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The Devil is in the Details! While everyone in the DMV area has been dealing with the unseasonal snow and bitterly cold weather, I have been scoping out the architecture of Key West, Florida. As a carpenter, and the kid of a carpenter, I have an eye for woodwork. I love old houses, and I love Victorian style houses. So while riding my bike around and going for sunny strolls I stopped to take some pictures to share with the rest of the fledglings! I'm particularly enamored of the gingerbread detailing on many of the porches. From the railings, to corbels, to brackets, to trim, many of the houses in Key West feature the sort of details that put a smile on your face if you take the time to look for them. Custom Sea Horse brackets and the beautiful cut-out railings make this porch stand out as a cheerful welcome to the home. I found out that the style of houses in Key West is called Conch houses, and while the bones of the houses are very simple, the paint schemes and whimsical trim make them stand out. These basic houses are wooden, balloon framed, up on pillars, and have wooden siding. Conch houses also feature porches across the entire front, and upper floor as well in two story homes. Many of these old homes still feature my favorite, double hung windows. Complimentary to functioning double hung windows are functional wooden shutters, practical for both shade and storms. The photo above features a house which exemplifies three features I love. The beautifully carved wooden door is fitting for the tropical surrounding. The shutters are both wooden and functional—my two requirements for any acceptable shutters. And the little gingerbread trim in the upper corners of the porch columns, called brackets, is simply adorable.
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When We Break, We Rise There has been a lot going on in Richmond the past few months. 2014 is turning out to be a pivotal year for this city, a year where everything is on the line. Right now, on the precipice of multiple changes, I’m taking a look into my crystal ball to see what the future may hold. Like any prediction, this is no static vision. Things don’t have to turn out like what I’m seeing.
What happens if a development in Shockoe Bottom is created using $80 million of public funds to build a ball park in a historic site? What happens if Monroe Park is privatized and attempts are made to kick out Food Not Bombs and the homeless? What happens if our schools and children continue to suffer because Vulture Richmond gets tax breaks they don’t deserve? Well, what I’m seeing is: The Resistance will happen. The Resistance won’t be a formal organization, but a banner taken up by dozens, hundreds, thousands, who are so sick of living in a place where the few rule the many, where money speaks louder than our voices, and where there is more oppression happening everyday. The Resistance won’t stick to one set of tactics, but will embrace a true diversity of tactics to liberate Richmond from the oppressive bad decisions brought about by Mayor Jones, City Council, Vulture Richmond, and the Monroe Park Advisory Council—among others. I’m seeing members of the Resistance outside of the houses of members of City Council, Monroe Park Advisory Council, Vulture Richmond, Looting RVA, local Developers and more, holding up boom boxes John Cusack style, blasting “Nowhere to run to baby, no where to hide” by Martha and the Vandellas. Because, as we all know from campaigns like Stop Huntington Animal Cruelty, the enemies have faces, names, and addresses. Any good resistance will be sure to gather this intel, and use it appropriately, to bring to the protests to the people responsible for the decisions privatizing our City. Critical Mass bike rides will take a new tone, following a route between the homes and businesses of individuals involved in the privatization of Richmond. Moped and motorcycle gangs will take the time to circle the block where Alice Massie lives, rev their engines in front of Mayor Jones’ house, and do donuts in the parking lots of Vulture Richmond and others. A Resistance play list will develop, the songs will haunt supporters of privatization throughout their daily lives. Banners will be dropped from high way overpasses with messages promoting liberation and an end to corruption in Richmond. A generation of youth will discover the joys of street art, wheatpasting and spray painting their way from one end of town to the other, spreading messages of the Resistance, of freedom, of public spaces. And don’t tell me the youth aren’t hungry for action. We’ve seen them, you’ve seen them. They are itching for something to do. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Reflections on Rapa Nui #TammyKinsey #RapaNui #ExperimentalDocumentary #Film
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Real Gypsy LooksBy Jessica Reidy QuailBellMagazine.com Editor's Note: Previously Jessica Reidy wrote this essay on Romani fashion for Quail Bell Magazine. Please read it for insight and context if you haven't already! These outfits are selected from a place of love of tradition and with the modesty and purity rules of Romanipen in mind, namely, covered legs, arms, and décolletage. I allow room for interpretation and flexibility however, in the spirit of the contemporary Romani-fusion style that so many Romani women embrace and create on the streets, in the workplace, and in the home. For instance, instead of strictly skirts, I allow for long dresses too. Some of the hemlines are not quite floor-length, but none are above the knee (or even the calf, really). All five photos in this post were taken by Leonard M. Reidy. Outfit 1 Dress: Navy, floral Gunne Sax dress with lace detail. Vintage circa 1970’s from The Odd Showroom in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Shoes: Maroon combat boots, Kickers, circa 1990’s. In Romani fashion, practicality is essential. These combat boots, which I’ve had since I was 11, stand the test of time and add an edge to the long, feminine dresses emblematic of Romani style. Also, when the dress is shorter than ankle-length, like the Gunne Sax dress, tall boots preserve modesty. Outfit 2 Dress: Turquoise, cotton Mexican wedding dress with lace detail, vintage circa 1970’s from The Odd Showroom in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Dikhlo: Turquoise and green plaid silk, family heirloom. Shoes: Maroon combat boots, Kickers, circa 1990s. While this fantastic wedding dress finds its roots outside of Romani culture, it reminds me of a glorious mash-up of Flamenco dress (originally a Romani dance) and the traditional full-skirts of Romani fashion. The neckline is a little daring, so if you would feel uncomfortable, a jewel-toned, heavy-lace camisole would be lovely underneath. Outfit 3 Dress: Black evening dress with sheer skirt overlay and green ribbon detail, vintage circa early 2000’s from Second Time Around in Porstmouth, New Hampshire. Shawl: Red silk, vintage, from a charity shop in Ireland. Shoes: Knee-length leather Ecco boots. Romanipen discourages bare arms and low-necklines, so a shawl is a perfect accessory to keep covered and add a shock of color. The layered skirt of the evening dress hearkens to the tradition of wearing long, many-layered skirts to preserve purity—the lower-half of the body is marime, polluted. This is why Romanipen requires that clothes for the lower-half of the body are washed separately from clothes for the upper-half, as well as inner and outer clothes (shirts versus jackets), and men and women’s clothes. Outfit 4 Dress: Black, velvet evening dress, vintage gift from a friend. Cardigan: Charter School Cardigan in Magenta from Modcloth. Dikhlo: Silk, vintage Pucci scarf circa 1990’s, gift. Shoes: Knee-length leather Ecco boots. Cardigans are very popular for everyday wear and are often paired with long skirts or dresses—they make almost any neckline acceptable and add a layer of color to an ensemble. Romani style embraces bright color palates so this is a particularly good option because the Modcloth Charter School Cardigan comes in a variety of lovely colors and patterns. Outfit 5 Skirt: Indian, floral silk wrap skirt from Quarter Moon Imports in Tallahassee, Florida. Top: One and Only Bodysuit in Navy polka-dots from Modcloth. Sunglasses: Vintage Yves Saint-Laurent, circa 1970s, from The Odd Showroom in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Shoes: Dance Instead of Walking heel in blue from Modcloth. Mixing patterns is a hot trend right now but Romani women have been doing it for centuries. Polka-dots and florals is my favorite combination—it’s upbeat and celebratory, and at the heart of Romani culture there is a celebration of music, stories, and the natural world. My grandmother always taught me to love the small things in the present moment because even during the darkest of times, there are glimpses of love and beauty. Jewelry worn for each outfit Coco Rosie earrings in Mint from Modcloth. Gold rings, family heirlooms. Historically, the tradition of wearing heaps of gold originally comes from banks’ discriminatory policies against Roma. If you can’t get a bank account, the next safest option is to keep your valuables on your person, of course. A note on Romanipen and laundry: I wash bodysuits and dresses separately since they are a kind of liminal clothing—neither top nor bottom, but both. A note on vintage items and Romanipen: Traditionally, it’s discouraged to pass items down to others, especially if the person is deceased. For many families, this tradition has loosened in order to preserve family artifacts and for thriftiness’ sake. I wash all previously-loved items that I purchase or inherit, but that’s just good practice for everyone, regardless of culture. #Romani #Gypsy #Fashion #Vintage #Thrifted
