Tag: personal essay

Political Illiteracy: How Audiobooks Saved Me

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Maybe not audiobooks.

Maybe it was my American French teacher at UCLA Extension who carried copies of a communist newspaper in her knapsack and had a knack for pulling her hair back like Simone de Beauvoir.

Maybe it was Mexico City in the 1980’s and the pamphlets on Central American revolution.

Or maybe it was 12th-grade me reading Canto General I by Neruda -– prior to his rape confession.

Audiobooks A-H

Anarchism and Other Essays by Emma Goldman

Antonio Gramsci’s Prison Notes by Lorenzo Fusaro and Jason Xidias

Autobiography of Malcom X by Malcom X, Alex Haley

Back to Black by Kehinde Andrews

Black Against Empire by Joshua Brown and Waldo E. Martin Jr.

The Black Jacobins by C.L.R. James

Black Marxism by Cedric J. Robinson

Black Reconstruction by W.E.B. Du Bois

Brief History of Neoliberalism by David Harvey

China’s Second Continent by Howard French

The Communist Manifesto by Marx and Engels

A Concise History of the Haitian Revolution by Jeremy D. Popkin

Conquest of Bread by Pyotr Kropotkin

The Cultural Revolution by Frank Dikotter

The Declarations of Havana by Fidel Castro

Empire of Illusion by Chris Hedges

Freedom is a Constant Struggle by Angela Y. Davis

How Europe Underdeveloped Africa by Walter Rodney

***

Possibly it was my grandmother’s stories about 1920’s Tennessee.

***

I began living with my grandmother when I was five years old.  And she might have been that same age in Memphis when she started playing with the White girl across the way. It was coincidental that I heard my grandmother’s story at my age since the story was probably directed at my nine-year-old sister more so than me.

I’m not sure what Grandmom and the girl played with. A ball. Maybe rocks.

In Tennessee, my grandmother was the youngest of twelve kids. I don’t know if she ever got to see her sibling who passed away as a baby. I’m also not sure if she ever met her brother who disappeared. That was Wiley who went for a walk one day and never returned. Not ever. And the entire family was left wondering what happened to him in the woods of Memphis.

***

When I lived with Grandmom in Los Angeles, I played in the backyard of the Castilian duplex with my friend Linda who was not only my age but also the daughter of the Black man and woman who owned the beige duplex on the westside — between La Brea and Fairfax.

When I played in the backyard with Linda, one of us would sit on the small, flatbed, trash can cart and clinch the metal handle with all our might while the other spun the cart around on the concrete so we could pretend it was a carnival ride. On other occasions, we wound our waists until exhaustion inside the hot pink and fluorescent lime green Hula Hoops, challenged each other in jump rope, and in the hot summer months, we splashed along the plastic Slip ‘n Slide that lay on the grass. I even remember pulling a mere string around as I pretended it was a leash and imagined I was walking a dog.

But what happened in Memphis with Grandmom during her childhood was she got too old. That was when the mom of the White girl told her daughter she was too old to be playing with Black kids.

Maybe that’s why Grandmom always kept the pictures of Jesus and Martin Luther King, Jr. on the wall in her L.A. bedroom.

So, perhaps it was her stories that first taught me about politics.

Audiobooks I-W

Imperialism the Highest Stage of Capitalism by Lenin

Liberation Theology by Michael Lee

Malcom X by Manning Marable

Malcom X: The Last Speeches by Malcom X

Mao Zedong and China in the Twentieth-Century World by Rebecca E. Karl

Marcus Garvey: A Biography by Stephen Johnson

Marx, Capital, and the Madness of Reason by David Harvey

The New Age of Empire by Kehinde Andrews

The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander

Philosophy and Opinion of Marcus Garvey by Marcus Garvey

The Radical King by Cornel West

The Red Flag by David Priestland

Reminiscences of the Cuban Revolutionary War by Che Guevara

The Second Red Scare and the Unmaking of the New Deal Left by Landon R. Y. Storrs

State and Revolution by Lenin

Terrorism and Communism by Leon Trotsky and Slavoj Zizek

Vladmir Lenin, Joseph Stalin & Leon Trotsky by Charles River Editors

Why Marx Was Right by Terry Eagleton

***

But if it was audiobooks, it’s because they allowed me to see beyond the confines of a two-party system that offers more of the same – colonialism, capitalism, imperialism.

I’ve voted within the two-party system every election since adulthood, but with the knowledge that my choice wasn’t radical change. It was an effort to maintain civil rights within empire. The blindness of US politics is our avoiding how the U.S. operates as both nation and empire and thus, failing to acknowledge how the imperatives of empire are inhumane and bad for everyone around the globe.

But if it was audiobooks, it’s because as I listened, I scribbled notes on Post-Its. Often, I typed my notes into Google Docs that became pages of documentation.

