Dissenting Images: Engaging the Pedagogy of Protest Erica R. Meiners, Therese Quinn
Transformations: The Journal of Inclusive Scholarship and Pedagogy, Volume 27, Number 1, 2017, pp. 65-76 (Article)
Published by Penn State University Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/tnf.2017.0006
For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/669836
Access provided by Northeastern Illinois University (12 Nov 2018 18:59 GMT) Teachers Talk
Dissenting Images: Engaging the Pedagogy of Protest
Erica R. Meiners and Therese Quinn
On January 21, 2017, the day after the inauguration of a new president, over 5 million people gathered in cities across the globe for the Women’s March on Washington. Although the march was originally conceived of by white women and was given the name “Million Women March,” its leadership soon shifted to have women of color in the majority, with Tamika D. Mallory, Carmen Perez, Linda Sarsour, and Bob Bland as national co-chairs. It was, according to some sources, the largest protest in the history of the planet. Images of sister marches held everywhere from New York City to Sydney, Australia, flooded digital media. Do-it-yourself (DIY) signs hastily constructed with Sharpies, glitter, and cardboard exhorted viewers to “Free Melania” and “Keep Your Politics off My Pussy.” Marchers wore jeans, parkas, and elaborate costumes, and groups conducted tightly choreographed collaborative performances. The march arrived in the wake of many other uprisings, each with its own sights, sounds, and histories, from the crumpled body in the street, military tanks, and “Hands up, don’t shoot!” visuals of Ferguson, Missouri, to the stream of videos and audios of police killing black people—Michael Brown, Lacquan MacDonald, Sandra Bland, Eric Garner. These live images were reworked in real time by art- ists and activists, including Shirin Barghi’s painful, powerful #LastWords series, which presents the last words of black people killed by police: “I don’t have a gun. Stop shooting” were eighteen-year-old Michael Brown’s. The pedagogy of protest—emblazoned across protest signs, television screens, and Twitter—is not new. Under pressure and through collaboration, social movements have always created new language—interruptions—and analytical tools to support shifts in power or to enable openings for the consolidation of old forms of power.
Transformations: The Journal of Inclusive Scholarship and Pedagogy, Vol. 27, No. 1, 2017 Copyright © 2017 The Pennsylvania State University, University Park, PA Published on behalf of New Jersey City University In the spirit of learning from this mobilization and the political moments that wrapped around and infused this women’s march and particularly from the pedagogical power of its rich visuality, we invited a range of people we admire, from a breadth of geographical contexts, to select any image from the day and offer a comment. Here are their engagements.
Future Histories? Sampada Aranke, San Francisco, California
Two days after the election, my students asked me to take time at the begin- ning of class to help them make sense of it all. Our conversation was both comforting and sobering; for forty-eight hours, my students—many of whom had voted for the first time in this election—walked around like hollow shells, overcome by the shock of recognizing that this nation had fully realized its white supremacist, heteropatriarchial ideal. I, too, was stunned. Even though I have never had any real faith in electoral politics, let alone the structures this process enables, I too was slack-jawed at the November 2016 results. I spent the first twenty minutes of my “Art since 1945” survey course doing a historical read of electoral politics, analyzing the structures of power that keep such processes in place, and contextualizing data released after the results were called. One graphic was particularly telling: the Washington Post had released exit polls that reflected that black women overwhelmingly (92% to 95%) had voted against Trump. I ended our conversation amplifying, “Black women tried to save us.” These data and their implications, to me, are what anticipate this photograph from the Women’s March in DC. Two little girls—one white, one black—stand in
Figure 1 Photo credit: Rachel Schreiber.
66 transformations the middle of a crowd of bodies that surround them. One smiles for the camera; one avoids eye contact. One proudly presents her sign; the other holds hers close to her body. They stand together but signal such a historical difference. This image, for me, embodies the knowledge felt from the painful reality of that cold exit poll data. It reminds us to ask What pasts live between these two girls? What future histories does this photograph anticipate?
Witches for Black Lives Tara Betts, Chicago, Illinois
a cluster of unseen faces heads tipped, pointed beaks of witches’ hats only seen as costumes. They look daunting, their eyes, their faces covered. some hold black posters. white letters etch out RESIST WITCHES FOR BLACK LIVES A TIME TO BUILD/A TIME TO BURN they speculate. which action should we take— do we construct or combust?
