It's around nine in the morning, and the wind has just whipped loose a dome that three people built last night. Several of the PVC pipes that made its frame have cracked or slipped out of place; sections of the fabric meant to provide us shelter from the harsh desert sun—and wind—are now ripped. The dome is no longer seamless or secure; there are openings in unintended places, and we have to relocate it, fast.

This was meant to be our central shared space for the weekend—a space for introductions in just a few minutes, for workshops later, for a few people to sleep at night. It was built last night by three young women who arrived early to start setting up our campsite, expecting others to arrive and pitch in throughout the evening, but as dark took over the huge desert and stars denser than many of us city people had ever seen burst overhead, most of us were still driving from L.A., trying to find our way on dark dirt roads. So just those three had made this dome in the cool, starlit night to serve as a place to gather and eat whenever the rest of us, including the pair who were bringing dinner, found our way here. Last night people entered the dome as they arrived, ate, laughed, played music. One or two people slept in it. (The rest of us were in tents or trailers.) Earlier this morning we all had breakfast in the dome, again on our own paces, as we woke up.

And now the sun is full and bright, so we can see all the just-emerging wildflowers—really so wild, out here in this desert that seems so not likely to nurture something like a flower, yet they are not just one kind of flower or one color but wild in their variety. I couldn't get over it as I walked alone just after sunrise, these white-and-pink bunches

and these

purple and blue blossoms and these green pods or what were they, strange-to-me shapes, with red markings—there was no reason I could see that these flowers needed to be not only here but here and various—in shape, in color, in texture—in such seemingly inhospitable soil. But here they were, incredible. And what do I know? Just like what did I know under those stars last night, except some vague sense that I believed in them—that's the phrase that came to my mind as I looked up, thinking, I believe in you, stars. Whatever that means, exactly. (It means something inexact, but strong.)

It's mid-morning now. We were about to enter the dome to come together as a whole group for the first time. And here comes the wind. A strong gust pulls the dome from its spot in the ground, loosens several of the plastic tubes that compose its frame—they go cracking and slipping—tears its fabric.

We run toward it. Some of us know just what to do and some of us have no idea how to save or repair or otherwise address this, but we move toward it anyway, try to help. We are on all sides, lifting the big dome up and over things and into a spot we think will be less affected by later winds; we're looking around for objects that might hold the stakes more firmly in the dry desert earth; pulling hard, two and three of us at a time, at the supporting pipes, trying to bend them back into shape and position; grunting at the effort; laughing. Soon the dome is reconstructed, if a little more airy from the tears in the fabric, and in a new location. We all go inside.

This was the beginning of the 2010 Pachamama Skillshare Retreat, organized by an L.A.-based, young-feminist-of-color-led group called Women's Creative Collective for Change.[1] The skillshare was held in the desert near Joshua Tree National Park, a couple hours outside L.A., in April. Over the course of a weekend, participants taught each other how to use plants as medicine, how to make seed balls to incite the growth of wildflowers in earthy interstices in cemented urban habitats, how to holistically treat depression, how to use family stories for healing and organizing, and more. There was a workshop on self-gynecological-care that didn't narrowly bind genitalia to gender, one on capoeira, and one on radical childraising. Throughout the weekend, new connections were made, relationships were built, organizing projects were hatched. People took time alone or with others to move reflectively through the desert; we made art and cooked and ate together, and more.

A space for women and gender-variant people, the Pachamama Skillshare was attended primarily by people of color of many different ethnicities. It had been organized by mostly young women of color who, with no institutional support and limited financial resources, managed to create a weekend-long event that was free to attend, and this included not only the programming and lodging but all meals and childcare. They even organized carpools and provided camping gear for people who needed it, so anyone could literally attend without spending a dime. This was possible in part because participants and supporters shared resources to make it happen—workshop leaders and organizers volunteered their time and skills; one of the organizer's teachers shared her family's land freely; food was donated by Food Not Bombs, and several participants cooked for everyone; participants and their friends loaned equipment, and the organizers raised funds through a bake sale. About 35 people attended. We came from different local feminist collectives, or just on our own; we didn't all know each other beforehand; we were rooted in different communities, ranged in age from 18 months to fortysomething, and had a host of different abilities, skills, wisdoms, and experiences to share. And share we did.

I left at the end of the weekend feeling inspired and more sure than ever that we do have the skills, wisdom, and resources we need to create systems—communities, ways of living—that are just and sustainable, if only we weren't under the pervasive pressure of a system that keeps most of us too tired and busy and twisted up—too stolen from, too colonized—to do it.

