Janelle Monáe’s “Django Jane” is a (Girl Power Academy) featured recommendation:

Janelle Monae’s Django Jane

I had days that I would be deeply affected by comments that you read online, or even when you walk into a photo shoot, and someone’s like, “No, wear this. This is more appealing. This is how a woman should dress.” I never believe that. The people that I loved and respected, they play with both masculine and feminine energy all the time, and they get it on their terms. From the David Bowies, to the Prince, to the Grace Jones. I get to define who I am on my own terms, and I think when some people are in a stereotypical way of seeing beauty and seeing sexiness, it used to bother me. It doesn’t any more, but people would make comments like, “Oh, if only she would stop dressing up in those suits, she would be fine.”

A lot of guys would say that. I even got a comment like, “You take off them dumbass suits, you might be fine,” or whatever. And I’m just like, “Be quiet. I’m not for male consumption.” 

(~Janelle Monáe)

The Janelle Monáe “Django Jane” (official Music Video) is being posted here for NO COMMERCIAL PURPOSES.

Janelle Monáe “Django Jane” LYRICS:
This is my palace, champagne in my chalice
I got it all covered like a wedding band
Wondaland, so my alias is Alice
And we gon’ start a motherfuckin’ pussy riot
Or we gon’ have to put ’em on a pussy diet
Look at that, I guarantee I got ’em quiet
Look at that, I guarantee they all inspired
A-town, made it out there
Straight out of Kansas City, yeah we made it out there
Celebrated, graduated, made it pass/fail
Sassy, classy, Kool-Aid with the kale
Momma was a G, she was cleanin’ hotels
Poppa was a driver, I was workin’ retail
Kept us in the back of the store
We ain’t hidden no more, moonlit nigga, lit nigga
Already got a Oscar for the casa
Runnin’ down Grammys with the family
Prolly give a Tony to the homies
Prolly get a Emmy dedicated to the
Highly melanated, ArchAndroid orchestrated
Yeah, we highly melanated, ArchAndroid orchestrated
Yeah, Jamanati they still jammin’
Box office numbers, and they doin’ outstandin’
Runnin’ outta space in my damn bandwagon
Remember when they used to say I look too mannish
Black girl magic, y’all can’t stand it
Y’all can’t ban it, made out like a bandit
They been trying hard just to make us all vanish
I suggest they put a flag on a whole ‘nother planet
Jane Bond, never Jane Doe and I Django, never Sambo
Black and white, yeah that’s always been my camo
It’s lookin’ like y’all gon’ need some more ammo
I cut ’em off, I cut ’em off, I cut ’em off like Van Gogh
Now, pan right for the angle
I got away with murder, no scandal, cue the violins and violas
We gave you life, we gave you birth
We gave you God, we gave you Earth
We fem the future, don’t make it worse
You want the world? Well, what’s it worth?
Emoticons, Decepticons, and Autobots, who twist the plot?
Who shot the sheriff, then fled to Paris
In the darkest hour, spoke truth to power?
Made a fandroid outta yo’ girlfriend
Let’s get caught downtown in the whirlwind
And paint the city pink, paint the city pink
And tuck the pearls in, just in case the world end
And nigga, down dawg
Nigga, move back, take a seat, you were not involved
And hit the mute button, let the vagina have a monologue
Mansplaining, I fold ’em like origami
What’s a wave, baby? This a tsunami
For the culture, I kamikaze, I put my life on a life line
If she the G.O.A.T. now, would anybody doubt it?
If she the G.O.A.T. now, would anybody doubt it?
Do anybody got it? Do anybody got it? I say anybody got it?
Songwriter: Janelle Monáe
Django Jane Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Janelle Monae wears the suit in Django Jane

It’s me taking back the mic. Saying, “Men, patriarchy, you’ve been talking for centuries. I got this. We got this.” I love clever lyrics. As a writer, I’ve always respected other lyricists who are clever in the way that they approach their lyrics.

Shout out to Pussy Riot. They are a Russian band from Moscow. They’re a protest punk band, and they’ve been deeply inspirational to me. They’ve been jailed because they are fighting for women’s rights and the LGBTQI community. They are the shit to me, period. And the pussy diet … it can mean a couple things. Pussy diet could also mean, it’s time for you to let women create. Let us work, let us have opportunities. It’s not that we’re not out there, ready to work at a high level, and be in these meeting rooms and these boardrooms.

It’s like, get on a women’s diet. Stop listening to just your bros all the time. We have a lot to contribute, and I think that progress is happening, but it’s a little too slow for my pace. So it can mean that, or it can literally mean, if people want to do a protest ‘cause they’ve done it before in culture, where women just use it as a bargaining tool. I don’t personally believe in using a pleasure that I enjoy as a bargaining tool, I don’t need to suppress my pleasures to protest, nor would I be with a guy who wasn’t fighting for my rights or someone who wasn’t invested like me. So it can mean a lot of things, I like to kind of keep it up to your interpretation.”

 (~Janelle Monáe speaking about her song Django Jane)

“The Vagina Monalogue” in Django Jane by Janelle Monae

I have an organization called Fem the Future, and it’s to help create more opportunities for women in music, in entertainment, in film, ‘cause that’s where I have my footing. It’s to create more mentorship programs, and to give women these opportunities. It’s not like we’re not there, we just need the opportunities. So I’m saying, where I am, together with the help of men and women, my organization, we’re trying our best to make sure that women feel seen and feel heard and they’re in these spaces, they’re in these board rooms, they’re helping make these decisions. Because if you don’t put the woman’s voice in the room, you’re not thinking about mirroring a world that exists, and women and men are here. We’re in the world to coexist and work together.

It gets deeper, I mean, we also talk about how in the workplace, when women are in charge, sexual harassment, abuse, all that goes down when we’re in these rooms and when you’re listening to us. So I think it was saying that we’re trying to do something positive. We’re trying to make some steps. Don’t make it worse, don’t fuck it up. You’ve had how many centuries to rule and to reign and to have patriarchy be the voice? Let us be great. Let us contribute. Or, not let us, but we’re gonna be doing this. So you can either get on board, or get off the ship.”

