tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34164807461574932032024-03-12T19:54:44.924-07:00QueerBlackFeministdaily (or weekly) musings from a queer black feministandreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-72014091520106084982022-11-22T09:39:00.012-08:002022-12-20T20:05:21.510-08:00Tell Me Why?: On Club Q<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUkseeLHLiqgg3Z4M-RH42pktkrvuuAr6tbhLIfqLhSMq-g3mBQB10coDlaivvu9UTbvRS2Qo1jCubDtk8BOGW7tLqpL8_FpWau1-EliPKGzRNxQWQ-m5WFYQRDqi1fRsuB9bZt02v9MzomH_h0IH-GjXTY85sfFhn1EdrhkqP9dYc3W0Fp4r6Fm-p" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUkseeLHLiqgg3Z4M-RH42pktkrvuuAr6tbhLIfqLhSMq-g3mBQB10coDlaivvu9UTbvRS2Qo1jCubDtk8BOGW7tLqpL8_FpWau1-EliPKGzRNxQWQ-m5WFYQRDqi1fRsuB9bZt02v9MzomH_h0IH-GjXTY85sfFhn1EdrhkqP9dYc3W0Fp4r6Fm-p" width="180" /></a></div>It's almost 2 a.m. and I can't sleep. Or, I've been in and out of sleep. I don't know if I have enough words to fill this space. More than 140 or 280 or the few that go below a caption. But, I can't sleep. Queer spaces, bars, clubs, dance, have been some of the safest spaces I've ever known. Like, ever. They are magical. Sacred. Things happen there that only exist in that space and, it changes every time. Even when it feels like the same old same old: same old queers, same old drag queens, same old deejays. Same old magic. As I type and probably because of the early morning hour or, just my brain, I just thought of the film, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFC5yYW58TM" target="_blank">Breakin'</a> (just Breakin, not Breakin' 2: EB) and watching it in my hometown where there were few real life battles and feeling like the dance floor was electric. Now, I understand the name for the sequel. Electric with ENERG, respect and what seemed like love. The love of being in that space, with like minded peeps, doing your best and dressing super fly. I wanted that. Ozone and Turbo may seem like an odd comparison--though I always thought that Turbo was quietly queer--and, mind you it's 2, but that space, that love and respect is a queer bar, for many of us. Blanca's experience in the gay bar as a trans woman on <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=81fm9Kmu4pc" target="_blank">Pose</a></i> is also real, being ostracized in those spaces as trans, Black, Latinx, dykes...why there have been so many of our own "nights." But, I'll take it, even when I've felt like it was too white, too boring, and I'm too tired. I'll take it, just because it's mine, it's ours, it's us.<div><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;">Being queer is one of my absolute favorite things, ever. Q</span><span style="color: #0f1419; white-space: pre-wrap;">ueer clubs have been the safest, most fun, most transformative, most beautiful spaces for me. </span>And it's always been a place of contention, a place of attack: from police raids and state violence to the targeted attacks/attackers in the name of white supremacist imperialist (hetero) patriarchy, as <a href="https://www.mediaed.org/transcripts/Bell-Hooks-Transcript.pdf" target="_blank">bell hooks</a> so lovingly declared. I've never felt or worried about attacks in those spaces. Built on the backs of transwomen, drag queens, bulldaggers, dykes, (stone) butches and femmes before me. I have always reveled in that space, as they did. We are truly magical. Go ahead, cue Olivia Newton John, if you must. I do. You have to <a href="https://www.google.com/search?gs_ssp=eJzj4tFP1zcsNjAtScvIKDZg9FKozC9VyEgsS1UoyVdISs3JTAUyy1MVEotSFXIT0zOTAX3QEDI&q=you+have+to+believe+we+are+magic&oq=you+have+to+&aqs=chrome.1.69i57j46i39j0i512l3j46i512j0i512j69i61.4213j0j7&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:33babafe,vid:XnQ5qnAJBQc" target="_blank">believe</a>.</div><p>I can't explain it to you more than that and, I won't. But, as the comrade <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2022/11/21/us/colorado-springs-shooting-club-q-hero.html" target="_blank">Richard Fierro</a>, the man (of color), the veteran, who attacked and beat the fuck out of--and encouraged others, a transwoman wearing heels--the man who terrorized, attacked and murdered our loves, his family (which was everyone in the bar, he said) to stop--people inside Club Q were joyful. I've never experienced that kind of joy, an overused term, that creativity, love, sex(y-ness), movement and laughter as I have at a gay bar. Like <a href="https://kristenwolf.com/club-q/" target="_blank">Club Q</a>, here, in San Francisco. Or <a href="https://www.instagram.com/wearesoulovely/?hl=en" target="_blank">Soul Lovely</a>, in Oakland. Sweaty bodies. Go-go fucking dancers. Drag Queens(and Kings). Dykes making out or more in the corner, in the bathroom, on the dance floor...Singing every single word to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBJtzEKetBMSQkwoAOU9I8kwAAAA&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiw9OL9osL7AhUinWoFHU_ZBH4Qri56BAgnEAM&biw=1382&bih=707&dpr=2" target="_blank">Too $hort</a>, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_KztNIg4cvE">Crystal Waters</a>, or <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QIdimVDuSEU" target="_blank">Frankie Knuckles</a> (I'm dating myself, I know), <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B3f_2RlS9uM" target="_blank">Beyonce</a> (there.) in collective unison, hands in the hair. Bodies on bodies--did I say that already? <i>That</i> joy. That magic. That's what I want you to know. That's the safe space that sweet love <a href="https://twitter.com/andreanaclay/status/1594470357448110080?s=20&t=7hoEgyzaxaFQ2hV2H3mQqQ" target="_blank">Joshua Thurman </a>talked about in that heartwrenching news clip.</p><p>And that's always been true. I recently saw Cornel West's statement "Justice is what love looks like in public" circulating and, that's fine. But, it feels outside of what I am talking about. The state can do whatever they want to that man. They have never had our backs. I don't live in fear. Do I get scared sometimes? Of course but, that is the ongoing everyday violence of the State, not just these instances. Still, i<span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1419; white-space: pre-wrap;">n these violent moments that garner <i>some </i>attention (Colorado has not been covered enough), I will always turn back, inward, to us (and I will wear this tshirt until it is thread bare). I don't care about conquering hate. I just care about us. </span>We will mourn those who were brutally taken from us as we have always/are always/will always mourn. </p><p>But, I want to remember the love that takes place in the dark, in the early morning hours, in drink stained floors, at T-dances outside, in sometimes non-descript buildings. That justice and love. (And, honestly, remember the way that we/our comrades took care of us, as we always have: a 'punk' will beat your ass if you come for us, or crush a heel into your neck. Remember that). </p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #0f1419; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, I'll say it again:</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #0f1419; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I love being queer. There's nothing else like it and no one else like us, my queer and trans loves. N</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1419; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">ot to be super gay about it but, as <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7Jovvl7GJQ" target="_blank">Jimmy Sommerville</a> so eloquently says, </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1419; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">You and me together fighting for our love.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1419; white-space: pre-wrap;">You and me together fighting for our love.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1419; white-space: pre-wrap;">You and me together fighting for our love.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1419; white-space: pre-wrap;">You and me together fighting for our love.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1419; white-space: pre-wrap;">You and me together fighting for our love. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1419; white-space: pre-wrap;">You and me together fighting for our love. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1419; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"> 💔💜Always.<br /></span></p></div>andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-71824439179197048562018-07-26T08:32:00.001-07:002019-04-30T21:19:39.027-07:00Giving Me LIfe: On Black (Queer) Joy and Black DeathGiving Me Life!<br />
<br />
As a queer black feminist, I find myself saying this a lot. I just texted one of my best friends, "the ball scenes in the final episode of <a href="https://www.fxnetworks.com/shows/pose">POSE</a> are giving me life."<br />
<br />
Life.<br />
<br />
Giving it.<br />
<br />
Trying to take it.<br />
<br />
And, sometimes, extinguishing it.<br />
<br />
I should be sleeping right now, it's midnight. But, I'm typing and watching the finale again (and again, with a bit of <i><a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2018/06/nanette-is-a-radical-brilliant-work-of-comedy/563732/">Nanette</a> </i>thrown in--not sure about it's "revolutionary" tendencies yet but, the last 15 minutes, I can get down with). I should be sleeping because I have a 2.95 year old who is going to wake up in, probably, six hours and his grandparents are in town and, and, and.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QQb143v1ktA/W1l5uVI6I0I/AAAAAAAAEFA/JtIUrcqDNikYS8PnNc_9dpgqlMTVErusQCLcBGAs/s1600/37720957_1045158558974008_6098669069999800320_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QQb143v1ktA/W1l5uVI6I0I/AAAAAAAAEFA/JtIUrcqDNikYS8PnNc_9dpgqlMTVErusQCLcBGAs/s320/37720957_1045158558974008_6098669069999800320_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/broobs.psd/?hl=en">Artist: Ruben Guadalupe Marquez</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But, I can't sleep.<br />
<br />
I can't sleep because a young Black woman, Nia Wilson, was murdered three days ago in Oakland. No less than six miles from my house. Six miles from everybody's house. Around the corner, really. The second BART murder that has occurred around the corner from my house. <a href="https://www.kqed.org/news/11639679/nine-years-after-oscar-grants-death-his-mother-continues-to-speak-out">In Fruitvale</a>. In Temescal.<br />
<br />
In Oakland.<br />
<br />
And, yet, somehow, I'm getting life over on my television screen. Getting life as I feel/remember these Black and Brown bodies, whom I never knew, as I grew up in small town MO in the 1980s, not Manhattan. Not Harlem. My queer and trans brothers and sisters out there, out here surviving. Getting life from this music. From the sweetness, love and community.<br />
<br />
<i>If there's a cure for this, I don't want it...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Getting life from the protests. Or, knowing your people in Oakland are in the streets as you make your way back from LA, your son in the back seat singing along to the playlist you made for him.<br />
<br />
Strange Fire<br />
Rocket Man<br />
Aguanile<br />
Everybody Loves the Sunshine<br />
Beautiful Boy<br />
<br />
Joy.<br />
<br />
But, it wrecks me every time I feel joy in these moments. Like, real joy. When a young Black woman's life has been taken. When the media controls a narrative about who she was/who she might be. And who her murderer is. How do you feel joy when what happened to this baby is one of your deepest fears as a woman. Is one of the deepest fears of every woman. Fears for you, your love(r), your family. Fear of typing this because of...who knows what. Just fear.<br />
<br />
But then, joy. Somehow, we come back to joy. Because, we have to, as Black people.<br />
<br />
And I'm not trying to take away from Nia Wilson's life. Or make this about me. Or her. I don't write about joy or life to minimize her heartwrenching death. The heartwrenching loss her family must feel and, which, I hope they get to grieve and heal, someday, from. But how? How to have joy again? It's a question I keep coming back to in every hug from my boy. The joy of catching up with my love after a full day of parenting with the grandparents. I write about joy because, often, or, always, Blackness <i>is</i> joy in the midst of the everyday death and loss. Everyday. How do we talk about joy in the midst of everyday, Black death? How do we feel it?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://twitter.com/TereseMarieM?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor">Terese Marie Mailhot </a>writes in her stunningly beautiful memoir, <i><a href="http://www.davidnaimon.com/2018/02/13/terese-marie-mailhot-heart-berries/">HeartBerries</a>, "</i>It's an Indian Condition to be proud of survival but reluctant to call it resilience. Resilience seems ascribed to a human conditioning in white people." And, Hannah Gadsby namechecks resilience in her Netflix special as it is related to being a "broken woman who has put herself back together again." Something about the difference in these women's experiences resonates for me as a queer, Black (mixed and raised working poor) woman. I'm not proud of survival and, I don't know that Black people are <i>proud</i> of survival. That's not what I see when I look at my loves. It's survival, yes. You keep going, yes. But, it's not about building yourself up again into something new. Removing (and, maybe, forgetting or hiding) the past and moving on. Reinventing. That's not what we do as Black people. As Black queers. There's no place to do that. No room. Not when you have everyday joy, you find everyday joy in the babies, the protest, the (loud, loud) laughter. There is no time for reinvention when, in seconds, that joy is taken away. Repeatedly. Daily. Across this white supremacist (fueled by the white supremacist in chief) country.<br />
<br />
Nia Wilson is who we know about. And her loss is devastating. It hurts. As does what happened to her sister, Lahtifa, who was also attacked, brutalized (seeing her sister die) and "survived." And her sister, Malika, who has had to tell the story over and over again to shameless, ratings-hungry--not justice-hungry--media. But, their lives are not devastating. They are more than that. As are we.<br />
<br />
So I'll say Nia's name. And Lahtifa and Malika's names. I'll say their names in Black love and loss. Nia Wilson was so much more than the way she died. Than the status of the white man who killed her (who gives a fuck). Than the media that urges us to move on. She was joy. And she is us.<br />
<br />
Rest in peace, power, and love sweet, sweet baby.andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-53726538706452239622018-04-14T07:08:00.004-07:002018-04-14T08:06:08.469-07:00Sprung: On Queer PYNK Swagger<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A1Gt8Or07xI/WtGjKiYONZI/AAAAAAAAD9Q/wCY6Dd8ZT9ohAEgCbDAj29QQAs7b_9PHACEwYBhgL/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="224" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A1Gt8Or07xI/WtGjKiYONZI/AAAAAAAAD9Q/wCY6Dd8ZT9ohAEgCbDAj29QQAs7b_9PHACEwYBhgL/s400/download.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Where do I even begin or what can I say about
Janelle Monae’s latest video, the one we’ve all been talking about this week:
PYNK. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Except,</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m loving it. For all the reasons and all the feels. It’s
gorgeous, she’s (and Tessa T.) gorgeous--she’s broken out of the much loved
Black and white color-blocking, and, seems to be, fully embracing her sexual desire and love
for Miss. Tessa Thompson. And, it's pynk. All of it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Like you, I’m here for every second of it, really. The explicit girl on
girl sex-iness (over and over and over again) from the tongue kissing, pynk pants/lips, <o:p></o:p></span><span style="text-align: center;">Miss T.’s head in between said lip pants, unshaven bikini lines at the
slumber/underwear party, "pynk is the color of your fingers in my…maybe," the
differently shaded brown booties in the air, and the general hanging on to one another
that Ms. Monáe and Ms. Tessa are doing throughout. And just the "You got me sprung and I don't care who sees" vibe of their relationship, with the arrow pointing from JM to TT is just love to witness. It's so good and so, so queer. As a friend said to me, "don't you remember when you first loved a woman, the first time you had sex, with a woman?" </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">Why yes. Yes, I do. The first times queer feels.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></span>
</span><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rpBdSyiIkdg/WtGkOBhEVyI/AAAAAAAAD9g/jFOF3yC4u3wUVAcAaxa_a-siJyIJZNLxgCEwYBhgL/s1600/download-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="285" height="123" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rpBdSyiIkdg/WtGkOBhEVyI/AAAAAAAAD9g/jFOF3yC4u3wUVAcAaxa_a-siJyIJZNLxgCEwYBhgL/s200/download-1.jpg" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: center;">The colors were brighter, everything was warm everywhere and you spoke to everybody you came in contact with on the street even though you vibe sometimes like people are the last thing you want to be around? Remember that feeling? </span><span style="text-align: center;">And, I love Monae for communicating this, entirely. (I have mentioned that I love that JM is from
Kansas City? She's Missouri all the way, folks, born and raised).</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So, to sum up: queer queer queer and pussy (power) pussy (power) pussy (power). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I love it and, I live.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">(And, if you don't know, now you
know). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But, if we really want to talk about queer and my deep, aching love for
queerness and all the ways that qpoc push the boundaries around gender identity,
sexuality, and Blackness for a larger audience or, just, for us? Then, we gotta talk about Lena Waithe, fa real. Cuz really, her swagger on the most recent cover of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vanity Fair</i> is where you will find me everyday (and, is that really a surprise as the self-designated co-president of the Butch fan club?). Couple that image with Jacqueline
Woodson’s poetic interview and, I’m done. On the floor, tearful, joyful, happy. Joan ordered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vanity
Fair</i> when the man who is currently our President deemed it a dirty rag a while back and,
finally, it came in the mail the day before yesterday. Because she loves me, she let me read
it first, as long as I promised not to kiss it, earmark any of the pages, dog
ear it, or lick my fingers...to turn pages, you know. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And I live, again and again and again. And love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8g5FQYkArsk/WtEglwfuULI/AAAAAAAAD8o/iacs7bB2O3IiKK_oVLXFaRbtrIgB-lEJACLcBGAs/s1600/DY4YuGSX0AAoMjO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="855" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8g5FQYkArsk/WtEglwfuULI/AAAAAAAAD8o/iacs7bB2O3IiKK_oVLXFaRbtrIgB-lEJACLcBGAs/s400/DY4YuGSX0AAoMjO.jpg" width="285" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Seriously, it was like I was when I was a teenager, sitting in my room in the dark with a little bit of light, so as not to disturb, turning pages back and forth because I couldn’t stop looking at the photos. And reading the
words. And looking at the photos. And reading the words. Recognizing the intergenerational
linkages between two Black lesbian artists, the everyday love and embrace between Lena
and her girlfriend. Woodson (and Waithe) reminding us of Lorde and Baldwin. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">And, maybe the most, just the Butch of it all. Or, as Woodson so lovingly writes, "[Waithe is] On the butch side of queer but with delicate edges." And, then, "Lena's locks are well oiled and tighly twisted, draping down past her shoulders--a femme contrast to the shaved sides of her head.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Huh? </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Butch and femme in the same paragraph? Same piece in the mainstream, glossy magazine? Swoon. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Only a Black lesbian could write us into being like that. That's </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">what has really had me moving in the world like I've been moving these last few weeks--confident, in love, and loving queer (that, and the new Meshell Ndegeocello <i>Ventriloquism</i>): like you can't stop the sunshine. The smiles. The Black queer beauty. It's visceral.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">PYNK is icing on the cake. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And, that’s not to take away from Monae’s queer presentation or statement, if you want to call it that, at all.
