17 September 2017

sunday seven



in the spirit of those seven non-fiction books meant to get the insides itching and screaming and thundering, here are seven documentaries meant to do the same:

1. I am not your negro (amazon)
4. 4 little girls (amazon)
5. central park five (amazon)
7. 13th (netflix)

we can confront our ugly parts, the ones that are hard to look at, we can.

09 September 2017

wordless



ezra, estero island, southern florida, july 2015.

friends, between the flooding of houston, the burning of our beloved columbia gorge last weekend and the possible decimation of southern florida this weekend, I'm at a loss.

04 September 2017

sunday seven



"so, examine your privilege. turn privilege into understanding, and let understanding guide you toward a desire to learn. then when your insides are itching and screaming and thundering for equality, let this desire be funneled into activism." -cara meredith

seven non-fiction books to get the insides itching and screaming and thundering:

1. between the world and me (ta nehisi coates)
2. the fire next time (james baldwin)
3. the new jim crow: mass incarceration in the age of colorblindness (michelle alexander)
4. just mercy: a story of justice and redemption (bryan stevenson)
5. the cross and the lynching tree (james h. cone)
6. the warmth of other suns: the epic story of america's great migration (isabel wilkerson)
7. let nobody turn us around: an african american anthology (manning marable, leith mullings)

we can read, we can educate ourselves. we can.

02 September 2017

everywhere instant

















polaroids look and feel like stills from old home movies that play out in my head. I suppose that's why I love them so much.

(selections from polaroid week twenty-seventeen)

(more over at everywhere instant)

27 August 2017

sunday seven

 
hello fine people on this fine sunday evening. here are seven instagram feeds that crack my world open on the daily:

1. everyday everywhere 
2. everyday black america 
3. everyday latin america 
4. everyday africa  
5. everyday asia
6. everydaymiddleeast
7. everyday migration

there are at least sixteen to seventeen additional everyday instagram accounts from all over and I follow as many as I can find. they connect me to the world daily, broaden my scope profoundly and bring me immeasurable joy. 

white people, we can make sure the folks we follow on social media come from all walks of life. we can. 

in the interest of dismantling white supremacy, I realize this is a fairly small action. and lord knows instagram is not the answer. but making conscious decisions to follow a wide variety of voices, get to know new folks with different experiences, fill our feeds with new stories and diverse perspectives daily, is. it absolutely should not stop here but friends, it's a good place to start.

22 August 2017

roll on, roll on


(one)


(two)

(one): taken with the holga (while riding a bike!) in new orleans, september 2014. saw that cloud of white hair, that blue polka-dotted dress, pointed that plastic camera and said a prayer. so many of my photographs are prayers. both before I hit the shutter and after. 

(two): taken with the holga (while standing on a concrete table) in panama city beach, florida, november 2015. I said a prayer while I shot this one too. though mostly because that concrete table I was standing on boasted a sizable, ominous crack. 

both were submissions to roll film week back in july over on flickr. flickr, ye olde harbinger of ubiquitous internet photograph sharing. I hold onto it as tightly (and unapologetically) as I do blogspot and goodreads.

18 August 2017

we can


white people, 

we can read books.
we can educate ourselves.
we can give money to the good fight.
we can give our efforts to the good fight.
we can show up, march, protest, counter-protest.
we can talk to our kids.
we can talk to our parents.
we can have that one really difficult conversation with that friend, that family member.
we can have it again and again, until there's no question where we stand.
we can let them go, if we need to.
we can write letters, we can write one every day.
we can make phone calls, we can make one every day.
we can support local businesses owned by people of color.
we can make sure the folks we follow on social media come from all walks of life.
we can be quiet and listen, really listen. 
we can confront our ugly parts, the ones that are hard to look at.
we can acknowledge that we cannot change what we refuse to see.
we can change what we see.
we can take small steps.
we can take giant ones.
we can do something, every day.
we can show up, every day.
we can, we can, we can.

we can be better, we can do better. this is an understatement. 

you're overwhelmed, I know it, I am too. but white supremacy is a cancer, hundreds of years old, about to swallow this country whole. so, we can wallow in our overwhelm and outrage or we can get to work. 

I'll be here regularly with resources: ways to get involved, places to donate time and money, book lists, podcasts, documentaries, people to follow on twitter and instagram, personal stories. this is an action: I commit to show up here regularly. which, if you've been reading my twelve year-old blog for any amount of time at all, you know, is a big deal-- almost laughable-- but I commit to show up, and I hope you will too. 

18 July 2017

sixty second love letter (one)


love letter//number one from andrea corrona jenkins on Vimeo.

a sixty second photograph that is really a sixty second love letter to a place I love so much it makes my bones hurt: san francisco.

I last traveled there in august of 2016, thanks to my dear friend tracy. sometimes I think I miss it more than portland. but I don't want to talk about it.

year two of the sixty second photograph project and we're not making films every month like we did the first year, just every once in a while, you know, all quarterly-like. which gives us all a little more breathing room, I think. I first shared this film during the great in between, aka my six-month silence here. I put it out there with the rest of the lovely films, said nary a word about it. now feels like a good time to say a word about it.

tracy, this is for you. you are all up in this film, even if your face isn't.

(music: queen by the octopus project)

27 June 2017

in between


a few things happened since I last wrote in december.

ava dyed her hair bright pink. ezra grew a hundred inches and then, turned thirteen. 

I read seventeen books. sampled eggplant ice cream, took my first large format photograph, bumped into my modern dance hero on the new york subway and broke the hammock in the backyard, though not all necessarily in that order.

new people moved into the houses next door and across the street, a real coffee shop opened up in our neighborhood and the cherry red cardinal who regularly flits around the backyard was given a name. larry. his name is larry. 

I taught ezra how to determine perfect avocado ripeness, introduced ava to the goldfinch and made ward teach me how to make a good cup of coffee. I drink coffee now. one morning I just woke up and said, this is madness! give me coffee! true story.

I broke down and finally bought myself a proper bra. rearranged the bedroom furniture in a blind fury, road tripped to nashville for junk and funnel cakes, shot my first record album cover, participated in my fifteenth polaroid week, contemplated a job (once again) waitressing at waffle house and realized rage vacuuming is probably the only workout I'll ever really need.

ezra learned to hold his own in the basketball games that take place on the courts up at the park. ava went to her first prom, had a horrible time and my heart seized up and broke the way it always does when my kids hurt. I stood beneath a few trees-- the old angel oak in john's island, south carolina and a cherry blossom tree in brooklyn. both times, my knees went wobbly and I felt glad to be alive. 

I started to write here at least a dozen times, probably more, but the words turned soft, dissolved into nothing, always. this country unraveled in ways I (naively) thought not possible, and america repeatedly confirmed in horrific, heartbreaking new ways what I already knew to be true: it does not value the lives of black and brown people. I questioned the church. not my faith, not God, but the church. in the months that fell between december and june, I grappled, stumbled, felt hopeless.

to be clear, I continue to grapple, stumble, feel hopeless. but in between, God. avocados to check for ripeness. pink hair, subway magic, childhood milestones. red cardinals named larry, new neighbors who grow sunflowers and sit on front porches while children jump through sprinklers, new neighbors whose parents are from different countries. good trees to stand under, meaty books to read and, thank the good Lord, hot coffee in the morning. 

in between, privilege to check, again and again. conversations to have, hard conversations. learning to do, learning, learning, learning, always, reading, acknowledging, learning. in between, ways to give, work to do, a chorus to join, the great, unending push forward. 

in between, we have voices, we have hands, we can work. 

in between is when everything happens.

21 June 2017

I miss this space

and I'm going to start writing again. I am.