Amina on collectivizing, rethinking roles, and balancing community accessibility with personal sustainability

amina Eva Wô 1.jpg
Photo by Eva Wô

What’s your name and how do you identify yourself in the world?

My name’s Amina. If I’m doing music or art or running my mouth about politics, I identify myself as Amina Shareef Ali. If I’m putting on a professional hat in my work as a therapist, I identify myself with a different name.

How are you doing?

Right in the moment, I feel good. In life in general, I’m good. I love my relationships, my kid, my clients, the people I get to share my music with, and the people I’m in community with. It’s that middle level that’s trickiest — between the right this second and the bigger picture. Depression has been wafting in and out over the last several weeks. It’s hard to get to the bottom of. Sometimes it helps to be a therapist to conceptualize your own mental stuff, and sometimes it really doesn’t. Sometimes I think depression can be productive, to use a loaded word — it’s doing something. I’m depressed because my psyche is working through something.

How are you moving through depression at the moment?

I try to keep a handle on different places where it could adversely impact things. I have not yet been in a space where I couldn’t fully show up for clients. I take that seriously. I’ve been heartened to discover that often if I’m struggling, doing therapy work with someone else often helps me. I can put myself aside and show up for them in a way that feels good. I can feel my strength. I want to be thankful for that and not exploit it by overbooking myself, and not let any structure exploit it. Extra reserves of energy should be honored as a gift from your deeper self.

I feel like that’s the feminized labor of one’s psyche. What do you make of that experience — that being in pain is where you find strength to show up for others?

I lived through my twenties as a boy and transitioned almost a year ago. Something I distinctly remember from before my transition was that women, femme, or AFAB (assigned female at birth) people in my life would be the ones expressing distress. I would move into this role of being the rock, the stabilizing force. I want to be able to describe this without judgement, because there were situations where that was valuable and appreciated. As a boy, there was a way of shoring up my feelings of self control and masculine composure. Now, I’m femme, I’m more emotionally competent than ever before in my life, and I also cry and break down more than I ever did in my life. How do we understand that? I think about this position where I’m vulnerable and have a lot of feelings I can’t control, and then I pull it together and hold space for someone else, a role that I previously would have conceptualized as masculine. I’m in both of these roles. This first one gets devalued and isn’t seen as work. But it is. It’s work that my psyche is doing. Maybe it makes the other one possible.

amina Eva Wô 3
Amina and her partner Claire. Photo by Eva Wô.

Dang, I’m not ready for this today… Thank you for sharing that. What do you see as your role and work in creating the world you want to live in?

I want to track some of my evolution as a radical. I got my first liberal arts college canned social justice framework in the early 2000s. It blew my mind at the time, but it didn’t dig deeper or ask, where did this come from, what was there before, and how is it made and re-made every day? How can we fight it and how can’t we? I became a radical around 2011 when Occupy popped off. In the Oakland radical scene there were lots of smashy anarchists. My dear friend Brian Belknap, my favorite songwriter in the Bay and an old Leninist, became my de facto mentor for a while. I felt pulled between those sides. You see the hammer and sickle on my arm. I feel somewhat aligned with a Marxist tradition and materialism; I also saw the intellectual and moral poverty of existing socialist groupings. It’s like, this is the theory I align with so these should be my people. But I look at how y’all act in response to difference, and I’m like, no, you’re not my team. I also felt critical of certain strains of anarchism that seemed self-satisfied to work on these projects that seemed really isolated. I didn’t feel like I could join a team and I really wanted to. Then three and a half years ago, my kid Hazel was born. I haven’t engaged in anything that would be recognized as political. I’m not going to no meetings; I’m not going to many actions in the streets. It’s caused me to rethink.

I read in one of your posts that many people have mentioned Emergent Strategy. My partner Hannah was captivated by it and motivated to put together a reading group. Hannah came into my life four months after Hazel was born, after I already had a full life of parenting, music, trying to do politics, and having another partner. Shortly after that I would go back to school to become a therapist. I felt instinctively it was important to be a part of this group, not because of the book itself but because what I and we need to be doing is building theoretical knowledge with people we’re already in relationship with — rather than having a canned theory and being like, that’s your team, go over there. How you’re in relationship and how you show up and how your lives are weaved together is what matters. The group has met a handful of times, and catalyzed a lot of churning around of my process.

I see the overall landscape as pretty fucking bleak. I see decades of the Left disintegrating and getting less organized and less rigorous. You have people scrambling trying to recruit and build big organizations quickly. But y’all have no history together. You don’t have any real bonds except for what you believe and some lil’ roster. It’s relatively easy to build an organization that has some espoused beliefs, is good at recruiting people, and in the end, is gonna tell people to hold their nose and vote for a Democrat. It’s harder to build something with versatility to be like yo, can we join this fight to stop this person from being evicted? Can we raise children together? Can we support this person in crisis? That flexibility has to happen on a small scale with the people you already have relationships and trust with.

