I cannot take credit for this. I'm borrowing this from a friend:
Dr. Laura Schlessinger is a US radio personality who dispenses advice to people who call in to her radio show. Recently, she said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22, and cannot be condoned under any circumstance. The following is an open letter to Dr. Laura penned by a US resident, which was posted on the Internet. It's funny, as well as informative.
Dear Dr. Laura:
Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other specific laws and how to follow them.
1. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord -Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?
2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?
3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual impurity - Lev.15:19-24. The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offence.
4. Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexican illegals, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I buy Canadians?
5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?
6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination - Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?
7. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?
8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?
9. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?
10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Leviticus 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (a cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? - Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev.20:14)
I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.
Your devoted disciple and adoring fan, Jacques.
hm. try, "in my never coherent, reasoned opinion."
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
"Gay" Food?
So after preparation for the Day of Silence, two of my friends and I had dinner. We got to talking about food (go figure, during dinner). My friends' names are Jake and Joan. They are good people.
Joan and I are both filipinos. We got to talking about how the offerings of the McCormick Hall cafeteria paled in comparison to the exotic filipino cuisine that we had become accustomed to growing up. This time we talked about rice. Minute rice from a cafeteria is not real rice. At least, it is not very good rice. I'm used to sticky, moist, sumptuous, soft, melt in your mouth, absorbant, spongy, sweet, reminiscent of the rice fields of my youth rice. That's real rice. Good rice. America = bad rice. At any rate, we broached the topic of ethnic food.
Now Jake, refusing to relegate himself to the sidelines of the coversation, blurted, "What would gay food be like?" or something to that affect. "Gay food?" I asked. Jake wanted to know what a ontologically gay cuisine would be like. How would THAT play out? I got to thinking - What would gay food be like?
Now I must concede that the gays, God love 'em, are not their own ethnicity. Thus we cannot claim a food to be our own. However, I think that it is funny to flirt with the possibilities.
Would we be cliche and eat hotdogs? Or something that resembled a vijayjay? Would the food be rainbow-colored? Would it even have colors? Would gay food be sweet? Like RAINBOW cake? or fudgcicles (they're phallic and sweet!!)? Would gay food use expensive spices and herbs, like saffron? We, as a people, are known for our expensive tastes. Would gay food be high in protein? Perhaps only meats like the argentinians. Would we claim 'spotted dick' as our own? Damn British, bunch a bloody food-stealing oppressors. Would we adorn our foods with flowers resembling the female reproductive nether region? Like orchids, or even with roses like in "Como Agua Para Chocolate." Would gay food be representative of the oppression that gay people have had to endure over the years? At times food can play that role in a culture. What sort of beverages would we serve? Perhaps cosmos will finally be claimed as the quintessential "gay" drink. In fact, all martinis will be claimed by the gays. Just some questions to ponder.
One thing I do know for sure about what gay food would be like. At least for gay men: gay food must NEVER be high in fiber. You figure it out.
Ciao for now.
Joan and I are both filipinos. We got to talking about how the offerings of the McCormick Hall cafeteria paled in comparison to the exotic filipino cuisine that we had become accustomed to growing up. This time we talked about rice. Minute rice from a cafeteria is not real rice. At least, it is not very good rice. I'm used to sticky, moist, sumptuous, soft, melt in your mouth, absorbant, spongy, sweet, reminiscent of the rice fields of my youth rice. That's real rice. Good rice. America = bad rice. At any rate, we broached the topic of ethnic food.
Now Jake, refusing to relegate himself to the sidelines of the coversation, blurted, "What would gay food be like?" or something to that affect. "Gay food?" I asked. Jake wanted to know what a ontologically gay cuisine would be like. How would THAT play out? I got to thinking - What would gay food be like?
Now I must concede that the gays, God love 'em, are not their own ethnicity. Thus we cannot claim a food to be our own. However, I think that it is funny to flirt with the possibilities.
Would we be cliche and eat hotdogs? Or something that resembled a vijayjay? Would the food be rainbow-colored? Would it even have colors? Would gay food be sweet? Like RAINBOW cake? or fudgcicles (they're phallic and sweet!!)? Would gay food use expensive spices and herbs, like saffron? We, as a people, are known for our expensive tastes. Would gay food be high in protein? Perhaps only meats like the argentinians. Would we claim 'spotted dick' as our own? Damn British, bunch a bloody food-stealing oppressors. Would we adorn our foods with flowers resembling the female reproductive nether region? Like orchids, or even with roses like in "Como Agua Para Chocolate." Would gay food be representative of the oppression that gay people have had to endure over the years? At times food can play that role in a culture. What sort of beverages would we serve? Perhaps cosmos will finally be claimed as the quintessential "gay" drink. In fact, all martinis will be claimed by the gays. Just some questions to ponder.
