negro sunshine.

May 11


SONNY ROLLINS, Master of sound



SONNY ROLLINS, Master of sound

(via elektricity)

May 08

still untitled: a short story about gay marriage (and other things).

Elliot answered the phone quietly to not wake Jesse sleeping next to him. It was forty-five minutes earlier than the normal six a.m. alarm and the boys had stayed out late last night. “Hey,” whispered Elliot into the phone. His mother replied frantically, “Your sister and I need your help.” He rose from the bed and took the conversation into the next room. Jesse woke as he heard Elliot open the bedroom door to leave. Looking at the clock that read a time earlier than Jesse wanted to see, he rolled over and clutched Elliot’s pillow. A few minutes later, the door opened and Elliot crawled back into bed.

“Who was that? Everything alrite?” Jesse asked.

“It was my mom. CPS wants to take my sister’s kids from her. I guess they’re pressuring mom to take them.”

“Why do they want them?”

“Do they need a reason?” Elliot replied, “I mean, its been tough for her since Donald went in, and I think she lost her job a few weeks ago, but she won’t tell me.”

“So what do you want to do?” Jesse asked as he rolled into Elliot’s arms.

“I’m not sure. We don’t really have money to send, and mom is stressed enough taking care of grandpa and Aunt Issie.”

“Yeah. Well, we have space though. And money we can figure out with your mom later,” Jesse suggested, “How old are the kids again?”

“Maya is nine, Cameron seven, and Sam is sixteen,” Elliot sat up, “are you sure?”

Jesse looked up at Elliot, “don’t act like you didn’t already offer this to your mom on the phone out there” he smiled and got up and began putting on clothes, “Maya and Cameron can use the air mattress, we’ll put it in the office. And Sam can sleep out on the couch.”

“A boy and girl sharing the same bed, is that weird at their age?” Elliot asked as he rolled over and watched Jesse dress.

“Weird? Well, first of all, they’re brother and sister, it’s not like we are throwing strangers in bed together, though I guess we’ve both had enough experience with that situation” they both laughed, “and, these kids are about to come live with their gay uncle Elliot and his, to quote your mother at your parents anniversary, ‘special roommate.’ Shit will be weird for them no matter what.” Jesse walked over to Elliot, kissed him and pulled the blanket from atop him, “get dressed, I’ll make some eggs. Will you take Miles out for a walk?”

It had been two years since Elliot had been back to the house he grew up in. It wasn’t because he wasn’t welcomed, and it wasn’t because he hated it. He just associated it with something different from where he was now. Elliot turned his key in the door, and paused for a minute. “Scared it wouldn’t work anymore?” Jesse nudged Elliot, “yeah, I have that fear sometimes too, but my family is on some Huxtable shit. The door is always open.” Elliot laughed and opened the door. The two walked in and found Grandpa and Aunt Issie playing cards at the dining room table.

“Aw baby, come on over her and give your Aunt Issie a hug” Elliot crossed the room toward the table and hugged his grandfather’s sister.

“Hi papa” Elliot greeted the old man who hadn’t bothered to put down his hand to greet company.

“How you doing boy?”

“I’m good. Where’s mom?”

Aunt Issie replied, “Oh, she took the kids to get some things from the store. Come on over here baby” she signaled to Jesse, “have a seat.”

Grandpa folded his hand and got up from the table and left the room.

“Don’t y’all worry about him, he ain’t no enemy, just a little lost and stubborn. Sit on down boys.” Aunt Issie took Elliot’s hand, “What y’all doing is great. I know it ain’t easy, but your mom and sister really do need and appreciate it. And your favorite auntie appreciates it too. And I’m going to help you in whatever way I can.”

The front door opened and in walked Elliot’s mom and the kids with a few grocery bags.

“Oh, y’all are early. Were you waiting long?” Elliot’s mother asked.

“No, we just got here. How are y’all?” Elliot responded, “Hi Maya, you’re getting big. And look at you Cameron, how old are you now?”

Cameron responded, “I’m seven. About to be eight!”

“And Sam, how are you?” Elliot asked.

“I’m cool. I’m going to go get the bags.”

“Y’all aren’t going to stay for dinner?”