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Reflecting on Reflections on Rapa NuiBy Paisley Hibou QuailBellMagazine.com Tammy Kinsey is a Professor of Film at the University of Toledo in the Midwest. She has been making films since she was eight years old, and continues to revel in the possibilities of experimental film and varied modes of storytelling. She received her MFA in Filmmaking from Virginia Commonwealth University. Her work is a hybrid of experimental film and documentary, often dealing with identity, personal history and memory. She works in digital media as well as 16mm and Super 8 film formats, melding the traditional with the new in moving image presentation. Kinsey's most recent film is Reflections on Rapa Nui, which will be making its online premiere here on Quail Bell on February 25, 2014. Her thoughts on this experimental documentary about Easter Island. What did you know about Rapa Nui prior to making this film? How was your knowledge and perception changed now that you've gone through the effort of traveling to Easter Island and creating this film? I knew about the moai (those monolithic figures), the big heads in the fields and standing by the sea. I also had some sense of the Birdman Cult of Orongo and the ‘god’ Make-Make. This came from growing up with the National Geographic magazine, along with watching the 1950’s documentary Kon-Tiki and Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Those tales of exploration were the stuff that fueled my imagination when I was a kid. So my knowledge of Rapa Nui before making the film was mostly just broad strokes about difference and the sense of a magical, secret storybook land far, far away. Over the past several years, I have had a great deal of curiosity about it and what it had become in the 21st century. In making this film, I found that it is REALLY, really far away from other land masses, and very small. It’s like a dot in the ocean—and I wondered about the monumental set of meanings found in the giant heads so far removed from everything else. How had these moai been perceived throughout the years? I was really looking for interpretations beyond those of concrete, Western anthropological summations of a culture. So often the questions are about how they were moved and why they were made. To me, that’s almost reductive. I was interested in the folktales and legends, in the indigenous notions of the moai, and in a sense of the place now. This played out in days of walking and filming, gathering visual representations of place, and in the experience of a story told to me by a woman in a little shop in Hanga Roa about how the moai stopped the tsunami waves after the mainland earthquake. The waves were surprisingly low after the 2010 earthquake, and I loved hearing the indigenous perspective on that. I enjoyed each greatly but there was a distinct difference between my experience of the indigenous islanders and the people of mainland Chile, and I think that’s very much about size, population density, and location. My interest in visual language and referents of space as sacred and as purveyor of Meaning were amplified on Rapa Nui because of the experience of it as a truly remote place. The town on the island, Hanga Roa, is very small; the entire island is about 120 square miles, and blessedly unspoiled. Rapa Nui felt very much like a sanctuary. Do you consider film a form of visual anthropology? Do you consider yourself a visual anthropologist or a curator of visual anthropology? I think it can be, but that’s not how I approached this project. I think the subjective experience of place is challenging to the desire for objective study, and its something I am very much aware of when I travel and when I work, even as I try to have pure experience. This intersection of thought is what I seek to evoke with the overlapping sounds in the audio track. What are some of the observations you made about material culture in Rapa Nui life? The local connection to the moai seemed to be one of respect and protection (they protect the moai, and the moai somehow look out for them). More than once I saw locals telling visitors to stand further away from the statues, which seemed to me to be saying that the moai need their space both literally and figuratively.Locals seem to be a part of the living world of the moai, not distant or removed from them but cohabitating with them. I began to ask, what does it mean to grow up on Rapa Nui? When do kids realize that they live in a place unlike any other place in the world? I was there in July and August, which is winter in the southern hemisphere, but you could still see the presence of the tourist industry. There were fliers for performances featuring dancers and musicians, and regular screenings of feature films based loosely on the place. I found the church and graveyard in Hanga Roa intriguing with its blend of indigenous and Catholic imagery. I also witnessed a non-indigenous religious pilgrimage–a traveling service at the ahu at Tongariki. There’s a definite mingling of cultures. Did you have a chance to visit mainland Chile? How did that experience differ from your time on Easter Island? Yes—I arrived in Santiago and spent a couple of days there before and after travelling to Rapa Nui. I found the mainland to be different in many ways, from the local color to the climate, flora and fauna, and the urban versus rural environment. But most significantly for me—as mentioned in the film—I had a critical encounter with a local there, and it really guided me as I began the journey. My first night in Santiago, I found a small café to have a bite to eat. I struck up a conversation with a man who worked there. He asked me what I was doing in Chile, how I planned to spend my time there. I said I was flying over to Rapa Nui. He furrowed his brow, thought for a moment, then looked directly at me and said, “They think they’re Polynesian.” He seemed disappointed, perhaps even sad for me about Rapa Nui. It was more than two thousand miles away, under Chilean rule, an indigenous population on a remote island. He told me there wasn’t much to see there. I think it was the presence of time, history, and a sense of ownership on his mind. ‘That’s Chilean territory, not Polynesian …’ That statement really resonated with me while I was there. How did your time in Virginia influence your understanding of history and your approach to telling stories through film and photography? I was born and raised in Richmond, and my mother’s side of the family goes back generations in Virginia. I left Richmond for several years but returned because the graduate program in Photography and Film at VCU was just what I was looking for as an artist. (Joan Strommer was my mentor; I had seen her work when I was younger). My father is from North Carolina, and his father is from Georgia—there are deep, multi-generational connections there as well. I am very much shaped by my family history and ties to the South. I find connection to the oral traditions of storytelling, and I think that even as a child I was striving to tell stories in this way as a means of creating concrete manifestations of the visual and verbal semantics I was experiencing at home and at grandma’s house. #RapaNui #Film #Documentary #ArtistInterview #Chile #EasterIsland
