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.