(~Janelle Monáe

To Find out more, check out: http://www.femfuture.com


The band called The Internet is a (Girl Power Academy) featured recommendation:

Album Cover for The Internet “Hive Mind” 2018

The Internet is an American band from Los Angeles, California. Syd, Matt Martians, Patrick Paige II, Christopher Smith, and Steve Lacy.

The Internet “Roll” Burbank Funk (Music Video) is being posted for NO COMMERCIAL PURPOSES.

The Internet “Roll (Burbank Funk)” LYRICS:

Listen to your heart
Listen to your heart
What’s it saying?

Catch stars, up high
Hear it in your heart
We’re up, so high
Hear it in your heart
I wanna fly
Check your voice, girl
Hear your heart go
On, on, on, on, on
On, on, on, on, on
Hear your heart go
On and on and on and on

As you’re coming down
Where’s your heart go?

Catch stars, up high
It’s all in your heart
We’re up, so high
It’s all in your heart
I wanna fly
Look no further
Let your heart flow
On, on, on, on, on
On, on, on, on, on
Let your heart flow
On, on, on, on, on
On, on, on, on, on
All night, all night
Let your heart flow

All night, all night
All night, all night
All night, all night
All night, all night

The Internet’s “Roll (Burbank Funk)” taken from the new album HIVE MIND – out 7/20

Director: Joe Weil Producer: Sam Canter Co-Producer: Christian Sutton Prod. Company: @psychofilms Director of Photography: Philips Shum Editor: Tyler Sobel-Mason Light Painting: @dariustwin

Follow The Internet: http://internet-band.com http://facebook.com/theinternetmusic http://twitter.com/intanetz http://instagram.com/theinternet http://smarturl.it/theinternetapple http://smarturl.it/theinternetsptfy

Album Cover for The Internet “Ego Death” 2015

“When the Man Comes Around” is a (Girl Power Academy) featured Recommendation:

The evangelical * ah hem * “christian”  support of Donald Trump and Trump “declaring” Jerusalem the capital of Israel being validated, cheered and gloated about by the Jewish people, has proven that anyone associated with Trump have sold their greedy souls.

So without further ado, this post goes out to ya’ll…

 I’ve always been fond of this image of Johnny Cash.  I have a postcard of it on a bulletin board in my art studio.   (R.I.P. sweet Johnny.) 

Portrait of Johnny Cash

The Johnny Cash “When the Man Comes Around” (music audio) is being posted here for NO COMMERCIAL PURPOSES.

Johnny Cash “When the Man Comes Around” LYRICS:

And I heard as it were the noise of thunder

One of the four beasts saying come and see and I saw

And behold a white horse

There’s a man going around taking names

And he decides who to free and who to blame

Everybody won’t be treated all the same

There’ll be a golden ladder reaching down

When the Man comes around

The hairs on your arm will stand up

At the terror in each sip and in each sup

Will you partake of that last offered cup?

Or disappear into the potter’s ground

When the Man comes around

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers

One hundred million angels singing

Multitudes are marching to the big kettledrum

Voices calling, voices crying

Some are born and some are dying

It’s Alpha and Omega’s kingdom come

And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree

The virgins are all trimming their wicks

The whirlwind is in the thorn tree

It’s hard for thee to kick against the pricks

Till Armageddon no shalam, no shalom

Then the father hen will call his chickens home

The wise man will bow down before the throne

And at His feet they’ll cast their golden crowns

When the Man comes around

Whoever is unjust let him be unjust still

Whoever is righteous let him be righteous still

Whoever is filthy let him be filthy still

Listen to the words long written down

When the Man comes around

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers

One hundred million angels singing

Multitudes are marching to the big kettledrum

Voices calling and voices crying

Some are born and some are dying

It’s Alpha and Omega’s kingdom come

And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree

The virgins are all trimming their wicks

The whirlwind is in the thorn tree

It’s hard for thee to kick against the pricks

In measured hundred weight and penney pound

When the Man comes around.

Close (Spoken part) And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts And I looked and behold, a pale horse And his name that sat on him was Death And Hell followed with him.

The Bo Mathorne “Backwater Gospel” (Animation short) is being posted here for NO COMMERCIAL PURPOSES.

a Bachelor film project (2011) from The Animation Workshop.

 The soundtrack has been released as a free EP, which can be found here:


“The Backwater Gospel” is a bachelor project of 8 students at the Animation Workshop in 2011

By: Bo Mathorne, Tue T. Sørensen, Arthur Gil Larsen, Rie C. Nymand, Mads Simonsen, Thomas H. Grønlund, Esben Jacob Sloth, Martin Holm-Grevy

Bo Mathorne – Director

Arthur Gil Larsen – Animation Lead

Mads Simonsen – Technical director Thomas Grønlund – Animator Rie Nymand – Animator

Esben Sloth – Art Director

Martin Holm-Grevy – Environment lead

Tue Toft Sørensen – Animator

Music composed and performed by: Sons of Perdition

Voice actors: The Tramp: Zebulon Whatley The Minister: Lucien Dodge Bubba: Phillip Sacramento Towns people: Laura

Post Supervisors: Michelle Nardone – Production supervisor Katrine Talks – Production supervisor Jessie Roland – Animation supervisor Christian Kuntz – Animatic supervisor Patrick Voetberg – Editing supervisor Sunit Parekh-Gaihede – CG supervisor Jared Embley – Rigging supervisor Thomas Christensen – Sound supervisor Svend Nordby – Technical supervisor Consultants: Peter Albrechtsen – Sound design consultant Michael Valeur – Story consultant Andrew Harris – CG Consultant Mads Juul – Animatic consultant Saschka Unseld – 3D animatic consultant Anna Kubik – 3D animatic consultant Jericca Cleland – Story consultant Marec Fritzinger – Design consultant Tomm Moore – Design consultant Lawrence Marvit – Design consultant Niels Bach – Background consultant