“No grandma, Elliot and Jesse have to get back to the Northside for some meeting, we’re going to go with them” Sam announced.

“Yeah ma, I texted Sam earlier, I thought he’d tell you that.”

“This one doesn’t tell me anything! If he can’t text it, he doesn’t bother. And you know I don’t know anything about that. So what are you going to do for dinner? I bought these groceries for your apartment. Kids, go help your brother with the bags.”

“After the meeting, I’m going to cook” Jesse announced.

Aunt Issie slapped the table and smiled, “Oh, check you out Elliot, good looks and he cooks too! No wonder you haven’t been around in awhile, got everything you need right there.” Elliot laughed, and Jesse blushed.

“Hush, auntie” Elliot’s mother interjected, “you can bring them kids around for dinner every once in awhile. And Sam can cook sometimes too, I taught him a bit,” she proudly smiled. “Now, Sam is fine to ride the train to school, but Maya and Cameron, I called ahead and they are expecting them at Valencia on Monday.”

“Yes mom, I called too. We’ll have them up there. Its right around the corner from our apartment, so we’ll walk them the first week, then they can walk themselves after that right?”

“Yeah, that will be fine. What type of meeting y’all got tonight?”

“An organizing meeting” Jesse replied.

“Y’all still doing all that stuff, won’t that be boring for them? Want me to bring them up to your apartment later?”

“No, its okay ma. That’s a long drive. There will be other kids there around Maya and Cameron’s age, and Sam is old enough to occupy his time with himself.”

The kids came out the back with their bags, Jesse and Elliot picked up the groceries. “I’ll call you later ma,” Elliot said. He hugged Aunt Issie, kissed his mom and led the group out the door.

The meeting went on for about an hour, going over legislation in different states and how much money had been raised for the ‘cause.’ There were maps of canvassing plans and list of potential donors to call. Elliot and Jesse sat in the back of the room feeling somewhat disinterested, but also like they were supposed to be there. Maya and Cameron played in the room next door with a few other kids around their age, while Sam got lost in his ipod outside on a stoop. At the end of the meeting, Elliot and Jesse walked over to the refreshment table, poured cups of wine and engaged small chat with some of the other folks in the room.

“Our kids are playing well together. I didn’t even know you two were in the market for adoption” Ellen said to the two boys standing at the refreshment table.

“Ah, the market” Jesse replied, “well, you know.”

Elliot interjected, “We aren’t actually. These are my sister’s children, they are staying with us for awhile.”

“Oh, very nice,” Ellen replied. Her partner Kathy walked up and joined the conversation, “You know, ever since we brought Nate and Patrice home, we’ve been looking for them some playmates they may relate better too.”

“I don’t understand. Are they not making friends at their school?” Jesse asked.

Ellen responded, “Oh, no they are. Its just there aren’t, well you know…” Jesse and Elliot stared blankly at the couple, “a lot of African-Americans around.”

“Ah, yes. Then there’s that” Jesse replied.

“You know, there is this African dance class at DePaul being taught on Thursday nights, we were thinking of taking them there, maybe your niece and nephew would want to come?” Kathy announced/asked.

Jesse laughed and walked away. “Hmmm, maybe. We’ll have to see,” Elliot replied.

Dan, another member of the meeting, joined Elliot and the two ladies in the conversation. “Hey Elliot, I didn’t know you and Jesse were adopting. Are you two civil-unioned or did you make the trip to Boston?”

“Oh, they aren’t married” Kathy answered.

Dan replied, “oh my gosh, I bet the state is watching you like a hawk, a gay couple not married and with kids, oh that must be hard.”

“Marriage didn’t save my sister, nor her family” Elliot announced. Dan, Kathy, and Ellen stared at Elliot as he walked away to find Jesse.

Jesse grabbed Elliot’s hand as he joined in on a new conversation with Beth and Susan. “Hey babe, these nice people are trying to decide whether or not they should go talk to that poor boy on the stoop outside. You know, he may be having trouble committing to coming in to the meeting” Jesse looked at Elliot and smiled.

Beth commented, “Yeah, thank god for you two, such great examples. I know it can be tough coming from your community, being queer, and trying to live proudly. And dealing with racism. My gosh, I can’t imagine.”

