On December 4, 2016, the Army Corps of Engineers announced that it would not grant an easement to allow the 1,172 mile long Dakota Access Pipeline to be completed until a thorough environmental impact survey was conducted. Water protectors celebrated with drumming, song, prayer and fireworks. At the time, there were about 12,000 water protectors, representing 400 tribes and living in three camps.
i wanted to write
but revolution doesn’t lend
itself to be-bopping
I love social media right now! Everyone’s posting pics from different marches in different cities, and THE FEELING IS INCREDIBLE.
I marched in Jackson, the capital city of maybe the reddest state in the union—Mississippi. We were probably between 1,500 and 2,000, which is only about 1% of the city’s population.
But it was by far the biggest Jackson crowd I’ve seen come out for a protest of any kind, and it was only one of at least four marches in Mississippi. Continue reading
I interrupt this Iceland coverage to bring you an important public service announcement…
Today a few hundred thousand swindled Americans will attend the inauguration of a narcissistic, misogynist, ableist, racist bully, who contradicts himself at every turn, only believes in free speech when it applies to him, and is “draining the swamp” by instilling a collection of the wealthiest, most unqualified and least diverse Cabinet nominees in my lifetime and likely, in my parents’ lifetime.
But TOMORROW, more than a million antifascists will march all over the world. My closest friends will march in Massachusetts (with an estimated 50,000 others), in Arkansas (an estimated 4,000 others), in Mississippi (estimated 1,000), in North Carolina (estimated 20,000), in Louisiana (estimated 4,000), in New York (estimated 200,000) and in DC (estimated 300,000).
It overwhelms and inspires me. In fact, this morning, I can’t even seem to conceptualize it without crying. This is our Arab Spring. This is our Occupy. WE WILL BE SEEN AND HEARD. OH BONDAGE, UP YOURS!
(P.S. If you’re interested in how many are marching where, look up each state here. It’s not entirely accurate, since Mississippi has at least two marches that I know of, but it’s still helpful/hopeful.)
After seven years,
I’m retiring this trusty WordPress site. Come visit me at MY NEW DIGS!!
UPDATE: I may continue blogging here and simply use my new site as a portfolio, since I’ve had more luck with SEO here at WordPress. For awhile, I may simply blog at both places.
There are photos, and the site is more focused on my professional clips. I’ll still be blogging, hopefully more frequently than I’ve blogged here. But don’t hold it against me if I can’t keep up? Life moves fast, eh. Hasta la vista, WordPress. Thanks for the ride…
The first thing I notice about Cleo Tucker is that she has the same haircut and general style as my sixth grade best friend, back in Ridgeland, Mississippi in 1993. Cropped short, plastered in front, frizzed in back, that cut reaped ridicule on my friend and her dumpy, too short overalls and harem pants didn’t do much for her awkwardly pubescent proportions. The difference is that my friend was actually trying to attract boys, a little, and mostly trying to evade “mean girls,” and this look represented her idea of trendy coupled with her attempts at blow-drying kinky curls straight and her extremely limited knowledge of styling products.
If we’d been seven years older and living in Olympia, my friend would’ve been a total babe.
Cleo Tucker is a total babe, as is her bandmate Harmony Tividad, and they don’t care if you think so. (In fact, if Instagram can be trusted, it seems Cleo has worn the same grubby thermal shirt and baggy overalls nearly every night of this tour.)
Girlpool is Brooklyn-based by way of Philly, with a heady dash of La-la land childhood, offset by La-la land’s all-ages scene. (They met at DIY space, The Smell.) The duo is punky, folky, minimalist and sex-positive, with songs examining hook-up culture, their own privilege, gender and friendships. And these songs started making traction a couple of years ago, when they were still in high school.
The lyrics are clever, poetic and intense, but the delivery (Cleo on guitar, Harmony on bass) lightens things up. It’s simple, raw and twee, with gorgeous bursts of short-lived distortion.
Seeing them play almost feels like crashing a band practice or maybe even a slumber party. Or actually, not even crashing — seeing them play makes you feel like an invited guest. These girls clearly love and enjoy each other, and their intimacy envelopes the audience. Often their vocals are harmonies, two distinct voices blending into one. On instrumental breaks, they face each other, grinning, Cleo rocking back and forth slightly manically, Harmony swaying side to side. Sometimes they let us in on the joke, like when Cleo spent half a second b-boxing, sending Harmony into a giggle fit. (In interviews, Cleo has mentioned a childhood obsession with hip-hop, marked by sagging her pants, tucking her ponytail under a hat and free-styling.)
Watching Cleo (because from where I stood, I could barely see Harmony) made me think, this is what Angela Chase would’ve been like if she’d played in a band, all scrunch-faced and silly and sensual, crowding the mic, nearly biting it, teasing it with her lips.
They seem self-possessed, older than they are — Harmony especially, who introduces herself with a firm handshake. But they also seem exactly their age, excited and curious, occupied with the now, but in a really productive rather than destructive way. We left the show buzzing and hopeful and excited about life. They make you wish you could be their friend.
And for some reason, they made me want to go home and watch these videos, because when I was their age, these are the girls (and guy) I was rocking out to.