seeing space. understanding culture. and why we must fight, even as we are gagging on the Charisma Uniqueness Nerve and Talent.

This morning was trying for many reasons. but i felt good. i rode about ten miles and had some important and fierce debate.

i ove for Rupaul’s Drag Race. I am so glad that i get to escape into show- regardless of all its fuckery- because i believe that Drag and the Queers are important. We in many ways are the life blood of the culture. We are often hated because we represent a freedom that is desired and not held by so many because we are crushed under the endless boxes and ideologies of Babylon.

Are Drag queens and Queers perfect- hell no. We is just as flawed. We is just as riddled with contradictions, and evils. Just as everyone else. I think though that our unique position aand lens is one that must be seen through because there are truths taught in alienation. The outsider sees things that the assimilated cannot always because of their proximity to the seat of power. It is because of their very privilege that the privilege are blinded because they do not have to experience the world in the same manner- with the same life movings as others.

Recently the “whiteness” (white supremacy and air time of white queens has dramatically increased in my opinion and i believe that it does reflect the need for capitalism to assimilate queer lives and identities in the same way that it has/ is doing so to others that have been outcasted – People of color womyn etc. . . The price that this system will pay for not creating this false (and slight sense of inclusion) is dangerous. James Baldwin so wisely stated many moons ago, as he reflected on the Black struggle in the county, that: “the most dangerous thing a nation can do is to create within itself a body of people who have no allegiance to it.”

Thats real. Capitalism must make us feel like we belong on some level to keep the majority of folk ,who is tired, confused, lost, etc, asleep.

Media and art are key to this. Because the two things are far reaching, both in soul and in space. They are also warriors tools of our liberation. Which is why discussions around the development and use of culture must be had, in conjunction with our movings and organizing.

In response to my anger at the increasing “whiteness” on the show i was met with some very provoking emails that id like to share. Below are the messages and my responses. Holla and let me know what ya’ll think =)

once again, its all peace and love and lets keep it that way.
Remember. We’re not here to be shady, just fierce.
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anonymous asked: girl only 1 out of the past 4 winners have been white wtf are about you talking about trying to make this some big race deal.

for me-

i think that it is important to remember that while this show brings a tremendous amount joy and pride. Rupaul is one of my idols and will forever be because of her contribution to the culture and to my life. I really do believe that she speaks some of the best thoughts/ politics on finding love and alienation.

i also love Rupaul because she is Black. And i am unapologetic about that because Black queers have had major contributions to the queer world and to the larger world that are often times ignored and brushed aside- or white washed. This is the same of alot of queer communities of color. And it is important to recognize that this show- while it may just be entertainment to some also in part represents that. Rupaul and the contestants herself stand on the shoulders of that history and come from that very history.

because of the way that the society works (it is structured around what makes profit and what is “marketable”. ) the network that sponsors the show is always going to be looking for ways to increase the rating /popularity and etc… through appealing to wider audiences (this is what folks call mainstream- which historically and still today often means portraying something that is easy to consume for audiences that are either majority white and straight or operating from that lens because “whiteness” and “straightness”, in my opinion, are also ideologies in addition to physical forms. And we’ve seen this happen with a lot of shows in different forms. Some shows aren’t as popular (because they don’t reach a “wide enough” audience which in many instances means it’s very specific to a particular people and don’t have enough interest to get the ratings.

Because of this and because of the very nature of all of this. Logo and Drag Race are in a position of having to “sell” queerness to larger audiences of straight folk and this show in particular, which is built off of alot of the Ballroom scene and Black drag and/or gay history, is in the position of selling “Black queer culture” not only to a larger straight audience BUT ALSO to an audience that is not that familiar with it. In fact, the audience- as are almost all socialized to devour this countries media- is socialized without even thinking it, to appreciate the white/ western world view.

Over the past two years (in which we do see a drastic increase in production value, funding, promotion, etc. . we have also seen a decrease in queens of color that are viable contenders for the title. we have also seen an dramatic increase in white queens receiving access, air time and fame to/ from the show. And i believe this is because this helps to make the show more acceptable- more consumable by the masses. Male bodies of color have increasingly become more objectified and de-humanized. The pit crew was never much but they really have been blatently reduced to dick shots and i do not think that this was a mistake that these are two men of color. I definitely don’t believe its a mistake or coincidence when i look at how my brother’s bodies are treated in the gay community and the larger community.

