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Award-winning and multi-platinum selling Nigerian sibling duo P-SQUARE return with ‘Jaiye (Ihe Geme)’ and ‘Find Somebody, written, composed, and produced by the duo themselves. Alongside the release of their new singles, the Nigerian pop stars have also announced one of the biggest world tours of 2022. The duo’s 100-city reunion world tour will see them headlining 100 cities across North America, Europe, the UK, the Middle East, Asia, and Africa.
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Lyrics:
P-SQUARE! …. Ok….Yeah iyahhh!
Na tin dey… Craze!
Jaiye ori mi
Jaiye Jaiye ori mi
Jaiye ori mi (Yeah iyahhh!)
Jaiye Jaiye ori mi
Ihe geme …. Ihe geme eeh
Ihe geme …. Ihe geme eeh
Ima nihe geme …. Ihe geme eeh
Ihe geme!
CHORUS
So put your hands up in da air….. (Jaiye lo)
Make we Jaiye (Jaiye lo)
Na dey I dey (Jaiye lo)
Ihe geme…. Ihe geme
Put your hands up in da air….. (Jaiye lo)
Make we Jaiye (Jaiye lo)
Na dey I dey (Jaiye lo)
Ihe geme …..ihe geme me me me
Jaiye ori mi
Jaiye Jaiye ori mi
Jaiye ori mi
Jaiye Jaiye ori mi
VERSE 1:
Eehh!
Je kan sa ma soro
Je kan sa ma soro eeeh!
Sebi na dem get their mouth
Wetin dem like make dem talk
I go dey live my life
I go dey live my life
If you try me
You go chop breakfast
You go chop breakfast… ge geh!
Oh ooooh
Oya put your hands up high
I know you dey feel dat vibe
Cos I know get your time
Say na money dey my mind
Yea
If you no make am oh
Wetin you gain?
Brother wetin you gain!
CHORUS
So put your hands up in da air….. (Jaiye lo)
Make we Jaiye (Jaiye lo)
Na dey I dey (Jaiye lo)
Ihe geme…. Ihe geme
Put your hands up in da air….. (Jaiye lo)
Make we Jaiye (Jaiye lo)
Na dey I dey (Jaiye lo)
Ihe geme …..ihe geme me me me
Jaiye ori mi (yeah ee)
Jaiye Jaiye ori mi
Jaiye ori mi (ok)
Jaiye Jaiye ori mi
VERSE 2:
Omo, na enjoyment
We want shake body
Tell dem e still dey body
P-Square go make you soji
Even though we too get money oooh!
I go dey live my life
I go dey live my life
If you try me-
You go chop breakfast
You go chop breakfast… geh geh!
Oh ooooh
Oya put your hands up high
I know you dey feel that vibe
Cos I know get your time
Say na money dey my mind
Yea-
If you no make am oh
Wetin you gain?
Brother, wetin you gain!
CHORUS
So put your hands up in da air….. (Jaiye lo)
Make we Jaiye (Jaiye lo)
Na dey I dey (Jaiye lo)
Ihe geme…. Ihe geme
Put your hands up in da air
Make we Jaiye
Na dey I dey (Jaiye lo)
Ihe geme ….Ihe geme, iye geme eeh
Ihe geme… Ihe geme eeh!
Ihe geme… Ihe geme eeh!
Ima Ihe geme… Ihe geme eeh!
ihe geme… Ihe geme eeeh!
©Square Root Entertainment / MAD Solutions LLC
www.madsolutions.ai
#Psquare #Jaiye #IheGeme #OfficialVideo
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Ana Acton was monitoring the Rice’s Fire smoke plume on the horizon from her porch and thinking through her evacuation plan.
She and her family — life partner, 10-year-old son and mom in her 70s — live on 200 acres with lots of animals and a farm on the San Juan Ridge. The fire was burning five miles away, as the crow flies.
“We’re in the warning zone right now. Luckily I actually had a go bag with some essentials packed,” she said.
Those essentials included a week’s worth of insulin for type one diabetes and tools for her wheelchair.
Acton is the deputy director of Independent Living and Community Access Division at the California Department of Rehabilitation.
For years she has served as a vocal disabilities rights advocate. She sees emergency preparedness as a whole community planning effort, where everyone plays a role, no one gets left behind and neighbors help neighbors.
