Women Activists From The United States

"I resent and revile [the word genocide]. The word is tidy and efficient. It holds no true emotion. It is impersonal when it needs to be intimate, cool and sterile when it needs to be gruesome. The word is hollow, true but disingenuous, a performance, the worst kind of lie."

"But nothing gets better. There is no path for improvement—no effort you can make, nothing you can do, and nothing anybody else can do either, short of the killers in your country laying down their arms and stopping their war so that you can move home."

"I now felt I’d made a mistake in Uvira. I’d let my guard down. I’d allowed myself to feel I belonged. But there was no real belonging—not anymore. There was only coming and going and coming and going and dying. There was no point in letting anybody get close."

"I thought if I stated my name enough times, my identity would fall back into place […] But a name is a cover, a placeholder, not the whole story. A name is a basin with a leak that you need to constantly fill up. If you don’t, it drains and it’s just there, a husk, dry and empty."

"I lost myself anyway. Every little thing. I had always loved the fancy soaps at my aunts’ houses. I loved the ones that smelled like geranium and lilac best of all."

"I needed to see the world in front of me clearly so I could perform my part well. I needed to crack the code. So many times, in my former life, I’d had to become someone else in order to stay out of a refugee camp or out of jail, to stay alive. I had played a mother. I had played a yes ma’am younger sister. I had made myself a nobody, invisible. Now I had to become this strange creature: an American teenager."

"My life does not feel logical, sequential, or inevitable. There’s no sense of action, reaction; no consequence, repercussion; no plot. It’s just fragments, floating."

"One of the most valuable skills I’d learned while trying to survive as a refugee was reading what other people wanted me to do."

"In Malawi, I used to write my name in dust on trucks, hoping my mother would see my loopy cursive and realize that I was alive."

"I work every day now to erase [the] language of ruin, to destroy it and replace it with language of my own. With konona (rape, ruin), you’re told, there is no antidote, no cleansing agent. […] You’re polluted, you’re worthless—that’s it."

"Often, still, my own life story feels fragmented, like beads unstrung. Each time I scoop up my memories, the assortment is slightly different. I worry, at times, that I’ll always be lost inside. I worry that I’ll be forever confused."

"We’ve created these categories that divide us as humans, and in doing that, we miss each other. I want to bring people together and remind everyone that they have permission to know themselves and others beyond labels."

"There is so much human pain and suffering in the world. I want to honor all those difficult experiences and acknowledge their aftermath."

"My body is destroyed and my body is sacred. I will not live in that story of ruin and shame."

"I want to really live in the present, and find love and joy in the world around me."

"We don’t write about the human emotions of conflicts; we write about the political and economic aftermath. I wanted to write about those feelings."

"Staying alive was so much work…. You had to try to stay a person."

"Every single person on the planet has equal humanity. In my own life I’ve gone from being seen as utterly worthless to [having] great privilege, and nothing about who I am inside has changed. Every person you see seeking refuge, every person you see walking away from their whole life because their country has descended into chaos and war…I am every one of those people. You are every one of those people too…"

"I want to be so loud about the experience of killing each other. I want to tap into everyone’s senses, to touch on our human sensibility."

"The reunion was one of the deepest, most joyful moments."

"Safety should be a birthright"

"I was the clever child who induced the fairy godmother to bring her parents back to life."

"It’s the journey of digging deep into yourself and the things you discover if you only dare to dig deep into your memories, your relationship, and your thoughts. It’s been such an incredible journey, but thank goodness I was not alone in it. So many people feeding me, listening to me, editing, hosting me—so it’s not been alone."

"Home is a concept. It’s one of a story that we cling to so deeply. When your home has been really, “here is my couch, here is my this, here is my that,” it becomes like mine. For me, home is where people who are loving are. It could be on the street. It could be inside of a tent. It could be in a place where they’re not given a land, then that is a place called a slum. It could be in the high rises of New York or in the middle of chaos in Mexico City. And the physical piece of a home is so important, especially when the weather—sun, cold—is against you…"

"My mom says tears are good for your skin.” And maybe your soul, too."

"Anything to help me connect with my strength beyond suffering."

"It’s strange, how you go from being a person who is away from home to a person with no home at all. The place that is supposed to want you has pushed you out. No other place takes you in. You are unwanted, by everyone. You are a refugee."