Does this mean that white queens have no talent or place? No. Not at all. White queens have also had great impact and left brilliant legacies in the world of drag (on and off the show) But we do need to talk about access and privilege. Who has access to the means to get exposure? Who has access to create their own spaces? Who makes/ enforces the rules in this space? These questions are real to me. Because beyond the realm of this show- these queens are real people and lead real lives to have roots in all of our communities and socializations. Black and Brown folk and queens of color in general are on the shit end of these questions and that must be recognized. If we were to ignore that it is easier to receive attention and notability for white queens than it is for others… if we were to ignore that white queens in most cases do hold access to greater wealth and have the power to define these spaces- ones that dehumanize, objectify, and ultimately alienate a lot of queer bodies of color- there we would be affirming racism by ignoring material realities.

It is also a sore spot for me because this show was not built exclusively by queens of color but they overwhelmingly (and i will say by far were responsible for the popularity and success before the immense funding came. the first two seasons the ones that set the stage for it become bigger and bigger in later ones) This contribution is also due in fact to the legacies and ways that drag has been shaped in particular communities of color: the Black and Brown Ballroom, Puerto Rico, Laos, The Philippines. It would be a mistake to just look at my post in the context of who has won the show. Im reacting the the body and entire spirit of this beautiful show.

And as i see gentrification, genocide, and the like threaten the lives, cultures and livelihoods of folks of color- i cannot look at this show and not see it as apart of that process of stripping access and reinforcing the lines of privilege- who has it and who doesn’t. This process is not new and in fact a very historical process by which new ways to see/bring cultures to the larger view ultimately become exploitation for profit, disrespect and appropriation. And in this process important space,which was fought for and validated through the expressions and lives of people of color, is taken and altered. Afterwards those who were instrumental in making these spaces are often left – unable to make a living off of their inventions and even denied the praise and respect they so rightfully deserved.

And this is because this show and all media/ art are reflections of the culture and it’s intentions. I don’t want to blindly watch a show. My reactions, i feel are very rational and i would also like for you (if you message me again to do so with respect and not immediate assume anything about what i think.) And lets not use the discomfort to create harm.

im so down to share- talk discuss and disagree but lets do so kindly.

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Anonymous asked: You sound jealous and poor.

And you would appear to be a punk because there isn’t a name behind this comment.

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luno:

thegentlemanjigger (me):

“words can never hurt you. only your perception of those words.” – Jynx. Spoken like a white person

Luno:

Apparently, as a white person, I am immune to the negative effects that some words have.

Please forgive me for never checking this privilege. Never again…

Oh god. Comma splices, sentences ending in prepositions… That was a mess, dude. Reading it almost hurt my eyes. Perhaps you’re right about me [the honky] needing glasses. Why don’t you check your “eyesight privilege”?

I’ll have you know that I don’t just identify as being white. I’m actually transethnic, bicurious, postindustrial, transpermic, bifocal… and don’t even get me started on my headmates.

I also find the words “white” and “folks” racially charged [TRIGGER WARNING]. They remind me of my ancestors, who were often called names and made fun of by people of color. Did I mention that I’m transgenerational?

Clearly you don’t realize the hypocrisy of “struggling” to break from the “oppression” of words while simultaneously labeling someone as “this white person”. So explaining it to you would be an exercise in futility.

I’d say that not everything in this world is black and white, but looking at your post history, you seem to think it is. I blame people like you for ongoing racism.

ME:

#1. last time i checked when ever folk started going on and on about a correct way to write they usually were feeding into some kind of white supremacy. because there is no one way to express of speak a tongue- especially one like english in the United States (because it isn’t even in the original form.)

#2. weak comeback. if your going to come for me then i suggest you actually come. I don’t believe in half stepping- not even in dialogue so don’t start off with some weak, racist argument.

#3 if you would stop and not consider your history to be the only one that is relevant or in existence (which is something that privileged folk are always doing having a hard time doing because the privilege of not having to think about others oppression in relation to your own blinds then from actually seeing any kind of intersections and movement) then you would also learn that the word “folk” isn’t always a slur. As a Black person from South Carolina, who moved to Washington DC, and now stays in Oakland i can say that when i use the word “folk” i am not speaking from a place of hatred or prejudice. the word for the “folk” ,for the folk i grew up with and for the folk i continue to be around, is one covered in love and not meant to be an insult. once again the privilege blinds. makes you appear to be ignorant in public when ignorant statements come from you keyboard.

#4. You’re absolutely right that #3 have a long ass break for parenthesis and more commas. you know why, because if you look up the rules that you want to reference when you attack my writing, you will see that they are being used more than proficiently. Want some examples you can take look at at home? Look into a James Baldwin book and notice the commas. Look into a Walker book and clock the structure and flow. Then come back to me. hell, even look at some damn Hemingway or Steinbeck.

