On February 2nd, 2017, Christina Sharpe, Hazel Carby, Kaiama Glover, Arthur Jafa, and Alex Weheliye gathered on a panel to discuss Sharpe’s new book In the Wake: On Blackness and Being (2016). Below are the stills from the event:
On February 2nd, 2017, Christina Sharpe, Hazel Carby, Kaiama Glover, Arthur Jafa, and Alex Weheliye gathered on a panel to discuss Sharpe’s new book In the Wake: On Blackness and Being (2016). Below are the stills from the event:
By Emma May, BCRW Research Assistant
On Wednesday, January 25, President Trump signed an Executive Order calling for the construction of a “impassable physical barrier” between the United States and Mexico. Throughout his campaign, Trump has stated that he would force the Mexican government pay for the wall, due to funds ostensibly lost from the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA).
On Friday, January 27, Trump signed an executive order banning entry for anyone from one of seven majority Muslim countries: Syria, Iran, Somalia, Sudan, Libya, Yemen and Iraq — which includes travel, refugee asylum, and immigration. Although Trump’s time in office hasn’t yet totaled to a week, these dangerously xenophobic and violent policies are already being drafted and enforced.
What fuels the violent fear, repression, and criminalization of immigrants, Muslims, and black and brown people? What are the historical causes, contemporary political forces, and institutions that instill and perpetuate these ideologies? And, most importantly, what how can we collectively organize towards justice?
Here are some articles, art, and activist actions that address immigrant justice and anti-criminalization and can help inspire resistance to anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim, racist and xenophobic legislation, rhetoric, and the systems that create and perpetuate it.
Scholar & Feminist Online: Borders and Belonging
In 2007, BCRW published a special issue of Scholar & Feminist Online, entitled “Borders on Belonging: Gender and Immigration,” focusing specifically on US detention programs and policing, the US-Mexico border, and rampant post-9/11 racial profiling of Arab men. Through an intersectional and multidimensional lens, merging the voices of activists, journalists and academics, the journal brings to light the many systems that perpetuate and install the myth of a US-based “immigrant crisis” perpetuated by xenophobic and racist anti-immigration legislation, media and institutions.
“A Radical Expansion of Sanctuary: Steps in Defiance of Trump’s Executive Order” by Marisa Franco for Truthout
Marisa Franco asks us to explore the possibilities of imagining and creating new futures without prisons, criminalization and borders. She writes, “If Trump seeks to strip us of sanctuary, then we must defy him. And our defiance must not simply recreate what existed, but instead expand, reimagine and breathe life into its possibilities.” In the op-ed, Franco advocates for collective action and expansive visions that will create and sustain sanctuary and protection for those who are most vulnerable in our communities.
#Not1More builds collaboration between individuals, organizations, artists, and allies to expose, confront, and overcome unjust immigration laws. Through art, activism and community-building practices, #Not1More works to stop deportations and the ongoing criminalization of immigrants and undocumented people.
Want to take action with #Not1More?
Sign petitions to stop ongoing deportation cases.
Check out and share visual artworks calling for immigrant justice and centering the resilience and resistance of immigrant communities.
Learn more about how to fight deportations with your communities.
Use these resources in your activist communities and, if you’re an educator, in your classrooms.
How to #StayOutraged Without Losing Your Mind by Mirah Curzer
In this Medium post, lawyer and organizer Mirah Curzer outlines strategies for combatting activist burnout. She suggests that “we have to stay outraged for the next four years and resist the powerful urge to adapt to the new normal.” In short, Curzer argues, in order fight this forthcoming administration and the bigotry it stands for, we must take care of ourselves and each other. Curzer suggests to work through coalition-building on one or two issues that motivate you.
“Queer Liberation: No Prisons, No Borders” Video with Dean Spade, Reina Gossett, Angélica Cházaro, and CeCe McDonald
This video explores how borders, policing and prisons are threats to queer and trans survival and liberation. It draws integral connections between the prison abolition movement and immigrant justice movements, and how prisons and deportation systems categorize people into “deserving” and “undeserving” populations to legitimize the illusion that institutions like prisons and other forms of carceral punishment are necessary and effective tools to keep people safe.
Over the past few months we have witnessed a heightened sense of fear, shock, and vulnerability about our families, friends, and communities. Yet this moment has also amplified critical research and analysis, creative forms of resistance, deep strategizing, and a recognition of the power and resources we have at hand. While the political transition we face may seem unprecedented, we also know that in troubling ways, it is a legacy of the longer, uncomfortable history of our country. Focusing our attention on both the broader history we have inherited and the collective work we have ahead of us, BCRW’s spring programs use the critical frameworks of Black feminism, disability justice, and trans liberation politics to highlight the creative and intellectual projects we find critical to understanding our current political contexts and building the world we need.
In February, our annual book salon pays tribute to Christina Sharpe’s work on the afterlives of slavery and the survival of Black subjects despite relentless violence and negation through a rigorous engagement with Sharpe’s groundbreaking new book, In The Wake: On Blackness and Being. Later in the month, renowned Black feminist theorist Hortense Spillers hones in on the legal categorizations of race, gender, and family in 18th century U.S. history to illuminate the enduring traces of these definitions in systems producing and extracting value, life, and death. Finally, Award-winning historian, writer, and longtime activist Barbara Ransby, author of Ella Baker and the Black Freedom Movement, will give the 2017 Natalie Boymel Kampen Memorial Lecture in Feminist Criticism and History.
Our 42nd annual Scholar and Feminist Conference, Haptic Bodies: Performance, Embodiment and the Politics of Touch, assembles a group of artists, theorists and activists to think about how a focus on affect, embodiment and the senses/sensation might offer a path toward new practices of creating the society we want to live in. In April, we expand our exploration of embodied and performative practices by hosting a screening and discussion with filmmakers from Global Action Project, Trans Justice Funding Project, and Black Trans Media that showcases media made by and for trans people of color as an organizing and resiliency strategy. In May, BCRW will host an event in Oakland in collaboration with Sins Invalid and the Trans Life and Liberation Art Series focusing on art and politics at the intersections of disability justice and trans liberation.
We look forward to thinking, working, and building with you this semester and in the years to come.