But, it’s not the queerness of this video that I love: it’s more that I have neva, eva
seen a Black woman embrace her sexuality and, frankly, sex in the way that
Monae (and Thompson) do in this video, or that Monae generally does, even in the previously released, “You Make Me Feel.” One
could say that she’s been so “buttoned up” up to this point in her career that
the see through rose jeans in YMMF and the not at all subtle innuendos--their not really even innuendos, are they? It's like here's my p**sy, her face, we love, right?--in PYNK
are a breath of fresh air or an awakening or whatever we say about such things. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But, I don’t think that’s true. Don’t get me wrong, I L O V E the lines about pynk is your fingers in my…but it’s more like a deep love. It’s about a muse, a queer love
interest, what they are (or are not) doing in the bedroom/desert/pynk
car/beach/everywhere (I mean, you can't stop thinking about it can you?</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">) and I love that it is so explicitly about doing these thangs with
another cis-gendered female. But, what actually makes me smile, beam, squee,
giggle, and cry a little is that all of this is so about </span><i>her</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">. As an audience, we may be able to point to all the places that
are “shocking” or that we haven’t seen before but, I love that it’s just </span><i>her</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">. It’s her playfulness, her body, her
merkin, her sex life. As always, it feels </span><i>real</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">
to her, even if it's just the android she is portraying, you know? It's her. And that's Missouri. The rare Missouri style that I miss. J and T may or may not be a
couple but, that’s not even anything I care about (well...ok, I care a bunch). I don’t know that </span><i>I</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> need that right now, in the same way
that I need Lena Waithe to have that swagger-ry, confident smirk in a white tshirt on the cover of a magazine that isn't Black, queer, or 'female.' </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And not because I need or, want visibility but, because I need that particular kind of queer, Black <i>her</i>. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
To quote Monae, "let's count the ways we can make this last forever..."</span></div>
andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-86319320844514922692017-04-25T10:59:00.001-07:002017-04-25T19:47:13.702-07:00A Dedication: To the Lovers and Dreamers in the Bay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s5EJ17ieL5I/WPr7Z4GBFgI/AAAAAAAACE0/hebrTJ5A2tIAZJRopwdnCRrL1A-WXZtlACLcB/s1600/89dyke-drama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s5EJ17ieL5I/WPr7Z4GBFgI/AAAAAAAACE0/hebrTJ5A2tIAZJRopwdnCRrL1A-WXZtlACLcB/s400/89dyke-drama.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
I don't think I'm particularly emotional right but, "Sweet Southern Harmony" by Ebb and Flow came on shuffle as I drove through San Francisco, on my way to take our son to the California Academy of Sciences in my whole different life as a mama and I was totally overwhelmed by the sounds, the lyrics, the archives. I've been feeling how much I miss San Francsico and, now, Oakland. It's visceral. How truly heartbreaking and heartbroken it is to be in a place that was once the only place you had left to go to, the only place that ever made you feel absolutely whole and seen. I don’t know if you know what it’s like to have your entire day ripped from you, but that’s what happened: to have your sense shift, entirely, back to another time where you walked the same streets or, perhaps, different streets but, with the same people—<i>your</i> people, the only ones you’ve ever felt that <i>were</i> your people.<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">That may be dramatic but, it beez like that sometimes. </span></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">The first time I came to San Francisco, I was 17. I was with my best friend on Spring Break and we were driving through the city, hitting the local tourist attractions—the Golden Gate Bridge, Lombard Street, Chinatown. It was a whole other world than my small, Midwestern town, the one I hoped to escape from in a few months, this trip was under the guise of looking at Colleges: Santa Cruz and Eugene. I would go somewhere. <i>We </i>would go somewhere, my friend and I thought.</span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">“WHERE YOU FROM IN MO?” a voice, startling us came bellowing from outside the car on the corner of who knows where, the Haight, perhaps. </span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">A white woman with the proverbial short hair, worker jeans/carpenter pants,was on the street, carrying--I'm not kidding--a ladder appeared, her arms open wide. It was her talking to us. We said, “Springfield,” and she, with a an oddly familiar smile said “St. Louis” and waved us along. We laughed too and kept moving, on to the next spot. But, I never forgot her. San Francisco was somewhere I had dreamed about moving, without ever knowing about the city or visiting it. It was a fluke that we were here at this time, really just passing through, and it would be a decade later before I returned. </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;">When I came back, in the late nineties, the city had already begun to change in ways that fundamentally altered how we would be, together, as a community. AIDS had taken a devastating toll on the queer community, mostly gay men, but their lesbian sisters/sometimes caretakers as well. And the tech boom was silently mounting…</span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p3">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;">Still I had never experienced the kind of home I experienced as I walked the streets, of Oakland this time where I landed because rents were rising in the city. And, because, Blackness was firmly intact. </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;">Plus, um, the city was a stronghold of queer dykes of color.</span></div>
<div class="p4">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>That </i>feeling. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H_MehFh7Juw/WPr2bdSNFsI/AAAAAAAACEY/JmvRDL_ZqeoVxCngpEOSrJZBXT_egmpgACLcB/s1600/03-16_PaaE_Feministas_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H_MehFh7Juw/WPr2bdSNFsI/AAAAAAAACEY/JmvRDL_ZqeoVxCngpEOSrJZBXT_egmpgACLcB/s400/03-16_PaaE_Feministas_4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">Your people. The people where you finally felt like you were at home with. Do you know that feeling? Home, like a place you never wanted to leave. The place that you looked forward to when you walked out of the thing you call a house because you’d see people who looked like you. Like you were in your own living room. Like when wearing your "<a href="http://m.imdb.com/title/tt0367040/">Shut Up White Boy</a>" shirt was a very specific reference, not just how you felt on the daily. This is what late 20th/early 21st century SanFrancisco Bay Area was for many of us queer/dykes of color. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">There was something liberating about that time. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">The day to day witnessing on the street: the crisp jeans and steel toe boots, short, bald heads, ‘locs, or thick, black manes of gelled hair, aesthetics that would make you want to hang out of your car and scream “Hello Butch!,” startling your object of desire, much like the woman startled me so many years prior, but always, always with eye contact and recognition. [Holly and I did this a few times, by the way. That's your ride or die friend, right there]. The sideways glance on the dance floor and then the meet up, maybe, in the restaurant down the street or, on other nights, in the bathroom at the club. </span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;">The club.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">If we’re talking about the Bay Area as home, then the clubs were our living rooms—our gathering spaces. The spaces we alternately relaxed in and were formal. The space we could not only “let loose,” but was inseparable from who we were. The space where we’d do the same things we did in our homes—<i>ALL </i>the things, really—but, the continual flipping of the script, like making Too Short’s ‘Blow the Whistle’ ours and ours alone. Sometimes in secret, literally, often with no sign on the building, sometimes in old warehouses (BackStreet), rented out for the one or two nights in a month. That you actually had a space to go, to be seen by others. And, I mean seen, like in your full body, movement, dress, and sex. We would stay out, for hours on end, just to dance and then extend back, down the hallway/across the Bay Bridge, back home. </span></span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;">Along with the tea parties, art and theater collectives, the bars, the women’s only spas and bookstores; clubs, the actual structures of community have literally disappeared. The holding spaces. While yes, gatherings remain, often monthly, the bars</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;"> are all gone. S</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;">ome of that is age and the very changing structure of our lives: motherhood for many of us, but also, importantly, the displacement—the actual displacing of women—the artists, the lovers, and dreamers </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;">who helped build this city, making it the place that others now want to claim.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px;">
<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">So, what do we do? Do we just leave and start over somewhere else? What do you do when the soul of your city is gone? Like, really, the soul? And where do we go?</span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: small;">My dear friend <a href="https://wp.nyu.edu/displacedurbanhistories/wp-content/uploads/sites/3081/2016/01/Mirabal-Geographies-of-Displacement-2009.pdf">Nancy Raquel Mirabal</a> rightly writes about the emotional toll and loss that goes along with what is called gentrification, how displacement destroys. And as much as I try to block it out, avoid and not really feel it, we have to look at it/that toll, I think, in order to keep going. She also says we must face it in order to stay, claim this space, and continue to build. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: small;">So, I'll come back to the words of Ebb and Flow, whose own Bay Area queerness speaks to the whole of my experience in this moment (though I do not belittle the current significance or initial songwriting that included the word and experience of refugee, one wholly different than my own never questioned life as a US citizen):</span></div>
<div class="p1">
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">When I grow up I wanna be free/When I grow up I’ll be free</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">All the oceans I will see/I will forget Tennessee</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">I will move to the big city</span></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><span style="font-size: small;">I will remain the refugee/Don’t need Southern Harmony/I’ll remain a refugee</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="s1"></span>All my love 💔💜</span></div>
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</style>andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-33075630293580694102016-11-15T11:52:00.000-08:002016-11-16T10:17:54.052-08:00Am I A Faggot?: What Moonlight Taught Me About the U.S. Presidential Election<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yeah, I didn't initially think of these two being related, other than I needed <i>something</i> after this election. We'll see what happens by the end of this post because, that's how it's working in my head. In the meantime, I will scream--GO SEE MOONLIGHT. Right now. Like, drop whatever shit you're doing, get in your car, the bus, a taxi (see how I did that? Not UBER, cuz they ain't for us), or walk and go see it. If you waited as long as I did, you're missing out and need. to. see. it. right. now.<br />
<br />
It will cure what ails you (the U.S. Presidential election) and make you feel good about life.<br />
<br />
I'm not kidding. I've never seen anything like it. Never, ever seen Black men portrayed the way they are in this film: Tender. Beautiful. Vulnerable. Human. Just the fact that Juan, whose main trade is drugs/crack cocaine, who has taken young Ciron/Little in tells him when he asks,<br />
<br />
Chiron: "What's a Faggot?"<br />
Juan: "A Faggot is a word used to make gay people feel bad."<br />
Chiron: "Am I a Faggot?"<br />
Juan: "You might be gay but don't let anyone ever call you a faggot."<br />
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And then, later: "you don't need to know right now."<br />
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I've never seen any Black man ever portrayed like that on the big screen. Like, ever. It's 2016, if you're keeping track. <i>Ever</i>. Just pure love and respect. (I do have things to say about the portrayal of women, as they were pretty flat and disappointing but, I don't want to go off point. Just yet.)<br />
<br />
Honestly, most of my love for this film is about the last (third) act and grown ass Kevin. Every single male actor--all the Chirons, all the Kevins, Juan (Mahershala Ali, good lord!) are strong but, I can't really even express what Andre Holland brings to the screen as G. A. Kevin. He brought everything to his scenes. Everything. From the--ok, spoilers--initial phone call to adult Chiron after a decade, where you really only see his lips, to his effortless movement and swag around the restaurant when Chiron high tails it down to Florida to reconnect, to his offering of green tea and asking Chiron "who he is," back at his apartment. In every scene, he delivers. More than that, the humanity and love that, it seems, writer Barry Jenkins intended to come through is electrifying.<br />
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And, dude is fine as hell. That just crosses all gender and sexuality boundaries. It's just fact. This is no more evident than in the scene after he cooks dinner for Chiron, which is what he initially promised him on the phone:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d6qm5u2tNj8/WClfzfSmH3I/AAAAAAAAB58/ih0oxHKFUdMz_DYZHtjfLAd7jNFHNC_FACLcB/s1600/imgres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-d6qm5u2tNj8/WClfzfSmH3I/AAAAAAAAB58/ih0oxHKFUdMz_DYZHtjfLAd7jNFHNC_FACLcB/s400/imgres.jpg" width="400" /></a>Chiron/Black: "So, what, you Cuban now?"<br />
Grown Ass Kevin: "Only in the kitchen, Papi."<br />
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Excuse Me?<br />
<br />
I mean, holy shit. If that ain't love and gentleness, I don't know what is. It could also, of course, mean sex--come on, <i>Papi</i>--call ME that, once (Joan). I kid. Sort of, cause that's hot. But I don't even know that this is about gay or straight. Sexuality, yes--and I'm not trying to deny Black gay men the story they resonate with here, at all--but Chiron even says "You're the only man that's ever touched me like that" and, "I've never touched anybody since." And we know Kevin has had a relationship with a woman (so, sure he could be bi, but he never intimates that), his ex and mother of his son, Lil' Kevin. The one thing that is clear to me is that they love each other. And that regardless of the "fronts" (literally), they <i>see</i> each other. And, to communicate that in a space that is entirely Black(and poor, underground) is a huge achievement in Black filmmaking. And, it's real.<br />
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Somehow, this is what connects me to the fuckshow that was last week. I know folks are still in shock. I can't believe it either (President Trump, well actually, President Pence/Giuliani/Kobach/Bannon) but, what I really can't believe is how much--outside of this election, the "winner," and his impending cabinet assignments--whiteness has been centered post-election. I mean, of course I can but, I can't believe it is under the guise of allyship and alignment with oppressed groups. I'm not even going to address the safety pin thing except to say that it re-centers whiteness. Or, the idealized "white working class." Except that it, again, re-centers whiteness. Or white women. Look, I was about to get in the ass of the white (women) relatives I have who voted for Trump but, that's not my work. I have an "unfriend" button that I will or have used. That's white people's work, frankly: white women, men, feminists, queer folks. Come get your people. Seriously. Stop trying to hide and do the work with or for people of color. You are not the target of this election--queers maybe--but, that's not immediate. He, and his kind, have other targets.<br />
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What won this election was white racism, plain and simple. That's what Trump ran his campaign on the second he called Mexicans rapists. The minute he said he'd make Muslim's register and that he'd keep refugees out. The minute he let Giuliani, who hates Black people, anywhere near it. And that is what people have been acting out since. Look, I get it my white queer sisters and brothers, if you unleash Pence, we'll all be "sharing a bottom bunk in a two (wo)man cell." But, just for a second, it'd be nice to our collective gaze inward so that we can do the work we need to do. So we can get back to our humanity, wherever our sense of that lies.<br />
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What I loved about Moonlight was that it was entirely Black. I think, save a couple of white customers at "Jimmy's Eastside," the entire rest of the film was <i>Black</i>. Like, Blackity Black. Even the teachers at his school were Black. Chiron's neighborhood, his adult life. All of it. And it was beautiful. And, it occurred to me, how rare that is in popular culture and how our current focus around this election reflects that. I was also reminded of how good that feels, to be in those spaces (somehow, I'm mixing "Candy" by Cameo in here because it just feels so Black. "Word Up" was lost but, "Candy" stayed Black and it feels good).<br />
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And, we're still here. And, we need our sanctuaries right now: those spaces that make you feel good about who you are--Black, queer, queer women of color, Native, Mexican, whatever. A space without whiteness as an overriding construct and, oftentimes, in real time/real people. So that we can rest, build, and feel stronger against the opposition. And, more importantly, so we can stand up, in between, and for our allies of color who are being directly targeted. Stand in the way of the wall he promises to build so that our Mexican (and Central American) loves are safe. Get in between Islamophobes who hurl insults and try to defame our Muslims sisters and brothers on the street (<a href="http://petitions.moveon.org/sign/i-pledge-to-register.fb51?source=s.fb&r_by=10621850">and register our names</a>). Do whatever we can to get to Standing Rock and other impending pipeline sites that will directly (and first) impact our Native/Indigenous folks. Protect our trans sisters and brothers (of color) who will be most impacted by whatever comes down for queer folk.<br />
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That's the slimmer of hope that I can hold onto as we move through another week, onward, towards a Trump presidency. I know we will resist, yes, we've already got the movements/the networks in place to do that. And, I'm ready to fight. And the more we can do that with our humanity in tact (i.e. I am not your N***er, <i>your </i>Faggot or your Cunt), both individually and collectively, the more pleasurable this fight will be.<br />
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I see you. 💜andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-21685465800103800592016-07-07T17:58:00.001-07:002016-07-09T09:28:06.358-07:00For Those of Us Who Were Imprinted with Fear: Raising A Black Boy in the Mouth of a Racist Sexist Suicidal Dragon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Long title, I know. But, every word needed to be said. And, if you don't know, those words are not mine. They belong to Audre Lorde. Words she wrote in "A Litany for Survival" and "Man Child." I didn't know where else to turn in this moment. A day after Philando Castile was murdered. Two days after Alton Sterling. Both Black men. Both murdered by police officers during "routine" stops. Both men with children and wives. As if that matters.<br />
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And, I've been reaching for and mulling over Lorde's words prior to these killings. Particularly her wording around fear. See, a few days ago, Joan and I were up the coast at Stinson Beach with her sister's family and our just shy of eleven month old son. It wasn't his first time at the beach but, it was his first time since he started walking and we let him down to "stick his toes in" the water. I was hesitant, and let her take the lead in guiding him, holding his hands. The water was cold and I watched, waiting for him to recoil.<br />
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But, he didn't. Not once.<br />
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He ran right into the water as she held him tight, laughing. If I showed all of the picture above, you'd see his smile. He did this over and over.<br />
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I was surprised and said, "He's not even scared."<br />
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"No, he doesn't know fear." Joan said.<br />
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<i>He doesn't know fear.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
"Huh?"<br />
<br />
But, it was true. Not only did he not <i>seem</i> scared, he wasn't. He had no idea he should be. That others are. That I was. I don't know if it was watching his much older cousins splashing about in the water or the fact that mommy had his hands held tight, not one hesitation he had. And then it hit me, hard: I can't remember ever feeling like that. I currently don't live my life like that now. And now, even more so with a child, a Black child, who is also Native but will be read in every interaction as Black, I don't know that I will ever live a life without fear again.<br />
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Sometimes, of course, I can run into the ocean. I sometimes do that. And, I try lots of things. I do the things I want to do, you know? I'm not <i>afraid</i>. Being afraid of something is different. I am not afraid. But, I don't live my life with <i>that</i> kind of fearlessness. I don't live without fear. It's stored in my body. Like other folks who are Black, Brown, and queer. My battle is trying to, in the words of Lorde, not respect fear more than I respect myself.<br />
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But it's a struggle. Especially when the killing of Black, Brown and queer bodies is so prevalent in this suicidal dragon. Honestly, I can barely remember that 49 people were murdered in a gay bar on "Latin Night," a little over three weeks ago. That a man went into that bar, specifically, because he hated gay men of color, Puerto Ricans, entirely. It terrifies me and, I really have a hard time keeping it in my brain. Remembering to grieve. Because, it's terrifying. Days after the Pulse murders happened, when I could actually grieve, I had a thought I rarely have, which was "it doesn't matter what we do, they still hate us." I've never been a believer in marriage as the equalizing savior and I hate that <i>that</i> was the thing folks mobilized around for recognition. But, I did marry my love and, now we have a son.<br />