There’s tension between, how do we apply our ideals around autonomy and collectivity, and see how they play out in relationship and in community; versus knowing that capitalism and all these other systems are always going to undermine us so we can’t actually build a utopia in a little bubble, and that there has to be a fight for revolution and abolition of all these structures. In my mind, the former is more anarchist-aligned and the latter is more communist or socialist aligned. And I’ve been guilty of undervaluing that first strategy; I felt it was important and participated in it, but I also undervalued it. The conception I have now is, it’s necessary but not sufficient. My internalized anarchist makes the error of knowing that it’s necessary, but forgetting it’s not sufficient; my internalized communist makes the error of knowing it’s not sufficient, but forgetting that it’s still necessary.

For one, I am giving myself permission to not feel guilty about not plugging in to overtly political work. There are good fights happening all the time that need support. I know that I don’t have capacity to bottomline something. I’m open to being called on to give to this person’s bail fund, or show up to swell the crowd, but I’m not trying to seek out something to give myself to. I think that’s really okay for where I am in life. My life is very full trying to keep my relationships strong, parent my child, do my therapy work, and have enough left to do things that bring me joy. I want to understand those things as being enough — I feel implicitly that they are.

amina Eva Wô 4
Amina and her partner Hannah. Photo by Eva Wô.

It’s so funny the way that we’re talking about certain kinds of labor being devalued and erased. In the course of this conversation I find myself in a dance between trying to not do that and then still doing it, for all those things i just described. Like, the labor of being a therapist is really valorized. Hannah checked me on this and I’m super grateful for that. I believe what I do is valuable, but there’s a way in which we find ourselves conceding to a more conservative logic if we’re not careful. Recently I was feeling devalued by someone and I responded like, ‘Fuck that, I’m doing good work as a therapist and I’m supporting a lot of queers who’ve been through a lot of trauma and I’m helping them heal and that’s valuable.’ Hannah has done paid work as a peer counselor and a direct care provider and now works in landscaping, and shows up for people whether they’re in crisis or just need a hand. They actively seeks out trainings to work on their shit and lend support, and they watch Hazel one day a week. And they told me, ‘I don’t do anything that is ever gonna be valorized as therapy is and I probably never will. But what I do isn’t less valuable.’ I realized they were right and I’d been tripping. I don’t want to devalue other people or myself in that way.  

My therapy work and parenting are both held up and valorized in a particular way.  But there’s also just showing up in my relationships. A couple years ago I thought I was pretty good at being in relationships but these last years have really turned my head around. I’ve learned about really nurturing them. Creating chosen family isn’t as simple as just flipping a switch. There’s a material base for nuclear formations and for people to revert back to that. How do we materially try to undo that without getting assimilated into heteropatriarchy? How do webecome more collective? Our family structure has been a chain of five or six partners over the past few years, with no one along the way dating each other. We’re all bound together one-to-one-to-one, so making decisions like who lives with who, how we spend time, who’s responsible for finding childcare, etcetera reverts to couples. How do we collectivize and facilitate everyone being able to talk to everyone else, not just through their partners? Our lives are linked together already, but if we don’t want to just disintegrate into individual couples, that’s something that needs to happen.

Why is it important to collectivize and materialize ideals that aren’t the heteropatriarchy?

Our heritage as humans is collectivity. What ties our family together is we’re all involved in Hazel’s life to some extent. We’re all seeing and spending time with Hazel at least once a week. Parenting can be really isolating, even if you’re on a more upwardly mobile professional track. One of the ways in which people are recouped into bourgeois and heteropatriarchal structures is by professionalizing as much as possible so you can buy back the community support that doesn’t exist because of historical development. I’m not trying to get relief from parenting by paying someone else to replace me in that role. I’m not trying to perform a more valuable kind of labor and pay someone for their less valuable labor. Collectivity is the way to get relief that doesn’t involve assimilating in that way.

What is the world you want to live in?

I’ve done a lot of thinking about utopia — like what will life look like after the rev. After people don’t have to live in urban centers — where all the jobs are concentrated in places the workers can’t afford the rents — what will it look like when 10 years or 50 years or 100 years after? Without highways and sprawl? When there are cars built over 100 years ago are still being maintained but you don’t need very many of them, and these roads are just gardens or homes or wild space. What will gender look like? What will our families and relationships look like? I can fantasize that far-off, dream thing. There’s value in that.

