At night, Fifth Avenue in Manhattan is overtaken by an odd contamination: not the everyday smothering of dirt and smog, but searing glow of street lamps and 24-hour storefronts that virtually bleaches out every surface. BUt on Tuesday, a team of renegade artists cut through the light pollution, as a nondescript white van stalked the corner of 47th and Fifth and peaked a boxy slide projector above the roof on an improvised platform—the post-Occupy armored vehicle of the activist response team known as the Illuminator.
At the People’s Climate March in late April, tens of thousands of activists flooded the streets of the nation’s capital to tell the government that another world is possible. Their rallying cry was climate justice—a concept that links the values of a fair economy, equitable distribution of earth’s resources, and respect for the sanctity of nature as it ties into our essential human rights.
The communities on the outskirts of Fresno are hard to find on any standard map. But if you look beyond the city limits, you see strong communities blooming amid hardship.
In order to have a voice, though, they need to be able to breathe.
This day is for women everywhere. In every home, every workplace, each workplace, warzone and picket line, there’s no place on earth that isn’t touched by the presence of women, and nowhere in the world where their absence won’t be felt today as the “Day without Women” unfolds.
A few weeks ago the nation was up in arms over a Trump endorser’s forewarning to American voters: opening up the borders to Mexican immigrants would usher in an era of “taco trucks on every corner.” The meme set the internet alight and flooded social media with both panic and celebration over the tantalizing--and to some repugnant--idea of mini Mexican eateries swarming like locusts over Middle America, in
This merits a response
First: Gentrify my love.
“You haven’t seen it? Wait, you have to see it.” We interrupt our regular Pigeon Palace weekly co-op meeting to break into a “Google Google Apps Apps” viewing party. It’s 2013 and bodacious queens scurry across a screen in my top floor rent-controlled apartment in the Mission to the dance beat of “gringa gringa apps apps” with punctuating bellows of “I just wanna wanna be WHITE!”