Su Cho in Conversation with Kimberly Blaeser, Molly McGlennen, and Margaret Noodin
The Poetry Magazine Podcast: Su Cho in Conversation with Kimberly Blaeser, Molly McGlennen, and Margaret Noodin
Kimberly Blaeser: Indigenous poetry is not fueled by an anxiety of influence, but rather a celebration of influence.
Su Cho: Welcome to the Poetry Magazine Podcast. I’m guest editor Su Cho. This week, we have a celebration of collaboration. I had the honor of speaking with poets and scholars Kimberly Blaeser, Molly McGlennen, and Margaret Noodin. We talk about how language is a kind of time travel, how it helps us preserve our memories, but also puts us in conversation with our ancestors and larger histories. We’ll hear from their collaborative poem written in both English and Anishinaabemowin, and how, for each of them, language acquisition is an ongoing, creative, and radical act of resistance.
Kimberly Blaeser: Kim Blaeser indizhinikaaz Anishinaabekwe indaaw. Gaa-waabaabiganikaag indoonjibaa. I’m Kim Blaeser. I’m Anishinaabe from the White Earth Nation of Northwestern Minnesota.
Molly McGlennen: Molly McGlennen indizhinikaaz. Gakaabikaang indoonjibaa. Poughkeepsie indaa. I was born and raised in Minneapolis, Minnesota. On my mom’s side we are Anishinaabe descendants. And Minneapolis is a place, like a lot of cities across the country, that is a place of diaspora and relocation for a lot of Indigenous peoples but especially Dakota and Ojibwe people.
Margaret Noodin: Giiwedinoodin indigo. Margaret Noodin indizhinikaaz Zhaaganaashiimong chizhaazhi igo apii ikwezensiwiyaan Chaska, Minnesota gii-daayaan noongom gikinoo’amaageyaan Minowakiing Gichigikinoo’amaagegamigong iwedi besho zaaga’igan izhinikaade Michigan. Niizh indaanisag indayaawaag. Waabizheshi dibendaagoz. As a language teacher, I end up having to make sure that I introduce myself in my language. I grew up in Chaska, Minnesota, and I identify as both Anishinaabe and Irish. And, you know, we all, I think, in America have different backgrounds that come together, and my kids will add to that mix and go another generation. They’ve got some Persian, so we, as Americans, I think, all have to think about who we really are. I am not an enrolled citizen of any Native nation, but I am a big supporter of sovereignty of Native nations.
Su Cho: Margaret Noodin says this practice of prioritizing speaking in one’s Indigenous language disrupts the colonial discourse.
Margaret Noodin: To set English aside for a moment, I think it’s always really beautiful. Even if it’s like someone who only knows just their introduction, it’s always really powerful when they make space for that before English.
Molly McGlennen: And it also sets a particular tone and way that you want to say to everybody, this is how we’re moving forward, you know, with Native languages, Native thinking, leading the way, in this experience, right now.
Kimberly Blaeser: And it’s a way to acknowledge your relatives, you know, to reach out. And it is a humble practice, because, for some of us, we don’t know, we can’t say everything we might want to say, but simply to be pitiful (LAUGHS) in the presence of our relatives and send out the love of the language as we know it, it is a gesture of solidarity, as Anishinaabe people.
Su Cho: Kim Blaeser, who you just heard from, never pictured herself in academia.
Kimberly Blaeser: So how I got here, who knows. I didn’t leave the reservation until I went to college. And it was a cultural shock. But all the time I was an undergraduate, people kept saying, “Oh, you should go to graduate school.” And in that whole imposter syndrome thing. I didn’t know what graduate school was, but I wasn’t going to tell them that.
Su Cho: Blaeser received her PhD from the University of Notre Dame and teaches at the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee.
Kimberly Blaeser: And all the time that I was doing my academic work, I was writing creative work. I’ve been writing bad poetry since I was a child. And at some point in time, it began to get a little better. (LAUGHS)
Molly McGlennen: A lot like Kim, I didn’t ever think of going to college in any academic way.
Su Cho: Here’s Molly McGlennen.
