“What I found was that the languages of deviance and denigration (for example, the term ‘vagrant juveniles,’ used to describe hooded seals), awkwardly binary assignments of biological sex, and a strange criminalization of mammals that escaped the gaze of biologists showed up in what would call itself the ‘neutral’ scientific language of marine guidebooks. I just wanted to know which whale was which, but I found myself confronted with the colonial , racist, sexist, heteropatriachalizing capitalist constructs that are trying to kill me– the net I am already caught in, so to speak. So how can I tell you who and what I saw?” (Alexis Pauline Gumbs, p.6, 2020)
Prosa
Bioy Casares – La aventura de un fotógrafo en La Plata
Se dejó caer en un banco, a la sombra. Sintió frío. O tristeza nomás. Recapacitó: “Si viene, de acá la veo. Ya no va a venir.” Tendría que buscarla por la ciudad. Pero ¿por dónde empezar? El tiempo, que les faltó para establecer costumbres (como la de ir a un café, donde ahora podría esperarla) les alcanzó para quererse. La semana fue corta, se vieron poco y las horas de ese día, que reservaba para Julia, se le iban rápidamente. Recordó, uno a uno, los momentos que pasaron juntos. De quererla y del amor de Julia estaba seguro, pero no de que ella supiera que él también la quería. “Yo tengo la culpa”, se dijo y argumentó que si Julia lo hubiera seguido de lejos (precisó: “con un tele”) a lo largo de buena parte de su última tarde en La Plata, pensaría que ella no le importaba. (pp. 215-6)
Ushuaia – May 6 -El viaje empieza
Today was day one of my trip from Buenos Aires to the south. A 2am talkative taxi took me to the aeroparque for my 4:25 flight. Little spurts of sleep in awkward, uncomfortable positions before preparing for landing and seeing an crimson sunrise.
Ushuaia is a beautiful little city on the Beagle Channel, surrounded by snow-capped mountains and water. It is a welcome change from busy Buenos Aires, so I can’t wait for some more nature.
Day one’s main activity, after settling in to the airbnb and getting o know my hosts and their two dogs, was a walk with Noé (host/ new friend) to Playa Larga. It was also an opportunity to see what the local buses are like (three bus routes in town, after the hundreds if not thousands in Bs As) and hitch hike for the first time on the trip. I stuck my thumb out hesitantly and after five seconds, we were in a truck. First car stopped, and we were dropped off at the end of the Playa Larga path.
With the mountain between us and the town, there was absolute silence. All I heard were birds, their wings flapping on the surface of the water, occasional groups of sea lions coming up for air, and our feet on the ground. It took me several minutes, standing still and looking out at the mountains, to process the lack of noise. I was in awe, and I can’t remember the last time I had that feeling hit me so forcefully.
As I was planning my trip, I wasn’t sure if three days here in Ushuaia would be too many. Would I get bored? Is there enough to do? Now I’m not sure if three days will be enough. But, knowing the kind of traveler I am…it’s never enough.
Ushuaia made an incredible first impression. The air stings slightly on your skin, the air is pure, and the views absorb you completely, forcing you to focus on the present. Friendly, generous hosts with two adorable dogs and a warm monoambiente to share, stunning views and a handful of Autumn activities should make the next few days great!
You know what would be revolutionary?
You know what would be revolutionary? If a group of white open-carry aficionados took over a federal building demanding an end to police brutality and the prison industrial complex. If they get up in arms about two farmers being sent to prison because it’s such an injustice, but stay silent about the daily killings of unarmed Black Brown Asian adults and youth, well, that’s unfortunate. Maybe that’s more their world, and who am I to say what they should and shouldn’t protest. It is clear that the media, and the police, sure are treating them (us: white people) differently than the Ferguson or Baltimore protesters. That’s on us.
You know what would be revolutionary? If cops raised their voices against the injustices that their fellow officers do, not to rat them out, but to protect and serve the community they so pretend to care about. If police officers put down their riot gear and marched with protesters. If officers came out and said “Yea, shooting a 12 year old with a toy gun in an open carry state two seconds after arriving is wrong, and reckless, and would not have happened to a white boy on a playground, and he should be held responsible” then maybe the community would have more trust in them, and there would be more respect.
But they keep their mouths shut. And they lie in their police reports. And they shoot more unarmed youth. And they shoot more unarmed men. And they shoot more unarmed women who open the door next to a raid. And they won’t be indicted. And they won’t be held responsible. And the “armed protesters” in Oregon keep “fighting” for their cause without police presence, and I’m writing on facebook, and nothing changes.
Cavernícolas con palos selfie.
Vivimos en un mundo imaginario. Nos quedamos hipnotizados en el espejo, amándonos, babeando coca cola. Pensamos que somos avanzados. Que la humanidad es superior. Somos pilas. Tenemos Wi-fi. Mira ese rascacielo. Combustible. Fusiles.
Dos mil quince. Se supone. Pero una pareja homosexual no se puede casar. Dos mujeres no pueden adoptar. El aborto es ilegal. O es legal, pero lo quieren revocar. “Dios” se vuelve el nombre de nuesto odio, nuestra xenofobia, homofobia, ignorancia.
Creo que había escuchado, alguna vez, que Dios es amor. ¡Ja! Significa que somos nosotros los odiosos entonces. Más confundidos que un perro con una corona. Cavernícolas con palos selfie.
Just another day
Just another day. Wake up and take my pet pig for a walk. Ride Raúl, my pet donkey, to work. Teach revolutionary Hip-Hop theory to a pack of street dogs, climb an avocado tree for lunch, write some poems on post its and put em on the backs of the presidential candidates, offer alfajores to cops on the street at midnight, then head to bed. Today was a good day.
After being robbed in la Plaza San Martín
I don’t know how to wrap my mind around all of this. I keep thinking about the what ifs. I keep thinking about the situation, where I was, where I was standing, the look in the kids’ eyes. There are so many different perspectives, so many different emotions I feel. I’m furious. I think it’s hilarious. Incredibly ironic. I’m sick to my stomach. I’m scared. I’m sad. But when they’re kids…where do they learn this? What adults in their lives have showed them that stealing is okay, that others’ lives are not worth more? Who is buying what they steal, or sending them out to rob people? What happens if they come back empty handed?
Where did they go after they robbed me? Those kids, nine or ten, maybe, where did they sleep? Did their mom or dad read to them before bed?
We want to be safe. We want our friends to be safe. I don’t know that we really care that much about people in tough situations. We tend to think they deserve to be where they’re at, no? I mean, usually we don’t care enough to act until it seeps into “our” neighborhood. Right? I don’t know. I feel like we’re hypocrites. I feel like a hypocrite.
I think it would have been different if it had been adults that had threatened me. At some point, it’s their responsibility? They should know between right and wrong. However fucked up their childhood was, where they grew up, they should know better, right? But kids? Teenagers? Where did they get that? And…those little ones…what are they going to be doing in 5 years? In 10?
I lost my phone, my camera, some money, and what pisses me off most, my notebook and Rayuela with all of my notes. Funny that what I miss most was worthless to them. Or, scratch that, what pisses me off most is the pistol, the threat, the idea that my life is worth a phone. That anyone could think that. I wish they’d talked to me. I guarantee you we’d have a lot in common. I have no doubt I could make them laugh. That we could have a good time.
I’m trying to process it. I’m trying to find that balance between anger and empathy and hope, and not just give up. I’d like to make a difference. I’d like to do something so that kids have an opportunity to do something different, have a safe space to be and grow where they aren’t pushed into a life like that. I also feel defeated. I feel exhausted. I feel like it’s hopeless.
Knomadic 