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Campbell, CPA, PC Certified Public Accountants 15 East Washington Street, Rutland 05701 802-773-4030 / liz@rallyCPA.c0m Tax specialists serving individuals . _. and small businesses Surrende I ave you ever been lucky enough to witness a per- formance of live theatre which moves you so profoundly you can’t clap? All you do is sit in your seat, limp, breathless, weepy -because the universe has revealed to you an emotional truth you’ve known all along but keep hidden most of the time just so you can make it through the day?. That was my reaction to Sekou Sundiata’s “Blessing the Boats” which I experienced one night last February at the Flynn Space. Sundiata is an African- American ex-dope fiend, poet, musician, revolutionary artist with a kidney transplant. In his time-suspending solo perform- ance about the saga of his kid- neys, he reminded me that surren- der is, ironically, a necessary component of authentic freedom fighters. My guess is Sundiata adhered to the notion that eradi- cating racism would change the world. I can picture him in the sixties in a roomful of Black Panthers with a gigantic afro, dressed in red, black and green pounding his fist apoplectically on the table shouting for the demise of the “white. devil.” As for me, I confess to believing that . eradicating sexism would change the world. In the seventies, I did my share of fist-pounding while , screaming for a plague of wide- spread male impotence which would give us women enough time todismantle the patriarchy. Those of us who are convinced that aggressive, self- righteous anger will move moun- tains have never had to stretch out on a hard cold table and sub- mit to a surgeon whose knife would cut open our bellies in the name of saving our lives. Sundiata surrendered. He allowed his lover and his close friends to volunteer their kidneys. He faced the refusal of his family members to do the same. He listened to a three- year-old child in the next hospital room cry helplessly all night until she died. He spent months, maybe years, enduring a flutter- ing heart and scrambled brains, which exhausted and debilitated him. In other words, he explored every nook and cranny of power- lessness over his body’s malfunc- tioning, his fear of death, and his humble dependence on those he calls “earth angels” — other human beings who showed him compassion and courage in the face of his terror. His conclusion? Life is just a bowl ofjelly. Any one of us can be struck down from any unexpected direction any day. His solution? Well, I’m not sure he offered any antidotes to fate. He did confess that his drug addic- tion damaged his kidneys in the first place; but then again, what about that innocent child who died in the next room? He cer- tainly didn’t call for the demise of the white man. He -probably doesn’t give a shit about the color of the skin that surrounds a healthy kidney you might be will- ing to donate. Make no mistake. Sekou is not hell-bent on assimi- lating. He is a strongly—identif1ed African-American from Harlem who can switch into Black English to make a point. But on the brink of impending war and enviromnental tragedy, Sundiata the revolutionary, figuratively Get used to itl”). Rallies and marches have their place. They’re a start. They make us feel better. They give us instant connection. They are necessary for raising our energy and giving us hope that we can make a difference against the forces of evil. But if they are not followed by attempts to communicate compassionately with folks who hold opposite views in our smaller circles, then we become wedded to our theo- ries and can lapse into disdain, sarcasm and shoot-from—the-hip rhetoric. That style of communi- cation does notvpromote peace. I know. I was (and still am when”l don’t catch myself) notorious for it. We need to build the kind of communities that are based on revealing imperfections and own- ing the way our personal pain'can drive us to act out. ' Just picture an anti-war march where occasionally you see signs such as “My stomach hurts” or “I just lost my job,” or “My girlfriend’s breaking up with Sekou Sundiata, an African-American ex-dope fiend, poet, musician, and revolutionary artist, reminded me that surrender is, ironically, a necessary component of authentic freedom fighters. pulled down his pants and showed us his scars. After a poetry circle he facilitated the next day, I asked Sekou if he still identifies as a revolutionary. He said he defi- nitely considers himself radical, but he feels the Left in this coun- try is “stuck in the 20th century.” That head-on collision style of communication rarely builds deep, nuanced connection. Back - in our more militant days, there was little room for admitting feel- ings of helplessness. We regarded as weakness concepts such as surrendering to the notion that we have no control over outcomes; and as frightened as we are, we must eventually rely on faith and kindness to keep us going. It’s easy to bond with others shouting the same slogans (e.g., “We’re here. We’re queer. me as we speak,” among a sea of placards saying “No blood for oil” or “Wars suck!” I, for one, would feel safer even if that sea of placards expressed my senti- ments. It would remind me that in our vulnerability is our power. V Crow Cohen is a lesbian feminist A writer who lives in Burlington. Her column appears in these pages on alternate months.