Molly McGlennen: I was an athlete. And that’s what took me out of Minnesota. I had never been on a plane before. But the turn for me was when I decided I wanted to continue on in school and as Inés Hernández-Ávila, who’s a great Nez poet and academic at University of California, Davis, encouraged me to apply and to apply as a poet to the Native American Studies PhD program there. Which, to me, really illuminates what the field of Native studies and Native literature is all about—it has this creative energy to it and this strain and way of thinking.
Su Cho: McGlennen was then hired by Vassar College to start the Native American studies program. There were no Native studies classes or professors at the time. Margaret Noodin now runs Electa Quinney Institute at the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee, a place that brings Indigenous voices and ways of thinking into higher ed. And a space that, Noodin says, helps create community in ways that were difficult to find when she herself was a student. She credits her lifelong commitment to Anishinaabemowin to her father.
Margaret Noodin: I could show you a picture when I was three years old, where I sat at a typewriter and told my parents, “I’m a writer, that’s what I’m doing, I’m very busy.” As I watched my dad, who did that all the time, he completed his doctoral thesis on language acquisition in toddlers. And I think that probably shaped the rest of my life. So, all I’ve ever done is be a writer and play with languages. So, I think because we lived in a space where my father, in particular, gave great respect to languages that had been lost in our family. So, I have spent my career trying to do justice to that and speak the languages that we know should be a part of this place. They echo the landscape here and when we can use these languages, we really continue traditions that are thousands of years old.
Su Cho: Here’s Noodin, Blaeser, and McGlennen reading from their collaborative poem.
(READ EXCERPT FROM “Meshkadoonaawaa Ikidowinan: Exchanging Words”)
Ningii-bazhinemin, we have barely escaped
nightly, a threshold looms in the cold.
Again, we sing ourselves strong—
Anishinaabikwewag, women of history and persistence.
Observe: constellations have long illuminated patterns,
of who we might be,
Across skies trace
in the land
of wiindigoo-cannibals, awaken the crumbling spirit.
Become swirling light, motion—where Bagonegiizhig
still lives. This ancient portal a promise.
Become the shadow others expect—aagawaatesen
hiding in significance. Like stars, anangoog, excluded.
Anyone could read this.
No matter this bitter
Su Cho: So I was really struck by the collaborative reading of this poem. And I wanted to ask about this collective “we” that is in the poem, because when we think about being bilingual, and using different languages in the poem, there’s that barrier, purposeful or not, between the writer or writers and the audience. And I would love to hear more about that process and how, as Indigenous writers, do you think about that question? Or perhaps you don’t think about that question.
Molly McGlennen: I think it’s interesting that, you know, of course, the “we” for me, is the three of us. But it is much more than that. If I use “I,” “you,” “we,” first, second, or third person, I’m always tapping into something beyond myself, to memory, even to the future, to a community. I think of it as a circle around me that I am looking out to. What’s interesting is that poetry and Indigenous language or Anishinaabemowin have that same kind of energy in them. So that’s, for me, some of the ways we were, you know, maybe without even saying, kind of thinking together in writing this poem.
Margaret Noodin: Another thing I would add on that topic, Su, since you point out the idea of “we,” for people who are reading this from the standpoint of Anishinaabe language, there are two kinds of “we.” So, in English when we say, “we,” we just say, “we.” In Anishinaabemowin, you can have two different kinds. The “we” that includes the listener, or the we that excludes the listener. And this poem has both. Noongom aawiiyaang, that “yaang” is the kind of we that includes the listener. “Gemaa,” which is “or,” “waa-aawiiyang,” that “yang” is the “we” that excludes the listener.
Su Cho: Yeah, that’s fascinating. I love how the language has the ability to include and exclude when you’d like. I wish I had that in Korean, because when I write my poems, and I use Korean, when I use Korean, you can’t really sound it out unless you have some basic understanding of what the lines mean. And so, I mean, when I use it, in my poems on the page, I’m saying, “In your face, you can’t read this, you can’t access it, but I can.” So I consider that a private moment of joy and resistance. And so, I have to ask, was there a part in the poem that you all deliberately evoked that private “we,” that “we” that is that three of you?
Margaret Noodin: When we say, “waa-aawiiyang,” we are reminding readers who know our language that, in fact, we might just be speaking amongst ourselves. But the other references include the reader. I think for us, too, there’s 142 nations for whom this is their language, currently, like right now, you would imagine back in time, there was an even larger diaspora, and many, many thousands and thousands of speakers. So, I think those of us writing with Anishinaabe now, we have to imagine there could be a lot of readers that might have a little sense, or they’re going to have a dictionary available, and they will count on us to use the language right, and they’ll see those as potential access points. So, when we write them, I think I’m always imagining there’s a student somewhere that’s going to delight in knowing that word and recognizing it.
