Men Have Futures, Women Have Memories: The Temporal Logics of Sexual Violence

This is not the feeling of failure. Not injustice. Not fear. Not doubt. It is the grinding of justice out of the bodies of women–justice that is based on turning women into bodies, on turning women into matter, into the fleshly abundance of femininity that serves to remind them that men have the power to endow meaning to bodies. This is justice for patriarchal violence. It is the justice of that violence. It depends on a logic of power. It is not the feeling of disconnect, but the orchestration of how violence becomes myth. Man has this power. And until he is no more—and I mean that—women will remain the object of his wrath. This is patriarchy edging toward perfection. Because patriarchy is not a feeling, but a mode of engrossing power, the power to define, to defeat, to enter into the bodies of women and extract from them the willingness to carry on. Patriarchy, here, now, is the ability to see a woman not as human, but flesh.

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On the one hand, we hear the “boys will be boys” defense, which excuses a man’s violent acts because they took place in the past, during a period of youthful indiscretion characteristic of all men. On the other, we hear the “but why did she take so long to report it?” or the “she is being an opportunist” or the “she is just looking for attention” defense, which imagines that an act of sexual violence only bears scrutiny in the present. According to these two logics, sexual violence is only comprehensible through its immediacy—it is of the now. And once that moment has passed, the promising future of men takes over. This is the temporal power of patriarchy: to determine what counts as memory, and how.

Yes, #Metoo is working, and as recent moves to change the way that sexual assault charges are rendered legitimate, much of the Kavanaugh debate has to do with how we judge the past. It is not so much that people are claiming he did not sexually assault Christine Blasey Ford when he was 17 and she was 15 years old. Really, people seem more concerned with whether or not too much time has passed between that alleged sexual assault and now. It’s the timing that matters. The irony: for a man up for a lifetime appointment on the Supreme Court (a position based on its futurity), it is the reemergence of his past that has come to dominate proceedings.

The timing matters because Kavanaugh, like many, many, men cannot have a past, only a future.

For men, it seems, the disruption of patriarchal time means not knowing when a woman will lurch forward and “ruin your life”. For the man who did that thing that one time when he was drunk in high school, the man who became a respected professional, the man who has talent and a future, why should this ruin his reputation? A man has a future. A woman has a past.

Thus, people resort to the “boys will be boys” defense, a tautology comes to stand in for redoubling the effects of masculine violence on the bodies of women. The phrase prophesies for that boy a sense of himself as unburdened by the questions that women face, unburdened, what is more, by the real consequences of growing up under the threat of patriarchal violence. Its circular logic asks the community to shield the boy from unbecoming what he was always meant to be: a man who objectifies women, who assaults women, who rapes women—because women have no future, no time, no tautological defense to save them from always already being destined to a present of violent remembrance.

Its very simplicity the phrase promises a masculinity unchanged, protected from the pressures of feminism. This is where the tension resides: in promising that boys will continue to enjoy the freedom of unencumbered sexual access to women—boys will be boys—the culture is saying that it is wrong to ask boys to consider themselves as different than they are destined to be as part of the structure of patriarchal dominance.

And then, are we surprised that privileged white men are surprised? Are we surprised that they get defensive, enraged, or cry; that they close ranks around the idea that boys will be boys?

#Metoo is many things, but regarding this it scares men. And it should. It scares them because it breaks the self-perpetuating cycle of masculinity, shrouded in silence (the silence of male witnesses, fellow students, overseers, administrators invested in maintaining the ‘reputation’ of an institution or patriarchy itself). It breaks the self-indulgence of masculine impunity.

In this moment when the past threatens to return seeking vengeance, the boys will be boys defense probably now feels like a trick, a slight of hand. If boys will be boys is no longer the rule, then should the men who were boys who sexually assaulted women be grandfathered in, so to speak? Do they get a pass because the rules have changed?

They were just using women then like boys used women then—boys will be boys—and now that those women are speaking up, what do we tell them? Sorry? You just missed out on the #Metoo deadline. Your abuser was just a boy being a boy?

It’s a question of time. When we say that boys will be boys we are asking the boy’s future to exist in perpetuity, an ever extending future through which all of the boy’s past actions—but particularly the bad ones, the violent ones—become justifiable because they were fleeting moments of boyhood en route to future manhood.

