BEEF EN ROUTE TO AMADOR See DISH
21
JOSÉ GONZÁLEZ’S BREATHY MELODIES See MUSIC
30
SAC’S LOST JAPANTOWN See CALENDAR
31
DODGING DICK PICS See ASK JOEY
40 Photo by Kate Gonzales
Creative marching
Photo by letrice Fowler
Andorian Ramsey is an Oakland-based poet recently featured at TOPOAOM. “For me to drive 100 miles … I’ll do that for the art,” Ramsey says. “Danté, what he brings to every town he goes to is organic.” Andru Defeye, a fellow spoken word artist, founder of ZFG Promotions and communications director with Sol Collective, gives Péläyo credit for being ahead of the curve. “Danté is a pop-up pioneer out here,” says Defeye. “Before the ‘creative economy,’ before pop-up was a buzz word in the city of Sacramento, Danté was popping up and getting harassed by the police, shut down and just continued to do it,” he says. Together, Defeye and Péläyo founded the Intersection in 2017, an outdoor open-mic at 35th and Broadway in Oak Park each Monday and a regular site of the Divine Style Pop Up. Then, also last year, Defeye applied for an Oak Park Sol Grant for Péläyo’s bookshop. The nonprofit awarded him $300, a grant that went toward more books and general improvements to the shop. “He wants to give away a lot of stuff,” Defeye says with a laugh, and that takes funding. He sees common goals between Sol Collective and Péläyo’s
work—promoting education, community empowerment. But Sol Collective has its own building, while Péläyo has to physically create new places for his work, every time. “Danté kind of creates his own safe space out on the street corners wherever he goes,” Defeye says. “He’s a great mentor, he comes from great mentors. … He is a conduit for something greater than himself.” In early January, Péläyo stepped onto his biggest platform yet: a sold-out Kings game at the Golden 1 Arena. During the Jan. 11 halftime show in celebration of Martin Luther King Jr., Péläyo was invited to perform. He stepped onto the court and waved to the large audience. His piece “King” was written in a Black Lives Matter notebook, which event organizers asked him to cover for the reading. He recited the piece. “Sunlight shine on my flow and sound, / Rise up people we are glory bound. Master, master, I am my king, / I rule my life and I shine my being.” When he finished, he took a knee. Defeye says the poetry scene is rich in Sacramento, and Dante’s work elevates everyone involved. “We all thought there was a ceiling here until Dante played the arena,” says Defeye. “Then we realized that’s the ceiling for poetry.” Ω
There is no end to the ways Americans are expressing their frustrations. Saturday’s Women’s March drew an estimated 36,000 participants in Sacramento, and it had no shortage of expression. People chanted as they walked from Southside Park to the Capitol Saturday morning: “What do we want? DACA. When do we want it? Now!” and “My body, my choice” rose from the tight crowd. And of course, there were posters—some repped identity, others supported policies and plenty hated on Trump. The unofficial award for most popular sign went to Rick Adams of Fair Oaks, whose words, “Trump’s no pussy... he lacks the depth and the warmth” earned him plenty of protest selfies. Sacramento artist Ianna Frisby greeted marchers dressed in an inflated dinosaur costume with the simple sign, “Time to evolve.” Many pink pussy hats returned, a throwback from the inaugural Women’s March that has been criticized for not including trans folks and people of color in feminism. Funny signs and third-wave adornments aside, others struck a more serious tone. Jeff Peck, a retired Elk Grove veteran, was dressed in his U.S. Army uniform holding his sign, “Amnesty and citizenship for all undocumented immigrants #DACA.” He said he’d hoped his uniform would add legitimacy to his stance. Protestors occasionally stopped to thank him for his service. Cienna Silvia, a 19-year-old first-time attendee of the Women’s March, came out to represent women of color. “I don’t see a lot of signs out here supporting not just dreamers but especially black women,” she said. As a black and Filipino woman, “I wanted to be a voice for that.” At noon, the crowd convened at the west steps of the State Capitol for a rally. Among the speakers was Adama Iwu, a lobbyist who has led the challenge to sexual harassment in politics and was recognized as one of Time Magazine’s Silence Breakers. A line of folks in the audience held black banners with two catchphrases from the movement to hold powerful men accountable for sexual misconduct: “Me Too” and “Time’s Up.” Just beneath those banners, a woman sat on the sidewalk with her interactive art display. A long, white sheet of paper was taped to the ground, a few black sharpies made available. At the top was the header, “Expose Your Local Rapist!” “There are so many systems in place to keep people who do this where they are,” said the woman, who declined to give her name. Her intent is to break the silence among survivors like herself and possibly protect others. “This is the worst art project I’ve done. Every name fucking hurts.” As the rally proceeded, the sheet filled up with more names—a dozen, two dozen and counting. Some people looked at the names in silence, others thanked the artist. Matt Fulton, who attended with his wife and three daughters, stopped to look at the display. “I’m sure there are probably hundreds of people here, too, who could put a name down,” he said. “I would hope my daughters never have the need to do something like this.”
—Kate Gonzales
01.25.18 | SN&R | 19