Kimberly Blaeser: The other thing that happens, though, is, often, most often in the poem, there is some English that will signal the meaning, or you can get it through context, but not always. In this poem, there’s the moment where I use the word, “Bagonegiizhig.” And we don’t translate that anywhere, right? We know what we’re talking about. But it’s an invitation to the reader to enter into that story. And the double possible meanings of that word. It is both a historical figure, but it also refers to the pathway of souls.
Margaret Noodin: It’s literally, “hole in the day.” “Bagone” is a hole, “giizhig” is the day or the sky or the time of light. So, people from the area where there once was a leader named Hole in the Day would recognize it as that leader’s name, but it also is, you know, this celestial event as well. Some people would say, an eclipse is a Bagonegiizhig. Others would say that kind of eclipses are happening in the skies, where, like Kim is saying, that pathway that souls might go on.
Su Cho: Yeah, I love how you were all saying that, you know, you’re hoping that the language is an invitation to the reader as an access point. And I love how that word Kim, that you use, right, has so many meanings. I feel like it is a literal portal into discovering all these ways you can go down. And so I’m thinking about stories. In the poem, there’s a line, “Observe: constellations have long illuminated patterns,/relentless stories.” And there, where that shows up, the reader is included right? And I wanted to ask more about what you mean by “relentless stories” and that word, “relentless.” I mean, the poem is titled “Persistence.” Persistence is a little different than relentless, I think. And I would love to hear you all talk about that a little more.
Molly McGlennen: Maybe I have to speak up, because I believe I wrote those lines. I am so obsessed with the way historically, Indigenous peoples across this hemisphere, across the Americas, have found ways to tell their stories, inscribe their stories. I’m thinking of earthworks and mounds and the stories of the stars, and on birch bark and petroglyphs and pictographs and codices and hieroglyphs. Insistent on remembering and having a mnemonics, right, to remember, recall, and pass on—that’s the relentless. And then I thought relentless was actually kind of an activist word. We are intentional in that we do not relent, we persist, despite, you know, whatever might be going on in their world at that time. And I remember Gerald Vizenor saying, when I took a class with him at Berkeley as a grad student, he said, Indigenous people, there’s a stereotype that they don’t have a written language, and I argue that we have the most, you know, robust, you know, literature with a capital L. And historical, and so, I am really obsessed with that idea that it has persisted in so many forms and ways, and perhaps poetry in 2021 is just another one of those ways that we do not relent. And continue to connect and remember. And then I always think when we remember, we sort of cast the light out in front of us to illuminate what the path forward for the next generations, that’s what I always think of, that energy, that gesture. So I think all of that is sort of in those two little lines there. So, that’s what I was thinking.
Margaret Noodin: And that’s perfect, Molly, because that’s what “baazhigwaadiziwin” means, to persevere, to persist, to be self-willed to make something happen. So like that is to capture the essence of that word in English with that stanza is so important, because it gets at the nibaazhigwaadiz, you know, baazhigwaadizi.
Kimberly Blaeser: I was also going to just add that the image of the shadow, aagawaatese, also is that sense of there being a depth in the stories and in the language. So the language casts shadows, historic shadows. So the way that poetry gestures, the language here probably gestures, you know, in a larger way, because it’s calling forth many other things. And I feel like that sort of pulling into the poem the stories, like, saying the word “stories,” but actually, meaning the stories exist within the language is part of what we’re trying to suggest. And so I feel like that shows several places in the poem, that it’s not really said, we don’t say it straightforwardly, but that it’s suggested several places in the poem.
Su Cho: Here’s another excerpt from their collaboration.
(READ EXCERPT FROM “Meshkadoonaawaa Ikidowinan: Exchanging Words”)
How she stitched the rim, gashkigwaadan.
Leaf blades and needle fingers circled,
smallest curve, waaganagamod, of song—
endless like the scent.
Held, there are, atenoon, some parts
one cannot see—
but she knows, gikendaang, what they hold.
Words from bogs and marshes.