Peggy Elia (@paraskevie) posted a photo of women dressed as witches during the Women’s March in Portland on Instagram. The photos taken of them at the march were frequently dramatic, but not one revealed their faces. The images were reminiscent of the Guerrilla Girls, who wear gorilla masks and assume the names of notable women artists of the past in public. W.I.T.C.H. began in New York City as a feminist activist project in 1968. The Portland chapter (known as #witchpdx) emerged in November 2016. W.I.T.C.H. has served as an acronym for numerous things, including “Witches International Troublemaker Conspiracy from Hell,” “Witches Invoking Transfor- mative Channels of Healing,” and “Women Inspired to Tear Down Constructs of Hate.” I was intrigued by their desire to represent themselves anonymously as a coven while participating in actions on issues with a broad, intersectional range. The photo was stark and looked like a grim threat to anyone perpetrating an injustice, but I was also drifting into thoughts of lines from Anne Sexton’s poem “Her Kind”: “I have gone out, a possessed witch/haunting the black air, braver at night . . ./A woman like that is misunderstood. . . ./A woman like that is not ashamed to die./I have been her kind.”
Dissenting Images 67 Achieving Our Collective Freedom William Estrada and Silvia Inés Gonzalez, Chicago, Illinois
We were pleasantly surprised to learn that 250,000 women and their allies gathered at Grant Park in Chicago on January 21, 2017. It felt comforting to know that so many people could gather to celebrate and support what the organizers of the march stated on their website as women’s rights, civil liberties, and diverse issues. As educators and community-based artists working in marginalized com- munities whose resources have been stripped away for decades, we wonder how many of us acknowledge the priv- ilege of gathering for such protests in a police state where we are constantly being surveilled. We wonder how our own privilege manifests itself through the language and images we choose Figure 2 when we march. How do our actions (or lack thereof ) create exclusivity? As Photo credit: Silvia Inés we celebrate our participation in protests, do we notice who is not present? Gonzalez. Whose voices were not invited or are excluded? Do we question if we are generating hegemonic language and imagery that celebrate a marginalized group that has not been invited to share its own stories? Are we reflecting together after these marches in a way that sustains this work beyond a moment in history? How are we engaging in these critical discussions with our loved ones, family, communities, and students? How are we unpacking harmful dynamics of exclusion in our interpersonal relationships so that this work can become a sustainable movement that truly challenges systemic oppression? We are excited about our critical awakening as a nation, of our collective effort to protest against xenophobic, misogynistic, and racist rhetoric. But we have to be conscious of what we show up for and what we fail to support. We have to be critical of what we say and do not say on social media and among our family and friends during protests that support Black Lives Matter, undoc- umented, indigenous, Muslim, and LGBTQ movements. We have to use our privilege when we see marginalized groups attacked; we need to be present and show up to co-create the spaces needed to celebrate and support civil liberties and diverse issues. Our collective liberation can only be achieved when we fight to make sure that every marginalized group has freedom.
68 transformations Unfit, Unkind, Unruly, Unaware, Unhinged, Uninformed, Unprepared, Untruthful, Unamerican, Unacceptable Nicolas Lampert, Milwaukee, Wisconsin
A sign that stood out to me amid a sea of signs at the Women’s March in Madison, Wisconsin, was text only: a large sign held by a woman that read “Unfit, Unkind, Unruly, Unaware, Unhinged, Uninformed, Unprepared, Untruthful, Unamerican, Unacceptable.” This sign listed the many reasons why Trump is so dangerous and so offensive. His policies are so extreme and the attacks on the public and the envi- ronment are so intense that a list seems appropriate. I appreciated the word choices. Unkind stood out. I brought my seven-year-old daughter, who has noted to me on many occasions that Trump never smiles, to the march. To her, he is a person who embodies someone who is unkind. Uninformed and unprepared denote someone who is a corporate pawn to the billionaire class and some- one who is being led by white supremacist advisors Stephen Bannon and Stephen Moore. Untruthful evokes the lies that he tells without remorse. Un- American relates to his attacks on the Constitution and a nation that should welcome people and refugees from all over the world. Figure 3 Unacceptable is a fitting last statement. It calls for all of us to resist the Trump Photo credit: Nicolas administration day in and day out. To me, the massive crowds themselves (over Lampert. 200,000 people were in Madison) were the visual images to behold, not just the signs. And I would suggest that marches are not going to be enough to stop the Trump agenda. Strikes, occupations, and refusal to cooperate will have to come next and will have to come soon.
