Songs for the Struggling Artist


The Default Character and Why Elizabeth Acevedo Made Me Cry

Elizabeth Acevedo’s presentation at the Conference of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators made tears fall down my face in a way that I usually try to avoid in public. Acevedo is an extraordinary performer, writer, speaker and it’s no surprise that she took hold of the room full of writers and illustrators and moved us. But why was I crying?

At first, I thought, “Well, I’m old enough and she’s young enough that she could have been one of my students when I was doing workshops and residencies all over New York.” And while I probably didn’t teach her specifically, I certainly taught a lot of kids who could have grown up to be poets or performers. I thought maybe I was having a teacher’s kvell moment, feeling proud of my former students by watching her work. But I think it was something more.

One of the stories she shared was about her graduate training in poetry that led to her writing an ode to rats. (I’d tell you the story in more detail but SCBWI’s blogging policy forbids me from disclosing the contents of a presentation. Though if you watched the beginning of this video, which is freely available on the internet, you’d be pretty much up to speed.) At the heart of the story is a kind of mental gentrification of an artist in the midst of learning a craft. It’s a story about the way that a person in power, coddled in privilege (white, male, economically secure, always part of the dominant paradigm) can thoughtlessly dismiss a culture, a humanity, can fail to see what treasures are right in front of them.

I thought, perhaps, after hearing this story, particularly the part where all of Acevedo’s Spanish words are circled in red, that I was crying for the loss of all the books I haven’t read, all the stories I haven’t heard from the people whose art was cut off at the knees by this kind of colonialist mind set, the kind that can’t look up words he doesn’t know, the kind that can’t see an experience outside of his own. There are so many books we won’t get to read, so many poems we won’t hear, so many films and plays we missed. I mean, I’m crying for that loss again right now as I write this. It is our culture’s great loss. There is no question.

But this felt more personal. It felt like she was talking to me – like it was my story she was telling in addition to her own. I’m not Dominican. Not Latina. Not a woman of color. I cannot claim to have had my work edited to fit a whiter paradigm. My work is probably right in the white zone, probably with its own unconscious colonialist impulses. I have seen the cultural knee-capping happen to students in my orbit but that particular injustice has not been one I’ve had to face. So what is it? Why does this feel so personal? I’d love to believe I was just moved by a cultural loss but I don’t think my tears are that selfless.

I suspect the feeling is familiar even if the facts are different. I suspect I felt all the ways I have been dismissed, edited or questioned for being too feminine, too disorderly or too much trouble. I suddenly found myself looking for a word that expressed a kind of colonization of gender. I want to be able to note the action while it’s happening. I want to be able to say to someone something like “Stop patriarching me!” (but better) or to find the equivalent of calling someone a colonizer. It’s not the same, I know. I know it’s not the same. But there are many ways that women’s bodies have been claimed by others instead of the people to whom they belong.

Of course we have words for the many ways that that claiming happens – many of which have only recently become common parlance. We can acknowledge that someone has committed domestic abuse or sexual assault or sexual harassment or reproductive tyranny or gaslighting or rape or objectification, etc, etc – even something as tiny as mansplaining – but so many of these things stem from a basic entitlement to women’s bodies and space. I need a word for the whole basket. I need a word bigger than sexism. I need a word for when someone is editing the femininity (or feminism) out of my work. I want to be able to shout something better than “You’re being sexist!” That phrase is too passive. It’s something the person is being, not doing. I want something like, “You’re doing sexism!” – both so I can identify it myself and to make it clear to other people. I need a word that can help highlight the subtle ways this happens. Sexism, like colonization, is ACTIVE. It’s not just in the water. It’s something people do to each other all day long and repeat and repeat, generation after generation. Colonizers try to make people assimilate to the dominant culture. Sexism-ers (sorry, still need a word and until I find one, I’m going to keep making them up) make people assimilate into the biased binary.