Preparing for wildfire comes second nature to Acton. On June 28, 1976, the year she was born, her parents lost their home and all their belongings in the Oak Tree Fire, a blaze that swept through Ananda Farm and destroyed 21 homes.
“Growing up, it was all about situational awareness. Living in this community requires a certain level of awareness of the devastation that can occur from these wildfires. It definitely gets you anxious but living here since the 70s you kind of know this is the reality.”
Acton has a support network to turn to during an emergency. Her partner, Jeremy and her brothers are skilled land managers and arborists who have created defensible space around her home. If she has to evacuate, she knows and can drive with skill in the dark every narrow, winding back road and river crossing. But she worries about those who aren’t ready.
Many low-income older adults and people with disabilities who struggle to make ends meet in Nevada County don’t have the resources to be prepared for wildfire.
Creating defensible space around structures is the single best thing a resident can do to protect their property, but it’s costly. A new county program aims to address this need.
As part of countywide emergency preparedness efforts, the county of Nevada’s Office of Emergency Services applied for and received funding from FEMA to support vulnerable community members with defensible space assistance. This has allowed the county to contract with Fire Safe Council of Nevada county to provide defensible space assistance by removing hazardous trees and flammable brush around homes for low-income homeowners who qualify for the program.
Providing free and affordable defensible space for low-income homeowners is one tool in the works to help create safer neighborhoods in Nevada County. But gaps remain as wildfire season heats up.
Mark Fenicle uses a wheelchair after Polio “affected him from head to toe” when he was a boy. At 72, he lives alone in a well-kept home he purchased in 2014 on Polaris Drive, located just off McCourtney Road, a five-mile drive from downtown Grass Valley.
Like 92 percent of Nevada County residents, Fenicle lives in a wildfire severity zone, that dangerous place where homes intermix with forest, also known as the Wildland Urban Interface (WUI).
Several years ago, Mark Fenicle escaped the McCourtney Fire that burned 76 acres and destroyed 13 structures.
“For others with disabilities in a similar situation but with no close neighbors it would likely have been a tragedy, particularly if they had no vehicle and phone service was down,” he said.
Research shows that the mortality rate among persons with disabilities tends to be two to four times higher than among the general population, according to the United Nations.
“Older adults and people with disabilities are the people who end up dying in natural disasters. They are disproportionately impacted,” said Acton.
In Nevada County, nearly half of all residents are over 50 and 23 percent are over 65. According to county demographics, 12 percent of the entire population and 7 percent of people over 65 are living below the poverty line.
Fenicle serves on the board of directors for FREED, Center for Independent Living. He and others with the group worry that older adults and people living with disabilities without support and safety networks like family and financial security are particularly vulnerable in the event of a natural disaster like wildfire.
The McCourtney Fire was a wake-up call to him of the importance of defensible space.
Since moving to his property eight years ago, he estimates he has paid $50,000 in tree work and brush clearing to create a 100-foot defensible space around his home. He didn’t bargain for the ongoing land maintenance when he moved from the Bay Area to retire in Nevada County.
He has been able to pay for the work because he has good retirement from a federal job but many older adults and people with disabilities living in Nevada County struggle to live on a fixed income below the poverty line. For those folks, preparing for a disaster can feel like a privilege, a luxury they can’t afford.
“If you live on $900 a month and you are struggling to get by, emergency preparedness doesn’t become a priority for you,” said Acton.
The first phase of the two-phased federally funded Access and Functional Needs Program is slated to launch on-the-ground activities in July. Through the program, at-risk community members who are physically and financially unable to meet the requirements under the law for defensible space, will receive help removing flammable trees and brush from their properties.
Nevada County and Fire Safe Council have identified 45 pre-qualified homes that will receive defensible space treatment totaling 68 acres this summer. An additional 78 homes and a total of 117 acres will be treated by next spring.
A $4 million phase two grant award from FEMA will support defensible space treatment for 766 homes and 1,147 acres. The application period for residents interested in receiving these services is open now. Families of four with an income at or below $78,700 qualify for the program.
“There is still a lot of space in the program,” said Jamie Jones, executive director of the Fire Safe Council.
While any assistance is worth celebrating, there are noticeable gaps. The grant-funded programs cover only 75 percent of defensible space treatment; the remaining 25 percent of treatment costs must be covered by local match — either by paying out of pocket or contributing sweat equity to meet the treatment goals.