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But How Much Does it Cost to Live in that Van? Editor's Note: This is the second of an ongoing series by anarchist and steam punk author "Magpie" / Margaret Kiljoy. They have been gracious enough to allow us to repost their Van Life series here at Quail Bell. Here is the first part of the series. In this series, I explore some of the practicalities of living in a van in the United States. For context, I am relatively privileged: white, perceived as male, raised middle class, able-bodied, in good physical shape. My advice may or may not be useful for others in my or similar situations. Spending Money Money is probably one of the first things on people’s minds when they ponder living in a vehicle. How much does it cost? Most people who move into vans are probably saving money. Me, I’m spending it, because it’s a hell of a lot more expensive than living out of a backpack. But that said, my expenses are pretty low. A good running used van likely costs in the $3-10k range. After that, it’s insurance, gas, repairs, increased cost of food, and the occasional short-term rent. Insurance: this apparently varies a lot from person to person and state to state. I hear rumors about RV insurance being a lot cheaper. I pay roughly $80 a month, with a clean driving record. Gas: My van gets about 15 mpg. My minivan got 22-23. Other people get better mileage—particularly diesel engines. Some people convert to veggie oil, but that is its own huge can of worms. I personally estimate that it costs me $15 an hour to drive anywhere. This is based on paying $4 a gallon and driving 60mph. In reality, it’s a little bit cheaper, probably $12-15 an hour, but I estimate at $15 when I decide whether I can afford a given trip. Repairs: This is the big one, and the always-unexpected one. Actually, I can reliably estimate when I will need repairs: as soon as I get a decent paycheck. As soon as I get a decent paycheck, something breaks on my van and eats all my money. DIY work helps a lot, of course, though vans are harder to work on than trucks, because the engines are more compact. Food: When I live in punk houses instead of in vans, I pay barely anything for food, because we buy in bulk, dumpster, and generally just share and eat communally. But I’m really lazy about cooking for myself, so I eat out a lot. Usually cheap food, like burritos, but not always. I pay more for food living in my van than otherwise—probably twice as much. It doesn’t have to be that way, however. I have a pretty functional kitchen, just no fridge to store vegetables or leftovers. Rent: What? Rent? This is about living in a van! I know, but if you’re parked in someone’s driveway for a month you might want to kick down for rent and utilities. And if you pay your share, you can often run an extension cord out to your van. Also, when you move to Minneapolis in December, you’re better off subletting a room for the month and parking. Making Money It’s hard to hold down a “regular” job while living in a vehicle, particularly if you’re on the move. But plenty of people do it anyway. You can get gym memberships for showers, or have your own shower in your RV-converted vehicle, or “bird bath” in public bathrooms, or take showers at friends’ houses, etc. and then just use a friend’s address for a legal address. But a lot of people, like me, live in a van because we’d rather be nomadic. Regular work is out. What’s left? Getting money can be tricky, but it’s not impossible. I’ll stick to legal methods of getting money herein: Freelancing: This is what I do, for most of my work. I’m a freelance graphic designer, photographer and editor, so most of my work can be done anywhere. Nothing beats settling down in a town’s anarchist café to get some work done. If you want to support me, you could buy some of my books. Other people freelance with skills that aren’t telecommuting, like tutoring, teaching music or language classes, dancing, modeling, or housecleaning. Seasonal work: This is really classy because it fits the 100+ year old definition of hobo. Most of the time, people work intensely for a few months and then live off the proceeds for the rest of the year. Agricultural work is common at harvest time. Other people work summers at or near national parks, or work in fisheries in Alaska. Apparently a lot of people with RVs do something called workamping (or workcamping…they are two different things I guess?), where they work part- or full-time as campground hosts in exchange for a place to park and maybe some money. Odd jobs: Odd jobs are your friend. Get paid for the day to plant strawberries or tear down a house. Housesit, petsit, or babysit. Paint some walls. Whatever. I mostly get my odd jobs by letting my friends in town know I’m broke, and they usually let me know if they hear about something. Medical studies: Some people sell their bodies to medical science. There’s good money in it, sometimes, but it’s not always easy and it’s not always safe. Crafts: Make things and sell them. I make jewelry and buttons and sell them on Etsy or while I’m tabling. #Traveller #Steampunk #Anarchist #RV #VanLife #Nomad
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Get Yer Words Ready! Hand-to-Hand Haiku Battling might not be a concept you are familiar with. And that is okay. Raven Doctorlounge Mack is here in Virginia to guide you through the process he created. In 2013 I was lucky enough to attend and fight in two different haiku battles put on by the (in)famous poet, storyteller and time-traveling Raven Mack. I really had no idea what to expect, but Raven is an excellent host who entertains the audience with his rich storytelling while facilitating the battles themselves. 5-7-5 is the main thing to know. Those are the syllables for each of the 3 lines that make a haiku. These haiku battles are not confined by subject matter or propriety. If you are coming out to an event, Raven suggests you either bring 20-25 prewritten haiku to battle with, or a large dose of lounge to chill with. Both times I competed, I wrote most of my haiku on the fly at the event, and that type of sweat ain't pretty. Definitely try to write yourself a bunch of haiku ahead of time. Coming out to the event, competing, and reading Raven Mack's work is some of the best inspiration for writing my own haiku and poetry I've had in years. If you are in need of a good time or the motivation to put pen to paper, you will find it here. Raven Mack hosts these events in a way that empowers everyone to write and hopefully participate. The battles are akin to a poetry slam, but limited to the one form of poetry. The content created by Raven Mack is uniquely Southern and working class. I love reading his haiku; they are relevant to my life which I appreciate to no end. Never before have I heard of poetry about construction work or redneck life, but reading Raven Mack's book is like a rural Southern revalation. From his book Beerbox Haiku: #164 Cheap truck with toolbox and ladder racks makes me feel like poor man's Mad Max #444 Old man struggles with a nicked-up chopsaw; it's blade squeals like a baby I might try to say more about Raven Mack, but it wouldn't do him justice. The man is a powerhouse, a family man, a poet, a skilled worker, a comic, and an author of multiple 'zines and books. His creativity is a gift he shares with anyone who comes out to a Haiku tournament. Luckily he is hosting them regularly in both Richmond and Charlottesville this year. It sounds like the Haiku battle season will build up to a championship battle in November. The battle itself is a single elimination tournament, where judges in the audience decide who will proceed to future rounds. The more competitors the more fun. This year, Raven is also offering the option of a death match competition where he and the willing participant go head to head with 25 haiku. Prizes for winners have in the past included copies of Beerbox Haiku and railroad ties with haiku etched into them by Raven Mack himself. Mine reads: Identifying birds by yelling "What the fuck is you?" doesn't work So come out to a Rojonekku Hand to Hand Haiku Battle in Virginia this year! They will be on the third Thursday of every month in Charlottesville at BON, on the 4th Wednesday of each month (March through May for now) in Richmond at Balliceaux, and some assorted shows scheduled for Farmville and perhaps Blacksburg. More details on Rojonekku are available on Raven Mack's website, along with links to his various written works. #RVA #Rojonekku #Haiku #PoetrySlam #Redneck #Countrry #Southern
