About 10 months ago, an old college friend asked me to draw her nephew. This was the end result:10682388_520081434761357_97317139106459752_o

Recently she asked me to draw hebaby3r niece. I started out taking my time, doing a bit every day for two weeks- and came up with a really awful looking drawing. So two days before I’d promised to have it done, I started over.

I went at it a bit obsessively…My computer is now full of different versions of the same drawing (at different stages in progression) that only look different if you rebeiially stare. (And sometimes not even then, but I saved them separately, so I must have thought something was different.)

I also got bored and tried some in grayscale, with differing contrast.

In the end, I zoomed in a little, and ended up putting less detail on the face.

Honestly, I can’t remember if that was a conscious decision, or if I made a layer of shadow less opaque in order to work on something near it and forgot to restore it.

At one point, my husband did say the shadows made the baby look weirdly old, so I did try to lessen some of them. Looking at some of the in progress shots, though, I think I should have kept with the more detailed version.

Since I had already delivered the file to the buyer, though, and she likes the product she got, I decided to be happy with what I delivered.


Creative Writing- Finding Religion

I wrote this 4 years ago, and I’m considering writing a few stories with the same characters. I intended it to be loosely based on my sister and myself, although a few friends have commented that it is pretty much autobiography with the names changed. This isn’t a comment on religion, but just a story about kids being confused about the particulars of their religions and (a little bit) race.


Sarrah ran her hand over her head. She played her fingers over snarls and stubborn curls that stood up even though she had tried her best to make a good ponytail. She absentmindedly smoothed them down, which caused the shorter hairs that grew all over her head to stand up in a vague red halo.

“Which religion are you?” she asked her friend Elizabeth. They were sitting on one of the low blue benches outside of the cafeteria. Only the fifth and sixth graders were allowed to use the cafeteria because it was so small. Being able to eat inside the room with fans and gleaming linoleum instead of outside on benches and gravel felt like a badge of honor to most of the older students, and if the deigned to talk to younger students they mentioned the cafeteria as much as they could. Sarrah, who was in 3rd grade, wasn’t jealous. She liked the benches, liked being out in the sunlight and liked eating in the classroom when it rained. After eating, she took advantage on the benches by sprawling across them most of the time, taking up the space of three 3rd graders, laying stomach down with her knees bent and her feet lazily kicking in the air. Elizabeth wouldn’t sit with her when she did that, though, so this time Sarrah sat on the corner of the bench and wondered how little of the seat she could take up. A foot? How long was a foot? Six inches?

Sarrah twisted her head around to see if she could see her sister J’naea past the line of people that always ran across the inside of the doors. J’naea was tall and had skin the color of grocery store caramels and wild dense curly hair that was a mixture of brown and blond and red. She wore blue Chucks mostly every day. Sarrah didn’t see her.

“Religion?” Elizabeth was Chinese, from China but not, as she anxiously explained to Sarrah often, “Fresh off the Boat.” FOBs were backward, talked funny, said mean things in Chinese and made fun of you when you asked them to talk slower. “I speak Mandarin and my language and English,” Elizabeth had told Sarrah. “They say I don’t speak Chinese, but I do. They’re mean. Don’t talk to them.”

So Sarrah had planned to ask every Chinese person she met if they had come into America on a boat. Most students in her school were Asian, but most of them had been in her school for years. They weren’t fresh off a boat or a plane or however people got into different countries. Sarrah had no real opportunity to judge whether people were FOBs or not.

“I guess I follow the Buddha?” Elizabeth said, her voice, as always, scratchy and deep for a little girl. She fixed her light brown eyes on Sarrah. Sitting down they were the same height, even though for some strange reason Elizabeth was taller when they stood up. Elizabeth shrugged. Sarrah watched with envy as Elizabeth’s shiny black, stick straight hair moved prettily around her shoulders. Elizabeth’s hair went to her butt. Sarrah’s hair always grew to her shoulders and then stopped.