Thanks to: Lasse Niragira Rasmussen – Additional animation Jeppe Bro Døcker – Additional animation Morten Thorning – Moral guidance Oliver Kirchhoff – Scripting Those Poor Bastards – Inspiration Robert Bennett – Voice work Lostandtaken.com – Textures Friends and family

Donald Glover is a (Girl Power Academy) Music Video feature:

Donald Glover “Childish Gambino” (actor, director, producer, artist, Musician) in “This is America” Music Video

“Y’all are forgetting what rap is,” he told The New Yorker recently. “Rap is ‘I don’t care what you think in society, wagging your finger at me for calling women “bitches”—when, for you to have two cars, I have to live in the projects.’”

(~ Donald Glover quote from the The Atlantic: entertainment Music review of Donald Glover’s “this is america” (Childish Gambino )

The Childish Gambino “This is America” (Music Video) is being posted here for NO COMMERCIAL PURPOSES.

Childish Gambino  “This Is America,” LYRICS:

[Intro: Choir]
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, go, go away
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, go, go away
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, go, go away
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, go, go away [Bridge: Childish Gambino & Young Thug]
We just wanna party
Party just for you
We just want the money
Money just for you
I know you wanna party
Party just for me
Girl, you got me dancin’ (yeah, girl, you got me dancin’)
Dance and shake the frame
We just wanna party (yeah)
Party just for you (yeah)
We just want the money (yeah)
Money just for you (you)
I know you wanna party (yeah)
Party just for me (yeah)
Girl, you got me dancin’ (yeah, girl, you got me dancin’)
Dance and shake the frame (you
[Chorus: Childish Gambino]
This is America
Don’t catch you slippin’ up
Don’t catch you slippin’ up
Look what I’m whippin’ up
This is America (woo)
Don’t catch you slippin’ up
Don’t catch you slippin’ up
Look what I’m whippin’ up
[Verse 1: Childish Gambino, Blocboy JB, Slim Jxmmi, Young Thug, & 21 Savage]
This is America (skrrt, skrrt, woo)
Don’t catch you slippin’ up (ayy)
Look at how I’m livin’ now
Police be trippin’ now (woo)
Yeah, this is America (woo, ayy)
Guns in my area (word, my area)
I got the strap (ayy, ayy)
I gotta carry ’em
Yeah, yeah, I’ma go into this (ugh)
Yeah, yeah, this is guerilla (woo)
Yeah, yeah, I’ma go get the bag
Yeah, yeah, or I’ma get the pad
Yeah, yeah, I’m so cold like yeah (yeah)
I’m so dope like yeah (woo)
We gon’ blow like yeah (straight up, uh)
[Refrain: Choir & Childish Gambino]
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, tell somebody
You go tell somebody
Grandma told me
Get your money, Black man (get your money)
Get your money, Black man (get your money)
Get your money, Black man (get your, Black man)
Get your money, Black man (get your, Black man)
Black man[Chorus: Childish Gambino, Slim Jxmmi, & Young Thug]
This is America (woo, ayy)
Don’t catch you slippin’ up (woo, woo, don’t catch you slippin’, now)
Don’t catch you slippin’ up (ayy, woah)
Look what I’m whippin’ up (Slime!)
This is America (yeah, yeah)
Don’t catch you slippin’ up (woah, ayy)
Don’t catch you slippin’ up (ayy, woo)
Look what I’m whippin’ up (ayy)[Verse 2: Childish Gambino, Quavo, Young Thug, & 21 Savage]I’m so prettyLook how I’m geekin’ out (hey)
I’m so fitted (I’m so fitted, woo)
I’m on Gucci (I’m on Gucci)
I’m so pretty (yeah, yeah)
I’m gon’ get it (ayy, I’m gon’ get it)
Watch me move (blaow)
This a celly (ha)
That’s a tool (yeah)
On my Kodak (woo, Black)
Ooh, know that (yeah, know that, hold on)
Get it (get it, get it)
Ooh, work it (21)
Hunnid bands, hunnid bands, hunnid bands (hunnid bands)
Contraband, contraband, contraband (contraband)
I got the plug on Oaxaca (woah)
They gonna find you that blocka (blaow)

[Refrain: Choir, Childish Gambino, & Young Thug]
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, tell somebody
America, I just checked my following list and
You go tell somebody
You mothafuckas owe me
Grandma told me
Get your money, Black man (Black man)
Get your money, Black man (Black man)
Get your money, Black man (get your, Black man)
Get your money, Black man (get your, Black man)
Black man
One, two, get down
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh, tell somebody
You go tell somebody
Grandma told me, “Get your money”
Get your money, Black man (Black man)
Get your money, Black man (Black man)
Get your money, Black man (Black man)
Get your money, Black man (Black man)
Black man

[Outro: Young Thug]
You just a Black man in this world
You just a barcode, ayy
You just a Black man in this world
Drivin’ expensive foreigns, ayy
You just a big dawg, yeah
I kenneled him in the backyard
No probably ain’t life to a dog
For a big dog


I think he’s pretty.  How about ya’ll other bitches?  Whaddya think? 

Here is a post of possible related interest:

Check out Arthur Jafa and bell hooks talking about “who is looking.”  Stick with the whole lecture and witness Jafa’s cinematography.  



A Tribe Called Red is a (Girl Power Academy) First Nation, Earth Day DJ recommendation:

A Tribe Called Red is an all-First-Nation-DJ-crew from Ottawa Canada. Ian Campeau (Nipissing Anishinaabe), Tim ‘2oolman_ Hill (Mohawk) and Ehren Bear Witness Thomas (Cayuga)

A Tribe Called Red’s Electric powwow, now known as powwow step, has since gone global. 