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But it doesn't matter. They still hate us. That's how the terror sits. They still hate us as Black people, too. Even when we comply. And violent murders don't rattle that hatred or fear at all, the terror just sits there. And it's triple-fold as a Black queer woman. But, it really doesn't even occur to me to notice fear until something like our boy running <i>towards</i> the cold sting of the ocean makes me tense up. Then I can feel it. And, you know, if I could stop and notice my own terror, I mean, like really noticed, then I'd have to notice that while I feel terrified, most of the time, as a queer Black feminist living in the U.S., I'm clearly not as scared as white people. Because white people, precisely white middle class people, feel like they have something to <i>lose</i>. Even though they may not be the ones engaging in the overt killing of Black or queer people. The state does that. But, as Jesse Williams said so eloquently a few weeks ago, "this invention called whiteness uses and abuses us." Moves into our neighborhoods where they put "clubs" on their cars so that they will feel safe even though they're terrified. Like they are the target. So scared that, not even the threat, but the actual existence of Blackness terrifies them to kill. And so now I wonder, and Joan wonders, as Black and Brown mothers to an 11 month old Black boy, when will that fear, that terror be aimed at our son?<br />
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Our son.<br />
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Our son who routinely gets told, or we get told, that he is "cute," "so handsome," "beautiful," "engaging," etc. And, when I say routinely, I mean everyday. By everyone regardless of race, gender, sexuality or age. Literally, we were out for a walk last night in our neighborhood, the same one with the cars clubbed tight--I say this because I've lived off High Street for almost a decade and have never, not once, seen a club wrapped around a steering wheel until the recent, rapid gentrification. In any case, on this walk, we were stopped by two different women at the beginning and end of our walk who told me/us how beautiful, gorgeous and engaged and, also, what pretty (reddish) hair he has. I don't have any space in my brain for that. Mostly because I also received constant, unwanted attention as a young, Black girl with "pretty hair" and skin, etc. but also and, more importantly, because I can't help but wonder when that will change. Joan and I both have asked when he's going to stop being "cute" and become feared. When? When he's 12, like Tamir Rice? 17, like Trayvon Martin? 18, like Mike Brown? 24, like Freddie Gray, or 37 like Alton Sterling? When will it happen? And when will he learn about that fear? When will he internalize that fear? He is scared of nothing--not entirely true, of course, but he runs towards dogs, picks up the heaviest things (we leave lying) around the house, he reaches for people all the time. When will that change? And how do we protect him from that? We were entrusted by another Black mama, his birthmother, to take care of him precisely because of who we are. Queer, Black, Native (maybe also because Joan's an Aquarius...). But, how do we do it?<br />
<br />
I'm not the first one to ask the questions--others are doing it simultaneously--Philando Castile's mother told him how to interact with police during the routine stops. Like the one that killed him. Lorde joined the long list of women with Black sons writing about this when she penned "Man Child." I'm not the first, won't be the last but I'm new at this. And it's different than the fear I've felt for my brothers, father, cousins, and myself. He's my son and he's eleven months old. His laughter and fearlessness fills my heart in a way no one else has. And I want to hold onto that, without fear. So, I'll turn to Lorde again, and the refrain, "we are taught to respect fear more than we respect ourselves."<br />
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And I'll turn toward the fear and not let it sit in/on me. Not respect it more than me. Or Joan. Or our son. That's where I'm at as I finish this piece. And that's where I will fight to stay. For all my peoples.andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-64526926923369139632016-04-21T18:30:00.003-07:002016-04-23T12:58:56.048-07:00This Day Was Never Supposed 2 Happen: On Prince Rogers Nelson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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No, really, this day was NEVA supposed 2 happen. And I said I didn't know if I could ever write about it <a href="http://queerblackfeminist.blogspot.com/2012/05/let-it-flow-like-mudslidetears-for-mca.html">when and if it happened</a>. </div>
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So, fuck this. </div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">I'd like 2 get back into bed now. Or, the womb, or wherever I can go so that this day never exists. </span>I'd like 2 go there once I get up from inside the floor where I have been physically and metaphorically all day. Just laying on the floor cause I don't know how I'm supposed 2 get through it. Really. How am I supposed 2 wake up tomorrow? Imma try but, fuck. I can't imagine it. Because, look, this is how I woke up this morning: singing "OneDayI'mGonnaBeSomebody" by The Time and thinking, "Why am I singing The Time?" Answer: "Because that album was Awe.some. and Prince was all up in that." Just like he was with The Family, some of Sheila E. and Vanity 6. With lyrics like, "The only way I'd work in a car wash is if I own the whole damn place." That's total Prince. Like the last time I saw him live at the Fillmore with my dear friend Nancy and he sang "777-9311," cause that shit was his...And then, I thought about how much I love Prince and maybe I can interview him 4 this chapter I've been working on in my brain and on paper about Prince, queer Blackness, and loss, but then nobody ever gets 2 interview him and then actually write about it, they just have 2 interview him at Paisley Park and then never write about it again unless it's 4 comedy or, not verbatim. Like Kevin Smith or Charlie Murphy...</div>
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Seriously, that's how I woke up.<br />
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Later, when I found out he fucking died through a fucking text, I thought, "Oh, that must have been him saying goodbye."<br />
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Right?<br />
<br />
Cause that's how it is if U are of a certain generation. U can get away with saying shit like that about Prince. Like U and Prince are connected 4 real in some weird metaphysical, telepathic way, because it's Prince and, for so many of us, Prince runs through every. fiber. of. our. body. (If U don't believe me or agree, that's kool and the gang, but keep moving cuz, that's how it's working over here). Like, I could dedicate this entire post 2 "If I Was Ur Girlfriend" simply because it changed my LIFE and I feel all of it, all the time. From the first utterances of Camile, I was done. I'd never heard or felt anything like it and it did, it really changed something for me about gender, love, sexuality and Prince.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Would U run 2 me if somebody hurt U? Even if that somebody was me?</i><br />
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And it wasn't because I wanted 2 be somebody's girlfriend or even Prince's girlfriend, but I wanted 2 <i>be</i> Prince, like him, have the freedom to move like that, in the world. And he gave me that confidence. It kind of started before that, with Controversy (DirtyMind made me feel some other kind of way) but, him singing "Am I Black or white, am I straight or gay" ... I blossomed.<br />
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Look, I'm not going 2 be able 2 explain everything that Prince meant 2 me because there are no words, just fibers and electricity, <i>but</i> I have 2 write something because I have 2 do something 2 keep going. I have a baby 2 feed. So, here goes:<br />
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I love Prince. Wait, here's my favorite photo of him, eat. it:<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-z0yZkdwLz00/Vxl0Dk31LmI/AAAAAAAABuE/9Zfyw2j8n9EFQxNRt3MroLjjsA97kwWAQCLcB/s1600/url.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-z0yZkdwLz00/Vxl0Dk31LmI/AAAAAAAABuE/9Zfyw2j8n9EFQxNRt3MroLjjsA97kwWAQCLcB/s320/url.jpg" width="301" /></a><br />
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Whole chapters of my life exist because of him. Like, no one else existed. Every serious lover I've ever had can recite the lyrics 2 random Prince songs and even his proteges. (One of the many reasons I fell in love with Joan was because she knew "The Walk" by The Time. And then I found out she knew the WHOLE entire album and I was DEAD). And, I'm not kidding when I say, "I am who <a href="http://queerblackfeminist.blogspot.com/search?q=Cheerios">I am because of Prince</a>." Because Prince was in my bedroom, on my walls, in my speakers, in my clothes and make up, in my heart when I was 12, 16, 22, and on and on and on. Because he was gender-fucky, Black, beautiful, nasty, playful, funky, dirty, love, sexy, free, Midwestern, but mostly, because it felt like he really cared. About us. Us: Black folks, and then, maybe, queers, but certainly, humans, U know? And I love that. He's been saying things much more recently like, "Baltimore," "Albums like books and Black lives, matter" and "If people are telling U their lives matter, they're trying 2 get your attention."<br />
<br />
But, Prince has been saying similar things since he came on the scene like,<br />
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"Reproduction of a new breed, stand up organize."<br />
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"Sexuality, I'm gonna let my body be free."<br />
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"No child is bad in the beginning, they imitate their atmosphere."<br />
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(okay, that's all from one song, "Sexuality," but come. on.)<br />
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"U say U want a leader but U can't seem 2 make up your mind, I think U better close it..."<br />
<br />
"Starfish and Coffee, maple syrup and jam, if you set your mind free baby, maybe you'll understand."<br />
<br />
Maybe it wasn't earth-shattering movement music or, some "Revolution Will Not Be Televised" shit, but it kinda was. And it was transformative 4 my 12, 16, and now 45 year old self. I still come up with those lyrics, they're written on my body, just like the ones I woke up singing this morning. And this is one of things I loved about Prince: in every iteration of who he was--Controversy, 1999, SignO'TheTimes, LoveSexy, BlackSweat--and how he presented himself, he pushed us, Black folks I'm talking about here, 2 keep going, 2 keep fighting, 2 keep opening ourselves up 2 difference, whether it was sex, gender, or sound. In spite of everything, he pushed us, and he did it through music. Amirite? Like, he says that in interviews, "the way to understand one another is through music." Plus, he just made us feel so. fucking. good about it. MTV--thank God--has been playing his videos all day (and, um, <i>Purple Rain </i>just came on so I'm done) and I'm right here watching and I'm lit up, on fire cause this music sounds so good. That's genius. And I don't know that that has been matched since he came on the scene. I mean, how do U make a community of people feel so fucking good as they (we) are living through some of the worst shit: HIV/AIDS, drugs and drug addiction, police brutality, just being fucking different and being brutalized 4 it. From the moment he emerged until today (if, in fact, he did die today because I just can't, even as I type this...) Prince let us know that we could get free. That we could, actually, <i>be</i> free.<br />
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So, yeah, this day was never supposed 2 happen. Because, now what?<br />
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RIPowerPeaceLoveandFreedom Prince. U own my heart, U own my mind.<br />
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<br />andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-63529441306395970732016-02-10T09:20:00.003-08:002016-02-17T21:41:02.627-08:00Slay Trick: Queer Solidarity (?) in Formation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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By now, I've probably watched Beyonce's Formation, the new video/song she dropped Saturday afternoon, which has had the Black feminist interwebs buzzing ever since, no less than 10 times. Ok 20. And then there was her SuperBowl performance, which I also thoroughly enjoyed (with some Bruno Mars in there too--that was it, right?) and have watched about a dozen times. I know, not that many, right? But, I gotta say, I feel like a straight up 'stan.' And I'm feeling it for 'Yonce in this moment: the sound, the visuals (<a href="http://www.vulture.com/2016/02/beyonce-clarifies-dispute-over-new-video-footage.html">some borrowed, it seems</a>), a clear political presentation/performance/recognition, similar to her MTV 'Feminist' moment two years ago.<br />
<br />
All good.<br />
<br />
In the days since this video dropped, much has been spoken and written about how Black (woman) this video, the images, the history, Beyonce herself is by Black feminists like <a href="http://newsouthnegress.com/southernslayings/">Zandria F. Robinson</a>, <a href="https://redclayscholarblog.wordpress.com/2016/02/07/getting-in-line-working-through-beyonces-formation/">Regina Bradley</a>, <a href="http://www.msnbc.com/melissa-harris-perry/watch/beyonce-evokes-new-orleans-in-new-video-618221635632">Brittney Cooper</a>, <a href="http://msmagazine.com/blog/2016/02/08/beyonce-as-conjure-woman-reclaiming-the-magic-of-black-lives-that-matter/">Janell Hobson</a>, <a href="http://www.colorlines.com/articles/jackson-five-nostrils-creole-vs-negro-and-beefing-over-beyonc%C3%A9s-formation">Yaba Blay</a>, and <a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/music/features/beyonces-black-southern-formation-20160208">Robinson again</a>. This is a celebration, both Beyonce's work itself and the words/movement she has inspired. My favorite thing about Beyonce is what folks do with her and her work. I'm a fan of that, that she inspires, that she gets Black women to WORK. That's worth noting and celebrating.<br />
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But, she also, always, leaves me kind of <i>thirsty</i>.<br />
<br />
Not that kind of thirsty but, literally, like needing more. Needing something, else.<br />
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And this is why, often, after a few days I don't feel as full, you know? I mean, know that, for weeks I will be saying <i>I like my Negro nose with Jackson 5 nostrils</i>, just like I was<i> I been drinking, watermelon</i>.<br />
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But, here's the issue I have with Beyonce and, often, lyrics like these: they are always, only directed at and studdin' for her man. And that's cool, I get it, go hard for love, for who makes you feel good. But, her displays of sexuality stay there, for me. They are about her man, not her. It's her sexuality in relationship to her man, solely, it seems. Other than how she uses and displays her body, she gets lost for me. Case in point, I love the flow of <i>Drunk in Love</i> up until precisely the point that Jay-Z opens his mouth and then she's gone, she's lost for me. This was revisited again in the lyric that starts with, <i>When he fuck me good</i> in Formation.<br />
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So, that relationship: one I see as largely feeling oneself in relationship to a man, your man, is troubling, because of what it says about possible collaboration with other, marginalized groups. In particular, queer Black women. This is also clear in Formation, which folks have rightly situated as queer: starting with the addition (but no visuals) of Messy Mya and Big Freedia at key points in the song. Hat tip to that. But, it also feels kind of easy in that, if you are going to do something Blackity Black and gay in New Orleans, you better hit up Big Freedia, recognize Bounce and acknowledge the Queen(s). More importantly, this positioning of gay Black man--genderfucky as both are, with Big Freedia claiming female pronouns--only speaks back to her position as a straight (cis, light skinned, beautiful) Black woman. I mean include and lift up all my gay Black brothers for real, especially the self-proclaimed sissies, punks, queens, and fags. Love 'em up, fiercely 'cause they're ours. But, why are we always gagging when a mainstream artist includes us? It's clear that contemporary R&B/hip-hop is infused with Black (male) queerness: from production, styling, choreography, language and sound.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cVp_cCmj1F4/VrtiFRchWlI/AAAAAAAABq8/s8T5JOQzqHg/s1600/images-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cVp_cCmj1F4/VrtiFRchWlI/AAAAAAAABq8/s8T5JOQzqHg/s200/images-9.jpg" width="199" /></a>But where are the women? The dykes, to be more specific. I don't see a space. And, I'm not saying we need to be all up in the videos, Black dyke representation--like most queer representation--has been limited, at best in <a href="http://www.afterellen.com/tv/460593-master-none-delivers-diversity-three-dimensional-black-lesbian-character">recent moments.</a> Beyonce's sexuality and the gaze she goes for is where I get stuck. Where I stop humming, you know? Let me be clear: for a straight woman to say that they enjoy sex and even, take charge during it, is not necessarily the sign of solidarity or radicalism you may think it is--particularly for a group that is targeted precisely because of how we have sex and who we have sex with (and don't). You gotta go a step further. Step outside of the expected gaze a bit more. Because there was a point, for many of us, where we needed to fit ourselves into popular, straight narratives: song, film, music videos, etc. And, that's still true for many Black queer and trans folk, notably in rural or "country" areas, as she may be conjuring. Ones I know well. And, not that a queer presence is absent, but not to the same extent as urban areas. However, with the growth and some accessibility to the Internet, that has shifted. I'm not talking liberation, mind you, but the Black queer imagination has actual, queer sites to build on. That straight space <i>may</i> not hold as much sway in this moment. I've written about a time, a need to identify our leaders, the people we look to for social change, for "revolutionary ideas" in popular culture. <i>Side Note: </i>I was hardly done mourning the Blackity Black and queer in the form of <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/cynthia-dagnalmyron/shining-star-celebrating-_b_9169872.html">Maurice White,</a> founder of Earth, Wind, and Fire, who consciously created a space for young Black folks to imagine a Black present and future. And, it was one that I always read as queer or, something <i>other</i>, allowing me to get in where I (finally) fit in. And that was true, I think of many in my generation, because for many of us, there weren't any contemporary activists that fit the leadership model we'd been taught to look for--looking to hip-hop or riot grrrl, as examples, for that space. But, I don't know how necessary that is in this moment, when we are knee deep in queer-led movement. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eMVjOTa1d0A/VrrNgEHpSHI/AAAAAAAABqc/_eFGHm_HXn8/s1600/images-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eMVjOTa1d0A/VrrNgEHpSHI/AAAAAAAABqc/_eFGHm_HXn8/s320/images-6.jpg" width="320" /></a>So, when you demand that ladies to get in formation, I can appreciate it, a call to Black women to organize. I'm not convinced that this is what this is, but it looks good. Like the SuperBowl--her backup dancers repping for Mario Woods, <a href="http://sfbayview.com/2015/12/where-is-kamala-harris-on-this-mario-woods-killing/">a young Black man shot and killed by police in San Francisco</a>. But, they held their fists in the air and repped him because three <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2016/jan/19/mario-woods-san-francisco-police-department-killing-civil-rights-investigation">Black Lives Matter activist</a>s approached them with a sign--if you watch the video, you can see that. Also, how political is it to throw your fists in the air in the SuperBowl stadium, on a national stage, but do as you sing the line "You might just be a Black Bill Gates in the makin.'" <i>That's </i>the movement you salute. Capitalism. American Dream (<i><a href="http://www.deathandtaxesmag.com/280129/beyonce-capitalism-black-activism/">I see it, I want it...your best revenge is your paper</a>). </i>That's when you stand up. And, I realize that Beyonce and Jay-Z have done several things, financially, for the movement--recently, Tidal's million dollar donation to Black Lives Matter (although, if one. penny. goes to <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/post-nation/wp/2016/02/03/deray-mckesson-black-lives-matter-activist-launches-last-minute-bid-to-become-mayor-of-baltimore/">Deray McKesson's Baltimore mayoral race</a>, I'm done). <br />
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But, this movement is all about self-identified Black queer women, transwomen and genderqueer folks leading this movement. So, in some ways this call ignores that, a movement already established. I know folks say it calls attention to it, but it feels just the opposite to me when we have a full fledged movement happening that is full of leaders, actually, predominately led by Black queer women, transfolk and our allies. Just look at the leadership in almost every BLM chapter: <a href="http://byp100.org/">Chicago (BYP)</a>, Minneapolis, Oakland, Los Angeles. The <a href="https://www.colorlines.com/articles/black-lives-matter-partners-reproductive-justice-groups-fight-black-women">"ladies" are already in formation,</a> <i>leading </i>the work. So, though this may be a "nod," a recognition as many are suggesting, the explicit acknowledgement of the queer work in this movement--the queerness of strategy, tactic, and focus--is muddied by the safe position that Beyonce continues to occupy. And while she is being targeted <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/protesters-planning-anti-beyonce-rally-nfl-hq-article-1.2525945">in some ways</a> (I'll say more when endorsements/collaborations start to fall), can we put that into context of the everyday targeting that Black Lives Matter activists face on the front lines? That Black queer (cis and trans) women and transmen face everyday?<br />
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'Cause I'm gonna need much more of that to <i>truly</i> get in formation.andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-31782557056068480702016-01-11T16:30:00.000-08:002016-01-12T09:00:18.589-08:00We Can Be Weirdos: On The Day That David Bowie Died<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Wfn4nDf2lNQ/VpRIl25Vy8I/AAAAAAAABo4/AdpktPcJmW4/s1600/images-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Wfn4nDf2lNQ/VpRIl25Vy8I/AAAAAAAABo4/AdpktPcJmW4/s400/images-5.jpg" width="400" /></a>I'm surprised by the number of times I take to this blog to mourn <a href="http://queerblackfeminist.blogspot.com/2012/05/let-it-flow-like-mudslidetears-for-mca.html?q=mudslide">the death</a> <a href="http://queerblackfeminist.blogspot.com/2012/02/its-not-righton-whitney-houston-black.html">of a musician</a>. (I'll say it again, if, I mean, when Prince dies, I'm out. Under the covers. Unable to move, eat, work). But, here I am, laying next to my sleeping son--which I should also be doing--listening to his last album, <i><a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/celebritynews/12092542/Bowies-last-album-was-parting-gift-for-fans-in-carefully-planned-finale.html">Blackstar</a></i> and updating my Facebook page with videos and photos and commentary on Mr. Bowie.<br />
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I'm verklempt.<br />
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And surprised. Again (although I do love the serendipity of having this much emotion about <a href="http://queerblackfeminist.blogspot.com/2013/10/how-does-it-feel-to-be-loved-on-death.html?q=lou+reed">Lou Reed</a> and David Bowie). All the while, Phish's chorus to "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UgG8mXfhpCQ">David Bowie</a>" pops in and out of my head.<br />
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That's right, I referenced Phish.<br />
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<i>My brain hurts a lot</i><br />
