WAM! Wrap Up: Part 2 of 2

Post-leaving Helen Thomas, post-wandering Cambridge in search of food (after 9PM, there is none), post-having security come to our hotel room ’cause there were nine of us in there and the neighbors said we were loud, post-finally ordering pizza, post-breaking into groups as Nadia, Sudy, Lex and Sydette planned their session and the rest of us discussed the events of the day (a discussion best illustrated in Jessica Hoffman’s post here, we went our separated ways and we slept.

And then it was Saturday and that meant time to go back to the Stata Center. We took our time.

When we got there, we grabbed breakfast. Sat down. Listened to call after call of “Haifa Zangana’s speech will start in ten minutes… in five minutes… now,” and didn’t get up. Prior to the first keynote address, we were curious. But now, we were tired. So we stayed where we were, and talked with Jaz, and then we met up with everyone for Immigration in the U.S.: The Women’s Rights Crisis Feminists Aren’t Talking About.

Irina Contreras prefaced her part of the session by saying “I’m a little angry and pissed off, but that’s just my nature.” I thought “YES!” and wrote it down. So often, especially lately, friends and family members have wondered “why” I’m “so angry?” Family, in particular, has told me to stop reading the news, to prevent myself from getting “needlessly angry,” and has asked “why are you mad at me?” And after explanations of “just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I’m angry with you,” and “If I stop reading the news, that won’t stop the news from happening,” I’ve often been very frustrated. Irina’s words resonated with me, and I am still grateful.

The session was wonderful. It was moving and painful and difficult but so necessary.

It ended. It was time for lunch. We grabbed sandwiches. There was a Radical Womyn of Color Bloggers lunch caucus planned. I planned to eat my lunch, wander, and meet up with everyone when it was over. As we all walked away from the food area, I got ready to head off on my own. Adele told me where her roommate for the weekend was eating, so I could join her.

And then, I was immediately rushed by two middle aged white women.

“OBAMA! We saw your bag and we just thought to ourselves “THAT GIRL! WE NEED TO TALK TO THAT GIRL!”

So, what do you think so far? Of the conference? What do you think of Obama? What do you think of Hillary? How do you feel here?

I reminded myself to breathe and tried to take a step back because these women were literally six inches from my nose. They were watching me so intently, waiting for me to answer them, and I wondered what they wanted me to say. Were these Obama supporters happy to see a like-minded individual? Were they Hillary supporters waiting for the opportunity to tell me I was betraying my gender? Were they just curious? Was it actually a coincidence that they spotted and rushed me the second I wasn’t in a group of Women of Color?

I told them that, as my bag illustrates, I am a supporter of Barack Obama. I told them that I find Hillary Clinton and many of her supporters’ campaign tactics divisive, entitled and specifically racist. I told them that I felt that the longer the election was drawn out, the more people in the Democratic party would continue to show their asses – and that I wasn’t the least bit surprised by what many elected officials were putting out to the public. I told them that I had met some wonderful people at the conference but that I overall thought the space was very hostile and unsafe.

They watched me closely as I spoke. They asked what “showing their asses” meant. They asked where I lived and were excited to tell me they didn’t live too far from me. They told me they spent the whole ride up to the Boston thinking about how nasty many discussions about racism and sexism in the election had gotten and how worried they were about being in a space where many of their colleagues would look down on them for supporting Obama.

They had missed the pre-reception speech and Helen Thomas’ address the night before, but they had already decided that the conference was “an uncomfortable, unfortunate environment.” They told me they were sticking together for the rest of the weekend.

We parted ways.

I met up with Mehta (Adele’s roommate) and ate my lunch. I wandered around for a bit, checked out some of the publications that WAM! presenters were selling, read bulletin boards to see what was going on at MIT, took myself and my journal outside for a bit and then went over to We B(e)lo(n)g: Womyn of Color and Online Feminism. Which, as many people have already written, was beautiful. It was a warm, safe space where so many thoughts and generations were shared that I was overwhelmed in the best way.

After the session, we all piled into Donna’s minivan and headed for Sudy’s. We decompressed. We needed it. So much talking, sharing, listening, thinking. The sessions were wonderful, the conversations we had together were wonderful. But the instant we weren’t inside of a session, things changed. Quickly. I know we were watched as a group. I know I was watched with confusion for being a white woman in this group. I know we were discussed and I know people who didn’t get it felt perfectly comfortable interrogating me when I wasn’t with my friends. Which, in all honesty, I believe I preferred to the option of having people openly stare at me like they’d forgotten that’s rude and then walk nervously away, as I saw WAM! attendee and presenter after WAM! attendee and presenter do consistently to my wifey.

From Sudy’s we went to the QWOC party (scheduled “accidentally” at the same time as the official WAM! party but whatever).

There were Sunday sessions scheduled for WAM! but once we woke up and checked out of the hotel, we opted to head to Sudy’s to meet everyone for brunch.

I’d had enough of the conference. I’ve still had enough of the conference. If I never see the Stata Center again, I’d really be okay with that.

We got brunch at a cafe close to Sudy’s and learned just how much the Boston Police Department blows when my purse was stolen, off the back of my chair. Wallet, iPod, digital camera, bus ticket home, planner, my favorite scarf, gone. I almost murdered an employee of Old Navy over the phone when I called to cancel my card and he tried to talk me into signing up for multiple other cards.

The Police told us to go to a booth around the corner to fill out a Police Report. The booth was empty. We found a bike cop who told us how to get to the police station. We found a cop car next to the subway station. Lex asked if they could give me a ride, since Sydette and I had a bus to catch. They said “no.”

Sydette, Sudy, Nadia, Lex, BFP and I stood on the corner and screamed. Because that was the only thing to do.

Then we got on the subway, and when we got off, we were informed by a transit police officer that the police station, “if it was still there,” was two blocks away.

It was there. I told the woman filling out the report about five times that the only ID I owned at that point was a passport in Brooklyn. I had to call 411 to get the address of the cafe where my bag was stolen. I finally broke down. I sobbed and sobbed on Sydette’s shoulder, and then almost collapsed on her when I remembered a letter from my mom, one I’ve carried with me for sixteen years, was in my wallet.

We finally got the report. We got to the bus station. Greyhound wouldn’t let me re-print my ticket, so Sydette had to buy me a new one. We finally got on the bus, I got to talk to my parents (and cry again), and then I passed out.

I was exhausted from the weekend, and really, more from the conference than from the stolen purse ordeal.

The first week I was back, even when I got the great news that my bag was recovered with everything but my wallet and put in the mail to be returned to me, I was on edge. In the course of one week, I dropped my laptop twice and broke the plug for it. The first time, I had to buy a new plug. The second time, I chewed the new plug until it fit back into my computer. My computer is now not a laptop, it just plays one on TV. I’m not spending another $77 to buy my second plug of the month.

With the Seal Press bull shit and everything else that’s happened since WAM!, I’ve been furious and ill but never surprised. Just as I knew WAM! would be hard, the way these women are acting and reacting to the fact that they’ve done something wrong and continue to do so, well, it doesn’t surprise me. I remain exhausted and I remain angry, but unlike when things like this happened before going to WAM!, I’m less inclined to numb myself to what’s happening and more inclined to action. For which, I am glad. But I also find this ironic (I’m not sure that’s quite the word for it, but it’s what I’m coming up with now), as a conference that claimed to be about action is a part of what has inspired me to take action. But not on the conference’s behalf or really on behalf of the loudest thoughts I heard there. Those thoughts, thoughts of acquisition, thoughts that created unsafe spaces, thoughts that maintained division, those are the thoughts I wish to work as far from as possible.