Elliot smiled, “I think we have to go. Yeah, we have to go.” Jesse and Elliot grabbed Maya and Cameron and headed out the meeting. They met up with Sam and the five of them went home to have dinner.

Four months had gone by since the kids had come to stay with Jesse and Elliot and everything was working the best it could. Elliot brought the kids to his mother’s house every Sunday for dinner, a new tradition that was needed for everyone involved. His sister was still searching for a job; she had lost her apartment and had to move in with a friend until she could get back on her feet. Money was running thin though for Jesse and Elliot, despite the fifty dollars a month Aunt Issie had been slipping Elliot under the Sunday dinner table. So, Jesse encouraged Elliot to file for state assistance to get through for a while. “Don’t be too proud for welfare babe, we need it” Jesse had whispered to Elliot every time a bill was due.

Elliot, Sam, Maya, and Cameron sat in a cold office staring at a tired, uninterested state official across a boring, mundane desk. “Sir, since you aren’t these kids legal guardian, you have no standing to be receiving financial assistance,” the state official announced.

“Yes, but these are my sister’s children, they are staying with me for awhile. I’m their main support right now,” Elliot replied.

“Well, until your sister makes that official, there is nothing I can do right now.”

“What does making it official entail?” Elliot asked.

“Relinquishing her parental rights and awarding you custody over them.”

Elliot looked over to his niece and nephews, and then back to the state, “That isn’t going to happen. These are my sister’s kids, she’s not giving them away, and they’re just staying with me for awhile.”

The state official looked at the children, “well if you can’t provide for them, and your sister can’t, the state always can.”

Elliot stared at the state and thought about African dance classes at DePaul with Ellen and Kathy. He led the kids out the office and they returned home to Jesse who was preparing dinner. 

May 04

“The victim who is able to articulate the situation of the victim has ceased to be a victim: he or she has become a threat.” —

James Baldwin (via junkycosmonaut)

because we are most empowered and most threatening when we understand EXACTLY what is happening to us and HOW.

see: Toni Morrison: “Unspeakable Things Unspoken”; Audre Lorde: “On the Uses of Anger.” (via ghasedeh)


(via ashesforjustice)

Precisely why this white man at my job is out to get me. 

He knows that I know exactly why he’s doing what he’s doing. 

(via tashabilities)

(via tashabilities)

“im here tonight. let’s catch up. let’s chat”

Dance of the Hyphen: a meditation on privilege (Jan. 2012)

i got into this argument a few years ago with another black queer male that i had a crush on. then i thought we would just be friends. then we argued some more. then he started hating me. then i hated him. then we did not speak anymore. and there is much more to that story, but its besides the point i want to make right now, rather, the argument we had, focused on many of the issues that seem to be swarming my tumblr dashboard right now concerning black queer men, straight women (particularly Black), and notions of privilege. 


the black queer boy said to me: “black people can’t be racist”

i laughed: “and why is that?”

he said: “because, racism equals power plus prejudice, i may be prejudice, but i lack the power to do anything about it.”

i said: “hmm, interesting. true we lack power. but i think racism has been watered down so much, that when people talk about it, it doesn’t mean much. so i think Black people can be racist. i think the ‘power plus prejudice’ argument is lacking something.”


now, i knew then, as i know now, the ‘power plus prejudice’ argument is widely popular and pretty spot on, but there was something not setting right with me about that argument. back then, i couldn’t articulate what was bothering me, so the conversation with the boy turned sour and changed our relationship forever. and here i am now, watching a lot of Black queer men, defend their positions eloquently in arguments of male privilege and what-not, but something is still not sitting right with me.

some may be reading and wondering: why/how did he make a leap from racism to issues of gender? a) black feminism 101, gender relations are race relations, race is always gendered. b) i am a black queer man, talking about relations between queer men and straight women c) ive been watching a flurry of black queer men speak on the subject.

in our conversations of privilege, we often create webs of identity that compete for attention within ourselves. ill call this the dance of the hyphen. watch closely now: i am a Black-queer-middle class-abled-spiritual-college educated-man. 

now, due to my training, an extensive amount of research, and life-experience: I KNOW that race overdetermines every other category and life chance i have. BLACK BLACK BLACKETY BLACK. so for short i cut my hyphen dance short and call myself a Black-queer. why queer too? well because its fun to say, looks nice on paper, sparks the most amount of dialogue, and allows me to continue exploring my sexuality.

