Introductions

I’ve written several introductions in the past; one on my first blog and three for Feministe when I guest-blogged there.

We Scratch Our Names in Concrete (originally posted 10/19/07 on Feministe)

 

I’m baaaacccck! Like a bad habit. I’ve been here before, around a year ago, but it’s probably time to expand on my introductions, both my original one on my blog and my previous intro here, “The Act of Bearing Witness”.

Who is Lubu? I’m a sicilian-american, blue-collar, “unwed” mother, journeylevel electrician (almost 20 years in the trade) who is deeply involved in the life of my Local (and still involved, but to a lesser extent, in other area labor organizations and efforts). Labor activism runs in my family—literally in my blood and bones. My father served as President of his Local several times, and was an organizer. My mother served on the Executive Board of her Local and was a steward. My grandparents and great-grandparents were union members (my mother’s mother was also a steward). Talk of unionism, labor issues, internal union politics, and strategy from within and without was a feature of my upbringing; I was immersed in it, and learned those lessons like language without an accent. Lessons that would serve me, and continue to serve me well as a tradeswoman in a venue where many doors still remain closed, and the ceiling isn’t glass but hard concrete—-and that’s a whole ‘nother game. Yet still, labor history, struggles and activism remain a passion. I’m an old-school, shop-floor, rank-n-file, pound-the-pavement, knockin’-on-doors, knockin’-down-walls, standin’-up-in-the-Hall kinda union sister. I’d like to see more women enter the trades.

I’m Somebody’s Mother (*gasp*!), and my daughter was born three months premature, at one pound, ten ounces (735 grams). The struggles her birth and early development brought made me keenly aware of the failures of our current system of health insurance, and is damn likely to be the subject of a post on this gig. She is now turning eight, is in the second grade, and so I also take a strong interest in education, and am a vocal supporter of the public schools (I started subscribing to “Rethinking Schools”, a magazine for radical teachers, when my girl entered Early Start). I am interested in multiple intelligences, and various modes of learning.

I’m a survivor of domestic violence (from an early marriage that feels like a lifetime ago—I was 19, and divorced at 25), and grew up in an alcoholic household with all the violent levels of dysfunction that implies. I feel obligated to speak about it, ‘cuz those dysfunctions thrive under silence. The people living in the midst of that hell don’t. So. I have very little patience for those who demonize single mothers; unlike me, my daughter is growing up in an emotionally healthy home. Also, I want to change the assumptions about who survived DV; survivors are Everywoman, Everywhere. Doesn’t make it any easier to talk about, tho’. I am still close to my family (I’m an only child), including my large extended family. In addition to the regular silence and denial surrounding emotionally unhealthy families, there’s an added layer of omerta—I just don’t know how else to put it. If any of this sounds familiar to you, I want you to know you are not alone.

I’m a perpetual outsider. Grew up in different cities and different neighborhoods, but the one constant was that I never Fit In. “She ain’t from around here, is she?” No, she ain’t. But although that can be a negative in the provincial midwest, my outsider status has given me a perspective from multiple vantage points—and I exercise that protocol to the best of my abilities.

I’ve been a Feministe reader since back when it was solely Lauren’s gig. I found this place from Prometheus 6 when she got a mention for her post on whiteness. As to how long I’ve been feministe…..all my life. And I’m forty years old.

A couple of weeks ago I went for a walk. Ended up passing by one of the landmark buildings in my city, a spectacle of modern architecture, all green glass and angles, taking up practically two city blocks. (in case you were wondering, it leaks like a sieve.) I worked electrical maintenance in this building while pregnant—with every woman in the joint coming up to me and saying, “Wow! a pregnant electrician! How cool!” while I said, “SHHHHH!! that’s a secret! The guys just think I’ve gained a little weight!” One of my best friends was the project manager during that building’s construction. He was from a neighboring local, and he was universally hated throughout the length of the project.

Anyway, I noticed that a couple of the sidewalk slabs I was walking over had names on them. And I stopped to read them. There, frozen in time, were the names of many of the electricians who worked on the project—a project that was completed years before I entered the apprenticeship. The name of my daughter’s godfather is there. The Business Manager. Former union officers. I knew almost everyone who signed their name. Worked with ‘em. Apprenticed under ‘em. And then I saw Brother Tim Daugherty’s name. From back when he was young, full of piss-and-vinegar. Long before he thought taking a dive off the fourteenth floor of the hospital was a ticket out of pain.