I have no idea what I would have been able to create if I hadn’t already spent a lifetime in the Patriarching Machine. I hope I’ve been able to resist most of the assimilation to the sexist structures – but I know there is a colonizer and patriarchist in my own mind, who does at least as much damage to me as any sexist colonizer outside me. I’d like to believe that if someone told me my idea wasn’t good enough that I would have gone ahead and written it anyway, the way Acevedo did, but I don’t know if I would have. Or did.

At this same conference, I learned about the Default Character – this is the “Neutral” character, the one that you don’t need to specify anything about. Unless we’re told otherwise, we assume the character is male, white, upper middle class, able bodied and Christian. Any character outside this norm, tends to need to be specified.

In order to be welcomed into the mainstream, we try to make ourselves closer to the default, to the neutral. We might edit out our femaleness and/or our cultural identity. (When Boots Riley won a Spirit Award for my favorite 2018 film, he pointed out how class struggle has been pretty much invisible in film due – in part – to self-editing.)

It’s a gentrification of the mind, of art. Where has my own artistic sensibility been edited and proclaimed not noble enough for the taste-makers, educators and gatekeepers? What poems haven’t I written because I was told my experiences were not sufficient? What plays or books or songs did I set aside because they weren’t nice enough for a “nice” girl like me? Acevedo heard criticism of her rat idea and she did not fold, she did not nod and say, “Oh, okay, how about an antelope?”

She went ahead and wrote that ode to rats. And she performs it on stages and in videos and there are likely people who have heard her rat ode that have heard no other odes in their lives and so she sets a new standard, a new possibility. We can praise what had once been held in contempt. We can change the definition of nobility. We can all be noble humans and there will be no more default characters.

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The Cafe Wall of Fame

On the wall at Café La Habana in Mexico City is a plaque that proclaims the previous presence of Octavio Paz, Ché Guevara, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and more. The rumor is that the Cuban Revolution was planned there. It is an inspiring place. The conversations of these public intellectuals soaked into the very walls.

Also, not a single woman is listed in its storied history.

It was founded in 1952. That means Frida Kahlo could have gone there in the last two years of her life. Remedios Varo and Leonora Carrington could have gone there. I know they didn’t live nearby but still, they could have. Laura Esquivel was two years old when the place was founded but I imagine she’s been there at some point in her life.

I mean – did no women come and plan there? Or they just haven’t done it yet? What if we planned the feminist revolution there? The Cuban one worked out reasonably well for the guys who started it.

I have a lot of questions about this particular place because it feels like a kind of magic to write in so potent a place. But I wonder if that magic has only ever applied to men. Did women not go there? Were they somehow unwelcome to the public intellectual’s realm? Or was it unsafe for women? Or were they there and then forgotten about? Or did they just have their coffee, conversations and revolutions at home?

As a woman who has spent time in coffee shops in many countries, I can confirm that public spaces like cafes are more male space than female. In some places I’ve been, I’ve been the only woman. On holidays I am almost always the only woman in the last open café.

It does feel as though despite our many advancements, public space like coffee shops still belongs to men. Soraya Chemaly gave one of my favorite TED talks on the subject of public spaces. The gist of it is, almost all public space is male space, in that it was designed by and for men. I can’t stop thinking about this. I’m fascinated by the architectural projects that are JUST beginning to address it. There is a movement coming, I think. But without the history, it’s very difficult. Show me the café that brags of all the women who frequented the place. (Seriously please show me – I’ll go there.) Show me the city that was planned with women in mind. (Vienna comes closest in that they made adjustments based on a survey of women’s needs back in the 90s.) All space is men’s space that others find our way through. All cafes are for men, for men’s ideas, men’s revolutions. The women’s revolution is in the house, I guess? Which maybe explains why we haven’t really had a revolution.

If women have no public space in which to gather, if we aren’t seen in public together (except for once a year at our march) then we have no public power. We try and claim space when we march. We chant. Whose streets? Our streets.
Now maybe it’s time for:
Whose café? Our café.