One thing I do know for sure about what gay food would be like. At least for gay men: gay food must NEVER be high in fiber. You figure it out.
Ciao for now.
Be a Voice for the Voiceless
Today, Wednesday, April 18th, a group of Marquette students are staging a silent protest. This is a national event meant to protest anti-lgbtqa violence. This is difficult, to silence one's voice is to silence one's humanity. The voice is inextricably linked to one's humanity. It is locus of one's expression. The focal point of one's identity. Language is the medium through which we can have epistemilogical discourse and can know the world. My delibrate silence echoes the silence imposed upon the LGBTQA community, caused by harassment, prejudice, discrimination and flagrant violence. Think about the voices you are not hearing today. Then think about the voices that you never hear.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Vagina Monologues
On April 14th, 2007 (the same day as my conference), I had the distinct honor and privilege to perform in the Vagina Monologues. Now some of you may be wondering: "But Josue, aren't you a guy?!" For those of you that may not know, the Vagina Monologues are only allowed to be performed by women because they are women's experiences.
Let's take a step back and I'll explain what the Monologues are about. In a nutshell the Vagina Monologues are a series of monologues from the experiences of one or several women coalated/ edited/ written by Eve Ensler. The themes range from menstruation to sexual violence. These experiences were gathered and put to paper following extensive interviews - 200 to be precise. These women were as diverse as the monologues themselves. There is a monologue from a sex worker (nice word for prostitute) and one from a 75-year old woman. Varying experiences from a wide pool of women. The monologues are an important and necessary statement, no declaration, for the liberation of women. Although, I am no woman, based on the experiences of women who have seen the show, performed in the show and based on the monologues themselves it IS a liberating experience. Firstly, because society doesn't give license to speak of a women's nether regions. Secondly, because one of the central themes of the monologues is sexual violence against women. Such a theme is prudent to discuss due to the overwhelmingly disproportionate incidences of violence against women as opposed to men.
Okay, so now you know what they are. I was given the opportunity to perform in the Monologues. For those of you that might be confused due to the gender restriction of who can perform the monologues let me explain. You see, the performance itself was clandestine. It was allowed by Marquette University to be performed on campus but it was under the aegis of an academic symposium. Marquette has some strange restrictions on freedom of speech since it is a private institution and would not allow a performance of the Vagina Monologues the previous year. Alumni, faculty, even students were up in arms at even the thought that women would be on stage talking about their "vaginas." People are stupid. People are close-minded. People are uncomfortable and ignorant of the true message of the monologues and the patriarchal society that would squelch feminine voices from mainstream discourse.
With that said, under the protection of academic freedom the monologues would now be performed on campus. However, it was not a traditional performance. Actually, it wasn't even considered a performance. It was an academic symposium on Catholicism and Sexual Violence FEATURING, yes FEATURING a READING of the Vagina Monologues. So, it was a reading. But it was the performance in its entirety. A strange tangled web Catholic Private Conservative Right-Wing Idiocy weaves. But there you have it.
Thus, the girls on the team were running the show. Since we were already breaking the rules bringing the monologues to campus why not break a few more. I asked if I could read and was subsequently given permission to perform alongside my sisters, in solidarity. Although I cannot understand the struggles of a woman in the world we live, I can be sensitive to those struggles. I read what was called the "Spotlight" monologues with two others: a woman named Caleen and another man named Greg.