But I’ve abandoned any strategy of how to get there. Like I said, the picture in the immediate term is pretty fucking bleak. I’m positioned where me and at least one of my partners are entering the petty bourgeoisie and will have professionalized careers where we’ll have hopefully some stability. I’ve chosen a path that banks on that. The question for me is: how do I want to live right now that can give myself, my loved ones, and my homies the best chances for joy, prosperity, and thriving — even in the hellscape — while not letting myself be assimilated? The pressure to be “respectable” is going to be really intense for the rest of my life. As a therapist I believe in providing free or low-cost mental health care to poor queers and queers of color. The LGBTQ counseling center where I work is jacking up their fees — our minimum fee is now 45 fuckin’ dollars. As if that’s not enough, it comes with a shit ton of ideological justification, like — this is why this is okay, this is why actually people can afford it. I’m expected to swallow that. If I call bullshit too loudly I put myself in danger. How do I speak up when it’s right, keep my head down when there’s not much to be gained, and not fucking drink the Kool Aid? I entered the field for a number of reasons, but one of them was certainly wanting to be more stable than being a broke musician kid. But when I enter private practice and it’s up to me to set the fees, what am I gonna charge? What do I hope to make?  What do I see as being my purpose of doing this work? How am I gonna square those? The sliding scale will always be at odds with my own individual prosperity. Most people just say fuck it. I’m gonna have to resist that my whole career if I want to actually still be able to help the people who wouldn’t be able to access it any other way.

amina Eva Wô 2
Claire, Amina, Hazel, and Hannah. Photo by Eva Wô

What are the barriers and the supports in making the work that you’re doing sustainable?

I don’t know if there’s another field besides therapy that has more of a gulf between its self-concept as a progressive force and the actuality of it. I’m an outsider in the professional psychology environments I’ve been in, but there are some homies, and I need to link up with them. We need to hold each other in community, support each other, and hold each other accountable. That’s one of the biggest projects of what I want to take on in this field. That will be both work and a support for me once I can get it going — once we can get it going. The alternatives are either assimilate or be completely fucking isolated and burned out.

Your vision of collectivizing in relationship to your therapy work feels connected to what we were talking about in your personal relationships — creating microcosms of the world you want to live in. Are there people, books, or works of art you want to shout out as things that guide your heart and mind on your path?

Not really. I feel like for any given radical person who may read this, you’ve got a sense of what your values are. You probably feel like, here are some things I know and feel good about, and here are some people who are babies and don’t know as much as me, and here are some people who’ve been at it way longer and know way more than me. Even if that’s true and there’s different quantities of knowledge and experience, we can hold that without judgement. Of course there are people who have been here longer than you because you’ve been around exactly how long you’ve been around. Wherever you’re hoping to go, you don’t need to go experience the things that the people you feel know more than you have experienced or read the things that they’ve read. It doesn’t really matter what you read. You should find something you’re interested in that people around you are interested in and go in on it together. If there’s difference, find a way to share it. The process of doing that is going to be the most valuable thing.

It’s less about the what and more about the how.

Yeah, because these are people you already have relationships with. You already eat meals together, work on a project together, work in the same workplace, share a household. It’s like okay, so we have some sense of how to work together and we’re linked up on a material level. So let’s build our knowledge together from that. And build relationships that’s based on building that together, and bring other people in.

Amina Shareef Ali is, in any order, a folksinger jerk, a therapist in training, a partner and parent, an enemy of capital and the state, and a flagrant mixed race queer transgirl. She hails from St. Louis and lives in Oakland. This interview is part of a series for The World We Want to Live in.

amina selfie.jpg

Dusty on grounding their bodywork in consent and bodies as strongholds

21743458_750693841783322_5497257341739428430_o

What’s your name and how do you identify yourself in the world?

My name is Dusty and I am a white, chronically ill, queer femme bodyworker.

What fills your days?

I’ve had a lot of solo time lately. In that time I’ve been trying to get outside more. I’ve been going to the Oakland Redwoods. I’ve been doing a lot of ‘woo’ stuff related to tarot, astrology, and learning about ancestor work and practices. I’ve been doing a lot of internal thinking and development work.

What does ancestor work mean to you?

I started listening to Bespoken Bones, this amazing podcast by a somatic sex therapist in San Francisco, Pavini Moray. It’s an exploration of how intergenerational trauma connects to the present, and how that connects to somatic and sexual wellness and capabilities. I’m thinking a lot about how I’m a white person from European ancestry and haven’t felt connected to family cultures or traditions. I need more history and context to anchor my work as a healer. I’m exploring this idea of acknowledging that I as a white person come from somewhere, and am connected to and must be accountable for things that have come before me. That idea feels powerful and important and like it’s going to become a bigger part of my life and practice.

I’m excited to hear how that progresses for you. What does being a healer look like in your life?

I am a massage therapist and bodyworker. That is my primary occupation and something I put a lot of time, love, and energy into learning about. The majority of my practice is working with queer and trans people, many of whom identify as being chronically ill, in chronic pain, disabled, or some combination of those things. I do a lot of work with bodies that are oftentimes ‘othered’ by society.

massage

What do those bodies call for in bodywork?

