Tzotzil language spiritual rock

Reblogged from ¡Hola desde NJ!:

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SAK TZEVUL a spiritual rock band from the region of Chiapas, Mexico is making its debut this weekend in New York.

SAK TZEVUL’s (pronounced sac sebool) airy, soft flowing, meditative unique sounds are created with indigenous instruments as the corina (clay flute), conch, and maracas, fused with more modern instruments as the modern electric guitar and violin. Their sound recreates the authentic longing music of the Zinancantan Mayan village located in the high and vast mountains of Chiapas.

Read more… 373 more words

I loved the post above about Sak Tzevul.  I had the pleasure of living with Damian's parents while I was working in Zinacantan, and saw Sak Tzevul play multiple times. They are incredible, and I wish I could see them now---they are currently playing in New York. Unfortunately I can't attend their concert on May 24th, because my sister is graduating.  They will be playing at the David Rubenstein Atrium on Broadway at 63rd St., New York, N.Y. Read more http://www.newyorker.com/arts/events/nightlife/sak-tzevul-david-rubenstein-atrium#ixzz1vEq4HHLN

Spaces In Between

When I think of spaces in between:

I think about the space between one culture and another, the space that is created from travel, the space that opens up in oneself from traveling within and understanding different worlds.  I think about what it means to be a “third-culture” kid, as my cousin once named it, to have grown up between two countries, sometimes feeling like I did not belong to either, struggling to feel like I belong to both.

I think about sexuality and the ways in which sexuality cannot be defined by only gay and straight.  Though many people do identity one way or the other, many more fall somewhere in between.  For me that was a difficult space to inhabit for a long time, and bisexual doesn’t capture the complexity that is sexuality, attraction, desire and love in the space between gay and straight.  I am comfortable now with that ambiguity, fluidity and identify as queer because of its possibilities and openness, though I know that for many it is a painful/contested word.  (Depending on context I will choose other labels that will be better received/understood by my audience).

I think about family and friends and the ways in which these lines blur and cross-over, and how biology and non-biology are both a part of this, and also irrelevant in many cases.  What is it that holds relationships together? The shared histories and futures? Interconnections and responsibilities? What is it that hangs out in the spaces in between bodies/people? I think about love for each other and memories, laughter and tears.

I think about what happens at dawn, the space in between night and day, the waking of the world, the settling of the night.  I think about what happens in those transitions from one time to another, from lightness to darkness and back again.

I think about the space that is created after a loved one has passed away.  They are gone, but not gone, as their memories are still so close, so vivid.  They continue to exist in a space between life and death.  I do not believe in an after-life, a heaven, but rather that we return to the earth, the universe, that we become part of all that is around us.  And so our loved ones are gone, but also here, part of the natural spaces around us, and always in our hearts.   I think, also, about the pain of grief, of learning to live with that loss, to realize that there is no “getting over” or “moving on” from a death, but that over time the pain gets easier to carry.  It does not become less, but it becomes easier to bear, less likely to cut so deeply.

I think about the ways in which what is memory, what is family-story or legend, what is a dream, and what is fabricated from desire can be hard to tease apart.

I think about how it is sometimes hard to tell truth from fiction.

I think about the way that our lives and our selves are not only about the big events that happen that mark time’s passing—birthdays, graduations, jobs, trips, holidays–but also all the time in between where we live the day-to-day moments of life.  Getting up to run with the dog, watching the birds on the feeder outside, swinging in the hammock to read a book, checking facebook, teaching a discussion section, watching a storm on the porch with my Dad, going kayaking with my Mom, tracing the path of one of my baby snails up the side of the tank.

I think about the fact that the world is not black and white, that while we might want to make things simple so much of the world is what happens in the spaces between what might be considered right and wrong.  It is about teasing out the nuances, the complexities, the messiness and understanding that each one of us holds onto a different piece of reality and that only by viewing them together do we get an idea of the ways in which power, privilege, oppression, and equality work.