This is a copy of what I read, (just know that these are not my words but they are an excerpt from the Vagina Monologues):
"We make decisions all the time. Decisions about Them. Them is always different than us. Them has no face. Them is a little bit deserving of all the bad that happens to them. Them is used to violence – it’s in their blood. There are rules about them. We keep them over there, out of sight, conceptual. We do not get close enough to touch or smell or know them. We do not want to see how easily we could become them -- how quickly violence arrives, how swiftly people turn, embracing racist hate. We do not want to know or touch the parts of ourselves that are capable of behaving like them. Sometimes, if we are lucky, an image, a poem, an invitation to a foreign place pierces our perception. We suddenly stare down at a photograph on the cover of Newsday -- six young Bosnian girls just returned from a rape camp. Their faces are beautiful and young and destroyed. We see their utter incomprehension and terror. We feel their shame. We are compelled. We go and meet these women – young, old, Muslim, Croatian, Serbian, Haitian, Rwandan, Afghan, Chechen, Lebanese. We sit in dusty barracks, makeshift refugee camps, peeling centers. We hold the strong earthbound hands of the farm women longing for their land, we walk through beet fields with the woman with strawberry stains as she describes the execution of her parents, we sit in a hot room in a crowded refugee hotel with a mother and six children – one of her sons lies suspended in a bed, mute from three months in a concentration camp. We watch woman after woman shake, pace, smoke, choke, weep as they describe the gang rapes, the public rapes, the rapes of mothers, sisters, and grandmothers. We see how they have lost their homes and identities. That they do not eat or can't stop eating. We hear how they did not expect this or want this. Our secure usness, our little usness begins to unravel. It is dangerous. When we think of war, we think of it as something that happens to men in fields or jungles. We think of hand grenades and scud missiles. We think of the moment of violence-the blast, the explosion. But war is really a consequence – the effects of which are not known or felt for months, years, generations. And because consequences are usually not televised – by then the war is no longer sexy because the ratings are gone – the consequences remain invisible. As long as they are bombing Iraq for example, it is seen 24 hours a day on television. It is the bombing, the explosions in the dark that keep us watching. As long as there are snipers outside of Sarejevo, Sarejevo exists.
But after the bombing, after the sniper, that's when the real war begins.
It is found in the broken down fabric of community, in the death of trust, in the destruction of the every day patterns of living. In trauma and depression, poverty and homelessness and starvation. In the emasculation and rage of the victim. In the new violence: the traumatized soldier beating his wife, the teenage boys already plotting revenge, the ongoing panic of the children.
When we think of war, we do not think of women. Because the work of survival, of restoration, is not glamorous work. Like most women's work, it is undervalued, underpaid and impossible. After war, men are often shattered, unable to function. Women not only work, but they create peace networks, find ways to bring about healing. They teach in home schools when the school buildings are destroyed. Build gardens in the middle of abandoned railroad tracks. They pick up the pieces although they usually haven't fired a gun. How do you make war matter? How do you make destruction matter? How do you make people's suffering thousands of miles away matter? How do you make this world, this life, in all its mystery and injustice, matter? This is where theater comes in. Theater insists that we inhabit the present tense – not the virtual tense or the politically correct tense. Theater demands that we truly be where we are. By being there together, we are able to confront the seemingly impossible, we are able to feel that which we fear might destroy us – and we are educated and transformed by that act.
This year V-Day is focusing on women in conflict zones. We are focusing on women in the midst of war or in the aftermath of it. We are drawing the connection between family violence and state violence. We are exposing the fact that if a government supports the use of force, weapons, violence as a method of control and dominance, this gives license to the same kind of behavior at home.
This year we are Reclaiming Peace. We are taking back the word, the concept, the possibility. We are saying that making Peace must be the first option. Communication, respect, dialogue, compassion, kindness, generosity are the hard work of Peace – the necessary work and the priority. We are asking you to join in this discourse. To ask what happened to Peace. To ask what Peace is.
There is a new way, a way that is not forced or exploded open with bombs and guns and machetes. Instead it is melted open. It is invited in through strategy, wisdom, care and a deep regard for the future of life. We stand with our sisters from Beirut to Baghdad, Kandahar to Darfur. We know their suffering is our suffering.
We know that if the human species is to survive, the time of war must end.
We ask you to be bolder this year and kinder, more careful--to bring the energy of peace to every aspect of your life. We ask you to speak out, stand up for an end to violence."
As you can see, the focus this year was women in conflict zones. Women have the burden of rebuilding what men destroy - including their own bodies, minds, hearts. Now if you are a man reading this, I do not think that the monologues were written to make men feel guilty. Don't be so selfish!! Be sensitive and understanding of women and their struggles. These are real women's real-life experiences. And listen, always listen to what women have to say. Violence persists because men don't listen. Men want to feel powerful, in control. We need to live in solidarity and treat each other with kindness. That's what I learned from this experience. I have learned to appreciate women more; for their intelligence, their beauty, their kindness, their sensitivity, their thoughts, their contributions to society and yes, I have even learned to appreciate their vaginas. Not in a sexual way though (being that I am in fact gay). Vagina for me is representative of a part of women not spoken of. Not anatomically but rather abstractly. It is the violence and patriarchal bullshit shoveled all over vaginas (great visual, I know) that are not talked about. So keep on talking, keep on listening, integrate peace into every aspect of your life. That's the point. Stand with your sisters and be affirming, violence against women starts with men and can end with us.
