• Skip to main content
  • Skip to primary sidebar

Sharon Cumberland

"My poems are both funny and spiritual--how's that for a combination?"

  • About
  • Poetry
    • Poems
    • Books
  • Arts Reviews/SGN
    • Opera
    • Dance
    • Early Music
    • Other
  • Academics
    • CV
  • Contact

Other

Womxn’s March on Seattle 2017

By Sharon Cumberland

Womxn’s March on Seattle

Judkins Park, Central District to Seattle Center

January 21, 2017

Essay by Sharon Cumberland  

See essay on Seattle Gay News                             


Sharon Cumberland at the Womxn March on Seattle 2017

           There are at least 130,000 women and men who will tell the story of their Womxn’s March on Seattle this past Saturday, and I’d love to hear them all. Here’s mine:

           I’m a woman in her 60s whose pussy (and boobs and butt) have been grabbed more times than I want to recall, whose unwilling body has been pinned on sofas, in the backseats of cars, and at parties on coat piles in back bedrooms, whose mouth has been invaded by alien tongues, and whose right to say NO has been repeatedly disregarded by people with bigger muscles. You might think that at my age these indignities would have subsided, but I was felt up a couple of Sundays ago in the narthex of my church by a homeless man who asked for the hug of peace.

           So I was fully prepared to wear a pink Pussy hat and “grab back” on Saturday. I spent all week thinking of slogans to write on my sign—and I saw some great ones in Judkins Park: “Real Men Don’t Grab” “You Can’t Grab Our Rights” “Girls Just Want to Have Fundamental Rights” “You Can’t Comb Over Sexism” “A Woman’s Place is in the Resistance” “I [heart] My Cuntry” “When Women Rise the Nation Rises”.

           But it occurred to me that I already have a hat worth wearing to an anti-abuser and protest rally—my mortarboard. We all have one of those, especially since they give them out for graduations from kindergarten to college—a flat or floppy hat with a tassel that sends a message: “I earned this by achieving a level of learning that makes me smarter than I was before.” Becoming educated is one of the great freedoms this country offers its citizens—nothing to be scorned in a world where women are routinely barred from going to school, either because of their sex or their economic limitations, and therefore confined to home or to low-level jobs.

           Yet the Republicans have scorned educated people for decades, calling them eggheads or elites, and making them out to be living in ivory towers and out of touch with the world. Many Republicans are committed to ignorance: they deny science, climate change, racism, and the danger of guns in our culture. Trump and his minions deny all evidence that Muslim Americans are solid citizens, or that immigrants of all colors bring the same benefits to America as our Irish and English and European ancestors.

           I think Trump made it into the White House because our education system failed the voters. All through the election campaign Trump made absurd assertions without offering evidence that anything he said was true. Gullible voters believed him because they didn’t know enough to say “Prove it!” Of course, many didn’t care—they voted with their emotions instead of their brains. So I decided to march in my academic robes, to stand up for my students and colleagues at Seattle University and to make a pitch for universal education and educators everywhere. On one side of my sign I wrote: “Knowledge is Power—Not Elitism” and on the other I wrote “Demand Evidence”.

           My mortarboard is the floppy variety, from the Graduate Center of the City University of New York where I earned a Ph.D. in English. I’ve got a nifty medieval-style gown that goes with it, with velvet trim and poufy sleeves, and a gold-lined hood that goes over my shoulders and hangs down the back. Some of my colleagues warned me that it was going to rain and I’d be dragging my lovely gown in the mud. But I thought, so what? I DON’T live in an ivory tower! Let my robes get some honorable mud on them!

           So on Saturday—which turned out to be dry and sunny, against all predictions— my nephew, Paul, dropped me and my niece, Laura, and an SU colleague, Eli, as close to the action as he could. All along the way we saw streetcars trundling by, packed to the windows with people and signs. The bus stops were crowded with marchers ready to go, and the sidewalks clogged with patient, Pussy-hatted people headed for the park. Not since the Seahawks’ Super Bowl parade have I seen such a river of people filling the streets—and while this crowd seemed optimistic and excited, it had an edge to it—a sense of determination that bucked me up and gave me courage.

           We piled out of the car at 10:15 and made our way into the park, but we didn’t make it out again until 12:30 because the crowds were so vast that it took an extra hour just to trickle over to Jackson and then down to 4th Avenue. We could hear the speeches but couldn’t see the podium past the ocean of signs and Pussy hats of every color, variety, and ingenious construction. The only speech I remember is the Muslim woman’s, who spoke movingly about the hate crimes being committed against mosques and girls in hijabs here in Seattle. (What? Here? I was ashamed.) She encouraged everyone to visit mosques and make an effort to get to know Muslims in the area. Education, I thought—we need to educate ourselves.

