Response to Activism and Academia in Community Work

Since 2016, we have borne witness to an authoritarian leader who has wielded words to shape our national consciousness about people of color, women, immigrants, and disabled people in ways that have ignited the extreme right, resulting in a rise in hate crimes, the loss of protections for LGBTQ+ people, and, harrowingly, the indefinite detention and separation of immigrant children from their families. On January 6, just two weeks before the inauguration of President Joseph R. Biden, Jr. and Vice President Kamala Harris, the vitriol of the past four years catalyzed an insurrection by Trump supporters, encouraged by Donald Trump himself, in which U.S. Capitol police were violently attacked and killed and lawmakers were chased and called to be hanged. Emboldened by their indignation and their immutable belief that Joe Biden’s win was the result of widespread voter fraud, the insurrectionists, mostly white people, many with ties to white supremacist groups, armed themselves with Trump’s combative rhetoric to launch a physical attack on our democracy.

Indeed, the notion that “words matter” has become more deeply etched into the psyches and bodies of marginalized people under the Trump regime evidence that, indeed, words put matter onto our bodies in ways that make marginalized people vulnerable to violence and racial profiling. And as Trump’s policies and rhetoric have ravaged the bodies of people of color, so has COVID-19, the virus that emerged in the United States in early 2020. The lack of health care coverage, the need for essential workers, and the persistent social and economic inequities that have led to poor health outcomes and factors of co-morbidity—all symptoms of racial capitalism—have converged in deadly ways for black and brown people in the age of COVID, causing a collective trauma. And ironically, togetherness, long-considered necessary for activism and social movements, is a cause of COVID transmission and now a threat to our existence. What, then, happens when our tools for resistance are no longer possible? How do we make social movements possible in isolation? How can we take up new ways of speaking to shift the local, national, and global conversations about who we are? And importantly, how can we redefine notions of “activism” and “community” so that they have meaning for us, so that our work is still visible and coalition remains possible? While not all essays in this issue speak directly to the impact of the Trump administration, as readers, we may find it difficult not to read the selections through a lens of living in a country where anti-immigrant and anti-Latinx rhetoric is propagated by our nation’s leader through language, policy, and in-action. 

The essays in this issue ask questions around space, community-building, identity, story-telling, healing, in/visibility, and resistance. Each of these essays demonstrates how Latinxs are traversing landscapes to create new spaces of resistance—to find new opportunity for social change. From digital spaces to filmmaking to art, Latinx cultural producers are engaging in diverse and multimodal forms of media to create and sustain community, regain control over the narratives that have been weaponized against them, and participate in asset-based practices of activism that reveal the context-based rhetorical shifts in our conversations around what “activism” means. Importantly, taking heed of the call by Amy Aldridge Sanford, whose book is reviewed in this collection, these essays move “from thought to action” by providing “takeaways” that show the implications for activism and change that provide guidance on how to make rhetoric matter.

In “#CripTheVote: Disability Activism, Social Media, and the Campaign for Communal Visibility,” Christina Cedillo explores the disabled community’s in/visibility paradox, focusing on online spaces as spaces of visibility and disruption. In their analysis of the activist hashtag #CriptheVote, Cedillo exposes the ableist rhetorics and assumptions of political activism, exemplifying how the hashtag forges potential for true inclusion by centering bodies within activism that have been historically abjectified and relegated to the margins of social justice movements. Cedillo uncovers the ableist algorithims of the digital landscape of the internet, offering hashtags such as #CriptheVote as mechanisms through which meaningful communities for disabled people can be created and made visible. This piece begs the question: to what extent are our symbols of activism inclusive? When we say “March for Justice,” who do we leave out? Or “raise our voice”? Or “take a stand”? As the author challenges the accessibility to activist spaces, they also raise questions about the inclusion of other marginalized people, such as women who are caregivers, within activism or traditional forms of participatory politics. Indeed, disabled bodies, this piece indicates, animate the potential to bridge communities across landscapes, terrains, and abilities in the struggle for solidarity and social justice.

Like Cedillo, Yndalecio Isaac Hinojosa and Candace de Leon-Zepeda remind us that the materiality of words has the potential to split us, make us vulnerable, and render us foreign in our own homes. But the past that the imperialist, colonialist U.S. has worked so hard to erase has the potential to give us the tools that we need to survive the rhetorical split. Invoking the pre-Columbian goddess Coyolxauhqui, Hinojosa and de Leon-Zepeda draw on the work of Chicana theorist Gloria Anzaldúa to show the potential for wholeness in spite of the split—the potential for healing, transformation, and conocimiento. Through their examination of South Texas artists, they show us the capacity marginalized people have for healing through destruction, trauma, and confronting the violences that inhabit their home spaces and their psyches. Using embedded links in their piece, Hinojosa and de Leon-Zepeda point us to the art, interviews, and performances of the artists. Here, we have access to hearing the artists speak to the ongoing colonization that is inscribed in the geopolitical space of South Texas and thus their own selves, reifying the connection between self, space, and language/expression. 