Tina Campt, Director
In the Wake: A Salon in Honor of Christina Sharpe
Christina Sharpe in conversation wih Hazel Carby, Kaiama Glover, Arthur Jafa, and Alex Weheliye
Thursday, February 2 | 6 PM
Event Oval, The Diana Center
Christina Sharpe’s paradigm shifting new work, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being, interrogates literary, visual, cinematic, and quotidian representations of Black life that comprise what she calls the “orthography of the wake.” Invoking the multiple meanings of the term “wake”—the path behind a ship, keeping watch with the dead, coming to consciousness—Sharpe details how Black lives are swept up and animated by the afterlives of slavery, and describes what survives despite insistent violence and negation. Formulating the wake and “wake work” as sites of artistic production, resistance, consciousness, and possibility for living in diaspora, In the Wake offers a way forward. Join us for a captivating conversation with the author and three distinguished interlocutors.
Shades of Intimacy: Women in the Time of Revolution
Helen Pond McIntyre ’48 Lecture by Hortense Spillers
Thursday, February 16 | 6 PM
James Room, 4th Floor Barnard Hall
In her trenchant analysis of U.S. history, literary critic and Black feminist scholar Hortense Spillers considers the aftermath of the notion of partus sequitur ventrem—the “American ‘innovation’ that proclaimed that the child born of an enslaved mother would also be enslaved.” In this lecture, Spillers will engage the idea of the “shadow” family as one of the tectonic shifts in the concept and practice of social relations in the New World from the 18th century forward. Her critical examination of this period of profound contradiction and change illuminate how dangerously hegemonic definitions of race, gender, and family took hold in ways that carry forward into the present.
Professor Spillers will also participate in an afternoon Graduate Student/Faculty Theory Salon from 12–2 PM at the Institute for Research on Women, Gender, and Sexuality at Columbia University. Space is limited and reservations are required.
Haptic Bodies: Perception, Touch, and the Ethics of Being
The 42nd Annual Scholar and Feminist Conference
Featured speakers include Grisha Coleman, Carla Freccero, Kim Hall, and Gabri Christa Reid
Friday, March 3 | 6 PM and Saturday, March 4 | 10 AM – 6:30 PM
Event Oval, The Diana Center
of or relating to the sense of touch, in particular relating to the perception and manipulation of objects using the senses of touch and proprioception [relative perception].
How are we, as global citizens, accountable to each other? This year’s Scholar and Feminist Conference explores the haptic—the perception and manipulation of objects using the sense of touch—as an ethics of being in the world. Feminist scholars, artists, and activists come together in this utterly unique two-day conference to examine the many ways in which touch helps us better understand the politics and aesthetics of embodiment, situatedness, and performance. Through a series of panels and artistic encounters, we consider how our senses—not only touch, but taste, sight, and sound—situate us as bodies in political and economic contexts (such as labor), as well as in personal and sensory ones.
An Evening with Barbara Ransby
Natalie Boymel Kampen Memorial Lecture in Feminist Criticism and History
Monday, March 20 | 6:30 PM
James Room, 4th Floor Barnard Hall
Award-winning historian, writer, and longtime activist Barbara Ransby joins BCRW to give the 2017 Natalie Boymel Kampen Memorial Lecture in Feminist Criticism and History. Ransby is Distinguished Professor of African American Studies, Gender and Women’s Studies, and History at the University of Illinois at Chicago where she directs the campus-wide Social Justice Initiative. Ransby is author of the highly acclaimed biography,Ella Baker and the Black Freedom Movement: A Radical Democratic Vision, which received eight national awards and international recognition, and Eslanda: The Large and Unconventional Life of Mrs. Paul Robeson. As an activist, Ransby was an initiator of the African American Women in Defense of Ourselves campaign in 1991, a co-convener of The Black Radical Congress in 1998, and a founder of Ella’s Daughters, a network of women working in Ella Baker’s tradition.
Harmattan Winds: Disease and Gender Gaps in Human Capital Investment
A Lunchtime Lecture by Belinda Archibong
Thursday, March 23 | 12 – 1 PM
BCRW, 101 Barnard Hall
Research on gender-based educational disparities in the Global South has focused on differential investment in the education of boys versus girls, higher costs and lower educational attainment among girls, and factors leading to these realities. In this lunchtime lecture, Belinda Archibong will extend this conversation to share her research on ways that public health and epidemics impact these gender-based disparities, focusing on the 1986 meningitis epidemic in Niger when investment in girls’ education decreased dramatically. Archibong will also share insights into what an intersectional analysis of gender, health, and educational disparities can offer in a time when climate change is expected to worsen the disease environment.
The Real Sister Act: Black Catholic Nuns and the Long Struggle to Desegregate U.S. Religious Life
A Lecture by Shannen Dee Williams
Tuesday, March 28 | 6:30 PM
Sulzberger Parlor, 3rd Floor Barnard Hall
Shannen Dee Williams, Assistant Professor of History at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, is a historian of the United States and Black Catholic diaspora. Her research chronicles the epic journey of Black Catholic sisters in the United States from their fiercely contested beginnings in the 19th century to the present day. It also unearths the largely hidden history of Black sisters in the fight to dismantle racial and gender barriers in the U.S. church and wider American society.
Our Voices: Trans Stories, Trans Justice, Trans Resiliency
Film screening and discussion with Luce Lincoln, Marin Watts, Sasha Alexander, and Olympia Perez
Tuesday, April 4 | 6 PM
James Room, 4th Floor Barnard Hall
In a time when transgender and gender nonconforming communities remain under attack, it is crucial to lift up stories of trans resiliency and power. This film screening and panel will highlight ways trans communities fight back, build community, and center the intersectional work essential to survival. Luce Lincoln of Global Action Project, Marin Watts of Trans Justice Funding Project, Olympia Perez and Sasha Alexander of Black Trans Media, and other social justice trans and gender nonconforming media makers will share work that highlights the legacy of trans leadership, organizing, and activism during this historic moment.
We Move Together: Disability Justice and Trans Liberation
Thursday, May 11
More information coming soon
An Evening with Alicia Garza
More information coming soon
As we come to the close of a challenging semester, I am reminded of the inspiring conversations, critical insights, and crucial resources the BCRW community has provided over the past few months. I want to thank you for the part you play in this community. Thank you for joining us at our lectures, conferences, film screenings, and activist dialogues; for sharing our videos, Scholar and Feminist articles, and other resources with your communities. Thank you most of all for asking questions, sharing insights, challenging us, and contributing to our collective work. All of this is critical to the work we have ahead of us in the months and years to come.
