we all get raised to be white.
at the conception of our reality genocide. violence. rape. death. are all intricately woven in what it means to live. to be in the real. and that is a simple truth of life. but who wants to talk about that? instead we get raised. taught to exist in excess of the conception. to be in the real.and now that i have completely crossed the line of opening something i write with a bunch of words that don’t really mean much (“Since the beginning of time,” “Love is…,” etc.) let me ground what i am thinking aloud in some experience for your reading pleasure (if not only my own pleasure).
i was raised. and then I got re-raised in an african-american studies ghetto. now im in chicago learning and experiencing. and if i follow the overused/abused proverb correctly “it takes a village to raise a child,” we are all always in a state of growth (or at least should be). always learning and/or teaching. and i’m always toying with the line between teaching and learning. for the most part just taking up some good listening skills and processing what is being said around and to me. ive found myself in less arguments than i was back in california while playing with the role of activist-scholar. i was community organizing or what few deemeddestroying. and now i circle back to some of those california themes and arguments here in chicago where i have largely kept my mouth shut and ears open. and i will admit. keeping my spoken thoughts to a minimum seems to keep the sex consistent and friends plentiful and at the end of the day. outside of being white. what more could i want? «< this is called a joke.
on the issue of being raised. being an activist. and engaging in some intellectual exchanges. there are two competing and complementary thesis at play for non-white liberal people. 1) its always good to be white 2) its okay to be something, just don’t be Black. the best of activist spaces and scholarship work to disrupt each thesis. however, while #1 is pretty easily accepted (to be worked against) #2 while always undergirding nearly all assumptions. is so rarely discussed. let alone fought against. and that is where my re-raising took place. and its quite funny how my development occurred. i would say my heaviest involvement in community organizing took place the previous two years. and in year one, i was working on #1, then i learned quickly, the radical potential is the work on #2. so in year two, that’s what i did, and for the most part exclusively with Black students (year one was on some multicultural bullshit, which is where i learned the plain truth of thesis #2). and i came to chicago with that mindset. the world desperately doesn’t want to be Black, so how can i dare to be Black? and to accept the insanity of making peace with/in Blackness? and to sit in the shame of being me. or my being? and i don’t write this as a resolute or definitive understanding of (my) existence. but rather to invite a conversation of sorts. or an ‘ensemble of questions’ that get at the complex process of being Black.
in year one of my deep engagement with community organizing, my comrades and i were bruised and injured. Blacks in a multicultural space of students and workers is a dangerous location. carrying the issues of the “coalition” while “Black issues” get misplaced. displaced. or deemed irrelevant. and our voices were always questioned or suggested as a threat. we worked for/with but always behind. the undocumented movement. workers rights. gender neutral bathrooms. etc. but prison abolition or PIC divestment was always viewed as too complex or unachievable (to name one issue of many we posed repeatedly to different coalitions). we found ourselves in the spotlight when some students decided to hang nooses at the UCSD campus. but that rush to our side was temporary and proved reliant on the spectacular nature of the spectacle, rather than the spectacular nature of Black every day life.
i say all this to explain why. while im relaxed. i would say im more focused than ever. while others would say that i’m ‘jaded’ or dare we say ‘pessimistic.’ relaxed. focused. jaded. pessimistic. perhaps the terms necessarily coexist within me.
year two of my deep engagement with community organizing. my comrades and i worked mainly with other Black students. political education was our main focus instead of the direct action engagement we had done the previous year. at the risk of being called nationalist (which some called us) or masculinist (which few charged) or anti-whatever identity was being focused on at the time, we troubled notions of identification in the face the Black subject, or attempted to explode certain categories by thinking them through Blackness. What does it mean to be Black and… queer, woman, man, artist, classed, etc? and consequently what does it mean for those categories in and of themselves with Blackness standing at the back door? what does it mean to think Black and further act through Blackness? that went over well in some instances and fell by the wayside in others. and of course i do not write on an assumption of definitive answers, rather as a starting point to the conversation i have daily with self and hope to expand to whoever wants to listen. speak. and exchange thoughts/tactics.
so i came to chicago with those experiences. some wounds others armor. and ive been listening. waiting for the right time to assert some of my thoughts but treading lightly so to not make the same california mistakes. trying to find or build that space (outside of the classroom) where thinking and possibly acting through Blackness is made possible. made okay. a place of shame? a place of insanity? a place of raising Black?
i keep telling myself Black love is revolutionary
while im fucking some reform on the side.
trapped in tides of political and spiritual
searching for meanings and truths beyond coventional
making senseless the sensible in others
bodies and objects of desire
visible to those who can’t see
understandable without a read
i keep telling myself Black love is revolutionary
while im fucking some reform on the side
passing time and space with filled flesh not felt
fantastical romances of spectacle
lectures and notes of unpraticals
lessons in suicidal actuals
spirits help me
i keep telling myself Black love is revolutionary
while im fucking some reform on the side
Black with the capital B
revolutionary stained in blood and tears
his/her name seared across my consciousness
waking up with reform
i keep telling myself Black love is revolutionary…
Black love is revolutionary
Black love is revolutionary.