Blackness overdeteremines my experience, it precedes any gesture or rhetorical move i may make, it is my ontological prison, my state of being. however, i exist! and i make gestures within social structures i was born into, raised in, made aware of. its all i know. pretty much the only option i have besides suicide or unleashing this murderous rage (perhaps this too is why i write). civil society is not mine, but i rent space here. some call it a performance, im not a performance studies scholar, so i wont comment. But i will say, the dance of the hyphen gets complicated.

can Black people be racist? according to the power + prejudice argument, certainly not.  but somehow, our conversations about racism quickly devolve into conversations about privilege (i.e: white privilege), and power leaves the discussion quickly. then the racism argument gets necessarily complicated by other identity markers (i.e. gender, class, sexuality, etc.), but because power exits the conversation somewhere, we are left with a lot of unnecessary arguments on how people feel and what their individual experiences are. so questions like:can queer-Black-men exert male privilege? arise, and we go back and forth, back and forth and the dance of the hyphen becomes the center of attention. 

now, i am POSITIVE there are experiences where a Black-queer-man has exerted a certain male privilege over a woman (i.e: better pay at a job, commanding a room’s attention over a female counterpart, ignoring a contribution made by a woman) just like i am POSITIVE there is an experience of a straight-Black-woman exerting hetero privilege over a Black-queer-woman (i.e. ignoring her existence, discounting her credibility as a feminist because she organizes with queer men, bringing boyfriends or husbands home during the holidays). i am positive of this, because i have either witnessed it first hand, or exerted the male privilege myself. due to my own experience and the experiences of many others that dance with the hyphens, this should be our acknowledgement that the privileges do exist, and because i exist and rent space in civil society, i often perform or tap into that privilege, because its all i know how to do (though i challenge myself daily). 

Like i said earlier, Blackness overdetermines all my experiences, so while I AM male, queer, middle-class, etc. when I lead my dance with Black, it fucks up all those other categories, BUT that is at the level of ontology, my being, which plays out intimately in my experiences. Still though, as I said, I rent space here in civil society, and i live the way the social structures dictate i do. adjusting of course as much as i can through “checking of my privilege.” 

what i worry, and what i want to keep pushing, is when are we going to stop doing this dance of the hyphen, and begin to use our experiences productively in an analysis of civil society. yes Blackness overdetermines my queerness, maleness, etc. but im still performing queerness, maleness, etc. (my renting space). im waiting for my lease to be up, all our leases, and we realize what we are living in. I dont want these experiences of male privilege, nor do i want to experience  hetero privilege over me. but i also don’t want to BE male, queer, black etc. as its been defined thus far through modernity, cuz the shit is just unethical. 

im going to stop here though, because i fear i may be on the edge of an afro-futurist argument, someone reel me in.

i havent signed into tumblr in months. and im not sure why. probably the rent though.


Mar 06


Feb 05


Feb 03

repost: “best,black,friends,and,such”

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?

Jan 14





Jan 07

im going to end some writing with ‘let’s start with that and deal.’

thank you, audre.

Revolutionary Hope: A Conversation Between James Baldwin and Audre Lorde (Essence Magazine, 1984) -


Revolutionary Hope: A Conversation Between James Baldwin and Audre Lorde (Essence Magazine, 1984)

JB: One of the dangers of being a Black American is being schizophrenic, and I mean ‘schizophrenic’ in the most literal sense. To be a Black American is in some ways to be born with the desire to be white. It’s a part of the price you pay for being born here, and it affects every Black person. We can go back to Vietnam, we can go back to Korea. We can go back for that matter to the First World War. We can go back to W.E.B. Du Bois – an honorable and beautiful man – who campaigned to persuade Black people to fight in the First World War, saying that if we fight in this war to save this country, our right to citizenship can never, never again be questioned – and who can blame him? He really meant it, and if I’d been there at that moment I would have said so too perhaps. Du Bois believed in the American dream. So did Martin. So did Malcolm. So do I. So do you. That’s why we’re sitting here.

