Event | The Conversation – “Memorials and Monuments: Lessons from Charlottesville, New Orleans, and Port Chicago”

Time: 6:30 PM – 8:00 PM
Location: 24th Street Theater, Sierra 2 Center,
2791 24th Street, Sacramento, CA 95818

Join us for “The Conversation,” a new public event series hosted by the UC Davis Humanities Institute that invites professors and public intellectuals to consider current issues of the day. The Conversation will offer an open format, including short remarks by each participant as well as plenty of time for questions and discussion by the audience.

In our first installment, we reflect on recent events in Charlottesville and New Orleans, among other places, that have wrestled with how we remember and memorialize the past. Monuments and calls for their removal have become flashpoints for wider debates about our history and identity.

Panelists will include UC Davis Professors Gregory Downs (History), a leading historian of the Civil War and a leader in the effort to create the first National Park site devoted to Reconstruction and emancipation, and Javier Arbona (American Studies and Design), who is completing a project on memorial landscapes, Black Resistance, and World War II in the San Francisco Bay Area. “The Conversation” will be moderated by Professor Jaimey Fisher of German and Cinema and Digital Media, who has written about contemporary Germany’s relationship to its difficult past.

The event is free and open to the public. Please come and join the conversation!

This event is sponsored by UC Davis Humanities Institute

For more information please contact: Becky Wilson, rjwilson@ucdavis.edu

RSVP here

“To grow up on Guam”

To grow up on Guam is to grow up in a deeply militarized and colonized place. American bases occupy nearly 30 percent of the territory. Two of the main highways are “Marine Corps Drive” and “Army Drive.” The road from my grandma’s house to my former elementary school is “Purple Heart Highway.” Barbed wire fences with “No Trespassing Signs” snake across our island.

– Craig Santos Perez, Battleship Guam

Reading on spaces of the Afterblast

I was kindly invited by a creative group to join a reading/showing at E.M. Wolfman bookstore in Oakland, on Thursday May 25, 7-9pm (which cuts incredibly close to my bedtime for a school night!)

Readings and art for the human & nonhuman worlds w/ Elisabeth NiculaKate SchapiraMaya Weeks and myself. There will be projections and readings talking about (my sense so far) marine bioplastics, geologic time and representations, militancy, climate anxiety, logistics and all that.

I’ve been toying around with what I want to discuss that addresses “human and non-human” worlds, and I will probably read a few passages from my work-in-progress manuscript that deal with the spaces of the “afterblast” (after an explosion) and how such fleeting events are recorded by humans and landscapes.

Photo: US Navy, NPS Port Chicago Memorial

Queer Boricua Geopolitics and the Pulse Shooting


Queer anthropology’s focus must turn attention to these understandings of the queer geopolitical if we are to understand how homosexuality gets attached to values whether or not they have anything to do with actual lived experiences of LGBT, homosexual, or non-heterosexual peoples.

 Tamar Shirinian, “The Queer Political is Geopolitical”

In the colony, the “world” is often thought of as the U.S. After all, that is where you go if you want to be a citizen for real. But, in reality, the world in the colony is so tiny and beautiful and heartbreaking, it fits in a dance club.

Guillermo Rebollo Gil, “As It Regards The Ones We’ve Lost


The June 12, 2016 attack on the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Fl. will continue to reverberate for much time to come. While processing all of it, and continuing to mourn, I have wanted to mention what strikes me as a persistent exclusion, even in responses that are otherwise thoughtful and intelligent. The core of what I find missing has three parts that are combined in inseparable ways, as I see it (and I stress, coming from my own partial perspective as a Puerto Rican cis-male in a hetero partnership, and not a queer studies scholar per se).

First, by some counts, 23 or more of the 49 killed at Pulse were Puerto Ricans (born either on or off of the official territory marked as Puerto Rico), and more than 50 injured. While the queer latinidad of the space is sometimes mentioned—but not mentioned frequently enough—the Puerto Rican identity of so many patrons of Pulse, part of the significant Boricua diaspora in Orlando (living there more permanently or simply visiting) persistently gets swept aside. Again, this exclusion happens unfortunately even within radical queer responses that do have a critique of the opportunistic ways in which the “Latino” identity, or a reductive LGBT abstraction of those targeted, is selectively deployed to bolster militaristic and islamophobic goals. (Check out, for example, this program w/ Mattilda B. Sycamore and Yasmin Nair, and this piece by Jack Halberstam).

Yet the Puerto Rican presence at Pulse should be central to this story, as reflected briefly in this piece by Berkeley professor Juana María Rodríguez, just as queer and LGBT Boricuas in the United States and the Caribbean have long been integral to queer performance, rioting, visibility, HIV/AIDS struggles, and more. In Puerto Rican circles, a number of news and blog articles have been circulating with intensity.