Anel Flores’s spoken word, focusing on anti-LGBTQ and racist violence and her increased fear as a queer Chicana in familiar home spaces, is particularly poignant. Written as a conversation with herself after the 2016 election, Flores puts on public display her trauma, fragmentation, and loss of safety; by sharing this conversation, she draws her community in, creating a collective listener, a collective sense of self. This is how she is able to put her pieces back together. By drawing from a pre-Columbian, indigenous past as a source of conocimiento, Hinojosa and de Leon-Zepeda show how artists are doing the work of decoloniality through the centering of a place-based, borderlands epistemology that directly challenges the imperialism and colonialism of their home spaces and enables political and personal healing.

Jasmine Villa, Jennifer Falcon, and Maria Arevalo’s essay, “Embedding La Cultura: Digital Engagement of Latinx Organizations,” further speaks to the idea of building collective spaces–in this case, through digital community networks in the non-profit sector. Framing Latinx digital spaces as “space[s] of multimodal resistance to dismantle white spaces in the non-profit sector” (), the authors uncover the oppositional work undertaken by Latinx digital creators to disrupt the mostly white spaces of the blogosphere and other sites of online communication. Importantly, they amplify the work of organizations that are building up the next generation of content creators, such as Latinitas, who takes unique approaches to creating and sustaining networks of engagement in service to Latinx communities. Through their work, they are empowering a generation to assume control of the narratives that tell the stories that define their communities. Aimed at Latinas as young as thirteen years old, Latinitas has sought to build leadership and publishing skills and increase girls’ digital literacies through their collaborative work on the digital magazine Latinitas; at the helm of the magazine are the young Latinas, who produce content that reflects the internet consumption and social media practices of their communities and centers the experiences, knowledges, and histories of their Latinx communities. Through the modeling of inclusive organizational structures and their work to expand their advocacy on social issues to online spaces, the writers are learning how to traverse the multiple rhetorical landscapes that are often crossed in community organizing. Though they do not do it explicitly, Latinitas employs a third wave feminist lens to reach and engage their participants, recognizing the opportunity in this generation’s use of technology as a tool for advocacy and community-building. Latinitas is an example of how the rhetorical work in digital spaces can challenge the hegemonies that have long-shaped the online world in order to empower communities on the ground.

But not all advocacy and activism is welcomed—even by the communities for whom we are advocating. In James Chase Sanchez and Joel Fendelman’s digital short “On Being an Activist in your Hometown,” Sanchez reflects on his documentary Man on Fire, a film that critiques white supremacy through the Grand Saline, Texas’s reaction to and coverage of Charles Moore, a white minister who set himself on fire as a form of protest against racism in his town. In his documentary, Sanchez saw the opportunity for a rhetorical shift in the story about Moore, whose story was initially ignored and then disingenuously reported by the local newspaper. In his account of his experience creating the documentary, Sanchez reveals how Moore’s story lifted the lid on the deep and pervasive existence of racism in his town, exposing the fragility of white supremacy that permeated the psyches of those he had once considered to be his friends. It is difficult not to compare Sanchez’s experience to the 2016 election night, when the extent to which voters were willing to support a racist candidate far exceeded what the polls had predicted. And, like those in Sanchez’s hometown, many of these voters were our family, our friends. However, the seeming ostracization and displacement that Sanchez appears to have experienced is buffered by a deep sense of commitment to truth-telling and the deep sense of love for helping others feel seen and validated in their experiences with racism. Sanchez’s narrative reveals how the label of “activist” operates as a rhetorical strategy of “othering” those who dare to expose deep-seated racism. As the editors point out, Sanchez and Fendelman offer viewers a key takeaway: “Value truth, especially when you receive any pushback against scholarly work that may serve as a vehicle for social change”. This message provides encouragement for both researchers and practitioners alike who work against systemic and structural oppression.

Continuing with a focus on film, in “Chicanx Filmmaking: Producing the Next Generation of Resilient Cinema,” independent Chicanx filmmaker Elvira Carrizal-Dukes “propose[s] Chicanx filmmaking as rhetorical invention” for “combat[ting] oppression… during a time of increased hateful acts and discriminatory acts”. Situating her call within the more recent movements to call out the white and elitism of Hollywood, such as the hashtag #OscarsSoWhite, Carrizal-Duke goes beyond Chicanx filmmaking for the sole purpose of representation, arguing for its potential to improve and empower communities. Drawing her methodology from rasquachismo, the concept by Chicano scholar Tomás Ybarra-Frausto that conceptualizes “making do” with what one has, Carrizal-Duke describes how she has made interventions in filmmaking through creatively drawing on various forms of accessible capital—most of which she found in her own community. From casting friends to seeking donations from the community to using her neighbors’ homes and property to film, Carrizales-Duke’s filmmaking process both draws from and highlights community assets. In doing so, she retains control over the narrative of Chicanx people, circumventing the capitalist expectations of film studios to produce movies that appeal to the mass market. 