Below you will find video recordings from some of our major events this semester, as well as a selection of recent BCRW initiatives.
We look forward to reconnecting in the new year as we work together to build a better world. Wishing you a warm and restful holiday season!
Director, Barnard Center for Research on Women
Image from Activism in Context: An Intergenerational Dialogue on Organizing in the Shadow of the 2016 Elections
SOCIAL JUSTICE INSTITUTE
This fall, BCRW was thrilled to launch our next chapter of activist-academic collaborations: the Social Justice Institute. The inaugural cohort includes Activists-in-Residence Reina Gossett, Cara Page, Tarso Ramos, and Dean Spade, and Researcher-in-Residence Andrea Ritchie. Read more about the Social Justice Institute here.
THE PERSONAL THINGS
THE SCHOLAR & FEMINIST ONLINE 13.3-14.1: TRAVERSING TECHNOLOGIES
This issue of The Scholar & Feminist Online, edited by Patrick Keilty and Leslie Regan Shade, investigates the complex entanglement of technical systems with the human and non-human elements they were built by, for, within, and against. Recognizing the visible roots of dominant technologies—from biological waste removal to internet infrastructure—in the demands of the state, the military, and the corporation, these authors surface and incite alternative engagements.
As the editors write in their introduction, these essays navigate “issues of equity and social inclusion, race and racialization, intersectionality, the discriminatory impacts of surveillant assemblages, and the fate of feminist and queer techno-futures”—with important repercussions for our present decisions. Drawing on decades of feminist work in science and technology studies, these authors mark a new path through shifting terrain.
For more information about BCRW, please visit our website.
Forty years ago in September of 1976, for colored girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow was enuf moved to the Booth Theater on Broadway, sparking new conversations about black womanhood, feminism and gender relations. BCRW’s Digital Shange Project and the Barnard Archives and Special Collections (home to the Ntozake Shange Collection) are celebrating Ntozake Shange (BC ‘70) and her iconic play by archiving your experiences of for colored girls.
Tell us what for colored girls has meant to you! Did you ‘find god in yourself’ by reading for colored girls? Were you one of the thousands of women who appeared in a for colored girls production? Did you see it on Broadway? We’d love to share production stills, programs and your memories during the for colored girls anniversary year (?) and then place them in the archive for researchers to use along with Ntozake’s manuscripts and memorabilia.
You can participate by:
Let’s show for colored girls and Ntozake some love!
As a feminist theorist trained as an historian, I believe in the time honored adage that we must know our histories to build the world we need. In that spirit, BCRW’s fall programs will explore our collective feminist archives, some more literal than others, using these histories to take inspiration from our past and imagine a more livable future.
Our journey into the archives will begin by exploring how the lives of visionary feminist leaders inform our understandings of past political moments as well as contemporary activist and scholarly work. We have the honor of hosting the New York City premiere of MAJOR!, a documentary film following the life and activism of Miss Major Griffin-Gracy, a 73-year-old Black transgender woman whose personal history offers a window into struggles for LGBTQ liberation, prison abolition, and police reform from the 1960s to the present. We will also host a day-long conference honoring and examining the legacy of Black feminist writer and anthropologist Zora Neale Hurston in the works of contemporary scholars.
Later in the semester we will travel together into the physical archives to sort through photographs, letters, meeting minutes, and material objects, while keeping an eye on that which the archive silences and leaves out. Artist and writer Sabra Moore will guide us through the Barnard Archives and Special Collections to explore the role of art in the service of social justice movements from the 1970s to the 1990s. Later, in an intergenerational dialogue with Barnard alums, members of the Barnard College Class of 1971 and current students, we will reflect on the role of student activism on campus through an exhibit of material drawn from the Student Activist Archives of 1968-1971 and a film screening, which will take place against the backdrop one of the most important elections in US history.
This is just a glimpse of the archival journeys the fall semester has in store. I hope you will join us in rich dialogues across historical moments and generations to examine the legacies that have brought us to this time, and those that will shape how we dream, understand, and struggle toward the next.
With best wishes,
Black Hole Blues and Other Songs from Outer Space
Roslyn Silver ‘27 Science Lecture by Janna Levin
Thursday 10/20 6:30 – 8 PM
James Room, 4th Floor Barnard Hall
Black holes are dark. That’s their essence. That’s the defining feature that earned them a name. They are dark against a dark sky. They are a shadow against a bright sky. A telescope has never found one unadorned. Bare black holes – those too solitary to tear down sufficient debris – in their obliterating darkness are practically impossible to observe, but not entirely impossible. In this Silver Science Lecture, Janna Levin investigates the astronomer’s aspiration to detect black holes (and other cataclysmic events) that culminated in the discovery of the century: The first human-procured recordings of a gravitational-wave sound from the collision of two black holes 1.3 billion years ago.
Janna Levin is a Professor of Physics and Astronomy at Barnard College of Columbia University, and was named a Guggenheim Fellow in 2013.
MAJOR! The New York City Premiere
A documentary film screening followed by a conversation with Miss Major Griffin-Gracy & filmmakers StormMiguel Flores and Annalise Ophelian
Co-hosted by the Office of Social Justice Initiatives at The New School
Tuesday 10/25 6:30 PM
Tishman Auditorium, The New School
63 5th Avenue (at 14th Street)
MAJOR! follows the life and campaigns of Miss Major Griffin-Gracy, a 73-year-old Black transgender woman, a veteran of the 1969 Stonewall Rebellion and organizer who has been fighting for the liberation of trans women of color for over 40 years. Miss Major’s personal story and activism for transgender civil rights, from mobile outreach and AIDS prevention to fighting the prison industrial complex, intersects LGBT struggles for justice and equality from the 1960s to today. The screening will include a Q&A with Miss Major and the filmmakers, Annalise Ophelian and StormMiguel Flores.
The screening will also feature the premiere of The Personal Stuff, a short animation about Miss Major, directed by Reina Gossett with art by Micah Bazant and animation by Pamela Chavez.
Hurston@125: Engaging with the Work and Legacy of Zora Neale Hurston
A conference featuring Alex Alston, John L. Jackson, Jr., Meg McLagan, Adriana Garriga-Lopez, Tami Navarro, Mariel Rodney, Patricia Stuelke, Deborah Thomas, Sarah E. Vaughn, Bianca Williams, and Autumn Womack
Friday, 10/28 10 AM – 6:30 PM
Event Oval, The Diana Center
Zora Neale Hurston, a graduate of Barnard College and Columbia University, has received great acclaim for her literary work, particularly the highly influential novel Their Eyes Were Watching God. In honor of the 125th anniversary of her birth, BCRW celebrates Hurston’s legacy with a one-day symposium that brings together emerging scholars whose work builds upon Hurston’s less well-known training in anthropology and interdisciplinary modes of analysis and expression. The program will include panel discussions and a film screening of Hurston’s ethnographic work.