Black love. revolutionary
i keep telling myself…
Blackness is an approach, a way of taking in the world and a way of giving back what we get. — Audre Lorde “Above the Wind” (via strugglingtobeheard)
(Source: blackfeminismlives, via abolitionista)
Most theories of white supremacy seek to plumb the depths of its excessiveness, beyond the ordinary; they miss the fact that racism is a mundane affair. — Steve Martinot & Jared Sexton, “The Avant-Garde of White Supremacy”
When the racism becomes so ordinary. And the response to the racism becomes mundane. The response to the response becomes expected, humorous, and enraging—a certain routine of course.
And we talk….And we cry…. Some laugh, while others reach for bricks, or sticks—certainly metaphorical here in this time and place. Oh, but what if just once it got all physical! A certain physicality to match the rhetorical, emotional, and always unrecognized (not to be mistaken with unrecognizable) violence found in the mundane (or to switch it up: routinized, to be interpreted as a routine, their routine, our routine, the routine). A video here…. Ignorance…. A cry there…. Protest…. A meeting then…. Strategy. Round about we go, where suffering is institutionalized, much like it is naturalized.
I remember sitting in a room at the University of California, Irvine with the Black Student Union executive board shortly after the chicken and waffle fiasco at Pippen commons. [Y’all remember that? The MLK Day special. UCI was always good to us Negroes.] I glanced around a silent room ailing from the pesky question, “what do we do?” A perplexing question on multiple fronts for the Black student activist: a forceful sincerity toward engaging the demand always met with constricting doubt. For how does one compete with the violence of the institution on an individual level? How does the Black student body (in all its definitions) enter a battle with a contract over its head [or tied around its neck as the campus of UCSD painfully reminded us in 2010], a contract of work in “exchange” for degreed success later in life? As a former Negro ‘occupying’ space on the campus I sit back and laugh (through tears, debt, and unfulfilled triumph) later in my life. Further, the frequency with which the question must be engaged is perplexing in and of itself. The routine of violence and response, aggression and reaction, day in and day out, or ‘sunup until sundown’ is enough to make any reasonably minded Black student walk away, or “shut down and turn off.”
But there we were, sitting in a room pondering which version of the routine we would carry out. I turned and looked at my closest comrades in the space, three Black queers actively working through an afro-pessimist framework (earnest theorist in the classroom, the four of us made for unruly and at times misguided student activists in community organizing spaces), and I put on the table, as a serious plan of action, a fleeting joke made between the four of us at an earlier time, “How ‘bout the Black student body start carrying around 2x4’s?” The majority of the board either laughed or looked on in fear while my comrades nodded their head in what was either sincere agreement or a courtesy nod for a faithful brother-in-battle.
I reasoned: in an environment where racist acts directed at Black bodies are as normal asracist acts directed at black bodies, and our forms of protest have a trajectory of solving nothing and repeating themselves, why not simply arm Black students and make the environment scared of Black bodies? Did I truly believe it would work? No. The Panthers were armed, the BLA went buck on the system, June Jordan waxed poetically about killing a cop for every Black boy killed, and Toni Morrison conjured a group/event called the Seven Days. And still, there we were plagued by the question. And did I actually plan on using a 2x4 on someone? Not really, I was still plagued by the desire of degreed success. But what if we were to enter the routine slightly altered: the visual stimuli of defense, perhaps a deterrent to open assaults steeped in a historical/utter fear of the Black body and a modern shallow fascination with Blackness? Is there a way to make people think twice (or at least once) before acting on/or against Blackness? Perhaps then the demand shifts from an awareness of Black suffering (which is a naturalized entity) toward an engagement with the daily violent/violently daily activities—the mundanely anti-Black repertoire of Human hobby.