Part of what I do is be open to meeting someone where they are, day to day and moment to moment. There’s been a great undoing of expectations in terms of what might constitute progress or a successful session according to the thinking I was taught originally, in a clinical framework.

A core idea of my practice is that it’s strongly consent-oriented. I’m not showing up to a session and imposing my preconceived agenda on someone’s body. We always start off by having a conversation and negotiating what’s going to feel good today. There is space for my guidance and connections I might make, but ultimately I do work that someone is feeling excited about and ready for on a given day. Communication and consent is an important part of that process.

I also love to be creative. I’m always studying something new because I’m a body nerd. Having a variety of tools to pull from means there’s a variety of ways I can meet someone’s needs. My work is rooted in the idea of starting wherever someone is, even if that doesn’t look like glamorous pain-free change, or if the shifts are more subtle to tune into.

When you feel a session has gone well, what is the ideal impact of your work?

Some of the most immediate feedback I might get from someone is both verbal and visual — maybe someone comes into a session carrying a certain amount of stress, anxiety, and pain. Maybe their nervous system is activated. The first and the biggest thing is asking, what can I do to help someone access a space of deep and intentional relaxation? From there, all other things may be possible.

What’s the importance of helping someone access that place of deep and intentional relaxation?

Feeling good and relaxing have so many important benefits, even just on a mental level. If you’re living with chronic pain or a chronic illness and carrying some baseline of discomfort or pain with you every day, feeling good in your body can seem so out of reach. Having the chance for your mind and body to re-shape the narrative of what’s possible for you in torlderms of sensation and pain, even for an hour of your day, is huge. On the scientific anatomy side, when you get to tap into your parasympathetic nervous system — the rest and digest part, the opposite of the fight or flight system, where we normally spend a lot of time in this world and in the day to day — that is where restore and repair happens on an emotional and cellular level.

Bodies are an amazing mystery. There should not be expectations or parameters for everyone to try to fit themselves into because different things are possible for different bodies at different times. That said, a reduction in pain is definitely possible in an acute musculoskeletal way, and pain reduction is possible in terms of degrees of intensity of chronic pain. Having a safe and nurturing space to be present in your body can be part of rewiring patterns associated with trauma. Sometimes I see greater access to range of motion or mobility.

I worked with a client today who has been suffering from chronic migraines and at this point in time is no longer experiencing them. That’s not entirely because of our work together though that’s certainly a part of it. But I think bodywork creates the opportunity for you to cultivate an inner awareness and also to internalize some of the feeling of: I am worthy of care, time, and attention. Which is huge! A lot of us don’t feel that on a regular basis. Feeling good in a session is often a starting point that leads to other kinds of intentional care being more possible in a person’s life.

That sounds really powerful. What it’s like for you to facilitate and witness that kind of transformational experience as a provider?

As a provider this work can be really exciting. It’s amazing that my job is getting to help people feel good and be more in touch with themselves. It’s a moment in my day of feeling uplifted and sometimes more connected to hope. Seeing things that have seemed impossible start to open to the possibility of change is something that’s very hopeful.

A lot of times it’s also really hard. I’m bearing witness to a lot of intense stories, a lot of people who are in very real and immediate pain, or who are dissatisfied with something about how their body is currently or permanently functioning. In addition to the hopefulness there is also sometimes a heaviness. A heaviness and an intensity because a lot of people have tried a lot of things to feel better or feel differently, and that can make it feel like the stakes are high. I have to figure out how to hold and sit with that, while acknowledging and helping to coach someone’s awareness that we’re gonna see what’s possible, but we don’t always know, and it’s definitely going to take time.

Does it ever feel like you’re taking on someone’s pain or trauma, either physically or emotionally?

It definitely did much more when I was first getting started. I’ve had to be intentional about the ways that I take care of myself and ground myself before and after sessions to avoid taking on things that aren’t mine.

For example, I do massage at a facility for adults who are navigating physical and mental disabilities, most of which affect motor system control. Some of the stories that get shared with me while I’m working are about really difficult life experiences. While I often end my day feeling better than when I started, and feeling more able to tap into hope, sometimes bearing witness to people’s stories echoes and amplifies the structural inequalities and oppressions in the world that oftentimes contribute to someone feeling they way they’re feeling and why they’re coming in for a session.

What does it look like to practice self-care and ground yourself?

It’s a work in progress. Over the last year I’ve had to get realistic about how much work I’m physically able to do given my own chronic conditions. I would like to strengthen connections to community. Especially when I’m mainly working in private practice, I develop strong one-on-one connections with the people coming to see me, but there can be isolation from other practitioners and other things going on. I definitely feel this sometimes.

I get bodywork myself; that’s important. I’m trying to find foods that make me feel good and nourish me. The big thing I’m working on right now is how to incorporate more movement into my life, because movement is something that feels good but isn’t always accessible with my fatigue levels. The physical, mental, emotional, spiritual — all the things need tending to. I have to think about it as part of my job.