It’s a common act—scratching one’s name in somewhere on the jobsite. Those slabs were unusual in that they were left to be, be visible. But the act itself? Endemic. It’s our way of reminding you we exist. People laid those bricks, hung those light fixtures, poured that concrete, drove those nails, laid that pipe. But we are still so invisible. Who tells our stories? I’ve seen the insides of the covers of junction boxes signed, with a Local number. Always a Local number. I’ve left my name behind, too, on walls above drywall ceilings, on I-beams, and yes, inside the covers of junction boxes.

We scratch our names in concrete, on steel, so someone, somewhere in the future, will know we were there. It’s universal. You may not know our thoughts, but dammit you will know our names.

And now you know mine. Assabenedica!

The Act of Bearing Witness (originally posted at 10/22/06 on Feministe)

 

Hello, my name is La Lubu, and I will be one of the guestbloggers here at feministe for….well, as long as they’ll have me! My blogging name is a reflection of my heritage—La Lubu, the wolf-woman, the goddess, the one with Blood on her Teeth, the one in the shadows, the one who listens, watches, and howls at the moon. La Lubu is dangerous, not to be trifled with, but She is also a Muse, and a healer, and fiercely protective of her family. I seek to embody this archetype, though like anything else, sometimes I got it and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes the couch calls—but that’s not so different from Lubu’s den, no? You can read more about the why of my nickname over here, and I wrote this in the comments at Hugo’s blog:

“See, I find communication by writing difficult. It’s not a matter of not knowing the right words or how to use them, but of being able to bring sensory imagery into the print—if that makes any sense. I’m more comfortable with the immediacy, nuances and physicality of in-person communication. I think “La Lubu” as a handle provides a pretty good foundation from where I start—indicates a little more of where I’m coming from, without having to go into a whole dissertation or autobiography. It provides clues to the “real me” the same way my physical presence does.”

There’s been a lot of questioning of the use of nom-de-plumes in the blogosphere lately, with disastrous results. While I am grateful for the opportunity for a reason to return to the blogosphere, my presence here is at the expense of a writer I like and admire—zuzu, whose commentary at Hugo’s blog I always enjoyed, going back a couple of years ago. I was happy to see her blogging here, and seriously dug her posts—sometimes serious, sometimes irreverant, sometimes wry—but never boring, even when they were a little New-York-centric at times. I still see her in my mind, sweaty and wearing that hardhat from the New Orleans cleanup effort. She looked like a sister on the jobsite in that gear; a vibe I always got from her posts, anyway. Take a rest, sis, and put your feet up—but don’t forget us. I’m honored to share your front porch.

I think the questioning of this practice—using a nickname, handle, nom-de-plume, guise, alter-ego, however you think of the act—shines a distinct light not only on the relative privileges of some in the blogosphere, but of the general lack of appreciation for the multiverse that is the blogosphere. An effort to homogenize blogging culture, which ought to be obvious as a non-starter. I knew I would use “Lubu” as a handle after a long, kitchen-table conversation with one of my aunts; the kind of talk that alternates between reverie and get-down-ta-business nitty gritty, war stories, dreams, plans for the future (’cuz both of us were in the midst of struggle at the time). I probably need to mention for clarity’s sake that my parents are the oldest children of larger families, so I have aunts close to my age—-just thought I’d throw that out there lest anyone think this was a teaching moment, rather than an reaching moment, y’know? I deliberately chose it to reflect the culture, my being, that I’ve been told all my life that I was supposed to downplay, supposed to assimilate out of, supposed to suppress my Self. Supposed to forget, to change from, even though my in-person presence gives me away every time. Using this name was my chance to put my whole self into motion on print. On the Internet, no one may know you’re a dog, but goddamnit, I want ‘em to know I’m a wolf. It was also a chance to be creative, which is not something I get the chance to do at work, though I do love my job. I think that’s another aspect of it that people can relate to—the option to be creative. Most of us have to compartmentalize our lives such that we have to choose bill-paying over art; the art gets pushed back to the realm of avocation, and even then doesn’t get taken out to play often enough. My name is meant to reveal, not to obscure. I don’t think the proponents of so-called “real names” get that. They must not have been comic-book fans when they were kids. (full disclosure: I wanted to be Lilith, daughter of Dracula, when I was a kid!)

