QueerBlackFeminist

'It's Not Right'...On Whitney Houston, Black Women, and Loss

2012-02-13T00:13:00.000-08:00

Like others, I can't really believe that I'm writing about the death of Whitney Houston. I learned about her death in passing, as I was preparing for a party. And I hadn't thought about Houston in years, not since seeing her run and literally jump into Bobby Brown's arms on one of his releases from jail years ago. It wasn't until I sat down hours later, read some of the news stories and tributes and started watching videos that a wave of memories and emotions came over me. The first video I watched and then repeated over and over (until Joan finally said "stop watching Whitney Houston and come to bed":) was "You Give Good Love" from her debut album, Whitney Houston, released in 1985. Watching it immediately took me back to junior high, 8th grade, when I effectively made the switch from tomboy to girly girl. The year that my mother said I could wear make up (no eyeliner) and let me start going to Boys and Girls Club dances with my best friend Angie, my cousin. Angie kind of looked like Whitney Houston, and both were part of my coming of age as a teenager (along with Sheila E., Lisa Lisa, and Prince). As I watched "You Give Good Love" over and over, I was reminded of that time, my relationship with my cousin, Black women and loss.

I love(d) Angie. We were close, inseparable even when we were teenagers. Our dads, brothers, were roommates for a long time when we were little, but it wasn't until 1983, when she moved into the neighborhood we lived in and my sixth grade class that we started to hang out on a regular basis. We went to different junior highs, but the Boys and Girls Club dances, junior high basketball games, Friday night skating rink, and even Sunday morning church services were our playgrounds.We were serious running buddies. Angie pressed my hair for the first time (not really, but this is how I remember it) in her kitchen, showed me how to keep our bracelets "gold" (clear fingernail polish) and taught me how to kiss boys. She was everything to me, not just my best friend, but my family. Her relationship with her dad, whose house we spent the night at regularly, helped me get closer to my own father, who, up to that point, I barely spoke to.

"You Give Good Love" was the song for me because it marked such a moment of possibility. It was Houston's first hit. It showcased the range of her voice, hinting at how far that range could and would go on future songs. The freshness of her look (loved the pink outfit with Black jacket couldn't, but wanted to recreate it), signaled the modeling work she'd done in the past. She was flirty, as was the song, which also had it's own sexiness. All of this coincided with what felt like a new beginning for me as well, as I moved further into a pretty girl stage. I held her in my back pocket, her hopefulness, her confidence.

As Whitney Houston's popularity soared and her star was firmly established, Angie and I entered the ninth grade. Only one of us was pregnant. I didn't know it until she was five months in, we just thought she was gaining weight. But I distinctly remember sitting in her bedroom, Mickey Mouse phone next to her bed and commenting on her unbuttoned pants, after we had stuffed ourselves with burgers. "Yeah, I guess I'm getting fat." She was out of school for most of the Fall, had her baby right after her birthday in December, and I picked her up for school one morning in mid-January. Things were different. We were still close, still running buddies, but we were also "grown."

I stopped listening to Whitney Houston after that first album. Too much had happened to really stay in what felt like an innocent time. More was going to happen, but the end of 1985 was the end of that "innocence" for me, Angie, and the rest of my girls. There were more pregnancies and more heartbreak in years to come. In the next two or three years, crack swept into my small city, putting a significant dent in the structure of the Black community I was growing up in. By my junior year, people I went to high school with who were small time pot dealers moved onto crack. Older folks I knew went to jail, and close family members (and friends) were addicted. That lasted for several more years, and, in some cases, continues today.

At the same time that all of this was going on, Angie moved to California with her mom, sister, and brother. It felt like my whole world shifted and I couldn't go back. I did come back to Houston's music, however, briefly, when "It's Not Right...But It's Okay" dominated the gay bars I was dancing in in the late 90s. And I was happy. She was back, with a solid, sweet hit.

You don't stand no chance boy/That's why you have to leave/So don't you turn around/There's no more tears/Left here/For you/To see/Was it really worth it?/Going out like that

But, it was brief for me. The rumors of drug use and a tumultuous marriage had already surfaced and, it was too painful to look at her. Even though the gorgeous smile was there and she was even flirty in the video, she looked different. Worked over. Not quite defeated, but struggling. Definitely not hopeful. She was too much like folks I knew (know). And it was different after that. She was different. The "crack is wack" comment came later and, by that time, I was already gone. That period signaled too much loss for me. But, it was that refrain, It's not right/But it's okay/I'm gonna make it anyway (pay my own rent/take care of my babies) that stuck in my head as I turned my back on her, like I had others. Not because they weren't "acting right," but because it was too much loss. Loss that I still haven't wrapped my head around all these years later.

I lost Angie too. After she moved to California, we were barely in contact, too much distance for both of us. I really didn't know much about her life, we talked on the phone a few times, but it wasn't until I moved out here for graduate school that I saw her again. And for a minute, we were neighbors--her in Sacramento and me in Davis. Within months, however, she moved to San Diego with a boyfriend and her son. We stayed in touch, I went down for Thanksgiving break routinely until I was hired at SF State. Then I lost her again, for reasons I can't write about here, mainly because, again I can't wrap my head around it. I wish I could because I miss her. I miss that friendship, that family, and that love. I miss that possibility, that hopefulness about each other and about our futures. What felt like a brief moment that I hadn't thought about in decades rushed over me like a flood in the wake of Whitney Houston's death. And I want to remember, always, the Black women that have disappeared, gotten lost, or that I have somehow forgotten. Even when it hurts.

So, I say thank you again, this time to Whitney Houston for giving us good love and for helping me remember.

RIP

video posted by WhitneyGoat

I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way. Or not. AKA I heart Miranda Hobbes

2012-01-24T06:09:00.000-08:00

I'm just going to come out and tell you right now that I watch endless reruns of Sex and the City. And I'm not ashamed. I have lots of guilty pleasure TV, but Sex and the City is something I will turn on when I'm working, bored, whatever and watch, even if I've seen the episode. Like, five times. Of all the characters, Miranda was, is, my favorite (although the whole 'I'm going to date a Black man, Robert, and NEVER talk about race cause he's just great!' pushed my limits). And, given that the actress that played her, Cynthia Nixon, is apparently as outspoken as her character was, Miranda will always reign supreme.

So it was with great pleasure that I read social networking sites and other "news" sites, all abuzz today about Nixon's recent comments on being gay and her long time relationship with her partner, Christine Marioni (I'm saying this like I know her). You know, the woman she has been with for the past seven years and recently had a child with? You may not know this because, unlike me, you don't pay attention to Nixon's personal life. But, she's an Aries (me too), so what can I say? Apparently, Nixon was asked to give an "empowerment" speech to a gay audience and in her prepared speech she stated, ‘I’ve been straight and I’ve been gay, and gay is better.’ Well, the organizers weren't too keen on that sentence and asked her to remove it because it implied that being gay was a choice. To which she responded,

"And for me, it is a choice. I understand that for many people it’s not, but for me it’s a choice, and you don’t get to define my gayness for me. A certain section of our community is very concerned that it not be seen as a choice, because if it’s a choice, then we could opt out. I say it doesn’t matter if we flew here or we swam here, it matters that we are here and we are one group and let us stop trying to make a litmus test for who is considered gay and who is not."

Exsqueeze me?

I have to say I'm impressed, or maybe just intrigued, that she made this statement in such an emphatic way. Way to go, Miran--er, Cynthia. Total applause!

But I am surprised, as this is so not the line of many folks who speak for or on behalf of queer people. I'm looking at you, Gaga. Can I just say that I really hate the song "Born this Way?" First, because I find Lady Gaga simple and disingenuous. Second, and maybe more importantly, because for me it implies that "if we had a choice, we wouldn't be gay" (or, as Gaga sings, Black, white, beige, Chola descent--wtf are these last two?--Lebanese, you're orient !!!) and there's nothing we can do about it so back off. Like her chorus, "ooh, there ain't no other way, baby I was born this way."

Um, actually there is.

You can be "born this way," or have a desire or attraction to the same gender or transgender and never act on it. Or, act on it and never identify as gay, as many of our Republican elected officials have demonstrated. See, lots of choices. And, I'm not knocking these choices, but do know that they are choices. Just as identifying, acting upon said feelings, aligning yourself with, openly loving "your people," and cherishing queer community is. a. choice.

Better yet, it's a decision.

And, I don't care how out you are, as I've said before, I don't know that coming out megaphone-style gets us any closer to ending the oppression of gay folks, which by the way, is hard as f*#@--especially when we internalize the shit. Don't get me wrong, I live a pretty awesome life: I love my woman, work at a place where there are other (actually a majority) of queer folks, have a solid community of lesbians and gay men that I surround myself with, and get to write this blog and other pieces about my love for LGBTQ folks. It's super! I never thought that my life would be this good, really. Growing up as a Black girl and seeing the things that I did, I really didn't see myself living past or even making it to 30. For the first year after that, I didn't know what to do with myself (that's a whole other blogpost).

But even though things are great, I can't say that I dodge being targeted as an out, Black dyke. And I experience these things because of the way that I chose and continue to choose to live my life as a queer person of color: Students who are a little more aggressive and challenging in your direction. Threatening stares when I'm holding hands with my partner on our cross country trips (and, yes even in the Yay Area). Being told recently that I haven't slept with the right man yet. Or, having sneaky feelings come up when I try to do things in my life that only straight women are supposed to do--more on this later--and feeling like maybe I, as a lesbian, shouldn't be doing them. And even though all of this sucks a$$, and not in a good way, I would never change my decision to come out and live and love the life that I have. I would never opt out of being gay. But, let's not pretend that this isn't a decision that I, and many other queer folks, didn't make at some point, regardless of how we were "born," or have lived our lives up to that point. Nor should we overlook that for many it's a decision they (we) make every. single. day.

There really ain't no other way.

First You Gotta Put Your Neck Into It: Loving Pariah

2012-01-04T11:48:00.000-08:00

I went to see Pariah on opening night in San Francisco last Wednesday. And I loved it, from the very beginning. In fact, it was the beginning that I really loved. From the first few minutes of the opening scene of a queer women's dance club, fully equipped with scantily-clad go-go dancers and Khia's "My Neck, My Back (Lick It)" playing in the background, I was pulled in. Given that you know, as a moviegoer, that the movie is about a young, Black lesbian coming of age in Brooklyn, those lyrics and the go-go dancer in slow motion take on a different meaning. At least I think it does. If you don't know the words, or haven't heard the song before, it starts out like this:

All you ladies pop your pussy like this/Shake your body don't stop, don't miss/All you ladies pop your pussy like this/Shake your body don't stop, don't miss/Just do it, do it, do it, do it, do it now/Lick it good/Suck this pussy/Just like you should/Right now, lick it good/Suck this pussy just like you should/My neck, my back, lick my pussy and my crack

Now, imagine those lyrics with a young Alike, the protagonist, smiling, with a line of women behind her with dollars, her best friend, Laura, included. I know this doesn't change the fact that there is a half naked woman dancing on a stoop with people throwing money at her but, personally, having the film open in this way signaled that this film was indeed, mine. It was ours.

I've written about the context of queer women's clubs being a place, another place for me to come out as a queer Black woman and to (re)embrace my love of hip-hop (look, if it wasn't for queer girl clubs, I'd still only be listening to Belle and Sebastian). And while I'm not the clubster I once was, it still serves as a site that makes me love being queer and being in queer women's community. Squeezing onto a packed dance floor with a bunch of other women who dig other women and are only there for the purpose of looking for someone to take home, look good for their partner that they dance with all night, or just getting a chance to "release" on the dance floor with their friends? Sign me up. Even if it's over a sexist, misogynistic beat, which it usually is. But I love it. And, I'm not going to defend Khia's lyrics or my stance. Look, I'm a bit more of a shy, easily embarrassed feminist so to continue to sing along to the lyrics:

First you gotta put your neck into it/Don't stop just do it, do it/Then you roll your tongue/From the crack/Back to the front/Then ya suck it all/Til I shake and cum

You know, it makes my cheeks a little red, even as I sit here and type.

But the choice to open this film about a queer, Black woman with this song, centers the experience of Black lesbians in an important way. It signals that this isn't "the feel good film of the year," in the way that we all want to relate to film characters and feel good when we leave the theater. Rather, it suggests that you are here as part of my experience and I'm not here to make you feel good in the way that we all want to feel good about gays and lesbians in this particular moment. In other words, Ilene Chaiken's version(s). And, Pariah is not the first film about Black lesbians to do this, as Salamishah Tillet (and others) has pointed out, Pariah rests on the shoulders of the brilliant, often overlooked Black lesbian filmmaking of the last two decades. But what I love about Pariah being released last week, at a time when there are gay characters all over nightly television sitcoms, and we all love gay people, is the opening scene and others that make no apologies for being queer. There's no "we're just like you" narrative underlying the film, or "look, I'm just a normal girl trying to figure out who I am, let me be." No, from my reading, Pariah says, "this is what it looks like, if you're in, let's go, otherwise, peace!" And how refreshing is that from a queer woman of color perspective? Especially from a butch perspective.