#5. no where did i say everything is White or Black. My usage of those labels is very important though because I am talking about a particular socialization of privilege that white folk have that creates statements like the one that Jinx made. And privilege isn’t just exclusive to White folk- just to clear that one. If I were trying to make a specific point about patriarchy and male privilege then i would very deliberately identify how men (or folk who are male bodied) are relevant in the matter. Calling out the fact the “whiteness” is not the problem. The “whiteness” and the lack of any kind of accountability is the problem.

Also, i don’t really care if you were White in terms of the skin color because the “whiteness” im referring to is in the spirit, socialization, language, and mentality

#6. Don’t come out like a lion and go back in like a lamb. Its misleadingh to act like im attacking some “civil comment” you made. I have no time for folk victimizing themselves to dodge a point. Your response to my post (which had nothing to do with you, was not on your page, and was not sent to you by me) was sarcastic. If I have never spoken to you in my life then i take sarcasm as shade and so im gong to respond with it. If you can’t take then don’t dish.

Leeroy.

Leeroy likes the 1R

cause its the shitty bus movin’ fast through town

and he’s a movin’ man.

hustling a dime sack and a smile

from 82nd to the Bottoms.

Today he’s in a suit

fine as a Sunday

hoping to get hired.

And folks laugh at the nigga

who rides on exposed dreams,

a worn vest and used charm.

several say sad things

bout his needs and addictions:

women, glass dicks, some tightness, fightin’ and such

encouraged by malt.

say he’s marked

to suffer the fate of most Black men

to inch silently into pain.

stepped on.

but Leeroy smiles through

and on

and helps old ladies with their bags

and drinks water from jars

and on

and sings spells he hopes might bend fate

so that worn vests lead to something with good pay.

The Trap.

i want to speak one day

from a place that is not colored in the fear

of generations of boulders sitting

on shoulders

and not have to hustle with words

what should be given- according to the laws of what is natural.

as the sun rounds

and i moon

holding a limp sex, i wish to kiss deeper.

so that we are one day felt past

the ruins of Southeast, South Central, East Oakland, the Carolinas and Shanty towns

and free of this substance of misery-

the trappings of Babylon.

things left growin’ bare.

for my city and my mama. 

my mama’s garden is o’ growin’ bare in the place she bore me.

the weeds is ever climbing

through soil fresh and her flowers is wilting.

some summers i sat

back there

letting all the melon juice make streams down my chin

or i’d run about with Kwame or some other friend

and we could see wonder before the buildings came

and folk went.

Tanya howlin’ at the sky- screamin’ bout lyin’ Jonathan. Gary and ‘em at the school.

Special Sundays and Fridays where old Blacks played “Tunk”

and me on the stairs watchin’

and here comes Robert

and all of them is gone now.

lak de ole’ legends

and creations that granddad used to spin.

They exist in memory- lak pieces of their fuller selves in my mind

faded on.

The souless shacks is tall

and they block sun

so gardens don’t grow

and my mama is somewhere

sitting

holdin’ earth that won’t stop

sidin’ through her labored hands.

Spells is Might.

spells is might.

they mean no harm to the people nor are they thoughts of the sinister.

spells is power and healing and love open ended and over flowing.

They is intentions sat down by our people, for centuries, under this very sun. And we existed in their embrace- guided by natural intuition and inclination. To cast a spell is to send out a thought to the universe- a blessing of peace and purpose.

bad spells. wicked womyn and forked tongues came with capitalism and the white colonizer seeking to take the resources of of womyn and people of color alike. Salem womyn. Witch womyn. Bitches they were under the male gaze. They communed with one another, prayed for one another

both blessed and affirmed one another through the healing of the Earth- our mother.

black magic. painted like the very skins who practiced it- another white myth.

my people saw sun and moon. dreamt in dirt, rose and ran in fields. laughed in the rivers i’ve hoped to know and made life accordingly. They saw signs and felt vibrations.

we honored the earth. and in turn were blessed.

a spell is a reflection of that very truth. It is a soul gift given from one to another. spells ain’t evil. They’re the makings of life.

Blue Prelude I: Part of a Nervous Condition

Sup readers and believers.