IMG_9188.JPGWhat does the world you want to live in look like?

It’s hard for me to dream and connect into a longer-term vision of what the magical future might look like. I don’t let myself go there very often and get stuck in the day-to-day. For myself, I would love to work with a team of informed practitioners who actually give a shit about providing intentional care, and who are working together to holistically support people in their goals, in an integrated health center where people can access services for free.

A life where we’re more connected to the land and the earth is important. I would like to live in a world where people and bodies aren’t marginalized due to physical or mental ability, and where we know we’re not disposable because we’re not able to do copious amounts of work. I would like to live in a world that enacts networks of mutual aid and mutual care for each other.

What do you see as your role and work in the current world we’re living in?

I struggle with that question a lot. I want to be doing more and I am figuring out how I might. At the same time, the work I’m doing one-on-one with people is really valuable. I have internalized the tendency to devalue femme and healing labor. I have to remind myself I make a lot of efforts to make my services accessible to whoever needs them. The people I’m working with are teachers, social workers, activists, artists — other people who are working for change in serious ways. I’m part of their care teams, and that’s a job; that’s important! The world needs people at protests, and also people cooking food and holding decompression space after protests. That’s how I feel connected on a smaller level. I would like to figure out a way to better leverage my skills and resources for change on a bigger, systemic level. I’m working on that.

What are the people or frameworks helping you push against internalized bullshit and expectations of doing copious amounts of work, toward something that feels more holistic and healing?

A big resource for that is the disability justice movement, especially Sins Invalid’s work. Mia Mingus’s writings have been especially helpful. Sins Invalid has a wonderful disability justice primer and lots of articles. That feels like a political home for me. I will be in a lifelong struggle of undoing internalized ableism. Connecting with these ideas that are anti-disposability of all people are really powerful.

I feel inspired by people who are doing creative work to envision alternate futures. The work and writing of adrienne maree brown is really exciting — I’m reading Emergent Strategy right now! Some of her visions and the Octavia Butler-inspired framework she works from speaks to my sci-fi nerd, future-imagining self.

What are the things in your life support and sustain you, and what are the barriers to making this work truly sustainable?

I feel supported by my friends, by my partner, by therapy. Most of the time I’ve been working I’ve also been taking classes, and I have a few teachers who I connect with. Having support from people who have been doing this work for a long time feels really helpful. The evils of the internet are real, but in a way I feel supported getting to read and connect with ideas of other kinds of healers. That feels like a more broad sense of community. I’m experiencing some some challenges right now with my physical body that can affect the presence that I can show up with to this work and how much I can do it. And I’m still figuring out the financial piece of things.

What’s importance of caring for our bodies, both for people who are experiencing consistent and frequent pain, and for those of us who aren’t in a place where we’ve chosen or been able to pay much attention to our bodies? How do our bodies connect to our lives beyond being the thing that we use to eat and sleep and breathe?

Everything’s connected. It’s really true. I see that it’s common for people who hold one or more marginalized identities in the world to exist in a state of partial or total disassociation from their bodies. It makes a lot of sense when you learn about trauma. Disassociation is a survival mechanism that helps you move through the world and stay as safe as you can. It’s scary to go into that place of: Oh, I can feel emotions. What is this feeling? What’s going on in my body?

Something I appreciate about bodywork is that we can move at whatever pace an individual needs to move. Even if we’re working with something that’s deeply held or is chronic and not going anywhere, shifts can happen in terms of how we relate to our bodies and the range of emotional and physical sensations we have access to. I believe and continue to study different theories about trauma for this purpose. The more in touch we are with what’s going on for us on a bodily level as far as where and how emotions are showing up, the better resourced we will be to deal with all of the other stimulation that’s coming in from the world.

Your body is your stronghold. Bodies are so wise, even if it doesn’t always feel that way. Our bodies are taking us through the world, and pain and dysfunction, or things being weird or “off” are often a body trying to let you know that something needs attention. There’s techniques and frameworks that work with trauma healing, not through talk therapy, but through neural pathways in the body. The body can be a site of profound movement and healing. It’s hard, scary, and slow work. Ultimately, working to become embodied is part of our individual and collective wellness. As we’re navigating the current socio-political landscape in America, I believe it’s going to become more and more important to devote some resources to the idea of being embodied because it’s one of the things that will give us strength to continue in other kinds of work.

A big part of the reason I do this work is because it feeds me too. I learn so much from and am so inspired by the people I work with. Functioning as the container for the experience of a session pushes me to grow as a person and take a hard look at my own trauma and how I’m continually growing and relating to my experiences. It makes doing that personal transformation work necessary, not optional. I receive a lot of nourishment from doing this work! It’s an exchange. Money is part of the exchange, and the exchange of energy and space is supportive and inspiring for me.