           Being dressed in an outrageously fabulous outfit meant that lots of folks came up to me and talked to me. I met half the English Department from British Columbia University in Vancouver; a woman whose lawyer sister was a Republican but who so honored evidence that she thought my “Demand Evidence” sign would get her to be a Democrat; teachers of every level, K through college, carrying signs like “Nothing is More Dangerous Than Ignorance” and “Make America Think Again.” I ran into SU’s Dean of the College of Arts & Sciences in a pink Pussy hat, and the chair of my department with her wife and their wonderful daughter in matching home-made Pussy hats. I found one of my own students, Molly, at a church that had generously opened it’s facilities for marchers. The church carillon played folk songs, and as we marched along singing “Oh, Susanna” a little girl cried out “That’s my name!”

           As we stood at the top of South Jackson, waiting to move down the hill, a distant roar seemed to build somewhere below and move toward us. At first we couldn’t figure out what it was, but as it approached us we realized it was a massive sound wave of marchers yelling, passing the shout along the line. When it reached us we started yelling, too—nothing coherent, just cathartic hollering at the top of our lungs. Then many arms suddenly pointed upwards—there had been helicopters hovering all day—but instead what we saw was a pair of eagles circling over head. Round and round they soared as thousands called up to them in gratitude—a blessing, from any standpoint.

           As the walk progressed, I ran into friends from all areas of my life—school, church, the poetry world, the LGBT community. I even ran into Tom Douglas, who was handing out water and tea in front of the Dahlia Lounge. I was so weary by that time that I didn’t recognize him. I just thought it was cool to get some water from a guy in a Pussy hat who looked like Santa Clause. When people called out “Thanks, Tom!” he called back, “This is the home team!”

           One of my favorite encounters was with a guy named Otts who was posing with a gold Whiting and Davis evening bag and a sign that said “Purse First.” What does that mean? I asked, thinking it was cute but a little off message. Boy, was I wrong. He flipped his sign over and showed me a black and white photo taken at a pro-Nazi rally in Germany, of an elderly Holocaust survivor rushing up to a skinhead and bashing him with her purse—a fearless woman using the best weapon at hand to fight a dangerous, vicious man. What could be more on message?

           Then I saw two beautiful boys arm-in-arm with a sign that said “Pro-Choice IS Pro-life!” and then two beautiful girls sitting arm-in-arm on top of newspaper dispensers with a sign that said “Stronger Together.” It still makes my heart ache to see shades of Hillary, but she is the President-elected-by-the-people and my hope and prayer is that she will somehow help us keep rallying and fighting the dangers ahead. Several of the college professors I met said “I wish I had worn my regalia!” Wear it next time, I said, because I know there will be a next time.

           My niece started to count how many people asked me to pose for a picture and show both sides of my sign, but she gave up at around 30, and that was just the first hour before we left the park. By the time we made it to Seattle Center, after five hours of marching, I had been stopped for photos at least 100 times. Some fellow marchers were New Yorkers who recognized the CUNY insignia on my gown and reminisced with me about NYC. Others were taking photos of interestingly dressed people or the wonderful variety of placards. But most encounters were like the one I had at the end of the march when we were headed home, wearily wondering where to sit down and get food and drink. A woman came running after me calling “There she is! There she is!” She said she saw me get out of the car on 23rd and Charles St. six hours earlier and had been looking for me ever since. Why? I asked. But she didn’t say, just snapped away saying “thank you, thank you”. But by then I knew why—she wasn’t looking for me, of course, but for what I symbolized.

           I was a walking symbol of higher education, of education in general, of being smart, of being female and smart, and of being proud to have good brain in my head. All along the route people called out “Thanks, Professor!” and “Beautiful!” and “Right On!” After all the Hillary-bashing and fear-mongering against smart women in the election, it was a relief for all of us to say “I’m educated, I’m smart, and I’m proud!” Obama was one of the smartest presidents we’ve ever had, and Hillary would have matched his smarts as well as his awareness of the issues that prevent women, children and immigrants the essential educational opportunities they need to become solid citizens. Now that we’re cursed with one of the least civilized, least well-read, and just plain stupidest men ever to be in the White House, we need to fight against the lie that educated people are unrealistic, pointy-headed dreamers. We are the brains of this operation and our country needs us more than ever before.