Their big moment came in 2014. After months on tour in Europe, where they performed from Paris to Berlin, they took home a Juno, Canada’s music award, for breakthrough artist of the year, and were nominated for best electronic album. It was the first time an aboriginal artist had won outside the aboriginal category.

For fans, Tribe’s success is a source of pride in a national context where First Nation people still face systemic racism, unchecked police brutality and higher rates of suicide and addiction than any other group in North America.

For critics, they represent an emerging aesthetic that explores the tensions between city life and “rez life”, between pop and traditional native culture – a dual identity shaped by a decades-long migration from reservations and Canadian reserves to urban centers in a pattern than mirrors that of the Great Migration. Ethnomusicologists see Tribe’s approach to sampling native music as a form of repatriation, a challenge to western concepts of copyright.

The band has also struck a chord with a certain cultural elite – and this is where things get complicated. 

They’ve been accused on social media of reverse racism, of being too politically correct, of “taking away people’s fun” – which is why Witness finds the exchange on Instagram both upsetting and delighting.

“We never expected non-indigenous people to show up at our parties and listen to our music,” Witness says. “I see the indigenous audience getting frustrated by the space that the non-indigenous crowd can take up. The fact they’re out there trying to claim that space is a kind of action. In the past, indigenous people were silent. We didn’t complain. We tried to fit in.There wasn’t a space to complain about. So that in itself is a new kind of privilege for indigenous youth to have: to be able to complain.”

Underpinning such complaints are questions around assimilation and ownership, and who Tribe’s music belongs to.

By sampling powwow music and dance, Tribe is sampling a piece of indigenous history that was outlawed and suppressed, through indirect policies and outright violence, in both the US and Canada.

These conflicts speak to a longer history of struggle, resistance, and music that extends back through the Oka Crisis, the American Indian Movement and the massacre at Wounded Knee.

On a snowy weekend in January, Witness, Campeau, and Tim Hill, the band’s newest member, sat inside a multi-million dollar recording studio at the Phi Center in Montreal, surrounded by Macs and mixers, foam-padded walls, and a flag of the Iroquois Confederacy.

After five consecutive weekends in the studio, the sound and feel of the album was beginning to take shape. A mashup of rawhide drums and electronically crafted beats, it combined vocals by the Black Bear Singers (a young powwow group from an isolated reserve in northern Quebec) with rappers, electronic musicians and folk artists. The list is impressive: among those names were Saul Williams, Maxida Marak, Koolaid and the former chairman of the American Indian Movement, John Trudell, the activist behind the occupation of Alcatraz,one of the most successful American Indian protests of the 20th century.”

~BIO written by Damaris Colhoun

Read the full Biography-Article Here: https://www.theguardian.com/music/2015/jul/28/electric-powwow-tribe-called-red

The A Tribe Called Red “ALie Nation” ft. John Trudell, Tanya Tagaq, Lido Pimienta and Northern Voice (Music/Spoken Word video) is being posted here for NO COMMERCIAL PURPOSES.

A Tribe Called Red “ALie Nation” ft. John Trudell, Tanya Tagaq, Lido Pimienta and Northern Voice LYRCS:

The Halluci Nation

The human beings

The people see the spiritual in the natural

Through sense and feeling

Everything is related

All the things of earth and in the sky have spirit

Everything is sacred

Confronted by the alienation

The subjects and the citizens see the material religions

Through trauma and numb

Nothing is related

All the things of the earth and in the sky have energy to be exploited

Even themselves, mining their spirits into souls, sold

Into nothing is sacred not even their self

The ALie Nation, the alienation

The A Tribe Called Red “The Virus” ft. Saul Williams (Music Video) is being posted here FOR NO COMMERCIAL PURPOSES.

A Tribe Called Red “The Virus” LYRICS:
The people
The virus took on many shapes
The bear, the elk, the antelope, the elephant, the deer
The mineral, the iron, the copper, the coltan, and the rubber
The coffee, the cotton, the sugar
The people
The germ traveled faster than the bullet
They harvest the mountainside, protect the crops, herd the cattle
The people
The women and children were separated from the men
They divided us according to the regional affiliations of their minds
The violence of arrogance crawls into the air, nestles into the geospatial cortex
We are not a conquered people
Drum beats by regionI was wakened by my elder brother
The compound was on fire
Awakened by my elder brother
The compound was on fire
The compound was on fire
The compound was on fireThe missionaries never hid their perspective
Prospectors of land, they would rather see us disappear
Recycle their prayers
The people
This is my body which is given to you
The people
This is my blood
We are not a conquered peopleI was wakened by my elder brother
The compound was on fire
Awakened by my elder brother
The compound was on fire
The compound was on fire
The compound was on fire
The compound was on fire

We’d like to give a special thanks to MuchFACT, DAIS, Pirates Blend Records and MadRuk Entertainment for helping bring this project come to life! Produced for the Halluci Nation by DAIS & Mad Ruk Directed for the Halluci Nation by Tunkasila Writers: Bear Witness, Sol Guy & Ezra Miller for the Halluci Nation “Produced with the financial assistance of MuchFACT, a division of Bell Media Inc.” 