National Poetry Month Day 23: "January Dawn Happening" by Jessica Vooris '09

Reblogged from THE BUCKNELL AFTERWORD:

January Dawn Happening after Kevin Goodan

The calf’s feet poke out and the cow strains but the feet don’t move anymore. My mother brings me out to the field.  Look she says in my ear, as I sit bundled up in her arms, they’re trying to save him. In the field, a clamor: the cow’s lowing, the clanging of the metal holding pen, the men’s hands and voices getting louder. 

Read more… 152 more words

One of my poems featured on The Afterword, the Bucknell creative writing alumni blog that I contribute to.

Zinacantan: Land of the Bats

The evening of January 12th my grandparents and I said our goodbyes. They were going to head back north to Ajijic the next day by car, while I was going south on the night bus to San Cristobal, Chiapas, a 13 hour journey. They generously paid for the bus, which meant that it was de lujo–and it was definitely luxurious! The seats were very comfortable, and reclined almost flat, and each passenger had their own tv screens with a variety of options to pick from.  I watched Star Trek and then tried to sleep as much as I could as we rocked our way around the steep curves of the mountains on the journey south.

Before I left, as I was packing up my things, my Grandma asked if I was nervous about the trip.  I said, no, not at all. I have traveled so much by myself, and this was pretty simple, get on the bus, sleep, wake up in San Cristobal.  I was a bit unsure how I would get from the central bus stop to the place in the market where the combis for Zinacantan leave, but I knew I would figure it out.

It’s strange, I actually deal with a lot of anxiety in my life about small things, mostly to do with social situations. For example I get very stressed about being late for things, so like to arrive at least five minutes early.  And then I will spend the ten minutes that it takes for everyone else to arrive, because they are five minutes late, worrying that I have gone to the wrong place.   I hate calling strangers on the phone (though I am getting better about this), simple things like ordering a pizza are quite stressful.  And sometimes for no reason I get really anxious about talking in class.  Anxiety is often something that I have to actively work against.  

And yet, I have done some pretty adventurous things in my life–like going to Mexico when I was 16 to live there for 5 months with a host family because I wanted to learn Spanish.  Granted my grandparents were a few hours away, but still! I went to a strange country where I didn’t speak the language and just jumped into a new high school.  And then my first trip to Chiapas for an anthropology project–I didn’t know what I was doing, just jumped right in, went to live in an indigenous village for two months to conduct ethnography after only taking one anthropology course at undergrad.  And I will stop and talk to strangers on the street, and in general enjoy being in new places, meeting new people.  There is something about traveling that gives me freedom from anxiety.  (I could probably write a whole post about this contradiction and what I think it is all about, but I don’t know if you need to read all that…so on to Zinacantan!)

I arrived bleary-eyed in San Cristobal at 8:30 in the morning, and after getting some more cash out at the ATM, got a taxi to the cathedral.  I knew once I arrived there I would be able to find my way to the combis to the village.  First though I bumped my way up a side street with my suitcase to an internet cafe to send my grandparents an email to let them know I had arrived safely.

Even after being gone a year and a half I was pleased to find that I could still find my way around.  The city had not changed much since I was last there, the market of artesania was still busy as ever, and the streets of the market, filled with people selling vegetables, live chickens, watches and wool was still as crowded.  I got a lot of strange looks as I made my way through areas where the tourists usually don’t go–or at least not without a tour group.  I am sure I was a peculiar site, a single, white woman with a suitcase, wooden toy truck and a sombrero walking through the market at 9 in the morning.

Finally after waiting for the combi to fill up, we were on our way. I was so excited to be heading to the village at last.  My arrival at Dona Juana’s house when I got there was wonderful.  It was without fanfare, and it felt as though I had never left. Her daughter and mother, Dona Lupe, were the only ones home, and they invited me into the kitchen, and we caught up with each others’ lives.  I then headed down to visit Dona E. the woman I lived with during the first two months I was there.  She was surprised to see me, as I had no way of letting her know that I was coming.  Que milagros, she said, when she saw me.  What a miracle, I didn’t think you would ever come back.  Almost as soon as I arrived people were asking me how long I was going to stay, and when my next visit was going to be.