Let's take a step back and I'll explain what the Monologues are about. In a nutshell the Vagina Monologues are a series of monologues from the experiences of one or several women coalated/ edited/ written by Eve Ensler. The themes range from menstruation to sexual violence. These experiences were gathered and put to paper following extensive interviews - 200 to be precise. These women were as diverse as the monologues themselves. There is a monologue from a sex worker (nice word for prostitute) and one from a 75-year old woman. Varying experiences from a wide pool of women. The monologues are an important and necessary statement, no declaration, for the liberation of women. Although, I am no woman, based on the experiences of women who have seen the show, performed in the show and based on the monologues themselves it IS a liberating experience. Firstly, because society doesn't give license to speak of a women's nether regions. Secondly, because one of the central themes of the monologues is sexual violence against women. Such a theme is prudent to discuss due to the overwhelmingly disproportionate incidences of violence against women as opposed to men.
Okay, so now you know what they are. I was given the opportunity to perform in the Monologues. For those of you that might be confused due to the gender restriction of who can perform the monologues let me explain. You see, the performance itself was clandestine. It was allowed by Marquette University to be performed on campus but it was under the aegis of an academic symposium. Marquette has some strange restrictions on freedom of speech since it is a private institution and would not allow a performance of the Vagina Monologues the previous year. Alumni, faculty, even students were up in arms at even the thought that women would be on stage talking about their "vaginas." People are stupid. People are close-minded. People are uncomfortable and ignorant of the true message of the monologues and the patriarchal society that would squelch feminine voices from mainstream discourse.
With that said, under the protection of academic freedom the monologues would now be performed on campus. However, it was not a traditional performance. Actually, it wasn't even considered a performance. It was an academic symposium on Catholicism and Sexual Violence FEATURING, yes FEATURING a READING of the Vagina Monologues. So, it was a reading. But it was the performance in its entirety. A strange tangled web Catholic Private Conservative Right-Wing Idiocy weaves. But there you have it.
Thus, the girls on the team were running the show. Since we were already breaking the rules bringing the monologues to campus why not break a few more. I asked if I could read and was subsequently given permission to perform alongside my sisters, in solidarity. Although I cannot understand the struggles of a woman in the world we live, I can be sensitive to those struggles. I read what was called the "Spotlight" monologues with two others: a woman named Caleen and another man named Greg.
This is a copy of what I read, (just know that these are not my words but they are an excerpt from the Vagina Monologues):
"We make decisions all the time. Decisions about Them. Them is always different than us. Them has no face. Them is a little bit deserving of all the bad that happens to them. Them is used to violence – it’s in their blood. There are rules about them. We keep them over there, out of sight, conceptual. We do not get close enough to touch or smell or know them. We do not want to see how easily we could become them -- how quickly violence arrives, how swiftly people turn, embracing racist hate. We do not want to know or touch the parts of ourselves that are capable of behaving like them. Sometimes, if we are lucky, an image, a poem, an invitation to a foreign place pierces our perception. We suddenly stare down at a photograph on the cover of Newsday -- six young Bosnian girls just returned from a rape camp. Their faces are beautiful and young and destroyed. We see their utter incomprehension and terror. We feel their shame. We are compelled. We go and meet these women – young, old, Muslim, Croatian, Serbian, Haitian, Rwandan, Afghan, Chechen, Lebanese. We sit in dusty barracks, makeshift refugee camps, peeling centers. We hold the strong earthbound hands of the farm women longing for their land, we walk through beet fields with the woman with strawberry stains as she describes the execution of her parents, we sit in a hot room in a crowded refugee hotel with a mother and six children – one of her sons lies suspended in a bed, mute from three months in a concentration camp. We watch woman after woman shake, pace, smoke, choke, weep as they describe the gang rapes, the public rapes, the rapes of mothers, sisters, and grandmothers. We see how they have lost their homes and identities. That they do not eat or can't stop eating. We hear how they did not expect this or want this. Our secure usness, our little usness begins to unravel. It is dangerous. When we think of war, we think of it as something that happens to men in fields or jungles. We think of hand grenades and scud missiles. We think of the moment of violence-the blast, the explosion. But war is really a consequence – the effects of which are not known or felt for months, years, generations. And because consequences are usually not televised – by then the war is no longer sexy because the ratings are gone – the consequences remain invisible. As long as they are bombing Iraq for example, it is seen 24 hours a day on television. It is the bombing, the explosions in the dark that keep us watching. As long as there are snipers outside of Sarejevo, Sarejevo exists.
