Erika Ransom

April 5, 2005

MRR June 2005

Bikes Racing Clouds

Life is full of moments tied together like string.

When I first moved to Boston, some twelve years ago, I lived in the wind.

My mind was always looking to the sky, feeling the breeze on my face as I biked through streets looking for myself in this city, exploring everywhere from Bunker Hill and Revere Beach to Beacon Hill and Atlantic Avenue. Pedaling my bike until my legs burned, not noticing, not concerned, about time and being somewhere I had to be. I was in the breeze, running with the ribbons of streets that wound through this city.

Midnight.

I would grab my bike and leave the cement depression of a university dorm that offered me no sense of place or meaning. I was not interested in drinking cheap whiskey until I couldn’t see straight and puked on myself in acid chunks of bile. I had already done that ride, thank you very much. At sixteen, that was part of my effort to escape my reality of abusive mother and shitbox town. I didn’t need to revisit that particular poison again, not yet.

So I would escape the beehive of over-privileged drones and take to the streets.

Midnight, one, two, three, four in the morning, flying down Commonwealth Avenue to the Commons.

Racing through the park’s city darkness punctuated by circles of light from a few old-fashioned lampposts. Pulse and speed quickened as I thought to myself, “Women are not supposed to be in the park at night. Rapists are on the loose. I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t safe.”

But I silenced these doubts. Trusted my legs and my eyesight and strength. Flew down deserted walkways that would soon be trampled by office clones drinking coffee, as the church at the Park Street corner chimed nine times. Monks who wanted to pray to their God several times a day invented mechanical clocks. Now, clocks tick away our lives, as the capitalist machine runs high.

All was quiet while I turned rubber wheels, gaining speed.

I paused at the top of the park and looked to the sky. The wind was full in my face, but I was warmed from the ride, smelling strong of sweat steamed through my wool jacket.

The clouds were low, white billows, on the move, going out to sea.

Boston is a harbor town, so often forgotten by the people who live here. At times, I have also fallen into the trap of civilized, regimented, eat-work-sleep-repeat ad nausea, trying to make ends meet and “get things done.” Living in small ruts, paths carved out of the flesh of our own minds, disconnected from geography and season.

Such is the disappointment and drab reality of modern urban life.

I don’t know the last day I watched an ocean wave crash into rock.

But today, walking down Harvard Ave. I saw the seagulls playing on the breeze, riding the strong currents from a spring rainstorm on the horizon.

The birds and their sharp eyes reminded me of those same low clouds, on the move in the middle of the night. Energy of atmosphere and vapor traveling dangerously fast.

Those years ago, I was on my bike, headed for the harbor. Riding as hard I could, laughing at life.

I was racing the wind and the clouds, heading for the coast.

Ten minutes later, after breaking through the cement and steel tunnels created by the buildings downtown, breathing hard, I was at the edge of Long Wharf, at the edge of the Atlantic. An entire fucking ocean lay in front of me, miles of water that cannot be comprehended, teasing me to jump in and join the waves.

I had lost the race to the wind, but arrived only a moment after the clouds. Only a few hundred feet above the ground, the white billows sailed over me, going out to sea. I stood by my bike, as the clouds grew ever smaller, traveling fast over the dark water, until they were gone. Swallowed by the night horizon and the edge of the world. All that was left was darkness and the glitter of planes landing and taking off at Logan across the bay.

As I slowly rode home, tired, I knew I was alive.

Blood on Paper

Action in Solidarity with the Women of Juarez and Chihuahua

Only a week ago, it was another night downtown, this time on foot walking with Gro and Erin. It was about midnight.

Same spring clouds were riding low in the sky. The air was charged.

We ignored the small groups of people we passed on the sidewalk and bellowed in song, “Women of Juarez/ Women of Chihuahua/ Women of Boston–Stand in solidarity!" in low and dark tones. “Say no to violence/ Say no to femicide/ Say no to profiteering off our very lives!”

It would be the song for the protest the next afternoon, an action that the La Rivolta! Collective organized to demand an end to the femicides on the Mexican-U.S. border that have been going on since 1993. Over 4,000 women have been reported missing and more than 400 have been found dead, their bodies often horribly mutilated, beaten and raped.

Still today, women’s lives are perpetually in danger. Although the exact reasons and perpetrators behind the killings remain obscure, it has become clear that the Mexican government and the maquiladora owners have failed to take meaningful steps to protect the women of this area, or to fully investigate and stop these crimes.