Which is the other thing I love about the movie. Alike, for all intents and purposes, is butch--or presenting as butch in the beginning of the movie. And we all know how I feel about butches, or, in this case, those trying to figure out their gender presentation (go ahead figure it out, I'll wait:). If you don't know, I *LOVE* them. And, I LOVED who Alike, and her best friend Laura, was in the film. No apologies. She (they) pushed her way into various settings, even when she had to cover herself up at home. Broken open. Like the scene when one of the girls at her school who "liked girls, but loved men" glanced in her direction and, within earshot, said, "she's cute, but if she was just a little bit harder." Swoon. And another moment of "get in or get out." Similar to when Alike was trying on the strap-on that Laura got her and her sister walked in. Unapologetic. She, and Laura, pushed back on their mother's rejection (which, I have to say, is not the freshest representation of Black motherhood, and a critique that Summer M. nails over at the Black Youth Project), without changing who they were. Even Alike's pushing back on Laura's expectations of her presentation and her sexuality is a strong statement of who she is. Breaking is opening. And that's a brave take on Black queerness in this moment. A moment when real Black queerness (if you can say such a thing) is overlooked, discredited, and ignored.

So thank you, Dee Rees, for putting your neck into it. And for remembering that Black queer girls are not broken. We are free.

On Rappers, Homophobia and Tolerance: Not Really Buying It

2011-12-23T14:06:00.000-08:00

Alright, I'm trying to get into the holiday break spirit and take some time off, but a grant due in early January and grading is keeping me from it. And, I can't seem to shake an article I read the other day on homophobia, rappers, and hip-hop. In the Daily Beast article, "Why Rappers are Suddenly Coming Out in Support of Gay Pride," author Chris Lee cites several rappers discussions of queerness as evidence that rappers are not as homophobic as we think. He states,

While rappers have yet to unfurl rainbow flags en masse, and casual homophobia still abounds in videos and on songs, the current groundswell of tolerance reflects not only a wider societal acceptance of homosexuality but also changes in the way many MCs fundamentally view themselves. Where before hip-hop defined itself as a culture of resistance, by now the genre has mostly shed its outlaw status. Having saturated every corner of the mainstream—from fashion to advertising, television, and movies—hip-hop has largely remade the status quo in its own image. And given major rappers’ wealth, they seem less compelled to define themselves against others as a means of self-validation than at any other point in hip-hop history.

and

But in the last few months, seemingly unprompted by anything more than some new wellspring of compassion, major hip-hop artists have been speaking out in vehement condemnation of old homophobic tropes, calling for greater tolerance toward gay people, urging closeted gays to come out, and expressing admiration for the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender community in ways that would have been unimaginable a generation ago.

OK, I will give it to you that there are some changes to the tenor of hip-hop and homophobic remarks are out of style right now (see how I said right now?) and one will receive condemnation if spoken and then quickly "apologize." Still, the evidence given doesn't convince me, Fat Joe's interview on Vlad TV, where he claimed, "In 2011 you gotta hide that you gay?” he asked. “Be real! ‘Yo, I’m gay. What the fuck!’ If you gay, you gay. That’s your preference. Fuck it if the people don’t like it," and Game's statement, "I don't have no problem with gay people."

This is your evidence that things are shifting?

Um, let's put this evidence into context, shall we? In basically the next sentence in each interview, Fat Joe and Game suggest that there is a "Gay Mafia," or that "Gays are everywhere," running shit. Not to mention that the Game goes on to say he's got a problem with dudes pretending not to be gay but are really gay fooling people and giving people AIDS. Something to that effect (I've already talked about Game and his comments, here). So yeah, this "WTF, why can't gays come out, do you" attitude is one thing that is bulls---. But, to erroneously claim that these comments are somehow indicative of a larger support that rappers have for queer folks borders on irresponsible. I'm not pointing fingers at any rappers in particular, nor do I assume that rapper = homophobic. I'm also not going to sit here and write that things haven't "gotten better," since, you know, 1930 or so. But, to suggest that these out of context/not really showing the bigger picture comments are somehow indicative of a significant shift in the experience of the queer hip-hop generation is false.

And I love hip-hop. Have loved it since I was a teenager, particularly because of its Blackness in every fiber. But, there are few spaces for Black queerness in the genre. And while there are few spaces where queer Blackness exists in the mainstream (thank you for making Pariah, Dee Rees, need it!), the lack of queer spaces in hip-hop has been painful at times for those of us who identify with it. A space where queerness and Blackness meet has been carved out in gay bars, house parties, queer performativity, our own headphones, and in out, queer hip-hop. That's made things better, even good. So, to suggest that the words of a few (presumably) straight male rappers makes rap more gay-friendly ignores the decades long efforts of those of us who have made this music, this culture our own.

(OK, I should've prefaced this by saying that the grant I'm writing is on popular culture and LGBTQ Black youth. You know, where I write about invsibility and death. Yeah, I could've said that)...Still, I have to ask:

What, Mr. Lee, is the point of your article and, more importantly, how are you defining homophobia, you know, the casual thing you refer to above (I really don't mean any disrespect, but p.s. check out the comments section of your article to see how far "tolerance" is getting us)? How do any of us define homophobia? And, an end to it? Is it simply that someone says I got no problem with gay people (only recently replacing "faggots" with gay people)? Cause that's not what it's about for many of us. I don't really care if you "got no problem" with me. What I need you to do is organize for an end to the oppression of LGBTQ folks. Make your spaces not just tolerable or accepting of gay people, but safe. Reach out and acknowledge LGBTQ Black youth who download your songs, dance to your music, and are part of your community. Become friends with the gay people you say are running things and make sure they're not trotting out the same old tropes of Black sexuality. Interrupt homophobia every. single. time. you hear it and say why, cite those gay folks that Fat Joe says are in every family.

Do that, that's a start.

But don't give me words that signal tolerance. Tolerance does nothing for me or my people, especially those that have to hide, play along, navigate violence in schools, clubs, streets and our own homes. Which is, at times, all of us.

Seems like a good day to Decolonize...

2011-12-04T12:08:00.000-08:00

Today is the 42nd anniversary of Fred Hampton's murder. Let's celebrate him, his life, and his legacy by entering into a conversation about decolonization, colonization, and occupation.

"Without education, people will accept anything. Without education, what you’ll have is neo-colonialism instead of the colonialism like you have now. Without education, people don’t know why they’re doing what they’re doing, you know what I mean? You might get people caught up in an emotionalist movement, might get them because they’re poor and they want something and then if they’re not educated, they’ll want more and before you know it, we’ll have Negro imperialism."

"You don’t fight fire with fire. You fight fire with water. We’re gonna fight racism with solidarity. We're not gonna fight capitalism with Black capitalism. We’re gonna fight capitalism with socialism. Socialism is the people. If you’re afraid of socialism, you’re afraid of yourself."

Chairman Fred Hampton, 1948-1969

The Assassination of Fred Hampton How the FBI and the Chicago Police Murdered a Black Panther

Quotes uploaded from Why Am I not Surprised

Videos from democracynow, uploaded by mediagrrl9

In solidarity.

Solidarity, White (Male) Privilege and Occupation

2011-11-29T09:40:00.000-08:00

I've been involved with Occupy Oakland over the last couple of months, primarily around discussions about decolonization and the term Occupy itself. There have been several teach-ins on Solidarity with Indigenous Peoples, particularly the Ohlone, that have furthered this discussion. Simultaneously, there has also been a movement to change the name of Occupy Oakland to Decolonize/Liberate Oakland to recognize not only solidarity with the Ohlone, but the vast ways that people of color have been colonized historically and, perhaps more importantly, in the present. As news of an upcoming proposal to change the name has spread, there have been several oppositional blogposts, twitter posts, and other discussions that are virulently in favor of keeping the name "Occupy."

With all due respect to Indigenous Peoples, of course.

At least that's how many of the posts start out. "Decolonize the Americas, but Occupy Oakland," one post declares. "Voting No to Decolonize Occupy" another states. After I posted on twitter the upcoming proposal date at the general assembly, I actually received a message that started out, "No offense, but..." Really? No offense? I don't think I've heard that expression since junior high. And, for the first time in a long time, I'm surprised.

By the phrase, not the sentiment.

A sentiment in defense of, to quote bell hooks, white male supremacist capitalist patriarchy.

See, here's the thing that I love about people of color and white women: we're hopeful every time a new protest or movement comes along that, like Occupy, speaks to us. We get involved. We organize. We take on leadership. We fight. We stick around, even when racism, sexism, and homophobia become explicit. In other words--when white male dominance is challenged and subsequently, (and staunchly) defended--we hang in there.

Because it always happens.

Whenever we organize with white men (or their comrades who protect white male dominance), there comes a time when they feel their status is threatened. And really, it can be from something as little as proposing a name change--mind you, this hasn't even went up before the GA yet and already there is a backlash, er, freedom of speech I mean. A name change that recognizes the experience of the majority of people living in Oakland. A city whose unemployment rate is 17%, twice that of the national rate. And you know what that means? That means that the people that experience the rapid collapse of capitalism, which you so vehemently defend (I was also told that recognizing how Blacks, Indigenous People, and Asians have been colonized in this country was a distraction) are people of color. And we've been feeling the effects of this collapse for decades, not since September or whenever the decline began to impede on your ability to get a piece of the pie.

Personally, I support the name change (as other cities have changed the name to Unsettle and (Un)Occupy with little resistance) and I won't be deterred if the change is blocked, but I am and will continue to be swayed by the ongoing fight against white male patriarchal dominance masquerading as "community." No offense.

So, here's a tip: What you need to do now is listen, not interrupt. Cause what you're doing is interrupting. Listen to the majority of people who live in this city. Listen to people whose land we occupy. People of color make up the majority of Oakland, physically and metaphorically, the very fabric, and our voice in this movement needs to be recognized. Not in a "caucus," or a "working group," as some have graciously offered and declared support for. But, as the majority of the city that you are representing. The majority of the 99% in this city. We are as much a part of this movement, involved fully or not. And, as some of you have stated, you need to reach us. And, reaching us does not mean being defensive, posting numerous blogs and posts about your movement to block the passage of a name change, and trotting out your friends of color to tell us what "occupy" means.

You need to find another path to build and maintain this movement.

In solidarity.

Oakland, Occupied

2011-11-14T05:02:00.001-08:00

I went to the first teach-in on colonization, decolonization and Indigenous Solidarity tonight at Occupy Oakland. There were several of us who met beforehand to strategize some about the larger discussion of occupation, (de)occupation, and the current movement. I came primarily as an ally to Indigenous folks, particularly the Ohlone, whose OakLand we occupy and to think and discuss how the terms occupation and colonization relate to Black folks in Oakland.

As Black people in the U.S., a conversation about colonization has to begin with the occupation, the theft of African bodies, enslaved into forced servitude on the stolen land of the Americas. And every way that our bodies were used to "develop" and cultivate this land and its resources and build the structures that have enabled capitalism to prosper. The ways that our bodies, particularly women's bodies, were colonized in an effort to greatly expand the workforce that so called slave owners depended upon to increase their wealth and further theft of land--severing our families, our varied cultures, our languages at will. That's a beginning point. Those physical acts of colonization, rape, and genocide is one place to start. But, as we discuss what "decolonization" means, we have to look at the effects of colonization, or where we have taken on a colonizer's mentality in everyday situations: ownership, consumerism, and space. In Oakland, gentrification is one place to link this conversation.

I've been trying to finish a post on gentrification since Joan and I returned from our summer trip where we traveled through the Black Hills and the Badlands in South Dakota. Driving across Lakota (Sioux) land, the process of displacement resonated with me as a Black woman living in an increasingly gentrified area in East Oakland. I live on a nicely carved out, middle class street where we are one of two renters, near Mills College off the High St. exit. We moved here because of the high numbers of queer couples, lesbians, who live in the area alongside (and sometimes pushing out) poor and working class Black people who have lived here since the second great migration. The process of displacement has been on high speed in recent years as "urban pioneers," mostly white, but also middles class folks have begun buying (or stealing) short sale and foreclosed upon homes that populate the neighborhoods where predatory lenders encouraged longtime homeowners to refinance (an important side note, as I was writing this, I came across the realty company in San Francisco called Urban Pioneer Property Management, no joke, you can't make this stuff up). The area I live in is one that non-inhabitants continue to frame as "ghetto" and "scary" in their "I braved the streets so that I could get my favorite ethnic food" posts on Yelp. The fearlessness of these folks is emboldened in recently formed neighborhood groups who want to "take back High St" or whatever neighborhood street they live on. This kind of colonizer mentality about property and ownership, "This is my little .25 acre of land," "my house," "my stuff" is one that we must examine as it relates to our individual and collective practices. As we are seeing with the decline of capitalism and it's tightening grip as its current form collapses, our ownership of things is temporary. Those things we thought were ours: homes, jobs, pensions, etc. are being taken from us. So we need to reexamine our attachments to ownership and to colonization as more and more of us are displaced, joining the ranks of the "unrecognized."

This is not to say that we shouldn't fight and demand accountability and recognition of the role that capitalism, corporate greed, and corporate personhood (racism, sexism, heterosexism, and imperialism) has played in our displacement. However, we must also recognize the ways that colonization continues to inform our decision making, our organizing frames, and our everyday practices.

In Solidarity.

Above photo of a tshirt, courtesy of Oaklandish.