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Goochland's Bluegrass Hidey-holeBy Starling Root QuailBellMagazine.com Halfway between Charlottesville and Richmond lies a quiet shopping center in Goochland County. Across the road from Hardee's and flanked by businesses with names like Rocco's Pizza and China King stands the White Hawk Music Café, a place whose tagline is “Where the coffee is always fresh and the music remains true to your heart.” This is a cozy spot to, above all, listen to old-time rustic tunes. A friend and I met at White Hawk because, with her in Charlottesville and me in Richmond, we needed a midpoint for our get-togethers. (I don't know about you, but sometimes an hour-long drive seems quite long.) Our first idea was to pick a McDonald's off of 95. After all, there had to be a McD's somewhere about 30 minutes from both of us. We found what we later discovered to be the address for a McD's that had closed. I arrived at the Hardee's a little bit before her and sat in my car until she pulled up. I jumped out of my car and ran toward her with my arms flung wide open. After we hugged, we took one look at the Hardee's and then one look across the street where everything appeared to be family-owned. About a month earlier, we had read about White Hawk, but never made it out there because of what seemed to be short hours. That's what had appealed to us about McD's—Ronald's doors are always open. Pleased to see that White Hawk was lit up and bustling, we crossed the street. A group of men, mostly middle-age and elderly, sat toward the back of the restaurant. They were going at it on stringed instruments while their families and friends listened. Since Bluegrass trumps the hottest hits any day, we made our way to the wooden counter and placed our orders. I had the Turkey Presto, described on the menu as “oven roasted turkey with Swiss cheese, lettuce, Pesto sauce, served on Italian bread.” I had a choice of sides and went with a bowl of macaroni and cheese. My friend ordered the chicken caesar wrap with chips. Both of us were happy to have warm, inexpensive food, live music and a casual atmosphere. Plus, it's not everyday that you get to read The Goochland Gazette when you live and work near Downtown Richmond. From the moment we stepped through the door, people smiled at us because, well, we're two young women. But, even still, we weren't expecting people to be quite so friendly as to share cake with us. One of the fiddlers—an older man with overalls and teddy bear glasses—was celebrating his birthday. His daughter went around serving up slices to everyone in the room after a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday” was sung. My friend and I ended our evening at White Hawk with laughs and blue tongues. #Goochland #WhiteHawkMusicCafe #Bluegrass #Local
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The Twists and Turns of Life in a Van Editor's Note: This is the first of an ongoing series by anarchist and steam punk author Magpie / Margaret Kiljoy. They have been gracious enough to allow us to repost their Van Life series here at Quail Bell. Check back for more! In this series, I explore some of the practicalities of living in a van in the United States. For context, I am relatively privileged: white, perceived as male, raised middle class, able-bodied, in good physical shape. My advice may or may not be useful for others in my or similar situations. So… I live in my van. I have for 3-4 years now. Here’s where you say “Oh! Is it…. ‘down by the river!’” Which is really a very clever reference to Saturday Night Live and definitely something I’ve never heard before. You’re very original. Congratulations. Yes, I live in a way that is both unconventional and somewhat cliche. I’m comfortable with this. Why Live In A Van For me, van life is actually a step up in terms of stability and longterm access to resources. I’ve spent at least five or six years living out of one backpack or another. I’ve been nomadic more or less my entire adult life. So when I think about the advantages of living in a van, I’m likely thinking about it from the opposite point of view as others do.
What’s Crappy About It
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Pyramid/Mastaba in AlgeriaAn ancient Numidian tomb in Algeria, the Medrasen is a funeral monument similar to the Kubr-er-Rumia, but older. It was built about 150 BCE as the burial-place of the Numidian kings, and is situated about 50 km southwest of Constantine. The form is that of a truncated cone, placed on a cylindrical base, 65 meters in diameter. It is 20 meters high. The columns encircling the cylindrical portion are stunted and much broader at the base than the top; the capitals are Doric. Many of the columns, 60 in number, have been severely damaged. When the sepulchral chamber was opened in 1873 by Bauchetet, a French engineer officer, clear evidence was found that at some remote period the tomb had been rifled and an attempt made to destroy it by fire. Text and original submission by AlexHunger. #Medrasen #Algeria
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The Traveler's PrivilegeBy Paisley Hibou QuailBellMagazine.com I recently had the fortune to indulge in a guilty pleasure à la trashy film viewing. How trashy? “I watched a Miley Cyrus film” kind of trashy. The film LOL was insipid, although probably not quite as horrible as you'd expect—but this is not a movie review. I just want to use an example from this less-than-grand oeuvre: the part of the movie where Miley Cyrus and her little high school friends take a class trip to Paris. They behave like, unsurprisingly, Ugly Americans. Most of the students make no effort to speak French and they choose partying with their American friends over cultural immersion. Miley Cyrus and her boy toy even do the nasty in a host family's bedroom while the host mother and her daughter attempt awkward small talk with a halfway-decent American teen in the living room. How many terrible things can a guest do in one sentence? Please re-read the second-to-last sentence and count them. Traveling is a privilege, not a right. The average American high school student does not visit Paris. Truth be told, more than half of Americans of any age have never ventured outside the Red, White, and Blue. A third of them lack a passport altogether. One obvious explanation for these stats is that traveling costs beaucoup bucks. Even savvy, price-conscious travelers are spending money that could've gone toward groceries, rent, gasoline, car payments, college tuition or a number of other expenses many Americans find necessary for day-to-day living. Yet travel is more than expensive; it is foreign, literally and figuratively. This otherworldliness scares some people. The currency, cuisine, clothing, customs—C after C after C. France has Carrefour, not Walmart. In Vietnam, heterosexual males will hold hands with their male friends. In Mexico, people eat crickets. To certain Americans, other countries might as well be alternate realities. Lola, played by Miley Cyrus, and her best friend in the movie get so freaked out by a stuffed deer head in their host family's house and the brains served at dinner that they spend most of their trip whining (when they aren't making out with their beaus.) Hey, brats! You're in Paris! Swallow those snails and move on! There is more than one kind of American traveler. Not every American traveler fits the Ugly American stereotype. Not every American traveler reads magazines for the jet set and books high-end travel agents without a second thought to financial planning. Even (or, in some cases, especially) the wealthy and the educated make ignorant mistakes. But the white sneakers and the drunkenness and the disregard for local etiquette have become a stereotype because of a kernel of truth wedged in there somewhere. If and when we are lucky enough to travel, we have a responsibility to find that kernel, mash it with our molars and spit it out. One of the most important traveling tips is respect: respect the people whose land we are visiting and, chances are, they'll wow us with their hospitality. #UglyAmerican #AmericanTraveler #AmericanTourist #Touristy #TouristBehavior #CulturalExchange #FirstImpressions The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
When Nobody Knows Your Holiday Songs Partially in an effort to wean myself off caffeine, I’ve made it a habit to listen to Democracy Now!. It wakes me up in a way Elliot in the Morning doesn’t. This is an age where we can think about sex toys and 50-ton monster whales in our sleep guilt-free, after all. Amy Goodman, meanwhile, delivers the kind of global news too difficult to find on other stations during my daily commute. (WRIR represent!) Often show topics relate to the Middle East, such as today’s story on the Muslim Brotherhood and Egyptian regime’s treatment of journalists. Though these stories are meant to dust the glitter off Americans’ political (mis)conceptions, they don’t exactly surprise the show’s main audience; NPR listeners tend to be the best-informed of all American media consumers. The United States is flawed, just like the rest of the world--shocker. But in a Judeo-Christian, post-9/11 society around Christmas, American patriotism tends to soar. This in and of itself isn’t a bad thing. I’m proud to be an American, current and historical injustices aside. American patriotism to the point of fundamentalism in the form of, say, Muslim hate crimes, though? Very bad. To quote the FBI: “Hate crimes add an element of bias to traditional crimes—and a mixture that is toxic to our communities.”