For more information and a full program, please visit bcrw.barnard.edu/hurston125
Openings and Archives: Art-Making and Movement Building
A Lunchtime Lecture by Sabra Moore
Tuesday 11/1 12 – 1 PM
Sulzberger Parlor, 3rd Floor Barnard Hall
Artist, writer, and activist Sabra Moore will read from her forthcoming memoir Openings and share original archival materials now housed in the Barnard College Archives and Special Collections. The collection and memoir feature over 180 different art works and 79 individual artists, covering a fascinating range of topics, from the documentation of WAR (Women Artists in Revolution), Women’s Services (the first legal abortion clinic in NY), and the Heresies Collective, to the 1984 demonstration against MoMA’s lack of inclusivity in its collections.
Activism In Context: An Intergenerational Dialogue on Organizing in the Shadow of the 2016 Elections
A conversation between Katherine Brewster ‘71 and Janet Price ‘71 and current Barnard College students, moderated by BCRW Senior Activist Fellow Katherine Acey
Tuesday 11/15 6:30 – 8 PM
James Room, 4th Floor Barnard Hall
This year’s historic 2016 election casts a long shadow over the history of feminist activism across different generations. The first in a series of dialogues with the classes of 1968 through 1974, this event will offer an opportunity for social justice feminists to engage in generative dialogues and share resources across generations. Among the resources discussed will be the Activist Archives of 1971, now housed at the Barnard College Archives and Special Collections and in the process of becoming digitized for greater accessibility.
The Department of Justice announced today that it will stop outsourcing federal prisons to private prison companies due to extreme levels of physical, psychological, and sexual violence and death in these facilities. While this is the result of decades of abolitionist organizing, activists insist that we not let this news distract us: Private, for-profit prisons will continue to operate as immigration detention centers, which is the fastest-growing area of the private prison industry. And the struggle to abolish all prisons and prison profiteering continues.
As Aviva Shen from ThinkProgress writes:
“While the decision will affect 13 federal prisons currently operated by private companies, the bulk of federal private prisons aren’t run by DOJ. In fact, the industry’s biggest client is the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) — a separate agency that relies on private prisons to hold immigrants, often in appalling and unconstitutional conditions.”
As Jacinta Gonzalez of #Not1More explains:
“Until private incarceration and detention is ended all together, these facilities will just be recycled between agencies. Private companies today will be looking for new customers and the Obama administration needs to make sure that no other government agency will be their clients.”
On the Department of Homeland Security’s plans to open a new private detention center in Texas for transgender detainees, Isa Noyola of the Transgender Law Center says:
“Authorities’ statement that one center will be safer than another doesn’t address that the system of detention is an act of violence on transgender people who came to this country fleeing it. DHS should stop its plan to open a new private facility in Texas and stop its practice of detaining us altogether. We do not simply want the violence committed by a corporation to be inflicted on us by the state. We want transgender and LGBTQ to be free and for the systems that criminalize and cage us to be put to an end.”
In an article in Truthout, Dan Berger, author of Captive Nation: Black Prison Organizing in the Civil Rights Era, says,
“This is another example of a more symbolic prison reform, which is what the prison reforms of the last few years have been… It makes a difference to some people’s lives, but it is nowhere near the sweeping and realizable changes that are needed.”
Below, watch “Queer Liberation: No Prisons, No Borders,” a video addressing these issues, by BCRW Creative Director Hope Dector and BCRW Activist Fellow Dean Spade:
As Angélica Cházaro reminds us:
“Prison isn’t good for anyone and detention is prison. Prison is prison. Let’s end that.”
Featuring Maggie Nelson in conversation with Christina Crosby, Saidiya Hartman, Sam Huber, and Heather Love. Moderated by Tina Campt.
In her widely acclaimed memoir, The Argonauts, Maggie Nelson writes, “There is much to be learned from wanting something both ways.” Defying traditional genres, Nelson powerfully weaves theory into a narrative of queer relations and family-making, juxtaposing such supposed opposites as transgressive and normative politics, reproductive and sodomitical motherhood, intellectual and domestic life to tell a different kind of story. BCRW’s sixth annual book salon celebrates Nelson’s remarkable exploration of intimacy, writing, and life-making.
Maggie was my student at Wesleyan University in the early 1990s, as you may already know, because she says so in The Argonauts – first she took Feminist Theory with me, and then I advised her honors thesis, titled “The Performance of Intimacy,” a study of Sylvia Plath’s and Ann Sexton’s poetry and the critical reception of their work. Too many critics, I learned, made the lazy mistake of thinking that they knew the women because they knew their poetry, as if obliqueness of poetic address didn’t matter. Sometimes I think of writing as an alchemical process or a crucible– lyric poetry compresses and transforms. The word poetry is derived from the Greek “poiesis,” a creation, which in turn derives from the verb form “to make, produce, compose, write.” Poetry remakes the world by its very address.
I came late to this fuller appreciation of confessional poetry, a classification that misleads from the get-go. Last year at a BCRW salon on my memoir, A Body, Undone, Maggie rightly recalled that I had agreed to work with her only after briskly declaring my lack of interest in confessional poetry. At the salon, Maggie then crowed just a little over my coming so lately to appreciate what she had known all along. In fact, I had to eat to eat humble pie long ago, because Maggie’s thesis taught me how small-minded I had been – consider this poem, for example: “Villanelle to the Critic.” Its first line reads, “This is not a poem. What’s more, I’m a liar.” Of course Maggie chose one of the most rigorous of poetic forms to make this declaration, one that forces the critic to embrace complexity, even contradiction, and undoes any thought of representational transparency.
After I broke my neck and was hospitalized, Maggie drove up from New York City every Saturday to give my lover Janet a break from visiting me in the rehab hospital. Those five months in the hospital extended and deepened our friendship. Then she got a job teaching at Wesleyan for a year. I continued very slowly to recover my health – by 8 o’clock in the evening I had to lie down. Maggie was spending a lot of time with Janet and me, helping us both, and that evening lay down beside me to talk about poetry. I was so happy to have that conversation, which took me out of myself.