AL: I don’t, honey. I’m sorry, I just can’t let that go past. Deep, deep, deep down I know that dream was never mine. And I wept and I cried and I fought and I stormed, but I just knew it. I was Black. I was female. And I was out – out – by any construct wherever the power lay. So if I had to claw myself insane, if I lived I was going to have to do it alone. Nobody was dreaming about me. Nobody was even studying me except as something to wipe out.

JB: You are saying you do not exist in the American dream except as a nightmare.

AL: That’s right. And I knew it every time I opened Jet, too. I knew that every time I opened a Kotex box. I knew that every time I went to school. I knew that every time I opened a prayer book. I knew it, I just knew it.

JB: It is difficult to be born in a place where you are despised and also promised that with endeavor – with this, with that, you know – you can accomplish the impossible. You’re trying to deal with the man, the woman, the child – the child of whichever sex – and he or she and your man or your woman has got to deal with the 24-hour-a-day facts of life in this country. We’re not going to fly off someplace else, you know, we’d better get through whatever that day is and still have each other and still raise children – somehow manage all of that. And this is 24 hours of every day, and you’re surrounded by all of the paraphernalia of safety: If you can strike this bargain here. If you can make sure your armpits are odorless. Curl your hair. Be impeccable. Be all the things that the American public says you should do, right? And you do all those things – and nothing happens really. And what is much worse than that, nothing happens to your child either.

AL: Even worse than the nightmare is the blank. And Black women are the blank. I don’t want to break all this down, then have to stop at the wall of male/female division. When we admit and deal with difference; when we deal with the deep bitterness; when we deal with the horror of even our different nightmares; when we turn them and look at them, it’s like looking at death: hard but possible. If you look at it directly without embracing it, then there is much less that you can ever be made to fear.

JB: I agree.

AL: Well, in the same way when we look at our differences and not allow ourselves to be divided, when we own them and are not divided by them, that is when we will be able to move on. But we haven’t reached square one yet.

JB: I’m not sure of that. I think the Black sense of male and female is much more sophisticated than the western idea. I think that Black men and women are much less easily thrown by the question of gender or sexual preference – all that jazz. At least that is true of my experience.

AL: Yea, but let’s remove ourselves from merely a reactive position – i.e., Black men and women reacting to what’s out there. While we are reacting to what’s out there, we’re also dealing between ourselves – and between ourselves there are power differences that come down…

JB: Oh, yes…

AL: Truly dealing with how we live, recognizing each other’s differences, is something that hasn’t happened…

JB: Differences and samenesses.

AL: Differences and samenesses. But in a crunch, when all our asses are in the sling, it looks like it is easier to deal with the samenesses. When we deal with sameness only, we develop weapons that we use against each other when the differences become apparent. And we wipe each other out – Black men and women can wipe each other out – far more effectively than outsiders do.

JB: That’s true enough.

AL: And our blood is high, our furies are up. I mean, it’s what Black women do to each other, Black men do to each other, and Black people do to each other. We are in the business of wiping each other out in one way or the other – and essentially doing our enemy’s work.

JB: That’s quite true.

AL: We need to acknowledge those power differences between us and see where they lead us. An enormous amount of energy is being taken up with either denying the power differences between Black men and women or fighting over power differences between Black men and women or killing each other off behind them. I’m talking about Black women’s blood flowing in the streets – and how do we get a 14-year-old boy to know I am not the legitimate target of his fury? The boot is on both of our necks. Let’s talk about getting it off. My blood will not wash out your horror. That’s what I’m interested in getting across to adolescent Black boys.

There are little Black girl children having babies. But this is not an immaculate conception, so we’ve got little Black boys who are making babies, too. We have little Black children making little Black children. I want to deal with that so our kids will not have to repeat that waste of themselves.

JB: I hear you – but let me backtrack, for better or worse. You know, for whatever reason and whether it’s wrong or right, for generations men have come into the world, either instinctively knowing or believing or being taught that since they were men they in one way or another had to be responsible for the women and children, which means the universe.

AL: Mm-hm.

JB: I don’t think there’s any way around that.

AL: Any way around that now?

JB: I don’t think there’s any way around that fact.