But after the bombing, after the sniper, that's when the real war begins.
It is found in the broken down fabric of community, in the death of trust, in the destruction of the every day patterns of living. In trauma and depression, poverty and homelessness and starvation. In the emasculation and rage of the victim. In the new violence: the traumatized soldier beating his wife, the teenage boys already plotting revenge, the ongoing panic of the children.
When we think of war, we do not think of women. Because the work of survival, of restoration, is not glamorous work. Like most women's work, it is undervalued, underpaid and impossible. After war, men are often shattered, unable to function. Women not only work, but they create peace networks, find ways to bring about healing. They teach in home schools when the school buildings are destroyed. Build gardens in the middle of abandoned railroad tracks. They pick up the pieces although they usually haven't fired a gun. How do you make war matter? How do you make destruction matter? How do you make people's suffering thousands of miles away matter? How do you make this world, this life, in all its mystery and injustice, matter? This is where theater comes in. Theater insists that we inhabit the present tense – not the virtual tense or the politically correct tense. Theater demands that we truly be where we are. By being there together, we are able to confront the seemingly impossible, we are able to feel that which we fear might destroy us – and we are educated and transformed by that act.
This year V-Day is focusing on women in conflict zones. We are focusing on women in the midst of war or in the aftermath of it. We are drawing the connection between family violence and state violence. We are exposing the fact that if a government supports the use of force, weapons, violence as a method of control and dominance, this gives license to the same kind of behavior at home.
This year we are Reclaiming Peace. We are taking back the word, the concept, the possibility. We are saying that making Peace must be the first option. Communication, respect, dialogue, compassion, kindness, generosity are the hard work of Peace – the necessary work and the priority. We are asking you to join in this discourse. To ask what happened to Peace. To ask what Peace is.
There is a new way, a way that is not forced or exploded open with bombs and guns and machetes. Instead it is melted open. It is invited in through strategy, wisdom, care and a deep regard for the future of life. We stand with our sisters from Beirut to Baghdad, Kandahar to Darfur. We know their suffering is our suffering.
We know that if the human species is to survive, the time of war must end.
We ask you to be bolder this year and kinder, more careful--to bring the energy of peace to every aspect of your life. We ask you to speak out, stand up for an end to violence."
As you can see, the focus this year was women in conflict zones. Women have the burden of rebuilding what men destroy - including their own bodies, minds, hearts. Now if you are a man reading this, I do not think that the monologues were written to make men feel guilty. Don't be so selfish!! Be sensitive and understanding of women and their struggles. These are real women's real-life experiences. And listen, always listen to what women have to say. Violence persists because men don't listen. Men want to feel powerful, in control. We need to live in solidarity and treat each other with kindness. That's what I learned from this experience. I have learned to appreciate women more; for their intelligence, their beauty, their kindness, their sensitivity, their thoughts, their contributions to society and yes, I have even learned to appreciate their vaginas. Not in a sexual way though (being that I am in fact gay). Vagina for me is representative of a part of women not spoken of. Not anatomically but rather abstractly. It is the violence and patriarchal bullshit shoveled all over vaginas (great visual, I know) that are not talked about. So keep on talking, keep on listening, integrate peace into every aspect of your life. That's the point. Stand with your sisters and be affirming, violence against women starts with men and can end with us.
Beyond Tolerance: Moving Towards Advocacy
So today is April 16th, a beautiful Monday. A truly spring day (Milwaukee is a fickle non-commital 12 year old girl trying to decide what outfit to wear for her first day of middle school in terms of its climate). Bastard. Anyway, that's besides the point.