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Mostly because of these memories/lyrics flooding it. And, although, I really love Bowie in all his transformations, certainly, I'm of the Ziggy Stardust (and the Spiders from Mars) squad. It's one of my go to, monthly, if not more, albums. I've taught classes on it. It's a little out of hand. But, as I think back and introduce my son to his music today, I'm reminded of all the times that Bowie's voice would sneak in. I mean, the album was released in 1972, when I was 1. And I don't know if my mom had a copy or not, though her record collection was vast. Still, I do remember being a teenager and dancing around like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AB4rK6PaW3c">Molly Ringwald</a> to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1hDbpF4Mvkw">Modern Love</a> in the 7th grade....<br />
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<i>I know when to go out, I know when to stay in</i><br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-caynD2ZSP-M/VpQ9JRx1U7I/AAAAAAAABn4/_NPu_AUMbAc/s1600/images-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-caynD2ZSP-M/VpQ9JRx1U7I/AAAAAAAABn4/_NPu_AUMbAc/s400/images-3.jpg" /></a>...But, I can't really think of a time when his sound and voice wasn't there, getting me through, in a way. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wd2clb5T8JA">Golden Years</a> in the car on the weekends with my mom when I was 5. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J-_30HA7rec">Fame</a> (coming through the speakers at one of my dad and uncle's parties and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYYRH4apXDo">Space Oddity</a>, everywhere, it seemed but certainly in my later high school years. All the while, as others have pointed out, signaling to me in the weird, sometimes creepy way, because it was so outside the norm, that this weird, different girl was ok. On the right the track. That there was more out there. And that I wasn't alone.<br />
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<i>Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do</i><br />
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That's my favorite thing about music.<br />
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And that's what I love about this day and people's memories. Look, the Internet is fast and I'm trying to just take a shower with an infant so, I can't yet comment in a way that's I'd like to, on the also circulating news story about David Bowie's and the "<a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=lori+maddox&oq=lori+maddox&aqs=chrome..69i57j69i61j69i60l2.3679j0j9&sourceid=chrome&es_sm=119&ie=UTF-8">Baby Groupies</a>." And, I'm not ready to. That's not what this post is about, but it lingers in my brain, of course (it's not complicated and he's not exempt).<br />
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What I'm interested in, and have always been, is what music <i>means</i> to people. What individual artists mean and, what people do with the sounds, the lyrics, the context of the stars we love. The place where deep emotion and music meet. From Joan and I introducing our 5 month old to Bowie by teary-eyed dancing around the room to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydLcs4VrjZQ">Young Americans</a> (Luther!) and Modern Love, which he loved (I LOVE this boy! But more later, more thoughtfully on that) to my nearest and dearest musical soulmates Nancy and Holly calling me to grieve and all the others who flooded my Newsfeed with nothing. but. Bowie. That's what I've cherished today/what always hits me hard when these people that I grabbed onto, at one time or another, die.<br />
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<i>Ain't That Close to Love?</i><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W8a8rI49ZwA/VpRGpBbhNsI/AAAAAAAABoI/R8lDhn96vwI/s1600/CYdZHyuVAAAokvL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W8a8rI49ZwA/VpRGpBbhNsI/AAAAAAAABoI/R8lDhn96vwI/s200/CYdZHyuVAAAokvL.jpg" width="200" /></a>It's not so much that the people that loved him and turned out today span race, class, gender, sexuality, and age--I don't hear, too often anymore, "Black folks don't listen to..."--Or even that he was so gender-fucky at a time when people really hated him and anyone that emulated him, for it. Although, certainly, that was/meant <i>so</i> much. Rather, I love that I spotted so many other weirdos online and in person today. I remembered (or re-membered? I really hate that, sometimes, in academic speak, I have to say) that all of us were out there, weirdos--queers, the only person of color to like this music, or even the only Black or Brown girl in the room--often alone and different. I wish I would've known that that then, known you all then. Though, being a weirdo got me here and is still, something I hold onto as I move closer in with the living (there's the drama! :).<br />
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And it was people like Bowie that left me hanging on, to me and to the future loves I would, eventually, find. For that, I am grateful. RIP David Jones. So glad to <a href="http://i100.independent.co.uk/article/this-beautiful-quote-sums-up-how-everyone-feels-about-david-bowies-death--ZyAo2jD4hg">have lived at the same time that you did.</a><br />
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<i>So come on</i><br />
<i>Come on</i><br />
<i>We really got a good thing going</i><br />
<i>Come on</i><br />
<i>Come on</i><br />
<i>If you think you're gonna make it</i><br />
<i>You better hang onto yourself. </i><br />
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<!--3-->andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-51683911621481192122015-06-18T20:08:00.001-07:002015-06-19T07:43:56.817-07:00Rock Steady: Black Music (and Love) Heals<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Xs0fxCyIfSo/VYNwwXTfOwI/AAAAAAAABcA/Jbw_R6gr65M/s1600/aretha-rock-steady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Xs0fxCyIfSo/VYNwwXTfOwI/AAAAAAAABcA/Jbw_R6gr65M/s320/aretha-rock-steady.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<span style="text-align: center;">Today, I woke up feeling like every other Black person, and everyone else who is breathing and has a conscience: heavy and stunned as we woke up to the news of the murders at the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/06/18/us/church-attacked-in-charleston-south-carolina.html">African Methodist Episcopal Church </a>in Charleston, SC. That's the way we started out our day, after a week of bullsh*t talk about race and Black racial identity, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/06/18/world/americas/dominican-republic-set-to-deport-haitian-migrants.html">sanctioned ethnic cleansing</a>, <a href="http://fusion.net/story/151882/maricon-collective-gay-cholo-mural-galeria-de-la-raza-san-franciscos-mission/">a defacing of a queer Chol@ mural</a> (<a href="http://www.sfgate.com/art/article/In-The-Q-Sides-queer-Latinos-find-place-6324302.php">and subsequent queer Chol@ show</a>) at a longtime galeria here, in San Francisco, and my own, personal, heartbreaking family challenges. And, I was about to do what I/we often do when we try to collectively grieve: stay connected to social media in the blind, numb sort of way--trying to figure out why (anti-Black racism) this keeps happening, why Black people keep being targeted and killed, like seriously, there are no other words. And I heeded and appreciated all the ways folks were promoting self care, love, unplugging, and, even, hugging in these same spots.</span><br />
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So I did that.<br />
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I backed up a little bit, breathed, cried, hugged, made connections, and listened to music.<br />
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I shouldn't say listened to music. I fell into it today. And I was reminded of the healing powers of music. And the healing power, for me, of Black music in particular. The music I grew up with, was introduced to as a teenager and young adult, and the music I love now. Now, I know we talk about this all the time. I write about it. I love <a href="http://newblackman.blogspot.com/">people</a> who <a href="http://rutgerspress.rutgers.edu/product/On-Racial-Icons,5238.aspx">center music </a>as part of their <a href="http://www.bettinalove.com/">analysis</a>.<br />
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But, today, of all days/weeks/months/years, I <i>lived </i>it. Or, at least, I was more attuned to it today, feeling it in every fiber as I drove through the streets of San Francisco, a city that is purging itself of it's (since forever) Black and (more recently) Brown communities. Shaking my fist at times, dancing almost the whole time, and singing at the top of my lungs. Like I didn't care.<br />
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And, I didn't.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7vf4dh4EGB4/VYN8zMPhWnI/AAAAAAAABcc/LJRHaUYBMnY/s1600/imgres-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7vf4dh4EGB4/VYN8zMPhWnI/AAAAAAAABcc/LJRHaUYBMnY/s320/imgres-2.jpg" width="320" /></a>The shit that's happening right now, the ongoing, relentless and violent assault on Black people in this "post" muthaf-- civil rights moment, mean that today I didn't care. Not one bit. Not when I was driving carpoolers into San Francisco with tears in my eyes this morning. Not when I pulled up to a stop light in traffic. Not when I stopped to let the massive droves of white people who have moved into the Bay Area cross in the crosswalk. And not when I was getting honked at as I paralleled parked on a busy street.<br />
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I just kept moving. <i>Healing</i>.<br />
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Here's the playlist, in order, so you get a feel (and to add to your own):<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tdw7kxD8eUc">Tired of Being Alone</a> by Al Green<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YIlWjhci01U">I've Been Loving You Too Long</a> by Otis Redding<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juTeHsKPWhY">It's a Man's, Man's, Man's World</a> by James Brown<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vfbvm52G8fE">Living For the City</a> by Stevie Wonder<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-cmo6MRYf5g">Superfly</a> by Curtis Mayfield<br />
<a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x15zj5c_prince-i-wanna-be-your-lover-official-video_music">I Wanna Be Your Lover</a> by Prince<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-CPCs7vVz6s">On & On</a> by Erykah Badu<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IvmqYZr0RFo">Never Can Say Goodbye</a> by The Jackson 5<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXJx2NnnxA0">Rock Steady</a> by Aretha Franklin<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FQCMugGgD2g/VYN83YtSCHI/AAAAAAAABck/Vfn-P-lUe-k/s1600/hqdefault-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FQCMugGgD2g/VYN83YtSCHI/AAAAAAAABck/Vfn-P-lUe-k/s320/hqdefault-1.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XgsJLGQTfEE">Strawberry Letter 23</a> by Brothers Johnson<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3_dOWYHS7I">Everything is Everything</a> by Lauryn Hill<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KWhMyOs0pCQ">As</a> Stevie Wonder<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M8AtyaxgtOU">I'm Still in Love with You</a> by Al Green<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ST6ZRbhGiA">You Don't Know My Name</a> by Alicia Keys<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qv5pagal-ls">Grandma's Hands</a> by Bill Withers<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=28hYBf1A2yk">Used to Love U</a> by John Legend<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hCDAfa-NI-M">Pusherman</a> by Curtis Mayfield<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H_WzjiTzZBA">Brown Sugar</a> by D'Angelo<br />
<a href="http://www.izlesene.com/video/prince-adore-lyrics/5274937">Adore</a> by Prince<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BoPehfHF9Uc">The Love You Save</a> by The Jackson 5<br />
<a href="https://vimeo.com/62413331">Next Lifetime</a> by Erykah Badu<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dNIQVYGXbM">Give It to Me Baby</a> by Rick James<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l73FkH3v7yg">Here I Am (Come And Take Me)</a>by Al Green<br />
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Sometimes Genius Playlists really are <i>genius</i>. Ok, not gonna lie, "Me and Mr. Jones" by Amy Winehouse, one of two Winehouse songs I own, also got in there. It is Apple, after all. And, I gotta say, I passed over it, but "what kind fuckery is this?" is good to say over and over in the current context.<br />
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And, while I didn't listen to every song all the way through and listened to some more than others, I pulled love, like a salve, from each of them. Of course, Stevie Wonder reminded me "until the day that eight times eight times eight is four (always, I'll be loving you forever)." John Legend's call to "holla, holla, holla!" and Erykah Badu's insistence that "Most intellects do not belief in God but they fear us just the same" reminded me of the physical power of body and spirit. That as much death lingers, we live and feel and breathe and grief. And I was doing that today, through song. Now, I didn't just have music alone--I did, I was once one of those girls that thought Prince totally got me, and Prince only. I also had incredible talks with Joan because she listened to me every time I needed to talk and cry. I also cried with some friends. I called my brother, which was incredibly difficult because of the challenges he's going through at this moment. I hung out at <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 16px; line-height: 26px;">Galería de la Raza</span>, where staff members and artists are combatting homophobia, and, got sweet text messages from friends, checking in. I also, um, bought a, um, quart of my favorite (Mexican Chocolate) ice cream from <a href="http://mitchellsicecream.com/">Mitchell's Ice Cream</a>, you know, just in case.<br />
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Mostly, I just had a lot of connection today. Like, in person connection where I was allowed to grieve and be me, which was all over the place. In other words, I turned to love today, every time. And, in the moments when I happened to be alone, Black music got me through. As it always has; in times of terror, fear, grief, celebration, and love. As it always will. And I write this, not to be pedantic or tell you what <i>you</i> should do, but just because I feel <i>so</i> good. I feel loved. And I feel like I <i>can </i>love in this moment (day/week/month/year) of incredible, heart-wrenching, sometimes immobilizing grief.<br />
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And music, once again, was a part of that.<br />
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What it is.<br />
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<br />andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-79698802057311572192015-06-10T08:08:00.001-07:002015-06-10T13:56:36.165-07:00The (Just Right) Clothes You're Wearing: Two Girls I Know Well as a Queer, Black, Dyke<span style="font-family: inherit;">My brain split in two on Monday. It's Pride month and, as a queer Black dyke, my brain often splits in June. And, on that day, I was trying to hold too much information. Trying to process too much. On the one hand, I was swimming in love, after watching the Tony Awards the night before, which I do every year. This year I fell in love as, apparently, many other queer dykes and our friends did when "small Alison" (Sydney Lucas) from the musical <i>Fun Home</i>, based on Alison Bechdel's memoir of the same name, san--stole the show--with her performance of "Ring of Keys," a song about the first time she sees a woman--a delivery person--who looks strong, different and, like her. </span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S06-fgN9G48/VXfIQ2NcX6I/AAAAAAAABac/m0JcSOVTNuQ/s1600/6a00d8341c730253ef01bb083ef59e970d-800wi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="263" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S06-fgN9G48/VXfIQ2NcX6I/AAAAAAAABac/m0JcSOVTNuQ/s400/6a00d8341c730253ef01bb083ef59e970d-800wi.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">With your swagger</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and your bearing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And your just right clothes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">you're wearing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Your short hair and</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">your dungarees</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and your lace up boots</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And your keys. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh-oh, your ring of keys!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Those lyrics.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">*swoon*</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Like the other words she peppers into her admiration: I feel. I want. Every time I hear those words, it takes me totally back to those moments, of that kind of wanting. Not wanting to <i>be</i> her necessarily, hardly ever. But, wanting. <i>Her</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I still feel this way when I see Joan. It was the first thing I noticed about her, really. Her swagger. I told her that almost immediately and remind her of it now. Sometimes when she walks in front of me on our many hikes. In her jeans. I've taken pictures of her from the back, just to capture that walk. There's a confidence that goes along with it. It's the same way I feel when she holds my hand when we're walking: strong, close and confident.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I feel, I want. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mostly, it's her swagger, though. It's a movement so different from my own. From the way I move in the world. I <i>love</i> it. I immediately wanted it, especially when she did things right when we started dating like coming to rescue my friend Holly and me at the top of Tilden Park in Berkeley where Holly and I had went for an afternoon walk. When we came back to my car, I had a flat tire and didn't really know what to do. I could've called my certified pre-owned tow truck but, I decided to call Joan instead. And, she came and she changed it. Right there, in front of me. In front of us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was hot. And, that was it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Your swagger</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And your bearing...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">How can I be the only one who sees you're beautiful. No,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Handsome</i>." </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Such beautiful lines. So beautifully captured. Holly and I once decided we were going to start a club from this vantage point called "Helloooooo Butch." Just as a way to show our appreciation. Just so they'd know we know they're beau--handsome. We'd wear buttons and greet butches on the street from the car--which would be weird, yes, but it's what those lyrics capture. That feeling of being a dyke and seeing another dyke and <i>feeling</i>. </span></span></div>
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I know you</div>
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I know you</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I could live in that song. In those moments </span>(here, just watch <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4bV3IP_Zww">the video</a>, cause she just nails it)<span style="font-family: inherit;">. I kind of do, or did, except it was cut with the other images I that I saw all day Sunday and Monday. Of another girl that I know. That I feel.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The images of <span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Dajerria Becton, a fifteen year old girl clad in a bikini and thrown to the ground by a grown man with a badge, a baton, and a gun. This, beautiful girl:</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KC6hI-tCp3c/VXfIH9DiIWI/AAAAAAAABaE/C-gcGLsfnKM/s1600/imgres-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KC6hI-tCp3c/VXfIH9DiIWI/AAAAAAAABaE/C-gcGLsfnKM/s320/imgres-1.jpg" width="235" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">who, after being shoved, with her hair pulled and face smashed into the ground, <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3115231/Dajerria-Becton-15-recalls-moment-McKinney-Police-Corporal-Eric-Casebolt-bodyslammed-ground-Texas-pool-party.html">had a knee placed in her back by Officer Eric Casebolt,</a> a former "Officer of the Year" in McKinney, Texas. As others have pointed out, Casebolt targeted her for "<a href="http://newblackman.blogspot.com/2015/06/keep-running-your-mouth-policing-of.html">running her mouth</a>." For defending herself against his brutal force in her direction. And all with little regard for the clothing she was wearing, the vulnerability she may have felt as a young woman being thrown around by a grown man. I know you. I know you. I k</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">new her, well, as a young teenager. Now, I was mostly the one who would sit off to the side, quiet. A good girl. I rarely "talked back." Was shy. Primarily because I didn't want to get what I saw my sisters, cousins, and friends getting, just for being. For protesting to the treatment they/we received. From adults--white and Black. Both were brutal and shut us down in different ways. Black folks, it seemed, were trying to keep us/them in line. Protect us, in often harsh ways, as those who knew (or feared) what was coming often did. But, white folks just seemed angry, punitive, out to humiliate, much like Casebolt did in the video. See, folks want to say he was out of control, crazy, and not like everyone else...</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">But, I gotta say, while it did look out of control, the way he handled the situation, the look on his face--of contempt, fear, disgust, power--those are looks I've seen before. Either directed at me and my peers as a teenager by white people--outside of my family--in my community growing up. They're looks I've seen directed at young girls of color that I worked with as a young adult. That I've seen white people who have moved into the neighborhood I live in direct at young girls of color because they think they're above gaze. What happened to Dajeeria Becton reminded of a time I got thrown out of a skating rink in my hometown. I still think about that time even though it was over 30 years ago. I must've been 12 or 13 and, was dropped off on a typical Friday or Saturday night at Skateport. I don't remember the specifics of what happened except that we were in line, mixed racially--white and Black, which was the primary mix in my town--and we were being ourselves. Which, in that instance, was loud, probably cursing, "showing out" a little because we were on our own for a few hours on a Friday night. I really don't remember the blow by blow but, a</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">s I approached the window to pay the entrance to the skating rink, the older woman behind the counter told me that I wouldn't be allowed in that night or any other night, but that my friends could go in. See although I was shy, quiet, and "good" most of the time, I did have a tendency to curse on occasion, to laugh the loudest, to surprise people and break out of character with my friends. I think she must have heard me and definitely singled me out for punishment. Just me. No one else. And she stared at me the whole time, watched me sit in the hall, feeling bad as our group split up: some going in, some staying out with me, which was humiliating and guilt-inducing. Watching me as I waited, there in the hall, too embarrassed to call my mom--who, she didn't know, maybe, was also white--to tell her I'd been kicked out. Watching me as I waited for my friends, as she called a "guard" to come stand at the door--a large man, probably in his twenties, maybe her son--so that I wouldn't come in. I know I yelled at her, made it worse, probably, but needing to do something to fight the humiliation. Demonstrate what I thought was absurd: a grown woman humiliating and punishing a young girl for acting like, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">a young girl. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Now, I know my situation is nothing like the terrifying situation of having a State officer, a grown man put his full body weight on your, pointing objects in your face, screaming at you, and pulling a gun on your friends. Nothing like it. But, the one critical similarity, one that I'm confident others could recount, is the humiliation. The power. The control that these two adults exerted over young people. Over teenagers. Over Black girls. All those feelings rushed back as I saw this young woman tossed around, her demands ignored, in front of her friends, in front of a community of strangers (some who joined in--who. was. the large white civilian?).</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Those were the two images, two feelings of girlhood I was trying to reconcile. Those were the emotions battling one another all day. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Because those two girls? They're different. Both beautiful, but different. The freedom, though secret, of seeing someone who looks like you/is you for the first time</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"> and being able to express it in community, which may also be secret, but at least you've found one another, is different than being seen and targeted, tossed around and having your freedom, your <i>community, </i>shackled, as a young, straight (?) Black girl. Different but, also, the same. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Cause this is sometimes how it feels as a queer, Black dyke. Pulled in two directions. Targeted in different ways: between the everyday visibility of white LGBTQ spaces and the in/visible everyday experience of Black women and girls. I don't know that they can or should ever be reconciled. I hold them both. And, I will take care of myself, as I have, in solidarity with my peoples (as it is Pride month, I will find solace in spaces like </span><i style="color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><a href="http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/1564593">Still Here</a></i><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">, which is in it's third year and highlights queer artists of color still in San Francisco, and </span><a href="http://ww2.kqed.org/arts/2015/06/02/the-q-sides-merges-queer-culture-with-san-franciscos-lowrider-scene/" style="line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><i>The QSides</i></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">, which flips a queer/Chicano binary--just a little plug, you know). But, I need you to hold them as well. To recognize them. To </span><a href="http://colorwebmag.com/2015/06/09/mckinney-tx-the-latest-on-the-situation-and-a-call-out-to-white-feminists/" style="line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">be as outraged</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"> about the incongruousness, the sometimes incompatibilities of mainstream (homonormative, white, male) gay culture, which we all love more and more, and <a href="http://queerblackfeminist.blogspot.com/2015/05/see-her-too-fighting-for-lives-of-black.html">the Black girl spaces</a> that we continue to scrutinize, ignore, and, often, punish. </span></div>