Over the past couple of months I have been working on a longer story. One that is broken into three acts. I want to challenge my ability to tell narratives by playing with perspective and how a tale can be told. “Blue Prelude” is the story of the last day in the life of “Raymond” a Black man, trapped beneath the weights of patriarchy, society and race. Each act of the story follows a different section of the day and is told in a different way and from a different perspective. Please, enjoy (and share if the spirit moves you.) Also let me know what ya’ll think. Without further rambling from me. . . here is “Blue Prelude I: Part of a Nervous Condition.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Blue Prelude I : Part of a Nervous Condition. 

I had known he was awake long before there was movement, long before his shoulders made that inevitable turn towards the peeking sun. Lovers learn secrets and patterns about one another’s bodies. Raymond’s body spoke in sounds- low moans in low valleys and light whistles in the peaks. There was a low moan as he stirred into consciousness.

“How long you been woke?” he mumbled- pulling my body into him and burying his face in my chest. The light had not yet begun to dance about, creating shapes and shade, so I still couldn’t see his face. Tension, thick as smoke hang in the air. I freed myself from the embrace, rolling towards the shards of sun coming through the blinds.

“Ray, how long you been here?”

“. . .sometime after the ‘nigga get out’ and ‘I want you to stay.’ I was confused but I thought it was cool when you let me come to bed and pulled me in all close, like you do.”

I turned back to look at him and there was that smile. I saw it, even in darkness. He pinched my nipple.

“We need to talk.”

“fuck!” then, after collapsing on the mattress. “Gene, I thought we were done with this shit.”

“This shit?! You sit up here and use my love like a door mat, put my heart in the sole of your shoe and walked all over with it.”

“Its gotta be all that because I didn’t say ‘hi’ to you?”

“Yes!”

He held himself still, as if he were taking all the feeling in for the first time. My love was a strong man and silence usually meant that he had been stomped. I continued.

“How are we supposed to call this a ‘relationship’ when you can’t even stand the sight of me in the daytime?”

He sat still. Every few seconds a thought would come to him, but none seemed satisfactory enough to speak aloud.

“What do you want from me?”

“A ‘partna’. A ‘homies’. Ain’t that how you was talking in the beginning? You wanted to find a dude to kick it with. I didn’t know you just wanted someplace to drop your nut and leave.”

“Come on, bruh. . .”

“Nah, it’s the truth. You come over, we smoke, we fuck, we talk a little and you cut. Every time.” I sat straight up- the pieces of light now growing. “You don’t even know want your boys to know you know me at all. You just want a nigga to fuck when you want to get your dick wet.”

“Gene. . . I . . .”

“what?!” There was a familiar lump in my throat threatening to hold words hostage. My eyes were becoming wet. He stood up. I caught his slow walk to the bathroom from the corner of my eye- I needed to smoke. My fingers found the joint on the nightstand. Morning was doing her outside work from what I could hear. Small birds and big people crashed about. I inhaled and heard a deep sigh followed by the sound of piss come from the bathroom. Exhaled. Sun light and the small, floating, bits came I more fully. I saw Raymond as he was the day before- on the corner with two brothers.

Something moved inside of me, almost made me fall. The secrets of men are kept behind muscles and the telling of them usually instigates violence, but you cannot tell your heart to wait- to not beat at his sight. Approaching the boys heard one call me a ‘faggot’, the other laughed and Raymond made an uneasy smile. They had all known I was gay since high school. And I had known their secrets too- I had known the dungeons they entered and the darkness they sat in while they hunted for eager boys, desperate for love. I looked over to Ray- flashed a small smile, and waited . My pace felt slower. He backed away, clearing my path down the street. They laughed.

“That faggie you blood.” One said to Raymond. I couldn’t see his response. My back was to them by this point.

I took another pull from the joint. Kids were going to school. I could hear the younger ones going off- not yet met with the pain that comes with age. Raymond emerged from the bathroom. His face looked heavier than before. After a moment of sight and silence he came over to the bed and put his hand on my leg.

“I love you.”

“You’re lying. You can’t love someone you don’t know.”

I know you. I know what you like: all that old sad music that yo mama plays, Chinese food, reading Nikki Giovanni. I know you like me.” He was moving his hand towards my growing sex. “I know you boy.”

“No.” I said, closing my legs. I shifted away from towards the window. Anger pushed forth more violently: a raging bull. “You know your dick and what it wants and how it feels. You know that you got someone on a string that you can pla with whenever you’re in the mood to. And maybe that’s my fault and maybe. . .” tears. “. . . maybe I need to change that.”

“Cause you not happy.”

“I’m not.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want for us not to just be about joints and fucking. If you love me or care about me, I would want for us to be more to each other. I want a real relationship from you.”

“And you know that’s something I can’t give you, bruh. You know how niggas are how they trip. You want to find me laid out behind some store?”