That rage, worked out through a certain theoretical formulation searching for a proper course of praxis was quelled by “things just ain’t quite there yet.” My thoughts of shopping the wood section of Home Depot were dashed by reasoned practicality, were we as the Executive Board prepared to suffer the consequences of arming our constituents? Negroes warding off the racist front-lash of students and administrative policy sounds romantic, but the crushing blow of police and administrative backlash was perhaps a price too high to pay. A breach of contract for hopeful Negroes.
I recall sitting in that room, pondering the question, not as a clarion call for violence (at least not an outright one), but as I look from afar at the situation back at the University of California, Irvine, I can’t help but wonder, what would have been different if 2x4s were present on Ring Road from the first day of fall quarter. Or would my friend Kala, who I’ve watched step out of a quiet “first year bright-eye/skeptical” demeanor into the proud and (rightfully) raging Black activist, been the target of passing rhetorical violence had a 2x4 been sitting with her at the bus stop [or perhaps a brick for easier use against a car]? And I watch the protest, the rage, and the routine coming from UCI. And guilt consumes me as I realize the assault is painfully familiar and I wish I could have done something more, and further I wish my hands and rage extended from Chicago back to Orange County to help, console, and incite (further) the Black students at the University of California, Irvine. “But, further?” Many will ask. Where do we go from there/here? The language of the protest is skillfully sophisticated; the work at putting events and spectacles of racist violence into context of anti-Black institutions is nuanced and forceful. But the routine remains. So where does my meditation, this writing, go while anticipating that pesky question enfranchised in the reader and breathing through my last few sentences, “what do we do?” Are things there, yet?
I stand with the Black Student Union at the University of California, Irvine. I stand, sit, pace, shake my head, and write my words. I meditate on the Black Student Union at the University of California, Irvine. I fear for the Black “students.”
Cornered in the Mix: Adrian Piper and My Political Arsenal (summer 2011) -
My post on Adrian Piper from the summer of 2011 seemed relevant today. Not sure why, but I offer it again.
negrosunshine still exist!
It’s becoming clear finding friends will be difficult. And where I once blamed it on this new city, place, & adventure, clarity sets in: Chicago is not the end to an answer, but rather a beginning of a lesson. One of those pesky life experiences that really never (truly) sets in until you find yourself face planted between dust tracks on some mysterious road.
And here I am, finding myself struggling to write about nothing. Because once upon a time it used to flow from me like some note ascension out of Coltrane’s horn. Blackness. It hasn’t gone anywhere; still taunts me in those waking nightmares. Structured by it, with an analysis I’m finding increasingly difficult to articulate. But perhaps I was always never, really, saying anything at all.
i had this friend. She was my everything. Best friends and all. i remember that was solidified the day after my mother died. We were in seventh grade, 13 year olds, separated by only five days. My mom passed on a Tuesday, i think (that doesn’t matter much, but i know i stayed home from school). And on Wednesday, still away from institution, perhaps it was Thursday, she showed up. My friend. Her mom brought her by my grand-parents house to sit with me. And she did, she sat with me and made me smile. We were pretty inseparable after that, for at least the next five or so years. Then we went our separate ways for college, and i got enlightened. Black and or queer, however you like it. Perhaps that doesn’t matter much either.
i came queer to her first. i told her i like the [boys]. She didn’t say much. Asked me some pretty inappropriate and uncomfortable questions about my sex, then asked if i liked white boys. That one was to be expected. i was always confused. So was she, about me. Had the nerve to get mad at me because she said she had been defending me all them five or so years. i wasn’t supposed to be gay, i guess. Or queer. Does it even matter now?
i came Black to her later. Not like real Black, because what’s that? Would that even matter? But i told her i dream, i dream of revolution, which really meant i fear and nightmare Black death and or life. Or perhaps more-or-and-less clearly, i recognize the ghost and stench all around us. Who is the ‘us,’ she asked, and revolution she smiled, and wished away.
i never really understood why we stopped talking. i knew the [boys] drove a distance between us. she would tell me she’d pray for me, all random and such. i told her i’d do a shot for her. And the more i talked about my politics the more disinterested she became. but in actuality who in their [right] mind would want to ponder the after-life of slavery. though she would try to fain excitement on my behalf, but remind me she doesn’t know about gay-marriage. which i would
politely respond, i know about it, i don’t really care for it—much like the tone in your voice. queer, yet Black, not like real Black. Slave. Nigger. Peculiar.
i haven’t talked to my friend in a very long time. And she was Black. Or did that matter?