Describing her films as “counterstories” that depict experiences of Chicanxs that are not often represented in film, the actual production process of her films is a counterstory. Aside from drawing from cultural and community capital to produce her films, the films became ways of revitalizing her community and supporting the aspirations of her students. For example, her film “Ochoa” did not have enough funding to make it through the post-production process despite the many donations and in-kind contributions she received; however, the film provided a hands-on learning process for her students, brought tourism and business to her city, and proved to be a transformational experience for those involved. Like a major motion film, her film primarily benefited its investors, but the benefit, in this case, transcended capital gain.

The film, while it was never completed, was then adapted into a graphic novel where it gained a new audience, and the story was transformed into a new type of literacy—what she describes as a “translation” moment, drawing from the work of Laura Gonzales. Flexibility and adaptability are what define Chicanx filmmaking rhetorical practices, according to Carrizal-Duke. Thus, it is evident that what is at the heart of Chicanx filmmaking, then, is the story. How that story becomes told and disseminated depends on a host of factors, including the ability to navigate various modes and forms of media, what Carrizal-Duke refers to as “multimodality.” Considering her borderlands identity, it is not a surprise that Carrizal-Duke operates in the “in-between,” and thrives at the intersections of genre. The power of Carrizal-Duke’s creativity lies in her ability to adapt her storytelling to what is available to her, and to create opportunities for collaborations that highlight the cinematic capital within her community, create access to art, and center her community as both the subjects and co-creators of their own stories. 

This special journal issue offers several book reviews. Three of the reviews engage with Counterstory: The Rhetoric and Writing of Critical Race Theory by Aja Y. Martinez. Another review concerns Linguistic Justice, Black Language and Literacy, Identity, and Pedagogy by April Baker-Bell. These reviewed works complement well the contributions made here. Appropriately concluding this special journal issue is Victoria Ramirez Gentry’s review of From Thought to Action: Developing a Social Justice Orientation, by Amy Aldridge Sanford, a communications scholar. 

 Sanford’s book has deep implications for rhetoric studies scholars in its discussion on how educators can guide students who are new to social justice to write about social justice issues such as feminism and racial inequality. Beginning with a discussion of her own positionality in relation to the marginalized communities whose histories she discusses, Sanford models the reflexivity that students must start with as they enter conversations about power and oppression. Then, covering a wide range of histories, including the abolition of slavery, women’s suffrage, the Chican@ movement, and the American Indian movement, Sanford provides historical counterstories that challenge the master narrative of U.S history and social movements. These counterhistories give way to her discussion of social justice movement concepts and terminology most often used by activists within these movements with the purpose of increasing students’ social justice lexicon and literacy. The book then delves into more contemporary forms of social justice movements and forms of activism, exemplifying the call that Sanford makes in the book’s title, the call to go “from thought to action.” 

While Ramirez Gentry finds that the book may need to be supplemented with texts that dive more deeply into the histories that Sanford discusses, the book “may work as a valuable resource for designing a social justice course or used in the context of first-year writing to provide students with more opportunity to examine their thoughts and how they can make their activism actionable”. As we consider the movement to require ethnic studies in both K-12 and higher education institutions, Sandford’s text sounds like a critical addition to a freshman composition class, where students can begin to build a social justice vocabulary baseline before they take courses in Ethnic Studies. Indeed, a social justice vocabulary has benefits far beyond the classroom; ideally, as Sanford insists, we must move from thinking (and writing) about social justice to acting on it.

The relationship between storytelling and space is at the heart of this special journal issue, and each of these essays speaks to the tensions between Latinx people and the spaces they inhabit—spaces inscribed with histories, practices, and vestiges of colonialism and oppression. But importantly, the essays show us the skills with which Latinxs have traversed rhetorical spaces to negotiate these tensions through speaking their traumas, advocating for their communities through digital technologies, adapting stories to new art forms to reach wider audiences, and engaging marginalized people in the co-production of their own narratives. 

Circling back, while the next four years evoke uncertainty about the safety and stability of our country, I am heartened by the work of women of color to organize, mobilize, and draw directly from the tools, epistemologies, and human capital in their own communities to fight voter suppression. If our vote is our voice, then we cannot discount voter suppression as a silencing rhetorical strategy. Whether it is with our vote, our stories, our art, or a hashtag, we have the capacity to speak, to act, and to create spaces for social change.