The estimated cost to do the work is about $6,655 per home, meaning that there is a $1,200 match needed for each property. Nevada County Office of Emergency Services is exploring options to partner with local non-profit volunteer bases to meet the need.
Other wildfire-prone counties in California have tackled the issue of sustainable funding needs with increases in sales tax or property tax. Last year, 83 percent of Truckee voters voted in favor of Measure T, authorizing an annual parcel tax of $179 per parcel generating an estimated $3,700,00 for wildfire protection each year for eight years.
With the funding, Truckee can cover the costs to improve emergency evacuation routes, clear defensible space around homes, neighborhoods and critical infrastructure like schools and provide free curbside green waste disposal for residents. The community can now fund Elderly and Disabled Defensible Space Assistance for those that cannot physically, or financially get the work done. The benefit is making sure every property, regardless of income, is doing fuel reduction work and creating a contiguous fuel reduction area.
“Sustainable funding would give the county the resources to provide the local match outright, removing this burden from already overwhelmed members of the community. Identifying secure sources of match funding is key to being able to increase the pace and scale of the effort by aggressively applying for FEMA funds, which require a 25 percent local match,” said Alex Keeble-Toll, Senior Administrative Analyst for Nevada County Office of Emergency Services.
But there’s another catch … funding does not provide assistance for renters or owners of mobile homes. The program is limited to homeowners, leaving those who rent or live in mobile home parks at the whim of the defensible space actions taken by their landlords.
Often, to make ends meet, people on fixed incomes live remotely, down winding dirt roads, far from town and services, in a guest house or trailer because it is the only affordable option, said Brian Snyder, emergency preparedness coordinator at FREED, Aging and Disability Resource Connection. Limited incomes and a dire housing crisis in Nevada County, make finding housing elsewhere near impossible.
“A lot of our consumers are low income and are not homeowners. They’re renters,” said Snyder.
“We’re dealing with a very vulnerable subset of the population that wants help now. We need better access to funding and there is an immediate need. I think we have an obligation to help our elderly,” said Jones.
Nevada County is actively looking into identifying additional programs that could help.
“I do think there is a future in building programs that will support renters and landlords like large-scale year-round green waste programs that are either no cost or low cost,” said Paul Cummings, Nevada County OES program manager.
“Anything we can do to bolster local Firewise communities through training, funding and equipment will secondarily benefit many of these renters that don’t qualify for existing FEMA programs.”
Providing defensible space is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to preparing older adults and people with disabilities for natural disasters.
FREED is a nonprofit group that serves 2,000 seniors and people with disabilities annually. Last winter during the “snowmageddon” winter storm event, staff worked round the clock scrambling to help people who were left in the dark and cold for weeks, without heat, electricity, food, water, transportation or internet and phone service. FREED received 917 requests for service during the climate-induced emergency.
“I think the reality is the need is really, really great,” said Carly Pacheco, executive director of FREED. “We know from past fires and disasters, people with disabilities and older adults are the ones that die.”
Virtually all disasters disproportionately affect individuals with access and functional needs. This is a broad population group that includes people with disabilities, older adults, children, those with limited English proficiency and transportation disadvantaged, according to the Cal OES Governor’s Office of Emergency Services.
“It’s really those people who will need extra assistance,” said Acton.
When natural disasters strike, often the most vulnerable populations are hit hardest. This pattern has been repeated over and over during emergencies like the Oroville Dam spillway disaster, Hurricane Katrina, Lobo Fire and Camp Fire.
People who relied on public transportation were left stranded when drivers evacuated themselves. Deaf people didn’t get alerts on their phones and were notified only after neighbors came rapping on windows.
Some people who depend on equipment like oxygen machines and power wheelchairs or something as simple as a bedpan end up in nursing homes for weeks or months when they leave home in a hurry without the supplies they need to be independent. If someone is evacuated to a nursing home, getting out is much harder than getting in, cautions Acton.
“Those are the kind of scenarios we see time and time again,” said Acton. After studying cases for years, Acton and Nevada County staff have come to realize the power of knowing your neighbors is huge. “We have to do better. We have to come together to address these needs,” said Acton.
For a variety of reasons many older adults and people with disabilities are estranged from friends and families, don’t have a support network and can’t identify five people to call in an emergency. Snyder blames a John Wayne-style pull oneself up by one’s bootstraps culture in the U.S. that causes a reluctance to ask for help.
