Showing posts with label Luis Rodriguez. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Luis Rodriguez. Show all posts

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

F for Fake and On Volunteering

While reading a blog post by The Smirking Chimp's resident curmudgeon BlueTigress (1) and with her help, in one of those aha moments, I saw another way of talking about my favorite theme, illusions; fake.

Mere synonym aside, the reason I'm making a distinction is that I like the vehemency of "fake" versus "illusions," the latter having more of a literate flavor, the high versus the low of "fake" or "phony". It has much more muscle. There's also another dimension to "fake" that I like; agency, planning or plotting, intention, motivation. Implicit in it is the notion that someone planned something and gave or executed it, no matter how stupid or well-thought out, poorly or masterly played. That's not necessarily inherent in "illusions" which implies the receiving end of perception, the one exception being magic tricks.

The great Orson Welles essayed on this very subject whose title I stole for this entry; it's nothing less than one of the most brilliant movies I've ever seen in both form and content.(3)



All of which - BlueTigress, Welles and my liking the theme of illusions - says that I think the term "fake" or even "phony" applies more accurately to American "capitalism" than "illusion," because it places the onus upon the people who wield conglomerated power.

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I admit to an experiment; see if I could write an essay whose footnotes were longer than the main body. I've succeeded.

1. While I couldn't agree more with her take on crazy liberals, particularly white-guilted ones, I disagree with her when she admonishes them by saying,

As for the self-flagellation crowd? Look people, what's done is done and cannot be undone. Rather than go "we're so horrible" go to the reservation and volunteer to teach the kids or volunteer to be the tribe's general helper. Work with the people who are here now, rather than try to raise the consciousness of people who don't care. You're wasting your time and irritating them, which makes them even LESS receptive to your message. If it makes you feel noble to eat your bread and water meal in a room that was purposely made cheerless so you could meditate on the injustice Europeans have done to the world, fine. And when you've emerged from your hermitage, and nothing is different, don't feel bad. You did what you thought best. But did it matter?


It's the part about volunteering. Let me be honest about it; fuck volunteering. It's unctuous, condescending and infantilizes poor people of color. As Jonathan Kozol so aptly noted decades ago, bleeding heart liberal white kids come and go in the ghetto every summer during internships... and yet the reservation/barrio/ghetto stays the reservation/barrio/ghetto and the white kids disappear, only to be replaced by the next crop. In a poignantly funny moment, I recall Kozol remarking how blacks would look at white kids who opted to go barefoot to show that they were down as crazy, for who would choose to go barefoot when they had perfectly good shoes?

By saying, "...rather than try to raise the consciousness of people who don't care," she ignores history and that ole sayin', there's more than one way to skin a cat. After all, in conglomerating around the issues of war, civil rights, women's rights, and Watergate, those issues were dealt with because it was so in your face, all the time, even in the music and movies of the day. It's also much harder to organize disenfranchised folks, let alone impart pragmatism that works in favor of their needs, and I suspect that's the reason even the "pragmatic and down to earth" BlueTigress would rather advocate for volunteering than organizing.

And an important point that seems obvious to me but which I find myself clarifying time and again in these arguments; I'm not questioning the intention(s) of people, I'm interested in effects. I can remember the first time David Hilliard started telling me stories about crazy liberals when I produced a series of programs with he and Luis Rodriguez (and later, Piri Thomas!) and cracking up. But then, one particular gig which was at Jerry Brown's compound, we had a couple of nut cases - one a butt fugly fat Asian lesbo tree hugger who was mouthy to the point of making everyone within earshot do the eye roll; shithead snuck in without paying, too. The other was the typical Berkeley liberally conscious yenta who looked like she orgasmed at the thought of the Dewey Decimal system and replete with her white fro curls, so full of self-righteousness and certainty as to what "progressive" was that anything outside of its bounds -- such as Luis' story of transcendence or the Panther free breakfast program -- made her throw up. She ended up leaving during the program, but not before making us all aware of how we were all so wrong for listening to this (re-write? revisionism?) "stuff." Of course, they were at the extreme end.

Mr. Hilliard's real point, of course, was that the world was overflowing with crazy liberals who mouth off with lofty idealism, "book smarts" and high ideals, but in the end, shoot blanks. And that's why people who are crazy liberals can't stand true progressives - because real progressives are grounded in equal parts idealism and pragmatism; they have a sense of high and low, are resourceful, have strategic plans, and last but not least, they do the work.

Volunteering, on the other hand, is selfish and done for the feeling of "doing some thing good," ostensibly for the Other, but inwardly, psychologically, deceptively, for one's own self, (trust me, the irony's not lost here). It reminds me of people who do nothing about oppressive systems 364 days in a row, and then dole out Thanksgiving turkey on Skid Row. It accomplishes nothing systemically and in fact continues the infantilization of the recipients. Like virtually 99% of American systems, it's a quick fix.