ATCR: Bear, DJ NDN 2oolman Halluci Nation Guardian: Mathew Creasian Guardian: Devery Jacobs Guardian: Narcy Guardian: Dre Ngozi Elder: Bears Mom Monique Mohica aka Mama Bear Refugees Saul Williams: Saul Williams Youth: Brooklyn (Big Rez’s daughter) Woman: Jiji Woman: Rupi Kaur Man: Budda ALie Nation: Hasan Hazime ALie Nation: Viktor Micic CREW Production Company: DAIS & Mad Ruk Entertainment Director: Sol Guy Director: Ezra Miller Producer: Mark Andrew Sirju Production: Manager Elliot Clancy-Osberg 1st Assistant: Director: Mario Scenna 2nd Assistant: Director: Jacob McIntyre Choreographer: Zack Winokur Director of Photography: Rafe Scobey-Thal 1st AC: Keenan Lynch 2nd AC/DMT: Jon Elliot Gaffer: Bryan Angarita Best Boy Electric: Chow Khanseng Mein 3rd Electric: Zach Duchin Key Grip: Spencer Johnston Best Boy Grip: Jordan Heighington Swing: Bradley Chowace Production Designer: Stephen Depko Props Master: Michael Tessier Hair & Make-Up: Gillian Berry Assistant HMU: Lisa Diane Rueckert Costume Designer: Caitlin Wright Assistant Costumes: Shirin Nadjafi Production Assistant: Nick Telesca Production Assistant: Matt Johnson Production Assistant: Janelle Bartley Production Assistant: Jaclyn McBride Craft Services: Rafaela D Scully Catering: iFeed Catering, Patrick Simaan Stills Photographer: Ruthie Titus

The A Tribe Called Red “Electric Pow Wow Drum” (music audio) is being posted here for NO COMMERCIAL PURPOSES.

Get A Tribe Called Red‘s new album “We Are The Halluci Nation” now: http://smarturl.it/ATCRHalluciNation

 ————–A Tribe Called Red————-

Website: http://atribecalledred.com/

Spotify: http://spoti.fi/28W5Znz

Twitter: http://twitter.com/atribecalledred

Instagram: http://instagram.com/atribecalledred

Facebook: http://facebook.com/atribecalledred

Merch: http://atribecalledred.com/shop-2/

Toni Jensen’s first story collection, From the Hilltop, was published through the Native Storiers Series at the University of Nebraska Press. Her stories have been published in journals such as Ecotone, Denver Quarterly, and Fiction International and have been anthologized in New Stories from the South, Best of the Southwest, and Best of the West: Stories from the Wide Side of the Missouri. She’s working on a collection-in-progress, called Cowboyistan, about fracking and the sex trafficking of Indigenous women. She teaches in the Programs in Creative Writing and Translation at the University of Arkansas. She is Métis.

Women in the Fracklands: On Water, Land, Bodies, and Standing Rock

“Who is responsible for and to this woman, her safety, her body, her memory?”

By Toni Jensen


On Magpie Road, the colors are in riot. Sharp blue sky over green and yellow tall grass that rises and falls like water in the North Dakota wind. Magpie Road holds no magpies, only robins and crows. A group of magpies is called a tiding, a gulp, a murder, a charm. When the men in the pickup make their first pass, there on the road, you are photographing the grass against sky, an ordinary bird blurring over a lone rock formation.

You do not photograph the men, but if you had, you might have titled it “Father and Son Go Hunting.” They wear camouflage, and their mouths move in animation or argument. They have their windows down, as you have left those in your own car down the road. It is warm for fall. It is grouse season and maybe partridge but not yet waterfowl. Despite how partridge are in the lexicon vis-à-vis pear trees and holiday singing, the birds actually make their homes on the ground. You know which birds are in season because you are from a rural place like this one, a place where guns and men and shooting seasons are part of the knowledge considered common.

Magpie Road lies in the middle of the 1,028,051 acres that make up the Little Missouri National Grasslands in western North Dakota. Magpie Road lies about 200 miles north and west of the Standing Rock Reservation, where thousands of Indigenous people and their allies have come together to protect the water, where sheriff’s men and pipeline men and National Guardsmen have been donning their riot gear, where those men still wait, where they still hold tight to their riot gear.

If a man wears his riot gear during prayer, will the sacred forsake him? If a man wears his riot gear to the holiday meal, how will he eat? If a man enters the bedroom in his riot gear, how will he make love to his wife? If a man wears his riot gear to tuck in his children, what will they dream?

Magpie Road is part of the Bakken, a shale formation lying deep under the birds, the men in the truck, you, this road. The shale has been forming over centuries through pressure, through layers of sediment becoming silt. The silt becomes clay, which becomes shale. All of this is because of water. The Bakken is known as a Marine shale—meaning, once, here, instead of endless grass, there lay endless water.

There, just off Magpie Road, robins sit on branches or peck the ground. A group of robins is called a riot. This seems wrong at every level except the taxonomic. Robins are ordinary, everyday, general-public sorts of birds. They seem the least likely of all birds to riot.

When the men in the truck make their second pass, there on the road, the partridge sit their nests, and the robins are not in formation. They are singular. No one riots but the colors. The truck revs and slows and revs and slows beside you. You have taken your last photograph of the grass, have moved yourself back to your car. The truck pulls itself close to your car, revving parallel.

You are keeping your face still, starting the car. You have mislabeled your imaginary photograph. These men, they are not father and son. At close range, you can see there is not enough distance in age. One does sport camouflage, but the other, a button-down shirt, complete with pipeline logo over the breast pocket. They are not bird hunters. The one in the button-down motions to you out the window with his handgun, and he smiles and says things that are incongruous with his smiling face.


The night before, in a nearby fracklands town, you stand, with your camera, in your hotel room doorway. You left Standing Rock for the Bakken, and the wood smoke from the water protector camps still clings to your hair. You perform your fracklands travel protocol, photographing the room—the bedspread and desk, the bathroom. In your year and a half of research for your novel, of driving and talking to women in the fracklands, you have performed this ritual, this protocol, dozens of times. You upload the photos onto a website that helps find women who are trafficked, who have gone missing.

The influx of men, of workers’ bodies, into frackland towns brings an overflow of crime. In the Bakken at the height of the oil and gas boom, violent crime, for example, increased by 125 percent. North Dakota Attorney General Wayne Stenehjem called this increase in violent crime “disturbing,” and cited aggravated assaults, rapes, and human trafficking as “chief concerns.”

In each place, each frackland, off each road, you wait until checkout to upload the photos of the rooms. In the year and a half of driving and talking and driving and talking, if you’ve learned nothing else, you’ve learned to wait. Because it is very, very difficult to sleep in a hotel room once you learn a woman’s gone missing from it.