That first day was everything that I could have hoped for, as I was welcomed back with open arms.  It seemed that as much as I thought about the ones I had left behind, they were also thinking about me.  One difference was that I knew that somehow I would be back, but they had no way of knowing if I would return.  Plenty of people visit the village and say they will come back, but they often don’t.  But I did, and people were really happy to see me.

One thing that was difficult that day, and the rest of my visit there was that two of my friends, Lorenza and Mariana, who were sister-in-laws, and had a cooperative together had a huge fight about a year ago and were no longer talking.  I wasn’t sure what the real story was, and couldn’t believe some of what was said, but wanted to be sensitive, particularly as I was staying with Dona Juana–Lorenza’s mother.  I really wanted to visit Mariana, but didn’t want to upset Lorenza or her mother. It was quite a juggling act, and I am not sure that I completely avoided hurt feelings, but I did my best.  That first day I didn’t get to see Mariana, but I did see Lorenza, and her son who is now two years old!  He was not happy to see me, and cried till his mother wrapped in her shawl and he took a nap on her back.

My first day back ended as so many of my nights had ended when I lived there, gathered around the hearth, the kitchen lit by a single light bulb and the light of the fire, with all of Dona Juana’s family talking and sharing the stories about the day.  I brushed my teeth at the stone basin outside in the cold under the stars, and then headed to bed.  It was good to be back.

(More posts coming soon about the baptism of my friend’s baby, relearning Tzotzil, the fiestas, and playing with the kids.  And then, once I’ve finished my Mexico stories, maybe some about what this semester has been like so far!)

Ethics of Writing

It is now March, and the semester is well on its way.  I fully intended to keep writing about my Mexico trip, but my one day of not writing turned into a whole month.  Whoops!  Stay tuned, I will soon be posting more stories from Zinacantan, but first here are some of the thoughts that have been rattling around in my brain the last month or so about writing and the ethics of writing…

One of the reasons that I have not written, along with being swamped with schoolwork is the fact that I have been wondering about the ethics of writing about my friends in Zinacantan, and most of all, the ethics of sharing pictures.  Some of my friends I can email and ask permission, others I cannot.  I am particularly unsure what the ethics are of posting pictures of the children that I played with. I don’t have their permission to do so, and in fact neither their parents nor the kids themselves would probably understand if I tried to explain what I meant by posting them online.  And yet, some of my favorite photographs are from playing with them.  I also want people to have an understanding of what it is like there, what kinds of lives some of these families are living.  But I don’t want to be another Westerner taking pictures of poor people and then using them for their own personal gain.  (I wouldn’t be profiting financially, but I do gain views, and take pride in posting what I think are awesome photos).  I am debating about whether I should just go ahead and show them, or if I should post them in a password protected post so that I have some control at least over who is seeing them, or if I should just keep them private.

Readers, do you have any thoughts about this? For those of you who travel and write travel blogs, what are your own ethical guidelines in terms of taking photos and sharing them?

I have also been thinking about privacy/anonymity in the blogosphere and online.  Reading through my own posts here I am surprised about how much I have shared about my life and my family. I have chosen to write this blog quite openly–with plenty of identifying information. And for the most part I am glad about that.  But I have been thinking about the fact that what is posted on the internet stays on the internet.  I also wonder sometimes what it would be like to write anonymously, would it free up my writing? Or would that only change things if I chose not to share the blog with people who know me, to make it really private?  Because that is often who I am thinking about when I am reticent to post something personal–my family or people close to me. Perhaps it is better for those types of posts to just stay in my journal or in letters to personal friends.

And then there is writing off this blog, like my poetry, what subjects are okay to write about, and which should I keep private?  Sometimes it is the most personal writing that has the most impact.  Some of my favorite poems, and the ones that have been the best received have been the ones where I have taken a risk and dealt with very personal, difficult subjects, such as anorexia and attempted sexual assault.  Sometimes it has been only through my poetry that I have been able to express my feelings and let others know about certain experiences.  It has the potential to be very positive, but I also know that I can really hurt people with what I write.

