CORPORATIONS ARE PEOPLE!

Corporations/people merge

In the facsimile of humanity

Projected on the screen

The image of hopeful

Fanatics

Throw/project words,

Emotions

That  seem human but never are

I remember when there was only the word

of mouth,

When hands were shook and babies

Sought out for attention.

I remember when planes

Flying high

created moments to look up

In wonder

When ambulances, fire engines were vehicles to

follow

down the street

just to see

I remember when food,

fruit tasted succulent

Sweet, sour, juicy

Drippling down my chin

When food left out overnight

Rotted and

Milk was consumed without worry

Of antibiotic over-exposure and worse

I remember walking to school and coming

Home alone, no key around my neck, the door

Always unlocked until it wasn’t

I remember

Eating dinner without the Television or music

Why is there music in every store,

Restaurant?

The chatter of my own mind

Over powered by words, sounds,

Privacy of thought, body, soul

Lost to the corporate necessity.

The blurred line

Dominates us all

We are the consumed

Consumers
A corporate creation
once human

Freecell ---- ---- Beware!

so I wake up in the middle of the night, nothing is happening and yet, I can’t just go back to sleep as if nothing happened when what happened is that I woke up.

now what?

I reach for my android, my phone. I don’t bother to check my Email because I checked my Email just a few hours earlier and there was nothing there then, nothing worth reading, nothing that might keep me engaged long enough to help me undertake the task the confronts me now,

sleep

I need to sleep and yet .... that is when the battle begins.

I say , no, not now. No, I will not open my Freecell. But when i say no, my body/my mind with all its sophistication, all its power to do and not do, is powerless because my attention focused solely on not opening Freecell waned for a split second and in that moment the automatic gesture that I needed the full weight of my willpower to effect, took over and the game commenced, my fingers doing what my brain didn’t command and didn’t want to do.

how is it that I am now fully awake playing Freecell?

In the beginning the moves are relatively automatic. The solution seems so obvious I am exerting no real difference between the moment when my phone was off versus now with Freecell in progress. I am not bored, I feel relaxed, on the verge of possible sleep. Nothing relaxes me more than Freecell, most notably at the beginning, when the game seems to play itself.

My bedroom light is off, the world is so quiet, calm, my brain feels like it is being stroked by the gentle hand of familiarity; me and cards. I have been an active card player since I was six years old. This is my comfort zone

Now I am no longer an observer

I have

traversed the comfortable divide between detached spectator to judge, juror, doer

I have

I have quickly transverse the divide between

i ho that I fail. Failure is the key, the moment when my brain power

I have becomes engaged because I have

this incurable need to compete. I must go on to the finish, to fail or to

victory, most times even that is irrelevant. It is the struggle that counts.

I am sitting up. my entire body in alert posture. the cards flying across the

phone’s face, from one point to another. I am stimulated to the max. Not

what I need when I am trying to go back to sleep, to numb my mind, my

body.

Suddenly, the true pleasure of achievement sets in.. Now there is no hope.

I am into the game, looking at the clock, the score, the moment when the

cards fly into place while I watch and I sit back looking at my total,

judging my score and thinking,(missing the point of the endeavor) next time I will do better. And I do!

and I do

It will be hours before I am tired, before I can turn off my phone,

exhausted, elated, satiated or maybe I will turn off my phone because the

battery will wear down or maybe because sleep waited long enough and nature

sometimes gets its way. linda zises

lin

Menomnee Club lincoln park chicago

Every child's dream, every adult's Nightmare!

The Lincoln Park Menomnee Club is located in one of the wealthiest communities in Chicago Il. It is devoted to children's after school activities and on paper it probably sounds like an ideal solution to working parents' woes.

But once you step inside this slender (two bowling alley lanes wide building) it is clear that your worries as a parent are far from over.

The noise level is high. Not with the sound of happy children at play because few human voices can be heard above the loud din of the Television(s) and play stations and machine driven noises of the set on Free videos games that line the walls of this narrow edifice.

There is no fighting between the children, no screaming or crying because the children, mostly boys, are set on overdrive. They are in high gear fighting against an artificial clock and the dictates of a game programed by powers unknown.

The noise level from the machines including the TV which is the largest one I have seen to date drown out any noise that might be humanly emitted even though there is two games that require human interaction, an air hockey table and a paddle ball table that were both in use when I entered the Club.

This is a Club where children beg to return, where parents feel confident they have solved the problem of keeping their children happy and safe but what is the cost of super visual/auditory stimulation. What is the price of being addicted to a machine, a game without winners.

linda zises

chicago's recent resident

Harvey Goldberg: University of Wisconsin Professor

Harvey Goldberg Remembered

 In the last several years I learned from Mitchel Cohen that my personal knowledge of Harvey Goldberg would be of value to those who honor him today. When I told Mitchel that I had gone to the U. of Wisconsin I did not know anyone honored Harvey or of his importance to the academic world. In response, I promised to write about my past knowledge and friendship and Mitchel kept telling me, ‘time is running out’. So before that happens, I am putting into the written word, my rich memories of Harvey so others can know him as I once did.

 I don’t think Harvey would object.

 It was in late Nov 1963, the same year, day President Kennedy was shot that I met Harvey.. I was an undergraduate student at the University of Wisconsin Madison. I had finished my Swimming Class at the bottom of The Hill and was making my way up to the Academic classroom, a trek which I accomplished with great effort as the Hill was steep, time was limited and my mind was on my efforts to be on time, when someone yelled at me from a slight distance away, “No class today” A phrase they repeated until I stopped my arduous trek. The words formed an incredulous thought. “No school. Classes cancelled” At the U of Wisconsin there was probably only one other time when classes had been cancelled for inclement weather that defied traversing but today the weather was tolerable, average for the Wisconsin hearty. “Why “ I asked as if the knowledge of the what would calm my disbelief. “The President’s been shot”, my informer said. “Which President?” I asked. “Kennedy”, he yelled back. Annoyed at my ignorance he rushed on leaving me standing on the Hill trying to understand and decide what to do at this critical moment. I went home As I made my way down the Hill I realized that I was alone, No one on the Hill. A deafening silence overwhelmed this campus where 26 thousand students went to class, climbed the Hill on many a day. Now there was no one, just me rushing, running away hoping to find something of the usual. Even the Bar at the bottom of the Hill where on any morning at seven thirty or earlier men stood by the Bar window, beer in hand looking out at us pathetic students walking briskly to class. Even they were not there. It was surrealistic, this moment between when Kennedy was shot and his death was yet to be announced.