I’m not here to call out Café La Habana. Honestly, I can’t think of a single café in the USA that honors literary greats or revolutionaries of any gender on its walls. Café la Habana is way ahead of us in honoring writers, artists and intellectuals and I respect and admire them for it. I’m a fan.

One day in the future, I hope to make it back to that cafe, where I’ll drink another delicious lechera and on their updated plaque I hope to see many women’s names. Or maybe one of you will start a café with women in mind and we’ll all turn up to hang out and plan our revolution and someone will hang a plaque up decades later. I’d like to be on that wall with the rest of you.

Photo by Donna Shaunesey

 

This blog is also a podcast. You can find it on iTunes or wherever you get your podcasts.

If you’d like to listen to me read a previous one on Anchor, click here.

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Every podcast features a song at the end. Some of those songs are now an album of Resistance Songs, an album of Love Songs, an album of Gen X Songs and More. You can find them on Spotify, my websiteReverbNation, Deezer and iTunes

The digital distribution is expiring at the end of February for the second album, so I’m also raising funds to keep them up. If you’d like to contribute, feel free to donate anywhere but I’m tracking them on Kofi – here: ko-fi.com/emilyrainbowdavis

If you have a particular album you’d like to keep there, let me know!

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Writing on the internet is a little bit like busking on the street. This is the part where I pass the hat. If you liked the blog (but aren’t into the commitment of Patreon) and would like to give a dollar (or more!) put it in the PayPal digital hat. https://www.paypal.me/strugglingartist



We Might Be Okay

I’ve been feeling pretty apocalyptically doomed to a terrible dystopian future. But I recently got some doses of hope in some very funny places and I thought it might give you a bit of hope, too.

Ever since my imaginative journey into dragons and witches, I have been looking for a way I can inspire fear in real life. I have been looking for ways to make men back off and/or stay away from me. I thought I should learn to growl. I have been experimenting, trying different techniques, sounds and means of production. Finally, I googled. And the videos that came up for how to growl are almost all made by preteen girls. Tween girls are teaching us how to growl. They have all the hallmarks of usual preteen behavior but they also know how to growl and they are willing to teach us.

If this generation of girls grows up growling, I am actually pretty psyched about the future. Now – there are no guarantees that they will use these skills to fight the patriarchy but their enthusiasm and willingness to share something that is so primal, so far away from the mandate to be demure or sexy, is a challenge to the patriarchy just in and of itself.

I am hopeful for a future of fierce girls who know how to growl and so grateful that they are willing to teach the rest of us.

So girls growling gives me hope. The other bit of hope involved a flight across the country.

The plane was pretty Trumpy, I have to say. It was headed to a Trumpy state and a lot of the people on board seemed to be Trumpy people. At the front of the plane, in first class or business class or whatever the heck they call it at this airline, were some very Trumpy white people. I mean, it was exclusively white people up there – but some of them were obviously Trumpy. A guy with a fancy watch and a suntan that he probably paid a lot for was reading a hardback copy of Tucker Carlson’s book. He appeared to be reading it un-ironically, next to his wife – whose suntan he probably also paid for.

At the back of the plane, in Basic Economy, were most the people of color on the plane. Surrounding me were a Chinese family and an Indian family. This particular airline charges a fee to let you pick your own seat and those who don’t pay are seated toward the back. I know this because I was one of those who didn’t pay the extra fee. Because of economics and the economics of white supremacy it is no surprise that this economic situation led to an old school segregated transportation experience that led to white people in the front and people of color in the back.