Another debate about "intersectionality" has just broken out among a group of progressive feminists. A successful Latina writer of the generation generally called "third wave" lamented that there was no mention of Earth Day on the big U.S. feminist organizations' websites. A famous white, progressive feminist writer one generation older exasperatedly responded that we can't expect feminism to do everything; social movements and organizations are limited and do best when they each focus on their own narrow missions.

The details don't really matter; this conversation happens over and over again in liberal/progressive feminist circles. Someone asks, "Are 'intersectional feminists' spreading feminism too thin by advocating a diffuse focus, asking 'feminism' to address 'all issues'?" (Or, as some people put it, "everyone else's issues"—this is usually followed by a comment about how "they"—"the environmentalists" or whomever—don't focus on "women," so why should "we" focus on "their issues.") And someone responds saying something to the effect of, "For some women (which is usually code for 'women of color' or 'poor women' or another marginalized group of women, described in a lumpy-indistinct demographic mass), all of these issues affect daily lives, and so not addressing them means feminism isn't 'inclusive' in the sense of addressing the lived realities of 'all women.'" And someone else will say something about how "young feminists" really believe in "intersectionality," so failing to have an intersectional approach makes feminism less appealing to young women. This argument usually gets read as an important piece of market data by big, bulky, white-professional-led liberal-feminist organizations that then decide they need to pay a consultant or two to help them make their web content, or their event series, or something, more "intersectional," to better appeal to those "young feminists" or "women of color" to whom they need to appeal to make "feminism" more "inclusive."

All of this, in its form and structures, could be a conversation about any product or service in any typical U.S. corporation. There's some market analysis (what makes our product—feminism—appealing to "women of color" or "young feminists"), and then there's some strategic action taken to improve the organization's standing with said group, or market. The voices who resist this sort of "progressive" change, the ones insisting on feminism's limited resources and inability to be and do everything, are simply expressing another of capitalism's foundational narratives: scarcity, or the sense that movements and organizations and individuals are in competition for scarce resources, that there's never enough, and so we have to hoard and fight for our piece of the pie. And the insistence that feminist organizations "focus"—on women, on gender, not on "all these other issues"—sounds suspiciously like theories on specialized labor.

This past spring, a single mother/writer/activist/organizer named tk (tanya karakashian) tunchez took a road trip across the U.S. called The New Mythos Tour. Drawing on the work of Gloria Anzaldúa and her notion that we need a new mythos—"A massive uprooting of dualistic thinking in the individual and collective consciousness"—to begin a process "that could, in our best hopes, bring us to the end of rape, of violence, of war,"[2] the New Mythos Tour was at once a means to raise funds to bring radical mothers and community caregivers together at the Allied Media Conference in Detroit this summer, and an attempt to do some consciousness shifting, community building, learning, and organizing in places from Philly to Albuquerque.

In San Francisco, the members of POOR Magazine, a poor-and-indigenous-people-led organization, are doing much more than publishing a magazine. They are making media and doing media-skills trainings as a form of anti-poverty organizing; they are hosting poetry readings, reclaiming education, organizing take-back-the-land actions, performing plays, and fighting cuts to public assistance. They are also developing a project called Homefulness, a collective-housing experiment that will offer a solution to houselessness that shouldn't feel so novel (but does): housing. It will be not money but sweat equity that entitles people to live there. And Homefulness will provide housing for currently and formerly landless people on their terms, not the terms of class-privileged, liberal social-service providers. These homes, private residences connected to shared spaces, will include community childcare, space for political education and art events, shared gardens, and more. POOR's community, whose members identify as descending from African, Cherokee, Jewish, Filipino, and many other cultures, is rooted in multiple traditions and practices. Together they share a holistic vision that includes intergenerational caregiving and rituals involving singing and dancing and prayer right alongside, and as part of, political action. The group's co-founder, a key organizer of all this, Tiny aka Lisa Gray-Garcia, is a woman who fights for gender justice as part of her holistic political struggle but doesn't call herself a feminist because of mainstream feminism's racist and classist legacy.

On blogs, a multiethnic, rooted-all-over-the-place network of radical women and gender-nonconforming people of color are sharing stories and organizing strategies, doing community-organizing work, making art, and building community that is not limited to a single geographic location. These media makers, artists, and organizers are making blogs "not for career-boosting, but for survival," writes the North Carolina-based blogger and organizer Alexis Pauline Gumbs. And when one of them needs a new computer or financial support during a health or relationship crisis, online appeals to each other and their readers have continually turned up resources to meet the need.