Another problem is that older adults rely on outdated communication tools and don’t use modern technology like smartphones or email. Despite all the outreach and education efforts, they may not “know their zone” or receive code red alerts.
“We tend to isolate ourselves for many, many reasons,” said Pacheco.
That’s why Nevada County has stressed the importance of neighbors looking after neighbors as a tool for wildfire preparedness and community resilience.
“What we need is a sense of interdependence and cooperation where we are all helping each other,” said Snyder.
Sustainable funding for county emergency service programming could go a long way to fund direct outreach to help people feeling overwhelmed and helpless. The idea is to create personal preparedness plans with help from first responders, nonprofit groups like 211 Connecting Point, FREED, Gold Country Senior Services, volunteers, friends and neighbors. Personal preparedness would empower people to know what to do in an emergency and help people evacuate safely, and with dignity.
During the winter storms and power outages, stories surfaced of neighbors taking food, hot water and supplies to house-bound neighbors. Reaching out to isolated individuals, checking in, and exchanging phone numbers is something everyone can do and helps ease the pressure on first responders who are trying to keep track of thousands of calls during a community-wide emergency.
For now, Acton says people living in Nevada County can take immediate action by thinking about who in their neighborhood doesn’t have transportation or might need a hand with overgrown weeds in the yard. Or that 85-year-old widow living down the street who lost her husband and is now living alone.
“I think that’s a really important piece, knowing who your community is. Nevada County is kind of this unique place. We’re small enough, we can actually get to know our neighbors. We need to think as a community, ‘Who do we know who we might need to check on?’”
Over the next several months, Nevada County is conducting a community survey to determine priorities and needs. Anonymous responses will help the County plan and prepare for the future.
Additional Resources:
Interested in applying for the Access and Functional Needs Program? Learn more here: https://www.areyoufiresafe.com/programs/access-functional-needs-afn
Find an Emergency Preparedness Guide/ Toolkit for Individuals with Disabilities:
https://www.dor.ca.gov/Home/disasterpreparedness
Laura Petersen is a freelance writer who has spent two decades chronicling the stories of people and places in Northern California. On behalf of Nevada County, this is the third in a series of articles examining emergency preparedness. She can be reached at [email protected]
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NASHVILLE, TN – The Memphis Redbirds dropped a heart breaker to the Nashville Sounds on Friday night at First Horizon Park by a final score of 4-3 in 10 innings.
Memphis grabbed the lead early in the ballgame on a catcher Ivan Herrera RBI groundout to score shortstop Paul DeJong. The Redbirds offense would then go quiet until the final moments.
With two outs and the tying run at the plate in the top of the ninth and Memphis trailing 3-1, first baseman Cory Spangenberg roped a double to score right fielder Moises Gomez. Pinch hitter Alec Burleson then stepped to the plate and came in clutch, looping a single into left-center field to score Spangenberg and tie the ballgame.
After Memphis was unable to score in the top of the tenth, Nashville walked off the game with a two-out base hit.
Starting pitcher Tommy Parsons lasted five innings of two-run baseball, with the only runs coming on back-to-back home runs in the bottom of the fourth inning. The right-handed pitcher allowed four hits, walked three and struck out four batters. Freddy Pacheco shut down the Sounds in the eighth and ninth, striking out two batters without allowing a run.
The Memphis Redbirds (49-39) will face the Nashville Sounds (53-34) on Saturday night for game five of the six game series. RHP Aaron Brooks is set to start for Memphis opposite RHP Tyler Herb for Nashville. First pitch is scheduled for 7:05pm CDT, with pregame 10 minutes prior on memphisredbirds.com and the First Pitch App.
For more information and for tickets, fans can visit memphisredbirds.com or call 901-721-6000.
About Memphis Redbirds
The Memphis Redbirds are the proud Triple-A Affiliate of the St. Louis Cardinals. Memphis owns four League Championships and one Triple-A National Championship since the team’s affiliation with St. Louis began in 1998. For the latest team news, follow the Redbirds on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.
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While Santa Cruz was where I went to school, my extended family farmed in the San Joaquin Valley. Summers included many long car rides back and forth across the Pacheco Pass. While my grandparents were not particularly pious, they would occasionally stop at Mission San Juan Baptista, if only to break up the long drive.
