The Other South

Phil Robertson is the South. 

I say this with shame, as a Southerner, but I know it's true. 

I know because when I was in the sixth grade, I prayed to God to fix me and found myself falling into a pit of self-hatred and confusion that lasted years and years and still sometimes tries to drag me in. My own Phil Robertsons did that. 

I know because I heard talk about how things used to be better, how people were happier "back then." I was told about us and them. There he is again. 

I know because when Phil Robertson spouted hate and bigotry, many of my friends and family formed a wall around him and his words, defending them against the better judgment of A&E and corporate distributors of Duck Dynasty goods. These people refused to accept that racist, homophobic language was problematic or should be acknowledged as such, even when it appeared in a major publication from the mouth of a man with considerable influence (bizarre as that influence may be). 

They couched their efforts in pretty words and tried to use the First Amendment to make it seem as though Phil Robertson were being persecuted and his rights were being denied. 

Nope. 

The Mississippi teen who got called "it" by her teacher? She is being persecuted.

The trans women who walk in fear and cannot depend on police protection because jail cells are often sites of new horrors? Their rights are being denied. 

But Phil Robertson is the South, and that's why people watch Duck Dynasty, for the picture of a "real" Southern family that prays together and eats together and works together. For god's sake they call Phil the patriarch. The gawk factor of a group of rednecks with money is just icing on the cake. 

Of course the not-so-hidden downside of embracing this myth of the South and its perfect family came out when Phil opened his mouth in GQ and his defenders rode their white horses to trample whatever morality clause A&E might have implemented to remove him from the show. 

His various non-apologies, most of which involved some kind of statement about the universality of sin, his own mistakes, and the need to love one another, revealed another insidious logic of the church and its followers, of a specific kind of South. 

He is allowed to say whatever he wants so long as he blankets that statement by saying, "love one another." Much like "bless his heart," it excuses a wide variety of otherwise unacceptable or minimally rude (its own kind of shame in the South) content.

For many, it functionally erases the fact that he called gay and lesbian people murderous and hate filled sinners who would rot in hell or that he wrote off the painful experiences of African-Americans in the Jim Crow South, a spiel which can only be explained by a serious and willful ignorance of history and a lack of self-awareness that might be unique to his particular brand of Southern white man.

This is "love the sinner, hate the sin," an approach to homosexuality that somehow finds no problem in divorcing a queer person from his or her sexuality even as it advocates for heterosexuality as supreme and essential. It's the approach that makes self-righteous cousins feel okay about hurling insults at the dinner table or that prompts nosy neighbors to constantly inform gay couples that they are "in our prayers."  It's the logic that made me hate myself for a long time. 

This is the South that many of these same people want to claim is post-racial, even as they jump to defend a rewriting of history that negates the experiences of their neighbors and their neighbors' ancestors and conveniently removes any responsibility to recognize white privilege and its history. 

Most disturbing is that most people who cried First Amendment did not need or want Phil to apologize, even in the form of a non-apology. They wanted his words. They wanted his thoughts. They wanted the patriarch in all his bigotry to stand and speak for them. That's what this has become, a fight about a belief system that a whole group of people want to maintain but know is being constantly challenged (not enough, never enough). In Phil they found a voice that reaches a massive group of people and advocates for their cause. It's not about First Amendment rights; it's about the right to hate without repercussion and continue to foster a culture that keeps queer kids shamed and minorities of every kind exhausted by constant microaggressive, or for that matter just flat out aggressive, statements and actions. 

The fight is about what the South is and how it will or will not progress. If we want the mythical Southern family that Duck Dynasty represents, then we have to take it all. I will say this for Phil, he feels righteous and his backers feel he is too. He will not sweep his homophobia or racism under the rug for anyone's sake. And apparently, he shouldn't have to. With his reinstatement it has become clear that he has the right to spew hate, although I wonder if he would have the same right if he weren't part of a show that centered on a very particular kind of Southern life. 

That gets to me because it's true, Phil Robertson is the South. 

But so am I. 