And the audiobooks allowed me to see the nuances between fascism, conservatism, the various types of liberal laissez faire capitalism, and the many variations in leftist and radical politics. (US liberals would not be considered leftists in more politically literate nations in the world.)

***

But if it was audiobooks, it’s because over the years, they’ve helped me reflect on how I’ve vacillated between social democrat, democratic socialism, socialism, and anarchism. And always with an awareness of how the writings of Marx are crucial for an analysis of capitalism.

***

What if US liberals and radicals were as adamant about distinguishing nuance in politics as they are about gender? Especially on social media, it’s rare a person comes out of the political closet and says: “I’m a communist.” “I’m a democratic socialist.” “I’m an anarchist.” Instead, they leave it up to the listener to figure out their philosophical and political leanings. And if the listener is politically illiterate, the confusion begins. We’ve managed to un-closet gender, but we don’t apply these same standards to politics. (And we can’t expect this from those on the right who are in denial about their own fascism.). In a politically mature society, people would un-closet their politics.

***

After one hundred years of Red Scare anti-communism in the U.S., the closeting of leftist politics and the spread of political illiteracy from the highest levels of academia to the most remote corners of trade union politics have become the norm.

***

So, if it was audiobooks, I’m glad they challenged me. Because at some point, in this nation that publishes more books than any other, we must ask ourselves: What is the function of writing, publishing, and reading, if those activities don’t ensure the maintenance of democracy, healthcare, and education?

 

(Note: The beginning of this essay was inspired by the manner in which writer/poets Viteszlav Nezval –Czechoslovakia, 1900-1958 — and Teresa Wilms Montt — Chile, 1893-1921 — use repetition. I have been reading their poetry in recent weeks. In making that poetic rhetorical move, I was able to access the list of memories and then choose the one focusing on my grandmother.

I considered submitting this piece to a magazine, but I think the ending plods along and weighs the writing down. I also don’t think a magazine would go for the lists. But I think the lists are like poetry.)

Because I Went to Paris for Books

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Paris, more than anything else, was a book haul. So much so, that I had to buy the small, hot pink rolling luggage at the baggage shop on Rue de Rennes for 20 euros – an excellent price considering a similar bag at the more touristy Gare Montparnasse was 10 euros more.

But the hot pink bag is the end of the story. The beginning starts on my direct flight from Los Angeles to Paris where I finally finished the novel Pedro Páramo by Mexican author Juan Rulfo. I promised myself I would finish Rulfo’s novel to rectify the failure of not doing so during my travels from Los Angeles to Guadalajara in December 2025. Back then, I was going to the FIL – Feria Internacional del Libro. I arrived in Guadalajara, checked in to my hotel, but fell ill, and had to end my trip and return to L.A.

So, in March 2026, my goal was the Salon du Livre Africain de Paris that I’d first learned about three years prior. And during those three years, I had promised myself I’d resuscitate my college French by listening to language lessons and stories on audiobook. Just as reading Pedro Páramo was my attempt to make things right vis a vis the novel I had to read, this trip to France was an attempt to make amends for my last visit to Paris. Despite being in London, four years ago, I hadn’t been in Paris for decades. At that time, I’d come as a recent college graduate with illusions of settling in the city for what the youthful mind deems forever. My naïve idea was to go into literary exile in the city of light. My role model at the time was the international icon Anaïs Nin who looms large over women writers. But if I had been driven by Euro-American dreams in my early twenties, this time I was coming to Paris intentionally focused on Black Paris which was the aspect of the city that completely caught me off guard and absorbed my attention many years ago.

No sooner than I’d read the last page of Pedro Páramo and gotten a decent night’s sleep at my Parisian hotel, I was off to the two bookstores I’d researched — Présence Africain and L’Harmattan Internationale both located on Rue des Écoles, near Sorbonne University. After studying the expanse and grandeur of the university, I took photos, recorded videos, and tried to excavate this specific structure from my memory. I’d enrolled in French classes at the Sorbonne way back when. But was this where I’d studied? Although I remember the inside of the classrooms, the exterior of the building didn’t really strike a chord.

Inside Présence Africain, I bought two books and the English-language magazine Black Renaissance Noire – a 2006 edition published at New York University. I chose this copy because the names of authors Victor Hernández Cruz and Ntozake Shange blared out to me from the glossy cover. When I opened it, I saw an editorial board that included Kamau Brathwaite, Maryse Conde, Angela Y. Davis, Robin D.G. Kelley, Paula Marshall, and Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o.

Just across the street, I entered the two-story curator’s dream that is L’Harmattan Internationale Bookstore. Here the African book section is arranged by each individual country. I came upon a large selection of African American writing translated into French, a section of Latin American literature in the original Spanish, and huge sections on the Middle East and Asia.