A Memorandum in Solidarity with Indigenous Peoples

2011-10-28T23:05:00.000-07:00

I went to the General Assembly at Occupy Oakland tonight where a group of us proposed the following memorandum, which passed with 97% support! I'm writing another post about Occupy Oakland, but wanted to post this tonight. The full text is below:

Proposal to "Occupy Oakland":

Memorandum of Solidarity with Indigenous Peoples

RESOLUTION: Memorandum of Solidarity with Indigenous Peoples

WHEREAS, those participating in “Occupy Oakland” acknowledge that the United States of America is a colonial (and imperial) nation, and that non-indigenous people are guests upon stolen indigenous land; and

WHEREAS, those participating in “Occupy Oakland” acknowledge that Oakland is already occupied land; Oakland being the historical territory of the Chochenyo Ohlone people; and

WHEREAS, those participating in “Occupy Oakland” acknowledge that indigenous peoples here and around the world continue to resist the violent oppression and exploitation of colonizing nations like the United States, and as a result have a great amount of experience that could strengthen the “Occupy Wall Street” movement; and

WHEREAS, those participating in “Occupy Oakland” acknowledge that after centuries of disregard for the welfare of future generations, and the consistent disrespect and exploitation of the Earth, we all find ourselves on a polluted and disturbed planet, lacking the wisdom to live sustainably at peace with the community of Life; therefore be it

RESOLVED, that those participating in “Occupy Oakland” seek the genuine and respectful involvement of indigenous peoples in the rebuilding of a new society on their ancestral lands; and

As a signal to the national “Occupy Wall Street” movement and the indigenous peoples here and there who have felt excluded by the colonialist language of occupation used to name this movement, it shall be declared that “Occupy Oakland" aspires to “Decolonize Oakland" – to “Decolonize Wall Street” – with the guidance and participation of indigenous peoples; and

Extending an open hand of humility and friendship, those participating in “Occupy Oakland” respectfully invite indigenous peoples to join the uprising against corporate greed taking place across this continent. “Occupy Oakland” wishes to further the process of healing and reconciliation and implores indigenous peoples to share their wisdom and guidance, as they see fit, so as to help restore true freedom and democracy in this country, to initiate a new era of peace and cooperation that will work for everyone, including the Earth and the original inhabitants of this land.

In Solidarity,

Corrina Gould (Chochenyo Ohlone)

Joanne Barker (Lenape [Delaware Tribe of Indians])¸ SFSU

Luz Calvo, CSU East Bay

Andreana Clay, SFSU

Andrew Jolivétte (Opelousa/Atakapa-Ishak), SFSU

Melissa Nelson (Anishinaabe [Turtle Mountain Chippewa]), SFSU

Kathy Wallace (Karuk, Yurok and Hupa), SFSU

Endorsing a critique of Slutwalk

2011-10-05T07:55:00.000-07:00

About a month ago I was asked by Farah Tanis, ED of Black Women's Blueprint, to endorse the Open Letter From Black Women to Slutwalk. I had read some about Slutwalk, a response to an officer comments that women should avoid dressing like sluts to avoid rape. That's a protest I wholeheartedly support. So, I was a little hesistant to endorse the letter, given that I hadn't participated, hadn't been following it too much, and knew that other Black women, like Aishah Shahidah Simmons, have been keynote speakers at Slutwalks in the U.S.

Farah Tanis, as others have noted, was open to these hesitations (as well as my questions about how queer women were represented within the organization) and we had a nice back and forth, open discussion. After reading a draft of the letter, I decided to sign on and endorse. Still working out my thoughts on it, but emphatically behind a group of Black women coming together to question the focus and intent of a movement that speaks for all women, under an umbrella term that is used to delegitimize, attack, and dehumanize women. I see the letter as an important step for discussion. For movement.

And I support Slutwalk, or at least the ideas behind it.

Any protest that directly targets institutions and individuals that blame women for the violence we are subjected to is something I can get behind, fully. But, the critique that Tanis and others outline in the open letter is significant and appears to be even more necessary with a development from the NYC Slutwalk this weekend. As pictured above, a young white protester held a sign quoting Lennon and Ono's "Woman is the Nigger of the World," released in 1972. As others, particularly Aishah Shahidah Simmons and Latoya Peterson, have written, the fact that this woman embraces this quote, years after the context (not justifying) in which this song was written is a telling statement about race, feminism, and women's bodies. She was asked by one of the NYC organizers, a Black woman, to take the sign down and she did. Great. Still, the action, the belief that it was okay to use "nigger" as a call to protest is what troubles me.

Interestingly, I saw this photo right after I gave a lecture on Frantz Fanon and asked students if it was possible in this historical moment to, as Fanon states, "rediscover(ing) one's people [which] sometimes means...wanting to be a 'nigger,' not an exceptional 'nigger,' but a real 'nigger,' a 'dirty nigger,' the sort defined by the white man." And, most were alarmed and adamant that the N-word, as we now know it, is a word that they view as unacceptable, even as a call for liberation or decolonization. It was even difficult for some of them to say it, even quoting text. And, in what appears to be a moment where a white woman who probably says "N-word" rather than "nigger" in her everyday life feels completely entitled to print the word on a sign protesting violence against "women," demonstrates that indeed, it is not. If you can't say it, if the words physically can't come out of your mouth, like some of my students, how are you going to use it as an organizing tool? Which brings me to the question of "slut" being used in a similar way--embracing the cheap slut, the whore, as it's been defined by men may not be the path to liberation. It may be, but I'm not convinced. Not when the intersections of racism, classism, sexism, and heterosexism continue to be overlooked in feminist spaces. And isn't that what we're in this for? Liberation. Freedom. An end to violence against women simply because we are women. As Blackwomen's Blueprint's letter states,

"For us the trivialization of rape and the absence of justice are viciously intertwined with narratives of sexual surveillance, legal access and availability to our personhood. It is tied to institutionalized ideology about our bodies as sexualized objects of property, as spectacles of sexuality and deviant sexual desire. It is tied to notions about our clothed or unclothed bodies as unable to be raped whether on the auction block, in the fields or on living room television screens."

Speak.

I don't think the intent of the organizers of Slutwalk has ever been to trivialize rape, I firmly believe that. Nonetheless, intent is of dire importance at this time. Or the ignorance of the real differences and experience of "womanhood," and the intersections of race, class, gender, sex, sexuality and violence that structure the lives of women of color will continue to be a dividing line in feminist movement.

I am hopeful that we will keep these conversations, these critiques, open.

On Black People and Homophobia, Part II: The Game

2011-09-16T00:18:00.000-07:00

With everything going on this week--the anniversaries, the debates, the new acts, statistics on poverty--two news reports stood out to me: one on Black LGBTQ youth and another on the rapper The Game's comments on coming out in hip-hop.

First, Danielle Moodie Mills' article on LGBTQ youth confirmed what many of us know: the combination of racism and heterosexism/homophobia deeply structures the lives of Black youth, particularly at school. The recent beating death of Marcellus Richard Andrews and a jury/defense team citing "gay panic" as the reason for the murder of Lawrence King, demonstrate that things are not getting any better for queer youth of color. And, it looks like they are only getting worse. Having worked with, mentored, and been friends with teenagers and young adults of color who are LGBTQ, I've witnessed how hard their daily lives are, even as the visibility of LGBTQ people explodes. Many of the youth that I worked with were/are harrassed daily at school by their friends and by their families at home. And while much attention was put on how much better things will get for bullied LGBTQ youth who want to kill themselves, Black (of color, poor, homeless) youth are often left out of this hopeful frame, left on their own to find other spaces to be. So, like many of us, they turn to other sites, like hip hop, to belong/hide out/carve out a space for us.

So, I find it difficult to let the comments of rapper The Game on coming out in hip-hop slide in light of the state of things for queer Black youth. In a recent interview on VLAD TV, the Game was asked about homophobia and hip-hop. Basically, he had this to say:

"Be gay, you can do that. Game don't have a problem with gay people. Game has a problem with people that are pretending not to be gay and are gay... because the number one issue with that is that you could be fooling somebody and you could give them AIDS and they can die... so that in the closet sh** is real scary. So we've got to get into the real seriousness of it and it's just not fair to other people. Then that sh** spreads because that girl that you might be fooling might leave you and go find another dude who ain't gay and give him the disease. And he goes and cheats on her, so it's an ongoing thing."

In the beginning it seems like it's going to go one way, you know, "If that's you, do you. I got no problem with that."

Aw, thanks Game. ;)

But then in the next breath he spits out the same stereotypes that have "plagued" Black gay men (before) since AIDS first gained national attention. Reducing Black gay men to sexual acts, nothing more. Not seeing the irony that this is how all Black men are perceived: as sexual predators. Over sexed. Diseased. Liars. Cheaters. Dogs. Punks. Faggots. Pussies. Guilty until proven otherwise. And his concern really focuses only on men (gay men and heterosexual women become the transmitters). Basically, "you're gay, closeted, sleeping with women, sleeping with men, infecting women who then go and infect other men who ain't even gay." In other words, it's ok if gay men (and straight women) have AIDS and die, as long as they keep it the f*ck away from us. And with recent statistics on young Black gay men, HIV, bullying, and murder, this level of disregard and disrespect is targeted at an ever younger group.

And this is unacceptable.

It's unacceptable to disregard the lives of Black people at any age, but at this moment, Black youth are being particularly disregarded and it. has. to. stop. Don't act like you got love and respect for folks and then in the same breath let us know who you think we really are and what we're worth. I have never been a "fan" of the game, but I have been and continue to be a lover of hip-hop. It's one place where I found a place as a teenager and, later on, as a queer Black girl. And we have to do better so that it is better now for Black queer youth. The sh*t is dire, there's no other way to speak about it. So, my people, my fellow lovers of hip-hop, this is what you need to speak on. This is what we need from you as straight allies, as adult allies to young Black and brown queer youth. Anytime you hear this type of bullsh--, speak up. I don't care if it doesn't sound "that bad" or if it's from a marginal rapper whose album is about to drop. Especially when it's coded in this, "it's ok but..." That's worse.

And it's not acceptance, it's (social) death. And your silence is killing us.

On Black People and Homophobia: for Cedric

2011-08-15T07:33:00.000-07:00

There are plenty of other things I should be doing right now: finishing a book review which has already been extended, preparing for classes that start in a week, finishing another post I've been working on on gentrification, starting and finishing two other book proposal/chapter reviews that are due, and the list goes on and on. But, I just had to stop for a moment and briefly reflect on a recent trip home I made with my partner/girlfriend--we had a wedding ceremony so I'm trying to say partner now, but I really love saying girlfriend, something about it.

Anyway, we made a long, three week road trip from California to the Midwest to visit with and, in some cases, meet for the first time family and friends. It was a sweet trip: we saw lots of beautiful things, like the Badlands and Black Hills in South Dakota, canyons upon canyons in Southern Utah, and just the regular, lush greenery of Michigan and Missouri, where we're from. The road makes us both happy.

And, it's always a bit of hard trip to make, for both of us. We both love our families so much and, as two queer women, often leave a lot of things out about our lives when we go home. Literally, there were points in the trip where it was hard for us to even reach each other, we were so checked out. It's something we've practiced for quite a while, for various reasons. Some of it is based on people not always asking about the specifics. Remembering to ask about the boys in our lives (son and godson) that we see at least once, if not twice a week. Nor would they ever remember or think to ask what it's like to suspend holding hands with your partner in public, something we do everyday at home. Not to mention never getting into a serious debate about gay marriage and whether or not that is something we're interested in. And, in many ways, that's fine. I understand, sometimes people don't know how to ask. And, quite frankly, there is so little that I share about my life that I think it may just be difficult to talk to me,"Ani" (my childhood nickname), and/or I'm not there enough (once or twice a year) for those kinds of conversations to be developed. Plus, there is a nice big helping of internalized homophobia on both of our parts that structure these trips home.

So it was within this setting, this history, that Joan and I made the trip from her parent's house in Michigan to mine in Missouri, where she was going to meet my extended family--my father's side--for the first time. Just to give you a little history and more context for how I share, I took her home last summer for the first time, where she met my grandmother (Dad's mom) and my mom's side of the family, many of her seven brothers and sisters and their children. Also, for the purposes of history/reminder, my mother is white and my father is Black. And, this is only the second time in my adult relationship history that I've ever brought anyone home. I dated my white, college ex-boyfriend (who Joan also met on this trip), home twice in the 6 1/2 years that we dated. And we lived three hours away from my hometown. So, the fact that I've traveled over 1600 miles and have brought Joan home twice in 3 1/2 years is, like, a really big deal. Plus, you know, I'm 40 so I'm kinda grown, which means I should be doing this kind of thing anyway...

Still, I was nervous to take her home. How are people going to feel about her? How are my aunts (my dad has six siblings) going to respond to her? To us? What about my male cousins? All people I see every year, but have not mentioned her, the woman I love so much, directly once. Now, if asked, I wouldn't lie, but I was never asked, so...But I couldn't keep up my charade any longer, my grandmother was invited and my dad came out for our ceremony in May, so I had to come clean. My dad picked us up and we headed over. I brought my mom along who is still close with my dad and his siblings/my grandmother, just in case Joan didn't have anyone to talk to. That was my plan.

We walked in and everyone was there, and I mean everyone, my four aunts, an uncle, my cousin and his wife, my grandmother, my other cousin and his girlfriend. I was greeted, but almost immediately pushed aside so that one by one everyone came up, introduced themselves to her (I'm aunt______), hugged her, and welcomed her to the family. No joke. Some even said the words, welcome to the family.

I was taken aback.