Heaven fits neatly, mii gwayak, under
the snug lid, shut tight as lips
long used to gaadood, keeping secrets
of grandmothers and crane companions.
Su Cho: I love this poem. I think just there’s so much tenderness in the physicality of the small motions. And to me, this poem is an ars poetica about language, and how you all consider language. I feel like when you write poems that invite readers to interact with another language, everyone thinks about their interaction with language. And this reminded me of how I feel when I speak in Korean. And this leads to my question, because when I speak Korean, I feel like I’m transported back in time to when I was a kid, like a child talking to my parents, because that’s when I used Korean the most. And as I get older and older, I use it less and less. Right, because my parents have become more fluent in English. I am just around white people all the time. I guess academia does that to you, (LAUGHING) for lack of a better explanation. And so, because I feel like a child speaking a language, I feel like I don’t have total control of my body when I speak Korean. But that’s sometimes good, because I feel like I have better emotional access to expression in Korean, because I don’t have, like, the English barriers in my head. I’m like, how do I really translate this? I just say how I remember feeling as a child. And so, I would love to ask, how is language remembered for you all in your own bodies? When you write the language, when you read the language.
Kimberly Blaeser: I often have this connection, similar to what you were saying, Su, to my childhood. And especially if there’s like, playful language, I hear it in the voices of my relatives. And that kind of code switching also where we, we might mispronounce something in English or Anishinaabemowin, that kind of playing on the edge of languages that was a part of the way that I grew up. And then there’s pieces of language that were a part of my memory and my experience as a child, that I literally didn’t know which language they belong to. So, you know, I would discover, Oh! that’s an Anishinaabe word, or, that’s an English—you know, like, it seems weird, but I was unclear of origin sometimes because it was all mixed. But I hear, a lot of times, when I’m trying now to acquire a fluency of some sort in the language, I’ll hear the words in my relatives’ voices, instead of, you know, my own or who’s speaking to me, that’s the way I recollect it. And we had a death on our family around COVID. And we spent a lot of time together in memorial gatherings recently. And there were exchanges in the language. And I was saying goodbye to one of my younger cousins. And when I said, giga-waabamin, she turned back like, she forgot, we could, we could talk to one another that way, too. You know, it was like one of my really young cousins. And so, and there was just this sort of leaning into memory and language together, that was like it’s a bodily leaning in. You know, you are literally harkening after that understanding that you had one time for me, so it’s a longing. And my body longs for that. And sometimes I will connect with it in a dream. And when I wake up, I’m like, “Oh, my gosh!” You know, that’s like the most, that’s the biggest blessing, to dream the voices of your past speaking in that language. So for me, that’s the, some of the physical, kind of the physical, spiritual overlap.
Molly McGlennen: Yeah, I would just say that I grew up hearing that, you know, I knew “miigwech” and “boozhoo.” I always tell that as sort of a joke, but it’s true, you know, “Hello” and “Thank you.” And, but there was a everydayness to it in that when I would hear, being in places where I would just hear it, there’s a familiarity, and I would have no idea what they’re speaking, you know, about, right. But there was just, it just connected to home for me, like, oh, that’s, I go back to this place in my body, because now I live in New York, right. And so that always brings me back there. So like Kim, I’m hearing it in other people, right, other people’s voices. And the other thing that it does, I love the way you set up the question, because the other thing that it does, and I’ve learned a lot from a good friend of mine, Ben Burgess, who was also born and raised in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and he’s really worked on his Ojibwe as an adult. And he has six little kids that he’s teaching it to. And he teaches Ojibwe in the Twin Cities. He said, you know, it just puts me in a body, like a position where I can slow down, it’s appreciated. Like I actually, my thinking slows down, and I’m more careful. And I have a tendency to speak really fast when I’m speaking in English and use my hands a lot, and when I’m in class and babababa, I go a million miles an hour, and for whatever reason, I have to slow down. The way he would break down words from right to left for me to pronounce words, I feel that in my body when I’m trying to learn a word or practice with him over Zoom now. I just feel it in my body, so, I’m like a toddler in my ability and I’m really fascinated with the etymology aspect of it as well. And I will just, you know, keep working on it till maybe I’ll eventually graduate into kindergarten level, I’m not sure. (LAUGHING) So, that’s where I’m at.
Su Cho: (LAUGHING) That’s a good goal. I love that.