“You don’t know how they’ll act. . .”

“I know what they like. I be with them all day. Stop telling me what things is like.”

Those words came out more violently than the others. His body tensed up and shook with anger all over. Usually the anger of men scared me. It conjured up thoughts of my father’s one- sided hands coming down on my face. This was different, Raymond shook with anger but there was also some sadness in there. His eyes became wet and began to speak to me and I saw him-probably for the first time.

“You act like I’m always trying to do you wrong, bruh but i’m not. I’m still here, not like whatever other nigga you had that came through, bust and left. I’m still here cause I love you. You got me and I want that. I want to tough you and be here with you and talk and fuck. I want to be with you, Gene. But you got to understand, we both men and that means something.”

“It means people are going to be ignorant. . .”

“It means e still got to survive in reality. This playin’ house ain’t cool with everybody and I don’t want shit happening to us.”

He paused, like he had found some thought and was turning it over before passing it on. He continued in a low tone- only looking up to me occasionally.

“I remember the sound of glass crashing, screaming and bodies hitting the floor. My father told us to stay in bed. Niggas was always being ghost’d or disappeared on my block. Always fighting. One boy got a problem with someone else he’d squad up and handle it. I remember a cat named Gary. He was a punk. Used to dress as tight and as bright as possible. And always mouthin’ off. One day Gary went  on this dboy named Vincent. I guess Gary was fed up with Vincent making fun of him and decided to step to. The whole block was probably watching when Gary switched over to Vincent and said ‘Listen I may enjoy taking some other man’s penis in me but I am nobody’s punk or faggot. Please know that’ Vincent laughed and ordered Gary out of the yard. When Gary didn’t move told one of his homies to get Gary out. Gary, without a second thought, spouted ‘ I’m the punk?! You the one too scared to stand to me and talk, bitch!’ Vincent struck thunder out of him. For a minute I thought someone took all the air out of the world. There stood Vincent like a tyrant- surveying over all the upturned tongues of his spectators and there lay Gary- made a mockery of. After sometime, Gary got up and ran from the yard. That night, in all the crashing, I heard Gary scream. It was a different scream- one people make in places of hopelessness. I heard him scream and beg to be left alone.”

Raymond was still- inside and out. I could tell that releasing that was exhausting for him. Part of me wanted to reach for him but decided against it. There was still too much anger between us.

“The next day my father took us to see Gary’s body. He wanted us to see ‘the dead faggot’. Gene, it was terrible. He was like a pile of pieces. His face was stretched out and the blood . . . there was blood everywhere. There were people everywhere, some crying, some laughing. My father spit in the direction of Gary’s body and we left. Gary stayed there for three hours, cooking in the sun, before the city came to get him off the ground.”

The blinds barely hid light anymore. Raymond was standing in the middle of the room- his entire face was soaked. I went to stand in front of him. My hand found his and I laid the joint in it.  His eyes were sad, big and lonely. Raymond had gone somewhere that I couldn’t follow.

“This here is about survival. I love you, Gene. I mean that like nothing else, but I also got to live. And for me that means some things are not for everybody to know.”

“Take a hit.”

He took a strong pull from the joint. I watched him be with himself for a moment- like the memories continued in waves, each more vibrant than the previous. By the time Raymond too his second hit, we were both sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“Maybe we don’t need to do this anymore, Gene. If you ain’t happy then I don’t want to keep doing this . . . neither one of us is happy.”

It was quiet. I was searching for a way to continue. Raymond’s emotion bleeding out took me by surprise.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. . . I’m sorry you saw that. Our parents don’t always do the right things. They working with what they got. I guess we got to figure out how to move through those memories.”

“C’mon bruh, don’t tell me how to feel. You always doing that.”

I sank.

“Im sorry, I just thought that . . .”

“Just let me talk sometimes. It feels like I cant do that.”

My hand found a place to rest on his lower back. I could feel my lover rocking in pain- in some place off where thoughts hold and keep you. He was bound to them. “Ray. . .” I spoke with no intention of creating an end to that sentence. The high made time move slower. The silence was becoming paramount.

“Raymond, I love you.” My eyes were wet already. “Shit. More than I should sometimes and it’s hard. It’s hard to love somebody that don’t exist. I can’t call you when I want, I can’t tell people that you make me smile, I can’t even hug you if I see you on the street. That hurts.”

He blinked. Let that sit within himself, then. “Why you care so much about that, bruh?”

“Cause this relationship cannot start and end in this room. Its like sweeping leaves on a windy day. Its pointless.”