Not by the sweetness of my family: they are some of the most incredibly sweet, laid back, witty, funny, sarcastic, sh*t talking, and sincere people I know. They are my people. No, in the moment, I was taken aback by how they welcomed her, us, my life that I never talk about, into the family. Almost immediately, my aunt began correcting Joan when she said, "I don't want to sit in your uncle's chair." "That's your uncle, Joan." It was great and, once I got over my fear, nothing short of what I would expect from my people. Since we've been home, three of them have become her "friends" on Facebook.

But that's not the way we understand the relationship between the Black and LGBTQ communities. The overall assumption is that the Black community is homophobic (at the same time that the same sex marriage movement equates this struggle with the Black civil rights movement). The Black community was blamed for Proposition 8 's failure in California, anti-gay leaders exist and are well publicized, and there is an ongoing discussion of homophobia in hip-hop. Often, it looks like straight Black folks are more homophobic than any other group, especially white people. But, that has rarely been my experience. Inquisitive? Yes. Inappropriate questions at times? Of course. A "girl you nasty," once or twice? Sure. But I don't think that constitutes a more homophobic community, which is what I take issue with. The assumption that Black people are the culprit in the ongoing fight against homophobia and gay oppression. And, I don't write this to deny other Black folks' experience, but rather, to put out there a time when this was not the case. I think we need to highlight these experiences more often to remember and think about the Black community as a community, who looks out for, loves, and trusts one another. It doesn't negate the Eddie Longs or Tracy Morgans, but is intended to open up and broaden the conversation a bit more. I am eager to engage in them.

Peace, family.

Bitches Come and Go, But Friends are For Real

2011-06-07T23:49:00.000-07:00

Yes, ladies and ladies, these were the words from our favorite "real" LA lesbian, Whitney (no last name, just Whitney, along with Sara, Romi, Claire, Sajdah, and Francine)--bitches come and go...

Safe to say, there are several things that bother me about this show:

1) it is painful to watch, for a number of reasons which I will detail later, but I really feel like I need a shower. No joke, I feel kind of gross. And my stomach hurts.

2) white women with dreadlocks. This may be a tired critique, but come on, has this ever really been addressed? When did it start being ok for white people to just have 'locks? It's not just a hairstyle, or lack of one, people.

3) BOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGG. I mean, come on, what did the editors have to work with, because reality tv shows are known for the lack of substance, stereotypes, and nothing close to real life, but this...was it just sorting through drunken footage and sex to splice something together? And the dialogue, someone (Whitney) on the show actually said, "you get under my soul, it's like leprosy," and "we have a magnetism to one another." Um.

4) Ilene Chaiken. She confuses me.

However, what I find really disturbing is the way that lesbians, bisexuals, butch women, femmes, Asian women, Black women (yes, they have amped up the diversity they say, but since when has Puerto Rican--which two of the cast were last season--not been "diverse"), all of us, and anyone who associates with us, are being portrayed.

Let's cut to the chase. Two things that happened on the season opener was full frontal nudity (and a close up) while one of the cast members, Romi, was getting in the shower. A close up. Like really close. This is the same Romi who had strap-on sex with Whitney last season. Porn, I'm just gonna say it. Porn. And, we get to see Whitney again have pretty explicit sex with her on again, off again girlfriend or something, Sara, who she has oral sex with near the end of the episode (they then switch to kids playing in the park, I'm not joking, brilliant editing, and the other lesbian couple trying to have a baby). And, I'm not talking about camera pans away as she makes her way down Sara's torso, I'm talking full on, you're basically sitting on the bed with them as Sara grunts and says oh baby. My stomach is turning again. Now, you might ask, "Why are you watching this?" "How come you're being such a prude?" "Do you not like lesbian sex?" Well, this is my first and last time watching Season 2. There was very, very little to keep my attention and I am a sucker for television, mindless television, for true. But this, I had no emotion about: I didn't get angry, I wasn't invested, I didn't care. Not one bit. Not about the mullets, or the drinking, or the unfortunate grammar...I basically got through the 55 minutes or so because I've been wanting to blog about it after reading another hilarious post about it on afterellen (that's right, I read mainstream lesbian blogs). And, no I'm not a prude. Lesbian sex is cool :), I just don't want to watch real women doing it in front of a camera as if they are in the room by themselves. Not to mention doing it in "I want to be famous so badly I'll do anything" Los Angeles. Like, insert dialogue that the producers tell me to say, like "I wish we'd packed the strap-on, honey" (I'm not making this up). That kind of desperation, while rampant on reality television, slices a little more when it's my people.

Look, I'm not separating myself out from these women. I like the ladies--well, one lady, only one lady--and I love, love, love lesbians. But, I'm not feeling the exploipresentation that's happening here. I don't care if it's easily written off, it's still a representation, one that's out there, being sold/marketed to an audience. And people are responding to it, check out the facebook pages and blog comments on Showtime's website. I sat and watched it for an hour and, though I feel dirty, am sitting here, commenting about it before I go to bed. And, I may not have if it wasn't for the last line of the previews for next week--the tag line, the one that may now appear at the end of each episode: "bitches come and go, but friends are for real." What does that mean? And, when, when did it become okay for lesbians to refer to other women as bitches and hoes (thanks Kreayshawn)? I know breakups happen and people may become bitter every once and a while, speaking from experience. But, this ongoing portrayal, which was also present in the show, that lesbians are some jacked up group of backstabbing, sex-hungry, emotionally unstable, desperate, dumb, and physically abusive women is more than problematic to me. **See also, Rainbow Noise, hip-hop's great gay hope, whose members boast "I beat the pussy up, call me Dyke Turner." Creative? Possibly, in some world where it's okay to reference the violent beatings that Tina Turner endured from Ike Turner in the name of lyrical flow, with no critique or concern for another woman, let alone another Black woman.

But, I fear that is the world that we live in, even as I revel in my queer, feminist, women of color communities. And, the more than occasional brushup against this kind of realness makes me long for the days of Joan Armatrading--who is the same age as my mom and, consequently, still singing--and lyrics like:

Now I got all/The friends that I want/I may need more/But I shall just stick to those/That I have got/With friends I still feel/So insecure/Little darling I believe you could/Help me a lot/Just take my hand/And lead me where you will/No conversation/No wave goodnight/Just make love/With affection...With a lover /I could really dance/I could really move

Lover, whoo hoo. Sing me another love song!

Well, I wouldn't say I long for Joan Armatrading, sometimes she puts me to sleep. And, I don't actually own any of her music, though I dig her now and then because she's, you know, subtle. She emphasizes the friendships, the love, the enjoyment of women because we are women. And, though I may sound like it, I'm not an ageist. This is not a "I can't connect to this generation" post. I've written critiques about "older" generations of lesbians before and the word lesbian itself as overriding my experience as a queer/hip hop/feminist. But, this feels different. This is disregard, not just for women, but for women who love and prioritize other women. And that's me you're representin'. And, for lack of a better comeback, I'm not your bitch. And while that's really a lame comeback, neither are you.

Be My Husband, I'll Be Your Wife : On Queer Marriage

2011-05-15T22:56:00.000-07:00

Last week, Joan and I jumped the broom (see photo)! And no, I'm not posting this on my honeymoon, but I am still overflowing with love, true love, which is why I have to write this post. After months and months of planning and recruiting friends and family to help us, we had a fabulous wedding ceremony and reception (I mean really, look at the picture, the color palette alone is pretty awesome)! Seriously, it was really, really beautiful: our family was there in all kinds of ways--biological/families of origin, our friends who can only really be called family, and our larger community of folks from work, organizing, grad school, etc. All of these folks came together to celebrate and hold us as a couple. It was really amazing and one of the most awesome things I've ever done. Truly, as our friend Juana says, "it was a good day for queer love." It was, which is why I write this post.

I think that every queer person should have a wedding or some kind of ceremony to celebrate queer love. It's a powerful thing. And I don't mean in the "we should have the same rights to wed as everyone else," kind of wedding, as I've said before, I don't think that LGBTQ folks should organize around same sex marriage as a community or as a movement. There are so many other ways that LGBTQ people are targeted that are, arguably more important, than pressuring the state to recognize our love through an institution that was intitally set up to exchange women as property, a site where women continue to be disrespected and undervalued, and where many people, including LGBTQ folks, but also single mothers, those who receive welfare, and undocumented people, are denied certain benefits from state and federal governments.

But that's not what I'm talking about. State recognition is not my concern.

Now, it may seem like I'm trying to have it both ways: saying you should have a wedding and being against same sex marriage all at once. And, it's fine if some readers walk away with that thought. But, I think that queer couples should stand up in front of the people they love and care about, as we have been doing for years, and declare your love for another person--or three or four friends--whatever suits you. But, set up an event where you stand up and declare your love and commitment for your girlfriend, your people, and your community. Doing that, for me, was transformative. See, I've never been a person who has believed in marriage or spending lots of money on a day to tell others how much I love the person I'm in a relationship with. There has always been something that has felt temporary, something I wasn't sure about. Perhaps it's because my parents were divorced before I turned one, as quick psychology might suggest. Perhaps. But, I have also always known that there were much more interesting things to do than hang out with only one person, commit to that one person and no one else, raise children with that one person, and pick up and move around the country with one person if work demands it, without question. That's what marriage looks like to me. That seems to be what people do. But, there is something way more interesting and queer than holing up with one other person for eternity, like celebrating queer love with your community.

Joan and I were each clear that we wanted to do this with one another, commit to each other and build a relationship with one another. But, by having this ceremony, we invited others to stand up with us. Some literally in the ceremony, others called up later to take responsibility for making sure that things go well, to really be there for us, as we pledge to do for our peoples. That was powerful. Just as powerful as looking into Joan's eyes and telling her all the ways that I love her and have found a home with her and reiterating that this home was stable here, because of the women we are, but also the community that we come with, that surrounds us. As our dear friend Marcia, one of two officiants in the ceremony, said about the Redwood trees that encircled the grove we were in, "these are Sequoia Sempervirens, the everlasting tree. We're here to make a ring around these two amazing women. To hold them and support them like these trees around us."And that was our intention. And that's how it turned out: from those in the ceremony like Maylei, Holly, Cedric, Tom, Diane, Marcia, Laura, Nancy, Sommers, and Simon. To those who smudged people on their way in (Darren and Stacy), made fliers to the reception (Skeeter and Sauntoy), picked up food (Ray and Matthew), arranged the flowers (Cheri), set up and organized people for our space (Jaime), deejayed (John) toasted and roasted us at the reception (Anna, Gayle, Rider, Legs and Andrew), tied ribbons on mason jars (parents), and helped us get our groove on on the dance floor. It was a queer event that's ongoing. While that day was pretty magnificent, it is, in effect, an awesome reminder of the community that surrounds us and that is everlasting. That's something worth remembering. That we have a community that we want to be in and be around, one that we will always be connected to and are firmly grounded in.

Those few hours shifted my perspective about queer love and marriage. Naming and recognizing our community, showing our people to one another and reminding them of what they mean to us, makes this already sweet, sweet love between me and Joan, even sweeter. Our wedding wasn't just about us in the two people sense, but about us as a community, as people that love and stand up for one another. That's the love that I want recognized and, as Nina Simone sings, that's the love I will "love and honor the rest of my life."

(photo by Hanh Nguyen)

Black Celebration

2011-05-02T18:50:00.000-07:00

I apologize off the bat for the Depeche Mode reference, but the song has been in my head for the last 22 hours as I try to comprehend the events of the last week. And, by the time I finish this post, it may have a dual meaning. Anyway, first off, President Obama reveals his long form birth certificate, then ridicules Donald Trump and the media (as well as his own actions) several days later at the White House Correspondent's dinner, and then makes a special announcement about the murder of Osama bin Laden by U.S. Navy Seals the next day. That's a big, WTF just happened, I'd say, wouldn't you? And, as I write, I think he just finished his interview on Oprah. Damn, that's quite a week.

On the one hand, it's difficult to describe the feeling of watching the most powerful man in the nation, some say in the world, and the only African American to be elected president having to, effectively, show his papers. That doesn't bode well for existing (unconstitutional and unethical) laws in several states that seek to monitor brown bodies. And, the fact that he did it, is worse. Well, arguably, given that he was simultaneously planning an attack on bin Laden, maybe not? Dude. But, that's a little bit like President Obama, isn't it? "Okay, I'll concede on the budget and let you take away everything I campaigned for and everything that ensures the health and well-being of people in the U.S." and then, BAM! (as Alexis Mateo says), DADT is repealed. I know it didn't quite happen like that and I don't care two cents about DADT and it's nothing compared to losing Head Start, Pell Grants, or not having universal health care, but he does tend to work that way. "Oh, you want me to show my papers? Sure thing, and by the way, here's bin Laden's death certificate. BAM!" Work it out. I'm doing what the Bushes wouldn't do. Holla.

But, I can't really say that I'm jazzed about it. I made some comments on twitter last night and I've been following other blogposts about it and, of course, Facebook and I just don't feel any different. I don't feel any better now that Osama bin Laden is dead. I don't feel like it pays for the death of hundreds of thousands in the U.S., Iraq, and Afghanistan since 9/11/01. And I don't think it makes Barack Obama a stronger president. It just adds to the death. Look, I know he did terrible, terrible things and admitted to the attacks on the world trade center, but it doesn't change the fact that thousands upon thousands are dead. And, this does nothing to bring any of those precious people that died in the towers, on planes, or in Iraq, back. Not to mention the ongoing assault on transwomen, Black women, poor people, prisoners, workers, and immigrants, just to name a few. Yeah, lots of things happened last week (and I do know that the link for Black women and transwomen is the same above, and while I abhor the actions of the two young women, who were Black, Maureen Dowd--whose piece is problematic at best--referred to them as 'the savage pair,' which is another post).

