Kyria Abrahams's Blog, page 5

The Myth of Compassionate People

In response to the more negative comments on my piece: The Myth of Hipster Racism on Street Carnage: 

To the people who want to tell me I’m a bad evil racist, why don’t you care what Marcus thinks on the matter? He tells you he finds it funny and all you can do is call him a “sellout”?

You negate his feelings because they don’t jive (racist?) with your own? You deny him unique feelings, his own personality, but I’m the racist one? Okay then. How totally compassionate and not racist of you. I'm sorry he didn't live up to your stereotype. Sometimes those spics get uppity and don't behave the way you'd like.

Here’s a couple of the nice things the kind, not-racist people wrote about me in the comments on Street Carnage:

“I hope I never meet you”;
“I hope everyone who jokes about calling their friends racial slurs gets cancer”;
 “Congratulations on having a Spanish boyfriend. How exotic!”; and,
“I’m gonna assume this fat cunt’s as dense as she is fat.”

Yet, you claim you are worried about hurting other people’s feelings.

 I'm sorry, but I don’t buy that you actually care that much about racism. You care more about your ego and the pretense of being a good person. You care about the APPEARANCE of being good, and Lindy’s article (which, yes, goddamnit, was funny and well-written) was SAFE. It was the easy way out. No one is going to send you hate mail and yell at you for taking the stance that racism is bad.

 Personally, I thought it would be a little more interesting to try to see some grey area in that. I thought that was a worthy idea.

And this is what bothers me the most about this idiotic "racism" witch hunt. People claim they are so concerned about not hurting anyone, then they turn around and call me all kinds of shitty names. They can't wait to misunderstand what I wrote, twist it, and put their own words over it. Guess what, liberal hipsters? I have feelings, too. Just like black people. In fact, why don't you just pretend I'm a black person? Then you can be nice to me, too.

 I’m going to make one thing clear, because I thought this was glaringly obvious, but I guess I need to spell it out:

If you are making racist jokes to your friend, and they don’t find it funny, you should FUCKING STOP MAKING THAT JOKE. Because you’re an asshole and a bad friend.

 My only — ONLY — point was that racism is defined by intent. As it should be. If I don’t mean something to be racist, then it isn’t. And if I say something to my friend that hurts their feelings and they say “Hey, that hurt my feelings” guess what I say? I say, “Hey, I’m sorry, I won’t say that again.”

 What do you think I do? Just run around in the streets yelling nigger and demanding that people find it funny?

 I wrote a book about growing up as a Jehovah’s Witness. Do you think I haven’t had people accuse me of being a horrible, evil person before? The difference is, they called me a sinner and you call me a racist.  Both of them are blanket terms meant to slander a person, take away their power, and insinuate that nothing they think or feel is valid.

 You can misunderstand this article all you want. I am aware that you have completely misinterpreted it. I will not be guilted into a false admittance of racism by angry assholes. Because you are wrong about me, so fuck off.

I should also note that I said nothing about Lindy as a person, I said nothing about the quality of her writing or her humor, I made no comment about her weight. Other people made this personal, which makes me think that not only did you not read my article, you didn’t even read HERS.

Apparently, you all have some issues you need to work out. But they’re not present in my article. In my world, being cruel and obnoxious and self-righteous is far worse than being ironically racist. But I guess you have different moral standards.

p.s. Are you aware, non-racists, that Marcus is the one who started us joking in this manner? I make ironic racist jokes because he did it first. I think that bears mention.

Captain Puerto Rico

My super boyfriend, who is, and always will be, my own personal hero.

(In addition to being one of the kindest and most hilarious comic book nerds on the planet, he's very supportive of my photography hobby. Add "patient" to his long list of good qualities.)


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Awkward, rapey Flickr photography

What is Flickr for, if not awkwardly posed photos of slightly chubby girls floating uncomfortably on either black or white backgrounds?

All of these photos are the product of the same artist, who I stumbled upon entirely by accident tonight. One of them was titled -- shockingly -- "Shot in my Garage". I think he means photographed, but from the way these women are standing, he may actually just be shooting at them.

I'm sure he's a lovely person and not at all as rapey as the contorted women in the photos insinuate.
Oddly, these are all generally well lit.



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I'm looking for something like Maggie Gyllenhall in Secretary with kidney stones.



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I want you to sensually touch your thigh, then give yourself a breast exam, because early detection is key to prevention.


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Your invisible chair just broke. Show me how much you miss your only friend, the invisible chair.



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You're trapped on a desert island and you're hailing a plane full of thongs.

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Give me something gay. Okay, not that gay.

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Has anyone seen my arm hat? I could have sworn I left it... oh, how embarrassing. I was wearing my arm hat the whole time!



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This damsel in distress seems to have stepped in something... sexy.


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You two look so relaxed and natural here in this all white room. Do you come to this all white room often, together? Mind if I take a candid?


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STOP! RAPE!


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Just naturally stretching my right arm while I kneel and arch my back and lay my left hand across my stomach. Hear that crack? That was my spine exploding.


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Mom says I'm special and beautiful and Jesus loves me extra, that's why he put my head on backwards.