 Arthur was at home when I got there. He was sitting on the sofa listening to the radio. Arthur Gundershein and I shared a small studio apartment with a common bathroom off the second floor hall way. Arthur was soft spoken seemingly shy man who I was instantly attracted to because of his beautiful very straight, dark blond hair that moved as he moved, even, it seemed, when he talked. He was domestically inclined without compromising his masculinity. That meant he did the shopping for food with me and then he cooked, he did the dishes, he walked the dog and I played with the Cat. And he did it all, he said, and I agreed, because it was his apartment. I shared the expenses and he paid the bills. Arthur was both restless and transfixed. The radio was on and we heard over and over again, it was The Cubans who did it. The Radical Left.” those damn Commies” was the phrase implied. They cause nothing but trouble. I sat next to Arthur, frozen with trauma. Suddenly Arthur got up. I can’t stay here” he said. “I can’t listen to this anymore. I’m going to the Union”. The Student Union, situated on Lade Mendoza was home to most students at one time or another. It was where students hung out night and day rather than going to class, or because they went to class and needed a beer to recover. Or just because it was there and it was filled with like-minded people, student all approximately the same age. “I’ll be back soon”, he promised and he was. He rushed into the apartment and announced he had met a Professor who was new to Wisconsin, just back from India. He was very upset and Arthur invited him to come over to our place. “Here!” I asked, again placed into instant shock at the unusual, the unexpected. “Yes”, He answered as he started to straighten up our usual mess. “No one has ever visited us before. Arthur. He probably won’t come” “Oh, he will come Arthur “,insisted. “Within the next half hour. You’ll see. He’ll be here”. And he was

 “His name is Harvey Goldberg. “ NO. Not my history Professor?” “Yelp” But I forged his signature”, I protested. “Remember?  His class was all filled up and what if he finds out?”. “He won’t”, Arthur said “He is upset about Kennedy. That’s what he cares about. He thinks this is all very very important”. It was less than an half hour. Arthur answered the door.

 Harvey came up the stairs without undo noise or commotion, following in Arthur’s wake he entered the apartment quietly. Even close up Harvey was very thin and very busy. There was an oral of activity about him even though the first day in the apartment he made an effort to sit quietly, asking questions, talking about the book, a biography that he had recently completed an a minor person in the French revolution. Arthur lingered in the kitchen area getting something for Harvey to eat or drink. I sat near Harvey on sofa while the cat played with my hair from above. (Harvey did not like cats or dogs) and we had one of each) Harvey asked me if I would cook dinner when he accepted Arthur’s invitation. When I said, no. I don’t cook Harvey was very surprised. The image of the American housewife dispelled as the radio announced that it wasn’t a left wing radical but someone from the other side of the divide.
A crazy man. A lone shooter. By the time Harvey left the apartment Kennedy was pronounced dead and the assassin was Lee Harvey Oswald, and the grassy knoll was about to become a most talked about piece of American real estate, a permanent part of our collective memories. That’s what I remember.

 It was a long time ago and my facts might be wrong but the essence of our initial meeting is captured. That moment when for years later people would ask, what were doing when Kennedy was shot. Harvey became a regular visitor to our humble abode. He came over after classes, traversing the stairs in a noisy seemingly single bouncy fashion due to his always being in a rush, a hurry to go nowhere but that was his way. He took us to his apartment to show us his books. I can remember every apartment/home I have ever been to. That is the kind of specific memory I have. But Harvey’s apartment defied my usual acumen. I remember nothing but the books. It was the first time I saw floor to ceiling bookcases that covered the entire length of his one room apartment and both sides leaving room in the middle for his necessities for living and of course the doorway was book free. I remember him, standing in front of the huge expansive bookcases telling us about what books he put where and pulling out a book talking about it briefly then returning it to “it’s rightful place”. I remember nothing of what he said and even if I did I doubt that I understood it. Nothing about Harvey was usual or expected which made him difficult to understand and equally difficult to forget. But we tried. He told us he had just returned from India and he described his New Year’s Eve at the Taj Mahal with great love of detail. Men, men he said, endless supply of men Clearly Harvey was not comfortable in the company of Women but that didn’t stop him from coming over for his daily visit.

 Harvey never ate with us. He stood over the table while we ate making his displeasure of our ways painfully obvious. Our feeding the dog on the floor and the cat on our kitchen table was unacceptable. he declared the arrangement “worse than India” something that at that time I didn’t fully appreciate. (I visited India many years later). In the fullness of time we learned that Harvey had in fact not traveled alone. He traveled with a young man, a sophomore who returned from India with Harvey and now attended the U of W. Both he and Harvey had applied to Wisconsin at the same time, Harvey to teach since he had been banned from Harvard because of his radical left leanings and the student because he followed Harvey to the end of the World and enjoyed a rich sexual life with him as well. I don’t remember the man’s name but at some point they broke off their relationship and the young man found himself, with our help, in his first heterosexual relationship and Harvey was lost in the moment of change.

My last memory of Harvey made a  dramatic impact in my life which I never spoke about and could never forget. I was in his history class and earned the third highest mark out of several hundred students on my six week exam. I did equally well on my twelve week exam. There was something about the way Harvey spoke, his dramatic style of jumping onto the stage, wiping his glasses off his face is a flamboyant gesture and taking the chalk in hand commencing to write furiously on the provided blackboard that set my mind in motion. The dates, names, places, stories filled me with awe and my notes written in my own personal hieroglyphics were sufficient to bring back the sound of his voice, the content of the lectures. One day it was spring. Just like that. Spring came suddenly after the long hard winter and I didn’t go to class. Like everyone else, I went to the Union, the fresh smell of grass , the lake invited us all. My towel in hand my mind on nothing but the warmth of the sun and the inner sense of life that warm weather brings to the sufferers of extreme cold. Harvey came over that evening.