More importantly, like others, I find it doubly upsetting that people were dancing in the streets after news broke of bin Laden's death. The mostly (or is it safe to say all?) white crowd walking arm in arm as republicans and democrats and chanting "USA." Sorry, but I'm a queer Black woman in this land of the free, so these kinds of gatherings scare me more than retaliation attacks, even if they are cheering for a Black man (I mean seriously, that guy in the picture is hanging from a tree in a suit). Really, just a few days ago, I'm sure there were people standing outside saying "Obama" and "USA" in the same sentence, but demanding proof of citizenship. This is a strange, fickle country we live in. And, I don't trust "the optimistic eyes" in this moment of false hope, frenzied celebration, and victorious death. Less than a hundred years ago in this country, this kind of public gathering, this kind of chanting and celebration connected to a Black man and death would have had an entirely different meaning.

So, I can't celebrate with you all. The temporality between these two (more, really) realities is in my veins, so I won't celebrate. Unless, in the words of a 1980s new wave band, it's "a black celebration to celebrate the fact that we've seen the back of another black day."

Black Men Loving Black Men is a Revolutionary Act (a response to the Mister Cee Story)

2011-04-22T09:17:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to gather my thoughts on Mister Cee, Biggie's producer and DJ who was recently "caught" with Brooklyn/Pink Lady a self proclaimed drag queen, but media proclaimed "tranny," "transsexual," and "prostitute." First, I have to say, I don't care that much about Mister Cee's sexual identity or his sexual practices. And, I wouldn't be surprised if this isn't the first time he's had sexual relations with a man, like many others in hip-hop, who may or may not identify themselves as LGBTQ. And personally, I am not invested in any performer in hip-hop declaring their sexual identity, gay or straight, as I don't see coming out as a path to liberation.

But, I am disturbed by the comments in just about every article where folks call Mister Cee a "faggot" who "got his dick sucked by a 'he/she.'" And it's not that I'm surprised that these are the comments, I know what homophobia and hatred looks like. Feels like. Like this:

What he does to get off is his business. Period. However, I do have a problem with "downlow bros" who are married contributing to the high % of HIV within the African-American community. I don't give a fck who you are, if you on the DL and having unprotected sex with your woman, YOU ARE DESTROYING OUR COMMUNITY! In fact, if you on the DL, you a fckn coward, and we don't need you. Stand up and be who the fck you wanna be, not what others want you to be. If he were real, he's just say, yea, I did it. What?! Now, let me go deal with my wife in private. It's time for her to make a choice. That's right... give ppl the choice of dealing with who the fck you are!

He is lying ( Mr.Cee) they have the police report on the internet. He is GAY!!!!!! Nasty fool

Shut up 50 [who came out in support of Mister Cee]. Bashing the gays when your mom was well known to be bisexual.

[And, in response to Brooklyn's "confession" tape]

I THINK THAT IT SUCKED THAT FAGGOTS DICK FOR MONEY AND THAT FUNKMASTERFLEX IS A QUEER TOO... BACKING UP HIS HOMIES QUEER WAYS...

And while it may not be surprising (nor is the violence directed at sistahs who speak up), as much as I may say that to myself, it does evoke a pain in me as a Black woman, a queer woman, who aims to build relationships with my straight and male allies. And while this homophobia is all too familiar, it represents a larger hatred and sense of loss in the Black community and signals a need, the need to crush the internalized and external racism and hatred that we, as Black people, continue to struggle with and fight against--especially as it is connected to our bodies, our sexuality (in whatever form), our sexual practices, and our overall love for one another.

I was reminded of another loss this week after showing Tongues Untied in my LGBTQ Cultures class yesterday. None of the undergraduate students, a good number of whom are queer identified and who have cut their queer teeth in the San Francisco Bay Area, had heard of Marlon Riggs and none of them had seen the film. That surprises me and rips me apart at the core in ways that the fearful, hate filled and homophobic rants directed at Mister Cee (and from Cee himself) never will. I understand, to some extent. I hadn't heard of Marlon Riggs until I was in college, but I was in college in 1989-1993, waiting, hopeful that this living, gay, black filmmaker was going to continue to change my life for many years to come. I got a taste of that hopefulness while he was alive, even as he was dying. And while his death was heartbreaking, it left me hopeful about all of us that he left a transformative mark on.

Brother to brother brother to brother brother to brother brother to brother brother to brother brother to brother brother to brother.

Now we think / as we fuck / this nut / might kill us

Black men loving black men is the revolutionary act

That kind of intervention. That kind of fearlessness. That's what allowed me to not only "come out," but to feel safe. It wasn't aligning myself up with some mythic LGBT community, it was about Black folks--Audre Lorde, Pat Parker, Essex Hemphill, Me'Shell Ndegeocello, Cheryl Dunye, Barbara Smith, Jewelle Gomez, Cheryl Clarke, June Jordan, Alvin Ailey, Willi Ninja, Willi Smith, Sylvester and Jermaine Stewart--who, like Riggs made me feel at home. Feel like this was mine. Know that I could fight and have my people. His fierce voice in the face of racism, of AIDS and his resolve to keep loving Black men, desiring Black men in the face of society's hatred, denial, and disregard for Black men (and women). And it's the heartbreak, loss, and fear that that history, his life, is being forgotten. Wiped from our collective queer consciousness, similar to the way the collective structures ignored AIDS as it took all of the men listed above from our communities. I have been reminded these last few weeks of what motivated me, of what I fight for. Not the self-hating, racism and homophobia that exists in the dominant culture (and yes, Black and queer communities), but for love and for the love of my people. Like a real, aching love.

So thank you, Marlon Riggs. Thank you for living and loving Black people.

Forever yours,
Andreana

Women Who Rock, Part II

2011-03-04T11:02:00.000-08:00

Okay, so this is the entry I immediately wanted to write when I returned last week from the Women Who Rock Conference, organized by Michelle Habell-Pallan, Sonnet Retman, and Mako Fitts. Although I felt it necessary to write on an everyday occurrence, you should know that the workshop that we participated in with graduate students, and being with the other women at the conference has sustained me since. As I went back to my predominantly white (and queer) space at SFSU, which I value, I was distinctly aware of a lack of women/feminists of color in my department, and the few on campus, that do the kind of work that those of us at the conference do--incorporating popular culture, music in particular, into our academic work, and recognizing the intersections of this work with our lives and love of music, activism, and community. Remembering the passion of women like Daphne Brooks, Sherrie Tucker, and Tiffany Lopez has kept me afloat, in places where it feels like I may sink under the weight of it all. I want to remember to cultivate that here.

The title itself, Women Who Rock, has a double meaning for me in this sense, as it was a conference about women in music and it included women that I admire, respect, and draw immense inspiration from. A few things that stood out to me about the conference, like the conference was organized by women of color and white women in collaboration, and there was significant representation of women of color who were invited scholars and community organizers. This may be a misnomer for some: something called women who rock (or women in rock, for that matter) and the main discussants and participants are women of color. That, in itself, rocks. I love the work that we did there as women of color and white women, taking authority and ownership over what continues to be a male dominated space, in practice and in the imaginary. And it's something that reminds me to focus more directly and take seriously my relationship to, writing on, teaching of, and love of music. I regularly teach classes on hip-hop, music, and popular culture and have just finished an article on Michael Jackson, so the experience and authority is there most of the time, but I feel like I shy away from the ownership of music and my commitment to it.

One important reminder that weekend was that, as part of the conference, organizers interviewed participants as part of an oral history project. During that interview, I was asked about my relationship to music. And it was wonderful. At one point I was asked if my parent's class background or work had anything to do with my relationship to music, which I hadn't thought about, from that perspective--and may take up an entire, other blogpost. I am a Black girl who was raised on music and feels an intimate connection to it. Music got me through, from the beginning, it seems. Briefly though, yes, their work/class background deeply influenced my relationship. In one respect, in that my mother worked two jobs and I was at home a lot, waiting, in front of one of the stereo speakers in our living room, letting the music drown into my pressed up against it ears. Two artists come to mind as I reflect on that question: Sheila E. and Stevie Nicks. Maybe it's because I was driving this morning and "Gypsy" by Fleetwood Mac came on the radio and, even though it's not one of my favorites, I immediately sang every word. And then later, I was taking a walk, trying to complete this blog, and "The Glamorous Life" came on shuffle. Again, I mouthed every word, beginning with the opening line, "She wears a long fur coat of mink, even in the summertime." It just came to me, like I've been singing it everyday. And for me, those words were it, I was hooked from the moment my thirteen year old ears heard the song. It was similar to my resonance with Stevie Nicks' voice, as Fleetwood Mac's music was one in our house a lot. And these two women, their lyrics, their voice, their stance at times, mark that moment for me. They comfort me in a way in that they reminded me of home and being working class (really, working poor), at the same time that they let me know that I could get out. Nicks was the comfort and E(scovedo) was the signal that there was more. And while I had a sense even then that each had a little more male influence, whether Buckingham or Nelson, than I wanted, they were still fierce in the way that I wanted to be. I felt like I could be them if I wanted to, or at least take words like "she saw him standing in the section marked, 'if you have to ask, you can't afford it, lingerie'" and do something. Even if they were Prince's words, Sheila E. made it her own. And even if music, and the writing and commentary on music continues to be a male dominated field in and out of academia, I can still make it my own, and that's what the conference meant for me.

Even though music is central to all of the work that I do, the intersection of my personal life, the visceral feeling of what music means to and does to me, hasn't been as clear to me in a long, long time. At the conference, I was reminded of the power of radical (lesbian) feminist critique. Something about combining radical feminist of color theory (like This Bridge), with music and to have other radical women of color grooving along with me, was transformative. So thank you again, Mako, Sonnet, Michelle, and Quetzal for providing us with a new space and perspective, new memories, and a new place to work from: definitely, as Maylei's says, a space of "critical love." More to come.

White Women: On the Daily

2011-02-19T07:00:00.000-08:00

It's 5:34 and I am awake. I am overwhelmed with the love of being an academic, an activist, a Black woman, a friend, a girlfriend on vacation with hers, and a deep, deep lover of music. Yes, I have been at the Women Who Rock conference organized by my friend and colleague, Mako Fitts, and new friends and colleagues, Michelle Habell-Pallan, Sonnet Retman, Quetzal Flores and many others. This post (and more I will write later) is because of the deep love for that work and being around other women like Kehaulani Kaunanui, Daphne Brooks, Alice Bag, Maylei Blackwell, Tiffany Lopez, Sherrie Tucker, Leisette Rodriguez, Carrie Lanza, Martha Gonzalez, Lara Davis and men like Garry Perry and George Sanchez, speaking on and embodying our passions about music, feminism, This Bridge Called My Back, community, and our lives.

I have much more to say about all of these things and these wonderful, wonderful people but, truthfully, what woke me up this morning was thinking about my response to something that happened during a panel I was on this afternoon. And, as Maylei reminded me at dinner, it needs to be called out.

A group of us were invited to sit on a panel and provide feedback, "do the work," as Mako said of talking about the feminist community organizing and organizers that came to the conference. We participated in breakout sessions during the day where women and men talked about the incredible work that they do/have been doing for years ranging from: organizing and living as out, queer women in Mexico, publishing a print feminist 'zine in this technological age, creating a safe and empowering place for women and girls via Home Alive, Willie Mae Rock Camp, Ladies First, Fandango, and Riot Grrrl. These were amazing sessions and people, and a group of us sat for two hours on a stage giving our perspective, interweaving our lives and experiences into a discussion about these groups. After we talked (a panel of five women of color and one white ally), Mako opened it up for dialogue. The first person to step up to the mic to offer feedback, ask a question or make a comment, was a white woman, an activist who works for Planned Parenthood, which is currently under attack.

Let me just back up and repeat.

The first person
to step up
to the mic
to offer
feedback
ask
a question
or make
a comment
was
a
white
woman.

I can't tell you how many times this has happened in my academic/activist/personal life. I. can't. tell. you. how. many. times. this. has. happened. I can't tell you, collectively, how many times this has happened to the women on the panel who have been carving out our lives with This Bridge mapped on our bodies in punk music scenes, feminist spaces, and academic circles. I can't tell you how many times this happens in the conferences where I present papers, places I'm asked to give a talk, the classes I teach in my department, in faculty meetings, and when I'm, you know, getting coffee. I really can't, I'm not being facetious. I can't count the times. It's too many. We talked for two hours about various topics related to the woman of color space that was created this weekend by women of color and our allies. White women were mentioned twice during that time, one a story of a personal friend and ally, and the phrase "not a white woman's issue" with regards to reproductive rights. Twice, for less than five minutes. And the first person to step up to the mic was a white woman whose statement began with, "I need you to clarify" and then later, "because I'm a white woman who works hard." Can't. tell. you.
And I can't tell you how much it takes to sit on a panel and not begin to take my earrings and heels off because it feels like the shit is about to go down. And I have never been in a fight in my life. How much it takes to try and frame a response on top of the pushed down anger, betrayal, and distrust of working with, being friends with, and organizing with white women. Try to frame a response that doesn't start out with, "Look, b*tch, Ima 'bout to...."