So are my mama, who responded to my coming out with an "Oh honey" and every kind of support you could possibly imagine, and my brother, whose refrain of "Sissy, I've got your back" echoes loudly every time I feel afraid to face another coming out. 

So is the queer community who healed the wounds Phil Robertson and those like him scraped into my skin, digging down into my subconscious and leaving shame and self-loathing that took years to extract (still it lurks). 

So are the families and friends who support me and the rest of the community and put no asterisk on the word love. No terms and conditions apply.

So are Black people and any number of people of color, good God, and their histories and struggles and triumphs.  

So are the churches and faith communities who open their doors without question or presumption and ask their potential priests questions about lgbt people not to weed out the liberals but to protect their lgbt members from any hate from the pulpit. 

So are all those who refuse hateful, historically inaccurate myths about Jim Crow and racial segregation as happy times for all involved and try to fight the racism that seeps into every corner of life. 

So are those who refuse to shield and support a bigot under the misuse of the first amendment. 

This is the other South, but it's easy to forget because it is buried under the mythology of the Old South, the praying family, the benevolent patriarch, the way things used to be (the way things never were). 

This is the South that is hard to find, that won't get a tv show, that gives support where it can but can't reach everyone who feels alone and trapped by hateful words that try to hide themselves under meaningless platitudes. 

It is shameful to all of us that Phil Robertson gets to represent us to yet another generation, another round of queer kids who hear in his words a warning to stay deep in the closet, another group of people who hear racist revisonist history as the song of the South. 

I remember the prayers and tears and thoughts of self-harm and wonder how we can let him speak for us. 

So what can we do, this other South?

I don't know yet but I know I refuse to let Phil Robertson represent me any longer. 

The South is more than that, more than him, and I am thankful for that every day.  

We just have to figure out how to let everyone else know the other South,

too. 

Week Twenty Seven: December 16th, TARSHI, More Exploring

Monday I went to work at TARSHI.  To give you an idea of the awesome people I work with, this is the background of my computer: 

Monday was December 16th, the anniversary of the bus gang rape that took place in Delhi last year.  I asked at TARSHI if there were any protests happening and Shruti, who is doing PhD work at Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), offered to take me with her to the student march.  

We left that afternoon and headed to the JNU.  Although we arrived on time, nothing was really happening (India is much like Argentina this way; things will begin late almost without fail), so Shruti and I had chai and talked.  She introduced me to Lenin, who used to be the JNU student president.  Interestingly, there is a strong left influence in India, especially in the south, so Lenin's parents gave him his name and his brother is Marx. 

Shruti was explaining to me that there is conflict between the more radical left and the organized left for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that the radical left doesn't believe in parliamentary democracy and so does not get involved in elections.  It is a fascinating debate and culture, especially at the university level where activists work for student organizational arms of various political parties. 

After a while, we headed to the gathering place and walked around to look at some of the protest art displayed around the area.  The work was powerful and diverse, done by students.  

Things began with chanting and singing.  I love this about indian protest culture.  It is awesome, and everyone knows how to respond and various people in the crowd can take over the leadership when someone's voice gets tired or even just if the mood strikes.  

Bismay had translated a few popular phrases for me: Freedom, Quit India, What do we want? 

Shruti helped with a few more: Make a loud noise, Long live, drown and die

Eventually we began to march, passing around candles and posters and falling into two lines down the street.  Shruti told me that last year the protest blocked a major intersection with so many people that the government, which was in session at the time, had no choice but to acknowledge them.  This year there were fewer people but the lines were long.  

The march ended at the bus stop where the woman and her friend boarded the bus.  Indian law prevents the release of the victim's name.  She died two weeks after she was attacked and raped on the bus.  Her friend survived with injuries.

Various activists gave speeches

Gautam  Bhan, a queer activist

The candles and signs left by the marchers

After the march, Shruti took me to dinner on campus.  The food was delicious and we talked for quite a while about different things, including Shruti's plans to pursue a PhD in Women's Studies in the US.  She also helped me understand the train classes so that I could book my travel around the north. I was grateful to be able to participate in the march and to spend an evening with Shruti. 

