One might think the punk rock music scene is the wrong place to look for political and social allyship. But for Mayra Lucia Vargas, music spaces are the ultimate politicized venues, where people can find friends, understanding and inclusivity-- when the right people are in charge. She’s been working for years to turn music into a medium of expression for all of the people who are underrepresented in our media, and as a queer immigrant woman of color, she certainly knows how important her work is in a racist, homophobic, misogynist world.
Vargas didn’t start out in punk bands and do-it-yourself band t-shirts. She originally attended school to become an operatic singer, and was disappointed with her musical experiences in academia. She was told over and over that she was not talented enough to pursue her dream as a musician. Now, outside the narrow minded system dominated by white western concepts of what constitutes good musicianship, Vargas is a multi-instrumentalist, playing guitar, drums, and bass while singing in three separate bands, teaches music lessons, works as a professional accompanist, organizes an annual music fesitval, and finally takes up space as a mentor and an activist through her work with Girls Rock, an organization that uses music education to empower young girls to learn how to find their voice in the songs they write-- an extension of Vargas’ own mission of creating spaces for people who have none.
Vargas is spending a lot of our Skype interview giggling and peering mischievously at me from under her short choppy bangs for someone who is describing a music festival sweetly dubbed “Women Fuck Shit Up Fest.” Her voice is soft and her Peruvian accent gives it a pleasant lilt. She frequently stops to check in with, making sure I’m doing alright and getting what I needed. As we talk, her baby face framed by bleached hair she probably cut herself makes her looks like a little ball of hyper sunshine-- consistently wide-eyed and excited.
But that doesn’t mean Vargas is anything less than a professional organizer, activist and musician. The tension between cute and crass is one that Vargas has thought about before. She explained to me in a skype interview from her LA home how the necessity for women to be cute and soft in order to be treated with respect is a burden to female musicians, and a way to keep them out of the more intense music scenes. As a sweet and approachable person herself, she has found herself written off time after time as a serious musician. “If we were to compare our music festival with other music festivals, the term “woman” or the term “girl” is softened. You know? It’s softened to mean, like, cool, but still fetishized. (There’s) still an image of “nice” around it. (...) we wanted to be the counter of that. We wanted to be a music festival that shows that women are not only soft, but we can also destroy.”
That is exactly what Women Fuck Shit Up Fest is about. The festival, put on by the music collective Good Grrrl Bad Grrrl, run by Vargas and Marilou Salazar, features a lineup entirely of female identified bands, and donates its proceeds to Girls Rock. “It’s not about shock value, it’s about empowerment” Vargas elaborates. The bands playing include a wide range of bands from Facing Reality, a band composed entirely of preteen girls with older sibling Briana Harley as their band coach and drummer, to CUNTHAUS, a queer feminist punk band who write songs about ghosts and the hypocrisy of “one size fits all” clothing. By actively including kids and queer people, Vargas puts people on the stage who often have to stay in the audience.
Storeetellers, Vargas and Harley’s band, is also playing. Their best quality is their lyrics, which always tell stories from their own lives. They weave the identity politics and struggles they face as queer women of color into catchy songs you can’t help but dance to-- and Vargas insists that’s the key. Vargas’s role as an activist is contingent upon her (and her colleagues and peers’) practice of writing their stories into songs. “It’s... a weapon. Writing can be a weapon. Communication to a mass audience. (...) Storeetellers is a band that writes songs about stories, about things that happen to us that are important, and they are so important that the message needs to be heard by many people.” Vargas’s eyebrows furrow in concentration as she explains the significance of Storeetellers’ song “Don’t Hold My Hand,” the low budget music video for which includes the band members and their friends and siblings laughing and dancing in front of backdrops they made themselves. “It’s a silly song, right? But it’s a song about consent (...) we are utilizing the medium of writing along with music to convey this message of consent, like, if I don’t want you to touch me, don’t touch me.”
In addition to writing music, Vargas also writes about music. She runs the SugarbombDIY website, that reviews local music and art happenings in the LA/OC area, in addition to writing for Tom Tom Magazine, a magazine about female drummers. Her ability to write about music and gain access to these spaces is revolutionary given the music industry’s notorious sexism. Vargas recounts endless microaggressions: “is that your boyfriend’s guitar?” “who are you with here?” “no, I’ll carry that gear.” Vargas explains in her ever-patient way that so much of the small acts of sexism are meant to be polite, even gentlemanly, but ultimately send her and other women like her the message that they do not really belong in these spaces, these spaces were not built for them.
Vargas knows what it’s like to be excluded. In the punk rock scene, often dominated by straight white men, Vargas has had to make space for herself: “even though people claim that (the music industry) is more progressive, we’re still outnumbered (...) we need to make sure there are spaces where women can talk about (discrimination) via music, via art, via spoken word.” She goes on to critique existing all women spaces, explaining how feminist spaces are often times non-intersectional, that champion white straight cisgender women. Vargas identifies as genderfluid, queer and is a woman of color: where do women like her fit in? “Our activism lies on really trying to create that space consistently, where people can feel safe and have that space that is their own. Because there really aren’t many.”
Vargas is late for a music lesson she is supposed to be teaching, she gives me a huge, open-mouth smile and tells me she loves me before a long “byeeeeee!” Anyone who spends more than ten minutes with her knows she’s an automatic friend. Partly because she’s on your side. Her most basic tenet as an activist she said best herself: “the people that I organize with (...) understand that the only way for us to try to make change in society is: acknowledge that those systems exist, and be an ally to the people who are oppressed(...) by taking minority groups, the LGBTQIA community, ethnic minorities, and people who are underprivileged… and making an effort to make a space where every one of those people are welcome. And being really mindful and conscious that this is a safe space for all of them, not some of them, but all of them, we are helping to create this change. Little by little.”