And I wasn't even asked the question. The need for clarification was not directed at me.

And, I think it needs to be clarified that I don't even know this woman's name, didn't really hear the question, because this happens so many times. I couldn't hear you. The demand to clarify even though you point out that we're the educated ones, not you. Making clear that, effectively "we hold the power in the room," because of our academic status (like the shit was easy), yet your privilege and entitlement to step up to the microphone first, with demands, doesn't enter into your understanding of what's going down. I only remember bits and pieces of your question, your interruptions when measured responses were being given. The compassion that a couple of panelists used when trying to "reach you." The explanations given of what kind of academics we are and what we're trying to do as a group of younger women. The brushing off because mustering up an answer was too exhausting. The clarifications that, actually, what you heard is not what was said. And then the number of women who stood up in the community to say, "look you need to check yourself." That shit takes work. And it takes a little bit from our lives, our spaces each time. Women of color create these spaces so that we can celebrate, see each other, remember, be rejuvenated, dialogue, eat with one another, dance, sing, and tell our stories in various form. Not to clarify for you. And you need to remember that. Print this post out and carry it with you if you need to. But, recognize that I, we, are not here to clarify for you.

Superbowl Sunday

2011-02-07T12:42:00.000-08:00

I love my girlfriend, I think that's pretty clear. We have a lot of fun together and I'm challenged in ways I haven't been before. I wouldn't say that watching the superbowl is necessarily one of those challenges, but, it is something that catches me by surprise as we watch it every eyar. In fact, any football watching catches me by surprise, and we watch quite a bit. Joan is from Michigan, which, apparently by default, means you're a born and bred football fan. University of Michigan, Michigan State, and probably the smaller schools and community colleges have huge football fans. She has sweathsirts and wears baseball hats with the U of M and State logos. Recently, she asked for a Michigan t-shirt for her birthday. The love runs deep.

I can dig it. I never thought I'd be a "superbowl wife" and, let's be clear, I'm not a wife, nor will I ever be in name or practice. But, I did host a little pre-birthday, superbowl party for my woman yesterday and it was super fun. Now, I've been gathering with friends around the superbowl for a while, you know, for the commercials (which, are no doubt incredibly sexist, racist, and homophobic). Last night was, keeping with tradition, a bit pot-luck like and included a homemade birthday cake for my girl. We ate a lot, laughed a lot, and just had a general good time with friends. And, we watched the game. Or, should I say, my girlfriend watched the game. I watched some parts of it but, as she pointed out, I did rewind it to watch the Christina Aguilera flub during the beginning of the second half. That's not really something you do when others are watching the game. Hmmm.

Now, I know what I'm going to say from here on out is stereotypical in all respects, but I really never thought I'd live with a woman who watches football. I mean, I mostly think, "who gives a sh*t about football," really? It's kind of boring, looks really painful, it's a GAME, it's hugely aggressive, and it's just weird to spend 3-4 hours watching. I can't keep up. And the only people I've really been around who can or do care are the men in my family. Every year when I visit for the holidays we spend our time, regardless of the occasion, sitting around the television watching football. It's comforting and I like hanging out with my dad, uncles, and cousins (and aunts sometimes), but I still don't get it. Plenty of women, including my beloved butches, watch and play football. OK, it's not necessarily about gender. And I am, following type, a huge WNBA fan and more and more am getting into local college faves, the Stanford Cardinals and baseball "world" champions, the San Francisco Giants (I'm currently on a quest to find this shirt by the way).

But, the superbowl (and football in general) still feels odd to me. Maybe it's the lingering claim that domestic abuse escalates on this day. Although, really, violence against women in and outside the home happens everyday, not just the first Sunday in February, so...

I'm not sure what to say as I bring this post to an end. But, secretly, I kind of love that Joan watches football and sits in her Michigan State or Detroit Tigers hat and really gets into it. It's kind of hot. Maybe that's the trouble, trying to reconcile what tends to make my eyes roll a little when I see Oakland Raiders flags and other memorabilia on cars or rather, trucks and SUVs, around town, but in the comfort of my house or in the frame of my woman, makes me grin and blow kisses from across the room.

One More Time, Arizona

2011-01-09T08:19:00.000-08:00

Thanks again, P.E.

Live, 2010

and California, Florida, Georgia, Mississippi, Oklahoma, South Carolina, Arkansas, Colorado, Florida, Idaho, Indiana, Kansas, Minnesota, Missouri, Nebraska, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia....We're coming. In solidarity to those there.

"But I've never seen a nig--sorry, slave--that wouldn't lie"

2011-01-06T05:57:00.000-08:00

Oddly, this is my second post this week on Huck Finn. This time, I am writing briefly on the removal of the use of "nigger" from a reissued Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. The title comes from what will soon be history itself, the original text. Much has already been written and said over the past two days about this issue and I agree with Melissa Harris-Perry, Mark Anthony Neal, Michaela Angela Davis, and Elon James White's takes on the removal of the word. I don't think it should be omitted and I'm not surprised that this conversation is happening in the post-civil rights, "post-racial" moment. A moment when people proclaim to be "color-blind" and unable to see race, at the same time that they vote to end affirmative action, cross the street when they see a group of Black youth walking in their path, and when Black politicians no longer want to called upon to "only" discuss race. A time that often leaves me on edge, terrified at times, about what is to come. (It's also a time when white people feel free to come up to you, smiling, happy, exuberant actually, while you're wearing your 'I LOVE Black People' T-shirt and exclaim "ME TOO!" as they walk by you on a hiking trail with your dad outside of San Francisco. True. Story. And, no, I don't think it's better than the alternatives).

Removing the n-word, as folks have come to refer to it, jeopardizes the "teachable moments," or just, teaching, that can happen around the history of slavery, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, and Civil Rights for African Americans in the U.S. Yes, I think it's that dire. Think of the discussions, the opportunities that will be lost because teachers feel uncomfortable talking about them. I know this happens all the time and when I read Huck Finn in my Reagan/Bush era classroom, we didn't have those discussions. But now we're sanctioning that uncomfortable-ness. We're saying it's OK for people to feel uneasy talking about race and racism, so now they don't have to. Avoid it all together. And while, "slave" and "Indian," which replaces Injun, should not let people off the hook, it will put it in an entirely different context. I'm troubled, um scared, about this because these acts move us closer to erasure. For instance, how some folks claim that evidence of a Jewish holocaust is questionable, or that it didn't happen entirely. Or, how we don't talk about the genocide of Indigenous peoples throughout North (and South) America, or when we do, we pretend that that's all over now, no more effects of genocide. And, gay people are just like us. The enslavement of Africans and subsequent history is next on the list, I fear. And while people who say the holocaust never happened may be written off as "cra-cra(zy)," I bet some of them probably just felt bad or were uncomfortable talking about it. I teach classes where students confuse the dates of the Civil Rights Movement and the Civil War (thanks California public education), say 'colored people' instead of people of color, and don't know the destruction of the AIDS epidemic and history of AIDS activism in the "liberal" city they live in. And I'm sure they're not the only ones.

And that makes me (physically) uncomfortable, to the point of being kept up at night or waking up in the middle of it to type this post.

Easy A(frican American storyline/joke)

2011-01-03T05:24:00.000-08:00

So, Joan and I sat down last night to watch a movie on DirectTV. It was a last ditch effort to be leisurely before we both have to go back to work this week. It's been pretty splendid these past two weeks since I finished the book edits and grading--movie watching, house cleaning, lots of friend-seeing/talking, more hanging in pajamas with girlfriend, gift shopping for folks and me--still have an incredible expensive shoe fetish--and delicious food making. Note to self: get things done in a timely manner more often and get more boots on sale.

Anyway, we sat down last night to watch Easy A, the Sony Pictures release about a white teenage girl who makes up a story about having sex for the first time to her friend and then ends up using similar said stories to "help" guys in her school seem cool. She pays the "ultimate" price in this almost Disney movie by having her good, virginal name and reputation smeared for the next couple of weeks. It had a pretty good cast of folks that I like, namely Patricia Clarkson and Stanley Tucci (I don't know this Emma Stone person, and only know Penn Badgely--what a made up name--from my one episode of Gossip Girl a few years ago). Overall, I laughed quite a few times at the main character, Olive's, sense of humor, especially the 1980s movie references. And, I was struck by two things: 1) Olive's adopted Black younger brother who has maybe ten lines and is mostly shown in the kitchen, and 2) references to Huck Finn and his running away with a "big hunk of a Black man," Jim. Those two things came out of nowhere (there was also a moment when Olive imitated a "Mexican" accent by saying holmes and ese). Now, it's not that I'm surprised that racism shows up in films entirely about white people, or that it's inserted into my nightly television watching--Joan is Native American, so there is at least a once a week random viewing where someone is wearing a full headress or says "off the res." I get it, and I shouldn't be surprised, but I was. I still haven't wrapped my head around it because the characters felt so disparate and random, but right now, I can only point to some lazy writing about white racism/fascination with Blackness. I mean, really, you're just going to insert a Black, younger brother and pretend that's it no big deal in Ojai, CA where the population of African Americans is less than 1%? And then, you're going to make the already told joke about a sexual relationship between Huck and Jim, updating the story with the one gay male character running off with an older, Black man? (No joke, the end of the movie montage includes the two of them shirtless on a bed watching Huck Finn on TV, "don't worry Huck, I like to steer" says Jim on the television and then the two roll over). *blood boil*

This is something I haven't yet mastered when trying to talk to students about racism and how it works in this moment. But, this muddled white boy humor (yeah, this was written by a guy) that has run amok in the past few years makes it seem like racism is not racism and, really, "kinda cool." Like, white people are just quirky, harmless, clueless folks when it comes to race. Hello Judd Apatow and Vince Vaughn. Why not make the ex-girlfriend in the movie South Asian, and the male prostitute dressed in drag, Black? What's the big deal? And, it continues to feel like I've been slapped in the face when I watch these movies. And I like to watch movies, mindless comedies to be exact. But, not only does Hollywood have to include a gay character in just about every film (which Stanely Tucci often plays, a la Devil Wears Prada and Burlesque), but now, just slip in some fantasies about race relations and obsessions about Black male sexuality and you've got a hit film. I mean, Madonna did it. Sandra Bullock did it. It's not a big deal for a white family to adopt a Black child, right? Not only does this minimize the reality of the numbers of Black youth in foster care who never get adopted, but makes it seem like transracial adoption and the raising of Black children is easy peasy. Just stick them in a "good (middle class and white)" environment and voila! racism solved. Make the requisite reference to Black male sexual prowess and voila! kill two birds with one stone, Black and gay.

OK, so maybe I'm making too much of the five minutes that Black characters were shown in this film and relying too much on Hollywood to really address racism and I should have prefaced this by saying that another Sony Picture Classics, Quinceneara was on LOGO this week...but, there is too much overlap between these kinds of jokes and discussions of "post-racial" in politics, education, and immigration. The Dream Act (which wasn't without problems) did not pass, but states are gearing up to push their SB 1070-like laws. And young, Black men who have sex with men continue to be the highest number of new HIV cases. These race relations and the racist approach that popular discourse takes to overshadow and belittle them makes cozy movie watching nights in, more and more difficult.

Ooh La La La: Reflections on Lady T

2010-12-30T20:48:00.000-08:00

It's been 3 days since Teena Marie died. Aside from a brief, very enjoyable, but distracting interlude into watching freestyle videos from the 1980s, I've been thinking about this post.

I like Teena Marie. I like her music, love how she spelled out words in her songs, and I like how she talked about Black music, Black people, and Black culture. She gave respect.

(I also dig her hair in this video from an early Soul Train appearance, but that's another story)

And, while I've been perusing video clips and reading other twitter and blogposts about Teena Marie, I am reminded that there was a moment in my life--a time when Teena Marie was more popular--that I didn't dare speak about my enjoyment of this "Vanilla Charm." In the early 1980s, I listened to rap music, R&B, and funk, just like my peers. Prince (and his protégés) was my favorite but, given my mother's extensive record collection, I also loved sitting in front of the speakers listening to more traditional R&B sounds of Luther Vandross, Anita Baker, Shirley Murdock, Millie Jackson, and Rufus and Chaka Khan.

There wasn't any Teena Marie in our house growing up. And, at the time, I was glad. See, my mother is a blue-eyed, vanilla charm herself. And though we never really talked about it, it seemed that there was a clear reason why Teena Marie wasn't played in our house. She wasn't really the kind of soul sound my mother liked. She liked deep, richer sounds that her and my father used to listen to when they were married. However, it also felt like she didn't listen to Lady T because they were two different kinds of white women, or at least purported to be. I say the last sentence because, when I was growing up, Teena Marie was the kind of white woman that you didn't want to associate with or be. I know there have been discussions online about the Black community's embrace of her, but in small town Missouri in the 1970s and 1980s, she was the white woman who was trying to be Black. And, probably stealing your man at the same time.

My mother could not afford to be that kind of white woman, or associated with that type of woman. She had two Black children to raise and maintained close relationships with my grandmother and aunts. And, she just genuinely wasn't "that kind of white woman." My mother, like Marie, had deep respect for Black people and Black culture. She raised me as a Black, not mixed, girl. I was taught to be proud of being Black and, she would (embarrassingly at times) come to blows with anyone who messed with me as a child.