The People’s March Farima Pour-Khorshid, Aja Reynolds, and Crystal T. Laura, Oakland, California, and Chicago, Illinois
We—three teacher activists embedded in communities of organizers—are, like our movements, intersectional, grounded in decolonization, and led by the most marginalized, which is why the selected image speaks to us. It depicts our comrades of the People’s Education Movement, a grassroots teachers
Dissenting Images 69 Figure 4 Photo credit: Patrick Camangian. of color organization, showing up in the streets of Oakland, California, as a public display of freedom fighting. “Showing up” is a double entendre, here, with two useful and relevant meanings. First, our comrades physically showed up—to an event that was, from our perspective, largely geared to- ward and attended by white females. Within this context, the presence of the People’s Education Movement offered a pedagogical statement about the longtime presence of people of color in organizing efforts, which is too often rendered invisible. Second, as educators, our comrades showed up to the Women’s March—or what we like to consider the People’s March—in principle, bringing strong messages of solidarity against intertwined systems of oppression. Farima’s sign reads: “A Teacher’s Place Is in the Revolution.” The picture represents the work that educators of color have taken up alongside students and families, both within and beyond the classroom, in their quest for justice. It is a counterportrayal of the US teaching profession that is dominated by over 82% white teachers. It is an illustration of our freedom dreams of the liberatory schools and society we are struggling for and striving toward.
70 transformations Putting Comfort and Bodies on the Line Darla Linville, Augusta, Georgia
After the election, I woke up angry and shocked, outraged that the new president was so dedicated to lying and hating. I was surprised by the hatred represented by the vote. I felt that my fellow Amer- icans had been duped by lies, that they had been complicit with hate, and that ignorance was at the root of this election result. I wanted America to think (again). In Augusta, Georgia, it was not obvious that there would be a women’s march. Movements like Black Lives Matter have been perceived as issues for other places, and good causes are framed as color-blind, with no need to address or notice race. However, in a heartening response, progressive movements—proimmigrant, antiracist, queer, feminist—were present in the small crowd that turned out. It was uplifting and somewhat surprising. We felt solace in the crowd, tinged with danger at speaking these words, the fear that names and images of faces were being noted. We had showed up to witness one another Figure 5 in our differences and resistances, giddy on the empty streets of downtown. Photo credit: Kristen This image asks us to think, but we also have to be willing to act for justice Gilbert. by putting our comfort and bodies on the line. We must think more critically about our work, our time, our efforts to create better political, educational, social, and economic spaces in our local area. Thinking, engaging politically, and taking action cannot be taken for granted as we use our privilege to con- front oppression.
Yeah . . . That’s Me Elizabeth Arellano, Lizette Leon, Adamary Perez, Ana Romo, and Jessica Rosenbaum, Chicago, Illinois
The Women’s March was the first political event these four young women, high school students on the southwest side of Chicago, had ever attended. We used our shared experience of marching as a catalyst for deeper conversation. We
Dissenting Images 71 Figure 6 Photo credit: Caroline Gonzalez.
met in my classroom and talked about their photo and their thoughts leading up to the march. Liz explained:
When I first heard about the Women’s March, the first thing I thought was I’ve never had an experience like that. I feel in this time everybody needs to be involved in what is happening in [America]. That is why I decided to go—to have a voice.
There was some uncertainty, and an early Saturday wake-up time, but they made their way downtown. Our conversation danced between reflections and memories made at the march, from people sharing food, support, and kind words to the negative reactions some experienced from their family for their participation. They express the power they see in their own photograph. “Yeah . . . that’s me,” they say. They will remember themselves in the retelling of the story of the march. They see themselves in the growing resistance movement. Ana reflected:
I view my role in the march as a connection between generations. Even though I am young, I feel . . . I am able to enlighten the older generation on what I believe and inspire my peers to take a stand with me as well. I hope my stance on things like this inspires others to become active. “When is the next march?” they ask.
72 transformations Including Women Sandra J. Schmidt and Ajit Jagdale, New York, New York
Ajit: I tried a few shots and wanted to avoid something [with a] wide angle because of the distortion, but in the end I chose wide angle for the dramatic effect. She really looked tired, and that coupled with the fact that she was sitting, emphasized the point of her sign.
Sandra: In a protest against the current administration, this image contrasts words of fatigue—I cannot believe I still have to protest this shit—with an administration that promises to “make America great again.”
