Revolution

While I do not play the cello (piano is my forte), I appreciate how
this painting fuses painting with music.  Even the subject's
face looks pretty passionate.

 Painter Paul Gaugin said, “I shut my eyes in order to see.”[1]  So here I am—eyes-closed—looking at myself from above, as if I were a town and my essence were shape-shifting into cars, towers, roads, and signs.  But instead of visualizing all the components of my being, I drift off into a daydream.  I am suspended in a whirl of seabreeze in a hammock under a straw palapa[2] in Mexico—painting and just living.  I slip into another stream of consciousness; I am traveling and learning new languages, just seeing and experiencing different cultures. Oh, and I always loved music and dance—I see myself belly-dancing in the streets to the drumbeats of fellow musicians. But I can’t seem to stay on this thought for too long because I see injustices all around—something I can’t ignore even in my daydream.  Now I imagine I have dyed midnight-blue hair organizing radical protests yelling in French, “Éparter le bourgeoisie.”[3]  Or I ‘m silent—just listening to victims of human rights abuses.  I’m just a mindful human being? Once again, I am five years old and dreaming about being an Übermensch—and doing it all.  But from everything I have seen and done in the world thus far, one thing that I am sure of is that I want to fight—like a guerilla girl perhaps—on the front lines of social justice wars. 

But before I delve into my current radical frame of mind, I must remember where I come from.  I grew up highly privileged and relatively comfortable. But every winter, summer, and spring break, my family would road-trip throughout Mexico in our old white Dodge Caravan.  We would travel to hidden pockets of the country where few gringos went—that is, not Cancun or Acapulco.  While this was always a thrill to see new places, the injustices I saw (and continue to see) have marked me indelibly mind and soul.  It was also my very presence—my white skin, blue eyes, and economic privilege that was written all over me—in Mexico that heightened my awareness and sensitivities to issue of race and class.  While I am Latina, I became aware of my white privilege over the years. 

I suppose helping people, as Ram Dass suggests, makes us “feel a little more at home with ourselves.”[4]  My sisters and I would derive so much happiness from dropping pesos into the laps of impoverished people in the street.   I had no other way of knowing the reality of poverty except in the dichotomous scheme of “have” and “have not’s.”  It wasn’t until I learned the global reality of capitalism—an oppressive economic system for everybody except us consumers—that I realized the only difference between us was our position in the global socioeconomic strata: either as privileged consumer or oppressed producer.  The reality is that my brethren in Mexico and Guatemala slave away in sweatshops and fields fighting daily for survival—let alone cultural survival—just so that I can enjoy a cup of coffee in a mass-produced mug.  It is this chilling reality that wakes me up from my often too self-centered daydream.  

Slave Labor on the Ivory Coast.  This is the price
humanity pays for serving us our Coffee and
Chocolate products.

Clearly, I have been blind.  Even now.  For instance, I drink coffee—dark roast and black.  Naturally, it is hard for me not to invest in coffee products—whether it’s coffee beans, yogurt, ice cream, or coffee flavored chocolate.  It wasn’t until I learned about wage slavery in the cocoa plantations of Cote d’Ivoire that I realized what my financial investment was actually supporting.  Of my $1.50 that I pay for a cup of coffee, only trace amounts—pennies perhaps—would find their way to the producers of the cocoa beans.  Upon learning this, I didn’t stop drinking coffee, as I suppose a good citizen of the world would, but I learned about Fair Trade.  I realized how Capitalism works to slave for the consumer at the expense of everybody else—especially those actually producing what I’m buying.  While I like being able to buy cheap coffee in bulk or choose what brand to buy, it is precisely my involvement that funded this global injustice.

The inside of a Maquiladora.  

People work up to 12-hour shifts and receive poverty-

level wages.   Is a plasma screen T.V. for a bargain price worth it, 

I wonder? 

It was largely because of this awareness and my passion for justice, that I got involved in solidarity organizing with maquiladora workers on the U.S.-Mexico Border who demand better working conditions in what are U.S. sweatshops.[5]  These industrial assembly plants, maquilas, house production lines that give us the plasma screen T.V.s we buy at Best Buy or the cell phones we buy from Nokia.[6]  But at what cost?  The stakes are high, compañeros.  Human lives, human dignity, and cultural survival are put on the line just so that we can enjoy our Black and Decker coffee makers and Nokia cell phones.  I realize that I am most certainly implicated in my subtle accusation towards U.S. consumers.  It filled me with a sense of love and energy when I met with women from Guatemala who came to Austin last year in solidarity with the Women and Fair Trade movement.  I felt at home in a movement that empowered Latino/as, women, and workers.  (I hope to follow this thread of my passion for this specific aspect of social justice throughout college and beyond.)

It is this reality as well as my dream to create and participate in a movement for social and racial justice that drives me to learn about the darkness of humanity.  Through my work in border towns and here in Austin, I am learning about the problems that the apathetic and comfortable middle class continues to leave unchecked and relatively unchanged in our U.S. society.  I realize that I am most certainly implicated in this privileged group, but hope to never fall victim to this sense of apathy and unconcern for social justice.  In fact, over the past years, I have been only too eager to learn about the 60s and 70s, as I have dreamed of creating social change on such a radical scale.  And like many tripped-out hippies taking to the streets in protest, I want nothing more than to destroy the institutions that have no soul and no conscience—to penetrate their heart of darkness.  It is in this spirit of radicalism that I must reveal my admiration for the Weathermen Underground.  One notion that the Weathermen impressed upon their fellow comrades particularly resonates with me:  we must take a stance on the side of the oppressed; otherwise we are standing with the oppressors.  This philosophy of passionately taking a provocative stance is what has largely informed my social activism in Austin and abroad.   