The other "real progressive scenario" is a lot of frustration with the odds against you and a lot of poverty because the disenfranchised aren't motivated toward conglomerating like capital interests who have attainable, concrete goals, clearer paths via systems they are players in and the connections toward attaining them.

In other words, one is temporarily playing at action, the other's real hard work with poverrty level wages or somewhere thereabouts. This way of looking at volunteering also comports with the theme, because fake is deception, and that is exactly what goes on internally within the volunteer; self-deception.

2. In particular, there's the notion of the relationship between film(maker) and spectator, which for lack of a better way of stating it relies on a consistent interrogating of the viewer, with doubt as its tool. This is a deeper relationship - or at least a more complex one - that goes far beyond the "talking to the camera" gimmick (Annie Hall) or the mere pointing of a camera at the viewer (a'la' the opening credit sequence of Le Mepris). No doubt Noel Burch has nailed this.

Of course, reflexivity is nothing new to the cinema - Porter's The Great Train Robbery comes to mind - but the (psychological) level and sophistication with which Welles engages the audience portends things to come... which never were to be.

The tragedy of Welles - Never underestimate the stupidity of the studio system to ostracize greatness and banish him to a promise unfulfilled and but a beautiful glimpse.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Cary Fukunaga's, Sin Nombre

I haven't written about Cary Fukunaga's Sin Nombre yet because my homeboy, Luis Rodriguez was scheduled to speak on a panel after a benefit screening last week for Homies Unidos downtown. Fukunaga was on the panel as well, and we spoke a bit, he mild mannered and me respecting his space. Nice guy, and a hapa, Japanese as his surname denotes.

But that isn't even the most significant thing to this Asian raised in East Los; it was, upon hearing the vernacular of the MS members, I was impressed. They got it - calo' (the language of East LA) - right. In fact, I've often wondered about the very name, La Mara Salvatrucha, because I can't make out what it means. Trucha is a colloquialism outside of Spanish proper and belonging to calo'; it means watch out, as in, "Trucha homes, la chota (another calo'-ism) 'sta aqui" ("Watch out, man, the police are here."). Together with "Salva" as representative of El Salvador, and "Mara" as the first part of "maravilloso" ("marvelous" but also very possibly a response to the Maravilla barrio and their clicas, or sets as blacks say, the largest and most notorious in my day being El Hoyo and Lomita; the former having one of the most crazy but elegant sounding sub-clicas: "El Hoyo Maravilla Gansos" - who knew geese were cholos?) it's about as far as I get.

The preceding looks like a mish-mash paragraph but would only make sense to someone raised in East LA. This is because the movie takes part in Central America, much of it in Salvador, and yet when you listen to the MS gang speaking, it's East LA homeboys.

More, that isn't an accident, it's an unintended outcome initiated by the United States. After Reagan had funded all kinds of trickery and devilishness in Central America -- death squads for one -- coupled with the poverty and post-colonialist residue, this served to drive emigres to LA. The young Salvies, some of whom were born in LA, responded to the native gangs by themselves uniting - thus MS. Some joined established barrios - Dieciocho (18th Street) being another notorious one.

Then something pivotal happens again; it was either Bush one or Clinton that began deporting the Salvies back. This explains the exporting of LA gang culture - specifically, East LA gang culture - to Salvador and other parts of Central America (as well as Mexico); this is where Sin Nombre takes place, well after these deportations. And it's important to know this history before seeing the film, otherwise it happens in a nihilistic, existential vacuum where I can see some saying, "Look at those animals," while once again dunning mudpeople and ignoring historical contexts.

Luis made the salient point on the panel afterwards that there just as in our own backyard, the young kids are compelled by economics in large part. You're talking about very poor kids with no skills, experience and education. Thus, for some the very same reasons that flourished and flourish in LA that compel gang-related behavior, so too goes in Salvador. That's important to know.

It's a good film, well researched and acted. It just needs to be contextualized in history.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Step Up

Today, Fish and I went to a spoken word event by the Step Up Women's Network. Normally, I don't go in for these things, but I've been looking for a program that Renee can plug into, and since Step Up works with girls of color, from "under-served communities," all the better.

As expected, their pieces were melodramatic - I don't consider that mean, but truthful. They were unpolished, at best. That may be due to any number of factors, but it's evident that they need a director to step in, or money, or...

That said, I really enjoyed myself. It was good to see these brown girls had found a resource, that they'd been validated in some way. And what their performances lacked in polish, they more than made up for in their charm, and in fact, their stumbling, forgetting of lines, stage fright... all added to the effect. They were, dare I say, all very cute.