In The Argonauts, Maggie characterizes her marriage to Harry by quoting what Deleuze has to say about “nuptials”: “there are no longer binary machines – question-answer, masculine-feminine, man-animal, etc. this could be what a conversation is – simply the outline of a becoming” (7). I’m allergic to marriage, but not to nuptials, because conversations are an undoing that converts the participants who are in the process of exchanging of words and ideas, changing them as they speak. I’m quite sure that the close and loving conversations I had with Maggie after I was injured – when we lived in an unprecedented intimacy with each other – changed me so that when I needed to I could begin to write in a confessional mode myself. Thank the stars above!
I learned that Maggie was unafraid of my injured body, and able to witness my pain and grief without protecting herself by focusing on future recovery. She can bear witness. This is quite remarkable quality, a radical openness. Maggie admires Roland Barthes and his commitment to “the neutral,” which allows him to seek to understand without claiming to know. Maggie’s artistic practice is similarly committed to regarding without judgment in order to see what’s before her. As she has continued writing, she has increasingly found the form necessary for her content – the outline of a becoming that cannot be catalogued by genre. Yet even in her first books of lyric poetry, you can see the qualities I’m trying to describe.
Her 2007 book of poetry, Something Bright, Then Holes (Soft Skull Press) has a group of poems titled “The Hospital for Special Care,” including this five line poem, “Morning En Route to the Hospital.”
Snow wafts off the little lake
along Route 66, momentarily encasing the car
in a trance of glitter
Live with your puny, vulnerable self
Live with her
Whether a trance of glitter or the devastation of injury, in a moment all can change. Your whole life can come undone. We aren’t given to contemplation in the rush and demand of everyday life. Maggie’s artistic practice requires and creates a stillness. Slow down. Think through. Live with. Be open, be vulnerable.
I’ve taken enormous pleasure in her success as a writer, and I’ve watched as The Argonauts has cut through the water, running before the wind of each successive review. This evening I’m wagering that there’s something to be learned about that remarkable book of “auto-theory” by looking back to Maggie’s earlier work. I’ve read every book she’s published, and can see a plumb line dropped from the deck of the Argo running through them all. As an artist, Maggie is willing to take risks because she trusts in her medium.
The speaker of her early books of poetry regards life with bold and open curiosity. This stance requires a certain fearlessness, and a willingness to “reckon,” as Maggie says, with what you see. Maggie’s fearlessness has to do with the rigor of her artistic practice, which is a demanding one. She reports in The Argonauts that she sometimes finds herself laboring “grimly” over her sentences, wondering if any language offers the needful form (52). Her practice makes no claim for emotional transparency (as if one can simply know one’s own, or another’s, emotions). What art can do is hold open a space in which we – the writer and the reader – don’t know, and in that not knowing can address things that are opaque. Holding open a space to engage the world without attempting to know it fully creates possibility. Her artistic practice makes a space for interactions that undo the known landscape, the one covered by cliché. She is open to exploring the sometimes explosive intimacies of the everyday – not every conversation is a happy one –, and she does not hide, conceal, sidestep, or evade what she finds there.
From her earliest published writing this is true, as in the poem “Motel Story” from the 1996 Soft Skull Press book Not Sisters that she published with Cynthia Nelson. Here are the first lines:
We were in the middle of something big.
The United States, for example. I
was in a new bed in a new room. We
had a key, something to misplace and find.
All night we had heard a banging next door,
of intimacy or imprisonment.
. . .
In the middle of something big, whether middle-America or an interior landscape, she will not shy from uncertainty tinged with a threat – is it intimacy? Or imprisonment? Can you tell the difference? Will she find the key?
The speakers of her poems stay open to possibility, as in these lines from SUBWAY IN MARCH, 5:45 PM in Shiner (Hanging Loose Press, 2001).
… All these permutations of esteem and ridicule
when all I want is to stay focused on everyday life
What other kind of life is there?
All the world knows it, it’s a miracle
The blue womb of evening
The nimble sparrow, the smug duck in the pond
The eruption of flowering quince
O shackle us to the rock of it
You would think that representing everyday life is easy, because there it is before you, but the apostrophe “O shackle us to the rock of it” tells us otherwise. It is the work of Prometheus, punished by Zeus because he brings fire to humankind. The poet lights up life, come what may.
I’m sharing these lines with you to indicate in the sketchiest possible way the qualities of Maggie’s first three books of poetry. The books that followed – Jane: a Murder (2005), The Red Parts (2007), Bluets (2009), The Art of Cruelty (2011), explore the wet, bloody, sometimes thrilling and often terrifying underside of lives lived in extremis, where pain cannot be relieved, unassuageable grief cannot be comforted, and death is close at hand. These investigations require in equal part precision of observation and a speaker willing to travel to the edge and regard the blankness beyond. From Jane: a murder on, Maggie has trusted in her art to give form to life riven open.
Maggie was young in years when she began working on Jane, a murder, and when she finished, her writing had changed. She was no longer writing a book of lyric poetry. Instead, she transforms Jane’s journal entries into lyric poetry by a process of selection and lineation. Paragraphs of prose from newspapers, letters, and in Maggie’s own voice mingle with the poetry. In the end, the speaker and her subject are so intimately related that distinguishing between them – pulling them apart to see light between them, saying, this is Jane and this here is Maggie – becomes impossible and perhaps irrelevant. Such is the promiscuity of unconscious life. Such is the effect of Maggie’s innovations in form. The last two stanzas/paragraphs are these:
I go on and I don’t know whether I’m going into darkness or into light and joy, she thinks as she walks further down the road.
Above her, the sun is still trying to burn through the mist. Strange, she thinks, how the sun so often appears as a pale circle, not the orgy of unthinkable fire that it is.
Fannie Howe writes of Jane: a murder, “This true story of murder and childhood beats down the last sparks in the cremains of genre with grace and appetite.” In all the books that follow, Maggie finds the form that she needs. Necessity is the mother of invention. The Argonauts sets sail from there.
When I reviewed The Argonauts for Feministing nearly a year ago, I admitted two things about which I immediately felt self-conscious, if not quite ambivalent or regretful: the first was my earnest enthusiasm for the book, my deeply felt pleasure and optimism in reading it; the second was that pleasure’s only significant qualification, my fear that the book’s account of home and family-making might be taken as permission by straight people and certain queers to skip the anti-normativity Maggie lovingly critiques in confirmation of their existing ways of loving and thinking and doing (or not doing) politics.