“Buddha?” Sarrah frowned in confusion. She was used to people saying “Catholic” or “Baptist” or “Presbyterian” While she didn’t really know what any of those things meant, she knew even less what it meant to be Buddhist. Was the Buddha the people the crazy Hari Krishnas worshipped? No, that was Krishna. Duh. And Krishna was…the God of Indian people as well as the crazy bald people in orange robes that walked around Berkeley? “Is Buddha the fat girl statue in the Chinese food restaurants?”

“Buddha is not a girl!” Elizabeth’s eyes were big and flat. Her nose, thin but round, flared. “Is your God a girl?”

“Probably not,” Sarrah admitted agreeably, used to Elizabeth’s easily dismissed anger. “He was a man once. But I don’t think he was ever a girl.”

“What are you? Baptist?” Elizabeth grabbed her foot and pulled it to her forehead. Elizabeth wanted to be a ballet dance and someone had told her ballet dancers needed to be able to touch their feet to their forehead. Elizabeth did this all the time, sometimes during class. Somehow she still had lots of friends, unlike Sarrah, who only had two or three at school besides Elizabeth. Some kids thought Sarrah was nice, but too weird. They smiled at her uncomfortably and talked to her sometimes, but not too many people wanted to be her friend.

“I don’t think so,” Sarrah answered.

“I think black people are Baptist.”

“My dad’s not anything,” Elizabeth said uncomfortably. She wasn’t sure if not having a religion was bad. But her dad didn’t go anywhere on Sunday, or any other day, except to work at the gas station. “And my mom is white.”

“I know you’re mom is white, stupid, I see her before, all the time.” This time Elizabeth didn’t seem even temporarily angry, just amused. “What is she then? You go to church with her?”

“We go to the Salvation Army.”

“Then you’re a Salvation Army…” Elizabeth paused, her small, chubby mouth distorted in a grimace. “…person?”

“But mom says that’s not our religion, that’s why I can’t be a junior soldier,” Sarrah cut in. “She says that there’s no church for us that’s close enough to get to on the bus, in the morning. Especially since J’naea gets all angry in the morning and whines all the time and has to spend 50 thousand minutes doing her hair.”

“What does she do to it? It looks like a red bush.” Elizabeth and Sarrah spent a moment contemplating J’naea. What did she do for half an hour to get her hair big and curly and her lips red? Why did it take her another hour to pick out clothes that were just, when you got past the designs (like plaid or neon or sparkly) jeans, T-shirts, sweatshirts, and Chuck Taylors? Elizabeth’s older sister Sue braided her hair in two pigtails every morning and sometimes used colored hair ties at the ends, taking her all of 3 minutes. She wore school t-shirts to school everyday. Her pants were all dark denim and varied in nothing but length. But Sue was a 4th grader. Maybe something happened in 5th grade?

“It looks better than my hair,” Sarrah sighed, again trying to smooth down her frizzy pony tail.

“Yeah,” Elizabeth agreed. “You should put it straight.”

“I don’t know how. And Dad says my hair is beautiful and I shouldn’t want to harm it just to look like everyone else.” Sarrah could repeat her father’s speech about pride in black hair word for word, but since it was long and had no pauses she decided not to. He talked a lot about her being both races, and not struggling to be one or the other. “You don’t have to struggle to be black or white,” he’d say. He didn’t say anything about struggling to be Asian.

“Just brush it more,” Elizabeth advised. “My hair gets tangled and I brush it. Just brush it.”

“Hmm.” Sarrah was about to try to change the subject when J’naea walked by and said hello by grabbing Sarrah’s head with one hand and shaking it back and forth. Sarrah saw she was wearing the hoops the principal had told her were too large to wear at school. They were 14 carrot gold and went down to J’naea’s shoulder. Sarrah wanted them but knew she probably would be too self concious to ever wear them.

“J’naea,” Sarrah asked, letting her head be shaken, “What religion are we?”

