you can’t just throw white people on me and expect me to be okay with it.
people think i can with white people. but i really, really, just can’t.
the way i see it: if your my friend (non-white), and we are hanging out and you put me in a situation where the whiteness levels are uncomfortable, you have failed me as a friend.
its not that i can’t be around it at all. i’m from orange county (i can deal), its that i deserve fair warning. because you and i both know, chances of some wild shit being said or just happening are quite high. i should be given the chance to emotionally prepare.
and yes, i work with and for mostly white people. but thats an exchange i’ve agreed upon for a (somewhat) comfortable salary, to live out a (somewhat) comfortable lifestyle. if i’m not on the clock, i tend to want to avoid wild white shit.
im having drinks with a group of people i’ve just met. i was there because my friend kendra (i won’t call out her tumblr name), knows them by way of mutual friends. the group is mainly together because a girl from new york is in town visiting for the weekend.
i’m talking to this girl from new york. a minnesota white girl transplanted to new york city because of her graphic arts education and career. in group settings with folks i don’t know, particularly white folks, i’m usually pretty quite. again, if i’m not being paid to speak, why even? apparently it was my turn for her to figure out what she had in common with me and how we could make a connection. now, if i were offered $100 right now to tell y’all how we got on the topic of property and her friends money, i’d miss out on that $100. all i remember was this being said at me:
“Oh my gosh, my friend got an inheritance when her grandma died and she was so smart about it. I mean, we all thought she was stupid when she did it, but now we see. She got the money and went way out to the hood, like the ghetto in Bushwick and bought some house for super cheap and just started renting it out. We all were like, what the hell? But after sometime condos started being built around her place, and cute little stores and coffee shops started opening up, and now she is making mad bank”
i sipped my cocktail and stared at her in disgust. my friend kendra noticed what was going on, and she quickly jumped in the “conversation” (or assault on my leisure time) and changed the subject.
situations like that one, are why i really just can’t with white people. i mean, the poor girl didn’t mean any harm. but the leisure, twinkle in eye, and proudness, she attached to her story of gentrification, economic violence, and i’m sure displacement, didn’t really catch me off guard, but i think i should be paid for dealing with that shit.
perhaps i’ve written myself into a post about reparations. instead of 40 acres & a mule, or some lump sum that would equate, being black should be a salaried position. not necessarily for the direct violence done against us (for that, money just doesn’t solve the problem), but for having to put up with the wild shit that enters into mundane, leisurely conversation. just a thought.
“i’d probably fuck your daddy if your mammy wasn’t player hatin”
i haven’t quite figured out the proper medium or ocassion to use this magnificent lyric by Trina. but im trying.
its quite powerful because its how i feel when i’m at my best. if you follow me on instagram (you’d have to know my government name for that), that quotation will probably accompany a photo of me in some short shorts and backless tank-top. as soon as the weather permits. and yes, its june 5th and chicago’s weather has not permitted me to be free in what i wear. i type this wearing a sweater and contemplating light weight scarf.
my soul misses the california sun.
and there i stand. on michigan avenue waiting on my ride. white folks leisurely strolling. to leisurely spend their leisurely money. and i stand. pressed to pay my bills. holding some left over chicken my partner fried the night before. and he tried. to fry it right. i told him a brown paper bag and some flour was the way to do it. season it real nice. but he ain’t about that life. tossed it in a bowl. and cooked it too low. wasn’t crispy. but it was alright. and there i stand. waiting on my ride. and i’m thinking. what would it be if i took some of this chicken out and ate it on the avenue?
and i did. i stood there. on the avenue. black man. black queer. black with chicken. and they all passed. and it was so damn good. the taste was alright. but the fact they was doing their leisure thing. and i was doing my leisure thing. it was so nice. and the chicken. and the black. we were.
vagabondaesthetics asked: would you ever wear a cape as part of your outfit?
it depends. i’m known to just be wearing the most random shit. top hats, elf like shoes, scarves wrapped around my body like a baby should be on my back, three piece suits and a head-wrap. SO, if the cape is dope and i’m feeling like i need to do some spins in my day (gone with the wind…), i’d probably wear one.
beyonce stay making my anthems.
— negrosunshine, (#shameless) “A Question of Beauty”
Stevie Wonder improvising Coltrane’s “Giant Steps”. I SAID Stevie on Coltrane’s “Giant Steps”. I SAID goddamn.
Anonymous asked: Who is Negro Sunshine?
a Black queer writer. an activist with a southern california style. a Black intellectual. and a boy who dreams of Revolution. currently hiding out, or making way, in chicago.
oh, and i borrowed my name from glenn ligon’s work.