Devon Wilke's resume includes essays & op-eds on politics & culture, as well as the creative arenas of publishing, theater, music, and art. Visit www.lorrainedevonwilke.com for links & details.
Here we are in 2018, once again debating the explosive merge between politics and art, with some sniffing that those who create the movies, TV shows, music, books, images, and comedy enjoyed by a rapacious public should keep their politicizing pie-holes shut. Nikki was peeved, Trump took on Jay-Z, and God forbid a certain red-headed comedienne made tasteless jokes about the man in the White House…satire is dead, color within the lines, banish them from the kingdom! Some of us aren’t having that.
Whenever I see an article that pits one generation against another, that categorizes the value and merit of any person in terms of age; that wildly asserts that terming-out is how to handle old folks and only youngsters have the sense and savvy to proceed to the route, I find my teeth grinding.
Storytellers are the chroniclers of our life and times. They memorialize history, dissect our complex and evolving world; they entertain and provoke and captivate. They are as diverse and eclectic as the characters they create and the stories they tell. It is their job to reflect who we are, what we experience, and what we can imagine. That’s a big canvas. It’s huge. And there’s no end to the variety of colors and hues that can be drawn upon it. Just as there is no end to the variety of artis...
I don’t know what it’s like to be judged harshly for my skin color, the shape of my eyes, the letters in my name, the gender of my lover, or the religion I believe.
What I do know?
I know what it’s like to be a woman. Specifically, a woman in America.
While the assignation may not typically engender tragedies like the above, it does come with its own list of degradations and diminishments, “isms” and marginalizations; mitigating and dismissing factors.
Being a woman in America is a full-time audition.
[Awarded in Rocky Coast Essay Contest sponsored by The Maine Review]:
Tucked in her lift chair, chilled and uneasy, she waits for tea and dry toast to calm her daily quarrel with queasiness and hunger. With a raised eyebrow and sardonic grin, she remarks, “It ain’t easy gettin’ old.” I commiserate, but she dismisses my empathy; tells me I’m too young to understand. I don’t bother to correct her.
We’re like the big kids Mom and Dad left at home with the baby; there’s a list of instructions on the refrigerator but we’re basically on our own. Which means we have no choice but to step up. To meet the challenge. To make sure the “baby” that is our book flourishes as well as the one down the street with the high-priced nanny.
Oddly, we seem only to ascribe the concept of legacy to those who are famous. We speak rarely in those terms about the uncelebrated, the not-famous, the every-day folks unknown beyond their small circles. They are, or were, after all, just “regular people,” certainly not meritorious enough to bear the burden of legacy... right?
I don’t think so. In fact, I think the misassignation of “legacy” as a responsibility only of the famous and celebrated has done a grave disservice to our human race.
LOTS of outrage to express, lots of anger and an unwillingness to acquiesce to the political status quo. People of conscience wear “pussy hats” and raise protest signs. We hashtag #Revolution, #Resistance, and #NotMyPresident every chance we get; stay vigilant on social media; write op-eds, call and email state representatives, sign petitions, organize town halls, and attend marches. WE MAKE OUR VOICES HEARD IN PROTEST. And, yes: WE VOTE! Right? We vote? Turns out... not so much.
It’s tough. We like our presidents admirable. We like them smart and shiny, with verifiable resumes, successful academic careers, a lack of ongoing lawsuits, demonstrably adult speech patterns, and character traits like integrity, honesty, intelligence and political gravitas.
We’ve had a few of those. We’ve also had a few who were less so — less shiny, less honest; occasionally less elected (Bush v. Gore still rankles). But even in those lesser cases there was still the sheen of presidential distinction and stateliness; still the expected standards of respect, decorum, and good manners (even when spun homey by Carter, Bush or Clinton); still the aura of loftiness surrounding not only the office, but the man (yes, still just the man) who held the office.
Then Election 2016 happened.
Maybe it’s the God-syndrome; the idea that having the power to create is what life is all about, what ‘godliness’ is all about… or at least closer to that vaunted status than ‘cleanliness,’ for God’s sake, which is what we’ve been told all these years!
Dear White People: Want To Protest Police Brutality, Hate-Mongering Presidential Candidates, and the Toxicity of Bigotry? Start at Home | Huffington Post
My day started with a video. A grainy scene shot on a school bus by a child with a phone; it captured a few seconds of some jolly middle-schoolers from Maryland chanting, en masse: “1,2,3,4, how many niggers are in my store?” Voices brimming with hilarity and excitement, they no doubt repeated that phrase over and over, while children of color heard, listened, recorded, and felt... what? What does a child of color, a black child, feel when his or her classmates sit on a bus singing about “niggers,” that most notorious of pejoratives meant to denigrate those with black skin?
We give power to, and rely on, the protection of police officers who literally have our lives in their hands, and yet we know nothing about their prejudices, their worldviews, or the degree of their compassion and overall humanity. We have to accept at face-value the depth of their training, their skills and reflex abilities, and we allow them to carry weapons they can point and shoot without knowledge of their aptitude to be judicious about that power. Which means when people get stopped by a cop, they simply cannot know what will happen... it becomes a matter of life and death.
Authors' Chat | indieBRAG-- Let’s face it: bad reviews suck. We can get hundreds of good ones, countless accolades and acknowledgments, but regardless of the applause that accompanies our endeavors, we tend to hold onto the words that pierce our creative skin, hurt our fragile sensibilities; shake our sense of who we are as artists. Frankly, even with their potential for destruction, we need them. We want them. We seek them out; promote, push, and pander for them.
The verbiage, the lines and phrases; the words and meanings are so familiar, so regurgitated, we can almost write the script blindfolded. We’ve heard the language spewed over decades of sexist thinking on the topic of rape, spouted by crafty, amoral defense attorneys, desperate, self-serving parents; entitled, clueless perpetrators, and hardened, sociopathic criminals. Whatever their disparate positions, the goal for each is the same: diminish the crime, denigrate the victim, point the finger away from the rapist and toward the person he’s raped, usually a woman and often a vulnerable one.
t's a tough time to be courageous. Fear is all the rage, the currency of politics and pontification. For a country built on ideals of intrepidity and dauntlessness, how strange that we've become a culture hiding behind walls of artillery, clinging to the coattails of our most xenophobic and narrow-minded.
Which got me to thinking about the people in my own life. My friends. My circle. Those with whom I share this world. In doing so, I couldn't help but recognize what a courageous bunch they are, which, in the quaking of our current zeitgeist, seemed worth noting.