I spent Tuesday doing work, booking trains and travel and hotels and housing and all of the things that build up and require a lot of attention at some point.  It is something familiar in every country, but that evening Rohini and Jasneet also ended up in the same cafe, so I capped the day off with good dinner and good conversation. 

The next day, Jasneet and I headed to Old Delhi to see Chandi Chowk, the Red Fort, the Jama Masjid, and just to explore generally.  I had not been to this part of Delhi before and wow is it crowded and busy and all of the things that I normally see amplified by 1000.  It is also beautiful and interesting and full of history.  

We started at the Red Fort, which was built in the 17th century as the home of the Mughal emporers in Delhi.  It is also a UNESCO World Heritage site. 

This is not fog.  This is smog.

After exploring the Red Fort, we walked over to the Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India, also built in the 17th century.  Tourists are not allowed after sunset, and we just missed the mark, but a man there to pray walked us to another entrance and helped us enter.  It was beautiful, and I want to return in the daytime.  In the meantime, here is a picture from outside the gates.

Leaving the mosque, we walked through a market and then took an autorickshaw to eat some delicious street food.  Jasneet introduced me to tons of delicious stuff.  We ate sweets, my favorite of which was probably jalebi, something sort of like funnel cake, and savory things as well. I particularly loved the gol gappa, which is like a hollowed fried bread bowl that gets filled with a mixture of potatoes and spiced water.  I paid dearly for that later in the week, but more on that after some fun pictures.  

One of the markets

Famous street food stall, according to the articles in the background

After eating lots and wandering for a bit, Jasneet and I headed home.  It had been a great day of seeing something new in the city.

On Thursday evening, I went to a meeting of Delhi Queer Pride and listened as they discussed the next steps in fighting 377 and issues of funding and organization.  The practicalities of protest are easy to forget in the moment, and I was glad to be present for a conversation about logistics as a reminder of the hard work done behind the scenes.

I headed to work later that week and although I made it through the day, as soon as I got home, I was hit hard with my first (and hopefully last) case of Delhi Belly.  I will not go into detail other than to say that I was down for the count for a few days and had to miss meetings and a Saturday protest.  I will also say, Esha you were right about Delhi Belly.  Luckily after the fever broke, things headed in the right direction again, and I was able to get back into the groove of things by Sunday.

This week I am thankful for:

1. The spirit of Indian protest
2. Good company and a chance to eat new things and to see a new part of the city
3. Gatorade and a warm bed 

Second Quarterly Report

A few weeks ago, on the 12th, I sent my second quarterly report to the Watson Headquarters.  I have been gone from home for six months, and I can't believe it.  I have grown and changed so much in the time since I flew from Memphis to Warsaw, and as I keep traveling, I know I will continue to adjust my perspective on a wide variety of things.

Anyway, I thought I would share my second quarterly report, a brief recap of the past three months, and a few pictures as well.

Hello from Delhi!  It is my third week here and lots has happened, but I should start with my months in Argentina.  

A few days after I sent my last quarterly report, I walked into a house in Salta, in the northwest of Argentina, hoping that I would find the LGBT group that supposedly worked at that address.  The house was in a residential neighborhood, and after a few failed attempts to get in touch with other organizations both in Salta and in other parts of the country, I was nervous that the address that I had would be outdated and I would find myself in someone's living room.  Luckily, I was in the right place and had happened upon a meeting of an HIV support group.  They not only welcomed me but invited me to introduce myself and speak a little about the project, nodding politely as I tried to remember the Spanish equivalent for fellowship (una beca is the closest, now burned into my brain). They then promptly made room for me on a sofa and provided me with drinks and snacks and later, birthday cake.  After listening to the group discussion, I had a chance to talk with many of the members of the group, and I spent the day learning about Salta, the community there, and its specific needs.