These conversations manage who has power over the duration of the pain of sexual violence. The psychic wound of existing only as a youthful mistake, all the while seeing the boy who was being a boy become a man unburdened by the trauma of a past that must be forgotten in order for that man to maintain power, to remain successful, to continue to achieve. We pay little attention to the time that that man, in his youthful neglect, robs of a woman. The time she will never have back.

Men have promising futures and lifetime appointments, women have regrets, and silence, and a life of remembering that night as if were yesterday or today or tomorrow. This is the logic—the promise—that #metoo is disrupting.

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Reverberations Between

Völuspa’s latest music video, “Miss You Too,” is legendary. Like getting lost in a story that you know has to be true, and yet, can’t be. Directed by Ash Peters, who also features as the film’s butch lover, the visual range glides between perspectives, desires, ritual. The reverberations between. We get the sense that we’ve been here, there, before. In another life, perhaps?

At first glance, “Miss You Too” seems to depend on oppositional pairs. We see references to the Knights Templar (and thus to the Crusades), good and evil, light and dark. However, these points of difference exist only to be twisted, undone by the butch/femme dynamic that is itself a matter of speculative projection of self as other and back again. This is desire unfolding.

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While film’s most direct narrative reference is to Stanley Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut (1999), which itself remits to Arthur Schnitzler’s Traumnovelle (1926), in which the decadence of the present is filtered through the sexual fantasies of a woman imagined as dangerous to patriarchal normativity, it also queerly hearkens Picasso’s Les damoiselles d’Avignon (1907) and the projection of masculine desire as an uncontrollable lack. Völuspa’s desire is not achieved through objectification, but rather fantasy, conjured from the intensity of a sound in the memory of a subject undone.

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(Pablo Picasso, Les Damoiselles d’Avignon, 1907. MOMA)

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(Stanley Kubrick, Eyes Wide Shut, 1999, screenshot)

These tensions unfold as the undoing of individual subjectivity, framing desire as a challenge to the subject-object relationship by asking what of me was always already part of you. What of me was a projection of you of me?

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The sexual fantasies of a woman, here, are not indicative of man’s desire to control, but rather her ability to imagine other worlds, worlds unseen, or seen as the inside of a gaze that knows itself to be only the fragmentary illusion of a singular perspective. This is the mystery, the play on triangulation, reflection, and reversal.

To find myself inside of you, finding you were already inside of me. Does that make us the same? Or different?

There is a moment when the film’s spatial orientation starts to unravel, to rewind, and we start to wonder if what we have seen as “the present” is actually the past, or perhaps, the future, a dream; another in which the film enlivens to color and, again, we start to wonder about that liminal space between, that place that exists between color and something else, the space of dreams, but also, desire.

“Miss You Too” is a narrative of twisting, inverted expectations—bodies, gestures, affects—a narrative that leads to a realization: What does loneliness feel like to you, next to me?

What we have left is the echo: and then, I found myself somewhere in the reverberation of a longing that began before you knew that I missed you, too.

A Language is not a Widget

This short piece just came out in Portal, the magazine of LLILAS Benson Latin American Studies and Collections. I am glad to have had the chance to reflect on the past year’s administrative crazy at SBU, and will be writing a postdata to this text to bring it up to date.

https://llilasbensonmagazine.org/2018/08/27/alumni-spotlight-a-language-is-not-a-widget/

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Marshall LaCount, “Quieter Places”

Marshall LaCount
Quieter Places

On view July 20 to October 18, 2018
Noon to 9PM
Exhibit Salon
182 Driggs, Ave.
Brooklyn, NY

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“I’m fine,” he offered, wryly. It was not so much a story about hitchhiking across the country as about the vulnerabilities that emerge in the course of a journey, intimate horizons that demand the negotiation of how much one can bear to feel.

Horizons connect the works on display, at times literal, at times a playful gesture or an inside joke. Quieter Places makes sense through contrasts of materials and textures, the grit of trade labor and the levity of dripping rainbows. Composed largely of plaster, spray paint, and acrylic, the thick grooves of a trowel linger, edging into volumes sanded away or almost level. This series of six paintings and one serigraph entertains the possibility of containment, but ultimately pushes beyond, never staying put long enough to feel at home.

Searching for a quieter place only seems contradictory here. LaCount insinuates places that unfold from—that develop toward—other places that fix the viewer momentarily—a sun, a moon, a horizon—only to reveal that that place has already changed, again, and without realizing it—shadow. Sometimes that place is spiritual, sometimes literal, sometimes hidden as a negative, waiting for the eye to recognize that what lingers there, on that other side, across the horizon, is a stillness that ripples, an afterglow.