At the Pachamama Skillshare, I met Pa'ti Garcia, a body worker whose vision and practices blew me away. She led a DIY gynecology workshop that celebrated the feminine without essentializing it, that centered queer possibilities and pleasure, and that offered a vocabulary for talking about genitalia beyond the gender binary. She recently co-founded Ticicalli Yahualli, an L.A.-based collective of people-of-color birth workers. As we talked about bodies and California cities and time and other things, she mentioned that writing's not her thing, and she's been dreading updating the copy on her website. I quickly offered to help with that. When I needed a temporary place to stay recently, she made me dinner and offered a bed for the night.

Of course we can, and should, and do share resources.

The fact that so many feminists of the 70s came out of the Left—often moving toward, and actively developing, women's liberation activism out of frustration with the sexism of the Left—meant that a leftist economic analysis was present in a lot of 70s feminist groups in a way that it doesn't tend to be today. Yes, even then there were (and the media focused on) large, white-liberal-led feminist organizations that were uncritical of dominant economic systems and were simply fighting for women's piece of the American Dream pie, but there were also a lot of feminists coming out of a Left that saw the connections between economic exploitation, imperialism, and war.

It was during the 70s and 80s that radical women of color—often poor and working-class radical lesbians of color in particular—developed the multi-issue feminisms that are the basis of what we now call "intersectionality." And what they meant was something deep: that all systems of domination are connected, that we cannot effectively challenge one form of abusive power while shoring up another, that shifts in power have to happen at the roots—roots, of course, being connected.

In 1986, the Combahee River Collective, a group of Black lesbians, wrote, "We are... trying... to address a whole range of oppressions.... If Black women were free, it would mean that everyone else would have to be free since our freedom would necessitate the destruction of all the systems of oppression."[3]

A few years before that, Cherrie Moraga introduced Loving in the War Years[4] with a poem in which two lovers are imprisoned together, facing certain death. One of them sees a slight possibility for escape if she goes it alone, but realizes there's no way to escape together. Will she try to make her way toward freedom, leaving her lover behind? She considers it, but then, she writes, "Immediately I understand that we must, at all costs, remain with each other. Even unto death. That it is our being together that makes the pain, even our dying, human."

Within dominant U.S. culture, many people would call this an unhealthy relationship. But I think this poem is not about co-dependence; it is about inter-dependence. The real point is not that it's not worth it to survive without one's lover because one would be lonely or lacking pleasure or grieving (although one would be, and that would be hard). The deeper meaning is that it is not worth it to survive without the other because freedom at another's expense is not survival, is not freedom.

Getting free alone is not getting free.

Getting free at the expense of someone else isn't freedom.

Freedom at the expense of someone else's freedom is not freedom.

If what we are trying to bring into being is a world in which everyone is free from violence, in which everyone has housing and health care and food and freedom, that is a world rooted in interdependence. So we have to think about freedom and relationship, freedom in community.

It is one of the central violences of the dominant culture in the U.S.—and increasingly across the world as capitalism goes global—that if we all just focus on our own self-interest, somehow everything else is going to sort itself out.

In April, outside the World People's Conference on Climate Change in Bolivia, Herminia Colque, an indigenous woman from the Andes, spoke about how mining—that is, the industrialized excavation of natural resources for financial profit (often the profit of a distant private company and its shareholders)—inherently threatens her homeland and the entire planet. I watched and listened to her via Democracy Now online. As she spoke, a sign flashed across the screen that read, "la causa principal de climate change es capitalismo."

We are in the midst of a global spin-out of the "free-market" capitalist system that has led even Alan Greenspan to acknowledge that the system is flawed.[5] That system is literally and imminently threatening to destroy life on the planet as we know it. Yet most of us who live within it are deeply colonized by its supporting myths. We need different structures, with different supporting stories, to live beyond it.