Margaret Noodin: Aangodinong apii majimaadiziyaan ingoding jibwaa chimawiyaan enendamaan Anishinaabemowining giishpin nakaazamaan Anishinaabemowin awashime nitaanisidotamaan ezhi-mino-ayaayaan geyabi ingoding. There’s a lot of times where I just can’t take what’s going on around me, like the world is too much. And if I can think and retreat to Anishinaabemowin then I feel much more connected, and the concepts the values of how to correct yourself or feel better, I just find those more easily in the language. I just, I think that we live in a hard, a hard, separated world. And when I can think in Anishinaabemowin, just even to say, you know, thinking about “bimaadizi,” “to live,” I mean, all of that implies your energy and your trajectory forward and, you know, if you’re trying to “mino-bimaadiz” (live well) versus “maji-bimaadiz” (living poorly) it just, being able to think it through and the language or find a song that can re-center those things has been always really important for me. And I think that, you know, we have old ideas, old words, there’s ideas of “zaagido,” the idea of ritual begging, you know, have the humility to ask for help from others. We don’t have those kind of ideas in our world now so much. My youngest daughter, niizh daanisag indayaawaag iwediAnn Arbor onjibaawaad noongom bezhig Austin, Texas daad miinawaa bezhig Ann Arbor geyabi daad miinawaa apii gichi-akozid biboong gakina gegoo zegendaamaan. You know, it was, I had one daughter, there are two girls, and the one was very sick and was in the ICU with COVID this year. And it really scared all of us, you know, and, and it’s not controllable, those kind of fears for your children’s lives. And watching them be afraid for each other, and not seeing them to be able to take comfort with each other. And we have another, you know, a word that, again, it doesn’t translate to say, “azhaaso” is like a medicinal tattoo, like people often refer to it as, it’s not, you know, your favorite sports team, or your first boyfriend or whatever. You know, it’s a tattoo, when people use that word “azhaaso” it’s something inscribed on you, that is there as healing. And so, the younger daughter and I, just both of us, we ran off and we got the little phrase “gizaagi’in” on our arm here. And the other daughter doesn’t like tattoos, so we bought her a gold bracelet with that script, that word. Because “zaagi” is to be open to one another. It gets translated often as “love,” but “love” in English now, once I know it, and learned it in Anishinaabemowin, “love” just sounds really empty, like a noun, it’s got an “l” and a “v” and whatever, like what does that mean?
Su Cho: (LAUGHS)
Margaret Noodin: But “zaagi” is in the word for “lakes,” you know, “zaaga’iganan” or “zaagidawaa” where an opening is in a bay. And so, when we would say to each other, “gizaagi’in” “I love you,” it was, “you are my opening.” You know, we are connected in this way. And, and in particular, I would remind my girls to say, “gizaagidiz ina,” like, “Do you love yourself?” And they will sometimes say that, you know, back to me. And so there’s just things that in our family, I think the ways that we heal and support each other. I didn’t give my daughters a world where they can do work in the language yet. We don’t have whole days that they can use the language, but certainly the language of love and healing and persistence and knowing who they are and finding strength, that they get out in the language for sure.
Su Cho: That’s so beautiful. I love how, in the body, I feel like when we all talk about it, our answers start sounding like perhaps we, our bilingualness, right, puts us on unsteady ground, but the way everyone describes it, like your body leads into it. Or, you know, that’s how you express love. It’s so firm. And I just think that’s so beautiful. That even feeling lost or unsure can also count as firm footing. Wow.
Kimberly Blaeser: Su, I know that you love food.
Kimberly Blaeser: We like food too. But I was thinking too, that, you know, like that’s another sort of nourishment. Like, the language of food was probably the language that stuck with me the most, you know? And so I feel like that language is very physical, it lives in the body. And especially because some foods don’t have an equivalent in English, right. But the other thing is, when Meg was talking about that sort of invocation, asking for, what was begging, I was thinking about the way we use the word “pitiful.” That’s a word that has a kind of different sort of meaning even in English, the way that we use it. So that is sort of a physical act to be pitiful. You know? If that makes any sense. I’m not sure I can express it quite well.