In the Marcellus Shale in Pennsylvania, a floorhand shuts the door to his hotel room, puts his body between the door and a woman holding fresh towels. A floorhand is responsible for the overall maintenance of a rig. The woman says to you that he says to her, “I just want some company.” He says it over and over, into her ear, her hair, while he holds her down. She says it to you, your ear, your hair. She hates that word now, she says, company. A floorhand is responsible for the overall maintenance of a rig. A floorhand is responsible. But who is responsible for and to this woman, her safety, her body, her memory? Who is responsible to and for the language, the words that will not take their leave?

In a hotel in Texas, in the Wolfcamp Shale, you wake to the music of the trucks arriving and departing. This hotel is shiny tile and chrome bathrooms. It is a parking lot overfilled with trucks, with men from the fields who have an arrangement with management. An arrangement can mean flowers in a vase. An arrangement can mean these men pay for nothing, not even a room. In the morning, the parking lot is all trashcan. Beer bottles and used condoms and needles, the nighttime overflow.

In a hotel in Texas, in the Permian Basin, you report to the front desk re: the roughneck in the room above. You dial zero while he hits his wife/girlfriend/girl he has just bought. You dial zero while he throws her and picks her up and starts again. Or at least, one floor down, this is the soundtrack. Upon his departure, the man uses his fist on every door down your hall. The sound is loud but also is like knocking, like hello, like Anybody home? You wonder if he went first to the floor above but think not. Sound, like so many things, operates mostly through a downward trajectory.

At a hotel where South Dakota and Wyoming meet, you are sure you have driven out of the Bakken, past its edge, far enough. That highway that night belongs to the deer, and all forty or fifty of them stay roadside as you pass. You arrive at the hotel on caffeine and luck. The parking lot reveals the calculus of your mistake—truck after truck after truck, and a hotel clerk outside transacting with a young roughneck. Their posture suggests a shared cigarette or kiss or grope—something safetied through vice or romance or lust. You’d take it. But here the posture is all commerce, is about the positioning of the body close so money can change hands. You are in a place that’s all commerce, where bodies are commerce only.

When two more roughnecks stagger into your sight line, the hotel clerk and her partner are heading inside. She meets your eyes like a dare. The staggering man is drunk, the other holding up the first while he zips his fly. This terminology, fly, comes from England, where it first referred to the flap on a tent—as in, Tie down your tent fly against the high winds. As in, Don’t step on the partridge nest as you tie down your fly. As in, Stake down your tent fly against the winter snow, against the rubber bullets, against the sight of the riot gear.

The men sway across the lot, drunk-loud, and one says to the other, “Hey, look at that,” and you are the only that there. When the other replies, “No. I like the one in my room just fine,” you are sorry and grateful for the one in an unequal measure.

You cannot risk more roadside deer, and so despite all your wishes, you stay the night. A group of deer is called a herd; a group of roe deer, a bevy. There is a bevy of roe deer in the Red Forest near Chernobyl. The Bakken is not Chernobyl because this is America. The Bakken is not Chernobyl because the Bakken is not the site of an accident. The Bakken is not Chernobyl because the Bakken is no accident.


On Magpie Road, the ditch is shallow but full of tall grass. With one hand, the button-down man steers his truck closer to your car, and with the other, he waves the handgun. He continues talking, talking, talking. The waving gesture is casual, like the fist knocking down the hotel hallway—hello, anyone home, hello?

Once on a gravel road, your father taught you to drive your way out of a worse ditch. When the truck reverses, then swerves forward, as if to block you in, you take the ditch to the right, and when the truck slams to a stop and begins to reverse at a slant, taking the whole road, you cross the road to the far ditch, which is shallow, is like a small road made of grass, a road made for you, and you drive like that, on the green and yellow grass until the truck has made its turn, is behind you. By then you can see the highway, and the truck is beside you on the dirt road, and the truck turns right, sharp across your path. So you brake then veer left. You veer out, onto the highway, fast, in the opposite direction.

Left is the direction to Williston. So you drive to Williston, and no one follows.

At a big box store in Williston, a lot sign advertises overnight parking for RV’s. You have heard about this, how girls are traded here. You had been heading here to see it, and now you’re seeing it. Mostly, you’re not seeing. You are in Williston for thirty-eight minutes, and you don’t leave your car.

You spend those thirty-eight minutes driving around the question of violence, of proximity and approximation. How many close calls constitute a violence? How much brush can a body take before it becomes a violence, before it makes violence, or before it is remade—before it becomes something other than the body it was once, before it becomes a past-tense body?



Why were you there on the road?

Because Indigenous women are almost three times more likely than other women to be harassed, to be raped, to be sexually assaulted, to be called a that there.

Because when the governor of North Dakota made an order to block entrance into the camps at Standing Rock and then rescinded it, he said the order was intended toward “public safety.” Because in his letter to the Standing Rock Tribal Chairman, the Commander of the Army Corps of Engineers said he was “genuinely concerned for the safety and well-being of both the members of your Tribe and the general public located at these encampments.”

Because these statistics about trafficking, about assault, are knowledge considered common, but only if your body is not considered a general-public body.

Because you’re a Métis woman.

Because you and they and we misunderstand the danger at Standing Rock, the danger of this pipeline going in there or elsewhere or everywhere. Because you and they and we misunderstand the nature of danger altogether.

Because each person in Flint, Michigan, for the foreseeable future, is rationed four cases of bottled water per week. Because you can see this future upriver or down. Because everywhere is upriver or down.

Because your first memory of water is of your father working to drown your mother. Because you are four or five, and you need to use the bathroom, but instead, find yourself backing out the bathroom doorway and down the hall where you sit on the rust-colored shag. Because you wait for your father to quit trying to drown your mother. It seems crucial in the moment not to wet your pants. It seems crucial to hold the pieces of yourself together. If you make a mess on the carpet, if your father doesn’t kill your mother, then she will have to clean the carpet. It seems crucial not to cause any trouble. So you sit. You wait. You hold yourself together.