So. Here we are. Where was I? Oh yeah—multiverse and the blogosphere. Would you believe I didn’t use the internet until I was over thirty? I resisted getting a computer; I knew that my reading jones would follow me down the rabbit hole if I did. Well, I got one anyway, and off I went—in search of other tradeswomen and all nature of siciliata. There wasn’t much out there, in fact the only (personal) tradeswoman site I know of is operated by a friend of mine, bluecollargal. To me, the Internet was a window on worlds, a way to break out mentally from the midwest—a midwest I have a love/hate relationship with. See, I always thought I would dust this fucking central-Illinois dirt from off my feet ASAP. I spent my apprenticeship longing for my JW card so I could Hit the Road and be Outta Here, with all due quickness. Conversely, when I did just that, I ended up going not too far away, to St. Louis and the Metro-East, old stomping grounds (though there was no “Metro East” when I lived there, LOL!). And I savored the chance to breathe that river air again (wtf is wrong with me?) and listen to KDHX. I started picking up a jones for jazz, old-school soul-jazz and acid jazz too (that is, when I wasn’t listening to Majic 108). I started reading jazz magazines to educate myself, learn more about the artists. ‘Round about that time, Umar Bin Hassan, one of the Last Poets, had put out his album (yeah, I still call ‘em that) “Be Bop Or Be Dead”. So he was interviewed a lot. And in several of those interviews, since he was still feuding with inveterate New Yorker Jalal Nuriddin, he worked in every chance to rep the midwest that he could. He talked about how funk came from the midwest, Chicago blues, kick-ass KC barbecue, how Miles Davis came from the midwest, how the musical influences of the South came up the Mississippi and adapted to factory towns, and how all that art had as its base a certain POV that was distinct to the midwest. That we—midwesterners—had little patience for pretension and glitter, that we had a brusqueness and honesty, that we had a jones for the unfettered truth, the undoctored image, that we still were proud of the dirt under our fingernails. I mean—he went on and on, reminding me of Carl Sandburg (another poet who repped where he was from), and got me thinking how rivers carry ideas, sounds, ways of seeing and being—along with the cargo. It set my mind to flowing. He said somethin’ about how we call out bullshit when we see it, instead of hassling with how to work it to our advantage—that we just hacked it open and showed it for what it was. And for the first time, I started feeling a sense of pride of place—of where I came from. Previously, I’d always separated in my mind the where of where I was from, from my familial/cultural background. I didn’t really accept, or want to accept, the degree to which the place where my feet stood was an indelible influence upon me as well. Which is one more reason I enjoy the hell out of brownfemipower, who has consistently reminded the more cultured, varnished world that the left lives in the blood and bones of the midwest, too. Show her some love every chance you get.

The other night, it was my daughter’s birthday. And since it’s so close to Halloween, there was an opportunity to hear a storyteller, who regaled us with scary ghost stories for a couple of hours. During the intermission, we ducked back into the art gallery to see the latest exhibition, which has been much hyped in the local media. The title? Bearing Witness: The Art of Preston Jackson, which is showing at several venues in the area.

It. Took. My. Breath. Away. I am not educated about art. I would be incapable of having a serious art discussion with anyone even remotely connected with the art world—but this….this just….the depth of vision….the symbology…..I sure as hell don’t know what is says to the folks “knowledgeable” about art, but it got into my bloodstream. I had read the article in the Illinois Times about the showing, and swore I would get out and see it all before it left, but y’know, life gets hectic, and my good intentions were busy paving a road to a hell that involved lots of unfinished home projects, an overflowing basket of laundry, making sure the l’il one’s homework got done, and other mundane shit. This show was the antidote. Preston Jackson’s abstracts don’t conceal, but reveal.