 His classes finished he came rushing into the apartment more excited than usual. “I remember”, he said ” I remember when I was a student here and the first day of spring when I too was at the Union. I didn’t go to class. But now, I am a professor and I had to go to class. HAHAHA” he laughed joyfully. “And I gave two thousand years of Egyptian history today” he said. “HAHAHA”. He went on happier than I had ever seen him. Two thousand years and only three students were sitting in the auditorium taking notes. “HA HA” he laughed and left us in the same hurried manner that brought him into our midst. Even though I was gripped by fear at an impeding academic doom I too laughed as I pictured him writing more frenzied than ever as his love of knowledge and his instant understanding of the down side of being a professor converged. He never tested us on Egypt. The final was on Iran, Iraq Syria and another country that I don’t remember now. I had a solid A going into the final.

 I remember taking my class notes with me to study for the final down by the lake. I was with my friend Ben. We were playing around and the wind came and my notes went into the lake. We retrieved them but they were compromised and I used some one else’s notes to study for the exam. I didn’t think too much about this because with an A going into he final I was guaranteed a C in the course and that was okay with me. A C or an occasional B. I wasn’t known as a student. I cut classes regularly and rarely studied. I went to college to develop my mind, not to gain knowledge per se. And grades were an unwelcome part of the process.

 Again we were at diner when Harvey rushed upstairs, he had my test paper in his hand. He didn’t’ throw it at me. He held it above us as he yelled down onto the tops of our heads, the papers rattling. “I didn’t believe it”, he said. “ I had to get hold of your test to see for myself. How did you do this, how did you get a D on my test. You knew it all. You were my best student” he yelled. How did this happen!” And then he said words that stayed with me for the rest of my life. He said. “You are sick:, locking his eyes into mine. “You are a very sick lady!” then he turned away and rushed out of the apartment angry, disappointed. Finished. He was finished with us, with me. He was right. At the moment of Harvey’s retreat punctuated by his flamboyant nature, his energy his unabashed expression of what he cared most about I was brought into an awareness that changed my life forever.

 The next semester I took a course in Personality 101 and for extra credit I wrote a paper what has been used by many. I wrote a seemingly simple essay on why I need to fail and ended by affirming that success is still possible. I remember standing in my kitchen at home. My mother was doing laundry downstairs. I held the report card in my hand, the A in Personality 101 bold on the page. And I was afraid afraid to show it to her. I remember standing in that ambivalent state when the world seems to be on an edge and I remember simultaneously thinking about Harvey, how he ran down the stairs all a flutter, and I went downstairs and gave my mother my report card and quickly as quickly as I could I ran back up and out of the house, feeling on my own, ready to tackle the world. Thank you Harvey for giving me an adult life filled with ideas and a kind of fanatic energy that often defies reason.

 With the fondest of memories……… Linda Glasser Zises

37 Mafia suspects take a hit. or do they?

Loanshaking and gambling on trial!


http://mafiatoday.com/gambino-family/37-suspects-rounded-up-in-major-bust-involving-gambling-loan-sharking-rings/

The audacity of the State has no bounds. First they claim without evidence nor citation of fact that the 37 people indicted are part of he Mafia. But I doubt this. It is like those they claim to be Terrorists or Communist or whatever is in vogue at any particular time in history.

In this case there is just a lumping together of all 37 people and voila. Mafia indicted along with their 37 champions.

For what?

Loansharking and Gambling?

But this is the basis, the foundation of the Capitalist Economic system. Capitalism is born from, and survives and thrives on loansharking and gambling. And the Capitalist' gamble lost! The states were high and still are. Bankruptcies, foreclosures, eradication of IRAs and savings. The collapse of entire countries~ The list is endless. And it doesn't stop.

We are encouraged every day to spend, to barrow, to gamble, to play the lottery; for what? For capitalism to survive.

Making money from money is the essence of Capitalism "Making your money grow" is it's motto.

Capitalism frowns on the distribution of wealth and goods. It calls those who receive lazy, unsophisticated......... a drain on the system. The entitlement programs are not considered part of Capitalism. They are deemed a necessary evil required for the perpetuation of Capitalism. (To my way of thinking Medicaid, unemployment insurance are like the band aids that cover the evidence while the sores fester.)

This trial of the 37 self appointed CEO of the 99 percent can bring to light the hypocrisy of the rulers, the champions of law and order while putting Capitalism on trial.

Linda Zises
from Chicago

OWS: Just getting started

It isn't the outside, the rain, sleet or cold weather that will drive the movement of OWS into the dustbin of history because it is a youth driven movement without God on their side, nor media or money.

It is a movement of the young who see the future as hopeless, with debt that far exceed their ability to gain financial stability. The more educated, and most are educated, the greater their debt.

Sooner rather than later the OWS will wake up to the problem with the Universities that make debt a graduation nightmere while the schools amass huge futunes in tax free real estate at the expense of culture, of history of places that hold memories more rich than the education that schools offer to those of their chosing.


The OWS movement will also wake up to the reality of their political power. They will form their own political party, the 99 per cent party and they will not have to go through the arduous process of trying to gain acceptance on the ballot for their party, their platform, a voice on radio, telvision. They won't have to debate anyone because there is no debate with crooks, liars and mouth pieces who have destroyed the fabric of life for millions upon millions of people, countries....the world

The OWS will go to the polls in numbers almost unheard of in this great country, and they will offer up their candidates for Prsident of the United States, and it will be Anon for President and Wiki for Vice President and the 99% will wear masks when forced to speak. Anyone wearing the mask will satisfy the need for public discourse. The 99% will run on a platform of full transparency and democratic participation and human need above greed. And work?

They articulate a way to distribute goods, life sustaining necessities without making the sole method of income distribution the almighty "work" that professed character building trait deemed mandatory for the 99%. Work will be a luxury as it is for the one per cent. What people won't do. machines will.

And the OWS will write-in their candidates for President and Vice President. If you have ever tried to write in a candidate you know this is a long arduous process that will impede if not bring to a premature end a day of voting on the aloted line for the corporate delivered candidates of no one's particular choice.