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'Cause that's the split that many of us walk in everyday. The absolute joy and sexiness of a swagger and the heartbreaking sadness of confidence. </div>
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<br />andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-10378612187703997032015-05-31T05:19:00.002-07:002015-06-02T21:46:00.602-07:00See Her Too: Fighting for the Lives of Black Women and Girls<div style="text-align: left;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jujz_9TRSHQ/VWIVWQ3SrVI/AAAAAAAABYM/KF8tjL_k-kU/s1600/CFipM5xUsAAF9Om.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jujz_9TRSHQ/VWIVWQ3SrVI/AAAAAAAABYM/KF8tjL_k-kU/s320/CFipM5xUsAAF9Om.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo: BlackOutCollective (<a href="http://www.crowdalbum.com/album/555e1e29fadb582bb50018ee/Protesters-Block-Market-and-Beale_20150521">link</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's been a little over a week since the National Day of Action for Black Women and Girls called by the <a href="http://byp100.org/justice-for-rekia/">Black Youth Project100</a>. Thursday, May 21st, was my last day on campus and my last, "official" day of the semester. On that day, I came home to an empty house cause Joan was out, as she is every Thursday, and was feeling all the feelings I feel at the end of the semester: exhausted, bewildered, exhausted, hopeful, exhausted, disengaged, exhausted, sad, mad, and exhausted. I was, seriously about to eat an entire banana cream pie when, I remembered what day it was, mainly because Black women from Oakland's <a href="http://www.blackoutcollective.org/#Home">BlackoutCollective</a> engaged in a beautiful and inspiring direct action in downtown San Francisco that morning, which motivated me to get out an evening protest. I put the pie down (well, I ate a piece) and then made my way down to a march at Oscar Grant plaza. Going in, I knew, the march would be small. Something about the specifics of Black women's lives <i>mattering</i>, led me to believe that it would be a small gathering. Even though the leadership and often, <a href="http://thefeministwire.com/2014/10/blacklivesmatter-2/">the face</a>, of this movement centers on Black women, the goals of the movement, have focused on Black men in the public imaginary. And, sometimes, in our everyday understandings. This reality, along with the recognition of the brutality that Black cis and trans* women and girls face from police and other vigilantes. Women like Rekia Boyd, Mya Hall, and Aiyana Stanley-Jones (I also don't think it was accident that, as a Black woman, I was feeling all kinds of sinking feelings on a national day of action/a call for Black women and girls).<br />
<br />
When I arrived downtown, my feelings about the small gathering were confirmed: there were a handful of dedicated organizers and protesters (women and men) standing around. In spite of this, the Oakland Police Department was out in full force. I noted (tweeted) as I walked up that there were more police and "Uptown Security" there than protesters. I felt a twinge of fear but, I went on because I needed <i>something</i>, healing, rejuvenation, something and being around other Black women seemed to be the remedy. And it was. The speeches were short, but motivating. BYP100 organizers, Janetta Johnson, from <a href="http://www.tgijp.org/mission-and-staff.html">TGI Justice Project</a>, and others talked about their/our lives as Black women, and honored a long list of over 100 names of Black women, who have been murdered by the State or other vigilantes. All of this to lead up to the main point of the gathering, the march down Broadway to the Oakland Police Department.<br />
<br /></div>
7 blocks. A well-trod protest route. One I've been on many times before.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a9tbdiq-5tU/VWcj27QfepI/AAAAAAAABZI/vbkpr3Hq8Vg/s1600/11351335_10152770591497016_3834533388943892195_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a9tbdiq-5tU/VWcj27QfepI/AAAAAAAABZI/vbkpr3Hq8Vg/s320/11351335_10152770591497016_3834533388943892195_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist: Sandra Khalifa (<a href="https://instagram.com/sandra_nadine/">link</a>)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As soon as we stepped into the street, we were immediately told by a woman's voice over a loud speaker: "This is the Oakland Police Department, you have the right to peacefully assemble but you must respect other people and property in the city and move to the sidewalk." I've never heard this before or experienced this kind or harassment and I think it's precisely because were Black women. Black women were leading the march, on the front lines, singing and chanting over the loud speaker, anywhere between, with male allies, 100-200 deep. We were kettled at 9th and Broadway, with a 1 minute warning to "get on the sidewalk or you will be cited and possibly arrested." Folks stood strong, not moving. Now, I went by myself, but I met up with Anyka Barber, Oakland native, who runs the fierce movement supporter, <a href="http://www.bettiono.com/">Betti Ono Gallery</a>. We stood, with arms linked. Still. Some people danced a little bit, maybe shaking out some nerves, but most of us looked around, sensing an impending danger--no one knew why we were being kettled, what was unlawful about our assembly, or what the police would do. We were told we'd be arrested if we didn't move and, it felt like anything could happen. It felt like we, a group of Black women, girls, and our allies <i>didn't</i> matter, our lives were insignificant and, could be treated in whatever manner, without consequence. And we didn't know why. On Saturday, another march organized by Black women, people were again kettled, then arrested and beaten, all under the orders of newly elected Oakland mayor (and native, as her campaign reminded us), <a href="http://libbyforoakland.com/">Libby Schaaf</a>.<br />
<br />
Last Thursday was the first night that Schaaf's ban on nighttime protests, or "peaceful demonstrations advisory," which states that "unpermitted protests after sunset are not allowed." Now, what does this <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=sundown+towns&es_sm=91&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=5StnVf67BcvZoAT4_ICQBQ&ved=0CAoQ_AUoBA&biw=1024&bih=398#imgrc=7IfukDRxiEq_LM%253A%3BsmO_anSQLJ1UBM%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fblkhistory.com%252Fm%252Fphotos%252Fget_image%252Ffile%252F4d8e7251311aa9e0eeb911d19ac0a514.jpg%3Bhttp%253A%252F%252Fblkhistory.com%252Fm%252Farticles%252Fview%252FSundown-Towns%3B350%3B138">sound like to you</a>? Me too. And, what does it mean that this policy was unleashed on a night when Black women had peacefully gathered to honor our dead? And then again on a night when some of the same Black women "broke curfew" and marched in protest, demanding the streets we pay for? For me, it signals what Oakland and the Bay Area is becoming, following a current line of white supremacy: displacement. Schaaf's policy is a direct reflection of the ways that displacement and gentrification are restructuring the very spaces where Black lives were supposed to matter. Places, like Oakland, that have been celebrated (and vilified) as a "Black city." A space that has valued and now exploited migrant cultures, Black, Mexican/Central American, and (Southeast) Asian--that have settled on Ohlone land since the late 19th century. And there's a deep connection between the displacement of Black people and the valuing of Black women's lives in this current moment. The specific targeting of a Black women's protest was strategic, whether openly recognized or not. The targeting of Black women--Native/Aboriginal women at the Northern border of the US/Canada and Central American and Mexican women at the Southern Border--in these instances is connected to the targeting of 'land' and displacement in the Bay Area and elsewhere. As I felt, and was demonstrated the following Saturday, Black women's bodies are targeted and treated as vulnerable, discardable, and disposable. Thought to be easily removed, unseen, and, if made visible are deemed suitable for violence and death. That's what Thursday night felt like to me. That's what was demonstrated last Saturday as women were arrested for marching, thrown to the ground, and charged with erroneous crimes.<br />
<br />
This is what it feels like to be a Black woman in this moment--regardless of melanin content, age (there were girls at the marches I was at, daughters) or education level. And this is what it means when we enter the streets. I'm grateful every time and I am once again reminded--as we all should be--of the ongoing leadership Black women in Oakland and the movement at large: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/onyxorganizingcommittee">Cat Brooks,</a> <a href="http://justice4alanblueford.org/">Mollie Costello</a>, and the women of BYP and Blackout Collective who have led so much of the (ongoing) work in Oakland, along with the strong leadership of <a href="http://thefeministwire.com/2014/10/blacklivesmatter-2/">Alicia Garza, Patrisse Cullors, and Opal Tometi</a>, who created the frame we now stand upon.<br />
<br />
'Now you see us, don't you? Now you see us, see her too..."<br />
<br />
<br />andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-27190232998943501062015-05-10T10:31:00.002-07:002015-05-10T12:37:38.730-07:00What Do You Do on Mother's Day When You Want to Be A Mother, But Aren't Yet?<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CwyZPHw-6_E/VU-IKSiq1NI/AAAAAAAABV0/eiMbU_lCVzk/s1600/Betty-fires-away.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CwyZPHw-6_E/VU-IKSiq1NI/AAAAAAAABV0/eiMbU_lCVzk/s400/Betty-fires-away.jpg" width="400" /></a>When you've been trying to become a mother for the past four and half years (more) and aren't?<br />
<br />
When you've been trying in the most integrity-filled ways, for yourself and your partner, to be a parent, but still, are not?<br />
<br />
When you spend a lot of time mothering dear friends' children, whom you love so much, and are the first they call upon because you have no children, i.e. the incredible, wonderful auntie?<br />
<br />
When you never really wanted to be a mother in the first place, but met a woman who made you want to have babies? Lots and lots of babies?<br />
<br />
Well, first, I ate a devils' food chocolate covered donut from Dick's Donuts down the road.<br />
<br />
Then I used the bathwater left over from last night to water the flowers in the front yard because CA is in the middle of the worst drought on record.<br />
<br />
Next I sat on the couch with Joan and scrolled through DirectTV for a "mothers eating their daughters" movie or, at the very least, "Mommie Dearest" (we were very tempted by "Monsters" a show about the "worst mothers on the planet" hosted by Roseanne Barr).<br />
<br />
We settled on Betty Draper.<br />
<br />
I've got a lot of work to do: grading and writing and writing and grading, so Ill start that soon.<br />
<br />
We'll go out for ice cream later. Like, a tub of ice cream with chocolate sauce and whipped cream.<br />
<br />
I'll also call my own mother, who I've been deeply enjoying as of late and talk to her and thank her for being my mother.<br />
<br />
I'll avoid Facebook for the rest of the day, which is something I failed to do this morning, after posting pictures of my mom.<br />
<br />
I'll think about my grandmas (and call the one who is still alive) and how much they mothered me.<br />
<br />
I'll think about all the children that I totally dig and am happy to know because of their mothers (plural, because they are queer).<br />
<br />
And I'll think of all my friends and loved ones who've lost mothers and the mothers I know and don't know, who have lost children.<br />
<br />
We'll watch the second-to-the-last <i>Mad Men</i> episode.<br />
<br />
I'll work a little more, and then, I'll go to bed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aP4V9SFgXDA/VU-OJYgnVxI/AAAAAAAABWM/Clb6nPm93ag/s1600/imgres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aP4V9SFgXDA/VU-OJYgnVxI/AAAAAAAABWM/Clb6nPm93ag/s320/imgres.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b>Bitter.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
That's what this sounds like, yeah?<br />
<br />
And I am.<br />
<br />
Sometimes.<br />
<br />
Not everyday. Really, hardly ever, about this.<br />
I figure it will happen when it happens. Or not.<br />
<br />
Except today. <br />
<br />
A lot of the time, in fact, I treasure not yet being a parent. I sleep in a lot. I drink a<i> bunch </i>of coffee, and am on my computer constantly. I also watch a lot of TV. I read sometimes. My work schedule is really flexible. I exercise when I want to, eat whatever I want (though that's about to change, as we're starting a sugar. detox. tomorrow) and, if I thought it was still a good idea, I'd probably smoke cigarettes.<br />
<br />
That's how I feel most days. (kind of) Normal. Happy. In love. Loved. Queer. Black. Feminist.<br />
<br />
Except today.<br />
<br />
Today, I feel like something else. Which is how you're supposed to feel on this capitalist driven holiday as a woman without a child, whether you're queer, straight, a woman of color, fictional, single, married, trans*, if you've tried hard, and even if you've decided you don't want to have children at all. So, Happy Mother's Day to all the women who have tried to have a child, want a child, will never be a mother out of decision, has lost a child in utero or through state violence, who will never give birth because of their own assigned gender at birth, and to all of those who have children. May we recognize what each day is like, everyday, on this journey.andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-54116570526502069652015-04-02T10:38:00.000-07:002015-04-03T09:17:40.296-07:00Are We Free Yet?: On Indiana, Blake Brockington, and "Community"<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4-CGUXWfNSs/VR174MHvlKI/AAAAAAAABTo/hVp6fEkv7Os/s1600/lead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4-CGUXWfNSs/VR174MHvlKI/AAAAAAAABTo/hVp6fEkv7Os/s1600/lead.jpg" height="184" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">c/o <i>The Atlantic</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Last week, as most of you know, the <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2015/03/what-makes-indianas-religious-freedom-law-different/388997/">Indiana Religious Freedom Restoration Act</a> was passed into law. The law--which, because of the <a href="http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2015/04/01/indiana-pizzeria-no-pies-for-gay-weddings.html">swift backlash</a>, is n<span style="font-family: inherit;">ow being reworked by the Governor and other lawmakers in the state--allows any for profit business to assert a "right to the free exercise of religion." Which, although not explicitly stated, generally means that they can deny or exclude business based on religious "beliefs," and is typically targeted at the LGBT community, If you have any question about the intentions of this bill or the feeling of some in Indiana, check out Indiana Senator Tom Cotton who <a href="http://thinkprogress.org/lgbt/2015/04/02/3642060/senator-says-critics-indiana-get-perspective-thankful-state-doesnt-execute-gays/">recently claimed</a> that folks need to get perspective, it's not like Indiana is "executing gays, like other places." The LGBT community, as expected, has led and organized the backlash. San Francisco State University President, Les Wong--my employer--<a href="http://news.sfsu.edu/sf-state-president-leslie-e-wong-statement-university-travel-indiana">also made a statement this week </a>stating that faculty, student, and staff travel to Indiana would not be funded by the university in light of this bill. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Good news. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Because, I've been pissed about the passage of this law, for sure. However, I'm also still reeling from the suicide of yet another transgender teenager, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Blake Brockington.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That was his name. And this is what he
wanted us to know:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m still a person,” Brockington said. “And trans people
are still people. Our bodies just don’t match what’s up (in our heads). We need
support, not people looking down at us or degrading us or overlooking us. We
are still human” (Comer 2015).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speechless.<br />
<br />
And it's hard to write about this shit. To put "pen to paper" without feeling helpless. Heartbroken. Conflicted. Implicated.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Certainly because Brockington’s death is the third suicide of a young, transgender person that has made headlines outside of their respective
cities in recent months: Aubrey Mariko Shine, 22, jumped from the Golden Gate
bridge on February 24<sup>th</sup>, shortly after posting a picture from the
same bridge. Leelah Alcorn, a 17-year-old senior from King Mills, OH, was
struck by a semi-tractor trailer as she walked along the highway in the early
morning hours of December 28<sup>th</sup>, 2014. She left a suicide note on her
tumblr page the night before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dq9rVJtBBn8/VRgZ5zHHDnI/AAAAAAAABS4/b3YrVKf3vpg/s1600/blake26n-3-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dq9rVJtBBn8/VRgZ5zHHDnI/AAAAAAAABS4/b3YrVKf3vpg/s1600/blake26n-3-web.jpg" height="316" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blake Brockington, c/o www.charlotteobserver.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The death of these three young people, who collectively
express what Shine surmised in her last statement, that “Being Trans Sucks,” is
enough to leave anyone heartbroken. Each cite the external pressures and external hostility towards transfolk by their cisgender "community." Alcorn's parents sent her to "reform" programs, Shine commented that they were tired of feeling alone, and Brockington spoke to being overlooked. Shine and Brockington's, both active in their respective communities (Shine was an activist in their community while Brockington was crowned Homecoming King at his high school in North Carolina) words also speak to the intersections of race and gender and the specific targeting of trans* people of color. Importantly, their statements and their suicides speak to the value of transmen and women of color lives in the larger culture but, also, in smaller the LGBT "community." These three suicides sit on top of the reported murders of five transgender women of color since the
year began. These murders are not an anomaly,
as many of us know. They speak to the ongoing crisis of the killing of
transgender women and the intersections of gender, sexuality, homophobia, and
racism<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in transgender lives (and death).
Transgender women, particularly transgender women of color, are regularly
targeted with violence, and often death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Penny Proud, Lamia Beard, Yazmin Vash Payne, Ty Underwood, Sumaya Ysl, Bri Golec, and Taja
DeJesus are the eight transwomen that have been murdered since January 1. They’re the
ones we know about, whose names have made the papers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
So, yeah, it's hard to get <i>that </i>up in arms about the Indiana law. A law that specifically targets the LGBT community, which often, if we're honest really only pertains to the <i>L </i>and the <i>G</i>. Those of us who benefit the most from legally recognized marriages. Those of us who organized ourselves and others, who become outraged about exclusion on the basis of our "humanity." And those of us who, often, get it wrong when it comes to our <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/04/02/human-rights-campaign-apologizes_n_2994939.html?">trans* brothers and sisters</a> in a quest for equal rights. And, while I would never blame us, and this is not a divide and conquer post, but the quest for same sex marriage <i>as </i>equality hasn't protected us against the fervor or hate of the religious right. We get up in arms about these laws. Yes, ok, I can get down with that. As long as we become equally up in arms, become outraged, and organize about/around the lack of humanity, respect, and recognition that our transgender brothers and sisters experience on an everyday basis. One that too often leads to murder and death.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We need to do better. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If we are really interested in a collective sense of community, we need to
reconcile and face the realities of transgender experience, which means recognizing the
differences between what it means to be lesbian, gay, and queer versus (?)
transgender. And the ways that class and race further shape those privileges.