That’s not the thing that gives me hope. Obviously. That’s just a horrifying sidebar. What gave me hope was that, on this very Trumpy plane, they brought down little screens and played a movie and the movie that they played was a sweet father daughter story. There was one movie for everyone on the plane. And in that film, there were several scenes in which the young woman kisses her girlfriend. Two young women of color are kissing each other an every screen on this Trumpy plane and no one shouted, no one threw anything at the screen. The movie played and then it was over and it was no big deal. On this very Trumpy plane, no one was the least bit concerned about the lesbians on screen. The retrograde fascists in our government may be bending over backwards to take away the rights of LGBTQ folks and I’m doing what I can to make sure they do not succeed – but even if they do – the cultural battle for the minds of Americans on this front has already been won.

A major airline played this movie without the slightest concern about the letters they might receive. If you’d told me twenty years ago that I’d be able to watch this movie on a plane, I’d have never believed it. Twenty years ago, the only place I could have such a story would have been in the arthouse movie theatre. And now it’s on a plane. So progress has been made. American hearts and minds have been opened sufficiently to enjoy a charming love story between two young women of color.

And then there was the actual love story of a queer couple of color I know. On the day I took this Trumpy plane, I learned that my friend had died – cancer claimed her body  – but not the couple’s love story. All around the country, through the wonders of social media, tributes rained down – not just to my dear lost friend – but to this extraordinary pair of people. Even death could not part them and from around the world, witnesses paid tribute. And that outpouring of spirit, as well as the years of their relationship, (I mean, #RelationshipGoals) give me hope for where we’re going – even as bad news pours in.

There are beautiful partnerships of people of all genders forming and getting stronger every day. We are (hopefully) making space for everyone to be included in love stories and coming of age stories and tragedies and comedies. And if, in some ways, we are going backward, as in this airline’s economic policy that reinforces structural racism, there are young women who can teach us to growl like wolves. We can learn to fight such things with the power and the strength of wolves, taught to us by girls.

This blog is also a podcast. You can find it on iTunes or wherever you get your podcasts.

If you’d like to listen to me read a previous one on Anchor, click here.

screen-shot-2017-01-10-at-1-33-28-am

Every podcast features a song at the end. Some of those songs are now an album of Resistance Songs, an album of Love Songs, an album of Gen X Songs and More. You can find them on Spotify, my websiteReverbNation, Deezer and iTunes

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Want to help me find hope?

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Writing on the internet is a little bit like busking on the street. This is the part where I pass the hat. If you liked the blog (but aren’t into the commitment of Patreon) and would like to give a dollar (or more!) put it in the PayPal digital hat. https://www.paypal.me/strugglingartist



Thoughts on Defiance
November 16, 2018, 1:31 am
Filed under: age, feminism, resistance | Tags: , , , , ,

He poked his head out of his apartment as I waited for the elevator. He then came out with his dog and followed me into the elevator. I already felt stalked. In the elevator, he seemed to be a giant, taking up twice as much space as me and the young man who had been on the elevator when I got in.

The tall man with his dog was instantly aggressive. He wanted to know if I’d come from the apartment next door to him. I had. Just that was enough to send this guy on a rant. He said the people in that apartment banged their cabinets day and night and he was furious about it. I told him I just worked there and knew nothing of cabinets but I didn’t think it was them. I mean, that apartment is inhabited by two infirm elderly people neither of whom can reliably go out on their own. There’s no way they’re hammering.

But this guy was convinced. And livid. At me, too. Just because I’d come from there. He was pretty terrifying, to tell you the truth. Particularly in an enclosed space.

His manner was terrifying, his logic absurd but the thing that blew me away was something he said: “That woman. She’s so defiant.”

He’s talking about an elderly woman who can barely walk. Defiant, he said. She’s defiant. And defiance is a very interesting word to use in this situation. Because it suggests that he expects to be treated with subservience and obedience, that he thinks of himself as someone in power, with authority and this woman has dared to defy him. She has refused to obey. He has told her to stop banging the cabinets (something she is definitely not doing, by the way) and she not only pays him no mind but she doesn’t respect (what he thinks should be) his authority. He is probably twenty years her junior but because he is a man, he thinks she is defiant.