AL: If we can put people on the moon and we can blow this whole planet up, if we can consider digging 18 inches of radioactive dirt off of the Bikini atolls and somehow finding something to do with it – if we can do that, we as Black cultural workers can somehow begin to turn that stuff around – because there’s nobody anymore buying ‘cave politics’ – ‘Kill the mammoth or else the species is extinct.’ We have moved beyond that. Those little scrubby-ass kids in the sixth grade – I want those Black kids to know that brute force is not a legitimate way of dealing across sex difference. I want to set up some different paradigms.

JB: Yea, but there’s a real difference between the way a man looks at the world…

AL: Yes, yes…

JB: And the way a woman looks at the world. A woman does know much more than a man.

AL: And why? For the same reason Black people know what white people are thinking: because we had to do it for our survival…

JB: All right, all right…

AL: We’re finished being bridges. Don’t you see? It’s not Black women who are shedding Black men’s blood on the street – yet. We’re not cleaving your head open with axes. We’re not shooting you down. We’re saying, “Listen, what’s going on between us is related to what’s going on between us and other people,” but we have to solve our own shit at the same time as we’re protecting our Black asses, because if we don’t, we are wasting energy that we need for joint survival.

JB: I’m not even disagreeing – but if you put the argument in that way, you see, a man has a certain story to tell, too, just because he is a man…

AL: Yes, yes, and it’s vital that I be alive and able to listen to it.

JB: Yes. Because we are the only hope we have. A family quarrel is one thing; a public quarrel is another. And you and I, you know – in the kitchen, with the kids, with each other or in bed – we have a lot to deal with, with each other, but we’ve got to know what we’re dealing with. And there is no way around it. There is no way around it. I’m a man. I am not a woman.

AL: That’s right, that’s right.

JB: No one will turn me into a woman. You’re a woman and you’re not a man. No one will turn you into a man. And we are indispensable for each other, and the children depend on us both.

AL: It’s vital for me to be able to listen to you, to hear what is it that defines you and for you to listen to me, to hear what is it that defines me – because so long as we are operating in that old pattern, it doesn’t serve anybody, and it certainly hasn’t served us.

JB: I know that. What I really think is that neither of us has anything to prove, at least not in the same way, if we weren’t in the North American wilderness. And the inevitable dissension between brother and sister, between man and woman – let’s face it, all those relations which are rooted in love also are involved in this quarrel. Because our real responsibility is to endlessly redefine each other. I cannot live without you, and you cannot live without me – and the children can’t live without us.

AL: But we have to define ourselves for each other. We have to redefine ourselves for each other because no matter what the underpinnings of the distortion are, the fact remains that we have absorbed it. We have all absorbed this sickness and ideas in the same way we absorbed racism. It’s vital that we deal constantly with racism, and with white racism among Black people – that we recognize this as a legitimate area of inquiry. We must also examine the ways that we have absorbed sexism and heterosexism. These are the norms in this dragon we have been born into – and we need to examine these distortions with the same kind of openness and dedication that we examine racism…

JB: You use the word ‘racism’…

AL: The hatred of Black, or color…

JB: - but beneath the word ‘racism’ sleeps the word ‘safety.’ Why is it important to be white or Black?

AL: Why is it important to be a man rather than a woman?

JB: In both cases, it is assumed that it is safer to be white than to be Black. And it’s assumed that it is safer to be a man than to be a woman. These are both masculine assumptions. But those are the assumptions that we’re trying to overcome or to confront…

AL: To confront, yeah. The vulnerability that lies behind those masculine assumptions is different for me and you, and we must begin to look at that…

JB: Yes, yes…

AL: And the fury that is engendered in the denial of that vulnerability – we have to break through it because there are children growing up believe that it is legitimate to shed female blood, right? I have to break through it because those boys really think that the sign of their masculinity is impregnating a sixth grader. I have to break through it because of that little sixth-grade girl who believes that the only thing in life she has is what lies between her legs…

JB: Yeah, but we’re not talking now about men and women. We’re talking about a particular society. We’re talking about a particular time and place. You were talking about the shedding of Black blood in the streets, but I don’t understand –

AL: Okay, the cops are killing the men and the men are killing the women. I’m talking about rape. I’m talking about murder.

JB: I’m not disagreeing with you, but I do think you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m not trying to get the Black man off the hook – or Black women, for that matter – but I am talking about the kingdom in which we live.