This is acutely critical to understand in relation to what emerges as the second part of this absence in the narratives around the hate-driven massacre. The US Congress, with the boost of recent Supreme Court decisions, is in the process of passing legislation that, for all intents and purposes, throws away Puerto Rico’s already-fictitious Constitution, imposing unilaterally a “fiscal control board” to “help” Puerto Rico with “the tools” to resolve the sovereign debt crisis. Nota Bene: While the fiscal control board is presented as a humanitarian intervention, the ongoing (inhumane) crises in coordinates like Flint’s lead pipes, Detroit’s water shutdowns, or Chicago’s shuttered schools portray a different picture of where neoliberal austerity is going with this.

Another way to look at the second element—colonization—is to start with this question: Why are so many Puerto Ricans in Orlando, anyway? Few, except for Puerto Ricans themselves (see for example: Rebollo-Gil; La Fountain-Stokes), have stopped to ask what connects the colonization of Puerto Rico to Pulse. Furthermore, as La Fountain-Stokes points out, LGBT and queer Boricuas also migrate to Orlando precisely because they are sometimes escaping from violence and harassment in Puerto Rico (or some combination of several factors, of which anti-gay hate may be one component among many, and influential to a smaller or a larger extent in these territorial mobilities, depending on each case), of which I’ll say a bit more below.

To be perfectly clear, it is not only historical imperialism undergirding dispossession, poverty, and lack of political agency that has driven Puerto Rican migration. It is also the very present state of US bipartisan politics that treats queer Puerto Rican lives, like Omar Mateen apparently did, as disposable. One should also be aware here that when it comes to LGBT and queer rights in Puerto Rico, colonial governance and dispossession is important to note, but it’s not merely about a local driver, as the US media is often quick to conclude, although figures like statehooders Ricky Rosselló, Tata Charbonier, and Tomás Rivera-Schatz deserve a ton of scorn (as do many independentistas, soberanistas, and estado-libristas—that is, all the political stripes—who’ve also propagated hate). The local interacts with the federal and the global. By the way, another clarification: I don’t presume that everyone who identifies as an LGBT Puerto Rican sympathizes with anti-imperial politics, although most who would identify as queer, aware of the radical politics bundled with the term, more than likely do oppose US occupation, as well as perhaps citizenship-based, borderized, exclusionary notions of settler-colonial rights.

But anti-LGBTQ hate in Puerto Rico functions in combination with myriad forms of metropolitan disinterest as well as US capital flows. One might examine, e.g., fundamentalist church finances, gay “conversion” therapies, and anti-LGBT resource networks that fund local politicians or anti-adoption legal cases. And not to mention, while also keeping in mind the importance of religious beliefs to many survivors, the hate reproduced—despite the diversity of practitioners and clergy—at the hands of the global Catholic church with deep roots in Puerto Rico, given that other European, pre-1898 occupying empire – Spain.

Third, the colonized Puerto Rican figure (see the two points above) targeted in the attack, along, certainly, with many more diverse identities, is also a queer geopolitical subject, as I take it from a smart short piece by Tamar Shirinian (albeit with no mention of Puerto Rico). As scholars, we are often able to connect the effects of hate across geographical space — and connect hate to a co-constitutive power, the increasingly global pinkwashing industry to justify liberal militarism. In this regard, it is no coincidence that the Friends of the IDF had a Puerto Rican gay man, Ricky Martin, play a benefit show. But Puerto Ricans and Latinxs, as well as a broader general public and thinkers, tend to (conveniently) forget that some Latinxs also identify as Arab, Palestinian, and/or Muslim, or are of Arab or Muslim ancestry — and some Arab Latinxs also happen to be part of the LGBT and/or Queer community.

Meanwhile, as many have explained, however much it is lost in the CNN/Fox News hysteria, the US security apparatus’ response to the bloodshed is to callously and cynically intensify islamophobia, calling for Muslim bans, racial profiling, and more aerial bombardment and special forces against an indefinite enemy. Persistent militarized readiness from the state is also co-existent with casual, everyday forms of insults, harassment, and militant attacks against mosques or persons’ bodies (inflamed more and more by the Trump campaign, although not unique to it by any means, as is also paralleled in Europe).

The third part of the composite absence I am describing matters because it is not simply the catch-all, popular term “Latinos” (or sometimes now the term Latinxs to encompass gender-queer and cis Latino/as) who are interpellated for the “war on terror,” pitting ‘us’ against ‘them,’ or against those Others reduced to a violent ethno-religious abstraction. Let’s recall that one of the most exemplary cases of the stripping of habeas corpus in the war on terror was against a Puerto Rican from New York converted to Islam, José Padilla. The figure of José Padilla reminds us how ethnically fluid lawfare can be.