IMG_9198.JPG

If you live in the Bay Area, you are able to learn more about Dusty’s practice and book a massage session on their website. You can also ‘like’ Dusty Vogt Bodywork on Facebook. This interview is part of a series for The World We Want to Live in

Lexi and Devi on the lifesaving power of art & using comedy as a tool to build collective power

culturestrike
Lexi & Devi at the Trans Life & Liberation art opening April 2017. Photo courtesy of CultureStrike and by Miki Vargas Photography.

What is Peacock Rebellion and who makes up the organization?

Lexi: Peacock Rebellion started out as a queer and trans people of color (QTPOC) arts organization Devi founded in collaboration with other artists/activists/healers. Devi was involved with organizations including Mangos with Chili and other QTPOC arts organizations we’re in community with. Devi used to talk about bringing Peacock Rebellion to a national level. Given the way the political climate has shifted, we’re rethinking our place and what strategies we employ and the ways we’re engaging with the wider world through our art.

Brouhaha is our big comedy show which has run for the past four years. Brouhaha’s stand-up comedy training program has prioritized trans women of color (TWOC) since 2015, with a new sketch comedy training we launched last year that’s open to a broader range of trans people of color. The main component to Brouhaha is forming a cohort of artists and teaching them the basics of comedy and how to utilize comedy as a tool for social justice.

Devi: We started Peacock in part because I was burning out on nonprofit-based community organizing and thought I was more effective with a microphone than a megaphone. With Peacock, our artists can crack jokes, shift cultural perspective, and disrupt the status quo through entertainment. A lot of people who wouldn’t necessarily be down to come to a march or a protest would be totally down to come to a comedy show.

Everybody in the artistic core has some kind of healing practice. Everyone is an activist, a community organizer, healer, cultural worker, and an artist. A friend of ours made a shirt for the last Brouhaha that said “Sass Heals.” That’s totally us. We do snarky, sassy, sexy, subversive work, and talk about white supremacy, christian hegemony, anti-Black racism, and structural oppression without jargon or talking down to people. We’re able to get 800 people to a show on a Tuesday because a lot of folks are willing to want to come be entertained, and we’re like, oh we’ll entertain you, and you’re gonna come here and learn some shit.

We use the art to get people into a room and then they will be invited to show up to do court support for trans women of color, they’ll get talking points around Thankstaking. Folks who are going to sit at a dinner table with their families who have different political perspectives, and we want to equip them with resources. We want to get our people practical tools. So we have a guide to low-cost mental health support services for queer and trans people of color and other rapid response guides. We do healing justice clinics for free. Lexi started a program along those lines last year.

Lexi: We got some funding to have a cohort of 20 people, primarily trans folks of color, go through four months of training workshops on empowering advocacy skills. We were able to pay them to participate. We oriented folks on the court processes for legal name and gender change documents; we had a self defense workshop, we talked about navigating the medical industrial complex, street safety, and intervening in street harassment. Now there’s 20 more folks out in the world who have those skills. After 45 got elected, there was a big surge in community clinics to get trans folks name change forms done. A number of participants in the program went on to help Transgender Law Center and St. James Infirmary organize some of those. It was great.

Devi: We just merged with one of our sibling organizations, a QTPOC makerspace oriented toward social justice. They’re now a program of Peacock. Now we run free maker days every month. QTPOC can come learn how to make zines, make videos, use 3D printers, all kinds of stuff, on social justice themes.

Lance Yamamoto
From left: Devi Peacock, Brouhaha artists Elena Rose and The Lady Ms Vagina Jenkins, Lexi Adsit. Photo by Lance Yamamoto for the East Bay Express.

Did you always imagine that Peacock would have all these elements of different programs to support folks in navigating the world in legal and social spheres, or is this something that’s happened organically?

Lexi: With our artists, it wasn’t just about artistic development, but also showing up for everybody as holistic people. Most of our job is actually emotional labor — showing up for folks when they’re in crisis and making sure that we’re all alive next week. We feel if we’re able to acquire the resources to provide those extra services, we should. We’re getting back into thinking long-term and constantly referencing adrienne maree brown’s Emergent Strategy book and concepts as our new compass.

What is it like for you as people who are facing violence and oppression, and also holding a lot for the community in terms of offering support?

Lexi: We’ve been thinking a lot about the politics of recognition and visibility, and knowing that everybody who’s participating in the organization is a QTPOC dealing with some degree of mental health atypicality, whether that’s anxiety or depression or the revolving door of ideation.

