Gay Pride Cheerios: On Role Models and Visibility

I've been thinking about role models lately, for a number of reasons. But, this being Pride month and all has heightened the ongoing discussion about queers, role models, and safe space. See, I've been confused about this month lately. I've lived in the San Francisco Bay Area for about 15 years and Pride/Pride related events like the Dyke March and the Frameline Film Festival are things that I happily and excitedly participated in when I first moved here. Let me tell you, there's nothing like being surrounded by a bunch of dykes all moving, flirting, and supremely digging one another. Dykes of all kinds, really--women of color, butch, femme, old, young, topless, clothed, single (with stickers identifying them as such), coupled, "dis"able-bodied, "able" bodied, on motorcycles, on bicycles. It's beautiful, truly.

Melanie Cervantes, Dignidad Rebelde

But I haven't felt that way in a while. A long while. 

I dropped off and met up with a friend at last year's Dyke March and, I'm pretty sure that's the last one I will attend (and this has nothing to do, personally, with the San Francisco Dyke March nor the organizers, check out this year's theme: Dykepocalypse, which embraces feminism). As soon I got to the March last year, I stumbled upon a group of white women and  men with T-Shirts that read: "Dyke March 2012: I'm here to get drunk and fuck bitches."

...

You know how I feel about that, right? That kind of aggression makes me feel a bit homicidal (homocidal?). At the very least, it makes me want to punch people. And I'm not a violent person. I have fantasies, like any normal queer person of color raised in the U.S., but I haven't ever acted upon them. Yet. Still, given that my love for the Dyke March and other Pride activities has waned, where is a queer girl of color to go to find other folks like me, spokespeople, or what younger folks refer to as role models? You know, Macklemore as a role model for queer youth and spokesperson for queer rights (click here to see just how virulent that stance is). What does it mean when you live in one of the gayest places in the Union and you don't really feel a part of the fervor of the month of June?

Like some other queer people of color, Black nerds, feminists, and mixed race folks, this is a feeling I've long been familiar with. Not always fitting in. Looking for a "home." Always searching for like minded folks real and imagined: in person and not (we'd say virtual now, but when I was growing up it was on television, through my stereo speakers, and on film). Fortunately, I've found much of that, a space where I feel at home with folks I dig and who totally dig me (I kid). Many places actually. But, that feeling does linger. It sneaks up on me at odd times, like the month of June, particularly when what I loved about the homelessness that many queers felt and used to build community has shifted somewhat and become more visible. More "normal." I was reminded of this the other day when I was watching the Tony Awards, a site that I often turn(ed) to. I was the example that both Neil Patrick Harris and Billy Porter described, at home who lived for Tony and other performances, searching for that reassurance. Harris promised in the broadcast that all the performers there were that kid. And Porter pointed directly to Jennifer Holliday and the cast of Dreamgirls 1982 performance of "And I am Telling You," as life changing for him. I know that feeling. I've felt it many times, continue to. Um, also, I drove around in my car, made dinner, and launched a summer course online, all while watching/listening to the Youtube video of Holliday's performance--that's how strong that feeling is. How strong it can be.

I don't remember the exact moment that I had this feeling, this feeling of being odd, different--it wasn't necessarily being gay because that's not something I identified or felt until much later. But, I was definitely different--all the things mentioned above--mostly in terms of race as far back as I can remember. The first time I can really remember seeing someone that let me know there were others like me was Prince, circa the release of 1999, about the same time of Holliday's performance.  

Prince was about the gayest thing I'd ever seen. I was hooked. He and his whole entourage: Vanity 6, The Time, later The Family, whoever, saved me. Literally. Other folks were into Micheal Jackson and, I was too, but not like Prince. I loved all things about him, his queerness in that he was so unabashed about a (often very traditional) sexuality. "International Lover," anyone? I can't get on a a plane without thinking, "If for any reason there is a loss of cabin pressure, I will immediately drop down to apply more" and "In the event there is over excitement, your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device." I think I was twelve when I first heard that and though I hadn't had sex and didn't really know what he meant, I was in. The flow was amazing. I looked for everything he'd ever done, his previous albums, and remained faithful through LoveSexy (I had moved on to other music by that point, but was faithful through the treasures of Around the World in a Day and Under the Cherry Moon, which I still have). More importantly though, than the way he displayed his sexuality, which I appreciated, he was different in other ways. Namely, his Blackness, or what I read as his Blackness. I thought, incorrectly, for a long time that he was mixed race, like me (you know like kid in Purple Rain), which made me feel like I could move out of the racism in my hometown. That structured the experience of all us, but made the experience of a child from a Black and white background...difficult. It didn't really matter what he did, just his presence, knowing he existed reassured me and let me know that I was going to make it. For reals, make it. Be ok. Be able to do something. To live.