It is precisely Puerto Ricans—historically, fighting grunts in US wars starting with World War I—who are once again being hailed to participate, including through affective mobilizations, in a global war, now without limits or borders, and in particular, specific ways. This is a war apparatus that, in fact, also has been deployed—from 1898’s invasion—against Puerto Ricans themselves, and has been / is being actively used to pacify insurgency against imperialism and colonialism.

In other words, Puerto Ricans are commonly coerced to endorse, vote, and accept this apparatus against, no doubt, themselves (that is, ourselves). Thus, it is at this specific moment when the intermittent visibility and invisibility of queer Puerto Ricans operates to justify security logics, especially versus populations and territories similarly racialized and occupied (though different in specific geopolitical ways).

For those of us who identify as Puerto Ricans in the United States, we have to ask ourselves when does our presence, or perhaps our memory, become important—visible—and when does our visibility, and our collective memory, not matter; why, how, and where, specifically, are we erased, and what are the geopolitics of that erasure, deliberately or not — even amongst radical allies?

Finally, let’s take for example the infamous Democrats’ Sit-In at the US Congress last week to promote war on terror measures that apply terror watchlists to gun background checks. This comical episode was, quite specifically and egregiously, an appropriation of queer geopolitical Boricua and Latinx lives to score political capital through the semiotics of gun control (and promote Dunkin Donuts), while the very same Congress, with the approval of the White House, is passing anti-Puerto Rican legislation — the Puerto Rico Oversight, Management and Economic Stability Act, or PROMESA. Briefly, PROMESA (the fiscal control board legislation) will lower wages, privatize infrastructure, and prohibit public sector strikes, among more impositions. Needless to say, PROMESA is also endorsed by a diverse array of colonial elites, the governor, the Clintons, and Puerto Rican members of Congress …And, Lin-Manuel Miranda.

However, it is legitimized US military weaponry and expertise—immune from gun control—that has often been used against Puerto Ricans, Latinxs, and Latin American geographies. Congressional Democrats are not protesting the School of the Americas, for instance, or to end the War on Drugs that drags on and takes in so many Latinx and Puerto Ricans lives, queer and not queer (relatedly, see especially the work of Marisol LeBrón on neoliberal policing in Puerto Rico, and Zaire Dinzey-Flores on policed housing segregation). Or elsewhere, US politicians, to wit, are de facto in favor of an unfolding coup in Brasil (just as Hillary Clinton backed a coup in Honduras). By and large, the US political class, in spite of minor differences between GOP and Democrats, favors borderization and violent policing, while denying Latinx migrants their rights, running an immigrant detention gulag system. And this list could go on and on. I don’t mean to simply point out hypocrisy here; I mention these inconsistencies and contradictions because these are specifically structural ways in which Latinxs and Puerto Ricans, including queers, are expected to mobilize—including as, and sometimes especially as, selectively memorialized dead bodies—for US empire, all while they themselves—we ourselves—are expendable.

All of this is to say that while the queer latinidad of Pulse is unevenly recalled, let alone its Boricua queer latinidad, merely invoking Latinxs and Puerto Ricans, the living and the dead, can have ambiguous and even reverse effects that run counter to the life and survival of Latinxs and Puerto Ricans. But at the same time, we must not forget the multifaceted trajectories of queer Boricuas to Orlando, an amnesia that could be even deadlier.

Christina Sharpe on Sutures

The suture:

It’s a type of forgetting the origin of [Amazing Grace] that then passes as a remembering: Newton’s salvation, which is not the salvation of the enslaved, but Newton’s own salvation—he’s caught in a storm and he survives it. Maybe he participated in the throwing overboard of enslaved people, but he survived the storm. So it’s both that memory and forgetting as they’re sutured. (my emphasis added)

What Exceeds the Hold?

For me, Sharpe is one of the main authors today with whom to think about the performativity of memory; about who and what memory is for; about memory’s mediations and representations; and, about visual culture and performance spaces, more broadly. In this passage Sharpe is critiquing Obama’s singing of Amazing Grace at the Rev. Pinkney funeral; Obama’s willful or perhaps apathetic neglect for the complexity of the song, both about memory and forgetting as “sutured” in the Black experience. Trauma and redemption are here together as resistant to any easy digestion by those who may want to expedite the post-slavery or post-racial moment in spaces of memory. But, importantly, this resistant form to facile incorporation does not make it any less difficult to bear the attempts to have it appropriated.