- a white boy once asked if i was mixed. we were in a dark crowded club and he seemed like one of those “don’t fucks with Blacks” type. the usual. my hair was short at the time, so i suppose i could get away with it. i said yes. no, i’m not self-hating, just needed the D that night. the thirst is real.
do niggas still read on tumblr?
does negrosunshine even still write on tumblr?
i’m going try my best to dabble in knowledge, Black-queerly, in some one liners:
- why is everyone (and their white best-friend) working on Black-sexuality? i need a new project.
- i don’t fuck with these middle-classed respectable (also read white) notions of gay marriage, but a house in Bucktown, two adopted Black babies, and a wifey with a nice frying style is sounding real nice.
- does hip-hop scholarship/theory exist in a bubble where the work can’t move past 2005? I’ve been reading and seeing some very late projects recently.
i went over to his place. he mixed me a drink with citrus and tequila. frank ocean was playing. i’m not stupid, i knew what was up. it’s an easy game to figure out. and he was playing real nice. standing in the kitchen tossing smiles and jokes, keeping my cup always filled, never weak, just right. we danced a game of words and gestures that wouldn’t reveal too much. it was one of those spaces where vulnerability is unsavory; keeping cool and collected is everything to hold on to—and i was holding all mine. staying calm despite raging hormones and close proximity to his bedroom. we sat at the counter collecting stories amidst riffs of channel orange, mixed with scents of cologne and the freshly cut limes on the kitchen counter. the peaches and the mangoes.
we talked until the drinks had us right. well enough to venture out. together. it was new and exciting. potentially delicious, like the drinks he mixed or the balm he put on his lips. i imagined what that tasted like. the peaches and the mangoes. we dressed for the cold night, slipping on shoes, jackets, and scarves. layering, or building obstacles to overcome later. my mind raced as we started for the door, would i be back, later? on kitchen counters, beneath sheets, hallway floors, and, or, behind bathroom doors? a bit presumptuous of me, i paused and found calm, cool, and collected as we walked down the steps and hailed a cab. no smell lingered in the backseat except the scent of him—his hair, his lips, his breath. sweet. rewinding on my mind next to the limes and fresh mint he garnished over our drinks. i glanced out the window to avoid vulnerable eye contact. lights and shapes rolled back and forth between glimpses of his reflection. he was staring at me. i was staring at him. or his delicate reflection in the window.
we stood in the crowded club as hundreds of people passed. i was lost. somewhere in his boisterous whispers pressed against my ear. he leaned in to tell me about europe and his plans to see rome and barcelona, paris and london. the music pulsated through his body and was felt in mine at every reach for my arm or touch to the small of my back. we walked the floor, to the bar and back. shots and drinks. smiles and nods to the others in the room. moving in and out of packed spaces it was easy for me to lose sight. lost between the smiles or side eyes, fragrances and chatter, i followed his scent. the peaches and the mangoes. we eventually found the dance floor. we swayed and reached for each other, lingering at appropriate distances for a first date, but never too far, never out of touch. in step. real tight and nice, until my bottom found its way to his belt-line, as we began to grind in unison. hands held as fingers interlaced and we got lost in the music. in each other. spinning around i found his eyes, staring into mine, as his hands learned the grooves and shapes of my body. i tasted his lips, and the room fell silent or empty. cool, calm, and collected we stood in our space, just me and him. kissing and licking. grinding the way we would do on kitchen counters, beneath sheets, hallway floors, and, or, behind bathroom doors.
we grabbed our coats and stepped into the night. hailing cabs, his south, mine north. my fantasies, which became his fantasies signaled by wandering hands, of going back to his place stopped as we hugged and said goodnight. so good, no wasted night for an awkward morning and rushes to hasty acts. his scent lingered in my ride home. the peaches and mangoes. i could taste on my lips and feel on my neck.
would he call?
i still exist.
as much as Black-queer can.
the thing about being a Black-queer, there’s always one or two more of us in the room than anyone realizes. and that comforts me.
In theory, blackness, in all of its aesthetic might, has the power to mark, to make injury (to itself, to others), but it does not have the power to sustain, to create, or to participate in the world-making possibility that is love itself. — Sharon P. Holland, “(Black) (Queer) Love,” Callaloo, Vol. 36, No. 3, Summer 2013.
there is a certain light in reading together unexplored in our interpersonal relationships. — negrosunshine.
"In 1983 I lost my job—or left it. One, the other, or both." -Toni Morrison, from the forward to Beloved.
"I used to work at Foot Locker, they fired me and fronted
Or I quitted, now I spit it - however do you want it?” -Lauryn Hill, “Superstar”