My brothers and I loved the freedom to run in this protected garden paradise. The cloister-surrounded courtyard enchanted us with paths winding around beautiful flowers, exotic vegetation and old California artifacts. If it smacked of adventure, it also harkened back to a less secular and less frenzied time.
We ran through the old cemetery terrorizing squirrels and looked at the grave markers, seeing who could find the oldest one. The enchantments of Spanish California worked in our imaginations and my grandfather knew stories about Three Finger Jack and the Murietta Brothers. It was as if El Zorro were about to ride around the corner. Sometimes we would even have a picnic nearby. We also would make a short visit to the Blessed Sacrament.
The adobe walls of the mission told Spanish California’s story of sacrifice and prayer, of difficult struggles to establish order and prosperity amid an arid wilderness while bringing the Gospel to people very different from themselves. If we puzzled over the misunderstood intentions and unconscious motives that were part of the story, what most spoke were the vestiges of love that remained, last witnesses to the effort to do something beautiful for God. In the end, what actually motivated these priests to leave everything behind and brave all kinds of hardship at the edge of the world?
Long after the visit, my mind would imagine the friars, the Native Americans and the Spanish soldiers. I learned enough to know that there was tension between military, mendicant and Native cultures. Surely, the story of Cain and Abel, of brother against brother, was part of this. Yet, deeper than fraternal strife, there was an awareness of a time more friendly to humanity, the kind of time that one can only know when difficult differences are faced while striving toward a sacred order together as a people…
The above comes from a July 1 posting on the Archdiocese of San Francisco website by Dr. Anthony Lilles, rector of St. Patrick Seminary in Menlo Park.
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Danni Sanders (Zoey Deutch), an aimless aspiring writer with no friends, no romantic prospects and — worst of all — no followers, fakes an Instagram-friendly trip to Paris in the hopes of boosting her social media clout. When a terrifying incident strikes the City of Lights, Danni unwittingly falls into a lie bigger than she ever imagined. She “returns” a hero, even striking up an unlikely friendship with Rowan (Mia Isaac), a real trauma survivor dedicated to societal change, and scooping up the man of her dreams Colin (Dylan O’Brien). As an influencer and advocate, Danni finally has the life and audience she always wanted. But it’s only a matter of time before the façade cracks, and she learns the hard way that the Internet loves a takedown.
Cast: Zoey Deutch, Dylan O’Brien, Mia Isaac
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This review appears in our Fall 2021 issue. Subscribe now to receive a copy in your mailbox.
Discussed in this essay: Let the Record Show: A Political History of ACT UP New York, 1987-1993, by Sarah Schulman. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2021. 736 pages.
EVEN BEFORE AIDS, patriarchy has made an association between queers and plague. In the West, we are a disease on the social, an illness to be cured and purged from a healthy body politic. At its best, queerness promises porous, polymorphous perversities, a refusal to submit to proper relations beyond consenting desire. No wonder, then, that in the eyes of the bosses, fathers, priests, cops, and their allies, we threaten to pull the entire world with us into a decadent morass of pleasure, joy, laziness, and freedom. That is why the places they’ve dealt with us homosexuals, transsexuals, interssexuals and the like have so often been medical: the surgeon’s clinic, the analyst’s couch, the psychiatrist’s asylum, the conversionist’s camp. Is it any surprise, a year-and-a-half into this plague, that the forces of political reaction have seen fit to attack the ongoing uprising by attacking trans life, attempting to legislate us out of existence in the name of “medical” concern for children?
In light of all this, it is exactly the right time for a righteous and powerful history of queer resistance, AIDS, plague, and struggle. So it is no wonder that excitement for Sarah Schulman’s Let the Record Show: A Political History of ACT UP New York, 1987-1993, which bills itself as such a history—the “most comprehensive political history ever” of the activist group, according to the back cover—far outweighs that which would usually accompany the release of a movement history doorstop. Over a decade in the making, the 650-page account is based on extensive oral histories as well as Schulman’s own experience. The book is a pleasant and easy read, almost chatty, driven by the voices of the interviewees, whose names often appear as section headings, and full of the emotions, memories, and sometimes contradictory claims of its subjects; as a result, it is much less dry than many other modes of historical narrative, without feeling any less serious. Through this multivocal approach, the book traces the roots, accomplishments, conflicts, and partial collapse of ACT UP New York at the zenith of the movement’s power and prominence.