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Just waiting for the bus!

Street Carnage

My blog entry on Kreayshawn and V-Nasty has been republished over at Street Carnage. Check it:


Also, this exists:

12-year-old ex-Jehovah's Witness Aaron Luke and his new best friend Miguel

New article on Twitter for nonprofits is up at Socialbrite

Use, share, enjoy, tweet!

24 best practices for nonprofits using Twitter

by Kyria Abrahams and JD Lasica.

8 nonprofit Twitter superstars, on Socialbrite

I wrote three articles for Socialbrite on how non-profits can best benefit from Twitter. The first one published today. Check it out, retweet, and so on! Thank you!

8 nonprofit Twitter superstars.

Kreayshawn and V-Nasty, giving wiggers a bad name

On behalf of full-grown women everywhere, I would like to apologize for Kreayshawn. She, along with her sister V-Nasty, have formed something called "The White Girl Mob," the hip hop version of The Babysitters Club, in which they run around in 80's glasses, drop n-bombs, and pretend to be black all over LA.

Their flow is weak, their eyeliner is prominent, and the music smacks of a Jewish Summer Camp talent show. They're so upper middle class, they make Rebecca Black's Friday look like Grandmaster Flash's "The Message". Behold, Gucci Gucci:



Basic bitches wear Prada? Funny, the basic bitches I know shop at Forever 21. Still, I applaud your sense of integrity in refusing to buy the very expensive clothing that most of us can't afford. Cuz' I only buy cage-free eggs, nigga.

(Ever take the subway in Queens around 3:00 when Junior High is just letting out? You know how pre-teens get all precocious when they're in a large group, and they squeal and throw Trapper Keepers at each other and say things like "fuck you, nigga" and it's exceedingly uncomfortable for everyone involved? That's how I felt watching that video. Also, like I really needed to take a dump.)

Meanwhile, here's the worst freestyle ever recorded:



God, I miss the 90's. Back when white girls would have been too embarrassed to be seen doing this.

Actually, her flow kinda reminds me of the adorable fake raps my father would make up while pouring us cereal, like: "My name is Gerald and I'm here to say. I'm gonna make you breakfast in a really funky way." And then he'd Moonwalk across the kitchen.

Even better, here's V-Nasty with a videotaped a message to the haters. That's right - the haters, baby! Haters gonna hate! Herein, she proceeds to defend the fact that she's "just bein' real" (ie: saying nigger a lot). She does this by dropping her voice two octaves, slurring her words and acting ambivalent. You know, like the blacks do.



V-Nasty doesn't act black. She doesn't even act white. She acts privileged. Ridiculously, embarrassingly, unabashedly privileged and lame and completely without cultural context. She acts the way rich, sheltered white people think black people act. Granted, I don't know for a fact that Kreayshawn and her sister V-Nasty are trust fund kids, but, clearly, they are. Look at them. If you don't think they grew up with money, then you probably grew up with money. The rest of us would never in our lives dream of behaving this way.

V-Nasty claims that she's "real" because she went to jail. What did she do, shoplift hoop earrings in a Claire's? Steal a girl's mittens on the bus? Going to jail isn't just a hood thing, it's also a spoiled middle class brat thing. Just because you spent 48 hours in Central Booking eating stale cheese sandwiches doesn't mean it's okay to say nigga 9,000 times before breakfast. So put down the Sharpie, stop drawing teardrops on your cheeks, and for the love of God stop with the obviously fake ghetto diction. The only thing 8-mile about these girls is the length of the cocks they sucked to get where they are.

I guess it's hard to try to find some semblance of cultural significance in being white and middle class, and yeah, I guess it's easier to just pretend to be black or poor or real or "Oakland", because they sure do seem to have some kind of brotherhood, some kind of solidarity, some kind of culture, some sort of code of ethics that you were clearly (CLEARLY!) lacking in your childhood.

Kreayshawn, your name is Natassia Gail. You went to Berkeley. V-Nasty, no clue what your name is, but it's probably something like Kylee Zoe. You're a normal, affluent, white young female. And that's okay. Maybe one day you'll figure out a way to be okay with it, too.

(Kreayshawn: I'm from another planet. I was born in SF and I lived out there for 10 years then I moved to Oakland and I've been out here for 10 years. So you can say I'm super, super Bay Area. - From Ontask.)

Better than Ritalin muffins

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Coney Island Polar Bear Club: The Center for Weirdness

Photos and text by Kyria Abrahams



Whatever you do, please don't ask them if the water is cold. It is.



"It clears my head," says Dennis Thomas. "It's not about jobs, relationships. You have to be in the moment. You can't think of anything else."



Like many of the people here, Dennis never expected to jump in the icy ocean more than once. That was 28 years ago. Now he's the club president.



"It became the center of weirdness for me," he recalls.



For me, this is my very first experience swimming with the Coney Island Polar Bears. It is the first time my cowardly, comfort-seeking body will willfully do something that even crazy people describe as "pretty crazy."



Perhaps 28 years later I, too, will remember that I never intended to do this more than once.