The experience in Salta was typical of my experience in Argentina as a whole.  It quickly became clear that email communication would be ineffective, so I adopted a just show up strategy.  I spent my first few weeks in Buenos Aires knocking on doors (and indeed found myself nervously explaining to a stranger why I was bothering him at home after one of many address mixups) or trying to find doors to knock on. All told there were around a dozen addresses to check.  These first few weeks pushed me in new ways.  I learned how to work through a language barrier, grateful for some knowledge of Spanish but fully aware of my limitations.  I learned to use public transportation and to carry a map, to budget time to travel to different neighborhoods and to be prepared for anything when I arrived.  Most of all, I learned to push through nervousness and speak to total strangers about my project, hoping that they or their organization might have a way to get involved in the community.

Once I found organizations, the hospitality and opportunities continued to grow.  During my time in the city, I regularly attended the meetings of La Fulana (loosely translated as Jane Doe or in its harshest version, whore; a group for lesbian and bisexual women with separate meetings for activism and social discussion), Sigla (a general LGBT advocacy group that had meetings for both women and young people as well as men and HIV-positive individuals), Juventud FALGBT (the youth arm of the Federation of LGBT organizations in Argentina), and Gay Geeks (the social group that Saulo, a hostel staffer, invited me to join during my first week in Argentina).  Where it was obvious to me that I wanted to work with the KPH in Warsaw, there were so many opportunities in Buenos Aires and I did not want to limit my perspective and interaction.

Every group was different and introduced me to new sides of the queer community in the city.

In La Fulana, I found a group of women very comfortable with each other and open to visitors but also fiercely dedicated to their cause.  In Sigla and Juventud, I found a close-knit community of young people working for change and providing support for one another in the process.  The Gay Geeks were my main social connection in the city, bringing me along on a camping trip in Tigre and to picnics in the parks in Palermo, a short and gorgeous walk from my apartment.

I spent my days with these groups and meeting new people, speaking to different members of the community about their work and experiences.  Leaders of various organizations were kind enough to give me lots of time and mate as we talked.  I went to Casa Brandon, the gay cultural center, to see a play.  It was clear from my first week that I would need to improve my Spanish, so I took courses during my first few weeks.  I explored the city, sprawling and diverse, to find different groups and to see new sights, taste new foods.  I became a pro at the metro, ate too many empanadas, and learned to like mate, if only for the ritual.  I spent my birthday with friends and the Saturday before I left, had a late Argentine night talking, playing board games, singing karaoke, and dancing with some of my favorite people in the city.

By the time Pride rolled around a little over a week before my flight to Delhi, I felt comfortable in Buenos Aires and in the community.  Throughout the day and night I saw various friends from weekly meetings and although I spent my time at the La Fulana tent, I was able to chat with Juventud, who were just one tent to the right, and to end the day with the Gay Geeks, meeting first in the crowd and later in a friend's apartment.

I participated in Pride as security for the La Fulana truck, marching alongside to keep people from getting too close. It was a different perspective on the celebration, and I learned from my experience working to set up the truck and tent and making a barrier for the dancing and drinking crowd.  I also found that Buenos Aires Pride was an interesting mixture of other celebrations.  The music, large trucks, and huge crowds reminded me of the CSD in Berlin, but there is a rule that no corporate sponsors are allowed to have representation the way that they did in Berlin, so there is still more of a homegrown, political feel to what happens during and after the celebration, when speakers from various organizations give speeches about community progress and goals.  I was especially interested in this commitment to progress.  Argentina has marriage equality, adoption, and a fantastic gender identity law, but the community does not rest and still fights even those less obvious inequalities, something that I hope will be true in the US as progress continues.

I felt pangs of sadness eating dinner with friends that last week and a loss as I boarded the plane to Delhi.  Of course, I was excited to explore a new place and meet the people with whom I had been corresponding, to seek a new community and continue my project.  Still, the emotional investment is real in each city, and leaving requires saying goodbye in a way that feels more final than it does with friends at home. I could not be more grateful for these bonds and the amazing people that I have met, which is why saying goodbye is so difficult.
Pride festivities were under way when I landed in Delhi, and I was lucky enough to have a great welcome from Bismay, with whom I had been corresponding.  He brought me flowers and introduced me to many people who worked to put the parade together and who worked within the community.  It was through Bismay that I met Ankit and began work with TARSHI (Talking About Reproductive and Sexual Health Issues). It is also thanks to Bismay that I have connections to other social meetings and groups in the city.

