By Gloria Anzaldúa, Cherríe Moraga
This Bridge referred to as My again has served as a rallying demand girls of colour for a new release, and this new version retains that decision alive at a time whilst divisions turn out much more obdurate and hazardous. the recent version is additional delivered to existence with the incorporation of visible paintings by means of seventeen famous ladies of colour artists.
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Additional info for This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color
We do this bridging by naming our selves and by telling our stories in our own words. The theme echoing throughout most of these stories is our refusal of the easy explanation to the conditions we live in. There is nothing easy about a collective cultural history of what Mitsuye Yamada calls "unnatural disasters": the forced encampment of Indigenous people on government reservations, the forced encampment of Japanese American people during WWII, the forced encampment of our mothers as laborers in factories/in fields/in our own and other people's homes as paid or unpaid slaves.
He fears he will have to change his life once he has seen himself in the bodies of the people he has called different. He fears the hatred, anger, and vengeance of those he has hurt. This is the oppressor's nightmare, but it is not exclusive to him. We women have a similar nightmare, for each of us in some way has been both oppressed and the oppressor. We are afraid to look at how we have failed each other. We are afraid to see how we have taken the values of our oppressor into our hearts and turned them against ourselves and one another.
My mother and I work to unravel the knot" (Levins Morales). This is how our theory develops. We are interested in pursuing a society that uses flesh and blood experiences to concretize a vision that can begin to heal our "wounded knee" (Chrystos). Wonder Woman Genny Lim Sometimes I see reflections on bits of glass on sidewalks I catch the glimmer of empty bottles floating out to sea Sometimes I stretch my arms way above my head and wonder if There are women along the Mekong doing the same Sometimes I stare longingly at women who I will never know Generous, laughing women with wrinkled cheeks and white teeth Dragging along chubby, rosy-cheeked babies on fat, wobbly legs Sometimes I stare at Chinese grandmothers Getting on the 30 Stockton with shopping bags Japanese women tourists in European hats Middle-aged mothers with laundry carts Young wives holding hands with their husbands Lesbian women holding hands in coffee-houses Smiling debutantes with bouquets of yellow daffodils Silver-haired matrons with silver rhinestoned poodles Painted prostitutes posing along MacArthur Boulevard Giddy teenage girls snapping gum in fast cars Widows clutching bibles, crucifixes I look at them and wonder if They are a part of me I look in their eyes and wonder if They share my dreams I wonder if the woman in mink is content If the stockbroker's wife is afraid of growing old If the professor's wife is an alcoholic If the woman in prison is me There are copper-tanned women in Hyannis Port playing tennis Women who eat with finger bowls There are women in factories punching time clocks Women tired every waking hour of the day 26 I wonder why there are women born with silver spoons in their mouths Women who have never known a day of hunger Women who have never changed their own bed linen And I wonder w h y there are women who must work Women who must clean other women's houses Women who must shell shrimps for pennies a day Women who must sew other women's clothes Who must cook Who must die In childbirth In dreams Why must woman stand divided?
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