A couple of days ago I had a life-changing event take place. For the past year and a half, I have been planning a Diversity conference. It was under the aegis of the Wisconsin Private Colleges Initiative for Diversity (WPCID). I first attended one of these coferences in November of 2005 at Carthage College in Kenosha, WI. It was a really great event, although my memories of it are now conflated with the pain and frustration of putting my own WPCID conference on. At any rate, when I went with my Lutheran Campus Ministry, talk of having the conference move to another school circulated. Many private colleges attended the conference, including my own, Marquette University. The purpose of the conference was to address issues relating to diversity that were characteristic of the private school experience. You see, private schools have a different set of issues to deal with that are not typically found on a public school's campus, which tend to be more "diverse" if you will then their private counterparts.
So yes, diversity diversity diversity. This has been a buzz word on my campus for many moons. So I thought that i would leave my own impact and facilitate my own discussion of the topic through this conference. So I approached Carthage and agreed to put the conference on at my school (What the hell was I thinking?). Little did I know that this conference would be the bane and the joy of my existence for the next two-years. And so it was settled. Diversity Conference at Marquette for the Spring of 2007. Hawt.
I began to think of the topics that I would like to address when planning the event. I began to research other conferences of this ilk. I was one student, with a vision, well, more like an malinformed inclination to plan a frickin' conference! For those of you who may not have experience in event planning, conferences take a LOT of work. It was like planning a wedding on crack. The stress and the expectation to do well/ impress the relatives.
The planning really started to take flight in the summer of 2006. I reserved the space in the Alumni Memorial Union (which is our student union). Began to approach different members of administration regarding the event and began to coalate a group of students who would soon become my planning team for the conference. Still no idea what the topic would be, but whatever, laying the groundwork was very important at that point.
I approached the Vice-Provost for Diversity, yes, Marquette has a Vice-Provost for Diversity. Let me tell you about this provost, nice guy, but ultimately no power. No budget. But good ideas. At times, I felt that it was a political move for my university to hire someone with basically no influence to be the masthead for diversity. The year before my senior year, which was the school year before the summer of 2006 was the year that I got a position through Marquette University Student Government. The Diversity Commissioner. Holla. *fanfare* This position had a budget to plan diversity programs. BINGO!!!
I had more money than the provost. I now had the resources to plan the conference. I gathered $12,000 to plan a diversity conference. I was so excited and blessed. I contacted friends that would be a part of the planning process. On our first meeting I realized that all the peope that I invited for the event were girls. Whoa. I didn't even realize when I was approaching people that it would be a veritable estrogen party. I stuck with this team. No men allowed except me. All my commission members were very capable, intelligent, thoughtful, thorough, amazing, kind individuals that were dedicated to my cause: Michelle, Dominique, Angela, Jazmin, Alison, Kristin, Sara.
Let me tell you that the planning for this event was outrageous. And in Dicken's style it truly was the best and the worst of times. I enlisted the aid of Pam Peters, the Assistant Dean for Intercultural Programs along with my girl power team. She was a great resource for the event. She gave a lot of insight and programmatically was a lifesaver. However, I will say that I did plan the conference basically by myself. I do not say that to be arrogant, to be the center of attention or to complain about those that helped me with the event. It was more something that I put on myself.
I learned so much about myself in the process of planning for this conference. First, I learned that I have a lot of trouble reliquishing control. I'm not a good delegator. I put a lot of undue stress and pressure on myself. Second, I learned that I have esophageal spasms and ulcers forming in my esophagus. A condition that runs in my family and is exacerbated by stress. Third, I learned that relying on others is not a form of weakness but strength. It takes a certain sensitivity and intelligence to know when to accept help. Unfortunate that I did not realize this until the final weeks of the planning process. Fourth, I learned not to malign myself because of other people's expectations or my perception of what people's expecations are of me. I need to be happy with myself, period.
That about sums it up for now. I'm still processing and even problemitizing certain elements of the conference and myself. I did find that as the event expanded I did as well. A conference that seemed painfully inocuous to others or even to those reading this blog was transformational to me.
So Beyond Tolerance: Moving Towards Advocacy was a success. To explain the event more: it was your basic (and not so basic) one-day conference. Registration, Opening, three breakout sessions, a keynote, lunch the works. Our keynote was a man named Carlos Andres Gomez. He was a speaker that was brought to campus in the past and was very popular and highly recommended. I decided to bring him back. I'm glad that I did. He was a social worker turned teacher and slam poet. He was so down to earth and related to the audience on a level that I had not witnessed in a keynote. And if you are not familiar with slam poetry then you are missing out.