And there are others: The Smiths, Lisa  Bonet, Patti Smith, Audre Lorde, Dr. Who. Looking for something, anything to let me know that I was (relatively) OK. Sometimes I still look for that, still long for that connection, even in the place where I once felt was the most connected I'd felt: queer community.

So what does this have to do with Cheerios? Mostly it's a reference to the hoopla a few weeks ago surrounding the Cheerios commercial which did nothing more than reflect an actual reality. There are Black men married to white women who have children. Boom. And I agree with others, it was a big deal, it made me stop and notice. And smile. I'll smile a little bit more when a commercial shows a, um, Black man with a white, blond woman, as that would really twist at the legacies and fears of white racism. But, I digress. Like the increasing visibility of the LGBTQ community, the representation of interracial (Black and white) couples changes the conversation a bit. Visibility is a big "fucking" deal as other have said, but there is something I like, perhaps, about the invisibility and the reliance on our creativity, imagination, and hope that forces us to carve out our space.

Disorienting Moments: On Grief and Loss

Kara Walker, Cut, 1998

Apologies  for the heavy title (and maybe the image, but don't you just LOVE Kara Walker, like super duper love?). So, I've been grappling with a disorienting feeling of loss this past month. I say disorienting because I'm not sure exactly where it comes from and it knocks me off balance somewhat. But, where does it come from? Is it about the current moment? Or, is it something that I carry around in my bones, which erupts or is triggered by something at any given moment? In terms of "this moment," it could be that the semester has just ended (I'm picking up final papers today), which is always a bit disorienting both in the sense of relief of being finished, but also the "openness" of my schedule--finishing/starting/submitting articles; applying for grants; va and staycations; time with my lady (I can only say that word with STYX running through my head, which I have to sing to Joan when I say it), etc.

Another thing that has been kicking it up, so to speak, is that one of the articles I'm writing explores the concept of loss, (my own) Black womanhood, hip-hop, and woman of color feminisms. Right now, I'm focusing on specific moments related to my teenage years but that loss continues on, cellularly. The amount of loss during that time, some of which has been ongoing, is too much to work out, too much to fathom and, it's like my young mind got stuck there somewhere and it sneaks up on me in the current moment.  It could be any number of things related to that time: loss of viriginity, loss of love, loss of friends and friendships, loss of 'innocence' (whatever that means, as that discussion often excludes Black women), and loss of community.

Strangely, this talk about community brings me to another moment of loss, which is also quite joyful: Joan and I are in the early stages of adoption, mostly paperwork, which I'm totally thrilled about and feel really anxious about. Not the part about becoming a parent: that I'm totally excited about and ready for at 42 :). No, I'm anxious about how much we have to put out there about ourselves as women, as a couple, as two women who have been thinking about and working towards this kind of family for several years. You know, having a social worker come to and search our house to see if we're fit/smart enough to be parents. Incidentally, if you don't already know, this would've happened had one of us given birth: the other would've had to legally adopt our child--if the state allowed--EVEN if, which is often the case, we planned to have the child together. That's right folks, even if lesbians have been committed for 15 years, decide to have a child, one gets pregnant because they decided that's what they wanted to do together, the state still has the legal fucking right to come into their house prior to the adoption. And this is not a personal shift to my support of the current campaign of gay marriage but, it. makes. my. blood. boil. what fucking bullshit that is. This means that if you are a heterosexual couple and you accidentally get pregnant before you're ready, whether or not you're married, no one comes to your fucking house.

Well.

So maybe there is a little anger mixed in with this sense of loss.

While expanding family makes me feel super glorious as this is something I've wanted to do, specifically, with Joan for a while, I do feel a sense of loss. I've been trying to write a post about trying to get pregnant (me) for a couple of years, with no success. I don't know what to say about it. And, frankly, I don't know that I can say anything better than what Crunklife said about it here (no really, click on that link now).  I'm not sure if it's because I tried something and it didn't happen--which often happens out of sheer will or because I don't have a history of taking on things that I can't achieve. Or, because it was not something that I grew up longing for. I didn't even really think about having a kid until I met Joan. I've never had that urge or desire that I've heard other folks, my friends, lesbians, describe. It wasn't for me. I hadn't met someone I wanted to do it with. I hadn't thought about it as a queer feminist. In fact, I kind of reveled in being a queer feminist who wasn't going to reproduce. There was something mythical and simultaneously real about it: surrounding myself in a community of women, a sense of purpose as a woman that wasn't connected to being or wanting to be a mother, finding out what it's like to be a woman outside of those societal expectations. Some of that has changed in this last period. Not those longings, per se, but the decision to become a parent. To do that with Joan, specifically because of our relationship, and because of where I am in my life.