Right now Islamophobia is burning across Great Britain, with a 50 percent increase in Muslim hate crimes between 2012 and 2013. That, of course, doesn’t mean that the U.S. is innocent. Even if meanness alone doesn’t technically qualify as a hate crime, it’s still wrong. Take a local example. In September, some Virginia Beach residents complained about the opening of the city’s first mosque, Crescent Community Center. According to YellowPages.com, Virginia Beach already has over 700 churches and other places of worship—yet a group still opposed Muslims getting their one. Luckily the Muslim non-profit will be getting their mosque, anyway. How’s that for “Christian charity”? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Longest Night Sure, December is a big month for Christians but it’s a big month for Witches too—after all, Pagans started this Yuletide tradition. It’s well-documented that Christmas finds its origins in the Pagan winter solstice celebrations—“Yule” in pre-Christian Celtic culture and “Saturnalia” in pre-Christian Roman culture—honoring the rebirth of the Sun King after the longest night of the year. So many of the Christmas traditions and symbols that Christmas-celebrators love and uphold are originally Pagan, some of which include mistletoe, the evergreen tree, wreaths, lights, rebirth, the feast, wassail, even gift-giving!
Ancient history, enduring controversy The term “Pagan” has been bandied about for centuries and often Christians use it to refer to anyone who isn’t Christian. However, Paganism refers specifically to pre-Christian earth-based religions and spirituality, often polytheistic and/or pantheistic and sometimes described as monotheistic in the sense that the many gods, goddesses, and spirits are aspects of one Great Spirit. It has nothing whatsoever to do with Satanism or evil-doing. Wicca, Neo-Druidism, Neo-Paganism, and etc., all fall under the umbrella of Paganism—think of them as ‘denominations’ of Paganism with their own specific practices, traditions, and beliefs. Not all Pagans identify as Wiccans, Neo-Pagans, or Druids, and so on. Pagans range from traditional (such as Strega, Norse, Egyptian…) to eclectic and practice in a coven (as a group) or as solitary practitioners, and I’ve studied all along that spectrum.* There are a lot of different perspectives on the Christian appropriations of Pagan holidays and traditions, especially considering that many (not all) Christians vehemently denounce Pagans as immoral, evil-doers responsible for the world’s ills. JSK, poet and eclectic Pagan, sees the humor in this. “Whenever I see signs that say ‘Jesus Is the Reason for the Season,’ I get a little giggle building up. But he has, in a sense, become the reason for the way people celebrate today even though many of the rituals and traditions that we think of as being about Christmas were actually associated with other festivals first. So it just doesn’t really seem like a fight worth having, in my opinion. I know though that my sister-in-law, a fundamental Baptist, would probably disagree with me on this. But we already disagree on so many things that I’m okay adding another to the list.” Zina Slade, a horse-trainer and eclectic Pagan, finds the appropriation a little disturbing, “It angers me a little what Christianity has done to Paganism, but I don’t dwell on it. I do wish that people were more aware of the true history of Paganism and Christianity though. When I took a class on Ancient History in college, it was an enormous eye-opener and such a valuable experience.” Zina is referring to the early days of Christianity, when the religion spread mainly by force. Wherever Christians arrived to convert the indigenous Pagans, the local gods and goddesses were appropriated, along with the Pagan holidays, by the new religion. For example, in Ireland, Brigid the goddess of fire, metalwork, and poetry became Saint Birgit, who is still honored on her Pagan holiday, Imbolc, with bonfires lit by nuns. The historical transition from Paganism to Christianity was not a smooth one: some Pagans willingly converted after bets, battles, answered prayers, visions, and dreams, for political reasons, and for love; many were converted by force; some converted with the compromise that the beloved Pagan deities and holidays found their way into the new Christian religion; and others refused to give up the Old Ways and were met with a bloody struggle, including but not limited to the witch hunts of Europe. And others still appeared to convert but in reality they kept the Old Ways a secret and passed down the knowledge generation by generation. When Pagans have mixed-feelings about religious appropriation, it’s because of this violent history of conversion, oppression, and persecution. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Horn You Always WantedBy Paisley Hibou QuailBellMagazine.com When you're a unicorn, the world is a magical, sparkly place of no evil. Or least you cannot perceive evil. You're even protected by a forcefield of love and awesomeness. You have no awkward moments. You never have to toot. Whenever you are hungry, strawberry marshmallows just appear before you and fulfill all your nutritional needs in a single gulp. When you're a unicorn, everything is perfect because you have a long glittery mane and hooves that light up when you tap them against the ground. So what better way to start 2014 than as a fabled horse with a spiraling horn? Here are five ways to turn into a unicorn by New Year's eve:
1. Stand in front of your bedroom mirror, close your eyes, and say, “I am a unicorn” until you faint. When you wake up, you can guess what you'll be! (Woozy.) 2. Take a piece of chewing gum and stick a toilet paper roll to your forehead. Then neigh with all you've got. 3. Paint a rainbow on your stomach. Stand in the sunshine. Your transformation will come. 4. Read medieval literature non-stop for 48 hours straight without sleeping. 5. Wish upon a star. And then another star...and another star...and yet another star... The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Romani Fashion and the Politics of Dressing 'Gypsy'I was never allowed to look like a Gypsy. My mother wasn't allowed to look like a Gypsy, either. She and the rest of her family had to blend in with the rest of the small New England mill town where they had settled. And my grandmother definitely wasn't allowed to look like a Gypsy. She grew up in Germany, where she and her family kept their heritage quiet, and managed to evade the fate of the 1 to 2 million Gypsies taken by the Holocaust. Romani is the correct term for the ethnic group which is most often inaccurately, and sometimes offensively, referred to as “Gypsy.” (Fun pronunciation tip: Romani rhymes with hominy.) Romanies typically keep a clandestine culture, because as my grandmother puts it, “there is no good time or place to be a Gypsy.” Historically, Romanies have been oppressed, and are still oppressed, through institutionalized racism, ghettoized communities, hate crime and anti-Romani political movements worldwide. Traditionally, Romani women don’t cut their hair and as a little girl I took a lot of pride in my waist-length coiffure. I wanted to braid it and wrap it up in the dainty dikhle that my grandmother brought with her to the U.S. from Germany. A Romani woman only wears a dihklo (a full headscarf) when she’s married, but that wasn’t the only reason I wasn’t encouraged to wear one. I was cautioned not to tell anyone about my heritage, and I certainly wasn't encouraged to dress traditionally. This was a struggle for me: I love my heritage and I love fashion, and like most kids, I loved doing whatever I wasn’t allowed to do. When my grandmother showed me the pre-war portrait her great-grandmother, my great-great grandmother, Matilde von Theile, I was mesmerized. Matilde, like all the Romani women in our family, was a dancer and a fortune teller, and she wore her dancing clothes for the portrait—a modest blouse, a wide leather waist-cincher, a full circle