He shook my hand off. “Whatchu mean?”

“I feel trapped. Same as you do in your skin- that’s how I feel in this relationship.”

Something inside me shook. He didn’t want to try and I was reaching that point where the sympathy you hold for a lover begins to fall away. Raymond sat bare- no pretense, false names or apologies and for the first time I truthfully didn’t want to deal with it. I had spent months waiting in a haze waiting for him to wake up and become apart of the fiction in my head. But he wouldn’t- he couldn’t. He took another pull from the joint and stood up. Fabric made small sweeps and a belt buckle smacked the floor- he was packing his things.

Ray made small steps, each one heavy with some intention. I felt him cast looks my way but I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. He walked over to pass the smoke and fell down on the bed beside me. I inhaled. Ray looked down. I felt bad for noticing how attractive he was. He’d always been beautiful. Before we knew one another, I had always thought about him- admired his deep skin, and strong jaw- the way the thickness of his brows gave his face life and how his full lips looked turned up in laughter. Whenever I would pass him on the street, I slowed down to listen- trying to catch enough of his voice to replay in my head later. As I laid back, looking at the ceiling, I felt his head lay on my stomach.

A year ago we were at a bus stop. I saw him coming across the street towards me and prepared myself for some kind of violence. For a while, he just stood at the stop, looking at me every once and a while. I felt his looks. They put me at ease cause I knew nothing harmful was coming- they felt hungry, like he wanted to devour me.

“Aye, um . . . aight this might be weird but I been watching you. I see you walking up and down the block with Marlon and them cats. And I uh. . .” he looked around real quick. “I think you look nice and like you got something going on that I might want to be apart of.”

“yea?”

“Like you want to do more than be around here for the rest of you life. I’m trying to get like that and uh . . .” He smacked his teeth in frustration. Words were hard for him. “you wanna hang out sometime? Maybe get something to eat?”

“Nigga?! What I look like, some faggot or something?!” I backed away. Raymond came as close to turning white as I believe he could. I laughed. “I’m playing.” He was still winded but chuckled. We laughed to each other till it became too obvious what we were doing. Raymond watched himself and backed up.
“What’s your name?”

“Raymond, what’s yours pa?”

“I’m Eugene. Nice to meet you Ray.”

There was a smile and a pause, neither of us knew how to continue.

“I was thinking, your bus might be coming soon but id like to see you again, can I do that?”

“I don’t know, that pick up line was a little. . .”

“C’mon bruh, I’m trying to see you.”

“Tell you what. Imma give you my number and you can call me tonight.”

“For real?” It was cute how happy he allowed himself to become. It usually didn’t happen with men. We learn to e hard and stay that way- occasionally letting out a little trembling- longing for more than that quiet that held us. I remember seeing his smile as the bus pulled off.

He called me later and we kinda talked. We paused a lot, trying to figure out what to say. He was new and I was scared. Holding a phone, heavier than any I had held before, rocking back and forth, I listened in close. Between small contained giggles he told me how he’d always seen me and wanted to talk to me. I couldn’t talk so much. The things I wanted to say stayed put in my stomach like weights was tied to them. So I just listened. Raymond went on about me, and trying to get into school, and other things. After about an hour he had to go. I tried very hard to play the game and seem unimpressed- I think that made his nervous ramblings go even longer but he made a mark. I was left swelling in my room.

“What’s going on in there, pa?”

I was back- Raymond now standing to pull his pants up.

“I was thinking about you and me at the bus stop that first day you talked to me.”

He smiled to himself, then openly.

“Don’t do that, we’re trying to break up, remember.”

Laughter. Then.

“Come here.” He’d said it soft and low on purpose. And then he was holding me, his eyes searching in mine. He let out a sigh.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t want to feel like this with you. I love you.”

“I love you too, Eugene. I want you to be happy. I want to make you happy as much as I can. Whatever that means.”

I looked at him. I felt his hands tremble as I held them. Something in me stirred but Raymond continued before I could speak it. “I’m done making you unhappy. So what do you need me to do? We cool? We gonna keep singing together or are we done? I wanna be cool with what you need.”

“I gotta be honest, Ray. I want you real bad. I want to be around you in all kinds of ways- not just when we fucking each other. And I think you do too, you’re just not in that space. And you shouldn’t feel bad about that. . .”

Tears were coming. My voice cracked and Raymond squeezed my hands a little tighter. I realized that I hadn’t been looking at him either. I saw his hands, over mine and then I found him. He was strong. His eyes still searching in mine- holding me- allowing me to continue.

