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.
- 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[↑]