Recently I have also been wanting to write a memoir about my life and the various adventures that I have had so far. But there is so much difficult stuff there too, especially around my family, and it feels unfair to write about some of that.  Do I have the right to share those stories and experiences? Experiences that are not only mine, but also my family’s?  I wonder if I could write about some of it, and keep some private, but then I do not think that I could write the story I would want to write.  It would be better to just not write it at all.

What are your thoughts about this? How do all of you decide what to write about or not write about?  Are there certain things that you agree should not be put down into words or aired publicly?  How about blogging, how do you decide what to post or not post? Does writing anonymously or not change these decisions?

Telling Stories

As I have been writing more here and have watched my number of hits jump I have been thinking a lot about the blog and what I want out of this space and specifically what I mean by “The Spaces In Between.” I hope to write a more complete entry about this soon, but for now I will just say that I have been thinking about travel and being a dual-national citizen and transitions and my work in Women’s Studies and the fact that the world is not black or white but rather shades of grey.  I also want to share this video by Tracy Chapman which has been playing frequently on my itunes today and makes me think about other spaces in between.

There is fiction in the space between
The lines on your page of memories
Write it down but it doesn’t mean
You’re not just telling stories
There is fiction in the space between
You and me

There is fiction in the space between
You and reality
You will do and say anything
To make your everyday life
Seem less mundane
There is fiction in the space between
You and me

There’s a science fiction in the space between
You and me
A fabrication of a grand scheme
Where I am the scary monster
I eat the city and as I leave the scene
In my spaceship I am laughing
In your remembrance of your bad dream
There’s no one but you standing

Leave the pity and the blame
For the ones who do not speak
You write the words to get respect and compassion
And for posterity
You write the words and make believe
There is truth in the space between

There is fiction in the space between
You and everybody
Give us all what we need
Give us one more sad sordid story
But in the fiction of the space between
Sometimes a lie is the best thing
Sometimes a lie is the best thing

Remembering Fran

January 12th marked the year anniversary of the death of my mentor at Bucknell, Fran McDaniel. I was unsure about the day was going to be like, how I would feel being out of the country and being unable to go up to Lewisburg during those days. However, I think it was good for me to be in Mexico; the trip was a good distraction. On the anniversary we went to the mercado de artesania, and after wandering through and buying some sombreros (not the huge traditional ones, more like a cowboy one) we found a candle store so that I could buy a candle, to take to the cathedral and light in Fran’s memory. The inside of the cathedral was grand and somber, and a mass or rezo was going on in one of the side chapels which added to the atmosphere. I recognized the sounds of hymn that I have heard at funerals before. I teared up as I lit the candle but didn’t feel I could fall apart in front of my grandparents (or a cathedral full of tourists) so swallowed it. I am glad that I could mark the anniversary in some way, and was thinking of Fran and all her loved ones throughout the day. Anniversaries are always hard, and this was no exception. I can’t believe that a whole year has gone by.

Below are some photos, and then a (quite long) reflection that I wrote this past June for The Afterword but never posted, though I did write a bit about Fran in my Homecoming post there.

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As many of you know, the Bucknell community lost someone very special this past January.  Fran McDaniel, the director of the LGBT office passed away suddenly from a strep infection.  All of us were stunned and devastated with the loss. Fran was such an important person in our lives, and I know I am not the only one who stayed at Bucknell in part because of Fran and her work in the LGBT office.

My first few days at Bucknell were a whirl-wind of orientation events, play fair in the football field, color wars, scavenger hunts.  I was caught up in the excitement of meeting my hallmates and getting to know the campus.  But I was also worrying about who I could come out to on my hall and whether it was going to be safe for me to be gay.  One day during some free time I went for a walk through the grove.  Bucknell Hall was open, and I went in and lay down in one of the pews, staring at the tall ceiling and tracing the bee-like wood carvings with my eyes.  (Thus began my love of Bucknell Hall.  It is such a beautiful space, whether for poetry readings, live music, or gentle reflection.) It was quiet in there and I was happy to have the space to think.  I wondered if Bucknell was really the place for me,  would I find a place to fit in? Would I make friends? I think these are questions that many college first-years ask themselves, but my fears were compounded by the fact that I was still in the beginning stages of coming out.  (I was out to myself and my family at 16, but closeted in my home community and highschool).