“It just is what it is and we should be honest with that.”

He nodded, eyes still focused on men and then leaned in and kissed me on the lips. It was gentle, the same way he was the first time we kissed. And he squeezed my hands again, letting go as he backed up.

“ok, pa”

He talked more as he gathered his stuff. Kept assuring me that he was fine, occasionally he would pause, pain caught in his voice, and our eyes would meet and we would exhale together and nod.

The sun sat square on my back when he left- giving me a little warmth. I laughed nervously.

“see you at the bus stop.”

He didn’t really respond, just mumbled something that sounded like “yea” and stepped outside the door. He stopped, and leaned in to hug me. I hesitated for a second. There were eyes upon us and he, for once, couldn’t care less. I felt a wet kiss on my cheek.

“Se you round, Eugene.”

And he walked off. I watched his figure bounce down the hall, letting his wetness sit on my face. I thought I saw him look back once but it could’ve just been what I wanted to see. I said goodbye to him one more time, went back inside, and started to roll another joint.

end of act one. 

Fuck A Pill

Please read the following link before my thoughts:

http://www.latimes.com/health/la-na-fda-hiv-20120511,0,5295464.story

It is my honest belief that if they could, they would have us all on pills- each one more violent than the previous. The movings of medicine and healthcare in our society do not correlate with curing the sick, they do not contribute towards the undoing of our various ills. Quite the contrary, medicine (western medicine) exists to create more profit for those in control of the production- as do all things in Capitalism. The people find themselves caught up in confusion- somewhere between propaganda and independent thought.

The invention of a pill that will reduce the chances of contracting the HIV virus is not a Godsend- it is not a blessing. It is something rather sinister. Our paths towards this virus are varied, and come from multiple origins but it is hardly ever happenstance.  For me, there was a tremendous lack of self-love and sex education. Those two things combined with the great social alienation of queer men- the pressure to love in the dark, to only see one another as objects of flesh- led to my infection. For many (not all) I assume that the case is similar

What can a pill do to counter act that?  What can a pill do to heal the wounds of our alienation? What can a pill do other than generate capital and misery?

Our ancestors did not believe that the body had to be beat into submission to escape sickness. Non-western medicine does not seek to rip apart and destroy our insides in order to remove a disease or virus. These pills continue not only the war path against our selves but enforce the dissonance between our spirits and our bodies by completely removing our ability to be “in” our bodies. We are zombied masses.

And what of the people who do not have the virus who are considering the pill as a viable alternative to self care and protection … It seems that danger and self destruction is being dressed up as science. It saddens me to the core to think of the generations of folk who will look to this “medicine” as a way to side step the hurt and turmoil that makes us engage in reckless sexual behavior…

fuck a pill.

Untitled Bart Poem. . .

No one wants to live that way caught in the gears of labor and the spectre of whiteness. Mother is tired. Her hands are worn from the picking fields. Our labor has become more important than our humanity under the pretend gods standing over every used state.

We are here. Still divorced from ourselves turned against the sweeter thangs.

Places of Healing.

 

I wish my experiences with health care were not lived through the parameters of race, class and gender, but they are. I cannot conceive of hospitals and medicine without thinking about the thousands of African slaves brought to this country and worked to their bones. I cannot conceive of hospitals and medicine without thinking about the thousands of Black womyn who were involuntarily sterilized in this country. I cannot conceive of hospitals or medicine without seeing my grandfather – in his winter – lying on the couch, exhausted and in pain from chemotherapy. I cannot conceive of medicine or hospitals without noticing that the majority of HIV/Aids deaths (and infections) in this country are usually poor people of color who have little to no access to the medicine and precious knowledge that would save our lives. These experiences stay with me. They are apart of my very being and breathe as real as I do.

A few months ago when I was diagnosed with having the HIV virus (something I will formerly address on this blog later- but it is part of the reason why post have been so scattered), I immediately found that having to come into more direct contact with Western medicine was going to be a rehashing and analysis of trauma. Part of the mission of this blog is to express and explore the human experience from the perspective of a Queer, Black, Male bodied, Communist and that still holds true. I am excited to start a new chapter in the life of this blog- starting with this post. I hope it makes up for my long absence.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

“That’s a lot of trauma.”