"We have to look at, culturally, what we celebrate in women versus what we celebrate in men…I love my family and I love being at home and cooking, but my husband does just as much of all of that as I do. We are equal partners in raising our kids, we are equal partners in what we do in the home, and we are equal partners in going out and working. Ambition is so important because you only live once. So where do you want to go? Who do you want to be? Well, take the bull by the horns and go for it. There’s never going to be the perfect time to try something. More women should start companies."

"I am a born builder. I grew up pretty fearless with an understanding that if you want something in life, you have to be creative in going about achieving it. You’re not always going to have an easy path to success, but if it’s important enough you’ll figure out a way to make it work."

"Every business faces its challenges…It's not realistic to think otherwise. If nothing else, it brings out the best in the team. It's important at that point to be open with the consumer and educate them around the realities of creating a product in bulk."

"I was always in trouble with my parents for speaking up and wanting to be an equal part of the conversation. I started working young so I could get that respect."

"One of the deepest wounds Chicanos suffer is separation from our Southern relatives. Gloria Anzaldúa calls it a "1,950-mile-long open wound," dividing México from the United States, "dividing a pueblo, a culture." This "llaga" ruptures over and over again in our writing, Chicanos in search of a México that never wholly embraces us. "Mexico gags," poet Lorna Dee Cervantes writes, "on this bland pocha seed." This separation was never our choice."

"In speaking from that personal place, and in considering the political questions regarding state-sanctioned death and its dealers-urban poverty and its consequent child abuse; the prison of drugs and apartheid-style education; illegal land occupation and war for profit-I am most concerned about my own inability to control the warring inside me. My beloved and I speak almost daily about the cost of internal occupation. We witness it from the most mundane to the grandest displays of what the poet Lorna Dee Cervantes calls "that nagging preoccupation of not being good enough." As Chicanos, I see it in the often timidez and assimilationist politeness of our writings."

"Things come to me, they speak to me. Stanley Kunitz has had an enormous impact on my life. He once said that poetry is only half language, the other half is a quality of perception, a function of the imagination, a particular form of paying attention. For me, it's a stilling of the self, waiting for this language to speak to me before I utter it."

"The (Chicano) movement to me is now like a mosaic with all these little pieces. The little pieces are the ones that are now being activated so that a poet like Lorna Dee Cervantes is her own little miniature movement. Francisco Alarcón, Norma Alarcón, José Limón, all the people who are writing are carrying out the struggle against domination and subordination in the kinds of things they focus on-language, folklore, just anything."

"I am driven from this world, alive. I come to this world, in dreams."

"Two hummingbirds, hovering, stuck to each other, arcing their bodies in grim determination to find what is good, what is given them to find. These are warriors distancing themselves from history. They find peace in the way they contain the wind and are gone."

"I started writing for the same reason I breathe-because I had to."

"I come from a long line of eloquent illiterates whose history reveals what words don't say. Our anger is our way of speaking, the gesture is an utterance more pure than word."

"I have learned the serenity of a mockingbird, the justice of a crow, blue jay's strength; I've dipped their feathers in blood to seal the pact—my path."

"There's sky and death shimmering the waves."

"I was a street kid by day and by night I was a library kid. At the library I would go the shelves alphabetically. I was drawn to anyone with a female name, with a Latino or Spanish name. There were very, very few. But as a teenager I discovered African American poetry. Gwendolyn Brooks was the first. Then Phillis Wheatley. I really identified with this slave woman writing poetry to assert and affirm her humanity. Suddenly my eyes were open to history. There was a whole explosion of African-American women poets-Audre Lorde, Nikki Giovanni, June Jordan. I have a poem in my head that's going to take me years to write down. Its working title is "On Thanking Black Muses." I owe them, because poetry really changed my life, saved it."

"Our dreams wafted over the sullen skyline like crazy meteors of flying embers: a glow in the heart all night."

"We knew, love, and that was all we were ever offered."

"In the years that separate, in the tongues that divide and conquer, in the love that was a language in itself, you never spoke, never regret. Even that last morning I saw you with blood in your eyes, blood on your mouth, the blood pushing out of you in purple blossoms."

"For me, poetry has been an exercise in freedom. Freedom is like a muscle-the more you exercise it, the stronger it gets. Poetry can give you a sense of choice. It's free on every level. Language and memory have no price tags on them. You have limitless choices-in form, language, subject matter-that spill over into life."

"I ran flushed and shadowed by no one alone I settled stiff in mouth with the words women gave me."

"And late that night I tasted the last of the sweet fruit, sucked the rich pit and thought nothing of death."

"And finally, it is me only guessing at what secrets or hatreds they share."

"She would not be silent and still. She would live, arrogantly, having wrestled her death and won."