But, it was tricky trying to negotiate relationships with Black girls in my small town in the shadow of "needing some lovin', stealing-Black-men-white women lovergirls" who wanted to be Black, when my mother was white. And, I shared the same feelings about white girls as a teenager: Why couldn't they date their own men? Why they gotta be all up at our parties dancing with the brothas? Why do they wanna be Black? I must admit, I still have some of those same feelings when I see white women and Black men together. I do a double take walking down the street or at holidays with my family where most of the women are white, the men are Black, and all the children look like me.

These are the conversations, the realities that come back to me as I reflect on Teena Marie's life and role in soul music, of her Black daughter finding her on Sunday morning, and of yet another piece of my youth gone too soon.

So, rest in peace, Lady T. And thank you for the memories. Amore Portuguese.

Revisiting the Down Low

2010-07-27T06:36:00.000-07:00

A good discussion of the down low and the racialized sexualization of Black men by Marc Lamont Hill.

Down Low discourse is a matter of race and public health | TheLoop21.com

A few weeks ago, comedians DL Hughley and Sherri Shepherd came under fire for comments that they made on an episode of The View. While discussing the FDA’s ban on blood donation for gays and bisexual men, the two matter-of-factly mentioned that HIV was prevalent in the Black community because of the “Down Low,” or the sexual practices of bisexual men who identify to their partners (and themselves) as heterosexual. The comments sparked firestorm from gay advocacy and public health organizations, both of which rightly regarded the comments as bigoted and untrue.

My interest is not in criticizing Hughley and Shepherd, whose comments merely echoed the sentiments of many people in the Black community. Rather, my frustration is with the very notion of the Down Low, which rests upon a set of problematic assumptions and dangerous claims that undermine the physical and mental health of the community.

Despite what countless magazines, news outlets, and everyday people have reported as “fact,” there is no evidence that Down Low men are responsible for the spike in the HIV infection rates of African American women. To the contrary, according to the US Centers for Disease Control, high-risk heterosexual sex and injection drug use are actually the leading causes of infection for Black women. In fact, according to experts, incidents of female infection from bisexual male partners are relatively low. While more research needs to be done—particularly studies that deploy more complex methodologies for tracking the sexual practices and identities of bisexual men who don’t identify as such—there is absolutely no scientific basis for blaming HIV infection on DL men.

In addition to being empirically baseless, the current Down Low panic follows a long and deep history of framing Black males as immoral, diseased, and dangerous. Do “DL brothers” really exist? Of course. But they exist among every race and culture throughout history. (For evidence of this, check out the critically acclaimed movie Brokeback Mountain, which tells the story of a secret gay romance between two men in the American west from 1963 to 1983. Interestingly, but not surprisingly, the film was not referred to as a “DL movie.”) Despite this reality, only Black men seem to have their sexual practices policed and framed in pathological terms.

Consider, for example, when J.L. King released his sensationalistic tome “On The Down Low,” news outlets framed his appearance as a PSA for Black women everywhere. Based on King’s questionable personal story and unfounded scientific claims, the media sparked a seemingly endless conversation about “dangerous” Black men whose sexual mendacity was crippling the Black community by spreading HIV/AIDS.

This story stands in sharp contrast to that of former New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevy, who was forced out of office in 2004 after it was revealed that he had a sexual affair with another men. In McGreevey’s case, the same media outlets that feigned outrage at King’s narrative of Black pathology treated the ordeal as an individual act of public truth telling. Although McGreevey’s book also detailed the back-door dealings of numerous closeted politicians and everyday husbands, the media’s focus remained exclusively on McGreevey’s own behavior rather than a signpost of a gay White epidemic. This type of disparate treatment speaks to the ways in which Down Low discourse has as much to do with race as it does public health.

In addition to dehumanizing Black men, the Down Low discourse also frames Black women as helpless victims rather than active agents in their own sexual health. While Black men certainly have a responsibility to be honest with themselves and their partners about their sexual identities and behavior, Black women also have a responsibility to ask tough questions, demand joint HIV testing, and insist on condoms. Obviously, none of this is fullproof, particularly when dealing with a dishonest partner. Still, any public health conversation that does not include these factors is both incomplete and dangerous.

In many ways, the Down Low conversation serves as a red herring that diverts our attention from the real issues related to sexual health in the Black community: homophobia. Until we come to terms with our own problematic relationship to the LGBT commmunity—I’m not saying that homophobia is unique or indigenous to the Black community, only that it exists—sexual secrecy will remain a prominent feature of Black culture life. Also, by framing HIV/AIDS solely as a crisis of Black women, we ignore the fact that gay Black men remain the most vulnerable population for infection. While this shift in focus may allay our sexual anxieties, they undermine productive attempts to stem the tide of infection and death in our community.

Marc Lamont Hill is Associate Professor of Education at Columbia University. He blogs regularly atMarcLamontHill.com. Email Marc at marc@theloop21.com. Follow him on Twitter @MarcLamontHill.

White Pride

2010-06-25T18:01:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot about racism and LGBTQ communities lately. I don't know that I ever stop thinking about this, but I've been thinking about it recently with the release of the documentary Stonewall Uprising and Showtime's The Real L Word, as well as BET's list of Who's Who in the life (really?). I'm also teaching a course on queering popular culture at the NSRC Summer Institute, and, of course, Pride weekend here in the Bay. This also came up on a listserv that I'm on and I was just reading the comments to an article on Advocate.com about Arizona's racist immigration policy.

All that said, I need to speak a little bit about the racism that takes place in the LGBTQ community. And, I don't mean dating preference or even the general white racism where your friends and their friends make ridiculous comments in your presence. I'm talking specifically about representation and the lack of representation of people of color, not just on (cable) television, but in films, on panels, etc. And I know this has been talked about before, perhaps ad nausea, but it's more than just the problems with the lack of representation. It's really about the pain of being underrepresented and, many times, misrepresented. How many more times are we going to see the loud Latina femme who is only interested in sex? Or, how many more documentaries will be made about queer history where Native, Black, Asian, and Latino faces are curiously absent? Were we not there? As a Black queer who moves in these spaces with her colored (and white) friends, I know this is not the case. We're there at the table organizing, just as much as we are deejaying and dancing at the tea parties. We're there on the front lines throwing shoes and punches against homophobes, speaking out on the intersection of oppression, and mentoring younger queer folks. And we're there, working with white allies who agree with us about racism, then talk over us when we disagree on a minor point and continue to talk and talk until they prove their point about what good allies they are and how they're going to push on through to continue to figure out how to be a good ally in spite of cynicism (true story).

So, what gives? How can our erasure and absence persist in these representations, in these moments, in our history? The Real L Word and white Whitney's dreadlocks may not have the same relevance as, say, Bayard Rustin when talking about queer of color history and representation, but it does matter. Representation tells us something about ourselves and tells other people about us too, even if we ignore it, say we don't engage with it, or we laugh it off/away. And, I think it's irresponsible for white queers to continue to be complicit with this telling about who we are. I don't need you to speak for me or even speak on my behalf. I need you to speak on yours, with integrity, reflection, and a commitment to getting the shit right.

So, I'm calling on white queers again to step up, hard. And really give us a reason to celebrate.

If Only This Were Real

2010-06-03T06:31:00.001-07:00

American Terrorist

2010-05-27T17:06:00.000-07:00

This is the problem with writing a blog...I get easily distracted. I'm writing a new post, but in the meantime, I've been thinking about Arizona (and the U.S.) and its racist policies. And, Lupe Fiasco's "American Terrorist" has been running through my head for the past month. His words reference the terrorism of U.S. government policies, "discoveries," genocide and benign neglect. And, our efforts to make "reparations."

Words to remember in this "post-racial" moment. Read on and tell me what you think.

American Terrorist
Lupe Fiasco
Lupe Fiasco's Food and Liquor (2006)

Close your mind
Close your eyes
See with your heart
How do you forgive the murderer of your father?
The ink of a scholar is worth a thousand times more than the blood of a matyr

We came through the storm nooses on our necks
and a smallpox blanket to keep us warm
on a 747 on the Pentagon lawn
Wake up the alarm clock is connected to a bomb
Anthrax lab on a West Virginia farm
Shorty ain't learned to walk already heavily armed
Civilians and little children is especially harmed
Camouflaged Torahs, Bibles and glorious Qur'ans:
The books that take you to heaven and let you meet the Lord there
have become misinterpreted,
Reasons for warfare
We read 'em with blind eyes: I guarantee you there's more there
The rich must be blind because they didn't see the poor there
Need to open up a park, just close 10 schools, we don't need 'em
Can you please call the fire department they're down here marching for freedom
Burn down their TV's, turn their TV's on to teach 'em

The more money that they make, the more money that they make
The better and better they live
Whatever they wanna take, whatever they wanna take
Whatever, whatever it is
The more that you wanna learn, the more that you try to learn
The better and better it gets
American Terrorist

Now the poor Ku Klux man see that we're all brothers,
not 'cause things are the same because we lack the same color that's green, now that's mean
Can't burn his cross 'cause he can't afford the gasoline
Now if a Muslim woman strapped with a bomb on a bus
with the seconds running give you the jitters, just imagine an American-based Christian organization planning to poison water supplies to bring the second-coming quicker, nigga

They ain't living properly
break 'em off a little democracy
Turn their whole culture to a mockery
Give 'em Coca-Cola for their property
Give 'em gum, give 'em guns, get 'em young, give 'em fun
If they ain't giving it up then they ain't getting none
And don't give 'em all naw, man, just give 'em some
Its the paper
Some of these cops must be Al-Qaeda

The more money that they make, the more money that they make

The better and better they live
Whatever they wanna take, whatever they wanna take
Whatever, whatever it is
The more that you wanna learn, the more that you try to learn
The better and better it gets
American Terrorist

It's like
"Don't give the Black man food, give red man liquor"
cause "red man fool, Black man nigga"
Give yellow man tool, make him railroad builder
also give him pan, make him pull gold from river
Give Black man crack, glocks and things,
Give red man craps, slot machines

Now bring it back, bring it back...

By the Time Queers get to Arizona

2010-04-26T10:31:00.000-07:00

Okay, it's been a long time and I've been trying to post for a while. And, I'm furiously typing this up.I can barely contain my anger over Jan Brewer's decision to sign the Senate Bill 1070 into law last week. And while I applaud President Obama for speaking out against the measure and its civil rights implications, I can't help but think about the relationship between Arizona's measure and same sex marriage. And I'm calling on the mainstream gay community to end the movement for "equality" in the form of legalizing gay marriage until this law (and other initiatives like it) is repealed. If you haven't heard about it for some reason, "The law requires police to question people about their immigration status — including asking for identification — if they suspect someone is in the country illegally."

As we know from formal and informal policy and practice in urban and rural communities throughout the US, the people that are targeted, who will be stopped, monitored, questioned and searched are brown. No one else. And I will not stand for it. And this state action, for me, is inextricably linked to state actions regarding same sex marriage. How can we, ethically, as a community ask for state recognition of queer marriage, from any U.S. state, when states like Arizona openly endorse white supremacy? I won't do it. I am tired, as a brown bodied, Black, queer woman of being asked to choose between race and queer status. I will no longer support seeking state recognition to marry my girlfriend while my brown sisters and brothers are legally--LEGALLY--allowed to be questioned about whether or not they belong here. Arizona is Mexico, my friends, let's not forget. And Mexico, like the U.S., is Native land. These questions are mute. And LGBTQ folks need to take a stand against this questioning because we are subject to the same scrutiny, the same questioning.

Marriage will not guarantee us equal rights, or human rights in this country. It hasn't. We will not be protected in other areas because we are legally married. And the small perks that go along with marriage are not enough. We can still be targeted in the workplace, on the street, in our homes, etc.

And I speak on this as a woman who is planning to marry her girlfriend next year. I want to marry Joan Benoit. And I have never wanted to marry anyone, ever. Marriage has never been my thing. Love, yes, most definitely. And I have loved and been committed to partners before, deeply. But, I want to marry Joan. I want to stand up in front of my parents, her parents, our friends/family, anyone who will listen and declare my love and commitment to her. And celebrate that all day, all night, and everyday. And we will.

But I don't need the state's recognition.

Lesbians and gay men have been marrying one another in (and outside of) ceremony for a long time and I have always recognized and taken "pride" in that tradition. And I will follow in those footsteps with my girl. I will commit to her and build a life together because we can. But, I'm not championing same sex marriage laws anymore. Not until brown bodies are recognized as the "American" bodies that we are--Native, Mexican, Black, Cuban, Arab, Filipino, all of us who fall into that category. Because we are all currently suspect until we prove that we belong and are acceptable.

In the words of Public Enemy,

“Yeah, he appear to be fair, the sucker over there. He try to keep it yesteryear. The good old days, the same old ways that kept us dying. Yes you, me, myself and I indeed.”

So stand up queers, and get to Arizona.

(All images from Jesus Barraza and Melanie Cervantes @ dignidadrebelde.com)

Modern Lovers

2008-02-16T16:17:00.000-08:00

My friend Holly (sometimes I think I should rename this blog "my friend holly," as I've mentioned her in several of the posts). Anyway, my friend Holly just gave me the cd The Modern Lovers, Jonathan Richman's fabulous band from the 1970s. With beautiful, beautiful songs like, "Roadrunner," "Girlfriend," and "Hospital," which has such achingly painful lyrics like, "I go to bakeries all day long. There's a lack of sweetness in my life. There is pain inside, you can see it in my eyes." Lines like that really get me, especially because he couples it with, "Now your world it is beautiful. I'll take the subway to your suburb sometime. I'll seek out the things that must have been magic to your little girl mind." Like he feels so broken but he's so hopeful when it comes to love.