skirt and thin shoes of brushed leather. I wanted to wear Matilde’s necklace, a long rope of green glass beads, another heirloom that my grandmother brought with her, and pair it with a silk patterned apron over layered ankle-grazing skirts, one of lace, and one of soft, colorful cotton. “Our ancestors were river Gypsies,” she told me. “They sailed up and down the Danube, from Germany to Hungary and back again in barges, making money by dancing and telling fortunes in the river towns.” She made it sound so beautifully idyllic—it was a beauty she hadn’t experienced, born just before the war began, but in truth, the stories are much prettier than the reality. Romani have been violently persecuted since the ancestors left India in the 11th century. But I didn’t know that then. I knew I had a gorgeous great-great grandmother and that I learned to read palms because she did. My grandmother told me I was born to be a dancer. To me, that meant wearing lots of lovely clothes. It was my birthright, after all. I was born for them, and I dreamed of river barges and towns that might sing as I came. I came into the habit of buying pretty scraps of fabric at the department store and, unable to actually sew, wrapping myself up in my room and practicing dance steps my grandmother taught me while humming Django Reinhardt’s “Minor Swing.” It didn’t look great, but I enjoyed myself. As a pre-teen and teenager, I read Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Cosmopolitan, and Seventeen, meticulously crafting my outfits for school. I took great joy in combining colors, patterns, and textures with a derring-do that offended quite a few peers in my tiny, northeastern town. I dedicated myself to Romani fusion fashion—Double-floral skirt with a leather jacket? Yes. Kohl-lined eyes and red lipstick? Absolutely. I haven’t changed much. I still pair my grandmother’s green and cerulean dikhlo with a floor-length turquoise Mexican wedding dress embellished by lace detail, when the occasion calls for it. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Baggin' Some Ho Ho HoOkay, maybe you're not one of Oogie Boogie's “little henchmen.” There are still plenty of other reasons why you might want to catch Santa Claus, such as these: 1. To take all his presents and give the poor kids the best ones; 2. He sketches you out and want to get him psychologically examined; 3. You just HAVE to ask him for fashion advice. Plus many more!
Regardless of your intentions, I'll share a few theories about how to bag yourself a Santy—not that I've ever attempted any of these myself. Here are seven ways: 1. Cover your living room floor in pine tar. Keep it hot and Santa will get stuck. If you're concerned about your hardwood, well, that's your problem. 2. Wait by the chimney with a baseball bat. Do I really have to tell you the next step? Just be sure to have something cold for the big lump on Santa's head. He'll thank you later. After all, it's not like he can beg you for mercy after you've already done the deed. 3. Put a chair on your rooftop and wait for that sucker to fly by. You better make that slingshot EXTRA big, and find some way to haul Santa off the street. 4. Surround your Christmas tree with dragons/gargoyles/other scary, vicious things. In case you were wondering, yes, Santa does faint and he is loud when he falls. Come up with a lie for the neighbors. 5. Hold Rudolph hostage. It's not like Santa has headlights. I'm telling you: Ol' red nose is one valuable Rangifer tarandus. You're not going to find him in the Wal-Mart clearance aisle post-Advent. 6. Lay out a humongous feast. Santa will gorge himself like a goldfish and conk out. Feel free to have your way with him during his food coma. 7. Go to the North Pole with a net, preferably the same kind of net used to catch whales. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Saturnalia!December 21st is the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year, and the day marking the beginning of Winter. That might be a little hard to believe this year, seeing as how Richmond will have a high temperature of 74 degrees on Saturday. Nonetheless, the 21st is also celebrated by many pagans as the Winter Solstice, and the holiday is called Yule or Saturnalia. Yule pre-dates the Christian celebration of Christmas. The pagan holiday was absorbed into the Christian one, an attempt at converting the pagans. Holiday traditions now associated with Christmas were originally parts of pagan Yule celebrations. The Yule log, mistletoe, cloves in apples and oranges, holly and decorating trees are all part of the Yule celebration.
Traditionally, the Yule log is an Ash log, either from one's own land or a gift from someone else- never bought. The log is ceremoniously decorated and then lit with a piece from the previous year's log. The log was left to burn overnight, and smolder for 12 days before being doused. Modern interpretations of the Yule log include logs that hold candles, and even cakes decorated to resemble logs! Yum! Yule is the shortest day of the year, but the optimists celebrate that the coming of Yule means the return of the sun, and that every proceeding day will be longer and longer! For Wiccans and other pagan sects, Yule is a celebration of the new solar year and the Horned God. Even if you aren't pagan, Yule is an appropriate time to plan for the future, and the year of sunlight to come! Many people over the ages have taken advantage of this longest night of the year to share warm beverages with friends and family around a fire. Happy Yule! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Jefferson Hotel Reveals Santa's Big Secret I know the big issue right now is Fox news vehemently claiming Santa is white. Shawn Everett Jones wrote about the 'black Santa debate' for his recent essay on Quail Bell. But no one is talking about another Santa scandal that has been ongoing: the merry man's cookie addiction. A visit to the Jefferson Hotel in Richmond, Virginia to check out their annual holiday decorations ended up revealing Santa's secret (or not-so-secret) addiction: As you may know, traditionally, American families leave a plate of cookies and a glass of milk out for Santa on Christmas Eve. It's always seemed like a nice gesture, nothing more.
Well, if you check out Santa's sleigh, which they have on display at the Jefferson Hotel, you will see why it is VITAL to keep Santa sated on plates of cookies. Santa's sleigh is made out of gingerbread cookies and candy! Specifically, 350 pounds of gingerbread cookies and 400 pounds of frosting. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Christmas Bummer I heard a snippet on the radio yesterday morning, something to the tune of this: A teacher said to a young black student, who was dressed up for a school holiday party, “Santa Claus isn't black." It hurt my heart. A kid can't even enjoy some holiday cheer in this world because of some ass turd parading as a teacher. I want to ask this teacher how tall Santa is. Ya know? Like exactly how tall is that motherfucker? If you know that he is white, then you must know how tall he is. I'm sure the teacher would not know, would be totallly stumped. Why? Because Santa is a fucking figment of the imagination. Santa is a mythological being. And as most mythological beings, Santa's form changes depending on many factors. These factors include race, nationality, country of origin, and so on. One such so on includes different artists renditions of Santa. I don't know, take your average mall Santa and compare him to say, the Santa in the animated Rudolph Christmas special. Well, they are both about as Santa as it gets. Yet they are completely different. One is like your uncle dressed up as Santa and one is a clay creation. Ok, not fair, let's take the Nightmare Before Christmas Santa then. Let's compare him to the Rudolf Santa. Again, they are similar and, at the same time, they are very different even though they are both animated clay figures. At the end of the day, though, they are both Santa as fuck.