“Episcopalian,” J’naea said, scrunching her face. It was her ‘What wrong with you Sarrah?’ face. Sometimes ‘What’s wrong with you’ meant ‘Are you okay.’ Sometimes it meant ‘Are you stupid?’ And sometimes it meant, “Are you crazy?” Sarrah judged that this time it was ‘Are you stupid?’

“What’s that?” Elizabeth asked before Sarrah could.

“It’s like Catholic, with priests with white collars,” J’naea explained loftily, “Except they can be women too. And there’s drinking wine and eating cookies in the middle. The wine is blood and the cookies are God’s body. And you have to say ‘Peace be with you’ in the middle of church. Don’t you remember?”

“You eat your god’s body?” Elizabeth let her mouth drop open, showing braces over bright white teeth. “You eat it? You drink blood?”

“It’s cookies and wine, it’s just also God’s blood and body.” J’naea said with a sigh that was meant to express how dumb Elizabeth was. “We show we care about him being killed with a cross so its okay to ask him for things.”

“We give Buddha oranges and burn good smelling incense and stuff like that,” Elizabeth said, again scrunching up her face and wrinkling her nose. She didn’t know much about her religion, because her parents didn’t make do anything towards it, but she doubted it was as strange as Sarrah’s.

“I don’t eat God’s blood, I mean drink God’s blood, or eat his body,” Sarrah was quick to say. “Never.”

“You have. You were baptized and you did,” J’naea said. “And if you say you haven’t, I’ll tell mom you don’t like God ’cause you think his blood and body are gross.”

Elizabeth and J’naea looked at Sarrah curiously, wondering which option she’d take. Recess was almost over. Some kids were drifted into clumps, mostly divided by sex, gossiping or playing trading card games. Some were getting in their last fix of kick ball or four square. The tether-ball pole was empty since a month ago, when someone had hit themselves in the face with the ball when they served.

“Fine,” Sarrah said, unsure of what she meant. Episcopalian was an important sounding religion. It was a long word and hard to say. It was almost as exotic as the Buddha-religion. “Fine, I’m a– what’s the word? How do you say it, I mean?”

“Episcopalian,” J’naea said. She lost interest in the conversation, her eyes going to a group of sixth grade girls pretending to ignore sixth grade boys. “There’s Sophie. Bye, babies!”

Elizabeth’s nose stayed wrinkled. “Episcopalian?”

“Yeah, that,” Sarrah shrugged and looked at Elizabeth as J’naea wandered away.

The bell rang a few minutes later and Sarrah and Elizabeth walked into class, careful not to be the first or last ones in the door.

I have a computer again!

My computer decided to die, which I understand because I was horrible to it, and it was on it’s last legs any. The monitor was cracked so I was using an external one, the keyboard only registered a few buttons so I was using a wireless one, and the fan made horrible noises pretty much nonstop. The laptop I have now seems reluctant to connect to the internet, but I will forgive it because I can hold it in my lap the way the word “laptop” suggests.

Hopefully this will mean I will be creating more art soon, as well as rambling, wordy posts about life that make me feel better,

Tragedy in my family history

Many families have crazy family legends that may or may not be true. My family has its share of those, but the craziest (and saddest) story in my family is 100% verifiable.

When I was a teen the oldest living member of my grandmother’s family on my mom’s side (which I refer to as the white side) was my Aunt Dean. She was in her 80s. She was actually my great, great aunt, my grandmother’s mother’s sister. She was funny, absent minded, long winded, occasionally silly, and very sweet.

I didn’t know much about her past until I was a teen. I knew she’d gotten married in her late 30s, and divorced in her early 40s. I knew she’s learned to drive in her mid 40s, which I thought was weird but didn’t think about. Sometimes people referred to others thinking Aunt Dean would never be able to live by herself, and said “look at how long she’s been living alone with no problem.” I thought this referred to her being absent minded. I also knew she’d had some medical problem that had made it impossible for her to have children, but when I learned the real reason I was shocked.