And, there's still a lot to grieve there.

A sense of loss that gets thrown in with whole heaps of excitement about the possibilities: meeting a new person, building a life with them, changing the way our lives are now, etc. As well as the excitement that I'm now feeling about finishing all of my papers (graduate and undergraduate), having my schedule change in a few weeks, writing, producing, and challenging myself.  I actually didn't know how this post was going to end when I sat down to write it, but as I finish this, I'm a little more excited about this heaviness that I carry. Using it. What it means for and about me, what it says about my life, my communities, and the people I build with. To feel even when I can't feel it, that this sense of heavy doesn't weigh me down, but is a deep reflection--once again--of the loss that structures Black, queer, and feminist (women's) communities, the ones I feel most at home in.

The joy and pain (are like sunshine and rain) of it. Always.

Is it true we're all insane? Monáe and Badu, Legendary Rebels

I've watched the video for Janelle Monáe's new song, Q.U.E.E.N (featuring Erykah Badu) just under a  hundred times in the last 24 hours. Um, really. It's on a loop. When I'm not watching it, I've been streaming it online, posting it online, and downloading the single. Then I spent a good 10 minutes telling my musical soulmate friend Holly about it this afternoon on the phone. This is all par for the course when I like a song and here's why:

Like other feminists, songs like these by Black women stop me in my tracks and make me take notice (maybe you could tell that already). See, right now I'm standing in the BART station twerking as I type and wait for the train. Can't help it. Serious. Believe, I'm twerking because the drums so tight but, more so because almost every single lyric makes my bones shake.  

Even if it makes others uncomfortable.
(I will love who I am)

What I like most about the song are the questions that Monáe, who says she knows what it's like to feel like the other, asks throughout the song; often starting with "Am I a freak?" As in,

Am I a freak for dancing round?
Am I a freak for getting down?
Am I a freak cause I love watching Mary?
I'm cutting up
So don't cut me down

Every once in a while she'll give answers to her questions: like the title question, is it true that we're all insane? (I just tell them no we ain't and get down). But mostly, she leaves it for us to decide. No matter the answer, I will always love freaks--like a real deep love--so just the question pulls me into the song. And not a freak as in, "Let your freak flag fly because nobody understands me," Gaga-style; but more a freak in the sense of blending past and present, funk and protest, which many of us have long embodied. 

Some have begun to speculate that this song may be about her (queer) sexuality, which may be true, and that's ok. But, I'm more interested in the ways her freak status is about weaving in a politic that is specific to this generation, her generation, our (hip-hop) generation(s). This is most exemplified in the rap lyrics at the end of the song. Some surprise as in, "I'm tired of Marvin asking me 'What's Going On;" while others challenge "Categorize me, I defy every label;" and my favorite --as a Missouri girl with roots deep--stays grounded, "Gimme me back my pyramid, I'm tryna free Kansas City." Those lyrics, that (brown girl) insurgency explored through a simultaneous connection and refusal to be pinned down are indicative of the margins many of us have have been relegated to. Have celebrated in. Created alliances through. Where we've landed and where our true possibilities lie. As Lorde states, Monáe gives a nod to "those of us who stand outside the circle of this society’s definition of acceptable women; those of us who have been forged in the crucibles of difference." Whether it's because of our sexuality, our political stances, our backgrounds, or our hairstyle, what we have forged on our bodies and in our collaborations are the tools, the communities we depend on. Not throwing out one piece in favor of or deference to another.

And this is also evident in the sonic flow from Monáe to Badu, without missing a beat. The change in pace and music refer back to Baduizm with lyrics that build on the themes of qwerk, solidarity, and what Shana Redmond refers to as "a sound/sight corpus of black feminist knowledges that take advantage of social movement methods" (Redmond 2011: 406) As Badu sings, 

Shake til the break of dawn
Don't mean a thing, so duh
I can't take it no more
Baby, me and tuxedo crew
Monáe and E. Badu
Crazy in the black and white
We got the drums so tight
Baby, here comes the freedom song
Too strong we moving on
Dance 'til the break of dawn
Don't mean a thing, so duh
I can't take it no more
Baby, we in tuxedo groove
Monae and E. Badu
Crazy in the black and white
We got the drums so tight
Baby, here comes the freedom song
Too strong we moving on

Complete lyrics: http://www.directlyrics.com/janelle-monae-queen-lyrics.html

Um. Love. 