At night, blending in with the bar crowd, we were out posting up flyers all over downtown on every pole and newspaper box that came across our path.

We worked as a swift team.

Gro put up the flyers on each side of the pole, “paper!”

I wrapped clear packing tape around it, “tape!”

Erin cut the tape off the roll, “scissors!”

Working together, it took about fifteen seconds to put up two flyers that would stay up until a determined person with scissors or a knife took them down.

The flyers were splattered with red paint resembling blood and read, “4,985 DEAD AND MISSING WOMEN-THE MEXICAN CONSULATE-NOON” with a silhouette of a woman’s face with a question mark in it.

Below the woman’s face read, “JUAREZ AND CHIHUAHUA, MEXICO. For more information, call 617-348-2113.” (The phone number of the Mexican Consulate in Boston.)

There were three other teams doing the same thing, also roaming downtown and putting up the paint-splattered flyers. In about two hours, coordinating our actions, we put up about four hundred flyers near the consulate.

Solidarity Across Borders

Two months ago, I didn’t know much about the killing fields at the US-Mexican border. Then, my friends and I suddenly became much more involved.

As organizers of the La Rivolta! anarcha-feminist festival in Boston last March, we invited a member of Justicia para Nuestras Hijas from Mexico to hold a workshop about the femicides. We felt very lucky that Elizabeth was then on a speaking tour sponsored by the Mexico Solidarity Network (MSN) up the east coast, and were excited to host them at La Rivolta and two other events in the Boston area.

Elizabeth’s discussion at La Rivolta was well attended, and about 80 people crammed into the small CCTV studio to hear her speak about her group’s struggle to demand answers and an end to the killings. Elizabeth talked about the femicides, the role of the sweatshops, corrupt officials and how women are organizing themselves to seek justice.

Elizabeth’s story was also very personally intense, as her cousin Neyra Cervantes was murdered in Chihuahua, and her brother David Medez Argueta has been wrongfully accused of the crime.

One ramification of the killings is that innocent men are being made scapegoats while the real crimes go unsolved and the murders continue. David is one such victim. He had investigated the disappearance of his cousin Neyra Cervantes when he was arrested for that very crime. David was falsely accused of killing Neyra, and was tortured into giving a false confession even though he was in the state of Chiapas when his cousin disappeared.

A few days after the festival, we received alarming news from Elizabeth and MSN. David, who was currently in prison, was suddenly moved to an undisclosed location by Mexican authorities, unreachable by his family. Elizabeth’s family and supporters believed the move was in direct retaliation for her trip to Boston.

David has since been returned to his original prison, but he awaits sentencing and his situation remains grave. As a collective, we saw no alternative but to publicly protest the femicides and stand in solidarity with Elizabeth and her brother David. The Mexican Consulate, as a representative of the Mexican government, seemed the best local target.

Latte and the Profit off Disaster

The Consul General of Mexico in Boston is Porfirio Thierry Munoz Ledo, as his name appears emblazoned on a business card that I found crumpled in my pocket. He wears crisp white shirts, cufflinks and black-rimmed glasses. He speaks better English than I do.

Thursday afternoon, the day before the protest, Gro, Sara and I sat at a long table across from Porfirio in the Mexican Consulate offices downtown.

He offered us coffee as his assistant handed him documents. We politely said, “No, thanks.”

We explained our distress about the femicides and what happened with David after the festival. He was a very polite diplomat, and gave us a good politician’s performance of concern.

Porfirio calmly stirred sugar into his latte and talked about how border towns are “complex” and women often cross the border illegally, that’s why so many are missing. He also offered us a pie chart that seemed to suggest drugs and prostitution were key reasons why so many women have been killed. I thought the pie chart should have been correctly titled, “How women brought this upon themselves.”

Things are so often twisted this way. It is the victims who are to blame.

We agreed that things are complicated, but stuck to our point. Women are being killed and mutilated like no body’s business, and the Mexican government–despite all of the official documents that try to express otherwise–and the maquiladora owners making a profit, are not doing shit about it. In a capitalist, patriarchal culture, poor women, as in this country, are seen as expendable. And when people are severely oppressed, as in the shantytowns outside of Ciudad Juarez, women end up on the bottom.