I am very interested in defiance – on who is seen as defiant and who uses the word in relation to others. For example, despite decades of experience in teaching, I don’t think I ever once called a student “defiant” – no matter how much of a pain in the ass they were being. It would simply never have occurred to me. I think defiance lives in direct relationship to obedience and my worldview is such that I do not particularly believe obedience is owed to anyone. (I’m a big questioner of authority, as you might have worked out by now if you’re a regular reader of the blog.) Defiance basically means that someone has failed to be obedient to someone who demands it. The man in the elevator expected obedience from his neighbor (simply due to her gender, I assume) and his fury at being denied this obedience was such that he could not contain it and he spilled it in every possible direction. I think he thought to himself, when he saw me: “Ah, a woman younger than me. Since I can’t get that older woman to obey me, I bet I can make this one obey.”

Sorry Charlie. You have no authority over me. And also you met a witch in the elevator and now you are nothing but a pile of ash.

This blog is also a podcast. You can find it on iTunes or wherever you get your podcasts.

If you’d like to listen to me read a previous one on Anchor, click here.

screen-shot-2017-01-10-at-1-33-28-am

Every podcast features a song at the end. Some of those songs are now an album of Resistance Songs, an album of Love Songs, an album of Gen X Songs and More. You can find them on Spotify, my websiteReverbNation, Deezer and iTunes

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Want to help me continue to be defiant?

Become my patron on Patreon.

Click HERE to Check out my Patreon Page

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Writing on the internet is a little bit like busking on the street. This is the part where I pass the hat. If you liked the blog (but aren’t into the commitment of Patreon) and would like to give a dollar (or more!) put it in the PayPal digital hat. https://www.paypal.me/strugglingartist

 

 



Why, Yes, I am Unhinged. Thank you for Noticing!

Over the last couple of decades, in my sessions with my Rubenfeld Synergist, I have found myself returning to a theme of “keeping it together.” Why do I think I have to clutch my thigh, immobilize my shoulder, turtle my neck? Because I must “keep it together.” Because I don’t want to “lose it.” Everything might “fall apart.”
I experienced my body as all buckled in, strapped together, contained by the proper restraint.
Over and over, I have learned to allow myself to let go and over and over I have returned to discover that I have contained myself again.

My synergist will often ask something like, “What would happen if you fell apart? What does losing it look like?” And I had no idea.
I have some idea now. And, truthfully, it looks great. It looks like freedom.

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On a long walk after listening to Soraya Chemaly talk about her book, Rage Becomes Her, my friend and I talked about the power of imagination, of art, of dragons and how witchcraft made a man leave us alone just from a small hand movement and a funny whooshing noise. My friend said, with obvious appreciation, “You’re unhinged. In the best possible sense of that word.”
And I am. I am. I absolutely am. Completely unhinged.

And it feels like freedom. Unhinged is one of the many words we use to call people crazy but it is most often applied to women. It has a soupcon of benevolent sexism in it – as if the person using it is minutes away from calling the funny farm. It also tends to be deployed to dismiss a woman expressing an opinion. The Republican Senators call Kamala Harris unhinged when she calls them on their bullshit. Elizabeth Warren gets called unhinged for telling truths on the regular. Maxine Waters’ incredibly calm “reclaiming my time” moment also earned her an unhinged label, despite the logical, measured way that moment evolved. There’s something about “unhinged” that suggests that if the person would just fall in line, just climb back into the slots of a door hinge, all would be well. “Just calm down, little lady, you catch more flies with honey. Why don’t you smile more? We’ll just line up these hinges for you and you’ll be back in your place in no time.”

I keep thinking of something that Rebecca Traister pointed out in Good and Mad: The Revolutionary Power of Women’s Anger – and that is the language overlap of madness. That is – to be mad can mean being angry or crazy. And, really, it’s both. Because if a woman is angry, she is seen as crazy. Madness (that is, anger) in women is seen as madness (that is, craziness.) Men’s anger is seen as cathartic – the cleansing wind that gives us noble revolutions. Women’s anger is seen as madness no matter how righteous the cause.