I lost the only out queer member of my family, my uncle Roger Hulley, to AIDS in 1997, long before I was out even to myself; the grief of that loss has rippled through my life, my mother’s, my brother’s. Versions of this grief have reverberated, personally and communally, through several decades of queer life, registering a lost generation of elders and a horrifying rupture in our social and political history—to say nothing of the ongoing AIDS crisis which, now that it has largely stopped killing rich cis white men in the US, is no longer understood as such. I am desperate to learn from the struggles, perspectives, and feelings of those who lived and fought in grim but also joyful resistance during those apocalyptic years. I want a book that earns and embodies an opening like Schulman’s, which begins, “This is a book in which all people with acquired immune deficiency syndrome (AIDS) or with the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) are equally important.” How painful, then, to be a trans person reading and reviewing this book, and to encounter yet another work of trans erasure claiming to be the history of queer resistance.
Much of the research that has been done to create this book is invaluable. Schulman has structured the volume around 188 interviews with surviving members of the New York City chapter of the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power, better known as ACT UP. She and documentarian Jim Hubbard conducted these interviews between 2001 and 2018 as part of the ACT UP Oral History project they spearheaded. When we study the history of movements, we often look to the most spectacular moments of protest or conflict as hinge points, but smaller forms of action and organizing, often inspired by the major actions but irreducible to them, are just as important. Schulman at times recognizes this, focusing on crucial aspects of ACT UP’s ongoing legacy, like its needle exchange program or its activist-led medical research—initiatives a less capacious interview process might have easily missed. In an equally important move, Schulman and Hubbard have made the full transcripts of those interviews free and available to the public online. The value of this incredible feat of activist archivism—especially for an organization that included so many members who died young—cannot be overstated.
But the importance of that oral history project cannot overcome the intrinsic weaknesses of that archive. The survivors tell the tale, and—as Schulman points out throughout the book, survival in the AIDS crisis was heavily skewed towards cis white gay men with access to legal, media, financial, and scientific resources. Therefore any record given mostly by activists who survived into the 2000s will overrepresent those men, especially in an organization where they already made up a disproportionate percentage of the activist base. And memory is also unreliable, as we continue to learn and grow, and certain attitudes, analyses, and experiences calcify into particular, often self-flattering narratives.

Thus the importance of supplementing the post-movement accounts of participants, especially those given decades later, with other kinds of historical evidence: more immediate records, propaganda, and writing produced by participants, journalists, and government researchers, as well as secondary sources produced by academics or historians who employ different analytic modes. The other major well of information in the book, however, is Schulman herself: memories from her own participation in ACT UP NYC, as well as her own research and journalism. This rather vague and narrow lens allows Schulman to dismiss controversies around gender, race, and strategy that have arisen in the years since ACT UP’s heyday, even as she claims that her more immediate and personal account of the movement should serve as a corrective to others. Her preface catalogues some of the ways she sees AIDS as having been “grossly misrepresented and mis-historicized,” from the New York Times’ infamous underreporting of the epidemic to the 2012 ACT UP documentary How to Survive a Plague’s “heroic white male individual model” for understanding AIDS activism. Even the book’s title, Let The Record Show, positions her book as a quasi-legalistic account of the real truth.
Of course, every historical narrative has a frame, every writer of history must make choices, and at points, to her credit, Schulman is explicit about the necessary limitations of her approach. But it feels like she acknowledges these limitations in order to preempt critique rather than to allow them to meaningfully change her narrative or method. Take, for instance, this telling juxtaposition. In her preface, Schulman notes, “Black gay men in the U.S. South have rates of HIV infection larger than in any country in the world. . . . AIDS was only over for white males who could access the standard of care, in a nation with no logical health system.” But less than 50 pages later, the introduction features the section heading, “How A Predominantly White Male Organization Won the Movement’s Single Greatest Victory for Women, People of Color, and Poor People.” If people of color and poor people continue to suffer under a largely invisibilized and unspoken AIDS crisis, is this a victory that should be enthusiastically celebrated? What meaning is conveyed, and what critiques elided, by the superlative “greatest”?