But it never fails - amongst all of the voices, one stood out: Cristina Zamora. Afterword, the girls had a meet and greet, and we connected. Cristina, courtesy of South Central, came from the typical South Central scenario, but the eagerness in her eyes, and most of all, the open-mindedness with which she would listen when I spoke, were only confirmation that programs such as these, no matter how embattled they may be, are ultimately worth it if they can pull a young person out of La Vida Loca.

Cristina read "Always Running" by my homeboy, Luis. Hopefully there will be a connection there as well.

She dreams of being an architect, and I told her that if that's the dream, she's in a world class city for architecture. She loves to draw, and it made me think about myself as a boy, how, deep in the hood, art was always there, saving me a million times over.

Thursday, February 07, 2008

A Long Overdue Toast: Glen Ford & BAR

This is too long overdue, but brotha Glen Ford and his Black Agenda Report hold it down on the real.

If you don't know then don't ask somebody, just check it out.

Coming up in East Los, we were subject to the usual stigma of intellectual thought as anathema. You were either a thug, an athlete, a dopehead, whatever. But an intellectual? No way. Chris Rock talks about the anti-intellectual stance in the ghetto in his famous "books are Kryptonite to Niggas" riff.

I was lucky. Moms had a big library and I could pick and choose. Whenever I wanted to go to the bookstore, she'd drop every thing and we'd go, usually to the Alhambra Bookstore. Like me, she'd be content to just browse for hours.

My survival in the jungle is marked by what I can only conclude was a decent ability at athletics, I had a mouth on me, and wasn't a complete jerkoff.

This is what makes the four great stories of the American urban landscape - Piri Thomas' Down These Mean Streets, Claude Brown's Manchild in the Promised Land, Malcolm's Autobiography..., and Luis Rodriguez's Always Running - so fascinating; each were street urchins, and each found the keys to their freedom when they discovered the wonders of intellectual thought through reading, and just as importantly if not more, writing. I still remember Malcolm saying, so poetically: "Never was I so free as in prison [while reading]." (To these I would also add Dr. Huey P. Newton, Jimmy Santiago Baca, David Hilliard, Elaine Brown, and much underrated and little known, Anne Moody, her story not strictly urban and in fact rural in the early stages. But what a story, what a great writer.)

Their stories are more than an escape from poverty, crime, etc. They are great stories of human triumph against tremendous odds, of spirits meeting their time. Transcendence.

And as such they are truly inspiring, in the best sense of that word.

My world has been tremendously influenced by them all, and I owe them a debt of gratitude.

Glen Ford (and BAR) are carrying the torch today, but in a different mode than autobiography. His gig is journalism, and this brotha is fiercely independent. This is the kind of journalism that is sorely needed, and how I long for an Asian-American counterpart.

BAR brings the fire, people. As the late great Tony Williams said back in the day; "Believe it."

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

"We" can send a man to the moon but...

I always tell my daughter that the baby boomers were goofy, but they did some cool shit. They consistently got up off their asses and said hell no to a racist war, bounced a criminal and his hitmen from the whitey house [sic], fought for civil rights, and fought for women's rights.

But I also like to brag about our art: The films and music of the 60s & 70s stand the test of time. Here's one, courtesy of a reminder from the Stern show, who played it last week.

Note to all you fake azz wanna-be so-called "hard" or "gangsta" mcs that are merely hos for corporate conglomerates: y'all need to ask KRS1 and Chuck (dap to PE's new one on this - and KRS is on it) about the meaning of "hard." Maybe once you get it there, then you can talk to David Hilliard or Elaine Brown or Piri Thomas or Luis Rodriguez...

Yeah, right.

From back in the day, Mister Gil Scott-Heron, circa 1972, couple of years after our moon landing.



WHITEY ON THE MOON

A rat done bit my sister Nell
with Whitey on the moon

Her face and arms began to swell
and Whitey's on the moon

I can't pay no doctor bills
but Whitey's on the moon

Ten years from now I'll be payin' still
while Whitey's on the moon

You know, the man just upped my rent last night
'cause Whitey's on the moon

No hot water, no toilets, no lights
but Whitey's on the moon

I wonder why he's uppin' me?
'cause Whitey's on the moon?

I wuz already givin' 'im fifty a week
and now Whitey's on the moon

Taxes takin' my whole damn check,
Junkies makin' me a nervous wreck,
The price of food is goin' up,
An' as if all that crap wuzn't enough
A rat done bit my sister Nell
with Whitey on the moon

Her face an' arm began to swell
and Whitey's on the moon

With all that money I made last year
for Whitey on the moon
How come I ain't got no money here?
Hmm! Whitey's on the moon

Y'know I jus' 'bout had my fill
of Whitey on the moon
I think I'll send these doctor bills
Airmail special

to Whitey on the moon



Brotha GSH circa '96, holdin' it down.