Regarding the first: I became self-conscious about declaring my joy because of a temperamental aversion to self-exposure, sure, but also because some queers I know have since posed as too cool—that is to say, too queer—for this particular readerly affect, especially in response to this universally beloved book. That pose of too-cool or too-queer is related, of course, to all of those other boxes on the radicalism checklist that The Argonauts would gently shake us loose of: like the right things, but don’t be taken over by them; always be ready with an analysis; never be caught not-knowing or not-having-anticipated (those persistent trademarks of paranoid reading as Sedgwick originally articulated it); be wary of beauty, of naturalized bodies, of the instrumentalization of queer pain. These are all demands I have made of myself and others and that I continue to make in situations that call for it, and my self-consciousness stemmed from the worry that I should have known to demand them here, that my pleasure in The Argonauts was indulgent or unguarded. God forbid.
How thrilling, then, to reread this book nearly a year later and find that it inspires the same joy, the same excessive attachment. I am grateful to The Argonauts for continuing to catch me off guard, for reminding me of the pleasures of defenseless awe. Among the many gifts of this book is its expansive vocabulary for happiness; pleasure demands due diligence, and Maggie delivers. Some of her most beautiful sentences enjoin us to own the wonder we feel in reading them: “So far as I can tell, most worthwhile pleasures on this earth slip between gratifying another and gratifying oneself. Some would call that an ethics.” Maggie is not describing her own writing here, but she may as well have been; how could these sentences not gratify writer and reader both? The quote leads me back to a favorite charge of Sedgwick’s, which I don’t think appears in The Argonauts but which haunted my reading of it and was welcome company. In A Dialogue on Love, which Maggie of The Argonauts tries to read in a too-hot tent on a Fort Lauderdale beach while Harry recovers from top surgery, Sedgwick describes the joy she takes in the many stuffed pandas that populate her living room: “It seems so obvious that the more such images there are, the happier. And it means a lot, to be happy. It may even mean: to be good. […] It never seems sensible to pass along moral injunctions. I sometimes think that beyond the Golden Rule, / the only one that / matters is this: If you can / be happy, you should.”
Again, Maggie: “Some would call that an ethics.” Is this sentence about relating or about writing? is a fun game to play with this book, because it can be so difficult. Nelson’s initial defense of language is notably queer, in Sedgwick’s sense: she argues “for plethora, for kaleidoscopic shifting, for excess.” And that game should be hard, because this is also a book about reading, or the challenge of how to relate to a text (yourself or another’s), of what to do with the stuff we read. At Feministing I called the book “a thrilling realization of that effort so central to so many queer and feminist lives: the effort to live (with) our theory. Nelson demonstrates at the level of form how our interpretive vocabularies can alternately illuminate and fail to apprehend the primary text of lived experience, and how the texts that sustain us dovetail with or chafe against all the other stuff we are sustaining.” In hindsight that sounds a bit too binary: here is the text, here is the life, here’s how they meet, and so on. The books we read, just like the bodies we write about and theorize, do not just carry us or get carried. The meeting is far messier; it challenges my command of language, but luckily we now have Maggie’s: “We develop, even in utero, in response to a flow of projections and reflections ricocheting off us. Eventually, we call that snowball a self (Argo).”
I’ve lingered in joy, so I’ll be brief on the topic of my second self-consciousness, the one about straight critics and readers being introduced to queer anti-normativity belatedly, through its disavowal, and the misreadings that might ensue. Over the last few weeks I’ve reread every review I could dig up to see if my fear was responsive to a real phenomenon or just an attempt to preempt one. Much in these reviews is commendable, and almost all have expanded my appreciation for The Argonauts in some way. I am grateful for them, and to their authors, and I am by no means exempt from the inevitable distortions of the form. But my fears were not completely paranoid, and I did not have to look hard to find phrasings that made me bristle. I’ll refrain from quoting them, and instead appropriate a pleasurable formulation of Maggie’s, about bad fiction: these inevitable distortions are what I “hate about [Maggie says fiction; here let’s say criticism], or at least crappy [criticism]—it purports to provide occasions for thinking through complex issues, but really it has predetermined the positions, stuffed a narrative full of false choices, and hooked you on them, rendering you less able to see out, to get out.” In this instance you can probably guess what our false choices are: resistance or conformity, radicalism or normativity, promiscuity or family, polemic or nuance, and (the unspoken false choice underlying so many others) youth or maturity.
So my anxiety was not unfounded, but what only became clear in hindsight is that its stronger motives lay elsewhere. This fear of hetero-critical misreading, when I am being most honest, was largely defensive, or territorial, or both: I wanted the book to belong to me, or to my us, and not to self-satisfied straight people relieved by the reparative turn. That proprietary identification—no, no, Maggie gets me—seems (if you’ll permit an unscientific observation) to be fairly common, or at least more common for The Argonauts than for the still too few other books that inspire similar claims in my social worlds. This is at once fitting and perverse. Fitting, given the book’s capaciousness and generosity, its inviting warmth. Perverse, because it seems to me that this kind of attachment—one that polices the attachments of others to this or their own objects—is something the book at once recognizes and resists. But also perverse because of how much greater are the pleasures of sharing this book than of owning it. I loved the month during which my Instagram and Twitter feeds were clogged with quotes and adoring pictures of this now-iconic cover next to someone’s omelet or iced coffee or window or cat; I loved that a friend insisted on pulling her copy out at the diner where we were having one of those long, semi-annual catch-up lunches to read me an entire paragraph from the section about abortion: Of course it’s a child, she exclaimed, nearly in tears, and of course it’s a choice.
So I am trying to let go of any disciplinary hold I once claimed on this book, along with the fear of failing to rightly act on its lessons: “I’m not trying to fix that wrongness here. I’m just trying to let it hang out,” as Maggie writes. Perhaps the reductions charted above are traps not of criticism but of memory, summary, all of the ways we try to hold onto a book once it’s over and communicate it to others—hard enough for any book, and nearly impossible for this one. But failure, I think it’s fair to say, is a judgment that lies outside or in the wake of this book’s terms. So too does instruction; as Maggie told one interviewer, “I don’t teach (save when I actually teach).” Pace Maggie, I am still learning with and from this book. We might find one answer to the problem of its inevitable distortion by criticism and memory in another of the book’s named pleasures, that of resisting the impulse toward evasion and lingering instead on fertile ground, in joy: “The pleasures of ordinary devotion. The pleasure of recognizing that one may have to undergo the same realizations […] write [or read] the same book over and over again—not because one is stupid or obstinate or incapable of change, but because such revisions constitute a life.”