After all these years of being hinged, strapped in, appropriate, self-contained, I have released myself. I am unhinged. The straps with which I kept myself within the proper bounds have fallen away and I have let go of a wide range of behaviors and norms that I just don’t care about living up to anymore. I realize that all this makes me look unhinged and I find that rather than being worried about it, I am delighted by that perception. I suspect that the line between crazy and free is much more narrow than we like to think. Maybe crazy just means refusing to accept society’s unjust rules. I know that if I were living in the Victorian age, I’d have long ago been locked up for hysteria. (Whether it would be my novel reading, or my anger that would get me put away, I can’t be sure.)
If I were feeling the way I’m feeling now in the middle ages, I would have long ago been burnt at the stake.

Non-compliance is dangerous. To those who are attempting to re-invigorate the patriarchy, women who feel like me are nothing but trouble. I am un-hinged, non-compliant, unbought, unbossed, undone and free.

After all those years of keeping it together, I have been set free. To some, that freedom looks like madness. A free woman may well be unhinged but I think that’s a compliment. I take it as one. But I also no longer really care what anyone else thinks. I’m free. That’s it. You can’t strap me in, hinge me down and you can’t convince me to do it to myself anymore either.

This blog is also a podcast. You can find it on iTunes or wherever you get your podcasts.

If you’d like to listen to me read a previous one on Anchor, click here.

screen-shot-2017-01-10-at-1-33-28-am

Every podcast features a song at the end. Some of those songs are now an album of Resistance Songs, an album of Love Songs, an album of Gen X Songs and More. You can find them on Spotify, my websiteReverbNation, Deezer and iTunes

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Want to help me navigate the world with more freedom?

Become my patron on Patreon.

Click HERE to Check out my Patreon Page

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Writing on the internet is a little bit like busking on the street. This is the part where I pass the hat. If you liked the blog (but aren’t into the commitment of Patreon) and would like to give a dollar (or more!) put it in the PayPal digital hat. https://www.paypal.me/strugglingartist

 



Real Talk About Imagination

Real Talk. I am not actually a dragon. I wish I was one. But I’m just a human lady person who is impossibly angry. I am not actually a witch, either. Surprise. I have often dreamed of having such powers but I don’t, in fact, possess any particular skill in magic.

What I do have, though, is a well-practiced imagination and an understanding of the powers of make believe. Sometimes pretending makes things better.

I mean, I have been a rage fountain these last couple of weeks – just spinning around and round, watching rage pour forth from me like a sprinkler. It comes out in situations that do not merit such a response and after a lifetime of being nice and sweet and making things easy for everyone around me, I do not really know how to handle my new rageful reality. Imagination and embodied expression are my only safe outlets. And what’s wild is how it actually works sometimes.

For example, as my friend and I stood talking next to the subway entrance, some man in khaki pants seemed to find us terribly compelling. He walked by us a couple of times and finally started to approach us. We did not stop our conversation or look at him but I opened my hand, made a little whooshing sound and combusted him in my imagination and darned if he didn’t just turn around and walk away. That’s magic.

The thing of it is – now is the time for fierce imagination. It is not going to be possible to free ourselves from the dystopia ahead of us without some really bold and vivid dreaming.

In simply imagining a world wherein I am as powerful as a dragon, wherein the world is re-made with women unafraid to walk down the street at night or anywhere, everywhere, I find it very hard to return peaceably to the world we live in. I cannot tolerate the old stories. I cannot stomach victim blaming. I am newly and freshly furious that women have had to accommodate ourselves to a world that has not seen us a human beings for five thousand years. It’s as if I’ve woken up in new horrible world but I’ve been living here the whole time.

I don’t want to see one more woman raped or murdered on screen. I don’t want to see any more harassment on the street. I don’t want to see a single woman disempowered. I don’t want to watch one more wife in a sitcom get laughed at and dismissed. It feels like the only thing I can tolerate now is some other more imaginative world.

