Once a month, a movement courses through the streets of Los Angeles. Moving together, in solidarity, Black cyclists are spurred forward by the revolutions of their wheels. Each individual coming together to join the flood that takes over the streets. Their momentum stirs the air, setting in motion a gale that blows clear across the Internet to other locales like Brooklyn, New York. Biking will never be the same.

Freedom Rides, as the organized bicycle rides for the Black community are known, was started by James Spooner. The rides draw about a dozen riders of varying ages and backgrounds; women outnumber the men. Controversy also flares around the ride, as members of L.A.’s fixed gear community attacked the “segregated bike rides” as “racist”, asking if “this ride is a joke”.

James is no stranger to asking difficult questions about race and racial identity. “Race is a complex issue and you have to break some eggs”, he explained recently, over the phone. He authored the documentary Afropunk about Blacks in the punk scene and a semi-autobiographical narrative, White Lies Black Sheep, about a Black youth in search of himself in the white rock and roll world. Both films explore the double consciousness people of color experience in a predominantly white subculture.

The only Black or Brown person at a rock show. You sense that you are estranged, within yourself, from the language and culture you were raised in, as well as from your white peers, who consider you as their token friend of color. You are still the Other.

White kids have a ride. So do women. Why can’t we? Join the fifth Freedom Ride this Sunday at 1pm. The starting point changes monthly so the riders can explore different parts of the city. This Sunday’s ride starts at the Vons parking lot at the corner of Fairfax and Pico, pays homage to Michael Jackson at the dead pop star’s house, and ends with a meal at a Black-owned restaurant. Check the Freedom Ride’s Facebook Group for details.

FREEDOM RIDES 2009 (Los Angeles) from Tara Conley on Vimeo.

In our domestic universe, this web of energy flow was replicated in our caravan that steadily made its way from New York City to the Bay Area.  The animals were not represented, in our case, two by two other than the felines, but our food chain was complete with primary producer – a friend’s son’s hamster – and larger consumers, including said felines and large white dog.  No one was hurt, except one busted tire on the Interstate 80 two miles outside of Salt Lake City, no bodily part was missing nor eaten.  We all emerged, weary but unscathed, on the other side of the country after six days of journeying across the highways and rest stations of America.

Some random observations from our six-day trip:

• Driving sucks.
• Driving a 15-year old Volvo doubly sucks.
• Driving with a hamster entrusted in your care, two felines, and a large white dog makes for an, erm, interesting trip.
• Cheyenne, WY is worth a closer look.
• As well as Salt Lake City, UT. Never knew there were so many tattooed ski bums there.
• A good balanced meal filled with primary producers can be had, if one must, at Taco Bell.

We made it.  Rather, we have made it.  This is a two-month too-late post, as we’ve now arrived, settled, and prospered in our new domicile in Berkeley, California.  Perhaps I’m too ambitious in saying prospered.  Adapting is more like it.

Aspects of our adaptation:

• We are wearing fitness clothes more, everywhere, especially when not engaged in physical activity.
• I spend a fortune on Bart daily, which is IMHO not affordable nor publicly subsidized transportation.  I have learned a trick for avoiding the queue to enter the train: act apologetically surprised.  “Oh, I didn’t realize you were all waiting on line!”  This is a city of passive aggressives, they will be politely dismayed at you, but you still score a seat during rush hour.
• I am encountering persons of the hippie persuasion, and developing an allergic reaction to the dominant ethic of white liberalism here.
• I lack knowledge and a framework for how to understand the poverty, racial tensions, gentrification and displacement that I see here.
• I love the farmers’ markets, despite the preponderance of afore-mentioned white hippies.
• I am in love with the flora and fauna out here. I love that lavender and dahlias grow and thrive under my care.

I’m sure more will follow on my attempts to ingratiate myself into my new surroundings.  For now, I leave you with my current obsession: strategic essentialism.  I’ve been thinking about this, a lot, lately.  Michael Omi and Howard Winant write in Racial Formation in the U.S.: From the 1960s to the 1990s (Routledge, 1994):

Members of subordinate racial groups, when faced with racist practices such as exclusion or discrimination, are frequently forced to band together in order to defend their interests (if not, in some instances, their very lives).  Such “strategic essentialism” should not, however, be simply equated with the essentialism practiced by dominant groups, nor should it prevent the interrogation of internal group differences.

What does one do with the pent up energy post-concert? You are one with an ocean of humanity for one hour and 27 minutes, and suddenly it’s over, the encore is over and done with, and the floodlights are turned on. “Go home”, the tired security guards say. You are still mesmerized and staring at the stage, waiting for something to happen. “This can’t be it. It’s not over. I can’t walk out onto the street and look at grey concrete again.”

On a different note, I stalked Michael Stipe this evening.
I have the distinction of being frowned upon by said Mr. Stipe as I ever so tactlessly snapped his picture and toyed with the idea of asking for an autograph. I can’t help it; the junior high school girl in me gushed when I spied him; “it’s Michael Stipe, OhMyGOSH, MichaelStipe, REM, MichaelStipe, LosingMyReligion, MichaelStipe, ShinyHappyPeople, MichaelStipe, blue eyebrows, StipeMichael, MichaelStipe.”

I once stalked another Michael, this time Mike Doughty of Soul Coughing. I somehow happened upon an algorithm that produced his email address and spammed him regularly with my favorite poem of the day. I sent him once “Soliloquy of the Solipsist” by Sylvia Plath. He was kind enough to email me back a thank you.

I was hoping to stalk Gregory Corso, but was crushed when he passed away before I could do so.

I’m really not a creep, promise, I am infatuated with the idea of stalking, not the action.