The White doctor uttered as I sat in the chair giving him a rundown of my childhood. I suppose that I can be summed up in that manner: trauma. I also suppose that most of the people I grew up with can be assessed the same . . . But our lives are not merely death marches. People of color in this country have had to make beauty from the torn shards or poverty and destruction. And so it naturally follows that we would not solely view our lives as that. I may have grown up materially poor and dealt with the ills of drug abuse and domestic violence but I also knew about “love” and the movings of things not understood by White folks. In this case – as is most times the case when White folks seek to analyze experiences they have never had- cynicism is a White thing. Because that Doctor, in all of his knowledge and wisdom didn’t understand what Nikki Giovanni put so well in a poem: “Black love, is Black wealth.” Because of their privilege and materialistic socialization of Western thought, I would argue that White people have a harder time understanding the meaning of that quote because they see narratives of color as a doomed work of fiction- where there is little hope because of the poverty and inability of the people to move out of their social condition. (Never mind racist capitalism and the absurdity of pulling one’s self up by the bootstraps) I understand the trauma of my youth and the joy. I see them as the ongoing dialectic that has created me. I understand and love those experiences in order to make peace with them, so that when life’s great storms return I can better deal with them. I left the office horribly upset. It wasn’t until later that day, once I could process with a friend, that I realized how important race was in that situation. The doctor’s inability to connect with me on that spiritual point was an issue for me. With the HIV population growing in communities of color, there is also a rising need to have care providers that are of the communities they serve. I do not need to be under that White gaze while I am trying to figure out what is wrong with my body.

This is true of healthcare in general. People of color often have distrust for medicine in this county because of the historic underpinnings of the interactions had in the hospital. Black folks, in particular, have been the subject of experiments with drug vaccines, disease, eugenics, forced breeding, and other genetic manipulation. When you combine that with the fact that most people in this country cannot afford health care decent enough to see a doctor whenever necessary and the additional fact that the institutions of high education that give out credentials, to become licensed, are mostly White- then you have a pretty strong material reasoning to avoid/ distrust hospitals. Western medicine has given us little hope, despite the immense promise it holds when combined with a more holistic realm of thought.

Part of my communism, is believing in an alternative health system. The advancements of technology under capitalism are wondrous. The beauty of humanity is that we have become able to envision and see a world much larger than the one that currently exist- this applies to medicine and the science that is constantly pushing it forward.  The tragedy of capitalism and the mind/body dichotomy of the West is that we cannot see the full potential of our work because of the nature of the system. Capitalism is a system of waste and profit: it wastes our energy and planet in order the gain profit for the wealthy. Because the goal of these industries is capital then it makes no sense to cure disease or make medicine free because fully healthy workers could not be as easily exploited due to the fact that our minds and bodies would be stronger. We would be more able to struggle against our conditions. Western thought, in medicine, has led us to view our bodies as battlefields. Most medicine is designed to destroy the problem at all cost- meaning you might end with a more severe problem than you started with. One has to look no further that the barbarism of chemotherapy to see my point. I believe that this is because the West has never understood that treating the body requires spiritual health (by this I mean things like: being at ease with a doctor who understands you, having a peaceful home life, having meaningful relations with other humans) and a connection with nature. More and more research is finding that the biggest part of fighting the diseases we face is no more than changing our diet and pursing bliss. [that was overly simple but still truthful.]

And so, in my journey and in the service of communism, I see it as an important part of the project to share my narrative and examine the intersections of these life events as they (and I) evolve.It is important to reclaim the older knowledge from our ancestors as we move forward. Solutions to our problems will come from the combining of old wisdom and new thought. I apologize for my absence from this blog and promise to be more active. Here is to a new and powerful 2012, filled with health, life, and revolution! Luta continua!

“I remember the sounds of bombs. . .”

 

The following post is short and sweet. The Black Power Mixtapes stands as an important piece of film because of its revealing of precious revolutionary history. Angela Davis speaks in this clip about what violence is and how Black militants view the subject. She makes the essential point that we must understand what the term truly means. Is property destruction (breaking a Footlocker window) during political rebellions violence? Is fighting back against the fascist police violence? Is stealing from a corporate store violence? Davis answers “no”. These acts, which are usually so quickly pointed out by the liberals and conservatives as acts of deviance and destruction are reactions to a systemic injustice. They are reactions to the true violence of the society.

Black folk have been the subject of Capitalism’s dehumanizing violence from our initial encounters with the West. Violence is the ghetto, the slave trade, the police state, inadequate schools, the prison system, the courts, welfare, patriarchy, capitalism, racism, homophobia, unhealthy foods, a lack of nature in your surroundings, the demeaning and degrading of all that your culture admires, being trapped behind cement walls and green shades. Those things are violent acts. So when we talk about what violence is, it is important to remind ourselves of the entire picture. The entire scope.