New name, new site, new music coming soon!

Ten and a half years ago, I wiped the sweat from under my wedding wreath and became Emily Yates. A few months later, I learned to play the ukulele, wrote a song called “Try Not To Be A Dick,” and uploaded it to my brand-new YouTube channel. The views climbed to 1,500 and I wondered if I should be doing more of this songwriting thing. A few drinks and clicks later, Emily Yates, Eventual Ukulele Superstar was born. It never occurred to me that I might outlive her, but …

When he turned violent and then took off, it made no sense to me to keep half the identity of a person who very nearly permanently silenced me, but the divorce happened so quickly that it was over before I could even pop my head above the surface of grad school and breathe, much less consider dropping half of who I’d been for a decade.

Depression set in. I cursed the instruments he taught me to play, dragged myself through months of unwillingness to even live, much less perform. But finally the drive to create won out – I pulled myself together, released a new album full of songs that helped me process the monstrous mindfuck, and then, counter to every single ounce of conventional wisdom, decided now is the time to change my name.

I don’t want to share a name with anyone who’s raised a hand to me in violence. I want to wear a name that reflects my own heritage – like the one my great-grandfather brought over from Italy but anglicized to fit in because this nation has always been racist. So rather than walk around in an abuser’s family name, I’m reclaiming my own.

I’m also stepping away from a first name that’s never felt like the right fit. Named after a relative my parents didn’t even like, they told me they used my middle name till I was about 3, then stopped calling me Emmy Joy because “you turned into an angry kid.” Recognizing as an adult that this is a hell of a trip to lay on a child, I’m taking my middle name back and promoting it to the front of the line.

So now I’m creating all my music and art with my inner Joy on the outside – you can find it at my new website, Here’s to all of our past selves – may they rest well after carrying us as far as they can.

Joy Damiani

New Op-Ed: Afghan, Iraqi Interpreters Rebuild Lives With Help of US Vets

Afghan, Iraqi Interpreters Left Behind by the US Government, Rebuild Lives With Help of US Vets


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Imagine you’re being forced to flee your home. Not just your home, but your country, and not just for now, but forever.

Imagine you can only pack one carry-on sized bag, weighing no more than 50 pounds, from which you must rebuild your entire life. Everything else stays behind.

Imagine getting to your new, foreign home, only to discover that your funds are nowhere near enough to live on, your education and work skills don’t translate into a local job, and you’re immediately in debt to the government for the flight that brought you to safety. You have no health care, the culture you’re now immersed in is entirely unfamiliar to you and every day is a struggle to adjust to a life you never thought you’d be living.

Now imagine the reason you must do this is because the United States military … Read More

Reflection | #CommunicationFail: Talking Politics In The Trump Era

I kind of can’t believe I’m saying this, but … the post-election development that bothers me most isn’t the threat of an authoritarian regime. I mean, that is deeply troubling, and I’m definitely freaked right the hell out about the rise of fascism in this country, but even so, there’s a problem that worries me more – these days, when Americans talk about politics, we only seem to have two settings: Agree and Asshole.

It’s one thing for us to disagree with each other about the way this country should run. It’s another thing entirely to write each other off before the conversation even begins, as most of us have been guilty of doing at some time or other. Rather than acting as vehicles for finding common ground and mutual understanding, nearly all political discussions in the deeply-polarized Trump era are a fast train to Angrytown. It’s like we’ve forgotten that we all have the same basic needs, and that if we can express them without spewing douchery all over the place, we can potentially meet those needs and coexist without wanting to ”accidentally” drive over each other. Of course, the irony is that when we’re fighting over whose needs should be met first or better, we’re really taking care of nobody.

It’s no surprise that now, to an extreme degree, unbridled hostility has become the new normal for political disagreements, seeing as how our sitting president spent a year and a half running a campaign fueled entirely by rage, hate and fear. I mean, I would need at least an entire ream of paper to list all the ways our current administration has encouraged Americans to be shittier to each other. By suggesting, for example, that refugees are all dangerous, Mexicans are all drug-dealing rapists, Muslims are all potential terrorists, immigrants are taking all the jobs, and lies are the new truth, our government leaders are ensuring constant conflict among the most vulnerable members of society.

When we’re all in conflict with one another, we’re much easier to control. Naturally it wouldn’t bode well for the power-junkies in charge if all the poor people in the country acknowledged that not only are they all getting screwed by the same wealthy people, but also that there are many, many more poor people than wealthy ones, and with some basic cooperation the option of, say, collectively gathering up all those greedy bastards and tossing them straight into jail, would be totally viable.

Unfortunately though, no greedy bastards get victoriously tossed behind bars when the rest of us can’t even agree that all people deserve clean water, food, healthcare and housing. Their greedy-bastard faces stay free as long as we’re all viciously arguing about whether or not it’s okay for the police to shoot unarmed people to protect oil companies, whether women should be allowed to make decisions about our own bodies, whether science is real or the news is fake. If instead we started asking one another how we arrived at our opinions and actually listened to each other’s answers, it wouldn’t be so scary to step out of our trusty comfort bubbles and social-media echo chambers to engage with ideas that don’t already align with our established world view. Before long, we might even find ways to relate to each other, and from there it’s really just a matter of time till we’re all coming together for a good old-fashioned greedy-bastard toss.

It’s all easier said than done, obviously, as long as our nation’s elite are invested in keeping the rest of us at odds with one another to increase their own wealth and power. When somebody is forcefully asserting a stance I find offensive, using the same abusive language as the powers-that-be, it takes a hefty amount of effort to push past my initial, visceral reactions to that person and get to the core of our differing perspectives. If I’m able to successfully make that effort, I usually get to learn something about the other person that helps me at least understand where they’re coming from, regardless of whether I come around to their point of view, or they to mine. I might not like what I’m hearing, but at least I’m hearing it.