This contradiction gets to the heart of the book’s desires. Schulman, as a participant in ACT UP, wants to believe that “AIDS activism was, perhaps, the most recent successful social movement in America.” Her introduction is titled “How Change is Made,” and the book argues that the ACT UP model—nonviolent civil disobedience, inside-outside strategic positioning (protesting and causing ruckus while also having people work within power structures), a single-issue focus, and research-and-information-driven citizen lobbying efforts—is the best way to “make change.” She wants to defend a particular story of ACT UP, and in her defensive posture—informed no doubt by the tragedy of those years, an earnest desire to see her beloved comrades documented, and simple nostalgia—she fails to sufficiently criticize or think through ACT UP’s limits. As a result, Let the Record Show ends up symptomatically reproducing the very exclusions, failures, and violences—in particular transphobic and anti-Black ones—that an actually fearless history might recognize as one important basis for understanding ACT UP’s legacy.
ON DECEMBER 10TH, 1989, in one of ACT UP’s most famous actions, activists disrupted a mass given by New York City cardinal John O’Connor at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the city’s most iconic Catholic building. Their goal was to draw attention to the undue governmental power of the Catholic Church and its opposition to safe sex education and condom distribution. Schulman traces the planning stages and internal debates around how far the action should go, and demonstrates the powerful effects it had on local policy and social attitudes. The chapter devoted to this important moment in activist history also features the only section in the book focused on trans women as a group. I quote it here in full:
TRANS WOMEN AT STOP THE CHURCH
Interestingly, in an episode that aired in 2019, the television series Pose, produced by Ryan Murphy and Janet Mock, depicted ACT UP’s action at St. Patrick’s Cathedral but added Black trans characters from the series going to the demonstration, performing civil disobedience, and being taken away by the police. In reality, one trans woman was arrested at St. Patrick’s, but they were white: ACT UP facilitator Kathy Otter (later Ottersten). Writing on the ACT UP Alumni Facebook page, Robert Vázquez-Pacheco and Moisés Agosto-Rosario both expressed anger that corporate representations of ACT UP inserted nonexistent people of color while ignoring the people of color who actually were there and did the work. Once again, ACT UP still had no control over its own representation, but this was 2019, thirty-two years after its founding.
My first response to this passage was shock and rage: “Maybe this is so, but surely she can see how transphobic this first appearance of trans women in the book is, where trans women are once again cast primarily as interlopers, recuperators, deceivers.” Then I wondered: Did she research this data point beyond the Facebook thread? It’s not as though arrest records historically represent Black trans people’s genders accurately. How does she know? There is no footnote or further evidence offered. Black trans women only appear in the book insofar as Schulman can insist upon their absence in the movement; that she puts this transphobic critique in the mouths of nonwhite ACT UP members made me feel queasy. This unease led me down the path of questioning the entire book’s methodology: What else was being missed, left out, silenced through this process that I wasn’t particularly attuned to catch?
Black trans women only appear in the book insofar as Schulman can insist upon their absence in the movement.
It’s exhausting to have to pick over a single paragraph in a massive book like this. It’s no fun to be a killjoy, to be distrustful, fearful, and angry. I would be more inclined to trust Schulman’s account if there was any other significant mention of trans women in the book, but only one out trans woman, Kathy Ottersten, appears as an interview subject (she is quoted briefly about her role in ACT UP’s needle exchange program, for which she and several other activists were arrested and placed on trial). Most infuriating of all, Schulman’s chapter “Changing the Definition: Women Don’t Get AIDS, We Just Die from It” contains not a single mention of trans women, nor of trans people of any gender. Some definitions, apparently, do not need to be changed.
This silence on trans women is contrasted with a refrain, repeated throughout the book, about the strategic value of having cis white men willing to do both advocacy and direct action. “AIDS only got addressed at all because white men with access had it,” Schulman writes. Her argument relies on the claim that the overrepresentation of these men in ACT UP strengthened the organization, because of the entrée this stratum of activists had to boardrooms, academic institutions, and relationships with government ministers (including Anthony Fauci, who began his tenure as director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases (NIAID) in 1984 and was thus a key government decision-maker about AIDS research and treatment). This point leads inevitably to distortions of the actual role race and class played in the movement. While she laments the fact that only the spectacle of white men suffering and getting arrested attracted the interest of the press, she also seems resigned to this state of affairs as an unchangeable reality that could be strategically leveraged. She refuses to accept that wealthy cis gay men’s dominance in the movement might have also been a contributing factor in ACT UP’s deterioration once their own treatment was assured. Instead, she describes the betrayal of the particular white men in the research group that broke off into the Treatment Action Group (TAG) in the early 1990s, which helped end ACT UP’s momentum.