Come rain or shine, sleet, or winter cold,
the work of the OWS is but just begun. If only they have the vision to do what must be done.

That is my dream

Linda Zises
recent Chcago resident

Winter: A premature end to Occupy Chicago:

Chicago has recently passed an ordinance limiting the amount of glass allowed in home construction.

Down the street from me is a newly constructed glass guzzling home that clearly pushes the ordinance limits.

Why the need for inordinate amount of glass and why the huge, mansion homes which look more like museums than intimate family hovels.

The answer lies in the dreaded inevitable prospect of the looming winter.(excessive money aside)

Chicago has endured the windy part of its legacy with some discomfort but the recent blizzard which for the first time in Chicago history caused the schools to close is still fresh on the resident's minds. In addition to the wind and the snow that makes walking hazardous is the ever present cold preserved by Lake Michigan which is the root cause of the excessive heat in summer and cold in winter; the opposite of an ocean that keeps weather moderate.(of course global warming contributes its fair share of projected and real discomfort)

What this translates into on the every day mundane life expectancy is the inability to get up in the winter cold days, and an even greater inability to go outside. Jogging will be a distant memory and bike riders will be few to none for almost 6 months.

This explains why the house, no matter how big, how conversant with the great beyond through it's mammoth use of glass, becomes for one and all, a jail. A $15 million Jail. You gotta love it!

As a rule I am not one to hibernate as I learned people do here in winter but I will be held up in my home with the rest of the Chicago residents when the brutal weather hits for long endless dark days. And that is why I had my windows cleaned. To be able to be locked inside while feeling in contact with the great cruel Chicago Environs.

And that is why there is no need to use force to end the Occupy Chicago movement or the OWS denizens; winter weather will bring the troops back to their warm abodes, or so it is hoped or rather forecast.
This is where planning count.

Preparing for the not so distant future.

Linda Zises
recent Chicago resident

occupy wall street: report from Chicago

Occupy Wall Street : Poster Man


the crowd is growing. the police are mulling about and the government agents are engaging the protesters with their ill disguised clothes. But this is a beginning. I couldn't figure out where people would sleep; there is little space between the Federal Reserve Bank and the protesters.

I offer a quote we might all want to keep in mind during these still warm enough days for outside happenings

"Liberation is an act of simultaneous conscious awakening and direct action, a concrete engagement with Reality guided by a freed Consciousness, a massive collective labour of love that conjoins praxis and theory; it's a spiral in which labour struggles and political struggles fuel and nourish each other to turn in a widening rising helix. As that helix turns, it brings in more people into its process, sculpting an expansion of the liberated community outwards and higher. David McNally's article paints a picture of how this took place in Egypt and anchors it to the work of other prominent revolutionary Rosa Luxemburg, who had a lot to say about the revolutionary moment, and its process."

The picture above is of a man who wasn't on Wall Street but in Chicago. He worked hard to get his outfit just right, the red tie and black shirt. His red and black hair didn't make it into the photo but it was great! And his Mask is outstanding, as was his attitude; gentle, determined and.........all that is needed to go the mile.

Linda Zises
a recent chicago resident

RAPT : The monetary value of love

Lucas Belvaux

Wednesday, July 6 at Film Forum --2 week engagement


“.......based on the 1978 kidnapping of the French industrialist/playboy, Baron Edouard-Jean Empain. In RAPT, the victim spends a harrowing nine weeks in the hands of a criminal band, but the experience proves less life-threatening than the scandalous revelations of his secret life -- uncovered by the tabloids in the course of these events."

Commentary

I did not experience the unfolding of this tabloid perfect, gossip juicy sexual/political scandal in real life time which might have heightened the impact of the drama.

As a fresh viewer to the unfolding scandal I became enmeshed in an emotional struggle. On the one hand I wanted to remain sympathetic to the unshaven, filthy man/victim as he deteriorated in the course of his torture experience including the brutal chopping off of his finger without apparent benefit of surgical procedures. It was a struggle not to appreciate the torment of his family; his wife, daughters, mother who rightfully acquired the address of Madam with her dignified posture and demeanor.

The collateral damage to those who bore his name and blood line inflicted by this kidnapping certainly should not be endured by anyone.
However, I was simultaneously confronted with the reality of how obscene the wealth and status of privilege was for this French man who hoodwinked those who knew him best into thinking he was what he wasn’t and wasn’t what he was.

The juxerposition of two scenes brought my emotional dilemma to the fore. In the first scene we are looking at the barren, seemingly mildewed room, where a TV is turned on while the victim eats. This scene is immediately followed by the sight of The Family eating in their more than opulent dining room with the TV on, and again functioning as a distraction to the immediate task of eating.

From the one visual scene to the other the contrast said it all. Who is right in this kidnapping event? And what is justice, Injustice?

In our world where the wealthy appear to be free to act, flaunting their immorally with impunity, isn’t their wealth the real culprit, the enemy of us all?

Rapt brings this reality into clear focus. It messes with our seemingly instinctual reactions. It shows the extent to which we are conditioned to feel and it forces us to reassess what is right, what is wrong and to what extent we, the viewers, have become the mindless victims manipulated with strong music, great acting and a message which maybe in another arena we would never embrace.

What more can be asked of a great, a meaningful provocative and entertaining film?
except
that it be shown again and again to remind us who the enemy really is.




Linda Zises
WBAI Radio

Wisconsin leads the way!

I went to school in Wisconsin- four years at the University in Madison where it is colder than I ever imagined cold could be.

The people of the State are not unusually sophisticated. They are like most mid westerners, concerned about their families. They don't have the time nor inclination to read the New York Times from cover to cover or to think about politics in detail. That is why they elect representatives, to represent their interests, the interests that they assume their politicians who live next door to them share and want to see realized.

In up state Wisconsin it is so cold that often the parents of school age children do not go to social functions or even to P.T.A. meetings. They allow teachers to teacher and administrators to administer a Democratic academically sound curriculum.