Love. In particular, I love the displays of solidarity: the love of music, the tight drums. As much as I also love the difference in style, presentation, age, and cadence. And I especially love love love how it's all brought back together by the unifying "the booty don't lie." Reminding us that this blend is the (Afro)future for Black girls in the margins.

So I ask and end with another Monáe question:

"Electric Ladies, will you sleep? Or will you preach?"

In the meantime, for your pleasure: 

On defending marriage, queer bodies, and queer love

Mmmm, I think it's probably not a good sign that I'm writing about the SCOTUS' hearing arguments about Proposition 8, the voter initiated ban on gay marriage and the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA), after watching the finale of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (where renewal wedding vows/marriage took place). But, truthfully, that might just be where I am. You can stop reading now if, based on this disclosure, you think I have little to add to the conversation. I understand, this show is painful, there is little that is redeeming about it and I can barely justify the amount of time I've spent watching it when I could be hanging out with Joan, catching up on deadlines, cleaning the cat box, whatever...It's more than ridiculous. And, I feel a little bit like some of this marriage equality business is ridiculous. The connection to capitalism and consumer culture in this moment, specifically, make it the most ridiculous for me. It's become a slogan, a selling point, via organizations like the Human Rights Campaign.

Truth be told, mostly I feel that same sex marriage is, as Chandan Reddy claims,

“a theft of collective history... the usurpation by elite and middle-class homosexuals of the material conditions and expressions of homophobic violence of poor, racialized, immigrant, and diasporic communities of color….These conditions and expressions are then repackaged as an assault on individual dignity, a private injury, and a problem of cultural citizenship, all matters supposedly alleviated by the recognition symbolized in the extension of universal marriage right to everyone" (Reddy 2011: 212)

Before you get upset with where I might be heading, I'll clarify: I think that organizing an entire community around one, single issue is a theft of culture, identity, and history, which makes this current moment ridiculous. 

But let me also be clear, love is not ridiculous. Love is real, in the words of Lennon, yes? And queer love? Queer love keeps. me. going. In all forms. In some ways, this post is not even about marriage, but the space that marriage occupies in queer politics. And queer communities. And queer theory. And queer imagination. And queer bodies. It's all we talk about: in the classroom, on social media, at the movies, on the street, and around the kitchen table. And I'm sick of talking about it. I am sick of the space that it takes up in MY space. Queer community is mine and it's one of the few places that has felt like mine. Mine, like no excuses. I've never been not queer enough. Or, unsure about my place in it. That hasn't always been true in other communities I align myself with. Yes, the racism in a larger LGBT community is painful and infuriating and makes me want to expel myself from any association with it. It's racism that allows a young, gay man to seek out support from Mildred Loving, around the constitutionality of same sex marriage in a "see how alike we are" sort of way. That kind of racism makes me want to run away screaming sometimes. And, queer community has never not [another double negative] felt like mine. I love queer people, all that we bring to every space--the blogs, the theory, the activism, the kitchen table. And there are queer people, that I love, who are so connected to this strategy that they organize around it, hold up signs, and have become go-to(s) for the "movement." I have to be in solidarity with (some) of them, as they are my people.

Still, I'm more motivated by the violence that happens in queer communities and, to pull from Cathy Cohen, the myriad communities that fit under the label "queer," which I also belong to. I do fundamentally believe that queer bodies include Black bodies that are surveilled because of their age, race, and class; Indigenous peoples who are pushed off their land, mocked in popular culture, and treated as if they no longer exist; and single mothers who are jailed for sending their children to better schools outside of their geographical region. You know, those whose civil and human rights are also continually questioned. Who don't have access to a pension or tax breaks because of an act they participate in (since that is what it boils down to for the State). So, the position of marriage as a civil right and about equality for queer people, which supersedes the human and civil rights of folks who may or may not be "queer" in terms of sexual orientation leaves me conflicted. Like, really conflicted.