Connecting each of these landscape portraits is the promise of a new perspective. Horizons as limits to feeling, horizons that suture and scrape, iterations of textures that make stillness transient. The horizon as mantra.

In “Moon,” the trowel’s thickness gives way to a multicolor cascade of vertical lines. What once was a horizon has now become a contradictory block of color that nevertheless seems prone to erasure, or change, or memory. A juncture that reminds of the stillness that once was.

Near the entrance, “Horizon” holds two sweeping gestures that intersect a faded green horizon. Aerosol meets plaster. And suddenly to the right a breach in the panel that has been screwed back in. A section that completes the gesture but only as evidence of its material construction, only as a piece, a place, that might be quieter.

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Marshall LaCount is an interdisciplinary artist and producer living in Brooklyn.

Full Review Here

Joseph M. Pierce
Stony Brook University

On the Children in Cages

We shouldn’t be surprised. At any of this. We should have seen it coming. Surprise is not the right word. But neither is outrage, really. Are we outraged at the images of caged children? Children placed in detention centers that are not really detention centers. Children separated from mothers whose tears never did matter.

Is it the fact of their separation, or our visceral reaction when confronted with the sounds of impotence or the images of innocent bodies under space age blankets on the floors of cold cells? The images of innocent bodies made innocent no more. The loss of innocence. The feeling of having to recon with the undeniable fact that this too is us. Now. Or is this surprise-cum-outrage better described as embarrassment, shame, or perhaps even fear?

The fear of what we have done. Or is it incredulity?

And yet, we shouldn’t be surprised. We have been doing this for decades. Centuries. Boarding schools took Indigenous children away from their parents. Children, transformed by a nation through institutions meant to protect them. From themselves. From what they might grow up to become. Because children become adults. Adults become dangerous. Have voices. And voices resonate, grow. They generate fear.

Were we incredulous when we read that one article about missing Indigneous women? Were we incredulous when we heard about the suicide rates on reservations? Were we incredulous when we saw how many Black children grow up without parents in order to sate this nation’s need to imprison Black and Brown bodies. This nation. Insatiable for the confinement of bodies in its cells and its camps and its underemployment and its football games.

Boarding schools. Adoption policies. Internment camps. Slavery.

Slavery.

Chattel Slavery.

Selling Black and Brown children to work for white people, to provide income for white people, to provide holes for white to men to stuff with their cotton.

We took children from their mothers and fathers. For. Centuries.

All in the name of a greater purpose. In the name of the law. In the name of God. This, from a nation meant to distribute liberty so generously that all of the world would benefit. Such munificence. Such eugenic clarity.

Its not that we are condemned to repeat the history that we have not learned, but rather that we willfully repeat what we know to be effective in maintaining order in a land imagined to be lawless. Made lawless by its bloody origin so that it could be ordered anew, according to a vision of endless bounty and productivity, a vision made reality on the backs of Black and Brown children separated from their mothers’ wombs, breasts, arms, flailing in horror. Isn’t that history?

While we react with clicks. And likes. And with dystopian futures on televisions that project not fantasy but the fact of human existence for Black and Brown mothers. Mothers who have been living that dystopian future for centuries.

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(Detention center in McAllen, Texas. Photo: Center for Border Protection)

We take children from mothers and fathers. We take them and we put them in cells. Like we took them and we put them in schools—in order to civilize them, save them from their own blood, from their inhumanity, from their fate to disappear to become the history that they were destined to become. And so we saved them from themselves. From their own disappearance. From their long braids and their almond eyes and their superstitions. Like we took them from the Black wombs of their Black mothers whose Black skin was a cosmic affront to the (manifest) destiny of a nation meant to forget itself and the bodies that grind within it.

Babies taken from mothers to be raised by white families. Because opportunity. And war.

Korean children. Mexican children. Indian children. Black children.

Black children in tender blue lights. In tobacco fields.

On the scribbles of ledgers. In the mouths of fish who grow fat.

How can I put it more clearly? The US has been stealing Black and Brown children from the arms of their mothers since its inception. Literally.

This is nothing new.

The problem is not the fact of this history, but what to do with it.