We need our dreamers now. We need our sci fi creators, our afro-futurists, our utopian other worlds. I have no stomach for anything else. I know it is virtually only in our imaginations that women can have real authority or agency or power – but imaginations can turn into reality and can lead to real life transformation. It’s time to get to work with high level imagination.

This blog is also a podcast. You can find it on iTunes or wherever you get your podcasts.

If you’d like to listen to me read a previous one on Anchor, click here.

screen-shot-2017-01-10-at-1-33-28-am

Every podcast features a song at the end. Some of those songs are now an album of Resistance Songs, an album of Love Songs, an album of Gen X Songs and More. You can find them on Spotify, my websiteReverbNation, Deezer and iTunes

*

Want to help me imagine the future?

Become my patron on Patreon.

Click HERE to Check out my Patreon Page

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Writing on the internet is a little bit like busking on the street. This is the part where I pass the hat. If you liked the blog (but aren’t into the commitment of Patreon) and would like to give a dollar (or more!) put it in the PayPal digital hat. https://www.paypal.me/strugglingartist

 



How We Can Win

I’m in a café. It is quiet. Scattered around the room are people studying, working, reading, silently doing their thing. Then suddenly, out of the silence, a man’s voice booms. He is making a phone call. It is a Very Important Business Phone Call that features price points and million dollar offers. It is insufferable.

And all around the room, the rest of us are looking up from our tables, looking at one another, catching one another’s eyes and laughing. There were even some exclamations from around the room. Someone proclaimed it to be like a sketch from Saturday Night Live.

And Mr. Businessman, Mr. Old White Moneybags Businessman kept going – completely oblivious to the room around him. A room full of people laughed at him together and were absolutely united in our mutual disbelief in his inconsiderateness. He never wavered. Meanwhile – if we’d wanted to, we could have organized and overthrown his loudmouth self.

The crowd was made up of mostly women, one man of color and a teenage boy and we were all able to quietly connect to one another with ease, with just looks and laughter and not one of us was ever noticed by the buffoon on the phone. And I thought – “Oh. We’re not people to him. He thinks he can make his business deals in the middle of a crowded café because none of us matter to him. He even mentioned to whomever was on the other end of that call that something he’d just said was confidential. And he’d literally just shouted it in a crowded café. But he didn’t worry about us in any way – because to the wealthy old white man – a bunch of women, a man of color and a kid just don’t exist.”

And it occurred to me that this sense of invisibility is something we could use to our advantage in the right circumstances. We could, in fact, organize ourselves right under the power brokers’ noses and they wouldn’t notice until we were throwing them into the moat.

It reminds me of that tweet that’s been going around. (“ladies: What’s your makeup routine? i’m looking for a new foundation, preferably liquid but still matte and now that the men have stopped reading we riot at midnight”)

While I find this hilarious, I also think that, since the tweet was by a woman, probably men weren’t even reading in the first place. I mean, seriously, we could pick a date and riot at midnight and plan the whole thing in plain sight, without even having to veil it in make-up tips.

I think I spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to be seen – but this experience in the café made me think about the power of being invisible. And maybe, just maybe, I’m feeling a little ready for a serious upending of things. I’m enjoying listening to The Coup’s “The Guillotine” a LITTLE more than I should perhaps. (“They own the judges and we got the proof” and “We got the guillotine/You better run.”)

But, shhh, don’t tell the guy on the phone. Then again, if we did get the guillotine, he would not see it coming.

This blog is also a podcast. You can find it on iTunes or wherever you get your podcasts.

If you’d like to listen to me read the previous one on Anchor, click here.

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Every podcast features a song at the end. Some of those songs are now an album of Resistance Songs, an album of Love Songs, an album of Gen X Songs and More. You can find them on Spotify, my websiteReverbNation, Deezer and iTunes

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