With one day to go before the Salon du Livre, I spent time the next afternoon – a Friday, at about 6pm — walking along the lower banks of the Seine which was packed with young people sitting along the river conversing, eating, drinking, and listening to music. At street level, I bought two books and a newspaper. The newspaper was my gem purchase since it was Le Monde. During my L.A. youth, I religiously read the international version of the Manchester Guardian Weekly which back then also contained Le Monde in translation and The Washington Post.

On Saturday and Sunday, with crossbody handbag on my shoulder and backpack strapped on, I walked from my hotel on Rue de Rennes to the Boulanger Paris Montparnasse for my daily croissant. The buttery crispiness of the croissant sealed the deal on what a croissant should taste like. From there, I headed directly to Hotel de L’Industrie on Saint-Germain-des-Près for the Salon du Livre which was a rendezvous of literary craft and exploration. Over the two days, I listened to panels on the topics of African youth, women and the environment, Angolan writing, writing in Madagascar/Reúnion, and Afro-Caribbean writing. Honestly, sometimes the French went over my head; but I enjoyed the immersive language experience. As a teacher of English as a second language, I welcomed the challenge; and I was happy to see the level of my aural comprehension increase daily.

The actual bookfair for the salon was down Boulevard Saint-Germain at the Refectoire des Cordeliers. I went early on Sunday, a few minutes after opening, since my attempt to go on Saturday afternoon was a lesson on just how jampacked this event could be. Early Sunday, I experienced the joy and jouissance of African fabrics adorning the tables, colorful book covers, men and women in both African and Western garb, and excited children in strollers. I walked the circumference of the bookfair three times just to take it all in and engrave it into my memory. I bought three books, all of them special for their own reason. The standout text is the novel Un Prisonnier Sans Étoile because I was able to meet author Sully Quay, and she autographed my copy of the book.

A bookstore on Boulevard Montparnasse was not on my itinerary. I was hunting for food with my left shoulder aching from the crossbody and my shoulders weighed down by the backpack. As I questioned whether this was the same boulevard I’d walked to reach my youth hostel years ago, I stumbled upon the literary treasures within the sun-filled space of Librairie Tschann. There, I discovered a large array of great novels, poetry books, and bright yellow volumes on the social sciences. I bought four books, and my treasure purchase is Congre – a 300-page book of poetry by the Congre Poetry Collective. This book is my opportunity to enter the world of contemporary French poetry since my existing collection at home in L.A. is a bit dated.

My last day in Paris, I went to the American Library and spent four hours reading Un Feminisme Décolonial by French political scientist and historian Françoise Vergès. I appreciate how Vergès looks at decolonialism from the perspective of lived experience in France and Réunion. On the eleven-hour flight back to Los Angeles, I continued reading this volume as I squirmed every so often in my stiff seat trying to ease a tired back and a left foot determined to go numb during those intervals they longed for movement.

During the last few hours of the plane, I finally stopped reading.  I was sure sleep would come. But that never happened; and by the time my large, pastel purple suitcase and the tiny, hot pink luggage came bouncing around the luggage carousel at LAX, I’d been awake twenty-two hours. By then, I longed for the good night’s sleep befitting an exhausted literary connoisseur with insatiable international aspirations.

Why Samuel Beckett: A Black Writer’s Perspective

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Studying Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett during junior year at UCLA was the final straw that pushed me towards mental and emotional exhaustion. I had overextended myself academically by taking too many classes during spring and summer quarters; and, studying Beckett in the fall led to questioning my Catholic faith and having to take a quarter off from my studies.

When I heard that OR books was publishing a hybrid memoir titled Beckett’s Children by Michael Coffey, I rushed to pre-order it. Coffey’s memoir, published in July this year, offered a sense of relief because I had worried that the allusions to a modernist writer in my memoir manuscript might seem a bit dated. But here was a memoir published in 2024 proving me wrong.

Unlike Coffey’s book, there are no continuous references to Beckett in my manuscript. Studying Beckett’s Waiting for Godot is pivotal to the inciting incident in chapter one because it causes me to doubt my faith. In Beckett’s Children, on the other hand, the author’s inciting incident centers around the idea that the Irish author may have fathered the American poet, Susan Howe.

Threads running through Coffey’s hybrid memoir include the stated curiosity about a familial bond between Beckett and Howe, Coffey’s literary research on the two writers, his own history as an adoptee, and his relationship with his son who is a three-time felon and addict.  In my manuscript, I weave in the history of Black Los Angeles beginning with the founding of the city by the Spanish.