Democracy Now often presents a radical view of things like economics and climate change, yet consistently goes to liberal, white, unchallenging feminist spokespeople from large organizations when there's a "women's issue" to cover.[6] In this moment, deeply multi-issue, holistic feminisms have a lot to offer in conversations around global capitalism and climate justice. Feminisms that challenge gender binaries, feminists who integrate supposedly opposite genders into our wholes; feminisms that connect questions about limited roles based on gender to questions about all kinds of borders and cages; feminisms that interrogate gazes and objectification; feminisms that see how all abuses of power, and all violences, and all kinds of liberation, are related—feminist voices concerned with paradigm shifts around power and resource sharing are needed in spaces like Democracy Now—feminist voices whose vision is holistic, cooperative rather than competitive, collaborative rather than individualistic.

The Pachamama Skillshare was the most spiritual feminist space I've been in in a long time. It wasn't tied to any particular spiritual tradition—though many of the organizers were inspired by their understandings of the spiritual history of Pachamama, the earth-mother goddess of indigenous communities of the Andes—and participants individually identified with various different spiritual traditions or no spiritual tradition at all, but when we introduced ourselves in the opening circle, a majority of participants expressed things like "being present" or "openness" as part of their intention for the weekend. Throughout the gathering, impromptu meditation sessions were organized, several people talked about how they had recently begun connecting a spiritual practice to their political activism, and almost every workshop in some way offered a holistic approach to feminism and environmental justice—that is, an approach that connected mind, body, and spirit, or discussed the importance of individual and collective healing to social justice movements, or was presented in multiple modalities, or was rooted in notions of the deep interconnectedness and interdependence of all things.

Pa'ti Garcia's workshop on DIY gynecology involved physical exercises; partner, group, and solo activities; and information and analysis that linked health to colonialism, the erotic to the spiritual. Kellee Matsushita and Sonya Collier's workshop on plant medicine was rooted in the concept of "plant allyhood" (check out their zine, Plant Allies)—that is, a deep sense of interconnectedness with, and responsibility to, the plants we might use for healing. I facilitated a workshop on holistic approaches to living with what is normally called "depression" in which dozens of participants shared wisdom and strategies ranging from therapy to sex to exercise to meditation to food to art to organizing, and we discussed the ways oppression, body colonization, violence and trauma, spiritual crisis, brain chemistry, and so many other factors contribute to "depression," which I suggested is often fundamentally about disconnect—between mind and body, between mind and spirit, between sense of self and the whole to which we are all connected.

Throughout the weekend, we shifted rather naturally between giving and receiving, usually doing some of both at once. We moved between structured workshops and open time, between being alone in the desert and coming together to laugh or strategize (often both). When things needed to be done, enough people volunteered to do them that they got done. We ate together or alone, we did a mix of work and play and different types of activities. We felt like we had time. We felt connected, and we felt like we had enough. Because we did—each of us having shared whatever resources we had available to share (time, skills, equipment, land, food, ideas...) to make it happen.

Visionary, paradigm-shifting political and community work goes beyond the kind of "intersectionality" that can be superficially incorporated into an organization's programming or web copy for the sake of appealing to a broader audience, or market. It's not about intellectually understanding how different "issues"—environmental and reproductive justice, domestic violence and the criminal-legal system—are connected in order to broaden or strengthen a movement to gently reform, or increase marginalized groups' access to, existing systems of power. It is about a deep, multidisciplinary, multiform approach that aims to profoundly alter how power functions, how resources are shared, how all people and everything live. Yet most major U.S. feminist organizations have internalized, and are operating within, capitalism's narrow narratives.

The dominant myth that if we each focus on our narrow self-interest in maximizing individual financial/material resources, the invisible hand of the free market will sort out all the rest with the maximum possible liberty for each individual human—that myth is literally, and ever more quickly, destroying the planet, including the human species.

Of course, capitalism has never provided liberty for most individual humans; as it has snowballed, it has provided a weird, isolating kind of supposed liberty for ever fewer. People who call ourselves feminists can stick with this paradigm, hoard our individual or organizational resources, focus our scarce-seeming energy on our own key issues, try to make things a little more equal for some women within this system, and watch destruction happen at an ever faster clip.

Or, if we are serious about ending rape, or ensuring that everyone has food and a decent place to live, or supporting girls' agency, or creating communities free from violence, we can unlock ourselves from dominant systems and their supporting myths and start experimenting with, or reconnecting to, or seeking, or acknowledging the existence of different paradigms. And this is not a superficial thing, or something that can be done with a narrow focus or in a single modality. Nor is it a thing that can be done alone.

White/class-privileged cultures in the U.S. (cultures I am intimately familiar with) are particularly atomized/individualistic and intellectual-to-the-exclusion-of-other-forms-of-knowing. That these cultures predominate in mainstream/liberal/progressive feminism is a fundamental limitation of those feminisms.