Anyway, all of this to say that I love my friend Holly. She's a dear. And, she's pretty, well purtty, really (that's her in the photo). And it makes me so happy to have a friend like her, that likes the same music that I like, has a ridiculous sense of humor, wears really good shoes (is it clear from my posts that I have a bit of a shoe fetish? It should be--here's my latest purchase just in case it isn't), she's fiercely loyal, loves butches, and treats her cats well. It's awesome, I feel so lucky to know her. And I talk about her a lot to my other friends that I feel equally excited about and, at times, in love with. My friends are great, really, and we've each worked hard to be really good, deep friends with one another. And, most of them (save two) are queer and all (save two others) are women. I LOVE THAT! How f*cking great is that?

Still, often, the inevitable question about friends like Holly come up when I'm talking about her to other friends or acquaintances. Questions like, "Well, how come you're not dating?" or, "You guys should just be girlfriends," or, "You should date her, she's pretty." Once or twice I've thought the same, I mean, I did spend Valentine's Day with her. And New Year's. And we drove up and down the coast to LA together. And we send each other texts that say I love you and that I'm so glad that we met. She's great! But, does that mean I have to date her? It is true. I AM so glad that we met. And I do, totally, love her. But, as you know, she's not my not my type. She is. Or her. That's number one. And number two, I love having her as my FRIEND--don't ask me again. I like her cause she actually likes women. It makes me feel so much better about being a woman to have friends like her that have respect, integrity, and love for other women. It makes me a little teary actually. Finding women, or people, that actually LOVE women is pretty challenging in this historical moment (that's my academic writing coming in), even on the isle of Lesbos. Everything on television pits women against one another and usually bends us over in swimsuit-like thongs as they do it. Or, we're told over and over that the only relationships that really matter to women are their partners (mostly men), or their children. Friendships fall by the wayside and we often can't remember that we need them, not as an alternative, but as sustenance. I love my friends for that and for reminding me how much I love women and how I want to treat women that I do call my girlfriend.

But, I want to call my friends my girlfriends too, without the sex (I do enjoy that with the women I do date, I must say. But let's keep those boundaries clear:). I feel the same about my friends Marcia, Jil, and Laura (and Jaime, Nancy, Anna, and Maylei). But do I have to date them? For me, these friendships are love. Real, true, deep love. Maybe even modern love. That's it! We're modern lovers. Like Jonathan Richman. Or Pippin and Merry. In that way, I guess we are girlfriends. Or, as Richman would say, "G-I-R-L-FRE-end. That's a girlfriend, baby. And that's something that I understand."

You Can Hate on Me

2008-02-08T00:21:00.001-08:00

Alright, I just saw Jill Scott in concert for the first time. Tonight, February 7th, 2008. In Oakland. One question: where the f*$k have I been?!? It was so much, so full, from start to finish. I loved it, her, the crowd, and me. And, I needed it. I needed her.

Let me explain.

My dear *husband* and I got there right as she took the stage--it was truly a date, as his husband went home sick--and I (we) was mesmerized from that moment on. She was beautiful, in her stance, posture, the lighting as it glistened over every inch of her body, her shoes.

I really loved the shoes.

And she wasn't playing. She came to do her thing to the absolute fullest, arms stretched wide, hips wider, shaking her whole self to the music. And it filled me up and made me feel so good I have to share it. I sit here as I write and feel good about my body, my skin, everything. A little turned on? Maybe. Well, yeah. But I'm not going to slip into my bedroom by myself just yet, or at all really. It's a different kind of turn on, one that has been missing or hasn't been reached in a minute, minus a bit of pretense.

See, I've been thinking about Black women a lot lately--in my writing, my teaching, my self. And I'm feelin' us. It's love. Everything, everything about us. The way we look, our hair, our lips, our freckles, our brown, hazel, "light" eyes, our breasts, our asses, our eyeliner, our manicured toenails, our legs, our straight perms. All of it. And I'm not talking about the "I'm feelin' us, cause I date women and Black women are fine!" kind of way. That's true, but that's easy. It's a bit harder to actually LOVE us, love me, love that woman I saw in the aisle tonight and made eye contact with. And, I haven't been able to truly express that love because it doesn't feel like there's room to.

Not when people talk to you like they think they are smarter than you. And I'm not talking about colleagues, I'm talking about the woman who serves me coffee. Or students. And she/they might be at times, but why you gotta talk to me like that? Or, when dudes grab your hand as you run for the train just trying to "talk" to you. There is something about this body, my body, Black girl bodies that people think is theirs. Or, at least, is theirs for the taking.

In spite of that, I'm going back to feelin' love. Real love and I'm gonna keep feelin' it. For me and for my girls, my sistas, my peeps. I want to go deeper, all the way with that love, which Jill Scott embodied tonight. As my 'other' friend said, and said it best; Jill Scott is channeling something, something comes through her from a higher place. And it's in me now, coming out and there's no way I can put it back in. And there's more to come. The real thing.

And you can hate on me, hater.

On Being Pretty

2008-01-07T22:17:00.000-08:00

I feel fairly comfortable saying that I am an attractive woman. I have my own style, a nice smile, and freckles. I'm cute. This is something that I have been made keenly aware of since I was a pretty little girl and something that I have consistently tried to avoid precisely because of the amount of attention that pretty little girls receive on a regular basis. My prettiness has changed over the years: as a teenager I was conventionally pretty--long hair, lots of make up, skinny, shy, and dressed appropriately girly. As a young adult, I switched it up a bit, grew some 'locks, wore less make up, dressed in vintage clothing, but still, pretty. When I came out, I pushed the pretty box further and eventually cut my hair really short, wore thick glasses, quit smoking, put on a few pounds, and bought some steel toe boots. Still, I am routinely told that I am pretty.

I get it and I'm okay with it. But, who is a "pretty" dyke supposed to date? I'm single, so I am often talking to my friends about women that I've dated, am interested in, or the women they want to fix me up with. However, I'm also a self-identified femme who is mostly attracted to butches, which can make this conversation a little tricky. Wait, did I say mostly attracted to? I think it's safe to say that I am overwhelmingly, pleasantly, emphatically, happily, enthusiastically, giggly, joyfully, and unabashedly attracted to butches. They are my pleasure, indeed. Now, I know you can be femme identified and be attracted to other femmes, and I have been, but generally I prefer butches. And, I've never gotten hung up on the butch/femme thing, I'm attracted to butches, period. I love them. I especially love that a butch woman dresses, talks, thinks, walks (or swaggers in some cases) exactly the way that she feels expresses who she is. That's something that most of us never, ever do. And I've been reminded by my dear friend Holly to openly appreciate what I love about butches, even random butches on the street...hello butch!

Still, as a pretty girl, I have been told that the women that I choose are not attractive. Yeah, even in those words, by straight people and queer people alike. And, oftentimes, this translates into her not being pretty enough. At the same time, it is also a subtle yet firm critique of my decision to date and love other women. In other words, if I am not dating a "pretty" woman, then what's the point? Now, my straight friends can date the baldest, baggiest jean wearing, sweatiest smelling, poorly put together outfit wearing man ever and never be told that he is "unattractive." That doesn't fit into the conversation once a woman is interested in someone...he's a man, so it doesn't matter (David Beckham aside). If his teeth are brushed, great! Women on the other hand, are always supposed to be attractive and look like a woman and if you're a woman and you can't see that, then there must be something wrong with you. If she's too round in the middle, looks too much like a guy, if her eyebrows are too thick, or she has hair on her chin, then she may not be good enough. And this critique applies to all women--butch, femme, in between, we're all subject to this harsh scrutiny. And I know we all know this, sexism, yes, yes, yes. But, this is something that I foolishly thought I had escaped when I came out and surrounded myself with women--a mistake that others foolishly think queer women escape as well. Still, it's the homophobia that also stings quite a bit in these comments about the women that I date, the ultimate judging of women who choose women. And that's me you're judging and it's not for you to decide.

A Black President?

2008-01-03T22:23:00.001-08:00

Happy New Year! I've been knee deep in grading some good and bad papers, so it's taken me a minute...Just logged on and saw that Barack Obama took Iowa. I don't have much too say and could have waited til I have more, but I think it's worth stating that I'm in a state of shock. What does it mean that we are this close to having a Black president? I'm also a little scared. What does it mean that we are this close to having a Black president? Is it progress? Is he more palatable to folks because of his mixed racial background? Is he going to be killed the closer he gets? Even his tone in his victory speech had the same intonations as Dr. King and other Black leaders, the same cadence. To a mostly white audience, he said Iowans have done what the cynics said we couldn't do. And, 'We are one nation, one people, and our time for change has come...unity over divisiveness.' All good, political words, and it will be interesting to see what exactly they translate into throughout this election year. I'm speechless.

Tila loves Dani

2007-12-04T23:38:00.001-08:00

Well, here it is...my post about A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila! I can't believe that I watch this show number one, but number two, I have to post about it because Dani STILL HAS A SHOT AT LOVE! I can't believe it! Our cute little butch (or futch as she calls herself) may be Tila's girl! I can't wait to find out. Okay, so for those of you who are fortunate enough not to watch this show--really, don't do it, there are all kinds of things wrong with this show: a cute Vietnamese woman (who "emigrated" here from Singapore with her family when she was 1) who has become famous because of her real and staged playboy shots on her myspace page and who alludes frequently to how horrible her childhood is. The shorter story, sans feminist analysis, is that Tila is bisexual and has had 32 love interests; 16 women and 16 men. I know this sounds cliche, but I didn't really notice the guys. However, most of the women were F-E-M-M-E, like super femme and not even queer. If you read the background bios on them (yeah, I did that), most of them just want to "try" being with a woman. Not Dani. She's gay, she likes women, she's dated women, she's a firefighter, AND she's butch. Did I say that? That's really the most important part (I mean, I like the firefighter part as well, a lot). I can't believe that there is a lesbian couple on television that is butch/femme. Of all the queer shows on television, including LOGO, mtv has the one with a butch/femme couple. For this, I will definitely be watching the finale...and then, back to my queer black feminist analysis.

Older, Lesbian Feminists...More

2007-11-28T18:45:00.000-08:00

Okay, so this has been a banner month for seeing older lesbian feminists who inspire me. Last night a friend of mine and I went to see Dorothy Allison speak at St. Mary's College in Moraga (or Orinda, not sure it all gets murky and bland in those parts of Northern California). And while I never finished Bastard Out of Carolina because of how real the violence, poverty, and abuse was as I read it, I was struck by something she said about marginalized groups, which I repeated to my class today. She said that as a writer and as a member of marginalized communities (poor, queer, female), she was most interested not in the violence that happens, but in what happens after the violence. What happens for people after we've survived? What are the questions that we ask ourselves? How does it affect our identities and who we fashion ourselves to be? Personally, I was really struck by it because I think as members of marginalized groups, our lives are so constructed by violence in its various forms, as well as fear, and oppression that it's difficult to think about what's on the other side. What are our lives like outside of that? I know that personally I am often caught up in "the struggle" of everyday life that I don't pay attention to how rich it is in the aftermath of the struggle--and that maybe it's not happening right now. That doesn't mean that we don't have things to fight for, challenge, and demand change, but if think about what we have individually and collectively already been through as marginalized peoples, it puts a different face on our experiences and our lives. So, bring on more of the older lesbians, I am eager for your wisdom.

Sister Comrade

2007-11-04T00:34:00.000-07:00

I have to say I'm not a huge fan of lesbian drumming. It's never been my thing. I associate it with naked white women running around separatist wimminsland, wild and free. It also seems like something of someone else's generation, the lesbian generation, a generation that doesn't always feel like me.

However, sitting in a church on Saturday night in Oakland listening to lesbians of another generation drumming, singing, professing, reading poetry, all the things that I say make me cringe and feel like they override my experience as a young queer Black woman, I came away with a little taste for drumming. More than a taste, but a whole heavy heart for the women that really did do so much so that I can sit here and write this blog as an out Black woman. And what I will always have a taste for is out, queer, Black women and the women who love us.

I--along with hundreds of other dykes--attended Sister Comrade tonight, a tribute and celebration of two Black lesbians, Pat Parker and Audre Lorde. Women whose words I read before and after I came out as queer. Women who I wish were here today in their visibility, their words, their commitment, and their determination to have the world exist as they wanted it to (not to mention Pat Parker's butch-ness, I truly miss that, but more about that another day). I walked away from the event feeling inspired by not only the speakers: Cherrie Moraga, Angela Davis, Judy Grahn, and Jewelle Gomez among them, but also about the intergenerational audience. There were women in our thirties, forties, on up to their seventies and it felt like a real community. A real lesbian community--something that I haven't felt in a while.

As long as the majority of the queer community, white people and people of color, have been focused on same sex marriage and integrating themselves more and more into the mainstream, I have felt less and less of a community. This event put a dent in that feeling, in a real and imaginary sense. It's something that I will hold onto as I walk the streets of a different Bay Area than the one that existed 30 (or even 10) years ago, and as I continue to look for and create a queer black and feminist community.

In the meantime, check out sistercomrade for more information about the event and the women who put it together.