Shame on my ass for not knowing of this man; not knowing that he is an honored person of the Legacy Project. He grew up in Decatur, smelling the same crappy ADM air I get to smell on a bad day when the wind shifts. He is dyslexic, and used that way of seeing to tackle his schoolwork as a child, figuring out a way to make the pieces fit. He still uses that piecework in his art. Go take a walk through Julianne’s Garden. Locally, African-American parent educator C. L. Crockett had a fine editorial on her reaction; she especially related to “Hog Killin’ Time”. I think “Guardian Sacrifice” is another outstanding work likely to intrude into the consciousness of mothers (and others). Take a walk through Bronzeville. Bearing Witness is the work of a master artist, a teacher, who consistently challenges racism and sexism. This is work that is passionate and direct; his subterranean imagery designed to aim straight inward. This is penetrating art that belies his nonchalant, self-described “shy” persona.

We all bear witness, and we do so with our whole selves, our bodies, our minds, our souls. We all speak from where we come from, with whatever voice we can gather, standing on whatever speck of ground we can scratch up. That some use blogging as part of a foundation for professional gain does not negate the need others of us have for blogging as a shout from the shadows and fog in which we find ourselves, at times. There are different ways of knowing, different forms of expression, different cadences, different steps, different languages, slanguages, lingo. Absent that, the blogosphere would hold as much appeal as an actuarial conference.

So. Here is La Lubu. Fucked-up Sunday bed-head and all. Bearing witness.

The Wherefores and the Whys  (originally posted 8/8/04 on blogspot)

 

So…why La Lubu? Ever read Women Who Run With the Wolves? How about Loba by the incomparable Diane Di Prima? When I was a little kid, and my grandma wanted us kids (me, cousins, young aunts) to come in, she’d yell out the screen door “Ya better come in, or the Lubu’s gonna get ya!” Sorta like the boogie man. This didn’t really have the intended effect, instead sending us kids into paroxysms of laughter, hooting and howling. La Lubu is a part of me….a reflection of my culture….and besides, I still dig the howling.

Why do I blog? I love to read. Think. Debate. Discuss. Learn. And I feel like I’m cheating myself out of one step in that process by not writing, too. My writing skills have languished in lo these many years of being out of school. Not much verbal ability is required on my job save for fluent cursing (just kidding….sort of). Blogging may help me gain or recover some basic skills. Might even end up being fun, too! Many years ago, I found and read a book, No Pictures In My Grave by Susan Caperna Lloyd on her sicilian heritage and spiritual journey to the Mother/Land. My grandmother saw it, and I never got it back….I had to buy another copy! I was always in search of books by sicilian- and italian-american women, but besides Diane DiPrima, I didn’t know where to look. Then I started finding more….. Unsettling America by Maria Mazzotti Gillan and Jennifer Gillan, which led me to Helen Barolini’s The Dream Book….and it cascaded from there. Once I got a computer, I discovered that there’s a whole renaissance of italian american writers, many (if not most) of them women. It was like finding my religion. And everywhere I go….I proselytize. (Heh heh. Every italian american woman I know; we’re all gettin’ religion!!) Word’s getting out, because the words are getting out; being printed, being published. It’s refreshing, like cold water in the desert.

What can you expect from La Lubu? Well….
1. politics, stage left variety.
2. plenty of discussion on the Labor Movement
3. talk of parenting and single mama-hood
4. promotion of sicilian- and italian-american culture
5. especially promotion of sicilian- and italian american writers
6. books!
7. also, music! and to a lesser extent, film
8. food! Everybody’s gotta eat, right?

Every now and then, there’ll be a section at the bottom called “for the Local Hands” that will deal with local news, issues and events. “Local hands” is a term in the trades that refers to folks from the home local. People from other locals are called “travelers” or “tramps”.

Oh, and a note on style: ever since reading Dark Mother: African Origins and Godmothers by Lucia Chiavola Birnbaum, I picked up her method of decapitalization. If you go to her website, she coyly says, “I like to decapitalize.”; in the book she goes in depth on why that is…a way of refocusing and decolonizing the mind. Proper names of people and places are capitalized; races, ethnicities, religions and political persuasions are not. It’s easier to remember the fluidity of race, ethnicity, religion and political persuasion over place and time when it’s not capitalized. I liked the style, and liked the philosophy behind it even more. I’ll be using it on this blog.

Salud!