Our experiences are different. Our relationship to violence is different. The calls for our humanity are different. And,
in spite of the visibility that accompanies Lesbian, Gay, and
queer lives and community, we have work to do to ensure that our transgender
brothers and sisters, regardless of age, are granted the same civil rights, the
same privileges and the same protections that we currently seek. </span></div>
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With respect and love.</div>
andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-77338941902670393552015-03-05T09:57:00.000-08:002015-03-06T14:45:25.323-08:00Go 'Mal!: Why I'm #HereforCookie, Part Two<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-viJByUbx3yM/VPiEv5uv7bI/AAAAAAAABRk/BfRNx0m3Gdo/s1600/640_empire_white_party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Orjl_BT4GW8/VPY368M-tYI/AAAAAAAABRE/pJQU8tqB-UI/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Orjl_BT4GW8/VPY368M-tYI/AAAAAAAABRE/pJQU8tqB-UI/s1600/images.jpg" /></a><span style="text-align: center;"> </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;">Yes, this is my second post on Empire, the Lee Daniel's-produced-works-beautifully-because-Taraj P.Henson-is-a-star-and-delivers-every.time, new Black soap opera currently on Fox Network. And while this blog won't (maybe) change into the #HereforCookie blog, I do have to write, again, about the importance of the portrayal of her relationship and love for her son, Jamal. The importance of the representation of a Black mother supporting and loving her gay son, unconditionally. Why that matters in 2015. And why it gets me, everytime. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Some of this is really the brilliance of Taraji P. Henson's acting, nailing the character of Cookie--a woman who was sent to prison for as yet undisclosed reasons, leaving her three young children and husband behind, along with an emerging hip-hop Empire. One of the first scenes we see with her in jail is her visit with Jamal where she reminds him that, though he's different, "I got you." And, that seems to be the theme throughout: from her defense of him to Lucious to Hakeem's declaration that she loves Jamal more. </span><span style="text-align: center;">With last night's episode, we're seeing a little bit of the "fall out" from Jamal's coming out, but it was the episode "Lyon's Roar" that demonstrated the importance of Black ally representation, again beyond a mother's love. It also showed some of the troubling aspects of this representation as well. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">I'll admit, I was surprised that Jamal came out during his white party performance last week, using the words of his father to, in his words, explain some of his truths. It was a powerful scene (below): changing the lyrics from "it's the kind of song that makes a woman love a man"to, "man love a man." Something we've all done. It's a significant moment, as the flashback reminds us of addressing and, perhaps, healing the wounds of "family," father and son, cast in the innocence and purity of the white party. </span><span style="text-align: center;">Still, an equally significant moment was Cookie's, again, demonstration of love and support for her son. As the scene cuts back between past and present with his brother Andre declaring, "he just came out," Cookie, with a bone-chilling show of support screams "Go 'Mal," (captured in this screenshot below), confirming the chorus he then continues that 'You're So Beautiful." </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Seriously, tears. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Look, if you're not a queer person of color, in this instance, a Black queer person who's been questioned, shunned, beaten, or ostracized by the people closest to you precisely because of your identity, you may not understand what a powerful statement this is. But, to have a working class Black mother break the </span><br />
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silence with her unwavering love for her gay son, plus a sweet little dance (shake it fast) and then, "I love you" is more than any of us could ever imagine or expect on ABC. A giant leap in representations of <span style="text-align: center;">both straight Black women and gay men (lesbians, transfolks and queers), who are usually pitted against one another. This is something C. Riley Snorton reminds us of in the opening pages of </span><i style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.upress.umn.edu/book-division/books/nobody-is-supposed-to-know">Nobody is Supposed to Know: Black Sexuality on the Downlow</a></i><span style="text-align: center;">. In the Introduction, Snorton takes us back to a moment in 2004, when Oprah Winfrey opened her show on "living on the downlow" with the statement, "I am an African American woman," she positions herself in opposition not with the presumed and forever marked "lying, cheating" straight Black men who have girlfriends and wives but sleep with men, "secretly"; but with any African American who deviates from an established norm, including the Black LGBTQ community. As Cookie's character demonstrates, this division is not "hard and fast," but it is one, and it's not insignificant that Oprah was one of the pushers, that we come up against and must continually challenge. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">So, I'll say it again, Cookie is a saving grace in this moment of television and "Black" television in particular (Kick Rocks boo boo!).</span><br />
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And, as you know, <a href="http://queerblackfeminist.blogspot.com/2015/02/why-ill-always-be-hereforcookie.html">I'm all about Cookie</a>. </div>
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But, there was an aspect of last week's episode that left me a little cold. While Cookie's portrayal is complicated and messy as a Black, heterosexual woman and mother, the portrayal of Lucious, in relationship to his gay son is inflexible. It's outrageous and unbelievable, at times, as we saw with last night's episode when he hedged on signing DeAnna, Estelle's character, a popular singer who praised Jamal's coming out. While Jamal checked him on "his played out homophobia," I'm troubled by the discourse about Black, straight men/fathers. I noticed it last week, when Jamal's new love interest,<br />
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Ryan, another African American man said, "the joys of being raised by a Black father." Implying that there's a static, always negative, even brutal response on the part of Black straight fathers--and Black, straight men period--to their gay sons. Clearly, Lee Daniels is working something out from his own childhood and, it may resonate with an entire generation of gay Black men and their Black fathers and I'm not a gay man raised with a father, so work it out. Still, I'm troubled by the juxtaposition of unwavering, "Strong," supportive Black mother on the one hand and disappointing, weak, and expendable Black father on the other. Lucious is a villain, I get it. We expect him to be "evil," wrong, and ultimately, stupid as said villain. Lucious can be and is homophobic, tell that story. But, to have every Black gay male character confirm that being raised by a Black father is the worst thing ever is dangerous on its own, but more so when coupled with ongoing discourse about Black men: as criminals, sexual predators, an expendable group. There are no "good" Black men and "bad" Black men in the rigid visibility of Blackness in popular culture. Black gay men don't get left out of that equation because they're pretty and, you know, we like gay people right now [A quick aside, one my favorite parts of calling my own Black father on his birthday this week was his geeked out fandom of Cookie and Empire, when, after I wished him a happy birthday he said "thank you. did you see Jamal come out to his dad at the white party?" Love.]<br />
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The thin veneer of our acceptance of LGBT folks is demonstrated in just about every other representation of queer sexuality on mainstream television--including our beloved Shonda Rhimes produced series. For instance, the writers on <i>How to Get Away with Murder</i> seem to be dancing around the dichotomy of good/bad gay men with the murderous, sexually promiscuous and narcissistic character, Connor (a well-established, gay character in popular television). Last week, in the season finale, Connor's on again/off again good-at-math-that's-why-he's-a-hacker-cause-we-can't-portray-Asians-any-other-way-non-promiscuous boyfriend who has been pleading for monogamy all season, finds out that he's HIV positive. A clincher. Look, all of the characters and actors aside from Annalise Keating/Viola Davis are pretty much throw away characters, but this particular storyline stands out in conversation with Jamal's. First, we rarely, if ever see a gay male character in popular culture who isn't sexually promiscuous unless they're sexless because they're 'good' and committed to heterosexuality in some way (i.e. Will, who provided the contrast to Jack on <i>Will and Grace</i>). Second, we can never really have a gay male character who doesn't have to "pay" for gay sex in some way: in this case, HIV, something which, although we're almost four decades into the HIV/AIDS crisis, we continue to treat as the <i>worst</i> thing that could ever happen to someone. Payment, as in, "you will pay for this." <!--3--></div>
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So, while I'm still. all. about. Cookie (and really, I'm not trying to rain on that at. all. It's impossible to), these storylines confirm that the representations of Black sexuality and humanity are still limited--gay or straight. And, I don't look to popular culture for redemption, I'd like a little more both/and in my watching. Stakes is high.</div>
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<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-41946783121604575522015-02-04T15:19:00.004-08:002015-02-10T08:30:32.651-08:00Why I'll Always be #HereforCookie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It didn't take much. I'd seen the previews leading up to the pilot, even though I'm not a big fan of Terrence Howard (I dig his conk, respect his acting, but he's always felt creepy to me). <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2015/02/01/the-nfl-takes-on-domestic-violence-can-hollywood/society-must-hold-men-accountable-for-anti-female-violence-first">In many respects</a>. I sat through the first, campy 5 minutes where the main characters were introduced: Lucious, his girlfriend, his sons Hakeem, Jamal, and Andre and his wife. Just about everyone but...<br />
<br />
Cookie.<br />
<br />
And then...<br />
<br />
Cookie (<i>Cookie's coming home...)</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Her orange-jumpsuit-then-leopard-print-dress-with belt-wrapped around-white-fur swagger was all it took.<br />
<br />
Plus she has a gay son. Whose first memory, as you know, was<br />
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"Listen to me. You different, ok?"<br />
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and<br />
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"I got you."<br />
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That was it. I was in. <i>All the way</i>.<br />
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I mean, come on. It doesn't take that much with Taraji Henson and her embodiment of Cookie--tight pants, hats, swagger, pink fur/faux stoles--It ain't hard.<br />
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And, honestly, at first I thought that Jamal was a throw away queer character: introduce the gay boy in the first 5 minutes--his boyfriend, establish the plot of him "choosing" to be gay and the Black community being too homophobic. A familiar trope. But, the first episode and the storyline ever since takes that tired trope to another level. Yes, the Black community is homophobic, has been homophobic and, is like any other community.<br />
<br />
And, yes, Cookie took Jamal on as part of a scheme to take back the company with Andre. But, in every iteration and interaction with him she stands up for her son--literally pulls him out the trash--and lets him be who he is. And that's a story of Black motherhood, of straight Black allies that we rarely see. Yes, she's his mother and so there's a motherly love and affection--one she doesn't exhibit for her other two sons. But, there's something else, and maybe that's part of it, she doesn't show that love for her other sons, she not an all encompassing 'show all my children love in the same way' kind of mother.<br />
<br />
She'll use a broom on you.<br />
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And that's what I love. Don't get me wrong, I love Shonda Rhymes and the way she demands a space for Black women to be, as Viola Davis said in her <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uyZ2VYorVpU">SAG awards speech for Best Actress</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">, "a sexualized, messy, mysterious woman who could be a 49-year-old dark skinned African American woman who looks like me." All kinds of room for this. It's </span>difficult<span style="font-family: inherit;"> to summarize the importance of Rhymes' place and impact on </span>popular<span style="font-family: inherit;"> culture here. But, and I tread lightly because my intent is not to pit one against the other (and I am all. in. with Viol--Annalise Keating), but, there's something about Olivia Pope and even Keating that feels </span>empty to me at times: the white lovers/husbands, for instance. The fantastical storylines. The fabulous, but always perfectly styled, clothing. Ultimately, the middle-class ness of their gendered and racialized presentations trips me up. But, I'm here for it every Thursday, for real, because I want to continue to see it. every Thursday. <br />
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But, there's something about the over-the-top, completely soap opera and working class-ness of Cookie that I'm here for. And will always be. I'm here for working class representations of Black women on television anytime (having been raised on <a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/c4/35/d1/c435d10b6a299e2089efa7bb8dd3e70f.jpg">Florida and Wilona</a>), but I also know a lot of "Cookies." Literally, I had an auntie we called Cookie--<a href="http://queerblackfeminist.blogspot.com/2012/02/its-not-righton-whitney-houston-black.html">my cousin Angie's mother</a>. And, like Henson's Cookie, and a lot of my aunties, she was messy, loud, 'hood (if you can call small city MO hood), and very protective of her children. Especially the ones who were "different." And that's the piece of this representation that I find so important in this moment. Cookie, protecting her son in the ways she does, which was so beautifully captured in the first episode through that familiar narrative: homophobic, (hyper)masculine father can't accept his son's non-normative gender presentation in heels/his mother's clothing (also and forever beautifully captured <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U0N83NvSfk4">here</a>). In this scene--see below--Lucious angrily takes a young Jamal outside and tosses him, literally, in the garbage. Although it was a familiar trope, the way that Cookie/Henson reacts to Lucious' actions took my breath away. Not only does she pull Jamal out of the trash can immediately, but fights Lucious, hard, clarifying her allegiance to Jamal with a hard shove, a kick (I love this) and an "I wish you would" before she carries her son back up the stairs, leaving Lucious alone, on the street. I love this scene and have rarely seen this kind of representation with Black straight women and their queer children, which is beyond a mother/child relationship. One in which a mother actually <i>chooses</i> her queer son over her husband. Maybe it hits some primal place for me as a child who was "different" and who wanted that kind of allyship for that kind of allegiance from an adult. But, it's also such an important representation of and interruption in the narratives about Black folks and LGBTQ oppression. And while all of these characters are underdeveloped in this, the fifth week of Season 1, there's something about this story of "the Black community" and LGBTQ lives as told through a Black, straight, working-class mother that I dig.<br />
<br />
And, she's messy.<br />
<br />
Beyond the broom beating of Hakeem, she does things in Jamal's direction that go against the normative, understanding parent. For instance, in the second episode she tells Lucious that she's going to show him that even a "faggot" can run a hip-hop record label. She's complicated. Our feelings about queer sexuality are complicated. Parents' feelings about their children's sexuality are complicated. As is the Black community's "homophobia." So, I'm all here for this representation. But, mostly, I'm just here for Cookie.<br />
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I look forward to seeing what she does next.<br />
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<br />andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-41553856345195233072015-01-09T15:15:00.001-08:002015-01-09T15:16:41.822-08:00Wrestling With Ghosts: On Loss, Leadership and Black Struggle<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VmGV7agG_MM/VLAVReWM57I/AAAAAAAABL0/XEBcGqGmc7M/s1600/imgres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VmGV7agG_MM/VLAVReWM57I/AAAAAAAABL0/XEBcGqGmc7M/s1600/imgres.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have not yet seen <i>Selma</i>, but am excited to--Black woman director, stellar performances by David Oyelowo and Carmen Ejogo, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=698404530275462&set=a.139714869477767.28473.100003177653679&type=1&theater">a timely discussion</a>--what's not to like?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is something about it, though, that makes me step lightly. And, I don't know that it has to do with the film itself. I have no doubt that Duvernay is a skilled director, that the story being told is one that hasn't been before. Still, for me, it fits somewhat into the discourse of Civil Rights activism and Post-Civil Rights activism. One might even say civil rights activism/activists <i>vs.</i> post-civil rights activism/activists. While I don't believe that this dichotomy is so cut and dry, the conversation has been highlighted most recently in the ill-timed and uninformed comments by Oprah Winfrey, the "backlash" against Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson's assumed leadership of the current organizing around the killing of young Black men, and, perhaps even, the much deserved failing/decline of the (not the only one) accused sexual predator/icon Cliff Hux--Bill Cosby. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In general, Oprah's comments sum up a feeling by, sometimes self-appointed, civil rights leaders in her comments about Ferguson and the current protests happening throughout the country: </span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0.100000001490116px; line-height: 30px;">"I think it's wonderful to march and to protest and it's wonderful to see all across the country, people doing it," <a href="http://www.people.com/article/oprah-winfrey-david-oyelowo-selma-protests-ferguson">Winfrey told PEOPLE exclusively</a> in an interview in the magazine's new issue.</span><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0.100000001490116px; line-height: 30px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0.100000001490116px; line-height: 30px;">"But it's not enough to march, said Winfrey..."</span><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0.100000001490116px; line-height: 30px;">What I'm looking for is some kind of leadership to come out of this to say, 'This is what we want. This is what has to change, and these are the steps that we need to take to make these changes, and this is what we're willing to do to get it.'"</span><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0.100000001490116px; line-height: 30px;"> </span></span></blockquote>
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Harpo?</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">To no one's surprised in this accelerated social media moment, she was swiftly and categorically dismissed by the "lacking leadership" protesters themselves, their supporters, and anyone who understands the particular moment we are in in the 21st century. Still, Winfrey's comments are part of an ongoing discourse about leadership, strategies, movements, and generational divides, which, slowly, seem to be part of a dying breed. While qualified as a "snub" against self-appointed, but not taken seriously Black leader Al Sharpton, her comments, for me, represent an ongoing fissure between the Civil Rights generation and the post-civil rights generation and leadership. The Civil Rights model being one that I have written about before as, often, dominating and/or erasing any recognition of movements or activism <i>outside</i> of this model, particularly those organized by folks born after 1965. We can’t even talk about contemporary activism without contextualizing it within a framework of the civil rights movement, i.e., the “<i>new</i> civil rights movement.". And, that's fine, it may be a question of semantics, but I think it also speaks to a lack of understanding or recognizing Black social movements or Black liberation outside of charismatic Black (male) leadership. Or, as Erica Edwards
reminds us in her book, <i><a href="http://www.upress.umn.edu/book-division/books/charisma-and-the-fictions-of-black-leadership">Charisma and the Fiction of Black Leadership</a>, </i>it's an understanding that rests on believing that “freedom is best achieved under
the direction of a single charismatic leader…[a] charisma as history [that]
ignores its limits as a model for social movements while showing us just how
powerful a <i>narrative</i> force it is it’s
ultimately a structuring fiction of liberatory politics that reduces a
heterogeneous black freedom struggle to a top-down narrative of Great Man leadership." </span><br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EgC3QDTR0Qc/VKzLFERHb1I/AAAAAAAABLg/wQ84MgcIfTc/s1600/encvr0215_noupc_forposter-240.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EgC3QDTR0Qc/VKzLFERHb1I/AAAAAAAABLg/wQ84MgcIfTc/s1600/encvr0215_noupc_forposter-240.jpg" height="320" width="224" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>That top down narrative, the constant search for "the" leader that Oprah speaks to, namely, one that fits a particular (King) profile speaks to a <i>loss </i>in Black social movements, Black struggle and Black politics that is both individual and collective. I've been thinking about loss in academic settings, particularly as it relates to Blackness, organizing, and community. What has been lost over time and between generations. How that manifests in this moment. For instance, even the name "<a href="http://thefeministwire.com/2014/10/blacklivesmatter-2/">Black Lives Matter</a>" the brilliant organizing call by Patrice Cullors, Alicia Garza and Opal Tometi represents a loss related to Blackness in the last 50 years. The fact that one of the basic premises of the 1950s/1960s (30s, 40s) Black Civil Rights Movement was that Black people were human, were equal, that Black folks <i>mattered </i> has been forgotten in the larger cultural imagination and that in the 50 years since, the discourse has shifted back around to Black folks are not human, social problems, and expendable is a loss. That kind of loss and grief. That kind of back and forth. That kind of wrestling with history and time, a wrestling, for me, with <i>ghosts</i>. The ghosts of previous social movement discourse, with discussions of racism then and now and sometimes with the very leaders themselves.<br />
<br />
But it can also be personal.<br />
<br />
<br />
I've been wrestling with my own ghosts, as we all have, in this discussion. It's taken me several rewrites of this post/several weeks to finish this discussion. As we are collectively kicked in the gut by the non-indictments of anyone or any structure--police, white supremacy, the media--for the violence enacted upon Black bodies by police officers in cities across the country. It started for me, not with the decision <i>not</i> to indict Darren Wilson for murder, but with the killing of Micheal Brown itself. The nuances of race, racism and anti-Blackness that permeates Missouri and other parts of the Midwest. I grew up in Missouri. Spent half of my life there, some three hours south of St. Louis, where Ferguson is located. As a teenager, I spent many summers in St. Louis, running the streets of Ferguson, Florissant, Normandy and other Black neighborhoods. The racism that informed the killing of Michael Brown and the subsequent response is something I know intimately. The specific kind of racism between white people and Black people that remains in my bones even though I haven't lived in Missouri in almost 20 years. And it reminds me of another "ghost" that resonated when I first read and re-read "On Becomin Successful," a poem by Ntozake Shange. There she recounts her experience growing up in St. Louis in the 1950s. I was struck by her story of going to a summer camp in the Ozarks, the area that I grew up in, and emerging from a Jesse James cave (Missouri is known for its caverns/travel destinations) and having her white "friends" waiting to see the whites of her eyes.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">be a blk girl in 1954/ who's not blk enuf to lovingly ignore/ not beautiful enuf to leave alone/ not smart enuf to move outta the way/ not bitter enuf to die at a early age/</span></span><br />
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<br />
That's what Missouri is like. Was like for me. And, it's the reason I left Missouri. But it hasn't been something that I could shake, which I'm reminded of in this moment and in every visit to the Midwest. And that's heartbreakingly similar to ways that racism and the current movements around racism are being discussed. Wrestling. Something we can't shake. The expectation was that I as a post-Civil Rights child would <i>never</i> have experienced the racism that Shange experience in '54. And certainly that no one born after me would have either. But, I did. We have. We do. Even with a promise that it would get better and with the continued assurance, as President Obama recently stated, that it <i>has </i>gotten better. <br />
<br />
And so we will continue to wrestle and see what comes out of this loss. How community can create from a space of loss, and revel in what <a href="http://revolt.tv/news/the-new-leaders-of-social-justice/76D0BEA0-6BE4-49F7-BCB7-77FEE0927803">has already been created</a>.<br />