You should check Carlos out at http://www.carloslive.com
We had 62 participants, 13 workshops, a fabulous lunch and an amazing keynote. People are still coming up to me raving about the conference asking when will I be doing other. My answer to them is "Never. Until I get bored."
A couple of days ago I had a life-changing event take place. For the past year and a half, I have been planning a Diversity conference. It was under the aegis of the Wisconsin Private Colleges Initiative for Diversity (WPCID). I first attended one of these coferences in November of 2005 at Carthage College in Kenosha, WI. It was a really great event, although my memories of it are now conflated with the pain and frustration of putting my own WPCID conference on. At any rate, when I went with my Lutheran Campus Ministry, talk of having the conference move to another school circulated. Many private colleges attended the conference, including my own, Marquette University. The purpose of the conference was to address issues relating to diversity that were characteristic of the private school experience. You see, private schools have a different set of issues to deal with that are not typically found on a public school's campus, which tend to be more "diverse" if you will then their private counterparts.
So yes, diversity diversity diversity. This has been a buzz word on my campus for many moons. So I thought that i would leave my own impact and facilitate my own discussion of the topic through this conference. So I approached Carthage and agreed to put the conference on at my school (What the hell was I thinking?). Little did I know that this conference would be the bane and the joy of my existence for the next two-years. And so it was settled. Diversity Conference at Marquette for the Spring of 2007. Hawt.
I began to think of the topics that I would like to address when planning the event. I began to research other conferences of this ilk. I was one student, with a vision, well, more like an malinformed inclination to plan a frickin' conference! For those of you who may not have experience in event planning, conferences take a LOT of work. It was like planning a wedding on crack. The stress and the expectation to do well/ impress the relatives.
The planning really started to take flight in the summer of 2006. I reserved the space in the Alumni Memorial Union (which is our student union). Began to approach different members of administration regarding the event and began to coalate a group of students who would soon become my planning team for the conference. Still no idea what the topic would be, but whatever, laying the groundwork was very important at that point.
I approached the Vice-Provost for Diversity, yes, Marquette has a Vice-Provost for Diversity. Let me tell you about this provost, nice guy, but ultimately no power. No budget. But good ideas. At times, I felt that it was a political move for my university to hire someone with basically no influence to be the masthead for diversity. The year before my senior year, which was the school year before the summer of 2006 was the year that I got a position through Marquette University Student Government. The Diversity Commissioner. Holla. *fanfare* This position had a budget to plan diversity programs. BINGO!!!
I had more money than the provost. I now had the resources to plan the conference. I gathered $12,000 to plan a diversity conference. I was so excited and blessed. I contacted friends that would be a part of the planning process. On our first meeting I realized that all the peope that I invited for the event were girls. Whoa. I didn't even realize when I was approaching people that it would be a veritable estrogen party. I stuck with this team. No men allowed except me. All my commission members were very capable, intelligent, thoughtful, thorough, amazing, kind individuals that were dedicated to my cause: Michelle, Dominique, Angela, Jazmin, Alison, Kristin, Sara.
Let me tell you that the planning for this event was outrageous. And in Dicken's style it truly was the best and the worst of times. I enlisted the aid of Pam Peters, the Assistant Dean for Intercultural Programs along with my girl power team. She was a great resource for the event. She gave a lot of insight and programmatically was a lifesaver. However, I will say that I did plan the conference basically by myself. I do not say that to be arrogant, to be the center of attention or to complain about those that helped me with the event. It was more something that I put on myself.
I learned so much about myself in the process of planning for this conference. First, I learned that I have a lot of trouble reliquishing control. I'm not a good delegator. I put a lot of undue stress and pressure on myself. Second, I learned that I have esophageal spasms and ulcers forming in my esophagus. A condition that runs in my family and is exacerbated by stress. Third, I learned that relying on others is not a form of weakness but strength. It takes a certain sensitivity and intelligence to know when to accept help. Unfortunate that I did not realize this until the final weeks of the planning process. Fourth, I learned not to malign myself because of other people's expectations or my perception of what people's expecations are of me. I need to be happy with myself, period.
That about sums it up for now. I'm still processing and even problemitizing certain elements of the conference and myself. I did find that as the event expanded I did as well. A conference that seemed painfully inocuous to others or even to those reading this blog was transformational to me.