Coffey’s description of airports and prisons as structures distinguished by their “architecture of waiting” stood out to me. This description was impactful because I’m familiar with Professor David Harvey’s description of the revolutionary potential of airport workers who are a class in themselves with the potential of becoming a class for themselves. In contrast, prisoners are the most captive humans on US soil; and prison is where the US Government has sent revolutionaries, such as members of the Black Power Movement and the Black Panther Party. So, I found the analogy of prisons and airports interesting because the two structures can also be considered exact opposites.

I recommend Beckett’s Children because one or more of the four narrative lines the author weaves into his hybrid memoir will grab your interest and pull you through the author’s skillful storytelling until the last page.

Lost in Los Angeles

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I center the beginning of my memoir on my feelings of alienation from Los Angeles during my youth. Given the reflective impulse of memoir, I now realize that one reason I felt alienated from my city of birth was because I didn’t know its hidden history. Yet, history, whether in written or oral form, can be boundless, especially when the focus is a major city. I wanted to know the history of the land because one of my goals as I write my memoir, is to invite the land to speak. With that goal in mind, I decided to research the relationship Native Americans have with the land. I found some clues in a couple of articles.

I’ve passed La Ballona Wetlands in West Los Angeles countless times. Almost always, it’s during a drive to the South Bay when I take Jefferson Boulevard west. La Ballona is 577 square acres of grassy wetlands you encounter before the turn left on Vista del Mar results in expansive views of the sandy beaches and rolling waves of the Pacific Ocean. A sign indicates the wetlands are an ecological reserve. Yet, I had no idea that this area was also a former community and sacred burial ground of the Tongva Natives — commonly referred to as the Gabrieliños. The research of Seetha N. Reddy and John G. Douglass – “Native Californian Persistence and Transformation in the Colonial Los Angeles Basin, Southern California” –wasn’t replete with information on the Tongva’s relationship to nature, but the writers did state that the Tongva polished, painted, and adorned pine trees as part of a burial ritual at the Ballona site. The Natives made offerings of plant foods that they burned in baskets during burial ceremonies as well. The scant information I found demonstrated the intimate relationship between nature and this Indigenous group who were historically second only to the Chumash in regard to wealth, population, and power. With its distance from El Pueblo in what is now downtown Los Angeles, La Ballona was a living space that allowed the Tongva to escape the governance of the Spanish. Distance was preferable because after the arrival of the Spanish – who viewed them either as laborers or souls to be saved – the Indigenous lifestyles of the Tongva were disrupted in just one generation.

Before you even view the beach, the sense of vastness that hangs over the Pacific Ocean is something you sense at La Ballona. I wasn’t totally surprised to learn that the area was sacred Indigenous land. It has a distinct aura that marks it as special, as do other locations in Southern California such as the Hollywood Hills, Chino Hills, and Palos Verdes.

I gained additional insights about the Tongva people from Jon Mcvey Erlandson’s article titled “The Making of Chumash Tradition: Replies to Haley and Wilcoxon.” His writing focuses primarily on the Chumash Natives, but I learned the Tongva prophet Chinigchinich was born on the territory that is now Cal State Long Beach. In other words, the university campus is also sacred Native territory. The most sacred. The original name of the site is Puvungna which means “where all things come together.” And as recently as 1972, archeologists discovered a Native American burial site on university grounds.

Land considered holy for the Chumash includes Point Conception in Santa Barbara. Yes, the famous Point Conception that is a major geographical site for meteorologists charged with delivering our daily and weekly weather forecasts. The Chumash refer to this area as the Western Gate and they believe the dead pass to the afterworld here. They hold sacred the idea that there was “a land of the dead across the sea to the west.”

Erlandson’s article tells us the idea of individual ownership of land was a foreign concept to Native Americans. Quite an irony in a state like California which has some of the most expensive land parcels in the country, especially when the real estate is on the coast. I didn’t glean a ton of information about nature from this second article, but I was able to infer that the Natives, who have inhabited Southern California for at least 11,000 years, didn’t have the materialistic relationship to the land that characterizes current economic practices.

So, what was my major takeaway? I learned to differentiate the city constructed by humans – with its miles of pavement, glass skyscrapers, freeways, streetlights, and endless rows of homes — from the land. I came to realize that the two are distinct entities. And it’s the city – whether under Spanish, Mexican, or US governance – that has imposed its rules and regulations regarding the land on top of Native beliefs. Once I got a clearer idea of how the Tongva and Chumash viewed the land and how they held it sacred, a lot more made sense. Yes, I sensed when I was in the vicinity of La Ballona that there was something special about the area. Or when I viewed Chino Hills while driving south on the 71, I felt in awe of the serenity and sense of balance on the land there. Undoubtedly, I have felt alienated from the City of Los Angeles. I still am. But I’ve learned to love the land and to embrace it as it has embraced me. And that is one major contradiction about living in Los Angeles – how one can feel alienated from a city that can be downright ruthless while loving a land that is quite welcoming.