Wow--shout-outs to both Hayley and Sara for thoughtful postings, below...I DO love to listen to y'all think out loud...

I picked the quote I'll use on Friday (and which I offer here as a source for black-out poetry making):

Governor Thomas Dewey granted clemency to Ruth Brown, enabling her to be set free....She left Bedford Hills at age forty-five after being locked up for twenty-one years. She was supposed to be on parole for the rest of her life.

Two years later, she was imprisoned for not obeying the rules of her parole....She had been a prisoner for so long that she felt more at home inside Bedford than outside it....

For years to come, the story of Ma Brown was passed down from one generation of Bedford prisoners to the next. Her story was part history lesson, part cautionary tale. Nobody wanted to lose all contact with the outside world like Ma Brown had...Nobody wanted to discover that by the time they were finally permitted to leave, they had lost their desire to be free (83).

http://thejourneyofgrowing.wordpress.com/ 

http://thejourneyofgrowing.wordpress.com/

It is the middle of summer at music camp. About 60 instruments are outside soaking in the open muggy air, wood expanding, and increasing their potential to crack. Before my quartet walks onto stage, we notice that our quartet teacher had somehow obtained our music and drawn cats and smiley faces all over it. This was supposed to encourage us to smile and interact more as we play. Once we had all sat down, adjusted our music, and right before we were about to play, we all turned to our teacher in the audience and forcibly smiled and purred at her. The next moment we started playing. All of us went in a circle and played our opening solos, we looked at each other right before our cues, and when we had parallel lines. The technical aspects of how to play were gone, and we connected by talking to each other through listening to each other’s music and responding.

From the audience’s perspective our quartet probably looked strange, smiling and making noises at the crowd before playing, and the way we played compared to a professional recording of Beethoven was not impressive. Then from a further removed perspective, playing quartets serves no practical purpose in the sustainment of life. However, from the inside, this moment was really moving to me because of the connection I made with my quartet members and the music.

There has been a lot of hype recently about Lily Allen's latest song, Hard Out There. It makes quite a bold statement about the objectification and hypersexualization of women in media and music. Some people absolutely love the song, and some are horribly dissappointed.

Here is a really interesting article from Scarleteen that addresses why the music video can be interpreted as quite controversial and insulting (especially with regard to racism and slut-shaming:

http://www.scarleteen.com/blog/cecilia/2013/11/14/decoding_sex_in_the_media_how_lily_allens_hard_out_here_sadly_missed_the_mar 

In case you haven't seen the video, it's definitely worth a watch! You can check it out here: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E0CazRHB0so

P.s. Check out ari_hall's post too! 

I am in the middle of reading Robert Scott's "Distinguishing Radical Teaching from Merely Having Intense Experiences," and I just had to stop and write some of my thoughts down. While I agree with Scott's assertion that the intense isolation of the prison environment has negative effects on prisoners as learners, I am struggling with some of the assumptions which bring the author to make this conclusion. Scott writes "There is no internet to cross-reference the course materials so the reading process itself becomes isolated. An isolated reading can easily become a misreading. When a teacher introduces an unheard-of subject, the resources they provide may be the only reference that students have." While Scott is not wrong in pointing out the stark lack of resources (such as outside reading materials, internet, etc.) that exist for prisoners while reading, I don't think it is possible for the reading experience to ever be entirely isolated. As we learned from Megan Sweeney in "Reading is My Window," reading allowed for the women on the inside to form what she titles as an Underground Railroad of Reading, through which women exchange books and critical conversation. Rather than reading in total isolation, the women become resources for each other. When we meet with the women from Riverside, I get the sense that similar connections are being formed between our group members during the time in between each meeting.

Concentration

It’s another day of busy schedule, after all the classes, I decide to take a rest. Walking on the green of Bryn Mawr, trying to drive all the thoughts away from my head, I look up. It was 5 pm. The sun’s still hanging on the roof of one building, and dyed the sky with a thousand kinds of gorgeous red. The wind blows. But this moment I feel unconscious of the wind but aware of the world: I can see everything clearly around myself, but I don’t feel them from my body, I only have raising warmth inside the deep of my body, which isolate my soul from the outside world, my body. The time congeals. I could be anywhere.

When I was reading “deep play”, all the descriptions of the eternity, the holy feeling during play, gave me one word: concentration. Deep play is where people concentrate themselves into something, and that is when I walk on the grass and feel so aware of the world but in the mean time, unconscious of their impact on me. According to Ackerman, “Deep play is the ecstatic form of play.” It is in a form of play, but the spirit of deep play is not about play itself, it’s the feeling generated in one’s soul. When I was walking on the green, the only thing I felt is myself, even the whole world around me has a great amount of information, the only thing I seized was the self I concentrated on. It’s in the form of my vision of the sun, the green, but the actual deep play is only the feeling existed from deep inside my body.

Power feminism--not a term I had heard prior to our last meeting.  Feminism always felt/sounded like this unifying term that acted to unite the experiences of margianalized people, rather than separate them.  I know so many people who worship Hilary Clinton at her feet, but is she not the power feminist we critiqued in class on Tuesday? Sometimes, I struggle with deciding if there is a "line" to draw in examining feminism.  I hope that makes sense.  When does reflection become useless?  If every feminism/leadership is somehow problematic, what is the end point?  

Perhaps on a less fruitless note, I was interested by hooks's statement that one cannot be anti-abortion and still a feminist.  If feminism is for everybody, then must we have these expectations?  Not to throw myself into the mud here, but I do have a bit of a problem with the idea of abortion.  I think that women should have the choice, as it truly is their body in the end, but that we too easily fail to recognize that in aborting a fetus, you truly are killing a creature.  Having a serious medical producure like an abortion is no coin toss--it's a complex and painful situation.  And frankly, I'm not willing to merely sign on to believe that it's just simply 'ok' or 'not a big deal' or an easy, assumed option.  I don't think I'm any less of a feminist for believing that.

            As I walked through the cell blocks and out in the prison yard at Eastern State Penitentiary last weekend, I could feel the weight of the prison’s past coming down on me. Being inside those walls felt like being in a whole different universe, I felt disconnected from not only the immediate surroundings of the prison, but also from my own life and experiences. With every step I took I distanced myself farther and farther from myself and moved closer and closer to a timeless state of contemplation and inner peace. Standing inside the cell I felt trapped initially thinking of the hole in the wall where the door would once was as if the door still remained and I truly was contained in the cell. However, as time went on I no longer felt this sense of being trapped in the cell in the same sense, I was able to spend the time with myself and my surroundings. The walls whispered stories to me through the cracks and the dust on the floor filling the silence with the sounds of their past and mine. Looking out the narrow window in the back of the cell I was transported back in time it seemed, able to feel the prison as it was back when it’s cells were still filled.

We are somewhat stick to music. The night before farewell, my friends and I sang on a street near Funan River. It was almost eleven in the evening, but still lots of people passed by, because it was Saturday.  One of my friends said, “Why don’t we sing?” “Shall we?”　“Why not? We are going to different places tomorrow, and we can’t see each other until next summer.” “Next Summer” That was the phrase that touched me.  Next summer is way too far. Too far. Then we began to sing. Loudly. Crazily. Passionately. Sadly. Happily. That moment, all I saw were my friends’ faces, and the light across the river. I shouted out, "If there is world where things never change, where people never say goodbye and never die." It is a little bit strange to say, I didn’t see any one passing by. All I did was singing, as loudly as I can. The feeling was mixed. Some sadness some happiness. After that, I felt sense of release, and I finally started to think about the people around.