Dennis wears a white hoodie and a blue cap, both emblazoned with the club's official logo and available for sale on the club's official merchandise page. This morning, Speedo delivered a box of free bathing suits. Many members of the club wear Speedo and I'm here on assignment to ask them about it. Unfortunately, the Polar Bears are ambivalent. These are not the sort of people who care about product placement.



"I hate to do this," I say, "But I have to ask you about the Speedo."



"I took one Speedo off and put another Speedo on," Dennis says, trying to be helpful.



"Will it help keep you warm?" I ask, hopefully.



"Not a chance."



"What if you want to wear a wetsuit?"



His answer is definitive: "Stay home. Don't bother."



I'm saddened to realize that my 'Optik Splice Splashback' (which I will later be reimbursed for) won't help me preserve precious body heat, but at least the lycra has a surprising shapewear effect. It's mid-March and I've been scarfing mashed potatoes nonstop since November. Wearing a spaghetti-strap anything is second on my list of things to avoid -- right below jumping into the freezing cold ocean wearing only a Speedo.











I do not want to do this. I took this assignment because I do not want to do this.



"You can do it," I tell myself. "You have to. Just think of it as a giant glass of ice water that happens to be controlled by the moon and is full of sharks."



The 107-year-old club has about 205 members these days, but 75-year-old Oscar remembers when there were only 12 or 15. He also remembers when the tight, knee-length lycra shorts that the men are sporting today were called 'pedal pushers'.



"They were for bike messengers," he says, shaking his head. "Later, they'll take those off and put on real shorts."



"I remember wearing lycra shorts in Junior High," I say "Stripe down the side. With fringed boots and big hair."



Oscar smiles. "Okay kid. Get outta here. You better go interview some more people before it gets too late."



When I get home, I'll go to Oscar's website to discover he's kind of famous.



"Don't mention my last name," he tells me. "I don't want to be associated with this. I don't have a problem with any of it but... it's just not like it used to be."



How it used to be was simple, low-key. Just 15 guys on the beach. Now it's an event. There are photographers, and merchandise, and newspaper articles. Now there's Speedo.







Club members gather in the Coney Island "Education Hall", on the boardwalk right behind the Cyclone. This is also something new, a comfortable clubhouse. The room has back-to-back metal chairs and looks like a bus terminal with taxidermied sharks on the wall. Near the door, a volunteer is manning the hot cocoa table. I'm kindly informed that I'm not allowed to take photos in here.



"I'm sure no one told you," Dennis says without a hint of anger.



I spot Genie ("As in 'I Dream Of'," she says,) sitting against the wall under a mounted sea creature, wearing a pink Speedo swim cap and goggles. She's a competitive swimmer on her ninth Polar Bear swim, maybe around 40-years-old, and she giggles when she speaks. She is wearing Speedo Vanquisher goggles, which she honestly adores. "They don't give you raccoon eyes," she says, laughing. "It's hard to explain if you're not a swimmer like me."







She's the only person here who genuinely has an opinion about Speedo.



Meanwhile, Joan Lupo will complete her twelfth swim transforming her from a "cub" to a true polar bear. You can't just stick a toe in the water and claim you're a badass. Like Judaism, you have to prove you are serious. She is brought to the front of the room and the whole club applauds the newest inductee.



Then most suddenly, with no noticable reticence, it is time to jump in the water.



After a brief photo op on the boardwalk and a round of army-inspired jumping jacks, the group heads inexorably toward the Atlantic Ocean. I realize with horror that I am being swept along with them. And they are actually about to walk into the freezing water.







I spot Joan to my immediate right. "You're going to have to help me," I say. "I don't think I want to do this."



I expect she's going to tell me to turn around and run home with the other babies and wetsuit-wearers. Instead, she just smiles and takes my hand firmly in hers. We keep walking in. It seems simple enough. All I have to do is not stop.



"We're going to go under," she tells me, and she begins counting back from three without my concent. She places a gloved hand on each of my shoulders. I am shaking my head. Absolutely not. I refuse. Not a chance, Joan.



I refuse to go under until I'm under. I'm freezing and there's not a damn thing I can do about it but accept it.



"You did it!" she says.







I start laughing uncontrollably. Not screaming, but laughing. And Joan is nodding her head, wide-eyed, with me all the way.



"See the people out there who are halfway in? They're trying to stay warm but they're freezing. The only way to do this is to get in all the way."



I'm completely in the moment. There are no jobs, no relationships. I had to get cold to understand. These people aren't crazy, nor are they masochists. They don't love freezing water any more than you or I. They're zen masters, daredevils, philosophers.



Luis, 69, is one such philosopher. He has been swimming for 30 years. He came from Puerto Rico at the age of 15 and has a noticable accent. About seven of the old-timers he knew are left.



When Luis first swam with the Polar Bears, he had arthritis so bad he couldn't walk. It was his cousin who forced him to go, who helped him out of his wheelchair and into the water. After his fifth time swimming, he was cured. He can tell you how the experience changes people.



"If you come to the water and you are angry, you might change. You might leave and find that you are happy. You might change into a happy person."



Luis, who stayed in the water for 15 minutes today, is shivering uncontrollably as he says this. He is a happy, changed man. He got in all the way.