It is unimaginable that the foundation of their lives, their values of democracy, of taking care of the middle class, of having feelings for and about other people are not being respected. To see their politicians with
Scott Walker at the forefront of this malaise is not only abhorrent to the Wisconsin citizen, it is unthinkable. And although Wisconsin is a Republican State each person seems to remember the great Governor at the turn of the last Century, Lafayette who brought to life the idea that Republican/Democrat means nothing. It is the middle class, the financial emotional wealth of the State that must be realized and maintained, a lesson Scott Walker has yet to learn.

150 thousand strong took over the Capitol last weekend. Next weekend, there will be more and then more and more. And banning the Pizza from Egypt won't stop the Wisconsin citizens from protecting the exercise of their Democratic process. This struggle isn't about which Party rules, it is about middle class values, the right to discuss, negotiate, bargain. Wisconsin isn't a Monarchy/Plutocracy , not yet.


Keep up the good, the great work, Wisconsin. .
Change, it is a coming
even to the U.S.A.

Linda Zises
Reporter at lage

Black Atheists And The Values Wars

NEW BOOK ON
BLACK ATHEISTS
AND THE VALUES WARS
Press Release For Immediate Release
Infidel Books Announces:


AFRICAN AMERICANS ARE THE POOREST AND THE MOST RELIGIOUS GROUP IN THE NATION

87% OF BLACK WOMEN ARE REGULAR CHURCHGOERS

THE BIBLE IS THE MOST READ BOOK IN BLACK AMERICA

IS THE BLACK CHURCH MORALLY CORRUPT?

DOES ORGANIZED RELIGION BETRAY BLACK WOMEN?

DOES BLACK AMERICA'S BIBLE OBSESSION HURT BLACK ACADEMIC ACHIEVEMENT?


MORAL COMBAT: BLACK ATHEISTS, GENDER POLITICS, AND THE VALUES WARS
By Sikivu Hutchinson


The word atheism elicits shock, dread, anger, and revulsion among most African Americans. They view atheism as "amoral," heresy, and race betrayal. Historically, the Black Church was a leading force in the fight for racial justice. Today, many black religious leaders have aligned themselves with the Religious Right. While black communities suffer economically, the Black Church is socially conservative on women's rights, abortion, same sex marriage, and church/state separation. These religious "values wars" have further solidified institutional sexism and homophobia in black communities. Yet, drawing on a rich tradition of African American free thought, a growing number of progressive African American non-believers are openly questioning black religious and social orthodoxies.

Moral Combat provides a provocative analysis of the political and religious battle for America's soul. It examinesthe hijacking of civil rights by Christian fascism; the humanist imperative of feminism and social justice; the connection between K-12 education and humanism; and the insidious backlash of Tea Party-style religious fundamentalism against progressive social welfare public policy. Moral Combat also reveals how atheists of color are challenging the whiteness of "New Atheism" and its singular emphasis on science at the expense of social and economic justice.

In Moral Combat, Sikivu Hutchinson highlights the cultural influence of African American humanist and atheist social thought in America. As the first African American woman to publish a book on atheism, she places this tradition within the broader context of public morality and offers a far-reaching vision for critically conscious humanism.

RELIGION DISPATCHES INTERVIEW WITH SIKIVU HUTCHINSON
About the Author

Sikivu Hutchinson is a writer and senior intergroup specialist for the Los Angeles County Human Relations Commission. She received a Ph.D. in Performance Studies from New York University and has taught women's studies, cultural studies, urban studies and education at UCLA, the California Institute of the Arts and Western Washington University. She is the author of Imagining Transit: Race, Gender, and Transportation Politics in Los Angeles (Lang, 2003) and has published fiction, essays and critical theory in Social Text, California English, Black Agenda Report, Free Inquiry and American Atheist Magazine. She is the editor of blackfemlens.org and a senior fellow for the Institute for Humanist Studies.

NOW AVAILABLE AT CREATESPACE.COM

Sikivu Hutchinson is available for interviews and speaking engagements, contact: shutch2396@aol.com

SPRING BOOKSIGNINGS & APPEARANCES: MARCH 3, INTERFAITH VOICES; MARCH 20, CENTER FOR INQUIRY, LOS ANGELES & COSTA MESA; MARCH 23, USC, LIFESTYLE & DESIGN CENTER; APRIL 3, REVOLUTION BOOKS, L.A.; APRIL 16, IHS, NYC; APRIL 28, UNIV. OF S. ALABAMA; MAY 13, ESO WON BOOKS, L.A.;

Planned Parenthood and the Rape of American Women

By Sikivu Hutchinson

Lately, the sound of galloping hooves and rustling white sheets has risen in a deafening squall from the Capitol. Like their Klan ancestors, elite white males in Congress’ political lynch mob are once again savaging communities of color. The House’s vote to gut Planned Parenthood is a criminal act against poor and working class women and their families. In many rural and urban neighborhoods there are few affordable alternatives to the health care provided by Planned Parenthood and other reproductive rights service providers. These clinics are the frontline of preventive care in poor working class white communities and communities of color, providing pregnancy and STD testing, contraception, pap smears, abortions, and counseling for families with little to no health coverage.

Ever since its midterm elections’ sweep, the far right has ramped up its unrelenting drive to theocracy, using reproductive rights as its battleground. Drawing on the sabotage of ACORN, Speaker John Boehner and a host of other GOP and so-called Blue Dog Democrat fascists are bound and determined to take down Planned Parenthood. Extending Hyde Amendment restrictions on federal funding for abortions to private providers is central to their agenda. Too spineless to criminalize women who seek abortions outright, Religious Right politicians instead choose to pillage health care provisions that keep women from falling deeper into poverty, illness, and economic dependence. Hiding behind Orwellian claims of being pro-life, far right politicians exercise draconian control over the bodies of poor women and their families in the name of God, guns, and bloody fetuses. Why not just jail ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out?