The Consulate didn’t seem to know about the protest the next day, so we thought we’d keep it a surprise. As we left the consulate, Porfirio shook our hands, smiled and said we should come back soon. So we did.

With several friends.

The next day, at noon.

With banners, drums, songs, leaflets and hundreds of flyers downtown.

And bagels, because everything is better with bagels.

Surprise!

It was a small rally, about 50 people, but a decent turnout for a Friday afternoon when most people have to work. The sidewalk was busy outside the Park Plaza building and we gave out hundreds of informational flyers to curious onlookers passing by.

As the protest started, I sent the Consulate flowers by bike courier (one of our friends), with a list of our demands:

1. A legitimate investigation into the crimes against the women of Juarez and Chihuahua,

2. Real protection for the women of Juarez and Chihuahua by both public authorities and the maquiladora owners,

3. Dropping of the false charges against David Medez Aguerta,

4. An end to the use of torture to coerce false confessions and an end to the intimidation of individuals and their families who fight for justice,

5. STOP THE FEMICIDES AND CULTURE OF VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN to end the violence against the women of Juarez and Chihuahua, and to stop the intimidation of women in Mexico who speak out for justice.

A police officer came by, but didn’t make us leave. Instead, the consulate sent down people to ask to meet with representatives of La Rivolta, again.

Back so soon! And this time, we met in Porfirio’s office, sitting in green leather chairs, with his deputy in attendance as well.

Again, Porfirio, Consul General of Mexico in Boston, tried to kill us with politeness and diplomacy, and I kept getting an odd creepy feeling that he was trained by a version of the Mexican CIA. There was something about the way he asked us questions, looked you in the eye and kept changing the subject. I would just keep bringing the conversation back to the important points–we demand an end to the femicides, the culture of violence against women, and the harassment of people seeking justice. With our demands expressed, we politely said we had to leave.

Mainly, it was very clear that our presence had interrupted the consulate’s usual business of the day, which was our goal, and many people in Boston at least thought more about what is going on in Juarez through the posters and informational flyers. Hopefully our event added pressure to help with David’s case. And, I’m sure the event was reported to the Mexican government, even just as a matter of security. We had the consulate’s attention–he knows now that a few Bostonians are really pissed off about what is going on in Juarez and Chihuahua, we know about it, and we won’t stand for women being intimidated for coming to our events and speaking out. We can also come back and bother him anytime we like.

We ended the protest with a short march to Park Street, singing and making noise the whole way.

“Women of Juarez, women of Chihuahua, women of Boston, stand in solidarity…”

Pieces of String

What do these two stories have in common, except spring nights in Boston? I’m not sure, except for once again writing my column right at the deadline, cursing that I didn’t start earlier in the week, drinking a bottle of Harp and listening to the stillness in the house.

I believe, my grand connecting points are these:

The best moments of life are living unafraid. Not asking permission. Not following the rules.

Going for a bike ride at midnight won’t change the world. Neither will small protests in front of consulates. But taking to the streets, living in the moment, saying fuck off to the scripted routine, working together, speaking up even when others say it won’t make a difference, and taking back the space and power of your mind–these are first steps in the right direction.

Ransom End Notes

>Thanks to the entire La Rivolta Collective for all the laughs, inspiration and goddamn good fucking times smashing patriarchy. Thanks to all of the Boston anarchists who came out in solidarity on April 1st. Thanks to Jon for reading my column, although he thinks I write like a hippy these days. Thanks to Laurie for reading my column about rape and telling me she cried. I told her that I cried while writing it. Thanks to everyone who sent me a fanzine and letters this month. I liked them all, even the one that was poems about writing poems about ex-girlfriends in Ohio. Good stuff. I’m behind but will send everyone something back, I promise. OK, enough thanks already!

>What happened to my story about the La Rivolta festival? If you were wondering, the full account will be published in Profane Existence, with photos.

>More information about the femicides in Juarez and Chihuahua can be found at www.mexicosolidarity.org and information about La Rivolta at www.larivolta.org

> Send me stuff at Erika Ransom/ PO Box 391273/ Cambridge, MA 02139/ USA. This month I’m particularly looking for queer fanzines, as I think the punk scene in general seems very straight right now. Two women friends of mine recently casually kissed at a party and got so much shit from the punks, it only showed me how homophobic our scene still is. So, punk dykes, where are you? Summer is also a great time to write and think about sex…don’t you think?

>Until next month, fuck shit up. Erika