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<span lang="UZ-CYR" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-EgC3QDTR0Qc%2FVKzLFERHb1I%2FAAAAAAAABLg%2FwQ84MgcIfTc%2Fs1600%2Fencvr0215_noupc_forposter-240.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EgC3QDTR0Qc/VKzLFERHb1I/AAAAAAAABLg/wQ84MgcIfTc/s1600/encvr0215_noupc_forposter-240.jpg" --><!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EgC3QDTR0Qc/VKzLFERHb1I/AAAAAAAABLg/wQ84MgcIfTc/s1600/encvr0215_noupc_forposter-240.jpg" with "https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EgC3QDTR0Qc/VKzLFERHb1I/AAAAAAAABLg/wQ84MgcIfTc/s1600/encvr0215_noupc_forposter-240.jpg" -->andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-70441765558881563992014-11-18T09:58:00.002-08:002014-11-22T10:29:36.761-08:00On Revolutionary Communism. Or, A Love Letter to Leslie Feinberg<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xvQzd0t2eaU/VGthXBShB-I/AAAAAAAABG8/N1lMiaJgkYU/s1600/images-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xvQzd0t2eaU/VGthXBShB-I/AAAAAAAABG8/N1lMiaJgkYU/s1600/images-4.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">c/o <a href="http://www.workers.org/articles/2013/02/04/feinberg-is-convicted-but-walks-free/">workersworld.org</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I woke up this morning mourning Leslie Feinberg. It's the same way I went to bed last night. Mourning. Feeling an unexpected heaviness and loss that I still have as I type.<br />
<br />
"Remember Me as a Revolutionary Communist"<br />
<br />
Those were your last words.<br />
<br />
Ok, I think. Of course. I will. You were.<br />
<br />
But it's not the way that I am pulled to remember you. The first thing I remember about you is sitting, reading your words in what felt like a space only you and I had created. The way that reading 'fiction' often does. As <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2014/11/why-we-still-need-leslie-feinberg/382852/">others have testified</a>, it was so much more than that. I get chills now, as I write. Very few books move me in the way that your novel did. Where I feel it all these years later: remember where I was when I read it---<i><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2006/03/01/books/01butler.html?_r=0">Kindred</a></i> is one, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1982/12/19/books/the-poet-who-found-her-own-way.html"><i>Zami</i> </a>another. When I read <i>Stone Butch Blues</i>, I was transformed. In that moment and, forever. And not necessarily because I had recently come out and was drawn to your story/a story of butch 'blues' that I would later cherish in the women--the woman--I made home with. But, I was transformed because of the integrity with which you wrote, the love that you communicated, and the beauty that emanated from your words. It left me wanting in ways I couldn't articulate then, still cannot now, but carry with me, weighted.<br />
<br />
It's true, at the time, that I was trying to figure out something about my identity, my desires for lesbians, Butch lesbians, <a href="http://queerblackfeminist.blogspot.com/2008/01/on-being-pretty.html">who I love</a>, so your words resonated in that way. Those words always do and will. But it was something more. Something I'm trying to figure out now, even as I type. Something about being working class, celebrating that, documenting what felt and feels so misrepresented, left out and grossly caricatured. I read <i>Stone Butch Blues</i> as I was coming out of college, a site that both liberated me and ripped me apart. I was liberated by figuring out, after sitting in a Black feminist professor's classroom, what I wanted to do with with my life--feeling seen and heard for the first time. Ripped apart because that experience moved me so far away from my working poor/working class roots. From my working class family, a family of railroad workers, transcriptionists, nurses, and factory workers. Most of whom were or have been ripped apart by a 'globalized economy' that has so little regard for (working) people.<br />
<br />
All throughout college, I pushed myself further and further away from my family, from my "past." I couldn't reconcile working class, poor, and college. It didn't make sense to me. I was the first to finish college in my family, the first to really go and stay. I often think back and remember how few Black people were on my college campus, a small group of us, but they were from St. Louis and Kansas City, often, not from the small city I came from. But, I had enough connection and contact with Black folks that that wasn't what I longed for or wanted. And, I couldn't articulate it then because I wasn't supposed to. I wasn't supposed to want or remember my working class-ness. There wasn't a space for that in the upwardly mobile-become-middle-class-space that is college.<br />
<br />
Your words brought me back to that. As soon as I read the opening pages. The letter to Theresa--I knew how I was supposed to read it and, how I did: a love letter to the woman you could tell everything to, and did. About the everyday violence and brutality, the heartbreak, the longing for her, the love between you and her. The beauty in the way you told us about this 'Butch/Femme' relationship. Love, I read that and understood it. But, I also picked up on every detail, every line about working class life. The things I missed. The things that haunted me. That comforted me. The things I longed for but couldn't communicate, couldn't discuss because there was no solidarity, no interest in blue collar life. But I missed it: t<span style="background-color: white;">he blandness of</span> doing someone else's laundry (ring around the collar), of working as a steel worker or a waitress, the attention to clothing: boots, denim, jockeys. Maybe an outline for "Butch," but, also, such a beautiful rendition and honoring of working class people. Warriors, all.<br />
<br />
And that's what I loved about you: how much love and integrity you had for working class people. And the love and integrity you had for all your people: your partner, <a href="http://mbpratt.org/">Minnie Bruce Prat</a>t, Transgender folks, lesbians, Jewish folks, females. I love how you loved your people, how you loved us all. <i>That</i> love. Or, as you once said, "<a href="http://www.advocate.com/arts-entertainment/books/2014/11/17/transgender-pioneer-leslie-feinberg-stone-butch-blues-has-died">exchange value of love, is love</a>."<br />
<br />
Is. Love.<br />
<br />
That's revolutionary communism. You are a revolutionary communist. You are love.<br />
<br />
RIP Leslie Feinberg. May you be remembered as you wish.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VmRHAPBYbcI/VGuHCW1mixI/AAAAAAAABHQ/uZLGQHZ6Ox4/s1600/fein2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VmRHAPBYbcI/VGuHCW1mixI/AAAAAAAABHQ/uZLGQHZ6Ox4/s1600/fein2.jpg" height="320" width="280" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I include this photo because I. just. love. it.<br />
<a href="http://www.bulgergallery.com/dynamic/fr_artwork_exhibit_display.asp?ArtworkID=2133&ExhibitID=168">photo: Estate of Robert Giard</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-53524374899289082812014-09-27T07:11:00.003-07:002014-09-27T21:26:49.515-07:00'We Were Never Meant to Survive' (what's been on my mind lately)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CQOmvdC4nn4/VCZKCSroQmI/AAAAAAAABEw/gqOjleWL04o/s1600/imgres-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CQOmvdC4nn4/VCZKCSroQmI/AAAAAAAABEw/gqOjleWL04o/s1600/imgres-5.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="line-height: 200%;">When
I heard about the death of Michael Brown who was murdered in Ferguson, MO on
August 9</span><sup style="line-height: 200%;">th</sup><span style="line-height: 200%;"> 2014, I felt nothing. Or, more appropriately, I felt </span><i style="line-height: 200%;">numb.</i><span style="line-height: 200%;"> A numbness that is always
accompanied by a sharp, yet dull pain related to the story, the reality that we’ve become
all too familiar with: Michael Brown, eighteen, African American and male.</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">Michael Brown: high school graduate, on his
way to college, walking with a friend to visit his grandmother, in a
neighborhood, on a street not far from his home. Michael Brown: shot six times
by police officer Darren Wilson--a man we know little about other than what we
may already know/assume; white, armed, inaccessible. Protected by his own call
to serve and protect. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
felt numb.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">When
I heard the news. Just the dull, sharp, familiar pain. It was the same feeling I had
several days before with the murder of John Crawford, III, another African American
man, a son and brother shot by police for “wielding a toy gun” in a Wal-Mart in <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" style="mso-comment-date: 20140925T1100; mso-comment-reference: "A _1";">Ohio</a></span><span class="MsoCommentReference"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><!--[if !supportAnnotations]--><a class="msocomanchor" href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3416480746157493203#_msocom_1" id="_anchor_1" language="JavaScript" name="_msoanchor_1">[A 1]</a><!--[endif]--><span style="mso-special-character: comment;"> </span></span></span><span style="line-height: 200%;">. Nor did I cry three days later, when
Ezell Ford was fatally shot across the country in Los Angeles, CA. Ford, shot
while, according to witnesses, he was lying face down on the ground, complying
with police. </span><span style="line-height: 200%;">I
cried at none of these instances. Ached. But, I didn’t cry. My mind and body too
numb, the pain/the ache too familiar. Too settled in my bones. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps
a week or so after Michael Brown was murdered, I finally cried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The
pain, it seemed, hit closer to "home." Then, I found out that,
the day after Michael Brown was murdered, a man only only identified as “John Doe,”
was taken to San Francisco General Hospital where he lay, unconscious, after being assaulted in Duboce Triangle, steps away from his home. His picture was
posted in the paper and he was later identified as Bryan Higgins, or as many in
his radical faerie community knew him, Feather. Feather was a husband and like
Brown, a son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unlike Brown, he was gay,
white and in his thirties. He had moved—like many of us—to San Francisco from
the Midwest, married and made a home for himself in his community, in the
city/the area that so many of us queers—at one point or another—call home.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EN4gKdD7PMY/VCZKFIV2q9I/AAAAAAAABE4/alR_h8QkEuY/s1600/10376317_10203826769134738_4223058261553461143_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EN4gKdD7PMY/VCZKFIV2q9I/AAAAAAAABE4/alR_h8QkEuY/s1600/10376317_10203826769134738_4223058261553461143_n.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Several
days after he was identified by a neighbor and after those who could say goodbye did,
his husband and family released him from life support. His murderer, the motive
has yet been found.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Finally,
I cried.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;">I cried for days it seemed. A deep, deep
cry. More than I cried for Brown, Crawford or Ford—which was none—and more than
when I heard about <a href="http://queerblackfeminist.blogspot.com/2014/03/on-lesbian-death-and-fight-worth.html">Britney Cosby and Crystal Jackson</a>—two Black lesbians, a
couple raising Jackson’s son, who were murdered, several months earlier while
on a short, weekend vacation in Galveston, TX, close to where they lived. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;">I
couldn’t cry then. Couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;">But,
I cried for Bryan Higgins. I cried for Feather.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;">Maybe
I was crying the tears that couldn’t come when Michael Brown—who grew up and
lived in a neighborhood that I spent my summers in as a teenager, a fellow
Missourian, running the same streets he did as a young, Black girl. Maybe I
cried for him and others as I cried for Feather, who I currently share streets, neighborhoods, “community” with. Both Brown and Higgins were someone’s
sons. Both of their lives were worthy of tears, were valuable. Both of their
deaths were ruthless and cold—left on streets that they knew as home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;">As
a queer, black woman, I connect with them both.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;">So,
what was it about </span><i style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;">Feather’s</i><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;"> death?
The death of a young, white gay man that allowed me to feel the pain, the fear
and terror of living in what I consider increasingly dangerous times? Queer
times, as it were. Queer in the sense that both Blackness and queerness are
highly visible, sometimes-fetishized identities in the public sphere. Ones that
have been accepted, celebrated and loved in different ways, but also, clearly reviled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">These questions remind me of Audre Lorde who, in her poem “a litany for
survival”--whose words I used for the title of this talk—reminds us that:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“when we are loved we are afraid love
will vanish, when we are alone we are afraid love will never return and when we
speak we are afraid our words will not be heard nor welcomed but when we are
silent, we are still afraid. So, it is better to speak remembering we were
never meant to survive.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: .5in;">
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, I speak today, in an attempt to
examine the linkages, the intersections of violence enacted on Black bodies and
queer bodies—often, those are the same bodies--but also thinking
and speaking about the intersections around community and organizing;
around a shared experience of violence and violation. Physical violence, murder in
the specificity of the examples of Brown and Higgins (Cosby, Jackson, Crawford, and Ford), but also the physical and social death of everyday life. The physical and social death of community. Particularly, in this time
of celebration, visibility, and safety.</span></span></div>
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<!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-comment-author: "Andreana ";"><!--[if !supportAnnotations]--><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_msocom_1"></a><!--[endif]--></span>
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="MsoCommentReference"><span style="mso-special-character: comment;"> <!--[if !supportAnnotations]--><a class="msocomoff" href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=3416480746157493203#_msoanchor_1">[A 1]</a><!--[endif]--></span></span>Just
an update, a Grand Jury just found that the police officers were not at fault,
this despite protests and a video, also released yesterday that showed Crawford
clearly holding a toy gun and, still shot in the back</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-50818461343416762312014-09-11T15:27:00.000-07:002014-09-11T15:34:56.228-07:00Where Will You Be? (Pat Parker 1978)I've been silent here lately, but am thinking many things. Sometimes, I don't have words and rely on others.. And, it may be what I'm writing about professionally right now but, there's also something about living the San Francisco Bay Area right now, that makes these words resonate in this moment. "And they will come..."<br />
<br />
Pat Parker, Presente!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9-fP71SQCAE">WHERE WILL YOU BE?</a> (click for audio) <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.autostraddle.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/1989-pat-parker-pleasant-hill-ca-609x640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://www.autostraddle.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/1989-pat-parker-pleasant-hill-ca-609x640.jpg" height="320" width="304" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">http://www.autostraddle.com/lesbian-authors-in-the-80s-139495/</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
by Pat Parker (1978)<br />
<br />
Boots are being polished<br />
Trumperters clean their horns<br />
Chains and locks forged<br />
The crusade has begun.<br />
Once again flags of Christ<br />
are unfurled in the dawn<br />
and cries of soul saviors<br />
sing apocalyptic on air waves.<br />
Citizens, good citizens all<br />
parade into voting booths<br />
and in self-righteous sanctity<br />
X away our right to life.<br />
I do not believe as some<br />
that the vote is an end,<br />
I fear even more<br />
It is just a beginning.<br />
So I must make assessment<br />
Look to you and ask:<br />
Where will you be when they come?<br />
They will not come<br />
a mob rolling<br />
through the streets,<br />
but quickly and quietly<br />
move into our homes<br />
and remove the evil,<br />
the queerness,<br />
the faggotry,<br />
the perverseness<br />
from their midst.<br />
They will not come<br />
clothed in brown,<br />
and swastikas, or<br />
bearing chest heavy with<br />
gleaming crosses.<br />
The time and need<br />
for ruses are over.<br />
They will come<br />
in business suits<br />
to buy your homes<br />
and bring bodies to<br />
fill your jobs.<br />
They will come in robes<br />
to rehabilitate<br />
and white coats<br />
to subjugate<br />
and where will you be<br />
when they come?<br />
Where will we all be<br />
when they come?<br />
And they will come --<br />
they will come<br />
because we are<br />
defined as opposite –<br />
perverse<br />
and we are perverse.<br />
Every time we watched<br />
a queer hassled in the<br />
streets and said nothing –<br />
It was an act of perversion.<br />
Everytime we lied about<br />
the boyfriend or girlfriend<br />
at coffee break –<br />
It was an act of perversion.<br />
Everytime we heard,<br />
"I don't mind gays<br />
but why must they<br />
be blatant?" and said nothing –<br />
It was an act of perversion.<br />
Everytime we let a lesbian mother<br />
lose her child and did not fill<br />
the courtroom –<br />
It was an act of perversion.<br />
Everytime we let straights<br />
make out in our bars while<br />
we couldn't touch because<br />
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of laws –<br />
It was an act of perversion.<br />
Everytime we put on the proper<br />
clothes to go to a family<br />
wedding and left our lovers<br />
at home –<br />
It was an act of perversion.<br />
Everytime we heard<br />
"Who I go to bed with<br />
is my personal choice –<br />
It's personal not political"<br />
and said nothing –<br />
It was an act of perversion.<br />
Everytime we let straight relatives<br />
bury our dead and push our<br />
lovers away –<br />
It was an act of perversion.<br />
And they will come.<br />
They will come for<br />
the perverts<br />
& it won't matter<br />
if you're<br />
homosexual, not a faggot<br />
lesbian, not a dyke<br />
gay, not queer<br />
It won't matter<br />
if you<br />
own your business<br />
have a good job<br />
or are on S.S.I.<br />
It won't matter<br />
if you're<br />
Black<br />
Chicano<br />
Native American<br />
Asian<br />
or White<br />
It won't matter<br />
if you're from<br />
New York<br />
or Los Angeles<br />
Galveston<br />
or Sioux Falls<br />
It won't matter<br />
if you're<br />
Butch, or Fem<br />
Not into roles<br />
Monogamous<br />
Non Monogamous<br />
It won't matter<br />
if you're<br />
Catholic<br />
Baptist<br />
Atheist<br />
Jewish<br />
or M.C.C.<br />
They will come<br />
They will come<br />
to the cities<br />
and to the land<br />
to your front rooms<br />
and in your closets.<br />
They will come for<br />
the perverts<br />
and where will<br />
you be<br />
When they come?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://webpages.scu.edu/ftp/lgarber/courses/eng67F10texts/ParkerWhereWillYouBe.pdf">Here's where I found it</a><br />
<br />andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-7018259937550175822014-08-11T16:08:00.000-07:002014-08-11T16:08:16.806-07:00For Black and Brown boys and girls in the U.S. and around the world. For us all.<div class="tab-content active" id="poem-top" style="background-color: white;">
<h1 style="margin: 10px 0px 3px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Power</span></h1>
<div>
<span style="font-size: small;">(by Audre Lorde)</span></div>
</div>
<div class="tab-content active" id="poem" style="background-color: white;">
<div class="poem" style="line-height: 24px; margin: 25px 0px 0px;">
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The difference between poetry and rhetoric</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">is being ready to kill</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">yourself</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">instead of your children.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and a dead child dragging his shattered black</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">face off the edge of my sleep</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">is the only liquid for miles</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and my stomach</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">churns at the imagined taste while</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">my mouth splits into dry lips</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">without loyalty or reason</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">thirsting for the wetness of his blood</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">as it sinks into the whiteness</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">of the desert where I am lost</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">without imagery or magic</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">trying to make power out of hatred and destruction</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">trying to heal my dying son with kisses</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queens</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">stood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish blood</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” and</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">there are tapes to prove it. At his trial</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">this policeman said in his own defense</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I didn't notice the size nor nothing else</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">only the color.” And</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">there are tapes to prove that, too.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today that 37 year old white man</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">with 13 years of police forcing</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">was set free</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">by eleven white men who said they were satisfied</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">justice had been done</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and one Black Woman who said</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“They convinced me” meaning</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">they had dragged her 4'10'' black Woman's frame</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">over the hot coals</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">of four centuries of white male approval</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">until she let go</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the first real power she ever had</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and lined her own womb with cement</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">to make a graveyard for our children.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have not been able to touch the destruction</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">within me.</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But unless I learn to use</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the difference between poetry and rhetoric</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and one day I will take my teenaged plug</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and connect it to the nearest socket</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">raping an 85 year old white woman</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">who is somebody's mother</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time</span></div>
<div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are.”</span></div>
</div>
<div class="credit" style="line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 30px; padding-top: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Audre Lorde, "Power" from <em>The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde</em>. Copyright © 1978 by Audre Lorde.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Rest in Power and Love, Audre Lorde.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-71395525817497749752014-07-17T07:04:00.003-07:002014-07-17T18:42:25.303-07:00A letter for my grandmother, on what would've been her 100th birthdayI miss my grandmother, Eliza Jane Ege, everyday. There's usually a point in my day when I remember something about her, hear her voice, smell her or something that reminds me of her--the smell of tea or roses (or tea roses, her favorite)--or see something that reminds me of her. For a long time after she died, I thought that anytime I saw purple flowers in random places: along the highway, on the side of a hill; it was her. After she died, I needed something, anything to remind me that she was here, with me.<br />
<br />
She's been gone for 9 years.<br />
<br />
Today would've been her 100th birthday.<br />
<br />
I can feel my chest begin to swell as I type this. And I have to take little breaks as I write. See, my grandmother was everything to me. And still is, in many ways. She was the first person that I loved, like truly loved. Loved to be around, loved to hang out with, loved to talk to, loved to laugh with, loved to watch TV with (<i>Young and the Restless </i>and <i>The Guiding Light</i> lovers, represent!), and loved to go on adventures with. I could say much more, almost everything really, because that's what she meant to me. She meant everything. Some moments I (still) feel totally and completely lost without her.<br />
<br />
But, I find her in different places. I seek her out. For instance, it's no surprise to me that I married a baker. I mean, we just had homemade pork. pot. pie. for dinner. Outside of her being my true love, that pork pie alone...But, a baker was the first person I ever loved. Like, really truly loved. She wasn't a professional baker, but it seemed like she baked everyday. Our house consistently smelled of homemade bread, pies, and general cooking. One of my most vivid memories, one that I can feel in my bones, is of sitting at the table in the kitchen on Kansas Avenue--the first house, the one across the street from the one my mother and her five brothers grew up in--when I was probably four, but maybe even three. My grandmother was at the sink, her back turned to me and I was sitting at the table, which was decorated with jars of flour and sugar, a bowl full of cookie dough, and chocolate chips on the table. There was yellow everywhere: the wallpaper, her apron, my clothes. I can't remember at what point in the process of baking the cookies were were in exactly, but the feeling is that it was the safest I have ever felt. Ever. With anyone.<br />
<br />
And that's what my life was like with her. Safe. Warm. Home.<br />
<br />