It should be no revelation that when poor women are denied access to decent affordable reproductive care—including access to safe abortions—families and communities suffer. While federal and state governments dismantle education and health care funding, the American military regime goes untouched. Because black and Latino communities are on the frontlines of imperialist military recruitment and educational inequity, few people of color would argue that government handouts to the military industrial complex should trump education funding. However, reproductive justice just doesn’t have the same political cache or urgency amongst progressives of color. Consequently, conservative reactionary forces within the African American community have successfully allied with the Religious Right in a revived anti-abortion billboard campaign targeting black women. This propaganda has cropped up recently in black and Latino Southern California neighborhoods. By implying that aborting black babies makes them an “endangered species,” these billboards evoke plantation era regimes of social control.

In essence, bad “genocidal” black women don’t know their place, don’t know that they were put here to be God’s sacrificial vessels and don’t seem to grasp that only evil promiscuous misguided Jezebels get knocked up. They also haven’t gotten Sarah Palin’s telegram...
MORE@ http://blackfemlens.blogspot.com/2011/02/planned-parenthood-and-rape-of-american.html

Sikivu Hutchinson is the author of Moral Combat: Black Atheists, Gender Politics, and the Values Wars (Infidel Books).

Obama: An American Magician Extraordinaire!

If Obama didn't exist, would there be a Tea Party?

If we didn't have a President hell bent on spending money with a guarantee that the money spent would instantly or almost instantly, disappear because it would be devoured by the wealthy who already have more than they know what to do with and thus do nothing, or to a war/national security/spying effort that produces bullets which, when used, disappear, or tear gas or other armaments so dangerous that their intended use is unconscionable and counter productive, and a spy network that couldn't see a full blown Egyptian Revolution in progress even though it was inaugurated with the recent textile strike by thousands( wasn't it the Iron building fire that started the U.S. on Labor Unions?)

Obama gives Federal money, the people's money, to the banks without charging interest; the very crooks who know better than anyone how to make money disappear, how to "go bankrupt" along with corporations too big to fail and we, the workers watch that money disappear, no longer in circulation. Like magic, it disappears before our very eyes.

The next Obama magical feat will be to disappear the
targeted social security money( that is probably already eaten up by the ever-hungry, clandestinely,)
the middle class,
the workers.
We'll all become slaves of the State
the poor, that pathetic segment of the American population that is in need; always hungry enough to become whatever the Magician wants us to be.

With Obama at the helm,
(the American/corporate driven, owned manipulated Supreme King anointed by God, be He/She Christian, Muslin or Jewish supported, financed by those who make money while they sleep and reap restful anxiety free life styles marred only with the occasion ripple the slightly ahead of their time Tea Party engenders as they capitalizing on the alleged poverty of Government and when they insist on bringing to the fore their "creative" solutions-- the only contradiction being their mandate to keep Government out of everything except, of course, a woman's body)
WE Will Win!!!!!

Are you ready?

Have you hidden your Gold in your backyard, bought your own generator, created a secure cache of guns, ammunition? Have you bought into a religion of your choice and talked to your children to prepare them for better days here on Earth and in Heaven; mostly the latter? Have you?
And what about the bomb shelter your late relatives built? Is it up to date, ready for use?
Be assured. It can't be long now. Obama will get the Job done.

We are on the brink of the second. a Real American Revolution!

Only the young can stop us now.
Or can they?

Linda Zises
reporter at large

Channel 5 Football: Black vs. White

Sunday afternoon football: Fox Channel 5 does is again.


Watching The Redskins vs. the Giants' Sunday afternoon football game January 2, 2011 brought to the sports hungry-public an experience in watching the rudiments of prejudice unfolding.

If I didn't know better, viewing this sports event would have seened like a battle between the all Black team, the Redskins, against the all White team, the Giants, dominated by quarterback (no space between Manning who is White.

During the entire two hours of my viewing I saw only Caucasian faces in full prolonged frontal view while the few Black men shown on the screen were presented in profiles.

There was one view of a line of several Black men sitting on the bench, with an underlying impression that these men were lazy. All were Redskin team players. In contrast, no Giant player was presented sitting down. The Giant team players and coaches were seen standing, talking, making the game look like an active, energy-driven sports event..

And the pictures that appeared on the screen made it seem as if the officials, the coaches, and the referees were predominantly White men. If this is true, this reenforces the notion of insidious prejuduce not just in the filming of the game, but in the game itself.

The Fox channel 5 presentation, containing the deliberate one-sided filming of the game, is an example of insidious prejudice, a way of subliminal influence on people without their full awareness of what is being done to them.

This view of the bad Black Redskins vs. the good White Giants team is pure fantasy, a creation of virtual Fox reality.

The only real element in this Sunday afternoon football game filming was the prejudice that Fox brought to the viewing public without restraint.

Linda Zises

Manifest Destiny Revivalism

By Sikivu Hutchinson

During the 19th century, the “Manifest Destiny” of the United States was one of “God-ordained” expansionism. African slaves, indigenous peoples, Mexican nationals and other “non-Europeans” were deemed aliens and enemy combatants, anathema to the democratizing force of America. Using that “old time religion” to shepherd the flock on the 47th anniversary of the 1963 March on Washington Glenn Beck’s “Divine Destiny” revival deftly mines this history. Beck’s decision to hold the event on the March on Washington anniversary has elicited outrage amongst civil rights organizations who accuse him and the radical right of hijacking the legacy of the civil rights movement. Reeking of sulfur, hubris and the visionary charlatanism of 1920s revivalist Aimee Semple McPherson, Beck claimed that the Divine Destiny event will provide “an inspiring look at the role faith played in the founding of America and the role it will play again in its destiny.”

Decrying the cultural primitivism and backwardness of the Muslim world, twenty first century Christian zealots seeking to preserve human rights as the province of white supremacy continue to put the lie to American exceptionalism. Over the past week the Islamphobic vitriol of demagogues like Beck, Sarah Palin and Newt Gingrich have paid off in cold blood. The recent stabbing of a Muslim cabdriver in New York and the hate attack against a Fresno, California Islamic center (by an organization calling itself the American Nationalist Brotherhood), are the tragic but all too predictable results of the nationalist chest beating that masquerades as empathy for the victims of 9/11.