In these days of rampant suspicion over which information is true and which is fabricated, it doesn’t make sense to argue various points with one another, each referring to sources that the other mistrusts. We’re all in the process of getting profoundly mindfucked by the complete overload of information the internet provides. At this late stage in the game, after years of cutting off communication or unfriending people, I’ve come to understand that the only way to keep a political conversation moving forward is to ask the other person why they feel the way they do and how they came to their conclusions, and then (here comes the hard part) … listen to their answer.

I’m not suggesting that this is some kind of guaranteed solution to conflict, or that simply listening to one another will inevitably lead to some kind of kumbayah-we-are-the-world love fest. But as one of many people who are frankly horrified by the hate parade getting thrust upon us by our government, I’m convinced it’s our last hope for keeping full-scale violence from becoming our go-to method of communication. We don’t have to agree with everyone. We don’t have to like everyone, and we don’t have to pretend to be convinced that any old batshit-crazy idea is sane. But for my part, I know that if I can get even a tiny bit closer to understanding where someone is coming from, it helps me feel like there’s the slightest possibility that all hope for a brighter future is not lost.

With that in mind, I’m going to do my best to resist the urge to judge or argue with anybody without first looking for a way to understand their perspective. I might not agree with their perspective once I understand it, but at the very least, it’ll keep me from switching my political-conversation setting all the way over to Asshole. That may not lead straight to victorious bastard-tossing, but it just might keep the conversation going. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s a good start.

Reflection | The Dark Side of Red Rocks

Like any devout fan of live music, I’ve spent time at beautiful outdoor concert venues all around the country, dancing in the breeze to the songs of my favorite bands, soaking up the mountains, deserts and oceans that stretch out for miles in every direction. And like many of the people who surround me in the crowd, I’ve been able to enjoy these panoramic views and natural amphitheaters without having much of a clue about their history. After all, as a third-generation Jewtalian-American, my limited knowledge of these places comes from books, rather than stories passed down by ancestors who lived in this land for generations before Europeans arrived here. Because my personal connection to these once-wild expanses of nature goes only as far as the music I’ve heard there (and a few memorable hikes), it can be a harsh wake-up call when I’m reminded that this isn’t the case for all Americans.

One of those reminders came yesterday on the steps of the Denver Capitol, where I’d gathered with a hundred or so others to voice our opposition to the Dakota Access Pipeline in solidarity with the Native American Water Protectors at Standing Rock. We’d returned to the Capitol after rallying there, then marching down to the Wells Fargo Center and parading around its lobby, chanting “Divest from DAPL” and “Water is Life” to bewildered security guards. There had been no arrests, and the energy in the air was full of determination and hope. Several of the indigenous activists who’d organized the rally took time to speak, and it was then that I was jolted out of my comfort zone.

“Look over there toward Red Rocks!” one of the Native elders instructed, and we all turned to face west. “This was one of the last places of Native resistance in Colorado. Every time I hear that damn rock and roll music, I think of how this land was taken from us.”

“That damn rock and roll music.” I had to check myself and the immediate stab of defensiveness I felt when I heard those words. How many shows have I seen at the Red Rocks amphitheater? How many of my friends have played music on that stage, and how many more aspire to do so? After all, we know it as the home of the most glorious natural acoustics in the country. We know it as a place of music, art and community, not as a site of oppression and genocide. But isn’t that the point? We’re privileged to lap up the visual and sonic beauty of Red Rocks, without having to acknowledge or even be aware of the pain that many Native people associate with it. This understanding sank into my heart like a stone as I reminded myself not to be surprised – this is the reality of living in the place we now call America.

How many Native ceremonies took place where that stage now stands? How many lives and homes were destroyed to eventually make room for bleachers, concession stands and a visitor center? How many solemn or celebratory processions were made up those rock formations before there were friendly little trails leading to the top? These are the questions now bouncing around my mind as I’m reminded that this place I love is only available to me because of the suffering of those who were there first, those who were cleared out of the way. The same is true of the United States as a whole – we of non-Native ancestry are only here because the Natives who lived here first were forcibly removed.

The same force used by the United States government to violently remove indigenous tribes from Red Rocks is being used by modern-day colonists to remove them from everywhere else in this country, including the Cannonball River in Standing Rock, North Dakota – where instead of a stage, they’re building the Dakota Access Pipeline. White Americans have a tendency to be defensive about the history of the places we love, to claim that it wasn’t us who displaced and destroyed their inhabitants. We hate being reminded of that shameful past because it makes us feel a whole range of unpleasant emotions, from guilt to anger to depression. But giving in to that defensiveness is what makes it easy for us to ignore all the ways we can be working against the same kind of atrocities in the present and future. Within a water-poisoning pipeline, a Muslim ban, a surge of deportations and indiscriminate drone strikes are echoes of the same entitlement and aggression that wiped out massive populations of indigenous people in this country. The difference is that now, I can’t say “it wasn’t me” unless I’m actively working to end that aggression.

I can choose to be defensive about my identity as the descendant of European immigrants who settled in territory originally occupied by Natives. I can choose to be paralyzed by guilt over my perceived role in perpetuating colonialism as a white American. Or I can choose to participate in decolonization whenever possible – whether that means showing up to protest injustice against people of color, putting my body on the line against aggressive law enforcement trying to maintain the status quo, or simply living my life with the awareness that there’s a hell of a lot I still don’t know about the dark history of this nation. And the next time I hear “that damn rock and roll music” reverberating off of those red rocks, I can choose to listen even closer, until I hear the sound of Native drums still beating – faintly at first, but growing louder every day, until they can no longer be drowned out.