           I hope the next time we march will be as peaceful as Seattle Womxn’s wonderful, serious, massive march was on Saturday. One sign I saw said “1968 is calling—don’t answer.” The young people around me didn’t know what it meant, but we oldsters, who marched against the Vietnam war, know very well what it means: Don’t succumb to violence. How well I remember the tear gas, the Billy clubs, and the electric fear of peace marching in those days—not to mention the sexist slogan “Chicks Up Front!” In case you’re too young to know what that means, threats of violence against marchers were so prevalent that the girls were lined up in front of the march in hopes that the police and pro-war counter-protesters would hesitate to beat up girls. Our corporate feminist consciousness was not yet fully raised—we still let ourselves be used as human shields. It was some sell job about women having nurturing natures and protecting their men. The flip side of that coin is how much we like having our pussies grabbed. Don’t worry, 1968—we’re not answering. We’ve got our Pussy hats on and our mortarboards on. 2017 is calling—and Trump had better watch out.

Luzia: A Waking Dream of Mexico

By Sharon Cumberland

Luzia: A Waking Dream of Mexico

Cirque du Soleil

Marymoor Park

March 31 and April 4, 2017

Review by Sharon Cumberland                              

See review on Seattle Gay News


            Cirque du Soleil is justly famous for its spectacular, high-flying performers, its elaborate narratives, and its fabulous costumes, all seamlessly knitted together into two astonishing hours. I had only been once before—to last year’s “Kurios”— which was something of a steam-punky hodge-podge (what else can you expect from a cabinet of curiosities?) but memorable, nevertheless.

            Yet I confess to feeling some skepticism about this year’s Mexican theme. I went on a social justice trip to Cuernavaca and Mexico City last year and came away with a new understanding of Mexican politics, corruption, drug cartels, and exploitation of the poor. How could Cirque du Soleil present anything cheerful about a nation in such dire straights? It would either recreate the tourist’s bubble of sunny indifference to Mexico’s dangers, or it would be another dark, scary world populated with acrobatic bad guys. I’m glad to report that it was neither, though on opening night there was an accident that brought the audience to a sudden awareness of the physical dangers involved in the Cirque du Soleil brand of heart-stopping gymnastics.

            “Luzia”—“light” in English—has the double entendre of being bright and funny at the same time. Its light-hearted theme was less about Mexico than about what Mexico would be like in Paradise, where everyone loves and respects each other and everyone is young, strong, and good-looking. Mexico’s traditional arts—the bright turquoise, red, purple and white of the fabrics, the flower and bird motifs, the banderollas of cut-out paper, the music that makes you want to dance in the aisles—all of it offered up a guilt-free vision, a “waking dream” of Mexico as a place of beauty and culture. Who wouldn’t want to go that Mexico?

            The show cleverly emphasized the inaccessibility of dream-Mexico by parachuting its narrator, a silent-but very-expressive clown, into its garden of birds and marigolds (watered by adorable little robots). The clown, played by the aptly-named Eric Fool Koller, is our surrogate, stumbling his way through one sweet or dangerous delight after another. And what delights they are! In addition to the musical transitions with gorgeous singing and dancing, there are a dozen acts that take your breath away, each in a different genre of grace, strength or daring.

            The hallmark of Cirque performances is that each scene of daring-do is contextualized with a group of other performers strolling, dancing, wearing animal costumes, or otherwise enriching the environment so that you hardly know where to look. The huge revolving stage has what must be the world’s largest treadmill, supporting an array of hoop-jumping, air-tumbling acrobats and parading puppets. I was especially entranced by the “Running Woman”—a young lady dressed in a butterfly dress whose fabulous wings are manipulated on rods by other actors as she races in place on the treadmill. While this is happening, a silver stallion—a very realistic life-sized puppet inhabited by three puppeteers—begins galloping along with her to thrilling Mexican percussion and trumpets. If you could ever be made to believe in a dream, this would be the moment.

            Another scene that captured my heart was a trapeze act in which a single orange-clad woman flyer described fantastic hieroglyphs in the air as two other young women in airy dresses revolved around the stage below in life-sized hula-hoops (called “cyr-wheels”—who knew?). A massive backdrop reminiscent of the Aztec calendar stone changed colors and projections throughout—for this scene it was covered with ants, and the three women had ants printed on their beautiful costumes. A theme of birds, insects and animals continued throughout the show, a strategy that keeps you situated in the sunny desert of dream-Mexico, along with a trio of life-sized saguaro cacti—one with a hilariously placed, upward-bending arm at crotch level—who remind you that we’re not in Seattle anymore.