AL: Yes, I absolutely agree; the kingdom in which these distortions occur has to be changed.

JB: Something happens to the man who beats up a lady. Something happens to the man who beats up his grandmother. Something happens to the junkie. I know that very well. I walked the streets of Harlem; I grew up there, right? Now you know it is not the Black cat’s fault who sees me and tries to mug me. I got to know that. It’s his responsibility but it’s not his fault. That’s a nuance. UI got to know that it’s not him who is my enemy even when he beats up his grandmother. His grandmother has got to know. I’m trying to say one’s got to see what drove both of us into those streets. We be both from the same track. Do you see what I mean? I’ve come home myself, you know, wanting to beat up anything in sight- but Audre, Audre…

AL: I’m here, I’m here…

JB: I agree with you. I see exactly what you mean and it hurts me at least as much as it hurts you. But how to maneuver oneself past this point – how not to lose him or her who may be in what is in effect occupied territory. That is really what the Black situation is in this country. For the ghetto, all that is lacking is barbed wire, and when you pen people up like animals, the intention is to debase them and you have debased them.

AL: Jimmy, we don’t have an argument

JB: I know we don’t.

AL: But what we do have is a real disagreement about your responsibility not just to me but to my son and to our boys. Your responsibility to him is to get across to him in a way that I never will be able to because he did not come out of my body and has another relationship to me. Your relationship to him as his farther is to tell him I’m not a fit target for his fury.

JB: Okay, okay…

AL: It’s so entrenched in him that it’s part of him as much as his Blackness is.

JB: All right, all right…

AL: I can’t do it. You have to.

JB: All right, I accept – the challenge is there in any case. It never occurred to me that it would be otherwise. That’s absolutely true. I simply want to locate where the danger is…

AL: Yeah, we’re at war…

JB: We are behind the gates of a kingdom which is determined to destroy us.

AL: Yes, exactly so. And I’m interested in seeing that we do not accept terms that will help us destroy each other. And I think one of the ways in which we destroy each other is by being programmed to knee-jerk on our differences. Knee-jerk on sex. Knee-jerk on sexuality…

JB: I don’t quite know what to do about it, but I agree with you. And I understand exactly what you mean. You’re quite right. We get confused with genders – you know, what the western notion of woman is, which is not necessarily what a woman is at all. It’s certainly not the African notion of what a woman is. Or even the European notion of what a woman is. And there’s certainly not standard of masculinity in this country which anybody can respect. Part of the horror of being a Black American is being trapped into being an imitation of an imitation.

AL: I can’t tell you what I wished you would be doing. I can’t redefine masculinity. I can’t redefine Black masculinity certainly. I am in the business of redefining Black womanness. You are in the business of redefining Black masculinity. And I’m saying, ‘Hey, please go on doing it,’ because I don’t know how much longer I can hold this fort, and I really feel that Black women are holding it and we’re beginning to hold it in ways that are making this dialogue less possible.

JB: Really? Why do you say that? I don’t feel that at all. It seems to me you’re blaming the Black man for the trap he’s in.

AL: I’m not blaming the Black man; I’m saying don’t shed my blood. I’m not blaming the Black man. I’m saying if my blood is being shed, at some point I’m gonna have a legitimate reason to take up a knife and cut your damn head off, and I’m not trying to do it.

JB: If you drive a man mad, you’ll turn him into a beast – it has nothing to do with his color.

AL: If you drive a woman insane, she will react like a beast too. There is a larger structure, a society with which we are in total and absolute war. We live in the mouth of a dragon, and we must be able to use each other’s forces to fight it together, because we need each other. I am saying that in our joint battle we have also developed some very real weapons, and when we turn them against each other they are even more bloody, because we know each other in a particular way. When we turn those weapons against each other, the bloodshed is terrible. Even worse, we are doing this in a structure where we are already embattled. I am not denying that. It is a family discussion I’m having now. I’m not laying blame. I do not blame Black men for what they are. I’m asking them to move beyond. I do not blame Black men; what I’m saying is, we have to take a new look at the ways in which we fight our joint oppression because if we don’t, we’re gonna be blowing each other up. We have to begin to redefine the terms of what woman is, what man is, how we relate to each other.