Or as she puts it elsewhere: “Sometimes one has to know something many times over.” It is the nature of The Argonauts that we will never have fully failed it, or finished succeeding.
The fierceness of The Argonauts resides not in what it reveals, but what it invites, the ways in which it solicits us and stages encounter: a slip, a cut, an abrasion, a proximity in which sameness is not the requirement of relation, but rather as Harry puts it, the sense of having been entangled in all these worlds right from the beginning. The book is lucid and difficult; unease and estrangement are the price exacted for entering its pages and the rewards of reading are as troubling as they are illuminating.
While the beauty of the text—its rigor and economy of statement; its enactment of collective utterance; its powerful and exacting prose—is noteworthy, what I find most compelling about The Argonauts, a book, commonly and perhaps troublingly, described as being about “family and love,” are the risks it poses in opening up the question of relation. Argonauts unflinchingly examines:
The ways in which devotion can feel like violation
Representation yield its opposite– to be radically unheld
And the dispossessive character of narration be experienced by the “I” and the “you” as injury as well as gift.
Vulnerability is a key dimension of its ethics of writing; it welcomes readers and encounters that might rearrange and transform its organizing terms and challenge its investments. It does this, to quote Eve Sedgwick, by allowing “queer to hold all kinds of resistances and fracturings and mismatches that have little or nothing to do with sexual orientation” and by retaining a sense of the fugitive. The Argonauts forms of address are multiple; and in its many solicitations and elaborations of becoming and undoing and becoming—embraces and enacts dissent/friction/ antagonism. This is one of the things I love most about The Argonauts—its willingness to approach those who want to come into the house only to fuck it up, mess with it, run away with your stuff. It takes pleasure in discomfort, pushes your face into it, and troubles any effort to cordon off the homonormative from the privileged terms that stand as its opposite—radical, resistant.
Alongside the rigor and economy of its statements and the beauty of its citations, which adorn the page like tattoos or jewels, making knowledge into ornament, by transforming what too often becomes a turgid form of scholarly orthodoxy and reproduction of intellectual hierarchy into collaborative practice and collective utterance. The notes mark and memorialize engagement and they are placeholders for an open-ended and on-going conversation in which we are asked to take part. The exchanges occur between interlocutors who rarely meet, Lucille Clifton and Gilles Deleuze together in a dance of becoming:
turning out of the
white cage, turning out of the
turning at last
on a stem like a black fruit
in my own season
The Combahee River Statement brushes up against Touching Feeling. Nelson’s many gendered mothers recast our intellectual genealogies, imagining encounters across her library and excavating the possibilities of the might have been. One enters The Argonauts in media res; it is clear that many conversations, much rumination, and many books precede its startling and beautiful first paragraph. But there will be no ground clearing here, no placement or contextualization of the works addressed, no justification of this promiscuous ensemble, only the call to enter a dialogue staged between intimates and lovers, defined as such by an affinity of thought, a line of flight.
In writing a feminist account of intimacy described variously as nuptials, kinship, family and affiliation, Nelson traces the entanglements of the ordinary—from the work of ordinary language, that is, the ways in which the inexpressible is contained in the expressed, believing words are good enough to express love, and to describe and reimagine the world; to the good enough devotion of the mother; to a more socially capacious practice of care— all of which might be characterized by lines of affiliation that run “loose and hot.”
When I taught The Argonauts in a graduate seminar on feminist practice, we examined what the ordinary yields here . . .the unfolding of the possible, the coming into being of collectivities unanticipated, forms of experience and becoming able to escape the grids and taxonomies that organize thought and regulate life, the ordinary devotion that enables care in the context of enormous brutality. One student, Erica, noted that “Argonauts gives us so much more than we ask for or may even want, performing a radical openness that has the capacity to compel us to another kind of critical practice. Nelson is on a journey and she wants to, with our help, to take us there.” She heard the promise of Mavis Staple’s “I’ll Take You There” in Nelson’s words. What we both discerned was the invitation, the open hand.
It is this that solicits me—one of the mother-dispossessed into a terrain that has some familiar signposts, but, which is at the same time, strangely unfamiliar. I see things I know and recognize and things that are strange, that I have never experienced and find hard to imagine, things that frighten and estrange me—like a soldier saluting an expecting mother, compromised and radiant, with the promise of a futurity.
Compromised and radiant—Nelson calls attention to the misrecognition, to the script in which she is mistakenly and willingly cast, acknowledging it, call attention to the “seduction of normalcy,” and divesting from it by announcing it. A hand raised in salute—the arrest of militarized recognition—keeping America beautiful. There it was—the slip, the cut, the prick.
The salute, the recognition of the state in the family-building project, even if in misrecognition of what looks like “reproductive futurity,” but isn’t quite, arrested me. That salute bringing to mind a different set of hands raised in the air, walking backward toward a police care, not shouting, “Don’t shoot,” but “My children, children. You’re terrorizing my children.” This mother is the flesh of the black asterisk I would affix to the words queer maternity, queer family. A mother already imagined and implicitly embraced by Nelson, but certainly one never saluted, and only addressed as problem, as criminal, as source of disorder, as baby maker, as embodiment of the monstrous.
No territory is more fraught for a black queer/feminist critic than maternity– the radically disparate forms of maternity and the futures represented or foreclosed by it.
A maternity threatened not by the seductions of normalcy, but poverty, the police, the state, the new and multiple forms of social enclosure, and the uneven distribution of death. This is the maternity that covers one’s children in a shroud. The not-mothers of the global south harvesting and selling their eggs like another mono-crop of the plantation economy, the Caribbean and Philippina nannies providing ordinary devotion for minimal wages, the extended webs of kinship and affiliation always called “out of their name” as disorder, female-headed, and in-crisis.
I wanted to push this world inside the pages of the Argonauts, to make explicit the latent embrace of Nelson’s lovely prose. I wanted to make the book mine. To undertake again the labor of love and care, danger and risk, with these queer mothers in mind. What I most admire about the Argonauts is that I feel the works invites me to do so. It cultivates the necessity and discomfort of dis-identification. Its notion of the queer is capacious enough to embrace all varieties of the gender non-conforming, all the shades of queer kin, and the anomalous intimacies that have never been and never will be faithful to the text of daddy, mommy, me.