An if/then proposal: If this is not new, then what are we talking about? If it is not new or surprising; neither surprising nor outrageous, but (perhaps) shameful and embarrassing and made real by the inability that we have as a nation to confront the fear that we have of our  foundational contradiction: that life and liberty and happiness is not for all, but the few, the children of white settlers drunk with the purity of their enduring whiteness, then what? What now?

Try again: If this is not new and not surprising but based in fear, the fear of losing power, the fear that white people have had on this land since they thought they found it (lol), since they stole it, and they knew they stole it, since they stole the land and its children, its histories and languages and animals and spirits (they stole the gods of this continent…and we are surprised that they would steal a few more children), then what?

Beyond the historical horizon is a Salvadoran woman a Nicaraguan woman a Mexican woman a Guatemalan woman whose arms stretch out in agony (or is it shame?).

People will say: what are we to do? This is the then part. Then what?

What are we to do about this now? We can’t change this history. The past. As if the past were not also here, now, breathing in us. As if we are not also the past.

Making a distinction between this is outrageous and this is nothing new is politically unproductive. So, some people will say, we need to act in the present, now. We need action items.

LOL. Fine. Of course we need to act now. The children who are in prisons, who are being illegally held against their will, who are being tortured in this way, should be released to their parents immediately. (That was a concrete point, one that answers the what now? question.)

The thing is: this is nothing new makes the now seem illegible as history, as if the legacy of colonialism and the prison industrial complex and racism and neoliberal economic policies and intervening in Central America and Iraq and Chile and Cambodia and Vietnam and Korea (and…and…) were not all materially enmeshed, woven together into the very fabric of American social life as it is today. As if we could not carry the weight of the millions of children taken from parents, the centuries of Black and Brown children taken from their parents, into this present in order to act on it. Now.

It is not that making a distinction between the historical and the political now will lead us to a stalemate, but rather that it is impossible not to bear the marks of history, we, whose bodies are those of the mothers whose children were once lost, once stolen, once sold. We, whose bodies bear that shame and that loss and that joy and that promise, we who know all too well what lessons history provides.

In fact, the only way we will make sense to future generations who will ask us what we did when in our present, which is like so many other presents, we were faced with the possibility of bearing our shame and our fear and holding it, making space it in our lives and our relations and our love. Yes love. They will ask what it felt like to feel that moment. And we will have to be able to say that we held on to the pain of its history for an eternity of todays that seemed to have already passed us by. But which is also today and now. And then. Or else, they too will ask, surprised, how did this happen, again?

 

Políticas del amor: Derechos sexuales y escrituras disidentes en el Cono Sur

I am thrilled to see that this edited book is coming out now. What began as a series of panels at the LASA Congress in Chicago in 2016 has now transformed into an edited collection that brings together activists, artists, and academics around some of the most pressing issues regarding gender and sexual citizenship in Latin America.

Estoy muy emocionado de ver que sale ahora este libro editado. Lo que comenzó como una serie de mesas en el Congreso LASA Chicago del 2016 se ha transformado en una colección editada que junta a activistas, artistas y academicxs alrededor de algunos de los temas más urgentes sobre el papel del género y la ciudadanía sexual en América Latina.

Available/Disponible: https://www.buscalibre.cl/libro-politicas-del-amor-derechos-sexuales-y-escrituras-disidentes-en-el-cono-sur/9789563960020/p/50344847?no-cache=1

 

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Mini Review: Jonny Appleseed (2018, Arsenal Pulp Press) by Joshua Whitehead

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This isn’t so much a novel about bodies, but a novel that embodies. Whitehead places the reader as witness of the carnal embodiment of queer desire as it attaches to tendrils of cigarette smoke, sweat, memory, and fantasy. It is a text that lingers.

The feeling that stuck with me as I finished the book was that of being taken apart. As if pieces of me were left there, on a page that lingered with lingering itself.

When the narrator, Jonny, mused: “Funny how an NDN ‘love you’ sounds more like, ‘I’m in pain with you’,” I cried. I cried remembering what colonialism does to bodies over generations. It is a way of talking about intergenerational trauma that recognizes the constitutive foundation of modern indigeneity as one of pain, loss, and love in spite of. The novel dwells on the pain of loss and loss foretold, of seeking, and eventually finding, but not knowing if what is found was actually what was sought.

This isn’t so much a novel about resistance, but about how much the body can bear. The imagery depends on contrasts of neglect and glimmering promise; scars and celestial reflection, the orgasmic immediacy of a now that can only exist as promise.

Get the text here

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