Before we can discuss again, the Women’s March asks if America has ever been great. The weary face of the woman says no. She wears the long struggle for recognition on her face and posture and dons the pussy hat of the most recent moment. The still on her sign reminds us of the inadequacy of the US political system. The need for the march exceeds the regime change. It is the ongoing need to redress inequalities. The Women’s March and its curricular place provide an opportunity to critique what is not great and examine how to imagine and actualize a space of equity. Truly making America “great” requires redeveloping the imagination of who or what is constituted in/by “we the people.” The Women’s March was underlined by a diverse platform (this shit) not reflected in the messages and crowds. Critics noted the lack of trans inclusivity in “pussy” messages and how the pride taken in the “civility” of the march displaced how “violence” was projected onto/into #BlackLivesMatter and other marches dominated by people of color. Shared
Figure 7 Photo credit: Ajit Jagdale.
Dissenting Images 73 does not mean cohesive. Woman is not a unitary category; it is evolving and contextual. Greatness comes from understanding that trans identities, pussy power, and Islam supportively constitute one another. As we embody a space of resistance, we hope that rather than become tired, we will create new imag- inations of what is possible and how we can join together.
Uplift Not Just Our Faces, but Our Art and Voices, Too 1 1 This is xcerptede from a Monica Trinidad , Chicago, Illinois long blog post from January 31, 2017, available at http:// Since the election of Trump, I have created nothing in response. As I watch my www.monicatrinidad.com /blog. communities horrified by the news every day, as I join my communities in the streets, at city hall, at their press conferences, at the airports, and as I strategize with my communities on what is next in our lengthy battles, there has been little to no time for me to sit and create. I created the For the People (FTP) Artists Collective with the intention of increasing the visibility of artists of color, black artists, and their work in our movements and to build up a network of artists who double as organizers. In this moment of peak crisis and urgency—because a lot of us have been in a state of crisis and urgency—we are also seeing a plethora of movement art. This is a good thing. We need more art. Always. However, just as movements must be led by those most directly affected, it is critical that we uplift art that is also created by those most directly affected. When art is not created by those most directly affected, we get work like Shepard Fairey’s “We the People” series, particularly his visual representa- tion of a Muslim woman wrapped in an American flag hijab. Hoda Katebi, a Muslim Iranian abolitionist, photographer, and member of the FTP Artists Collective, writes in her blog piece, “Keep Your American Flag off My Hijab”: “Know the American flag represents oppression, torture, sexual violence, slavery, patriarchy, and military & cultural hegemony for people of color around the world whose homes and families have been destroyed and drone- striked by the very person/former president whose campaign images this one seeks to replicate.” When art is not created by having conversations with those most directly affected, we get work with messaging like “We are all immigrants” or “This land is your land, this land is my land.” This land is native land. Many of us are living here in the United States in diaspora, as refugees, as individ- uals on stolen land, and with the painful memories of African ancestors forced here in slavery. We do not create unity by erasing our histories of violence. While many new people are being politicized in this moment, what vision of liberation are we pulling them into if we re-create harmful, limiting messages?
74 transformations White Lens Connie Wun and Itzel Zuniga, Oakland, California, and Ames, Iowa
The Women’s March has been largely characterized as peaceful and nonviolent. However, for some communities of color, it was far from nonviolent. A number of us experienced it as another violent moment that rendered us spectacles for white liberal feminist voyeurism and/or objects of state surveillance. A young Latinx organizer in Des Moines, Iowa, shared that while she was marching with other organizers of color, white women stopped to take pictures of and with them. She “felt used” instead of peaceful. “The (white) lens they were seeing us through had its own version of who we were and why we were there. . . . There were signs, ‘We love immigrants’ or ‘We are all one,’ but I didn’t feel that unity or solidarity. They would not speak to us beyond walking up and asking for a picture.” In Oakland, California, a female Asian scholar-activist marched with other organizers of color. She writes, “I walked until I noticed a police camera and officers recording the marchers. US policing and surveillance includes objectification, feelings of fear, and violence against communities of color.” These pictures highlight racialized/gendered experiences with violence at the march that included state surveillance coupled with seemingly benign white
Figure 8 Photo credit: Itzel Zuniga and Connie Wun.
Dissenting Images 75 liberal photo opportunities. As we continue to resist the violence of this current political climate, may we recognize and #resist forms of nonviolence that are, for some, very violent. And may we #resist by centering the perspectives of those who have been survivors of US racialized and gendered state violence— beyond Trump.
Works Cited Witches for Black Lives, by Tara Betts
Elia, Peggy. “Women’s March on Portland.” Instagram. Web. 9 Feb. 2017.
76 transformations