Aunt Dean had a large number of brothers and sisters, and I wondered why my Grandmother’s mother had been the only one to have children. I asked about it when I was 15, and what my mother told me had my mind reeling. Their father had been killed in a straight razor fight in Indiana. Their mother was alive and willing to care for them, but all the children were removed from their home and sent to orphanages. All except my Grandmother’s mother who went to live and work for a doctor (she was 12.) In the orphanage, the other children were given an IQ test with the same questions for every child (including the 2 year old) and only one, Angus, passed. All the others were deemed “feeble minded” and sterilized. To add insult to injury, Angus was sterilized too, because he had a deformed arm. I find that pretty horrifying on its own, that institutions in the U.S. once deemed it okay to sterilize a child because of a deformed forearm, but what makes it worse is that Angus’s arm was not a genetic malformation but had been broken at birth by incorrectly applied forceps. It had healed badly because no one had detected it. None of the officials at the orphanage bothered to find this out. The family opinion on this is that because they were poor white trash from Kentucky, the orphanage was looking for any excuse to sterilize them. Before Hitler went crazy, his ideas on Eugenics were actually pretty popular in the US. My great-grandmother only escaped sterilization because the doctor she worked for was categorically against Eugenics.

As an adult, I sought to verify this information. I found census records of the children living in the orphanage. Even a greater shock to me was finding records for my Aunt Dean in the Indiana State Home for the Feeble Minded as a young adult. She had been slapped with a label and lived under it for some time. Apparently when she married her situation was still the same; her husband told her that she was not capable of certain things and she went along with it. (I understand why she got divorced.) So when she was single, she set about living in a house on her own, learning to drive, working. To tell the truth, Aunt Dean was a horrible driver, but that’s not the same as being mentally unable to do it.

This situation impacted my family in many subtle ways. Growing up I thought my grandmother was kinda racist. She railed against the way young black people talked to the point that I’d just nod my head and say sure. But I learned that her mother, my Grandma Anne, rigidly insisted her children “speak correctly.” She believed that if her family had not sounded like “Kentucky coal miners” they would not have been taken to the orphanage. It was a strong certainty in her head that language was the way to keep others from pigeonholing you, stereotyping you, and abusing you because of that.

I’ve found more information about Grandma Anne’s family, and a large part of it sounds like the Hatfields and McCoys. As I mentioned, Grandma Anne’s father was killed in a knife fight. I found out that on Grandma Anne’s mother’s side, her Grandfather and Uncle had died at a Christmas Eve party where, according to the newspaper, both sides of the argument had been heavily armed. Some 7 people had been injured and I believe 5 of them died. Most of the people at the party had one of two last names, and the closing of the article warned that the violence may not have been over “because both sides are dangerous people.” (The article is pretty amusing, in a horrifying way. The caption, almost as large as the headline, states “both sides were white.” I guess so readers would know to care?)

I find this family history interesting but also incredibly sad. It seems clear to me that the children in a family possibly connected to criminal activity were deemed a problem because of their antecedents and so were sterilized.

My Aunt Dean is connected to some pretty funny stories. (Her name, Dean Virgil, led to her getting a draft notice in WWII. She was excused when she showed up for the physical.) She was a pretty funny and amazing person so I don’t want to define her by what happened to her as a child, as if it were the only thing in her life that matters. But she, and her siblings, are the reason why when I hear someone jokingly say we should sterilize all the ____ people (stupid, ugly, racist, mean) I find it hard to laugh.

Hot Off the Press! Art for the Movment

Anyone need shirts?

red alder press

I have set up my silk screening studio and starting printing. I am currently working on shirts and patches that will be sold to benefit recent national protests against police murders and brutality.


I also open for orders. I people have idea of a print they want to make for your project, your band, your general coolness get at me. I will be charging on a sliding scale, free for movement work and we will work something out for everything else.

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