Boggs Center – Living For Change News Letter – July 3rd, 2017

Jimmy and Grace
We are the Children of Martin and Malcolm…

We are the children of Martin and Malcolm,           Black, brown, red and white, Our birthright is to be creators of history, Our Right, Our Duty           To shake the world with           A new dream!

Living for Change News
July 3rd, 2017
Thinking for Ourselves
Commonplace Cruelty
Shea HowellMuch of the media coverage this week focused on Donald Trump’s feud with journalists. In what can only be characterized as a scathing editorial, the New York Times described Trumps behavior as coarse, vengeful, embarrassing, nasty, creepy, denigrating, awkward, vulgar and repugnant.

These same descriptions apply to his attacks on immigrants. The recent Supreme Court decision to uphold part of the executive travel ban has allowed the administration to aggressively target people for exclusion. Freed from judicial oversight, the White House renewed senseless travel restrictions and its attacks on Muslims and people from Arabic countries.

While the Supreme Court will review the case in the fall, it restored much of the original executive intent to limit immigration. The administration moving quickly with renewed aggressiveness.

“It remains clear that President Trump’s purpose is to disparage and condemn Muslims,” said Omar Jadwat, director of the A.C.L.U.’s Immigrants’ Rights Project, adding that the government’s new ban on entry “does not comport with the Supreme Court’s order, is arbitrary and is not tied to any legitimate government purpose.”

The punitive, vengeful and nasty nature of this effort by the administration was underscored by other actions taken by House Republicans at Trump’s urging. In the midst of the crisis on health care and tweets about journalists, GOP forces found time to crack down on undocumented people and those who support them.

The House introduced two separate bills that, while certain to meet resistance in the Senate and across the country, demonstrate the level of cruelty now commonplace in the GOP. The first bill is an effort to increase prison sentences for people who re-enter the country without proper documentation. The second renews attacks on sanctuary cities and promises to cut federal funds. The Secretary of Homeland Security, John Kelly, made a rare appearance at the Capitol to make a special assault on cities that declare concern for all the people who call them home. In an effort to obscure reality, Kelly said these new anti-sanctuary laws would prevent local officials from prioritizing “criminals over public and law enforcement officer safety.”

Named “No Sanctuary for Criminals Act,” the bill expands the amount of money a city could lose if it does not cooperate with federal immigration officials and it would also prevent people from filing lawsuits against federal authorities who detain immigrants. Even without these laws, the administration has been targeting people for deportation.

Two weeks ago, more than 100 people in metro-Detroit were rounded up and processed for deportation. Most were Chaldean. Most have lived peacefully and lawfully here for many years, building full lives after escaping persecution in Iraq. As Christians they have long been a targeted minority there. Almost all of them had committed minor violations of the law, and paid for them. Now grandparents, brothers, sons and husbands are being characterized as hardened criminals and given what could well amount to death sentences if they are sent to Iraq.

Immigration officials invaded homes and workplaces arresting people without notice or any sense of due process. People were transported out of state, leaving families with little understanding of what is happening to them.

This ugliness is just beginning. Our mayor needs to do much more to support all of the people in our city. Our faith communities, schools, universities and civic organizations have a responsibility to extend sanctuary to all who seek it.

At a moment when those in authority are clearly coarse, vengeful, embarrassing, nasty, creepy, denigrating, awkward, vulgar and repugnant, we the people have to develop ways to protect, support and care for one another. It was never more obvious that what is legal is not the same thing as what is right.


Bill Wyle-Kellerman’s last sermon

Death Has No Dominion

WATCH IT HERE


writing a poem for kellermann again again: 
you would think we were married

Jim Perkinson 
(written upon Rev. Kellerman’s retirement from St. Peters Church)

there is a man
who is really a tree
sitting at a table
which is really a city
looking into a rectangular-shaped
crystal ball called
william stringfellow
(this is a postmodern legend;
things get weird names
and strange shapes)
the man grins, searches through
the tipped over stack of books
on his floor which is really the
entrance ramp to the belle isle bridge
follows the words from book to book
straight across the strait until he
get interdicted by the last book
which is actually not a book at all, but the
case file folder of his homrich 9 trial
puts his hearing aid in so he can hear
the voices floating up off the pages better
which are really not voices but red admiral
butterflies that seek to perch in the mustache
hairs over his lip which are really tree leaves
dangling over the flowing river (except he
doesn’t know it—he thinks he’s really
a human). the butterflies land and the water
suddenly roils with sturgeon coming to the surface
to check out the red and black kaleidoscope
flickering above the ceiling of their world
which, if you asked the man, he would assure you
is just the reflection of the dark dirt under his nails
from weeding his backyard garden mirrored in the side of his glass of cabernet sauvignon as he tips the
trader joe’s elixir into the little knot-hole that appears under the leaves of one of the branches to water the stiff old roots gnarling their way into the summer-hardened soil which he thinks is a basketball court he will one day once again float over like a quicksilver otter finding openings between the rocks of legs of what he imagines are prosecutors trying to keep him from scoring points with the box of jurors presiding at the half-court line.he is confused.