Su Cho: Yeah, I love that. Ritual begging. And that just, on a side note, that reminded me of when I watch old Korean dramas from like the ancient days, there’s always a scene where it’s in the palace and the nobles like, try to stir up a government coup and the queen found out and they’re like, “Oh shit, like, we have to now show our humility.” And there’s a thing they say as pretty much like, “Oh, please forgive us,” but use it very formally. And they rub their hands together on their knees like swinging back and forth. I remember as a kid, I was like—I mean, it was a joke, when my mom got mad, we would joke like, well, maybe we should do that. And she, you know, she will forgive us. But I feel like there’s an element to implicating the self in all your speech and in the way you act and the physical body that shows your meaning that is kind of not lost, but maybe everyone has to excavate a little more for themselves.
Molly McGlennen: Well, I was just thinking of—I know many of us are teaching Native poets right now. And I was reminded, when we were thinking about forgiveness, of Layli, Long Soldier and that beautiful poem about her father and not having the language for “forgive,” not having the word “forgiveness,” but it was the gesture of her father in that scene. And I shouldn’t say scene, but in those lines toward the end, that just breaks my heart, but lifts me up every time I read that poem. And then, of course, the whole book, Whereas is this meditation on suffering, but also forgiveness and memory. And so I was reminded of that, when Kim was talking, and then when you were talking, Su, as well, about the way our bodies might incite those words, or those gestures that have this more robust, right, and dynamic meaning and intention behind them all. So, I was just reminded of that. Another incredible Native poet.
Su Cho: Yeah. Oh, gosh, yeah, I always say, for me, Korean is a bodily memory. When I don’t know the word, I just open my mouth, especially when I’m speaking to my parents, when I don’t know the word, but I know what I want to say, I’ve learned to just let myself say a sound. And usually I get the word or I’m in the ballpark. So I just like, kind of sound vowel rhymes, and I get it. And my mom is like, “How do you know that word?” Like, that’s like, above third grade level word. You know? My Korean is a fancy third grader vocabulary. And I don’t know, it’s just like, you remember, like, your mouth remembers, your throat remembers, for me, in a way that I know my brain can’t. But it’s been really inspiring and just like, I feel much more optimistic about this whole bilingual business. (LAUGHS) After speaking with everyone here. I feel like I’ve been a bit of a pessimist lately. And so I really appreciate this optimism and such hope and love. Gosh, what a tone to end on. Yeah.
Margaret Noodin: Gimiigwechiwigoo Su, aapchigwa gichina’endamaang omaa bi-ayaayaang. So that would be, we are very thankful to you specifically, you know, for this. It’s nice to, like you say, validate for people who are working across many different languages. There’s so many languages that we hope to preserve across the globe. It’s nice to have them hear both your thoughts and hopefully the group of us encourage others to keep using more languages.
Su Cho: Kimberly Blaeser is a past Wisconsin poet laureate and founding director of In-Na-Po (Indigenous Nations Poets). She has published five poetry collections. Molly McGlennen is the author of Fried Fish and Flour Biscuits, Our Bearings, and the monograph, Creative Alliances: The Transnational Designs of Indigenous Women's Poetry. Margaret Noodin is the author of Bawaajimo: A Dialect of Dreams in Anishinaabe Language and Literature, What the Chickadee Knows and Weweni, which are collections of poetry in Anishinaabemowin and English. You can read the poem you heard today in the November 2021 issue of Poetry in print and online. If you’re not yet a subscriber to the magazine, there’s a special rate for podcast listeners. For a limited time, you can get a full year of the magazine for $20. That’s 11 book-length issues for just $20. Visit poetrymagazine.org/podcastoffer to subscribe. That’s poetrymagazine.org/podcastoffer. This show is produced by Rachel James. The music in this episode came from Resavoir, Alabaster DePlume, John McCowen, Rob Mazurek, and Irreversible Entanglements. Okay, that’s it. Until next time, be well, stay safe, and thanks for listening.
(MUSIC FADES OUT)
This week, a celebration of collaboration. Su Cho had the honor of speaking with poets and scholars Kimberly Blaeser, Molly McGlennen, and Margaret Noodin. They talk about how language is a kind of time travel; it helps us preserve our memories, but also puts us in conversation with our ancestors and larger histories. You’ll hear from their collaborative poem in the November issue of Poetry, written in both English and Anishinaabemowin, and how, for each poet, language acquisition is an ongoing, creative, and radical act of resistance.