed blank, that he would simply do something he chose to do ~ and Sam's disbelief that such a thing is possible ~ how can you control something like that?  I had a friend once who would tell me that he wanted to stop doing a particular bad habit he had, but he just didn't know how ~ and my response always was, "well, don't" ~ that simple, "don't do what you don't want to do" ~ and it's tough for me to really believe in that statement if I can't believe in the inverse relationship, to wit, "just do it" ~ just do something you want to do ~~ like Trust. 

We walked out of the theater, my mind still stuck on that scene ~ but really the entire movie was amazing ~ the soundtrack especially, damn, go get the soundtrack.  And we strolled down Piedmont Avenue, enjoying the sight of so many people out on the streets, the crowds spilling out of Fenton's ~ having ice cream and wearing shorts for Pete's Sake, which you know is a rarity in Northern California.  We wanted a drink so we stumbled upon Dopo, a charming, tiny Italian bistro on Piedmont.  It was crowded ~ there was no way we were going to get a table.  We bumped into some friends, and I loved the provincial feeling ~ of strolling through your neighborhood, a small town, seeing friends at the local eatery, enjoying a warm summer evening ~ the Bay Area has these wonderful pockets of this small-town feeling.  I asked one of the owners, Adam, if we could sneak a coupla chairs out on the sidewalk for us to just enjoy a glass of his 2001 Barbera ~ and he indulged our whim with a smile.  Dopo has been open almost a year and it seems to be doing great ~ every table was taken, and the people waiting were glad to do so out on the sidewalk with Adam, who chatted and laughed with everyone, all the while keeping an eye on the diners inside.  We sat and talked for over an hour, and Adam charged us only $10 for two glasses of wine; we left a $5 tip and promised to see him again soon for a full dinner.

And now, the neighbors are still singing ~ and the moon is still shining ~ and those sultry sirens are still calling out to me.  This time, though, I think I know where the dangerous rocks lie, and I think I can navigate that labyrinth Trust hides in......

Go see "Garden State".  Braff has a blog about the movie, and the other stuff he is doing ~ check out yesterday's post, where he talks about what "Garden State" is really about:

What Garden State's really about is how short life is. And how we get caught up in so many entanglements and insecurities and worries and obsessions and trivial arguments while life races right by us shaking it's head at how seriously we take ourselves. Keep in mind that the sun's gonna burn out in about a million years and truly nothing will have mattered.

Braff's blog posting was eerie because he says the movie is best summed up in two amazing ways: (1) The Colin Hay song, "Waiting For My Real Life to Begin," and (2) the T.S. Eliot poem, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock".   When I was 18, I met a boy ~ a little older than me in age but light years ahead of me in life.  And on our first date he told me that my beauty left him feeling like a patient anesthetized on a table ~ unable to move, in a dream-like state I suppose, unable to utter something he wanted to tell me ~ and then he recited part of that poem for me ~ and I had no idea then how often the poem's theme would confront me throughout my adult life, in the form of the men ~ all the Prufrocks ~ who would pass through my life:

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
...

If you've studied T.S. Eliot, and Prufrock in particular, you see the angst that spiritually-exhausted people face when dealing with the impersonal, modern world ~~ they cannot reconcile their "rational thoughts" and "intellectual perception" with their feelings, emotions, and will.  Prufrock is walking to meet a woman for tea and he is considering a question he feels compelled to ask her ~ either to marry him or simply be with him.  But he never arrives at the tea, let along sing his song ~ his request ~ to the woman.  You see, along the way, Prufrock becomes obsessed with his social insecurity, consumed with the question and with whether he deserves a "yes" from the woman, and self-absorbed in his own introspection, so much so that nothing external will ever happen.  Prufrock is vain and weak, as he examines his sterile life but lacks the will to change that life ~~ hence the poem's images of social paralysis and personal debilitation, embodied in the etherized patient.  Prufrock knows he lacks authenticity and he wants to shake himself out of his meaningless life, but to do that, well, he would have to Trust in Himself and in Truth and in Life and in Others, and would have to risk disturbing his "universe" ~ he would have to rewrite the fiction he is living out, without really living.

 

This reminds me of a snow globe ~ I want to shake it up, mess it up, watch the snow fall, giggle at the chaotic silliness of it all, and Trust that it's better to disturb the scene than let it sit there, sterile in its paralyzed beauty.

The neighbors are singing, "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" ~ really, I don't make this stuff up.  Truth is better than fiction.