So Beyond Tolerance: Moving Towards Advocacy was a success. To explain the event more: it was your basic (and not so basic) one-day conference. Registration, Opening, three breakout sessions, a keynote, lunch the works. Our keynote was a man named Carlos Andres Gomez. He was a speaker that was brought to campus in the past and was very popular and highly recommended. I decided to bring him back. I'm glad that I did. He was a social worker turned teacher and slam poet. He was so down to earth and related to the audience on a level that I had not witnessed in a keynote. And if you are not familiar with slam poetry then you are missing out.
You should check Carlos out at http://www.carloslive.com
We had 62 participants, 13 workshops, a fabulous lunch and an amazing keynote. People are still coming up to me raving about the conference asking when will I be doing other. My answer to them is "Never. Until I get bored."
Reasons for starting
I've started blogs in the past but I never had the discipline to keep up with them. So they got lost, or deleted, forgot the password, never to be opened, updated or read again. A digital travesty, a perfidious loss of dedication. Well, today's a new day. I'm reopening this chapter. I've entitled the blog "Asian Ravings." Seemed appropriate at the time - it might be as organic and dynamic as the impetus that guided my hands to the keyboard in the first place. So it might change. But for now, asian ravings, yes, an assonant rhyme. sexy. Asian ravings - I'm claiming it, it's mine.
I've started this because I now have the time to chronicle the comings and goings of my exciting life. You see, I'm a movie star - an actor of all trades. My life is a masquerade, but now I want to lift the mask. Breath new life into these events that populate, punctuate and define my life and have record of them.
There is one thing that I would like to clarify - for those that might be reading and thinking, "What the hell?" This blog is for me, mostly. And for you. But mostly for me. This text is brain-colored, like rain during a hurricane. Brain-colored because I'm putting my brain on paper baby! Can you see the synapses? Can you feel their spongy-ness? Can you hear the humming of the electrical exchange of information? Oh yes, brain on paper. (New title?)
Okay, this blog will be a diary of sorts; a place of transcendence but immanence too. Transcendant because I want the words to transform me in a way that precipitates growth by enshrining my memories but also offering an outlet of critical analysis. I need to practice if I'm to get my Ph.D. (long-term goal of mine). Immanence because I want to point out the irony that I want to transform myself through an examination of past events. Bound by my immanence, yet transformed by it. So Immanence = transcendence? See here 2+2=5. So there. My rules. My blog. Boo-ya.
So much has happened in my life that I need to account for it. If not then I would be betraying myself and my sensibilities. Also, my blog name is Josue Coranez (pronounced Hoe-sway Koraniez). Which is a variation of my real name. Which I may have allowed to be displayed in my profile, but whatever, it isn't so much for anonymity as it is for reclaiming my name, my true name, my journaling name, my blogger name. So there.
Well those are my reasons for starting - my justification if you will. You are now reading my brain paper, the cerubellum times, the cerebral chronicles, my blog, my blog, me.
I've started this because I now have the time to chronicle the comings and goings of my exciting life. You see, I'm a movie star - an actor of all trades. My life is a masquerade, but now I want to lift the mask. Breath new life into these events that populate, punctuate and define my life and have record of them.
There is one thing that I would like to clarify - for those that might be reading and thinking, "What the hell?" This blog is for me, mostly. And for you. But mostly for me. This text is brain-colored, like rain during a hurricane. Brain-colored because I'm putting my brain on paper baby! Can you see the synapses? Can you feel their spongy-ness? Can you hear the humming of the electrical exchange of information? Oh yes, brain on paper. (New title?)
Okay, this blog will be a diary of sorts; a place of transcendence but immanence too. Transcendant because I want the words to transform me in a way that precipitates growth by enshrining my memories but also offering an outlet of critical analysis. I need to practice if I'm to get my Ph.D. (long-term goal of mine). Immanence because I want to point out the irony that I want to transform myself through an examination of past events. Bound by my immanence, yet transformed by it. So Immanence = transcendence? See here 2+2=5. So there. My rules. My blog. Boo-ya.
So much has happened in my life that I need to account for it. If not then I would be betraying myself and my sensibilities. Also, my blog name is Josue Coranez (pronounced Hoe-sway Koraniez). Which is a variation of my real name. Which I may have allowed to be displayed in my profile, but whatever, it isn't so much for anonymity as it is for reclaiming my name, my true name, my journaling name, my blogger name. So there.
Well those are my reasons for starting - my justification if you will. You are now reading my brain paper, the cerubellum times, the cerebral chronicles, my blog, my blog, me.
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