It's a sort of farce to be playing at wanting to end violence against women in a single-issue vacuum or see women achieve "balance" between professional work, mothering, and "personal time" within a materially rich atomized, hetero-normative nuclear family while glaciers are melting, entire cultures are being submerged, and the very economic system that is providing a few people large homes in which to try and achieve this "balance" is, in its rapacious need for endless growth and focus on short-term individual profit without regard for "externalities," the cause of those disasters.

The idea is not to dismiss any given feminist concern or project, it's to ask, "Can we address these things at the roots, and with everyone in mind? Can we end violence against all women without increasing violence against poor people and people of color of all genders? Can we create work/life balance for everyone? Can everyone have decent food and a home?"

What do feminisms that aim that broad and wide and deep look like? I was fortunate enough to glimpse one set of possibilities in a community built over the course of a weekend at the Pachamama Skillshare in Joshua Tree. tk (tanya karakashian) tunchez is describing another part of this course in the New Mythos Tour. Projects like this are drawing on legacies of paradigm-challenging feminisms, and they are happening all over the place, right now.

Feminisms that aim to create profoundly different ways of living in which everyone has food and shelter and housing—these are feminisms that are rooted in a sense of community/collectivity/interconnectedness, and also feminisms that are clear about how hierarchical and individualistic systems like capitalism work and uninterested in climbing up their ladders (the steps of which are others' backs). Their goals are not always "measurable" or "winnable" or even easy to describe in the terms of dominant U.S. culture. And so they are written off as "idealistic" or "utopian" impossibilities. But to really envision and experiment with profoundly different ways of sharing power and resources, we have to be okay with getting outside the measurable and the supposedly strategic.

I don't know if white/assimilationist/mainstream/liberal feminists are simply poisoned by their own privilege in a way that prevents them from perceiving beyond dominant paradigms, or if their motivations are more insidiously and consciously selfish/violent than that, but they have deeply internalized the supporting myths of capitalism and other dominant systems of power. They talk about "strategy" as a way of silencing radical voices, insisting that it is most strategic to employ simplistic messages that do not threaten or challenge people who are attached to dominant narratives. They say it's strategic to use sound bytes and "frames" the same way commercial advertisers use them, where "feminism" and "social justice" are products like any others. They are lured, consumer-style, by the possibility of campaign "wins" that provide immediate gratification, but never substantive transformation.

In this kind of feminism, when a friend of mine was pushed quickly out of her low-paid and long-term staff position at a prominent feminist non-profit after an internal power struggle, she was offered by the board a choice between severance pay and freedom to speak publicly about what had happened. She walked away broke, without even all of her accrued vacation pay from vacations she never felt she had time to take during the years she was busting her ass for the organization, and when one of the organization's founders challenged the board that had pushed her out to acknowledge how unethical their behavior was from a labor-justice perspective, they responded only by reiterating that what they'd done was perfectly legal in the state they were operating in and refused to see the connection between feminism and fair treatment of workers.

Precisely because they are not threatening to dominant institutions and speak in the same language as those institutions, liberal/assimilationist feminisms will inevitably be the most visible, the most "successful," versions of feminism within dominant culture as long as these institutions exist.

In a talk in L.A. a few years ago, the prison abolitionist—and author of foundational intersectional feminist texts like Women, Race, and Class—Angela Davis spoke about "how capitalism constitutes our intimate lives, our dreams ... forces us to dream as individuals, to dream for ourselves, maybe for our families." She asked, "Why can't we dream for our communities? Why can't we dream beyond the nation?"[7]

In Rebecca Solnit's new book, A Paradise Built in Hell, she documents how various U.S. communities have formed cooperative, non-money-based social systems in the wake of devastating disasters over the past century. She counters with a mass of evidence the dominant, power-serving argument that selfishness and mayhem are the "human nature" revealed in moments of social stripping bare, talking about the "privatization of desire and imagination" that happens within, and helps shore up, capitalism.[8]

Faith in self-interest is supported by a belief that thinking about what might benefit others—that is, thinking beyond self-interest—is presumptuous, controlling—the stuff of, to use the most consistently offered example, totalitarian communist regimes. But being thoughtful, caring, sharing—these are acts not of control or presumption but of openness, generosity, flexibility. Again, here, feminisms have much to offer. Feminisms, I mean, that would not support centralized or hierarchical power of the type of a capital-"C" Communist Party or government, but that are informed by circular, horizontal notions like bell hooks's theories of moving from margins to center—another frame, offered by another feminist writer who developed a piece of what is now called "intersectionality": margins to center, not linear, not progressive, not bottom to top, not hierarchical, but circular, multidirectional.