In a climate in which the militant right wants to dismantle civil rights freedoms guaranteed in the Constitution, Beck’s evocation of “divine destiny” is all of a piece. Throughout American history, recourse to the transparent word of God has always been the last refuge of scoundrels wielding the Bible and the bayonet as protections from the ungovernable hoard. Thus, it is fitting that this naked evocation of the language and legacy of Manifest Destiny comes during a period when the right has launched a campaign to repeal the 1868 14th amendment, which was originally initiated to confer citizenship onto freed African slaves. As Kevin Alexander Gray writes in Counterpunch, “in the Reconstruction period, as now, racism and white supremacy loomed large in public debate. Back then, opponents of the amendment talked about ‘public morality’ being threatened by people ‘unfit for the responsibilities of American citizenship.’’ Now the self-appointed defenders of public morality have come full circle, drunk on a cocktail of xenophobia, anti-immigrant hysteria and jingoism.

Vaulting ahead of the pack, Republican Congressman Lamar Smith, one of the staunchest critics of the 14th amendment’s provision of birthright citizenship, introduced the Birthright Citizenship Act of 2009 into the House. The statute would deny citizenship to children born in the U.S. to undocumented women, stripping away yet another civil right that ostensibly distinguishes the U.S. from fascist governments. Smith’s legislation is a reminder of the connection between slavery and expansionism. In the 1840s, the concept of manifest destiny was used to justify the U.S.’ brutal occupation of Mexican territory. Cultural propaganda demonizing and dehumanizing indigenous Mexican populations provided American imperialism with the aura of moral righteousness. Commenting on the U.S.-Mexico War, it was no less than “radical” poet Walt Whitman who stated: "What has miserable, inefficient Mexico—with her superstition, her burlesque upon freedom, her actual tyranny by the few over the many—what has she to do with the great mission of peopling the new world with a noble race? Be it ours, to achieve that mission!"

Back in the good old days of docile slaves and vanquished savages, there were no ambiguities about who deserved to be accorded rights. God ordained the universality of European American experience, civilization and moral worth. Non-white peoples either submitted to the Enlightenment principles and values of the culturally superior West or were extinguished. States rights were citizens’ last vestige of protection from the trespasses of big government. So it is no mystery then why the ideology of 19th century expansionism and evangelical Christian revivalism has gained fresh currency amongst a “reloading” white nationalist insurgency. As the freshly inked graffiti on the vandalized Islamic Center in Fresno proclaimed, “Wake up America, the Enemy is here.”

Sikivu Hutchinson is the editor of blackfemlens.org and a senior fellow for the Institute for Humanist Studies.

The Milk of Sorrow: "The Frightened Tit"

By Claudia Llosa, the film stars Magaly Solier as Fausta,

Plot: Our heroine Fausta (translated, means a girl who is full of fear) suffers from "The Milk of Sorrow" (which is, in the Peruvian-indigenous tradition, an illness), suffers from the desease she believes is transmitted through the breast milk of women who were raped in the Shining Path’s war of terror in Peru. The film begins with scenes from the death of her Mother followed by her obtaining sleep-in work in a wealthy home in Lima.

The plot and narrative are half the story. Providing a view into Peru from the vantages of both its very wealthy and its very poor is the other half. There is endemic cruelty, callousness at both extremes: a rampant lack of sensitivity among all parties. This even-handed expose is what helps to make The Milk of Sorrow a great film, a politically irrefutable statement.

Personally I would be depressed if I had to live the lonely life of the wealthy woman whose life is propelled by her drive for general recognition. The paucity of people in her life to meet her innate human need to be loved, wanted/needed, appreciated propels her onward and forward to the stage where she sings to so many people who when lumped together in the audience look like specks of confetti. No wonder she is depressed, detached and addicted to pills to stay "healthy".

But equally depressed and depressing is the depiction of the poor woman, Fausta, who suffers from the Peruvians illness the Milk Of Sorrow. the spoiled, Beast Milk – milk contaminated during the violent acts of Rape (during the 1980 Shining Path’s war of terror) that resulted in her birth.

The insensitivity to Fausta, the now grown woman with a potentially ripe vagina of her own and the weight of her mother's dead body that must be buried, is overwhelming horrifying partly because of the emotional cruelty heaped upon her by a community that refuses to empathize with the demands her poverty places upon her.

The juxtaposition of the her cousin's wedding festival and all that it entails with the wealthy woman's onstage performance is augmented with the internal contrast of the wedding versus Fausta's pressing need to bury her mother.

First, the mother's body is stored under a bed on top of which is the bridal gown for the plump, happy, soon-to-be-wed cousin and then, what was to be a grave for Fausta's mother's body to be buried in, becomes a watering hole for the delight and fun of the overheated travelers.

In every aspect the film Director offers the scenes as internal contrasts to each other. This is not an easy feat to achieve. Claudia LLosa's success is what makes this film so special.

Even the terrain, the pictures of what Peru looks like, are presented with such severity of difference from the daily needs for a gardener because of the wealth of flowers, plants, and trees versus the striking lack of anything other than the brown dust in the hot, arid world in which Fausta lives


There is nothing to cry about in this film. It is too serious, too depressing for tears. Maybe that is why it didn't win the 2009 Oscar award for best film or best foreign language film It was too real, it's message too clear. The obvious conclusion being that Socialism, where the class distinctions are less severe is the only real solution for a better world.

Winner:
2009 Berlin Film Festival Top Award ; The Golden Bear

Opens August 27th
New York City
Village Cinema

Altiplano: A Black Madonna revealed! 2009

Directors:
Peter Brosens
Jessica Hope Woodworth

Writers:
Jessica Hope Woodworth
Peter Brosens

Cast: (Credited cast)
Magaly Solier ... Saturnina
Jasmin Tabatabai ... Grace
Olivier Gourmet ... Max

The icon of Western culture is very tangible in this intense reality drama,Altiplano, set in rural Peru. The scenery, the depiction of the terrain, the intimate understanding of Peru's native people: the clothes they wear, and their holiday and wedding and funeral services, give understanding of unique groups of people. This is the focus of the film's narrative. The antagonist is the threat to their existence by the on-slought of corporate forces robbing the resources of their land and compromsing the peoples health.

The story is all the more compelling because of the music. It brought goose bumps to my skin, as it rose up to fill my ears, my senses with its power, its beauty.