Both Devi and I had intense instances of burnout within nonprofits which led us here. For me, something that counteracts the burnout like an anti-inflammatory is being able to create art. I get to do that at Peacock. Creating is part of my job. You don’t learn how to take care of yourself  in a staff position at a nonprofit. Everybody talks about a work-life balance, but there’s no tools or training on how to actually do that. Devi and I also have roles as emotional supports for people, which is not a completely draining thing, it’s something really special I get to offer for folks who I care about. At the same time, I know it means I have to take care of myself to be able to show up in the best way for this job and for other people I’m taking care of.

Devi: I work at Peacock 60 hours a week until busy season; then it ramps up. For four and a half of the past five years, I didn’t pay myself; I had paying gigs outside of Peacock. Starting in January of this year I started paying myself and having health, dental, and vision. The pay is terrible but it’s what we can afford right now.

The power of art is very real. We are working on keeping ourselves and each other alive. We’re trying to get people out of dangerous situations. I’m not great with boundaries around that. We’re starting to shift and incorporating the Emergent Strategy framework. Part of it was saying no to a whole bunch of bullshit. We moved from a broadly QTPOC arts organization into a lot more trans women of color and transfemme of color centered. Suddenly we became a shiny, sexy organization. We get hit up at least a couple times a week if anyone wants to find a token TWOC to throw into a show so they can check off a box on their grants. I’m getting better at saying no which is helping so that we can focus on building our collective power.

18401969_1554575077888366_1870043854237633368_o
Brouhaha 2017 producers Devi Peacock, Lexi Adsit, and Vanessa Rochelle Lewis

But we’re not a collective. We’re largely collectively-run, but there is a hierarchy; I am the boss. Like Lexi was saying, a lot of people come into the organization burned out and struggling after traumatic experiences at nonprofits. Some folks come here thinking it’s a magical utopia. But it isn’t perfect. We’re still a project of a non-profit, we still have some tap dancing we have to do for funders.

But I really, deeply believe in this dream. Part of my original intent was that we would focus on building collective power, not individual artistic careers. We’re hoping to use art to build cultures of collective liberation. To do that, we think it helps to weave art and cultural practice across our work, instead of disconnecting it from healing or from community organizing. It’s all connected.

We have a touring production in February in Austin with a new show called The Femmes of Your Dreams. We’re dreaming futures with femmes at the center. We’ll be using stand-up comedy to talk about mental health and sexual violence and all these things. We’re going to write ourselves into the future.

Lexi, you mentioned art as something that helps keeps you going as you’re facing whatever you’re facing and also holding so much for the community, and Devi, you mentioned it as being a core value of the work that Peacock is doing. Can you say more about the impact of art, both on folks in the cohort and people who get to experience Peacock’s work?

Lexi: Something we always say in the trainings is, comedy is tragedy plus time. I came into this organization with a lot of tragedy. It’s like therapy. People are listening to you and validating you. There’s something strangely intoxicating about being on a stage and talking about the shit you’ve gone through and being able to challenge systems of power through a smart approach. The shows have covered navigating the medical industrial complex and Kaiser support groups, dating and how problematic it can be…

Devi: Intimate partner violence, being physically attacked, surviving sexual violence, surviving a lot. But then there’s also been things around dreams. Like, what are people wanting for themselves and for each other?

Lexi: We’re able to collectively turn those traumas into a moment of laughter. Being able to address these topics helps heal not just our artists but also the audience. Mainstream comedy can be so problematic — racist, sexist, or whatever. In mainstream comedy, the purpose is often to get a cheap laugh, often through making fun of fat folks, trans folks, homeless folks, poor folks, and that’s not what we want to perpetuate or participate in. I’ve heard from so many people who’ve attended Brouhaha that it’s actually funny, because we’re not making fun of somebody who’s sitting in the room. Though occasionally we make fun of white folks.

Devi: But we’re very careful about it, right? We want to use it to actually challenge white supremacy. We’ll link our jokes to something that’s a structural issue. At the end of the day we are trying to come from a solidarity framework. Part of what Lexi’s talking about is the absence of the “punching down” stuff. We use the BDSM red light/yellow light/green light system in our training programs. Red light means you’re punching down and saying some shit that’s not getting on our stage. A yellow light is either punching across or it’s just not funny enough. We recognize that all the artists are trans women of color, but if the audience is not largely TWOC, we want to be conscious about who is the listener. We want nuance and strategy. Our goal is to have jokes and comedy sets that are all green lights. Green lights actively punch up at the system. We go hard. I want to live in a world where we’re tearing out patriarchy at its roots.

We also want to be able to poke fun at ourselves around these things. The Bay Area can be a little bit of a bubble, it’s like the island of misfit toys. A bunch of people including me came here to run away from trauma. We’ll make jokes about everything from callout culture to isolation or disposability. In a 90-minute show how can we get people to love each other a little bit better and then actually organize around it? That’s a guiding question for our work.

What is the world you wanna live in and what do you see as Peacock’s role in creating that?