Another part of this interview I’ll paste here at length is about Sharpe reading Frank Wilderson on Baldwin and the making of Black suffering “visible, hearable and understandable to white people:”

Wilderson writes it’s “a painful essay in which Baldwin explains how he experienced, through beginning and ending his ‘friendship’ with Mailer, those moments when Blackness inspires White emancipatory dreams and how it feels to suddenly realize the impossibility of the inverse.” He goes on to write that “Baldwin’s condemnation of discourses that utilize exploitation and alienation’s grammar of suffering is unflinching: ‘I am afraid that most of the white people I have ever known impressed me as being in the grip of a weird nostalgia, dreaming of a vanished state of security and order, against which dream, unfailingly and unconsciously, they tested and very often lost their lives,'” etc. and he goes on to quote Baldwin saying, “There is a difference,’ he writes, ‘between Norman and myself in that I think he still imagines that he has something to save, whereas I have never had anything to lose.'” [9] I was thinking about this in terms of the language of what it means to suffer and tying that language of what it means to suffer to a refusal to continually try to make Black suffering visible, hearable, and understandable to white people(my emphasis added)

So, to pick up with the previous quote above, Sharpe is talking about a compounded suffering. That is, if I follow correctly, a suffering of an alienation complicated by forced visibility, which is in many ways a central theme of her previous and highly necessary book, Monstrous Intimacies. The suture is non-representable. The coercion necessary to make something ontological into something visible is related to the truncated memory we read about in the previous. Sharpe is concerned with the toll exacted by the trauma of bearing these representations, as if this is all that white people would need to come to their senses.

Her next book, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being, will be out soon.

(via Katherine McKittrick; and the entire issue in which the interview appears looks highly rewarding.)

Jaime Galván’s memory in Chicago

Chicago is another city that figures prominently in some of my current work as the site of perhaps the first cop memorial in the United States – the Haymarket police monument, now located inside the police station after several attacks on its structure.

Jaime Galván died ten years ago in police custody inside the infamous Homan Square illicit detention facility run by the Chicago police for interrogations and torture, as uncovered in the Guardian. In a follow-up story about Homan that focuses on Galván’s suspicious death in custody, the spatiality of grief and grieving play a prominent role in the writing:

They come every year to Mt Olive Cemetery on the 10th of February, the anniversary of Galvan’s death and the birthday of his youngest daughter, Victoria, wiping the snow off the granite slab engraved with Jaime’s face. Celebration of Victoria’s birthday has been muted since police told the family Galvan died by drug overdose at the west side warehouse, which the Guardian has exposed as a site for incommunicado detentions and interrogations without access to legal counsel.

Sites of burial and grief are intensified by the unknowns in the case; the incapacity to find elusive justice or explanations from the official sites of politics—city hall, the courts, the district attorney’s offices, etc—re-situate vocalization of demands and the sounds of accountability on the location of memory.

Regarding police killings and grief in San Francisco

On the human remains of Luis Gongora:

But Grant is determined to tracked Gongora’s family members so that his body can be released from the morgue.

The rituals we use to mark the end of a life seemed far out of reach for Gongora’s friends. The people who knew him best have no legal right to claim his body. Even if they could, they have no money to pay for his burial.

A priest from the neighborhood has offered to set up a fundraiser, and Grant said she hopes that will make the difference.

“People won’t give money to us because they’ll think we’ll just steal it,” she said. “We’re not like that. It would mean a lot to me if he had a proper memorial. – The Guardian (emphasis added)

Worth repeating again that the San Francisco police have their own —publicly financed— place to memorialize their own who are “killed in the line of duty” (while Gongora’s friends struggle to find some way to record his life).

a community memorial for Gongora; photo by Dan Tuffs, The Guardian
a community memorial for Gongora; photo by Dan Tuffs, The Guardian

The circumstance of  being unhoused—and dead—brings about another series of consequences that remain rather unimaginable for anyone who hasn’t experienced homelessness— namely the spatial question about how death itself can be recorded and remembered when someone is homeless; how social exclusion extends into the afterspaces of death and grief, and what such effects produce in terms of social reproduction. The absence of a space of mourning is not merely an incidental, tragic outcome of poverty. It instead seems to be related with how police violence is forgettable.

That is to say, when San Francisco’s mayor, Ed Lee, alleges to be handling two simultaneous crises – (1) the use of police force that systematically just so happens to lead to these kinds of tragic outcomes, and (2) the proliferation of homeless camps in the booming city – it is precisely in the elusive spaces of grief where these two issues clearly come to be tied together. But the mayor and others would prefer them to have them remain apart by evicting grief itself: “I will be ordering the Shotwell camp to be taken down and for it not to come back,” said Lee.