Feliz Cumpleaños, Pablo Neruda

July 12 was the 100th anniversary of the birth of Pablo Neruda, the Chilean Nobel Prize laureate and “the greatest poet of the twentieth century—in any language.” Neruda, one of my favorite writers, was born in Parral, Chile in 1904 and began writing poetry when he was only 10 years old. By the age of 13, he was contributing articles to the daily newspaper, and his first collection of poems, Crepusculario, was published in 1923, when he was 19. He published his second book of poems (one of my favorite collections), Veinte Poemas De Amor Y Una Canción Desesperada (Twenty Love Songs And A Song Of Despair), the following year, in 1924. Pablo Neruda died of leukemia in Santiago, Chile in 1973. You can read a full biography of Neruda, including his political involvement and details about his writing, here and here.

In the Bay Area, celebrations are taking place all this week at Project Artaud Theater in San Francisco and an art/photography exhibit through August 30 at La Peña Cultural Center in Berkeley. The centerpiece of the celebrations is a new documentary, Pablo Neruda! Presente!, combining old footage with new interviews of people who knew the poet. The film features narration by one of Chile’s most acclaimed contemporary writers, Isabel Allende, who has a unique relationship to Neruda: Chilean President Salvador Allende was her uncle. Shortly after the CIA-assisted coup and Presidential assassination on September 11, 1973, Ms. Allende fled into exile carrying only two books: Eduardo Galeano's Open Veins of Latin America and a book of Neruda’s poems. The film's music was composed by noted Chilean musician, Claudio Durán (aka Quique Cruz).

To celebrate the Centenary of Neruda, events and screenings of the film are taking place across the world, organized by Dialogue Through Poetry, a coalition of poets, writers, organizers, and UN officials committed to the principles of the United Nations and of building a culture of peace and non-violence in the world through poetry. Why is Neruda so globally revered? Why is he considered the poet of the people? Because when asked, “Why did you want to write?”, he answered, "I wanted to be a voice."

He was a compassionate poet of the people. “I have always wanted the hands of the people to be seen in poetry,” he wrote. “I have always preferred a poetry where the fingerprints show, of loam, where water can sing. A poetry of bread, where everyone may eat.”

I hope I can find the time and money to attend one of the events in the Bay Area. If you can, check it out. For now though, I am happy just re-reading one of my favorite Neruda poems, titled simply, "Poetry." I like to re-read the poem every time a new epiphany hits me ~~ moments like graduating from law school, remembering what I want to do with my life, surviving failure, enjoying fleeting success, enduring heartbreak. All of these things are like "poetry" in my life ~~ as eye-opening and heart-stopping and giddily profound as the discovery of poetry itself, like in Neruda's poem:

POETRY
And it was at that age...Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no, they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth had no way with names my eyes were blind, and something started in my soul, fever or forgotten wings, and I made my own way, deciphering that fire and I wrote the first faint line, faint, without substance, pure nonsense, pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing, and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened and open, planets, palpitating planations, shadow perforated, riddled with arrows, fire and flowers, the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesmal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, I felt myself a pure part of the abyss, I wheeled with the stars, my heart broke free on the open sky.

Thirst ~ The Movie

A groundbreaking documentary, Thirst (thank you again, Bay Area filmmakers), asks:

Did you know that over a billion people lack access to safe drinking water? Each year, millions of children die (one child every 8 seconds) of diseases caused by unsafe water. The numbers are increasing. ~ Is water part of a shared "commons," a human right for all people? Or is it a commodity to be bought, sold, and traded in a global marketplace? "Thirst" tells the stories of communities in Bolivia, India, and the United States that are asking these fundamental questions.

The film explores how population growth, pollution, and scarcity are turning water into "blue gold," the oil of the 21st century, and how global corporations are rushing to gain control of this dwindling natural resource, producing intense conflict in the US and worldwide where people are dying in battles over control of water.

You can see the National Broadcast Premiere of the documentary on Tuesday, July 13, 2004, at 10:00 p.m. on PBS's "P.O.V." series (check your local listings).

If you live in the Bay Area, the film is playing at The Roxie Cinema in San Francisco, from Friday, June 18 through Thursday, June 24. Guest speakers will be present at many of the screenings.

Community Groups and Unions can order a VHS copy for only $59 (the DVD will be released soon as well).

Finally ~ "A Day Without A Mexican" Opens in San Francisco-Bay Area Theaters

Finally! The movie A Day Without A Mexican opens today in San Francisco-Bay Area theaters! You may have read my previous post about the film, which opened in Southern California on May 14 ~ the film makers have added a trailer to their website and you can watch it, here. The film's web site is rapidly expanding, adding cool/kitschy merchandise (such as the bumper sticker you see here, as well as mouse pads, caps, t-shirts, etc.), message boards, contact information, and an updated theater list. My friend Alegría, who is a kick-ass attorney with California Rural Legal Assistance, representing migrant farm workers in California's Central Valley, saw the film and said that, rather than some heavy-handed, preachy, "deep film," A Day Without A Mexican is a lighter, satirical exploration of the concept ~ what would California be like if all the Mexicans disappeared? The film satirizes the stereotypical and funny outcomes, such as how desperate rich people would get without their maids and gardeners, to the serious economic consequences of losing about 1/3 of the state's labor force, to the poignant moments such as the social/cultural impact the loss would create in our schools and communities.