JB: But that demands redefining the terms of the western world…

AL: And both of us have to do it; both of us have to do it…

JB: But you don’t realize that in this republic the only real crime is to be a Black man?

AL: No, I don’t realize that. I realize the only crime is to be Black. I realize the only crime is to be Black, and that includes me too.

JB: A Black man has a prick, they hack it off. A Black man is a ****** when he tries to be a model for his children and he tries to protect his women. That is a principal crime in this republic. And every Black man knows it. And every Black woman pays for it. And every Black child. How can you be so sentimental as to blame the Black man for a situation which has nothing to do with him?

AL: You still haven’t come past blame. I’m not interested in blame, I’m interested in changing…

JB: May I tell you something? May I tell you something? I might be wrong or right.

AL: I don’t know – tell me.

JB: Do you know what happens to a man-?

AL: How can I know what happens to a man?

JB: Do you know what happens to a man when he’s ashamed of himself when he can’t find a job? When his socks stink? When he can’t protect anybody? When he can’t do anything? Do you know what happens to a man when he can’t face his children because he’s ashamed of himself? It’s not like being a woman…

AL: No, that’s right. Do you know what happens to a woman who gives birth, who puts that child out there and has to go out and hook to feed it? Do you know what happens to a woman who goes crazy and beats her kids across the room because she’s so full of frustration and anger? Do you know what that is? Do you know what happens to a lesbian who sees her woman and her child beaten on the street while six other guys are holding her? Do you know what that feels like?

JB: Mm-hm.

AL: Well then, in the same way you know how a woman feels, I know how a man feels, because it comes down to human beings being frustrated and distorted because we can’t protect the people we love. So now let’s start –

JB: All right, okay…

AL: - let’s start with that and deal.

Essence Magazine, 1984

(Source: todoelajo)

writers should never give their words away too soon, or too personally. or at least never to disrespectful muthafuckas.

Love Unclear (written sometime back in love)

patience flees me with strength i can not see

resilience i can not see

logic concrete of retreat

attempting to avoid perceived defeat

reverie in joy

with painless bliss

styles in coy, a very taunting boy

emotions saturated with love and happiness

possibilities of timeless

truth beyond years, unique, rare

searching for uncouth, raw energies, spirits to share

a fading present test lessons of past

do what i know or simply act how i feel


lost in broken deals

heart or mind

love reciprocated unclear tends to be the most unkind

this is what i know

what i do lags behind

lessons learned

must voice the thoughts, lived and not

praying and wishing, wishing and praying

endless dreams of you and me

resting so sure in what could be

realities of disaster

empty tones stealing laughter

fantasies of possibilities

finding strength

pushing me to face you

soul unbent

Jan 05

“Don’t ever think I fell for you, or fell over you. I didn’t fall in love, I rose in it. I saw you and made up my mind.” — Toni Morrison (via bwildness)

(Source: liminalbrittany, via shattersthemoon)

Jan 04

Poem About Police Violence (June Jordan)

Tell me something 
what you think would happen if 
everytime they kill a black boy 
then we kill a cop 
everytime they kill a black man 
then we kill a cop

you think the accident rate would lower subsequently? 
sometimes the feeling like amaze me baby 
comes back to my mouth and I am quiet 
like Olympian pools from the running 
mountainous snows under the sun

sometimes thinking about the 12th House of the Cosmos 
or the way your ear ensnares the tip 
of my tongue or signs that I have never seen 

I lose consciousness of ugly bestial rapid 
and repetitive affront as when they tell me 
18 cops in order to subdue one man 
18 strangled him to death in the ensuing scuffle 
(don’t you idolize the diction of the powerful: subdue 
and scuffle my oh my) and that the murder 
that the killing of Arthur Miller on a Brooklyn 
street was just a “justifiable accident” again 

People been having accidents all over the globe 
so long like that I reckon that the only 
suitable insurance is a gun 
I’m saying war is not to understand or rerun 
war is to be fought and won

sometimes the feeling like amaze me baby 
blots it out/the bestial but 
not too often tell me something 
what you think would happen if 
everytime they kill a black boy 
then we kill a cop 
everytime they kill a black man 
then we kill a cop

you think the accident rate would lower subsequently

-June Jordan