Before it was layered with all kinds of damage by Milton Friedman[9], Adam Smith's notion of the "invisible hand" of the market referred mostly to the idea that actions by an individual within an economy can lead to consequences that that individual could not have anticipated or intended.[10] Not that I'm an Adam Smith fan, but I wonder about looking at that idea as having more to do with relationship than individualism—not only the relationships between individual humans within an economy, but also relationships between human actors and the natural resources they use or steward or leave alone, between various species—relationships of all kinds. This fact of unintended consequence could be used not to justify narrow self-interest, but to encourage economic and other systems rooted in a sense of inescapable interdependence.

What if our hands are all engaged in caregiving, in stewarding shared resources? It's not that any one of us has an ultimate solution to what's best for each and all of us, but that we get our hands dirty together, collaborating, offering, receiving, connecting, experimenting to see the impacts of various actions and choosing—together—the ones that create the least harm and the most widespread benefit.

Holistic feminisms have a lot to offer in this moment, challenging the very notion of subject/other, of splitting, that underlies all violences; questioning the very possibility that a person or a culture could ever separate self-interested desire from relationship or external impact or a ubiquitous and inescapable, if commonly denied, commons of experience and resources and all.

We build a structure—a dome, say—with the resources we have access to. Those among us who know things about scaffolding and engineering share that knowledge with those who have no clue where the supporting pipes need to go. Something like wind, say, unmoors the dome from where we've placed it, cracks its beams, tears its fabric, and now those who are good at improvising with laughter in moments like this help those who get stressed by things like wind whipping loose well-laid plans to relax into collaboratively finding a way to rebuild or repair or build something new if there are too many tears in that structure's fabric or it turns out it's simply not the kind of structure best suited to this land, or this group of people, or this moment. And meanwhile flowers of incredible variety are just growing, wild.

Endnotes

1. The Women's Creative Collective for Change was initially formed in 2006 by Tani Ikeda and Marissa Sellers, undergrads at the University of Southern California who felt a lack of artistic and political community for radical women and gender-variant people of color on campus and decided to create the community they craved. WCC has since expanded beyond the USC campus to become a vibrant and multifaceted part of Los Angeles feminist community. They host regular art workshops; some members cofounded imMEDIAte Justice, a film-making and sex-ed program for local high schools; and WCC annually organizes a skillshare retreat for L.A.-based feminist collectives (this year's attending collectives included make/shift, INCITE! L.A., the L.A. Childcare Collective, Space Intruderz, and Anarcha L.A.). Among the many core organizers of this year's retreat were Ikeda, a 23-year-old filmmaker, writer, and organizer; artist and educator Kellee Matsushita, 23; community organizer and artist Simone Andrews, who focuses on incorporating art and healing practices into radical social-change work; and reproductive-justice activist and health educator Sylvia Raskin. [Return to text]

2. From the New Mythos Website, see http://truthandhealingproject.wordpress.com/the-new-mythos-tour/. Original from Gloria Anzaldúa, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. San Francisco: Aunt Lute Books, 1987. [Return to text]

3. See "Roots and Wings: The Combahee River Collective Statement" on UBUNTU's website here. [Return to text]

4. Cherie Moraga, Loving in the War Years. Cambridge: South End Press, 1983. [Return to text]

5. "Greenspan Admits 'Flaw' to Congress, Predicts More Economic Problems" on PBS Newshour Website (originally aired October 23, 2008). [Return to text]

6. Ditto for LGBT issues, where recent coverage bizarrely focuses on inclusion of gays and lesbians in the U.S. military, an institution otherwise vehemently critiqued on the show. [Return to text]

7. Angela Davis speaking at "WACK! Art and the Feminist Revolution." Colburn School, Los Angeles, CA. June 10, 2007. [Return to text]

8. Rebecca Solnit, A Paradise Built in Hell. New York: Viking, 2009. [Return to text]

9. For a critique of Milton Friedman, see Naomi Klein, The Shock Doctrine, New York: Henry Holt, 2007; particularly chapter 2. [Return to text]

10. See Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments (1759) and The Wealth of Nations (1776). [Return to text]