thinking he has just won a minor skirmish in a global war about faucet flows in poor houses but actually he is a willow tree on an island seducing the river to climb his veins and come out his bark
as shoots to feed the deer and give the cicadas something to keen about and they do, in sharp trilling cadences all over socially mediated screens of lightning flashes that he thinks are just i-phone and android pulses rather than songs to the moon about the prognosis of the sun’s growing fever, and little cricket cheers that at least the possums under the porch and blossoms on the iris don’t yet have to abandon this world of rising floods of education vouchers and shutoff notices and lead leeches and incinerator belches that he, like some don quixote in front of a decrepit windmill, lumps together in a single perception as a foul wind-machine monster called an emergency manager (or otherwise named
“mayor” or “governor”).   

anyway, this strange crystal ball vision of a fellow-ship of stringy possibilities that is really the rest of us causes him to sit back and muse not realizing he is actually slumped forward and snoring into his own bared belly button (it is hot out so he has his t-shirt pulled up) which receives his breath as if it were the brief flight of a swallow seeking shelter in a nest hidden in slender grasses waving on a hill of well-fed dreams and he dreams, drooling a little bit onto his own knees (you ask how i know this
—probably i am projecting)

but he dreams with his naked toes curled around the pages of all of his past writings gathered at his feet

under the table like the growing horde of grandkids who also love to go on treasure hunts there, and the words climb his legs like tendrils of vine circling the trunk he really is, finding purchase for their little bright fruits in all the crevices of the bark which do
not lessen as they ascend and then at a certain altitude those words suddenly conceive themselves birds of multiple kinds, flying off in maelstroms of delight in liberation, careening in virtuoso
inebriation of insight, finches of laughter flitting like snorts from the limb of his nose, prayer cardinals of ritual regally clutching the top edge of his ear, bluejays screeching when an orange-headed
dust-storm of toxins suddenly threatens the national horizon, woodpeckers of conviction trying to wake the head, a tiny hummingbird of harry potter inspiration riding the rhythm of sonority coming from the flap of the mouth, topped off by crows of augury vigiling for apocalypse in the spreading savannah on the crown . . .

—a man, as a tree, dozing
in the sun, bearing fruit, giving truth wings,
and hosting waters of repose for the desperate, rooted at the strait, bending the gale, enduring the leaf-blight and the ice fall and the locust swarm of gentrifying, bleach-featured “saviors,” and
marathon truck grit and quicken loan buzz saws and marauding snipes from the towers of finance
(not to mention jail cells)

—a tree, who thinks he is a man, giving life, like mustard become cedar, to every manner of little one
and creature needing shelter.

may he blaze with color in this new autumnal season as it rises with kisses and augury in its touch.


WHAT WE’RE READING

Ruminations on Rust

Adrienne Marie Brown

art21

IMG_2287
(By Ash Arder)

I am, and have long been, an anticapitalist: for me, the built structures being swallowed up by nature and rust were beautiful promises, indicative that this moment of bottomless consumption was not eternal, that everything humans make, even oppressive structures that deny nature, is temporary.— when I moved to Detroit, I was enthralled by its ruins, even though I now point and laugh at White urban explorers drawn here for the same reasons. I think the finding of a spiritual home by Black folks is different from the privileged spelunking by White folks, and that’s what my first impressions of Detroit held solid beautiful Blackness; obvious survival. I thought, “I can grow here; my Blackness will be held here.”

— I preferred Detroit’s train station, with all the windows blown out, to any other building I’d seen in this country, dressed as it was in the graffiti of brave artists, proof that someone had transgressed the fences and risked the darkness and stood there unseen, leaving traces of themselves in the surface of the city.

KEEP READING

The Worst is Yet To Come

Naomi Klein on Democracy Now!

The James and Grace Lee Boggs Center to Nurture Community Leadership

.

3061 Field Street
Detroit, Michigan 48214
US

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