Because all roads used to lead back to that house, and it is a measure of time and hard work that they no longer do. Because all roads lead to the body and through it. Because too many of us have these stories and these roads. Because you carry theirs and they carry yours, and in this way, there is a measure of balance. Because you are still very good at holding yourself together. Because these times make necessary the causing of trouble, the naming of it.

Because to the north and west of Magpie Road, in the Cypress Hills of southern Saskatchewan, in 1873, when traders and wolf hunters killed more than twenty Assiniboine, mostly women and children in their homes, the Métis hid in those hills and lived. Because they lived, they carried the news. Because they lived, you carry the news. Because the massacre took place along the banks of a creek that is a tributary that feeds into the greater Missouri River.

Because these times and those times and all times are connected through land and bodies and water.

What were you wearing, there on the road?

Not riot gear.

Why didn’t you call the police?

See the water cannon on the bridge at Standing Rock. Listen to the sheriff’s department men call it a “water hose” like this makes the act better. See also: Birmingham, Alabama. See the dog cages constructed outside the Morton County Sheriff’s Department to hold “overflow.” See the overflow—the water protectors, Dakota and Lakota women and men in cages. See it all overflow. See the journalists arrested for trespass and worse. See the confiscated notebooks, the cameras they will never get back. See the woman struck by a tear gas canister. See how she will no longer be able to see through her right eye. See the children whose grandmothers and grandfathers are hospitalized with hypothermia. See the elder who has a heart attack. See how science newly quantifies what some of us have long known—how historical and cultural trauma is lived in our bodies, is passed down, generation to generation, how it lives in the body. See the fires that elders light to keep warm. See the water extinguish those fires. See the children seeing it.

Why were you by yourself?

On a road like this, you are never alone. There is grass, there is sky, there is wind. See also: the answer on historical and cultural trauma. See also: Cypress Hills. See also: the everyday robins who are in formation now. See also: their ordinary, general-public bodies in riot.

What did you do, after?

You drove north and west and sat in rooms with friends, old and new. You hiked and ate good meals and talked about art. You wrote things down. You began the work of stitching yourself back together. You did this on repeat until the parts hung together in some approximation of self. In Livingston, Montana, you made use of the car wash. You left the tall grass there.

Further questions should be directed toward: Proceed to the Route. Upon arrival, pick up loose, roadside threads. Use them to stitch shut the asking mouths.


At Standing Rock, the days pass in rhythm. You sort box upon box of donation blankets and clothes. You walk a group of children from one camp to another so they can attend school.

The night before the first walk, it has rained hard and the dirt of the road has shifted to mud. The dirt or mud road runs alongside a field, which sits alongside the Cannonball River, which sits alongside and empties itself into the Missouri.

Over the field, a hawk rides a thermal, practicing efficiency. There on the road, in the mud, three Herefords block progress. The cow snorts to her calves, which are large enough to be ambulatory, young enough for the cow still to proffer protection. She places her body between you, the threat, and her calves. She stamps her hooves into the mud, and they stick in a way you imagine unsatisfactory.

In that letter to the Standing Rock Tribal Chairman, the Army Corps Commander wrote that the people must disperse from camp, “due to the concern for public safety” and because “this land is leased to private persons for grazing and/or haying purposes.”

A cow holds public hooves whether stuck in mud or otherwise. A cow is not a concern to public safety. But what of these children? Are they considered public or private? If they don’t graze or hay, if they cannot be leased, what is their value, here on this road, in this, our America?

That day, there on the road, once the mother cow allows safe passage, you walk on. After school but before the return walk, the children and you gather with hundreds to listen to the tribal chairman speak of peace, to sit with elders to pray, to talk of peace.

On this day, it is still fall. Winter will arrive with the Army Corps’ words—no drilling under Lake Oahe, no pipeline under Lake Oahe. The oil company will counter, calling the pipeline “vital,” saying they “fully expect to complete construction of the pipeline without any additional rerouting in and around Lake Oahe.” The weather will counter with a blizzard. After the words and before the blizzard, there will be a celebration. A gathering of larks is called an exaltation. Even if it wasn’t so, you like to think of them there, like to think of their song, there with the people in the snow, there, alongside the river.

Back in the fall, you walk the children home from school, there on the road. You cross the highway, the bridge, upon your return. This bridge lies due south of the Backwater Bridge of the water cannons or hoses. But this bridge, this day, holds a better view. The canoes have arrived from the Northwest tribes, the Salish tribes. They gather below the bridge on the water and cars slow alongside you to honk and wave. Through their windows, people offer real smiles.

That night, under the stars, fire-lit, the women from the Salish tribes dance and sing. Though you’ve been to a hundred powwows, easily, you’ve never seen this dance, never heard this song. You stand with your own arms resting on the shoulders of the school children, and the dancers, these women, move their arms in motions that do more than mimic water, that conjure it. Their voices are calm and strong, and they move through the gathering like quiet, like water, like something that will hold, something you can keep, even if only for this moment.

Toni Jensen’s Women in the Fracklands source here: https://catapult.co/stories/women-in-the-fracklands-on-water-land-bodies-and-standing-rock

Find More by Toni Jensen Here: https://www.tonijensen.com

Seinabo Sey is a (Girl Power Academy) featured Singer recommendation:

Seinbo Sey (singer/lyricist)

Some days, I think maybe we should try and be a little more conventional, but every time I try, I fail, so I’m learning to not even entertain that thought anymore.”  ~Seinabo Sey

Seinabo Sey was born in Södermalm, Stockholm on 7 October 1990, she is of both Swedish and Gambian (West African) ancestry. She moved to Halmstad, Sweden at the age of eight, and attended Östergårdsskolans music program for musically gifted teenagers.