I work in solidarity with the low-wage Latino/a immigrants in Austin for economic justice .  The work is often not immediately gratifying or as glamorous as was the work of the Weathermen—and I accept that.  But what I know is that I do not ever wish to be idle.  It is not self-righteousness or guilt or anger that drives me to act, but rather, a sense of solidarity with Latino/as affected by political and economic oppression.[7] I don’t want to drop pesos into the laps of impoverished people on the street or “help” illiterate Mexicans to read--though I have worked towards both ends.  Instead I want to learn to change a policy of inhumanity in government as well as organize the grassroots--for lasting change.  While I have relatively no plan in terms of my career—let alone my tomorrow—I know that these issues move me, shake me, and drive me to act.  This particular passion is part of who I am and a part that I continue to explore. 

We as students often think that helping people is what we owe the world for being privileged.  This echoes a quote from Muhammad Ali that I once wrote on my window:  “The service you do for others is the rent you pay for the time you spend on earth.”  But my perspective on social change has radically shifted since then.  I do not strive to “serve” or to “help” others—though this is truly a noble endeavor.  Rather I strive to live and act in solidarity with others who are fighting.  For this reason, I do not share Ram Das’s idea of “helping” people.  To me, “helping” is noble, but it does not address and change the problem at its root.  Instead it relieves the gravity of the problem.  Furthermore, “helping” does not require that one sacrifice personal privilege or necessarily take a partisan stance on the issue.  I am not so self-righteous as to believe that I can change institutions of oppression, without obviously “helping.”  But perhaps it is the soft language we use to describe “social action” that I am generally wary of.  Not surprisingly, I have drawn much inspiration from authors who speak not of “help” but of radicalism, revolution, and force.[8]    

I believe in revolutionaries like Che--in his work, his philosophy, and his vision.  I like his forceful vision grounded in love.  Borrowing Che's word, "At the risk of sounding ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by feelings of love." 

  

This I firmly believe; but there are other parts of me that remind me of the power of personal peace as well as its power as a means.  I suppose if I weren’t at UT, I would be in Latin America.  I would sling my life on my back, hop a train, and go.  It could be because I feel at home in Mexican culture, exercising my native Spanish voice, and simply learning from the land of my roots. Or perhaps it is because I heard a story of how the Koji indigenous people of Colombia spoke out about the death of the heart of the world.  (The heart is their mountain, but also, this has implications for the metaphoric human heart of the world.) Hearing this story sent shockwaves through my consciousness. I feel a sense of urgency in what is happening to the indigenous caretakers of the earth, and in general, people of color—because of deeply entrenched systems of racial and economic oppression.  It’s not that I want us all to hold hands, smile, and chant kumbaya together.  It is simply my belief that institutional power does not concede without a fight and that I have to take a stance.  But as Krishna reminds me, I must “prepare for war with peace in [my] soul.”[9] It is in this spirit of wisdom, that I hope to find personal peace through art, dance, music—and maybe even an occasional siesta in a hammock—in order to prepare me for a war on social injustices.   And maybe this is where we’re heading as a people—isn’t the trajectory of Post-modernism one of artistic expression and a return to sense of humanity?

Word Count (without quotes): 1,714

Word Count (with quotes):  1746

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[1] “Paul Gauguin Art Quotes,” accessed October 11, 2010, http://quote.robertgenn.com/auth_search.php?authid=38.

[2] Palapa is the Spanish word for a palm shelter. 

[3] French for “shock the middle class.”

[4] Ram Dass and Paul Gorman, How Can I Help? (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1995), 7.

[5] The Spanish word maquiladora means assembly plant.  The term is a euphemism for sweatshop.

[6] Please see the following website for more information on maquiladoras.  “Maquiladoras. Get the Facts,” Made in Mexico, Inc., accessed October 10, 2010, http://www.madeinmexicoinc.com/FAQs.htm.

[7] Ram Dass and Paul Gorman, How Can I Help? (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1995),

159.

[8] Ibid, 3-9.

[9] Ram Dass and Paul Gorman, How Can I Help? (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1995),

156.

List of Illustrations:

1.     1.  “Music and Art,” accessed October 7, 2010, http://www.ursispaltenstein.ch/blog/weblog.php?/weblog/comments/5365.

2.     2.  “Coffee and Slave Labor,” accessed October 10, 2010, http://kate-riley.blogspot.com.

3.     3.  “Maquiladora,” accessed October 10, 2010, ttp://www.answers.com/topic/maquiladora.

4.     4.  “The Weather Underground Documentary Trailer,” accessed October 10, 2010, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ay4cgdq6g-o.

5.     5.  “Che Guevara,” accessed October 7, 2010, http://www.nationalpolicyinstitute.org/2010/03/31/apple-boycotts-glenn-beck-—-promotes-che-guevara.