A similar pattern is at work when Schulman considers the large-scale aftermath of these developments. She writes honestly, for instance, about how drug companies opportunistically used the movement to weaken the FDA and lower drug-approval standards, which helped lead to horrific pharmaceutical abuses (including, we might add, both the opioid crisis and Covid vaccine apartheid). But here she effectively throws up her hands, writing that “while advocates were able, in a sense, to beat HIV, they could not beat capitalism. And so, today, because of the greed of international pharmaceutical companies and various health industries, large numbers of people with HIV in the United States and around the world cannot receive medications that already exist.” Needless to say, it is not those activists’ fault that they were unable to destroy capitalism. But more broadly speaking, if ACT UP’s model of activism was unable to truly transform the lives of people suffering from AIDS, then why should it be the one adopted by activists today?
If ACT UP’s model of activism was unable to truly transform the lives of people suffering from AIDS, then why should it be the one adopted by activists today?
At the most sweeping level of her analysis, Schulman wants to argue that what made ACT UP successful was its singular approach to bottom-up politics. But ironically, this model—in which activists perform nonviolent media-focused civil disobedience and then leverage the media attention to get a hearing from governments and corporations—should be familiar to anyone who has interacted with an activist nonprofit or leftist formation in the intervening decades. Nonviolent single-issue demonstration-and-research-driven campaigning has become the dominant paradigm of a large swath of political activist organizations, from single-issue nonprofits to some so-called revolutionary organizations, one that has proven again and again to be ineffective in the face of an increasingly carceral state and unequal global capitalism. You could argue that the persistence of this model in well-funded activist groups today reflects capitalist recognition that symbolic, nonviolent campaigns are easily ignored when inconvenient, and equally useful to astroturf desirable reforms for capitalists when helpful.
Schulman’s theory of change, despite the multivocal subject and form of this book, is ultimately quite pessimistic about the possibility of mass movement. In the book’s preface, she writes, “My perception is that the fate of a society is determined by very small groups of people. Only tiny vanguards actually take the actions necessary, and even fewer do this with a commitment to being effective.” Later, she sarcastically discusses the notion that Larry Kramer, the well-known playwright and AIDS activist, was the singular leader of ACT UP. But when it comes time to make her counterargument, she damns with faint praise: “Everyone else [other than the leaders] in ACT UP was just as necessary because they were, on some level, implementers. They did not have the big visions, the original ideas, the innovative approaches, but they cooperated.” If masses of regular people can’t make change, if even most activists are simply following instructions and inspiration set by the revolutionary greats, then perhaps there is no more democratic or effective form of organization than the ACT UP model. But you hardly need a commitment to Marxist class analysis to see that the leap from a historical theory of a handful of Great Men to Schulman’s hundred or so Great People is a numerical distinction without a conceptual difference.
What is movement history for? Too often activists want it to offer a blueprint, a strategic lodestone for further activism. But movement history can also work to introduce us to the comrades we could otherwise never know, to show us the continuities of oppression and struggle, to suggest tactical innovations in discovering and attacking weak points, and to imagine fearless ways of fighting and living that might inspire us to similar fearlessness. Movement history can correct dominant narratives so as to re-center the role of the oppressed in the positive changes in our history, and see the role resistance and rebellion have had in forcing the hands of the powerful. But for me, we don’t study them because we simply want to repeat the movements of the past—which have, after all, not won the liberation we so crave—but to embrace and improve upon tactics and movements as they appear in the present.
I so badly want the book Schulman set out to write. But as the year anniversary of the flames of the George Floyd uprising recedes, Schulman’s hyperbolic enthusiasm for ACT UP’s organizational forms seems less relevant than ever before. The book offers its readers valuable glimpses into an important moment of queer struggle and history. But its incredibly loud silence on trans lives and activism, and its focus on ACT UP as an organizational model to be emulated, might lead just as many astray.
Vicky Osterweil is a writer, editor, and agitator based in Philadelphia. Her book In Defense of Looting: A Riotous History of Uncivil Action was released in 2020 by Bold Type Books.