If you've read this blog before you know that I married Joan two years ago in a ceremony that included our biological families, our friends who are more than family, and other folks we dig. Doing that, as I've said before, was life changing for me. I've never committed to anyone like this: anything, yes, I have a Ph.D.  But, to commit to another person? Not in my trajectory. But, meeting Joan changed that. Where I was in my life, who she is, who we are together. She does it for me. She is the bacon to my eggs. [No, really, we have a cheesy placard on the stove that says so]. But, that doesn't have anything to do with marriage. That's love. And figuring something out about being with someone else. And how that happens varies. You can do that with multiple people over time, simultaneously, and with friends.  This focus on two people, alone, as a definition of love makes me want to peel my skin off sometimes, it's so anti-queer. But, I don't think that people should be denied the right to get married, if that's something you want to do. That ceremony changed me, I get it. This relationship makes me love love and love people more. That connection. And, I'm about to go on a trip with Joan and her family and I know that us having that ceremony, with the majority of them there, made something more real for them. Yes, that should've been the case, regardless of our ceremony, but I'm not going to blame them in a heteronormative culture where parents of straight people feel the same way. Heteronormativity needs to be challenged. The focus on smaller and smaller groups to define connection needs to be continually challenged. For instance, in addition to Joan, I've also committed to two young boys, my godson and Joan's son, as well as other young people, who are not "biologically" my family, but who I am committed to for life. Who I love and care for, deeply. What about that? Where does that fit into the ways we think about love and commitment?

All of this to say that, yes, if you ask me, today I have a problem with the SCOTUS discussing whether or not marriage between a man and a woman should be the only recognized form of marriage at the federal level and whether or not laws that defend that right are constitutional. As Jesus Barraza, artist of the poster that starts out this blog asks, did we vote on your marriage?

And, while his is a good question, in the end, it cannot be the only question that we ask.

In solidarity.

Celebrating women of color, one girl at a time

A guest post I did for another blog, today:

Originally posted on From the Square (an NYU Press Blog)

Posted on March 13, 2013
 

Last month, when The Onion magazine posted a tweet calling nine year old Quvenzhané Wallis the c-word, I tweeted a reply, “No Black girl is safe.”  And that’s how I felt, and often do feel, even though it’s a bit bleak. But, let’s think about this: in addition to the ways that adult women are denigrated in society, it has become acceptable to make jokes about a (Black) girl. The safety of young girls from sexism is something that I became familiar with as a researcher/working with teenagers in Oakland, CA. Half of the youth activists I worked closely with in The Hip-Hop Generation Fights Back were young women, many of whom led the efforts.

This Women’s History Month, I think it’s important to turn our attention to young women, particularly young women of color. The Onion comment aside, young women of color are simultaneously heavily scrutinized and ignored. Take, for instance, the dual experience of some of the young Black and Latina women I worked with who were singled out for being presumed to be on the road to (teenage) pregnancy, so they were not taken seriously as students. Literally, one teacher commented that “I don’t really call on Latina or African American females. . . They’re gonna get pregnant and drop out anyways, so what’s the point?”

This discourse, as NYU author Lorena Garcia has pointed out, exists both in and outside of the classroom and has significant impacts on young women of color. This is something I urge us to think about during Women’s History Month: the ways that “women” as a universal term continues to privilege white, heterosexual, cis women; a long-standing feminist critique. However, the discourse around women primarily and solely focuses on adult women. The women we celebrate during this month, the women’s issues we collectively organize around, and the laws we pass are targeted at and specifically benefit adult women.

For example, the recent passage of the Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) was celebrated because of its inclusion of Native American, lesbian, queer, and transgender women. However, a notable absence and hard-fought exclusion was the protection and decriminalization of human trafficking subjects—many of whom are minors and young women of color. More specifically, this group often includes women who are runaways, homeless, or thrown out of their homes as teenagers for their emerging sexuality.

And these young women are no different than the young women in my book: a young queer Latina who was routinely thrown out of her home and once boarded a bus to New York for a week, just so she’d have a place to stay; another queer Chicana, who was often threatened by boys for “looking like a white boy” when she was out with her African American girlfriend; still another young, African American woman, who had to take out a restraining order against her boyfriend for beating her up, a restraint he often ignored.

And these are the young women that we think are “protected” or “safe” because they are involved in organizing activities, ones specifically addressing the surveillance they experience as it relates to racism, sexism, and homophobia. However, we need to step into this battle with these young women in order to make our lives, as women, better. We must fight for the Quvenzhané Wallis’ of the world, the young women we have in our lives and know, but also, and perhaps more importantly, the ones that we don’t. And while we may want to think of these women as “our future,” let’s make this Women’s History Month about contributing to the history they—and we—are making now.

Andreana Clay is Associate Professor of Sociology at San Francisco State University and author of The Hip-Hop Generation Fights Back: Youth, Activism, and Post-Civil Rights Politics (NYU Press, 2012).