Pride was wonderful, a comparatively small but spirited and celebratory group marched close to Connaught Place and danced with a massive rainbow flag while a group of drummers provided music.  Marchers carried signs in Hindi and English and some wore colorful masks as a way to participate without endangering their jobs or alienating their families.  The march went at its own pace and left room for conversation, a great day and a great way to meet people.

Unfortunately, things changed here yesterday.

When I arrived in Delhi, the city was still awaiting the appeal of a ruling by the Delhi High Court in 2009 that decriminalized homosexuality by invalidating a portion of Section 377.  Added under British rule in the nineteenth century, Section 377 was meant to stop "perversion" in many forms, and it included sodomy along with beastiality as a crime against nature.  Yesterday, the Indian Supreme Court invalidated the Delhi Court's ruling, effectively criminalizing homosexuality (specifically homosexual acts) once more.
The community here is open, proud, and working constantly for progress but things are difficult in so many ways that it is an entirely separate struggle from the others that I have seen so far. Before anything, they now must work to achieve the basic right to exist openly without legal repercussions. Yesterday afternoon there was a protest, organized quickly but extremely well attended.  The general attitude was one of resilience and determination. There is a fight on the way.

Six months have passed, unbelievably, and I am getting settled in Delhi.  I am different now in many ways, the result of traveling alone and spending my days with my project in mind.  More confident and flexible, I still struggle with the desire to color code my meetings and plan every tiny detail, with loneliness, with the emotional struggles of leaving a place that is beginning to feel familiar for a whole new world, but I am not overwhelmed in the same way that I was early on in Warsaw or scared to the same extent that I was even just a few weeks ago on the flight from Buenos Aires.  I am learning and growing and meeting people who do amazing work, who fight even as their government tries to deny them the right to love one another.  I am thankful and happy and excited to continue every single day.

Thank you for this opportunity.

All the best from Delhi,
Sarah Holland

Birthday Dinner 

Marching in Pride in Buenos Aires

Drinking Malbec in Mendoza 

Gay Geeks Anniversary Party

Camping with Juan, German, and the Gay Geeks 

Delhi Pride

At the Qutub Minar

377 Protest 

377 Protest 

Merry Christmas from Delhi!

This Christmas, I am thankful for my family and friends at home and abroad who make me feel loved and supported, whether from great distances or from across the dinner table. I am so lucky to have y'all in my life. 

I know that this time of year is hard on a lot of people, especially lgbt people, who are sometimes left without the option to go home or reminded of painful history as the holidays roll around.  I hope for everyone who struggles this time of year that good friends and community help to heal those wounds.

That being said, there are still so many in our community who feel isolated (and how could they not, with laws criminalizing homosexuality and preachers demonizing lgbt people left and right) and we can do more than hope they have a better year next year by giving political support to those who make equality a priority and vocally opposing those who campaign on hate. We can also do the simple thing of being vocal with our love, even without a Phil Robertson to contradict. So on that note, down with 377, up with solidarity, and thank you thank you thank you to the wonderful people in my own life who make me want to be home for Christmas. 

Here are some photos and snippets from the past few days in Delhi. 

Merry Christmas, everyone! 

So normally at Christmas we take the family photo for next year's card. Since I'm not around this year, here's a Christmas in India card, brought to you by the Christmas stalls at Malviya Nagar market and a dangerous growing shamelessness about taking pictures of myself. Christmas selfie time: 

Decorations in Hauz Khas Village, first spotted while doing some work on Monday: 

Inside Select City, the mall in Saket: 

He was obviously telling me Merry Christmas from the balcony: 

On Christmas Eve, the fabulous Jasneet and I had Vietnamese food in a hotel called the Taj (yay international Christmas) and they had some spiffy blue and white decorations up: 

Select City on Christmas Day. I went to buy a jacket as it actually feels like Christmastime in Delhi (and by that I mean it is less than 60 degrees): 

The amazing Courtney Mott sent me flowers and candy: 

On Christmas, lovely Spiros and I ate Italian food and French dessert: 

Merry, Merry Christmas!