            There are lots of good-natured, jolly performances, like that of Ugo, the body-builder lifeguard who, surrounded by bathing beauties in sunglasses and mirrored bathing suits, stands on higher and higher swaying rods performing impossible feats of strength and balance, like a gymnast on rings but without the rings. Two soccer-ball Einsteins, Laura and Abou, play the fanciest game of keepie-uppie you can imagine, a juggler flings multiple silver bowling pins into the air to live marimba and tuba music, and a handsome fellow with long locks climbs, twirls, and falls through the air on straps while flinging his long hair into the water and creating designs in the air with water drops.

            “Water?” you say—“what water?” Water, in this dream-desert, is the most spectacular part of the whole evening. At strategic moments a water wall falls from the two-story top of the tent to add drama and surprise to the show—to tease the clown, to drench performers who incorporate sparkling water into their arts, and to create a pallet of water-pictures so surprising and beautiful that it got me all choked up, as did many other moments in this beautiful, thrilling show.

            I was lucky enough to go to “Luzia” twice, once as a reviewer for SGN on opening night (free sodas! free popcorn! free cactus-shaped cookies!) and once again on a family trip with a very generous niece and nephew. I’m glad, not only to have seen the show twice—it merits multiple viewings for those who can afford it—but because I got to see the show a second time without the real-world scary part.             As widely reported in other media, on opening night there was a terrifying moment that caused the audience of more than 1,600 to sit in stunned and anxious silence. The grand finale of “Luzia” features the Russian swings, apparatus consisting of two gigantic curved platforms on metal frames, each of which is pumped by a strong man standing on the back of the swing so that lighter-weight acrobats can stand on the front and leap from one platform to another, turning multiple somersaults and twirls in the air as the big swings fling them toward the top of the tent. Not only do the guys pumping have to get the timing exactly right so that the jumpers have a platform to land on, but the jumpers have to time their air-born twirls so that they unfold and land on the opposite platform as it rises to meet them. It’s a hair-raising act that has your mouth gaping, your hands wringing, and your heart thumping—but in a good way.

            Good, that is, until something bad happens, which happened on opening night. A young lady in the troupe was flung high into the air, performed a twirl, but then lost her footing on a backward-facing landing and fell flat on the platform, which was rising at such a rate that it whacked the entire back of her body. I was sitting three rows away as this happened and heard the sickening sound of the fall. Her fellow performers stopped the swing almost instantly, though the music continued on, weirdly, as the message that an accident had happened seeped through the system to the sound engineers. The injured girl lay flat on the platform, but her eyes were blinking and her chest was heaving. A manager, then a dozen medics, materialized as if by magic. It took fifteen minutes to immobilize the performer with inflatable stabilizers, to move her to a stretcher and to carry her out. During that time I’m sure some tears were shed and some prayers were sent up from the audience. As the performer was carried out to applause, there was a palpable concern that we had all witnessed a disaster. The show went on, of course, to the big Fiesta finale. I was impressed by the bravery of the cast, who were determined to smile and be cheerful so that the audience would not leave dream-Mexico in sorrow.

            So fast-forward to April 4th, when I got to see the show a second time. Imagine my delight, at the grand finale, when I saw this same young lady on the Russian swings again, flying through the air, turning summersaults, and landing backward on the platform as lightly as a bird. What I hadn’t realized was how much of the show had been cut short on opening night—a good ten minutes of additional aerial acrobatics performed by the men in the troupe, who were performing such feats of tumbling in the air and flying high that they were snapping their suspenders (literally) with pride instead of struggling to hold up their heads and hold back their tears as they did at the finale on opening night.

            Though several reviewers who witnessed the accident on opening night reflected on the morality of audiences demanding ever more dangerous acts to satisfy their thirst for danger, I doubt that this is the motivation for these performers. I would have been as thrilled to see the girl jump forwards instead of backwards, or the men to do one summersault instead of three. What do I know about their standards? I think these people are real competitors, recruited from the ranks of elite and Olympic gymnasts. They will always want to go bigger, higher, more dramatic, more dangerous, no matter what the audience thinks. They know the risks and they know how to perform safely. Accidents happen to all of us. It’s as likely (even more likely) that I could get killed in an accident going home from Cirque du Soleil as that a acrobat could get killed doing their highly perfected performance. So it was a rare, sad moment on opening night that ended happily, and hopefully, for the rest of the run, which continues through May 21st.

            I highly recommend this “waking dream of Mexico” because it honors all that is beautiful, musical, and traditional about a wonderful country whose people deserve better than they’re getting. It’s an image of hopefulness that we might all bear in mind, like a light—a “Luzia”—at the end of the tunnel.

Primary Sidebar

Other/Miscellaneous Reviews

Womxn’s March on Seattle 2017

Luzia: A Waking Dream of Mexico

Copyright © 2019 · sharoncumberland.com · Log in

Pacific Rim Web Design