Vargas didn’t start out in punk bands and do-it-yourself band t-shirts. She originally attended school to become an operatic singer, and was disappointed with her musical experiences in academia. She was told over and over that she was not talented enough to pursue her dream as a musician. Now, outside the narrow minded system dominated by white western concepts of what constitutes good musicianship, Vargas is a multi-instrumentalist, playing guitar, drums, and bass while singing in three separate bands, teaches music lessons, works as a professional accompanist, organizes an annual music fesitval, and finally takes up space as a mentor and an activist through her work with Girls Rock, an organization that uses music education to empower young girls to learn how to find their voice in the songs they write-- an extension of Vargas’ own mission of creating spaces for people who have none.
Vargas is spending a lot of our Skype interview giggling and peering mischievously at me from under her short choppy bangs for someone who is describing a music festival sweetly dubbed “Women Fuck Shit Up Fest.” Her voice is soft and her Peruvian accent gives it a pleasant lilt. She frequently stops to check in with, making sure I’m doing alright and getting what I needed. As we talk, her baby face framed by bleached hair she probably cut herself makes her looks like a little ball of hyper sunshine-- consistently wide-eyed and excited.
But that doesn’t mean Vargas is anything less than a professional organizer, activist and musician. The tension between cute and crass is one that Vargas has thought about before. She explained to me in a skype interview from her LA home how the necessity for women to be cute and soft in order to be treated with respect is a burden to female musicians, and a way to keep them out of the more intense music scenes. As a sweet and approachable person herself, she has found herself written off time after time as a serious musician. “If we were to compare our music festival with other music festivals, the term “woman” or the term “girl” is softened. You know? It’s softened to mean, like, cool, but still fetishized. (There’s) still an image of “nice” around it. (...) we wanted to be the counter of that. We wanted to be a music festival that shows that women are not only soft, but we can also destroy.”
That is exactly what Women Fuck Shit Up Fest is about. The festival, put on by the music collective Good Grrrl Bad Grrrl, run by Vargas and Marilou Salazar, features a lineup entirely of female identified bands, and donates its proceeds to Girls Rock. “It’s not about shock value, it’s about empowerment” Vargas elaborates. The bands playing include a wide range of bands from Facing Reality, a band composed entirely of preteen girls with older sibling Briana Harley as their band coach and drummer, to CUNTHAUS, a queer feminist punk band who write songs about ghosts and the hypocrisy of “one size fits all” clothing. By actively including kids and queer people, Vargas puts people on the stage who often have to stay in the audience.
Storeetellers, Vargas and Harley’s band, is also playing. Their best quality is their lyrics, which always tell stories from their own lives. They weave the identity politics and struggles they face as queer women of color into catchy songs you can’t help but dance to-- and Vargas insists that’s the key. Vargas’s role as an activist is contingent upon her (and her colleagues and peers’) practice of writing their stories into songs. “It’s... a weapon. Writing can be a weapon. Communication to a mass audience. (...) Storeetellers is a band that writes songs about stories, about things that happen to us that are important, and they are so important that the message needs to be heard by many people.” Vargas’s eyebrows furrow in concentration as she explains the significance of Storeetellers’ song “Don’t Hold My Hand,” the low budget music video for which includes the band members and their friends and siblings laughing and dancing in front of backdrops they made themselves. “It’s a silly song, right? But it’s a song about consent (...) we are utilizing the medium of writing along with music to convey this message of consent, like, if I don’t want you to touch me, don’t touch me.”
In addition to writing music, Vargas also writes about music. She runs the SugarbombDIY website, that reviews local music and art happenings in the LA/OC area, in addition to writing for Tom Tom Magazine, a magazine about female drummers. Her ability to write about music and gain access to these spaces is revolutionary given the music industry’s notorious sexism. Vargas recounts endless microaggressions: “is that your boyfriend’s guitar?” “who are you with here?” “no, I’ll carry that gear.” Vargas explains in her ever-patient way that so much of the small acts of sexism are meant to be polite, even gentlemanly, but ultimately send her and other women like her the message that they do not really belong in these spaces, these spaces were not built for them.
Vargas knows what it’s like to be excluded. In the punk rock scene, often dominated by straight white men, Vargas has had to make space for herself: “even though people claim that (the music industry) is more progressive, we’re still outnumbered (...) we need to make sure there are spaces where women can talk about (discrimination) via music, via art, via spoken word.” She goes on to critique existing all women spaces, explaining how feminist spaces are often times non-intersectional, that champion white straight cisgender women. Vargas identifies as genderfluid, queer and is a woman of color: where do women like her fit in? “Our activism lies on really trying to create that space consistently, where people can feel safe and have that space that is their own. Because there really aren’t many.”
Vargas is late for a music lesson she is supposed to be teaching, she gives me a huge, open-mouth smile and tells me she loves me before a long “byeeeeee!” Anyone who spends more than ten minutes with her knows she’s an automatic friend. Partly because she’s on your side. Her most basic tenet as an activist she said best herself: “the people that I organize with (...) understand that the only way for us to try to make change in society is: acknowledge that those systems exist, and be an ally to the people who are oppressed(...) by taking minority groups, the LGBTQIA community, ethnic minorities, and people who are underprivileged… and making an effort to make a space where every one of those people are welcome. And being really mindful and conscious that this is a safe space for all of them, not some of them, but all of them, we are helping to create this change. Little by little.”