The things I know to be most true about myself are because of my grandma. I know I'm my own person and that other people have shaped who I am--my parents for instance, who love me like no other and who I treasure. But, my connection to my grandmother was ours and ours alone. She didn't give birth to me but, she guided me, rocked me, held on to me, and made me trust the world in a way no one else did. She let me know I was hers. When I was little, she watched me walk to school everyday. She'd stand on the porch until I couldn't see her anymore. And I always looked back, knowing she'd be there. She was mine and she never let me forget that. And it wasn't a "grandmother's love," or whatever people want to reduce it too. It was, of course, she was my grandma. She was other people's grandma. Side note: when I first heard the chorus to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SyZJnX-BnPY">"Favorite" by Neko Case</a>, where she belts out "But I know that I was your favorite and I said amen!," I immediately thought of my grandma. I felt like her favorite. I don't think she had a favorite, that's just the way she made me feel, like I was the only one. But, it was beyond that. There was actually a responsibility that she took, a stand that she took with me (and my younger brother), some decision that she made about me that my life was going to be good. I've been thinking about this a lot as Joan and I have entered into the process of adoption and wait for a woman, a birthmother to decide that we are the parents she wants. We go over the list of possible people that have looked at our file--African American, Native American, "Hispanic," biracial--and I worry sometimes that not having given birth to a child, not having her/him have the same racial makeup as me or Joan, that there will be something we'll miss or be unable to do. I don't dwell on it and it's not even that big of a concern, but, you know, sometimes...<br />
<br />
But then I think of my grandmother who always looked out for me and protected me from many things. It was a decision, the way she protected me. And, sometimes I think that it was a decision rooted in the fact that I was her first Black grandchild. I don't know that it was that conscious and, it probably had everything to do with her relationship with my mother whom she loved deeply. Still, I'm going to go with the former for a minute, as I distinctly remember that whenever I was with her on the streets of a predominantly white city where her and I would take the bus and go to Woolworth's for lunch in 1974, I never felt unsafe or alone. I always felt wrapped up by her and safe in the world. And that had everything to do with her and who she was--English/Irish, Oklahoma raised, farmer's daughter/daddy's girl with an eighth grade education. And this isn't a piece "about race," in the way that if you mention race, racism, or point out the differences between you and another person, particularly your blood relatives, it's making it "about race." But, you know, it is, because, it's about my grandmother. And one of the things that's true about our relationship is that everything that I know to be good about the world, to be safe about the world is because of her--a woman who was white. A white woman who made this Black, biracial girl feel like she could fly. Even when "dangers" came around, as they sometimes do for little Black girls, I knew that nothing could hurt me. Or stop me.<br />
<br />
That's how it was then, that's how it is now. I think, that's how it will always be. Yes, I experience safety, home, warmth with others--particularly Joan--but she was the one who ensured that that's how I was going to live my life. That's what she wanted for me. Every girl should have that in a world that doesn't like girls or women much, but perhaps, especially little Black girls.<br />
<br />
So, today, on my grandmother's 100th birthday, I'll remember that I'm safe. That I'm held. That I'm loved.<br />
<br />
Happy Birthday, grandma. You are with me, always.<br />
<br />
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<br />andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-12776951945992536552014-05-14T08:31:00.001-07:002014-05-14T17:48:06.869-07:00A Kiss or a Kick?: Public Expressions of Love and Violence <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GAiRKR2ec_E/U3KyMbjS26I/AAAAAAAAA_g/IDmlAvDMv20/s1600/imgres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GAiRKR2ec_E/U3KyMbjS26I/AAAAAAAAA_g/IDmlAvDMv20/s1600/imgres.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image c/o blacksportsonline.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Ok, this is a little bit of a revealing post. I don't mean to suggest that all of my posts aren't personal, but I'm going to say things that I feel some kind of way about and you may disagree. That's cool, disagree. But, there were two events this week that had me feeling all kinds of ways as a queer Black feminist. The first, as sports fans and non-sports-fans alike know, occurred over the weekend with the St. Louis Rams NFL draft pick of linebacker Michael Sam, who kissed his boyfriend after finding out where he'd been drafted.<br />
<br />
And the world celebrated!<br />
<br />
Here's the thing though, and I'm just going to say it: I felt a little uncomfortable. The first kiss, I was all, "Excellent, that's totally hot." The second kiss, I almost squealed, thinking "Aw, what sweetness." On the third kiss, I started to feel my ears get warm as an uncomfortable smile came across my lips. By the fourth and final kiss, I was like "Dude."<br />
<br />
Four kisses? Really? I realize that the <strike>auction-block</strike> NFL draft and most other sports events are just backdrops for straight couple PDA, i.e. the recent over-the-top on top of the empire state building marriage proposal to his girlfriend on the first day of the draft by first round pick, Eric Ebron (who, when he was actually picked cried, hugged a bunch of folks around him, <i>except</i> his fiance). So, why am I tripping? Plus, <i>I'm queer</i>. I should be jumping up and down, as many others--gay and straight--have in the days since. It was, truly, awesome. And, folks may want to throw me in the (internalized) homophobic "I'm turning the channel cause I can't watch this shit," camp, but know that I'm still trying to work it out, it's deeper than that. Even though I have a really hard time when I feel like or am actually unable to hold hands with my woman out of fear and safety, I'm not a huge PDA fan. Ask my really good friends who I became friends with when they were both single and then they got together and, in those first few months, anytime they kissed I was like--and said out loud--"Ew, gross." My feelings about PDA know no bounds. Frankly, it feels entirely too performative sometimes--and that's how Sam and his partner felt--like "Look, this person I'm standing next to with my arms wrapped around is the person I'm in love with, having sex with, am married too and I really, really like her/him, so I'm going to touch her/him every second just to prove how straight (or gay), f*ckable, attractive, generally awesome, and cool I am."<br />
<br />
Sometimes, it really is just pure, overwhelming love for the person you're with and you <i>have </i>to touch them. HAVE TO. I get that and I feel that, often with Joan. But, I'm less convinced when you're making out in the to go line at the pizza place. Or on television.<br />
<br />
Mostly I have this feeling about straight folks who get to do that every single second of the day, anytime, anywhere they please. "I'm going to kiss you now, here at my family gathering..." "Oh, thanks for dropping me off at the train where all these folks are standing, waiting, kiss kiss." Not a thought. I'm sure there are one or two straight couples or scenarios where they don't feel entirely safe everywhere, but you get my point. It's gross. And that doesn't mean that I justify or can understand <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Sports/wireStory/ole-miss-guard-critical-sam-tv-coverage-23681230">one</a>, <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2625765/I-believe-ESPN-allowed-happen-Super-Bowl-winning-former-NFL-running-goes-Twitter-tirade-against-boyfriend-kissing-Michael-Sam.html">single</a> <a href="http://wgntv.com/2014/05/12/twitter-reacts-to-michael-sam-kissing-his-boyfriend-on-air-after-being-drafted/">homophobic</a>, sexist or racist comment that has been directed at Sam or his partner. And there have been hundreds, probably thousands. Every time someone refers to a gay man, especially a Black gay man, as a 'sissy' or a 'fag' or says something like, "I think I'm gonna puke because of this," I feel homicidal. Like, I want to jump in their face, scream and definitely kick them. Hard.<br />
<br />
Which, um, brings me to the second thing that unfolded this week, in public:<br />
<br />
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It took me a long time to watch the video footage of Solange attacking Jay-Z in an elevator (I understand that 8 hours is not really a long time, but in the scope of Facebook and other places where things "trend," it's a couple of years. You may not even remember Michael Sam or the kiss heard round the world when you read this). Mostly because, personally, I'm not committed to all things Bey and Jay. But, I do love me some Solange with her driving the car with the top down music. She's a little bit like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_gkoKnaDc0">Res</a>. Plus, she sings lyrics like, </div>
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"Convinced myself you were the sh-i-it. </div>
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Convinced myself you luh-uh-ved me-he-e.</div>
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So baby is that all you got? </div>
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Tell me if you've got some more-ore" </div>
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in an entirely too fun, sing songy sweet voice. So, I didn't want to interrupt that flow with an image of her tearing into to her brother-in-law in what, she thought, was a private space. </div>
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And then, of course, I had a moment to myself in between classes yesterday and...I clicked on it and then immediately placed myself on #TeamSolange. 4ever. And, I hesitated to write that in different, public spaces because I know how folks feel, understandably about violence. I have those same feelings...mostly. I don't advocate violence and would certainly think up and act on about seventy-five hundred different alternatives and then still walk away before engaging in violence.</div>
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But. </div>
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There was something about seeing her unleash with the sound down and in black and white that totally fit with what I imagine I would do when someone says some totally f*cked up shit to me like, "[insert daily, maybe weekly, occurrence here]." Just once. One time. I wish I could when a mutha---- would, you know? I wish I could and I totally do in my fantasies. It helps. It helps to have that fantasy. It's not something I would ever act on. I've never been in a fight in my life. I've always, always "turned the other cheek." Let it slide. Taken the higher road. Ignored it, even though whatever it was later replayed in my mind, over and over until I reach some level of satisfaction with how I reacted or said something back to the person in my head. I've done that, you know, since 1976.</div>
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So, yeah, just once. </div>
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Just once I'd like to totally embody what folks think I, as a Black woman, would do in different situations. "Kick their ass," people have said to me. "Totally go off," others suggest. "Snap my fingers and neck roll before I pop off in this b*tch." Just once. I wish I could. Watching Knowles was like watching a movie or the reality television shows where violence happens and we watch it every day. Still, in a different way, the silence of the elevator experience caught my eye in a way that these other venues don't. It resonated and relieved a frustration or something, as a pause, as a break, from my day--one filled with what folks are calling microaggressions of sexism, homophobia, and racism. Like, "finally." And, "thank you." The difference is, I wasn't watching a film, which is for public consumption, but something happening to real people in private.</div>
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So, sure, do I wish that I didn't have a look into an always photographed, never a private moment, looking really intoxicated celebrity letting her family member, the husband of a sister she looks up to and loves, and father to a niece she, probably, adores, act in a way that she's maybe never allowed to in what she hoped was a private setting and didn't realize it would be leaked and promptly caricatured over and over and over again as some version of angry Black woman one week later? </div>
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Yes. </div>
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And, I wish she had considered seventy-five hundred other options in that moment. And it's an inadequate justification to say, "but, it made me feel good." But, I'm sorry, it did. Just like the folks who feel good, get some release, or feel connected to other folks when they watch Black and brown--mostly straight, but now with one, out gay brotha--smash into each other over and over again on the football field, causing irreparable damage to their minds, bodies, and spirits for the benefit of a group of small, wealthy, white, straight men. Yeah, it was kind of like that.</div>
andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-84710138095130085142014-05-02T09:37:00.000-07:002014-05-04T16:36:55.963-07:00In Defense of V. Stiviano<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vfO560lMYkA/U2K5V8Q9A4I/AAAAAAAAA-g/kfRH-4ZNPro/s1600/article-2613900-1D5F57B400000578-90_306x423.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vfO560lMYkA/U2K5V8Q9A4I/AAAAAAAAA-g/kfRH-4ZNPro/s1600/article-2613900-1D5F57B400000578-90_306x423.jpg" height="320" width="232" /></a></div>
<span style="text-align: center;">Yeah, that's what I said. You didn't misread it. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">In defense of V. Stiviano, </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">the woman we have all probably forgotten about in the days since we congratulated ourselves about Donald Sterling being fined and banned for life from basketball. The woman who argued with Donald Sterling about photos she posted on Instagram, posing with Magic Johnson. The self-described mixed race Black and Mexican woman who Sterling directed anti-Black racism at in between calling her "stupid," an "enemy" and other such descriptors. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">Yeah, in defense of her. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">Because, why not? Where's the line between her and any other woman of color, when it comes down to it. But, mostly because she had to listen to some foul shit directed at her from a man she was in relationship with.</span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">I've been surprised this past week at the outrage directed at Donald Sterling's behavior. The words he said were racist, but it's hard to believe that anyone was surprised that he had these feelings. That this is the way anti-Black racism operates. I'm sure there are other owners, um, yeah, "owners" who feel a similar way. Not to mention that these tapes were revealed a few days after the Supreme Court upheld racism in the form of "color-blind" ideology and "racial preference" discourse. That seems all but a distant memory in comparison...until Fall 2015. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: center;">I wasn't really upset by Donald Sterling's comments--were they racist, illogical, and hurtful? Yes. Ban him for life. Done. </span><span style="text-align: center;">But, there's still the pesky little detail that he said all of these racist, illogical and hurtful things TO HIS BLACK AND MEXICAN GIRLFRIEND. To her face. The woman he calls a "delicate (white or Latina) girl." The woman he called an enemy for posting Instagram photos with Black men. Who, in direct response to the question, "Do you know I'm mixed?" said, "No, I don't." The woman who, in her response, was forced to, oddly, defend herself or something, by saying "I wish I could change the color of my skin" and "I'm mixed race, whether you like it or not. I'm Black and Mexican." (yes, I listened to the whole 9 minutes...)</span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Before we all invoke the tragic trope, can we just be a little bit outraged by that? </div>
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<br /></div>
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I'm not going to defend their relationship, mainly because I don't have to.<br />
But, we're all outraged</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cpFN3PQwIU8/U2K5VvDnxEI/AAAAAAAAA-k/4qexgq-yrxA/s1600/images-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cpFN3PQwIU8/U2K5VvDnxEI/AAAAAAAAA-k/4qexgq-yrxA/s1600/images-1.jpg" /></a></div>
because he said these things about other folks--folks he's friends with, who work for him, who he doesn't mind her sleeping with but also about the woman standing in front of him who also self-identifies as a mixed race Black woman. I'm even more outraged by the fact that the reason few of us notice this is because she's a "gold digger thunderously unintelligent mistress whore porn star barbie who hangs out with with pimps," And who, someday, wants to be President of the United States.<br />
<br />
She's an easy target, I get it.<br />
<br />
But, all of these insults are said with such a level of disdain and disgust that I even feel a little defeated by it. Defeated because she's so easily tossed aside. Two weeks ago, no one knew who she was and, the minute that she emerges on the scene, speaks, or is seen out on the town with her, man, there's a collective tone of "shut up, bitch." I had something similar said to me recently when I asked a man to back up at a concert because he--in a space where everyone was pushing to the front--continually bumped into me as we danced. "Fuck you, bitch. SHUT UP. I didn't even touch you. You ain't even that cute." Um....good thing I was steps away from Prince.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But, that's all it takes. Say excuse me: "Bitch shut the fuck up." Have a 50 year age difference: "Fuck you, whore." <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2014/04/27/magazine/who-killed-anna-mae.html?hpw&rref=magazine&_r=0">Fall in love with someone you're organizing with and have a complicated history</a>, "Bitch needs to be dealt with." Especially when it comes to matters of sex and sexuality, women are simultaneously harshly dismissed and always available for consumption. Now, I'm just as outraged, stunned and unable to breathe because of the kidnappings and forced <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/apr/25/nigeria-schoolgirls-families-hopes-fade">into marriage of close to 300 girls in Nigeria</a>, there are not enough words to adequately capture the anger there. Still, I don't think it's much of a leap to say that the same sexist and misogynist discourse that allows for the discardment of "gold digging, attention seeking whores" is connected to the practice of human trafficking and other forms of kidnapping, slavery, and murder of women of color around the world. </div>
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<br /></div>
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So, yeah. In defense of V. Stiviano. In defense of all of us.</div>
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<br /></div>
andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3416480746157493203.post-85755156411491184582014-03-16T08:44:00.000-07:002014-03-16T15:55:03.699-07:00On Lesbian Death and a Fight Worth Fighting<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tPGYNMzAYhc/UyNuuhOj9ZI/AAAAAAAAA70/Rg6IHsfhs8U/s1600/imgres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tPGYNMzAYhc/UyNuuhOj9ZI/AAAAAAAAA70/Rg6IHsfhs8U/s1600/imgres.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Galveston Daily News</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I wish I could cry.<br />
<br />
I really wish I could.<br />
<br />
But<br />
<br />
I haven't been able to.<br />
<br />
I can't.<br />
<br />
Because<br />
<br />
I can't breathe.<br />
<br />
Every time I think about, see pictures of, am asked a question about, come across a news story about the murders of Crystal Jackson and Britney Cosby, two Black women, a lesbian couple, raising a child who were found in a dumpster near Bolivar, TX over a week ago, I've been frozen. My chest freezes. Lungs frozen. And no breath comes out. Because I'm terrified. Literally terrified and heartbroken.<br />
<br />
Even more heartbroken, frozen, and stunned to hear that Cosby's father was involved in the murders and quite possibly responsible. He didn't like that his daughter was gay and didn't want her bringing that "<a href="http://www.bet.com/news/national/2014/03/14/commentary-the-paradox-of-two-black-lgbt-murders-in-texas.html">gay shit in the house</a>."<br />
<br />
So <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/news/crime/dad-killed-daughter-lesbian-lover-gay-mom-article-1.1722103">he (most likely) killed her</a>, with blunt force to the head and then shot Jackson before throwing their bodies in a dumpster. I can't even imagine this. I try, but it taps too much into the fear that often inhabits me and freezes my body. I freeze because yes, sometimes, especially when I'm driving across country with Joan say, I fear death.<br />
<br />
No, really.<br />
<br />
I fear the remote gas station in Wyoming, which is the same place that I shook because I didn't expect the woman's second glance when I said (and maybe grabbed Joan's hand?) that "No, we didn't want the room with double beds, but the queen." I forgot. And then I became terrified. My body freezes when we're in my hometown and I go to grab her hand and she pulls away. I forget and I'm terrified. Sometimes I'm terrified just three hours or so away in Nevada (well, they <a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&ved=0CCgQFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Findiancountrytodaymedianetwork.com%2F2011%2F06%2F27%2Fnative-family-allegedly-attacked-skinheads-40317&ei=6-MlU_D_G4LxoAS824D4Aw&usg=AFQjCNH3bS2yuXZp4i6b-QaWLhz4Z_f1ow&sig2=IQrKqnxAIpBNEDYOqNvM5A&bvm=bv.62922401,d.cGU">attack Native folks there</a> too, so there's that...) where either one of us may whisper, "Don't touch me, I don't know these people."<br />
<br />
You may think that I don't get scared, freeze, and fear death. Or, you may think I have some internalized homophobia where, even though I write this blog with the names 'queer' and 'feminist' for all the world to see, I still get scared and fear death. Because I live where I live.<br />
<br />
<span style="text-align: center;">Because I live in (what once was) one of the gayest areas in the United States: the San Francisco Bay Area. </span>Yet, increasingly, I walk around these streets with a familiar terror, frozenness and (more often) anger, that sometimes takes my breath away. It's not the same kind of terror that shoots through me when I hear that two Black lesbians--my sisters--have been murdered and carelessly thrown in the trash, but a terror nonetheless. A fear.<br />
<br />
It's a fear of being erased. Erased in an area, on streets that I have come to call my home. It's a feeling of loss and isolation epitomized in an experience Joan and I had when we were walking in the Mission the other day on our anniversary--something we have done less and less in the last couple of years, because of the rapid changes. We passed old haunts: the very much missed <a href="http://www.sustainablecitynews.com/osento.html">Osento Spa</a> (women only), the on its way out but not without a fight <a href="http://moderntimesbookstore.com/">Modern Times Bookstore</a>, the recently closed <a href="http://sf.eater.com/archives/2014/02/26/esta_noche_to_shutter_wish_team_taking_over.php">Esta Noche</a>. I could go on and on about the death of a city, of the space that was once gentrified by lesbian families and is now gentrified again (and again) by wealthier and wealthier <strike>folks</strike> men.Which is what I noticed as we walked around Valencia that day: both of us were struck by the number of straight, mostly white, 20-30 year old men walking up and down the streets, playing a folksy guitar with an amplifier (seriously), walking in packs to the nearest bar, and crossing the street with hands clasped around their phones. They seemed like recently transplanted or recently minted techies, yes, the kind that are now, apparently, flying <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-kay/why-nyc-women-should-consider-flying-across-the-country-to-find-men_b_4894602.html">women into the city</a> to date. As we walked around unnoticed and unacknowledged as two lesbians of color, I realized that we were walking in what has slowly become a <i>city of men</i>. And not the kind that I love, the kind that helped make this city the one I ran away to (and sometimes felt invisible in):<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ly3kIs6Ofv4/UyNvng6I5hI/AAAAAAAAA8A/sVIDjTsB1tU/s1600/o-5-900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ly3kIs6Ofv4/UyNvng6I5hI/AAAAAAAAA8A/sVIDjTsB1tU/s1600/o-5-900.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">http://www.allemanphoto.com/</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But the kind that slowly, but surely represents death. A lesbian death.<br />
<br />
It's callous and cold. Dismissive. Not in the same way as the murder of Cosby and Jackson, but one that coincides with and supports a culture in which they were no longer allowed to live. A culture where someone couldn't make sense of their relationship. Didn't acknowledge it in any way and didn't want it to exist. That's what it feels like to walk these streets sometimes. Not that we're not wanted, because we've felt that way before by our 'brothers' (and sometimes sisters) in the community. But death in the sense that our existence isn't seen or felt, not just historically, but face to face. And then I'm terrified all over again. I'm furious too, of course. But, when faced with this death rather than making me want to fight, fear takes my breath away. And, I need to fight now. <i>I want to fight now</i>. And so, even though it doesn't ever occur to me to ask because it feels like this space is only ours to inhabit and to fight for, I need your help. I need you, as allies, to fight the fight for Black lesbians. Not a fight for <i>all </i>women because all women are worth fighting for. That's true, but I need you to fight explicitly and specifically for Black lesbians like Britney and Crystal because the perceived 'threat' of being Black (Native, Chicana, Palestinian), a woman, and a lesbian still exists. And it still dangerously insinuates--and intimidates--that we shouldn't be those three things at once. That there is no place for us.<br />
<br />
And it still allows us to die. To be killed. To be erased.<br />
<br />
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And, to update the words of Audre Lorde, who wrote about a time decades and decades ago, "Any world which did not have a place for me loving women was not a world in which I wanted to live, nor one which <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/395220.Zami">I could fight for."</a><br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
andreana clayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07829984046889391837noreply@blogger.com9