I guess one thing that makes my music stand out is that it is quite hard to determine what genre it is.” ~Seinabo Sey


The Seinabo Sey “I Owe You Nothing” (music video) is being posted here for NO COMMERCIAL PURPOSE.

Seinabo Sey “I Owe You Nothing” LYRICS

I be myself I aint frontin na na nah

I owe you nothing I be myself I aint frontin na na nah

I don’t have to smile for you I don’t have to move for you

I don’t have to dance monkey dance monkey dance for you

See I wont help you understand

I don’t need no helping hand

These aren’t tears this is the ocean

These aren’t fears this is devotion

I owe you nothing I be myself I aint frontin na na nah

I owe you nothing I be myself I aint frontin na na nah

I don’t have to walk for you I don’t have to talk to you

See I’m not on display, never was, never will ever be for you

I wont help you understand I don’t need no helping hand

These aren’t tears this is the ocean

These aren’t fears this is devotion

Why you always have to try me?

Thinking I’m gon follow blindly saying, ‘oh let me down easy, baby let me drown easy’

Music video by Seinabo Sey performing I Owe You Nothing. © 2018 Saraba AB


Listen to ‘I Owe You Nothing’ here: https://seinabosey.lnk.to/IOweYouNothing Seinabo Sey’s debut album Pretend, listen here: https://seinabosey.lnk.to/AlbumPretend

Subscribe to Seinabo Sey’s channel: https://seinabosey.lnk.to/VEVOSubscribe Follow Seinabo Sey on socials: https://seinabosey.lnk.to/followme

Video Credits:

Prod company: New Land, Director: Sheila Johansson, Producer: Adam Holmström, DOP: Tim Lorentzen, Focus puller/Cam asst: Jonas Björne, Stylist: Selam Ghirmay Fessahaye, Make-up: Sainabou Secka, Hair: Sainabou Katri Chune, Editor: Alexander Peri, Colorist: Nicke Jakobsson, Sound design: Martin Mighetto, Online: Mikael, Post production Chimney/Talet group Local production: Production manager: Ousman Drammeh, Production manager: Bubacarr Batchilly, Prod. Koordinator: Oumie Sissoho Driver: Modou Jatta Driver: Ousaman Jarju, Management: Nina Nestlander & Jonas Wikström, Sweden Music Management, Thanks to: Daniel Thissel Sofia Misgena Michaela Grip Ljud och Bildmedia XO Mangement

Seinabo Sey in “Remember” (music-video still) 2018

The song [Remember] is very personal as Seinabo recently revealed to Dazed,

I think I actually wrote it to myself. I know I did. One part of me just wants to be remembered, wants people to like my music, and like me. Another part of me is like, ‘You know damn well that you’ve been liked and that doesn’t make you happier, but if you just want to be remembered we can fix that.’ I’m talking to my ego in a sense. I teamed up with Jacob [Banks], and we turned it into more of a love song, but it’s about wanting to be remembered for all of the good things, and hoping that you can walk out of a relationship – whether it be with myself in time, or with a person – feeling a sense of freedom.”

Janelle Monáe is a (Girl Power Academy) Pussy Power recommendation:

Janelle Monae wearing Pynk vagina pants by designer Duran Lantink

“PYNK is a brash celebration of creation. self love. sexuality. and pu**y power!” reads the video’s description. “PYNK is the color that unites us all, for pink is the color found in the deepest and darkest nooks and crannies of humans everywhere. PYNK is where the future is born.”

The Janelle Monáe “PYNK” (Music Video) is being posted here for NO COMMERCIAL PURPOSES.  

Janelle Monáe “PYNK” LYRICS:

[Verse 1: Janelle Monáe]
Pink like the inside of your, baby
Pink behind all of the doors, crazy
Pink like the tongue that goes down, maybe
Pink like the paradise found
Pink when you’re blushing inside, baby
Pink is the truth you can’t hide, maybe
Pink like the folds of your brain, crazy
Pink as we all go insane
[Pre-Chorus: Janelle Monáe]
So, here we are in the car
Leaving traces of us down the boulevard
I wanna fall through the stars
Getting lost in the dark is my favourite part
Let’s count the ways we could make this last forever
Sunny, money, keep it funky
Touch your top and let it down
[Chorus: Janelle Monáe]
Ah, yeah
Some like that
Ah, ah
Some like that
Ah, yeah
Some like that
‘Cause boy it’s cool if you got blue
We got the pink
[Verse 2: Janelle Monáe]
Pink like the lips around your, maybe
Pink like the skin that’s under, baby
Pink where it’s deepest inside, crazy
Pink beyond forest and thighs
Pink like the secrets you hide, maybe
Pink like the lid of your eye, baby
Pink is where all of it starts, crazy
Pink like the halls of your heart
[Pre-Chorus: Janelle Monáe & Grimes]
So, here we are in the car
Leaving traces of us down the boulevard
I wanna fall through the stars
Getting lost in the dark is my favourite part
Let’s count the ways we could make this last forever
Sunny, money, keep it funky
Touch your top and let it down
[Chorus: Janelle Monáe & Grimes]
Ah, yeah
Some like that
Ah, ah
Some like that
Ooh, yeah
Some like that
‘Cause boy it’s cool if you got blue
We got the pink, huh
Honey, yeah
Some like that
Some like that
Some like that
‘Cause boy it’s cool if you got blue
We got the pink
[Verse 3: Janelle Monáe]
Pink like the inside of your, baby (we’re all just pink)
Pink like the walls and the doors, maybe (deep inside, we’re all just pink)
Pink like your fingers in my, maybe
Pink is the truth you can’t hide
Pink like your tongue going round, baby
Pink like the sun going down, maybe
Pink like the holes in your heart, baby
Pink is my favourite part

 “Dirty Computer” – an emotion picture* by Janelle Monáe arrives on 4.27.18 *EMOTION PICTURE (definition): a narrative film and accompanying musical album

Director: Emma Westenberg

Connect with Janelle: http://jmonae.com