Ok, ok. You know the Santa Claus hat at Spencer's. The black Santa hat. It is still a Santa hat. When anyone sees it, the immediate association is it's a Santa hat because it is a Santa hat. It doesn't matter the race of the hat. If a black man wears a black Santa hat, he is Santa. And so, I guess now I should say that I don't celebrate Christmas. I do respect anyone's way of celebrating any holiday that is sacred to them. I appreciate Christmas because most of the traditions of the holiday come from ancient pagan traditions. The lighted trees, the green wreaths, and Santa, all go way back in history. The trees and the wreaths have nothing to do with Christ. They were a symbol of green plant life to comfort us in the winter. At the Yule season, these plants were brought into homes to represent the promise of nature. The shortest day of the year, the Winter Solstice, is the beginning of the return of the sun and then the spring and then the summer. Santa comes from the wild shaman, St. Nick, who would roam in the snowy forrest tripping balls on mushrooms and hanging out with deer. What he has to do with the contemporary Christmas holiday is unfathomable. But alas, as with the renditions throughout time, the interpretations change. I mean, Santa is as realistic as white Jesus. Santa is as realistic as black Jesus. Sant is as realistic as pudgy Buddha. Santa is as realistic as skinny Buddha. It is all make-believe. The reality is scary. Always is. That some white ass know-it-all tries to claim it, wants to have Santa all to himself, wants everything cut and dried, easy-bake, ready-made, drive-thru, consumerism, Wal-Mart, gas-gussling, Black Friday, White Santa, fuck you and yours, love me and mine, haha, ho-ho, to the funny farm, where life is wonderful everyday. How about we as humans stop hiding behind religions and traditions and customs and really work to make life wonderful everyday for all? Guess that's just my Christmas wish. Let's hope I've been a good boy. And may the young Santa kid be merry and may Krampus take that crappy teacher away. Happy Holidays Anyways, Shawn The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hanover County, Let Me Give You a Personal Tour I grew up in Hanover County, about 25 miles north of the City of Richmond. You can drive north on Route 301 from Richmond, and you will end up at the crossroads of Rt. 301 and Rt. 54. The intersection is less than a mile from the house I grew up in. There are other areas of Hanover County that are more built up, have shopping centers and subdivisions. But this little area, Hanover Courthouse, will always be the one I call home.
The Houndstooth Cafe is sitting right there, in it's simple white building. But it's everyone's favorite place to go for hushpuppies. My mom used to be a waitress there, and when I was a kid sometimes my dad would bring us in for dinner while she was working. The owner, Bob Cunningham, died working on one of the old cars he loves. But his wife Connie carries on the traditions of the Houndstooth. St. Paul's Episcopal Church also sits at that intersection. I went there for Sunday School, pancake and spaghetti suppers, and all kinds of social activities growing up. I remember one year I was serving spaghetti plates and I spilt one on someone's lap because the noodles just slid right off the styrofoam plate. And I remember the Halloween parties they held every year before the kids went trick or treating. I went as Wednesday Addams when I was 8 or 9 years old. One time, there was a haunted house in the church basement, and they had peeled grapes in a bowl to feel like eyeballs. Outside, where you'd always go with your lemonade and cookies after a service, were wooden playground my daddy built. I think those were replaced a few years back. The Church has a cemetery behind it, which faces the intersection. Mr. Wingfield always used to say that if they widened the road anymore, you'd start to see people's feet sticking out from the bank of the cemetery. At the flat T part of the intersection is a little green antique store called Two Frogs On a Bike. I learned about bartering there, when I negotiated to buy a little gold jewelry box that I still have. My dad bought an old pinball machine there once, which was a lot of fun, but the fuses kept blowing. Now it's gathering dust in his shed like a lot of other things. If you head north from there, towards the Fire Station where my dad used to volunteer when I was a kid, you'll pass Kelley's Country Store on your left. You better stop in. Billy Kelley was a sweet man, who loved his family, antiques, and funny animals like emus. He would always give out a whole full size candybar to trick or treaters on Halloween. And no matter how many piercings or tattoos I came back with, or how infrequently I came back, Mr. Kelley would always greet me politely, as Moriah. Mr. Kelley died a few years back, and his wife, Catherine, still runs the store. Go buy some old glass bottle sodas and dot candy. When you see the Fire Station, don't get confused. That's all new stuff. There is a little yellow building back behind the new white one. That's where my dad used to volunteer. He was buddies with the other firefighters. Every year, the Fire Company gets someone to dress up as Santa, and they drive down the streets of Hanover Courthouse in a firetruck, and Santa sits up top, and throws candy out to all the kids who run to the ends of their driveways. It was always a huge thrill, that night in December when you'd hear the sirens, and think there was a fire, then remember. Inevitably, running down the gravel in bare feet, not dressed warmly enough for the December chill, all to sweep up pieces of hard candy thrown down to you. I also remember, how one time, my dad was burning trash in a barrell, like we always do, but the bottom of the burn barrel was all rusted out, and the fire escaped and caught the tall grass on fire. The fire was headed towards our chicken coop and stable, and my little brother and mom and dad and I were trying to hit the fire with shovels to put it out. My mom called the fire department, but gave them the wrong address, and I had to jump up and down at the end of the driveway waving my arms to flag down the firetrucks. They figured it out eventually, but we had the fire out by then. I'm pretty sure my dad's buddies gave him shit for that one. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
East of the Virginia Capitol BuildingBy Quail Bell Camera Eye QuailBellMagazine.com Saunter through Shockoe Bottom and you're likely to twist your ankle on some cobblestone—but that's also what we love about it. #exploreRVA
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What's up, puma?By The Quail Bell Crew QuailBellMagazine.com We're not asking you to believe in unicorns (at least not today.) We're not asking you to hug a dragon (right now.) But we are asking you to entertain the thought that the mountain lion/cougar/puma/Puma concolor may very well exist in the Old Dominion. According to the Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries, there have been 121 “unconfirmed” puma sightings in the Commonwealth since 1970. But it's getting dark mighty early these days and, heck, you never know what's lurking in those bushes. In fact, just last August, a Westridge resident claimed to have seen a mountain lion in Woodbridge. And with that scary thought—gulp—we wish you dear fledglings good night.