The review in this morning's San Francisco Chronicle tailors the discussion to the Bay Area, asking what it would be like if our local Latinos disappeared, such as Carlos Santana, Felipe Alou, Cheech Marin, Dolores Huerta, California Supreme Court Justice Carlos Moreno, San Francisco Supervisor Matt Gonzalez, or Lieutenant Governor Cruz Bustamante. Personally, I would also really miss Latinas/os such as the aforementioned Alegría and her amazing abuelita, Jessie de la Cruz, as well as Salvador Dúran, the Executive Director and Manager Extraordinario of the Mission Area Federal Credit Union, which is growing as a financial resource for Mission neighborhood residents, and John Trasviña, the Director of the Discrimination Research Center who works with me at The Impact Fund in Berkeley, and all my Raza at the Berkeley La Raza Law Journal and La Raza Law Students Association. Ay! And of course, the Tamale Lady in the Mission! (There was even a film made about The Tamale Lady ~ but that is a blog for another day).

Currently, I think the film is only playing in California and Texas ~ if you live in another state, try contacting the filmmakers by email to see when, or if, the movie will have a wider release.

Como siempre, spread the word, spread the love.
Adelante pués!

The "Yuma 14" ~ Author Luis Alberto Urrea Tells Their Story In His New Book: The Devil's Highway

I heard about this story back in 2001 when it happened ~ 14 Mexicans died tragically in the Arizona desert, after their "coyote" abandoned them. Sadly, as is so often the case with the types of tragedies suffered by immigrants trying to enter the United States, I forgot about it after a while, preoccupied with my own existence. Now, I am excited to see this book has been written by acclaimed writer Luis Albert Urrea ~ half-Mexican/half-White, raised in California, por supuesto. You must check out his website, here. Equally important, the movie rights have been optioned and will be a joint U.S./Mexico production, with a Mexican director, scheduled to begin filming in October 2004. Below is the review and article in today's San Francisco Chronicle. After reading the review, I am especially interested in how the book will affect or change my reactions to the INS and Border Patrol Agents. I wish I could write more but I want to attend his book reading tonight at Cody's Books in Berkeley so I gotta go! YOU SHOULD BUY THIS BOOK!
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From the San Francisco Chronicle, May 1, 2004: Author breaks barriers with Border Patrol agents

Death is frequent on the Devil's Highway, a section of Arizona desert where Mexican immigrants make the illegal trek into the United States. Walkers bake under a pitiless sun that sometimes reaches 130 degrees by day -- and doesn't drop below 98 by night.

On May 19, 2001, 26 men, mostly from the southern state of Veracruz, crossed the border and entered a hell they couldn't have imagined. Lied to, robbed and abandoned by the coyote who smuggled them across, the men ran out of water, got lost in the burning sand and waited -- panting like dogs -- for rescue.

When five stumbled out of a mountain pass four days later, Luis Alberto Urrea writes in his startling account, "The Devil's Highway" (Little, Brown; $24.95), "they were burned black, their lips huge and cracking. Their eyes were cloudy with dust, almost too dry to blink up a tear. They were seeing gods and devils, and they were dizzy from drinking their own urine."

A Day Without A Mexican?Imagine It ~ May 14, 2004.

Your child's nanny, a housekeeper, a police officer, your city council member, the security guard at your bank, your gardener, or your mechanic. Now imagine A DAY WITHOUT A MEXICAN. Who would teach your children because ~ who knew? ~ 20% of the schoolteachers in California are Latino/a. Gone, too, would be fire department personnel, medical staff, postal workers, chefs, waiters, bank tellers, business owners, people we all depend on.

Exactly what would your life be like on A DAY WITHOUT A MEXICAN? (I can tell you right now, Chad's life would be awful and empty without a Mexican, namely, me! Por supuesto! Ahh, but I digress.). A friend sent me this article about this concept:

Such is the premise of the bold new movie A DAY WITHOUT A MEXICAN ~ the outrageously funny, cautionary tale of the state of California, which one-day discovers that one third of its population has disappeared. As time goes by, the state begins to deteriorate; what was once the fifth largest economy in the world tumbles, leaving economic, political and social despair. The realization that what has disappeared is the very thing that keeps the "California Dream" running - cooks, gardeners, policemen, nannies, teachers, doctors, farm and construction workers, entertainers, athletes, as well as the largest growing market of consumers - has turned Latinos and their return into the number one priority of the state. How do you make the invisible visible? You take it away...