Lexi: At the root of it I want to live in a world where we WANT to live in. I want to live in a world where we’re not being exploited and where we are able to create for everybody’s survival. I want to live in a world where everybody can dream, not just those of us with enough privilege and access to do so. I want to live in a world without targeted violence and poverty. I want my work to build collective community versus building my own career — reflecting those collective communal knowledges, herstories, and ancestors and trying to remember that these things are bigger than just me in this moment, and paying homage to that.

Devi: In the world I want to see, people are good to each other and there’s space for messiness. I believe that people are always gonna harm and hurt each other. So what are the ways that people can actually take accountability — individually and collectively? For me, I think of a village model, like, hey actually everybody raises the kids and everyone is accountable to each other and we are in circle together. I’m imagining a world where instead of such a hyperfocus on extracting resources we’re like, oh how do we actually listen to the earth? What does restoration of the earth look like? I’m curious about that. What can global indigeneity look like?

Everybody deserves free access to culturally competent care, love, and basic human needs. As for Peacock’s role, I want Peacock to exist for as long as we are useful and relevant to the people we need to serve. Peacock is here to serve. That is our work. Like the Allied Media Projects’ Network Principles, we begin by listening. I want a world where everyone begins by listening, and there’s a lot more empathy for each other, and there’s real frameworks — practiced, taught, and learned — across generations, around solidarity. Not the savior complex, not any of the other bullshit. I want a world where love is emergent strategy, for everyone.

Would you be willing to define Emergent Strategy for people reading who might not know what that means?

Devi: Yeah! I’m actually gonna pull it up from the prophet herself because I like her words. She writes that it was initially a way of describing ‘the adaptive and relational leadership model under the work of Black sci-fi writer Octavia Butler and others. It turned into plans of action and practices, collective organizing tools, and linked into biomimicry and permaculture.’ Emergent Strategy is a leadership model that prioritizes relationship. Relationships are actually what fuel radical structural change.

037dfed6-3dd8-442f-a97d-b82330cf918e
Peacock Rebellion Aristic Core 2016-2017, clockwise from top left: Q Quintero, Lexi Adsit, Devi Peacock, Luna Merbruja, Vanessa Rochelle Lewis

At Peacock, one of the things we’re trying to shift around is productivity. We’re whole beings. How do we support each other? Last fall we essentially shut the organization down for a month because someone close to us was in crisis. That’s the scale we need to operate in: being flexible and adaptive and resilient is a fundamental of emergent strategy. We do pick and choose what are the relationships we want to cultivate and who do we want to build with.

We turned five two weeks ago. Within five years, we are part of a campaign that has bought a building and the land underneath. It is the last QTPOC block in Oakland and it’s the first time in U.S. history that QTPOC have been able to do a hybrid commercial-residential land trust. We’re a major part of that. We have the first TWOC show in U.S. history, and not only the artists are trans women of color, but also the trainers, the producers, and the majority of the production crew are trans people of color. We’ve been able to do the the things we’re able to do because of the relationships. We are not doing mass-based organizing. We get targeted by hate at least several times a year, sometimes several times a month. We would not be able to survive the PTSD from a skinhead coming to our door and holding sharp shit up to my neck if we did not have very strong, deep powerful networks of relationship. We build a lot deeper than we build wide, which is an important distinction. I want us to eventually become a national organization if that makes sense, but it cannot be led by a handful of people in Oakland. We have to listen to leadership of the people on the ground and if they want it, we can build something together.

I appreciate your shout out to adrienne maree brown. Are there other people or bodies of work who are inspirations you’d like to name?

Devi: Neither Lexi nor I are Black — I want to call into the space the collective brilliance of the Black queer and trans folks who have significantly shaped Peacock. The majority of our artists and trainers are Black folks, which was intentional in challenging anti-Black racism in QTPOC spaces. I want to lift up Micia Mosley and Nia King, who developed the first curriculum for Brouhaha in 2014. Nia also has the podcast We Want the Airwaves and books interviewing queer and trans artists of color. She’s a living historian of queer and trans artists of color. 

Lexi: There’s an advisory board of elders that oversees Devi and holds them accountable to community and the work that we’re doing. A number of those folks are just really amazing and involved with the organizations we were birthed out of. Most of what they do is emotional labor too.

Devi: I want to shout out Vanessa Rochelle Lewis. Luna Merbruja, who’s in our artistic core and who was our first trainer for our all-TWOC show. We’ve worked with around 65 artists over these five years. That’s a shit ton of people who’ve all led Peacock in different ways. We were birthed out of Mangos with Chili, Sins Invalid, QWOCMAP, and Poor Magazine all gave us a lot of support in thinking through what Peacock would eventually become.

If you enjoyed this interview, learn more about Peacock Rebellion and consider making a donation. You can also visit Lexi’s website to watch her standup and read her writings. This interview is part of a series for The World We Want to Live in.