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“White People Have So Much Dirty Laundry”: Mother’s Day Edition

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For those of you who don’t know, when I am not postdoc-ing I spend my time with a lot of poets, musicians, and artists. They are my family. I think we underestimate the important political work that these folks do. Novelists, playwrights, poets, and musicians have given me quite the education. Sometimes more than historians.

As a labor scholar, it’s important to me to recognize these folks as workers too. Author Pearl Cleague says:

You have to do it. You have to get up, think about it, go to your desk, write things down. I think you have to work in the same way that you would work at anything else. My friend Toni Cade Bambara, who was a wonderful author who has passed away now, said that she didn’t like to call herself an artist because then it made you start acting precious like you were so above everybody else, that she thought that we should call ourselves cultural workers because we were no better than people who worked in factories, no better than people who taught school, no better than people who were nurses and doctors and all of that. We were cultural workers. And I thought that was wonderful because that actually is part of what you have to do is to resign yourself to, if you don’t automatically like it, the fact of the hard work that is required to do creative work.

Today’s blog is dedicated to the stories we tell about our mothers, inspired by my new favorite indie poet Paul Tran. But before I start fan-girling I want to honor Paul Tran’s cultural work. There is rarely compensation for this kind of intellectual and creative labor. And that is an injustice.

That being said let’s get on to it. A good friend of mine couldn’t wait to share Paul Tran’s work with me upon her return from competing in the College Unions Poetry Slam Invitational (CUPSIs) this year. Knowing how important the labor of women of color is to my work, she came to my house, sat me down, and made me watch this poem.

 

 

There are over two hundred pages in my dissertation. But Paul Tran managed to articulate trauma, violence, white supremacy, imperialism, migration, labor, and gender in under three minutes. I listened to this poem and hung on to Paul Tran’s every last word.

White people have so much dirty laundry. 

That’s exactly what being a black historian feels like. Black as in black history. Black as in me.

White people have so much dirty laundry. 

And the women of color who I write about. The women in my family. And Paul Tran’s family I imagine. These women refuse to be made invisible.

White people have so much dirty laundry.
But the women who wash their clothes and clean the dirty faces of their children aren’t it.
Paul Tran’s poem demonstrates through something as seemingly mundane as dry cleaning that sometimes women workers of color are living breathing embodiments of American imperialism’s dirty laundry. Sometimes I feel like Paul Tran and I are hanging that dirty laundry out to dry.
As I listened for the first time I realized that I know very little about Vietnamese history from this perspective. What if the grandfather of that army man who brings his uniform to your dry cleaners every week was the same man who dropped napalm on your Vietnamese community? What does it feel like to seek refuge in the country run by the same people who invented something as destructive as napalm?
At the Maid in the USA conference that inspired this blog, my friend K. shared with me that the women in her family experienced excruciating pain everyday from bending over the hands and feet of their clients at the nail salon. (By the way Paul Tran’s “#1 Beauty Nail Salon” captures this brilliantly.) I never knew this history of Vietnamese women. Thank goodness for Paul Tran and K. for sharing their mothers’ stories.
There is so much richness in the stories of everyday women. Women like Paul Tran’s mother. And mine. I wish I could tell my mother’s story with as much power and brilliance as Paul Tran does. But I admire Paul Tran as a fellow queer kid who still manages to find inspiration from the stories my mother tells me.
People might not remember the dissertation or academic book I will publish about domestic worker organizing. But I will remember Paul Tran’s words. And I will watch this poem again and again and hear something new. That, my friends, is the power of storytelling.
“This war isn’t over because she’s still gonna make you pay.”
The conclusion of Paul Tran’s poem imagines a world where the story isn’t over yet. And the quiet hero, his mother, the woman who washes white peoples dirty laundry, will get her revenge. It sort of reminds me of the work of Amira Baraka. And it’s something that cultural work can do that traditional scholars can’t. Scholarship tells you the world as it is. Art shows you the world as it could be. A world in which the Vietnamese woman who works at the dry cleaners can exact her revenge on those who decimated her community and murdered her family. A world where history gets recuperated, rewritten, and reimagined to honor the strength of the everyday women in our lives.
Here’s to Paul Tran for recovering the stories of our mothers from the cutting room floor of history, and hanging white supremacy’s dirty laundry on the line for all to see.
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About Shana Russell

Woman. Scholar. Liberationist.

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