Altiplano will bring a new world experience into your cultural life and bring out the fighter within you. Save the past. Save the native Peruvian life style, embrace the forces of the young soon to be married girl as she becomes a modern day Joan of Arc, a symbolic Virgin Mary, a hero for millions world wide who cherish the world they live in and don't want to give it up for the sake of the almighty dollar.

Altiplano is an interesting film for those who love films. It tells an unusual story punctuated with beautiful scenery and wonderful music. What else can you ask for?


Opens this Friday at New York’s Village East Cinema.

CATFISH: A love story about you, me and the Internet

Henry Joost and Ariel Schulman

Five years ago, before Facebook and Twitter, and before cell phones came into the hands of ordinary people who want to be “connected”, Catfish could not have been made. Before animation was reintroduced into the tent-pole films of today, Catfish would have been something less than it is.

The plot is a simple take on man meets girl/woman:
Megan, Abby’s older sister, and Nev, age 24, meet on the internet. Abby is an eight year old girl who does drawings of Nev’s photographs. Megan and Nev talk intimately on their cell phones and form a strong emotional bond without ever actually meeting.

When they go face to face the film turns from the ordinary to the extraordinary. It is when the inner life of an emotionally repressed woman, Abby's mother Angela, comes to the fore despite the lack of imaginative strivings of her seemingly practical-minded husband who hasn’t a clue about his wife - how she thinks, feels, nor how she spends her time when she is not tending to his needs and the special needs of their children.

The image of Angela sitting in a chair looking at Nev, the film’s hero - her smile, her love, the very fiber of her emotional wealth, so tangible - is heart wrenching.

Oh..............

when the beauty within is perceived........that is what makes this documentary so compelling, so beautiful, so extraordinary.


For me Angela is a hero extraordinaire!

Catfish opens this fall. Watch for it!


Linda Zises
WBAI Radio

Boxing Helena DVD 1993: Sex/longing/love

Boxing Helena 1993
Written and directed by
Jennifer Chambers Lynch


Plot:

A surgeon becomes obsessed with the seductive woman he once had an affair with. Refusing to accept that she has moved on, he amputates her limbs and holds her captive in his mansion. Is he crazy, or is this his fantasy based on a strong love and an inability to express it?

My Opinion:

Only a woman would be so brutally honest in the presentation of the basic sexual/self-worth fantasies and fears experienced by men and woman.

For a man it is his sexual performance that plagues his self-concept, and premature ejeculation is a potent hindrence to his self-concept. If not remedied it is certain to become a strong basis for bizarre fantasies and constant concern.

For a woman her basic fear is that she is only a sexual object rather than appreciated for being a woman with self-worth stronger than her appearance.

In Boxing Helena both of these fears get brought into prominence with a heavy dose of fantasy, nightmare and, ultimately, love that binds both of these fears together. In the end, mature love triumphs over all else.

I can’t imagine this film as it played on public television, denuded of its explicit sexually/sensually rich scenes. For me, watching an uncut version, the experience was funny at times, beautiful often and rewarding in its imaginative unfolding.

I strongly recommend the uncut version. If cut for a general television viewing audience, the film would be just so-so.

Linda Zises
WBAI RAdio
Ladisfilmclub

Angels and Innocents: By Sikivu Hutchinson

I have a vivid memory of the first time I became aware that children could die. It was early evening in the leisurely dusk of summer, and after eating with my mother at a local coffee shop, we passed by a newspaper vending machine outside. A child victim, kidnapped, murdered and disposed of like garbage, stared ominously out at me from the front page of the paper in grainy black and white. I remember my sense of horror when my mother told me that the child, who was approximately my age, would never see his parents again. Associating death with old people, I was stupefied by this seeming contradiction. Although raised heretically in a secular household, I had been corrupted by the prayer-saturated social universe of waxen blue-eyed Jesus’ plastered on my friends’ living room walls. Alone in my bed that night, I wondered how “God” could have countenanced such unspeakable evil.

Decades later there is an aching space where this child’s life would have been, his personhood “frozen” at abduction. Violent death by homicide at an early age is a grim reality for many youth of color. Gangsta rap romanticizes it and dishes it up for the voyeurism of white suburbia. Mainstream media ignores it or relegates it to social pathology. Every semester when I ask my students if they’ve had a young friend or relative die violently at least half will raise their hands. Their tattoos, notebooks and Sidekick phones are filled with vibrant mementoes for the dead. It is not necessary to go to Iraq, Afghanistan or some other theatre of American imperialism to experience the devastation that the killing fields of disposable youth inflicts. Yet, God takes care of children and fools, or so the shopworn saying goes. In the midst of sudden death there is refuge in the belief that the Cecil B. De Mille epic doomsayer of the Old Testament must have a special place in his heart for this tender constituency. Pied Piper religionists pat children on the head and whisper into their dewy ears that the murder of an innocent child is part of some grand design. They dish up the concept of divine providence like hard candy. They lure sweet-toothed youth with a ready “antidote” to the quandary of trying to make sense out of the senselessness and randomness of evil. The Wynken, Blynken and Nod bedtime story of grand design is chased down with the simple carrot of eternal reward for slain innocents. The inexplicable is assimilated. Senseless evil, evil that befalls the good and stalks the innocent, is legitimized as part of the divine’s hardscrabble boot camp for the living.

If it can be understood, it isn’t God, said Augustine. In ambiguity then, prayer is the great equalizer and potential redeemer. As American children we grow up with recurring images of kneeling girls and boys, hands clasped solemnly in prayer. These images propagandize faith as a normal, natural phenomenon. The magic bullet of prayer is trotted out as an escape hatch from the small indignity to the unspeakably cruel act of wild-oats-sewing youth. Bad kids pray obsessively for forgiveness. Good kids pray strategically in crisp starched pajamas for family members, friends, and Fido to be delivered to the top of God’s check list. Sinful thoughts can be defused by requesting a special audience with God. Good thoughts can be “deposited” into one’s virtual piggy bank of moral worth.. CONT. http://blackfemlens.blogspot.com/2010/08/angels-and-innocents.html