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What I Know about My HeritageBy Fay Funk QuailBellMagazine.com When I was a baby, I was given a nickname: Papoose. It was given to me by my grandpa, who gave all of his grandchildren nicknames that related to something noticeable about them. My bubbly cousin was nicknamed “Smiley” and her analytical brother was called “Numbers.” Papoose means “child” or “cradleboard” in Algonquin, and has come to be a general term of endearment for children of any Native American tribe. As a baby I looked very Cherokee, with a full head of thick dark hair that stuck straight up, a look my grandpa recognized immediately. He had seen it many times before. My grandpa is one eighth Cherokee Indian, which makes me one thirty-second Cherokee. I’m always a little edgy about telling people about my Cherokee heritage. I’m proud of it, and grateful for what I know about it. But I come to it from a very different perspective than someone who has lived on a reservation. I have never experienced systematic racism, and I never will. I am very grateful for that. I have also only experienced a small amount of Cherokee culture, and that makes me very sad. I do not consider myself to be a Cherokee Indian, at least not in terms of current life experience. Native Americans today are still directly affected by history, both pre- and post-Columbian in a way that I am not. It would be insulting for me to claim that experience. At the same time, my Cherokee ancestry is not nonexistent or unimportant to me. So I consider myself a white person with Cherokee heritage. I can speak to how historical oppression has destroyed my ability to really connect to my past and my feelings about that, as well as my feelings about the family members and cultural experiences I have had. But I have no place commenting on issues currently facing Native Americans, like cultural appropriation, or the recent Baby Veronica adoption case, except as an ally. It’s amazing how much can be lost in a generation. My mother recalls visiting her grandma in Oklahoma and attending pow wows on the reservation. My mom and her siblings would wear squash blossom necklaces and watch people dance in full ceremonial outfits. I have never been to Oklahoma, much less a pow wow. It’s the result of increasing distance, both literal and figurative. My grandpa was very intelligent. He did well in school, joined the army, and went to the University of Oklahoma, before moving to Oregon to work as a math teacher. While very proud to be Cherokee, he has never been highly involved in the tribe. As for my mom and her siblings, life just caught up to them as they got older. There was no time to revisit history.
Even with as much distance as there is between me and the Cherokee Nation I could, theoretically, be part of the tribe. There is no blood quantum to join the Cherokee Nation. A blood quantum is the degree to which you are a certain race, like one half or one quarter. Some tribes have a blood quantum, and some do not. Not having a blood quantum is a means of preserving the culture. The more people that can join, the longer the tribe can continue to exist, a real concern with so few Cherokee Indians left of any blood quantum. It is still not easy to join the tribe though, and it probably will never happen for me. In order to join, you must be a direct descendant of someone on the rolls, as in, a parent. For reasons I don’t know, my grandpa is not on the rolls, so our last relative on the rolls was his mother. In order for me to join the tribe, my grandpa would first have to join, then my mom, and then me. My grandpa is 80, and the process is not easy, so I don’t see it ever happening. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
How I Came to Understand Linguistic Injustice in VABy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com The following is a brief expert from the interactive photo and word book, Mixteco/RVA, produced by Christine Stoddard and designed by Kristen Rebelo. The book was generously supported by a grant from The Puffin Foundation and will be premiered at the Virginia Center for Latin American Art tonight. Uno. Había una vez—August 2010
Angloparlante. This word captures the privilege I have known since I learned to speak. I can pronounce all twenty Standard American English vowel sounds with the slight drop of my jaw, the pursing of my lips. English is my native language. It is not my mother's. Yet she is completely fluent in this tongue she first heard in rock songs on the radio as a girl in El Salvador, and therefore one of the lucky ones. This was the summer I studied with my sister in Glasgow, Scotland, where class seemed unmistakeably linked to one's ability to mimic the Queen's English. I also noted, perhaps with some bitterness, that the Spaniards I overheard in the Glaswegian streets and the cafes did not speak the same Spanish as my mother. Meanwhile, in Virginia, the Arlington I knew as a child was disappearing and becoming increasingly multicultural, while my new neighborhood in Richmond was one of the many “hush-hush” segregated variety. Everything looked black and white. Where was the brown? The olive? In the shadows, on the fringes. My heart started to pound like the non-diegetic sound effects in a horror film. The guilt of my privilege began to overwhelm me. Apparently it had been building up for years. I enrolled in my first translation and interpretation courses. Dos. Newsprint—August 2011 One newspaper article I will never forget is Melissa Scott Sinclair's “The Rain People.” It ran in Style Weekly, Richmond's alternative weekly newspaper, and introduced the particular plight of Richmond's Mixteco community. I had never heard of Richmond having any significant Amerindian population, let alone one from Mexico. Many European-Americans and African-Americans would see Mixtecos out in public and assume they were Hispanic. But Richmond's Hispanic community ostracized them because they were Indian and did not speak Spanish as their native language. They were—and remain--othered by the other. Shortly after reading the article, I called my mother to tell her about it. She said she had heard a group of people who looked Latin American speaking a language she did not recognize while out shopping in Richmond one day. Throughout the fall, my mind would occasionally wander back to the Mixtecos, but my heart had other pulls and distractions. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
La Cocina SalvadoreñaTo some, the stretch of Glebe Road just before Route 50 in Arlington, Virginia may look like nothing more but a smattering of rundown buildings with faded signs and touches of neon. Perhaps the bricks and concrete blocks ought to be re-painted or at least power-washed. Maybe the dated dark green awnings should go. Or maybe most of the drivers zipping past have no opinion about the businesses. The center blends into the landscape and this is Northern Virginia, the inner suburbs of Washington, D.C., where the pace makes Speedy Gonzales look like a slowpoke.
But to those who do actually think about this shopping center, it may represent a culinary destination, especially for the Washington Post darling, Ravi Kabob House. To me personally, this shopping center on the fringe of Arlington's Ballston neighborhood does bring food to mind and food reminds me, like many Latinas, of home. The sight of more than one Salvadorian restaurant in an American strip mall, after all, is not a common one. The presence of two or more of something normalizes it. And everyone wants to fit in, at least if fitting means being allowed to be who you are with no negative consequences. Ordering a pupusa or an horchata with nobody looking twice at me is a comfort. When I was growing up, my classmates did not recognize the pupusas my mother packed me for lunch—seemingly no matter how many times I explained to them that this dish was simply a thick tortilla stuffed with anything from cheese to pork to beans to loroco, a vine with edible white flowers. But they did not want to understand and picked on me because I was the only one in my grade with a Salvadorian mother. The only others in the school? My younger sisters, one a grade below me and the other three grades below me. Though our father was American, you wouldn't have guessed it by our school lunches. We weren't known to just have a PB&J, a bag of Lays chips, a pack of Gushers, and a Capri Sun pouch like most kids. This made fitting in hard. I'll never forget the scrunched up troll face my first grade classmate Lizzie made when I opened up my Tupperware container to reveal a fried egg floating on top of rice and beans. I probably shrugged, ignored her, and ate my lunch anyway. It was either that or deny myself something I liked and starve. I have never been an immigrant, but I have been the child of an immigrant and have had many friends who were either immigrants themselves or children of immigrants. Some of these friends have been Hispanic—whether Bolivian, Mexican, Colombian, or Spanish—while others have been Asian or Middle Eastern. Something that seems to unite all immigrant communities is food. When you miss your home country, food from the place you love can distract you from homesickness. When you've grown up in the U.S., eating the food your parents grew up with in their country can connect you to their culture, their past, and your shared heritage. When I drink guava nectar, I imagine my mother as a little girl doing the same, but instead of her sitting at a table in Virginia, she's sitting at a table in El Salvador, where fresh fruit abounds, and I'm not just talking apples and oranges. Even if it meant not fitting in at times, I'm glad Pollo Campero had a bigger presence in my childhood than KFC. |
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