The black asterisk of queer maternity is a way of underlining the care, violently extracted and freely given, by the omitted, the unattested, the much loved and many gendered mothers. The Argos in holding “all kinds of resistances and fractures and mismatching” has the capacity to hold them too.
A lot of friends recommended The Argonauts to me when it came out. Or rather, they urged it on me—they were adamant. Because of my interest in queer and feminist criticism; because I have been living for the past 12 years as a queer stepparent; because I came late to family life, and with reservations. Here was a book about language, genderqueerness, pregnancy, aging, friendship, shame, sex, and the body, with large doses of Winnicott and Sedgwick thrown in—and it borrowed the aphoristic and allusive form of Roland Barthes’s A Lover’s Discourse. This one’s for you.
My friends only worried about one thing, but they all worried about it: would I be put off by the happy ending? Good point. Because I take A Lover’s Discourse very seriously. My aesthetic, my idea of romance, my queer identity, my identity period took root in that vale of tears: “The lover’s fatal identity is precisely: I am the one who waits.” Or, again: “Someone tells me: this kind of love is not viable. But how can you evaluate viability? Why is the viable a Good Thing? Why is it better to last than to burn?” (23) You can go a long way down this road. Barthes did, and I sometimes think, why not follow him?
When The Argonauts begins, it looks like we are headed there:
October, 2007. The Santa Ana winds are shredding the bark off the eucalyptus trees in long white stripes. A friend and I risk the widowmakers by having lunch outside, during which she suggests I tattoo the words HARD TO GET across my knuckles, as a reminder of this pose’s possible fruits. Instead the words I love you come tumbling out of my mouth in an incantation the first time you fuck me in the ass, my face smashed against the cement floor of your dank and charming bachelor pad. You had Molloy by your bedside and a stack of cocks in a shadowy unused shower stall.
It is this inadvertent “I love you” that leads Nelson to Barthes, and to her book’s title:
A day or two after my love pronouncement, now feral with vulnerability, I sent you the passage from Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes in which Barthes describes how the subject who utters the phrase ‘I love you’ is like ‘the Argonaut renewing his ship during its voyage without changing its name.’ Just as the Argo’s parts may be replaced over time but the boat is still called the Argo, whenever the lover utters the phrase ‘I love you,’ its meaning must be renewed by each use, as ‘the very task of love and of language is to give to one and the same phrase inflections which will be forever new.’ (5)
Barthes knew a thing or two about feral vulnerability: just before his meditation on the Argo, he writes: “There’s no help for it: I love you is a demand: hence it can only embarrass anyone who receives it, except the Mother—and except God!” We are familiar with this Barthes, Barthes the Embarrassed, Barthes the mother-lover, unconsoled and unconsolable. But, it is also Barthes who writes, “And then, the scene changes” (114)—and this is what gets us to the Argo and to the prospect of endless renewal as “the very task of love” (114).
There is a scene change in The Argonauts too. Picking up again with that copy of Beckett by the bedside, things take a turn:
You had Molloy by your bedside and a stack of cocks in a shadowy unused shower stall. Does it get any better? What’s your pleasure? You asked, then stuck around for an answer. (3)
Is it better to last than to burn? For those of us addicted to loss, magnetized by the image of impossible love, the traditional answer is: no way. I think Nelson holds open this possibility for us: Does it get any better than these few shadowy minutes? Does it need to? But she also suggests that there may be another way. While refusing the regime of the viable as a Good Thing—as the Good Thing—we might be able to stick around and enjoy the fruits of HARD TO GET.
This is a potent fantasy, but I suppose this is what worried my friends: would I be able to make this scene? In reality I am already there—I stuck around, and I have a steady job replacing parts on the Argo. And this is why I think this book got to me so much, it pressed on a fault line between what I still glorify/mourn as a romantic ideal and how I actually live. The Argonauts offers me an image of happiness, about the only way I can take it—with a heavy undertow of ambivalence, doubt, and self-harm. It’s both my personal history and my dedication to a queer literary tradition that makes me think that love that excludes betrayal is betrayal.
When I read The Argonauts last summer, a few things happened. I wrote to my department to ask them if I could change my teaching for the spring: I wanted to teach something new: “The Queer Novel and the Marriage Plot” and end it with this book. I thought, here is a queer marriage plot, a book I can bear to teach at the end of a course that includes The Well of Loneliness, The Price of Salt, and Giovanni’s Room. I also passed the book around to several friends. Now I was the adamant one: I wanted everyone I know to read it immediately. I like this copy more now that it has made the rounds. When I opened it last week to get ready for tonight, an orange paper heart fell out—a gift from someone, somewhere, back down along the line.
 Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, trans. Richard Howard (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2010 [1977/1978]), 40.
 Maggie Nelson, The Argonauts (Minneapolis, MN: Graywolf Press, 2015), 3.
 Barthes, Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes, trans. Richard Howard (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2010 [1975/1977]), 112.
The Barnard Center for Research on Women seeks a part-time Managing Editor for our journal, The Scholar and Feminist Online. S&F Online is an online peer-reviewed journal published three times per year that focuses on research and activism related to intersectional feminisms and social justice. Ideally, we prefer someone with experience managing a feminist and/or academic journal.
Responsibilities of the Managing Editor include:
Managing Editor may also assist with the creation of Additional Resources/Annotated Bibliography for issues, as needed/interested.
This position is part-time, averaging 10 hours per week, and paid on a $15,000 annual stipend.
To apply, please send a cover letter, resume, and three references to bcrw [at] barnard.edu with subject line “S&F Managing Editor.”
Applications should be submitted as soon as possible; they will be accepted on a rolling basis until the position is filled.
In 2015, BCRW Activist Fellow Dean Spade and BCRW Creative Director Hope Dector produced a video series on historical challenges and strategies for anti-violence movements based on interviews conducted at the 2013 Queer Dreams and Nonprofit Blues Conference, co-sponsored by BCRW and the Engaging Tradition Project at the Center for Gender and Sexuality Law at Columbia Law School. These videos include interviews with Angélica Cházaro, Shira Hassan, Soniya Munshi, Andrea Ritchie, Andrea Smith, and Dean Spade. Watch the videos below.