Soon after this day in Bucknell Hall, I decided to go to the LGBT Office, which I had visited on our scavenger hunt, and had scoped out earlier.  I needed a place to breathe, where I didn’t have to worry about myself. I walked into the office, and into the back lounge and sat down to look at some magazines.  I don’t know if the office was empty when I came in, or if I just said hello to the student in the front and that was it. But I hadn’t been sitting there for very long, when I heard the converstation in the front.  “Chad, who’s the girl sitting in the lounge?” I heard Fran ask. 

“I don’t know” he said.

“Well, go and find out,” she said, “Introduce yourself, and find out who she is.”

This was my first introduction to this aspect of Fran’s personality, when she said something, you did it. And she liked to connect people and always made sure that everyone was okay.  So Chad came in and introduced himself as the VP of FLAG & BT and we talked about Bucknell and orientation and I don’t know what else.  Stephanie, president of FLAG & BT at the time, also came into the office and hung out with us for a while.  It was great.  I felt like I belonged, it was a safe space.

I didn’t interact much with Fran that first semester.  Sometimes she’d be in the office when we’d come in for FLAG meetings, as she often worked late, but she would let us get on with it.  Second semester I met with her and soon got a job in the LGBT office, which was the beginning of the wonderful, exciting, and sometimes stressful, three years in the LGBT office.  The office and greater LGBT community at Bucknell became like family, and Fran was the matriarch at the head of it all.

Fran Mcdaniel.  It is hard to put into words what a compassionate, tenacious, and loving person she was.  She was there for all of us “kids” as we struggled to find our place at Bucknell, which was not always a great place to be gay and out, particularly when I first got there.  Acceptance has grown in leaps and bounds since 2005, which has been amazing to see, and which is mostly due to Fran’s unwavering efforts to create change.  She was there for those of us struggling to come out to parents and family, and helped pave the paths of communication.  She helped me deal with homophobic bullying incidences on my freshman hall, and was the advocate who pushed for something to be done about it.  She believed in my ability to lead FLAG & BT and to help train RA’s with the Safe Space training.  When I was really sick my sophmore year, she was there, asking if the doctors had diagnosed me yet, and would send me home to bed when I showed up at work and she knew I really needed rest. (It turned out I had mono). Always pushing us to do our best, she was also the one who would make us take a break, even when we thought we were fine and could handle it.  Even after I graduated, she sent emails and phoned to check up on me.  She mailed cards and calendars, reminding me that I was still part of the office family.  And whenever I visited Lewisburg we made sure to go out to lunch, and I’d have to make sure I stopped by the office at least a couple of times during my visit up there. It amazes me how many people said after she died that they couldn’t believe it, they had just talked to her that past week–she always kept tabs on all of her “kids.”

It has been five months [when I wrote this] since she passed away, and I am still struggling to accept that she is gone.  I can’t think of the LGBT office without imagining her there.  I keep thinking “I can’t wait to tell Fran about this!” and then remember I can’t.  I can no longer call or email her when I am sad and lonely.  I also find myself angry that she is gone, and upset at the unfairness of death.  Fran is the sixth loved one I have lost in the last three years. Each death resonates with the earlier ones.  Fran’s death has been one of the hardest because it was so unexpected.  I have been doing a lot of writing, particularly through 750words.com, as well as reading to try and help me come to terms with this loss and to process my feelings.  It gets easier with time, but I know that it is a loss that I will always carry with me. Oh Fran, I miss you so.

For anyone out there who is grieving a loss, know that you are not alone. There are others like you. Be kind to yourself and seek healing in whatever way that works for you. It doesn’t necessarily get better, but it does get easier to deal with.