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.

finding our father’s hearts

finding our father’s hearts. coming to understand them. seeking to wrap forgiveness around them. and still hold them in an honest embrace is the deep workings of feminism. undoing the patriarchy is hard and landing in a place that is healthy for self despite whatever violent communication is heartbreaking at times. for some this may mean leaving them on the curbside. for others this may mean reaching for hands unfamiliar. its all work. hard work. another lesson im being taught returning home. beyond the promises of “i will be better than him” that i made to myself there is small hope. i hope we can work towards one another someday.

“You Must Come In At The Door.” excepts from “Just Above My Head” by James Baldwin

my relations with father Baldwin are complex. of course the magnitude and wealth of his work serves like no other. But his contradiction around race (the focus on queer white men as objects of desire sometimes and the down playing of Black male intimacy) get to me. To be clear, we all have our contradictions and i love James Baldwin. But just as I love him at times and am “over him” others – the same goes for me and the people who love or observe me.

that aside, this book is like my Bible. It inspired my pen name and dozens of other meditations and reflections. This particular passage approaches queer Black male relations with an honest and prose that has yet to be matched for me. The reflection and introspection is amazing. From the act of giving head to the holding of one another- the navigation of space and flesh for us (Queer Black men) comes with many entanglements. He articulated them so well and from there, gave us some solutions, if we are willing to see and dream them.

well done brother.

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They curled into each other, spoon fashion, Arthur cradled by Crunch.

They did not sleep long. Arthur woke up, and peed in the sink, as quietly as possible. He ran water as quickly as possible. He lifted the shade and looked out the window. It was night, he had guessed it to be around nine or ten o’clock; thee were not as many people on the street as there would have been on a Saturday night in Harlem. most of the people were already inside some place, or they were on their way, and their voices, and their music muffled, filled the air, filled the room. He dropped the shade.

Crunch lay as he had left him. One arm was at his side, one arm lay stretched where Arthur had been. His breathing was deep and slow- yet Arthur sensed that Crunch was not entirely lost in sleep. Arthur crawled back into bed, pulling the covers back up. The moment he crawled back into bed, Crunch, still sleeping, pulled Arthur into his arms.

And yet, Crunch lay as one helpless. Arthur was incited by this helplessness, the willing helplessness of the body in his arms. He kissed Crunch, who moaned, but did not stir. He ran his hands up and down the long body. He seemed to discover the mystery of geography, of space and time, the lightning flash of tension between one- moment?  one breath and the next breath. The breathing in- the breathing out. The miracle of air, entering, and the chest rose: the miracle of air transformed into the miracle of breath, coming out, into your face, mixed with Pepsi-Cola, hamburgers, mustard, whatever was in the bowels: and the chest fell. He lay in this urgency for a while, terrified, and happy.

He held Crunch closer, running his fingers up and down the barely tactile complex telegraph system of the spine. His hans dated  to discover Crunch’s beautiful buttocks, his ass, his behind. He stroked the gift between his legs which held the present and the future. Their sex became rigid. Crunch growled, turned on his back, still holding Arthur.

Arthur moved, in Crunch’s arm, belly to belly, Pepsi-Cola, mustard, and onions and hamburgers and Crunch’s rising prick: Crunch moaned. Arthur knew something that he did not know he knew- he did not know that he knew that Crunch waited for Arthur’s lips at his neck, Arthur’s tongue at the nipples of his chest. Pepsi-Cola, mustard, hamburgers, ice cream, surrendered to funkier, unknown odors;  Crunch moaned again, surrendering, surrendering, as Arthur’s tongue descended Crunch’s long black self, down to the raging penis. He licked the underside of the penis, feeling it leap, and licked the balls. He was setting Crunch free- he was giving Crunch what he, somehow, knew that Crunch longed and feared to give him. He took the penis into his mouth, it moved, with the ease of satin, past his lips, into his throat. For a moment, he was terrified: what now? For the organ was hard and huge and throbbing. Crunch’s hands came down, but lightly on Arthur’s head, he began to thrust upward but carefully into Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur understood Crunch’s terror- the terror of someone in the water, being carried away from shore- and this terror, which was his own terror, soon caused him to gasp, to attempt to pull away. at the same time that he held on. His awareness of Crunch’s terror helped him to overcome his own. He had never done this before. In the same way he knew how Crunch feared to be despised- by him- he knew, too, the he, now, feared to be despised by Crunch.

Cocksucker.

Well. It was Crunch’s cock, and so he sucked it; with all the love that was in him and a moment came when he felt that love being trusted and returned. A moment came when he felt Crunch pass from a kind of terrified bewilderment into joy. A friendly, a joyful moment, began.

So high, you can’t get over him.

Sweat from Arthur’s forehead fell onto Crunch’s belly.

So low-and Crunch gasped as Arthur’s mouth left his prick standing in the cold, cold air, as Arthur’s tongue licked his sacred balls-you can’t get under him. It was as though, with this kiss, they were forever bound together. Crunch moaned, in an absolute agony, and Arthur went down again.

“Little fellow. Baby Love.”

You must come in at the door.

He held the prick in his mouth again, sensing, awaiting, the eruption. He, and he alone, had dragged it up from the depths of his lover.

“Oh Little fellow.”

Then shaking like an earthquake, “Oh my love. Oh love.”

Atlanta was still. The world was still. Nothing moved in the heavens.

“Oh Love”

Curious, the taste, it came, leaping, to the surface: of Crunch’s prick, of Arthur’s tongue, into Arthur’s mouth and throat. He was frightened but triumphant. He wanted to sing. The taste was volcanic. The taste, the aftermath, this anguish, and this joy had changed all taste forever. The bottom of his throat was sore, his lips were weary. Every time he swallowed, from here on, he would think of Crunch, and this thought made him smile as, slowly, now, and in a peculiar joy and panic, he allowed Crunch to pull him upward into his arms.

He dared to look into Crunch’s eyes. Crunch’s eyes were wet and deep, deep like a river and Arthur found that he was smiling peace like a river.

Arthur asked Crunch, “All right? do you feel alright?”

Crunch put Arthur’s head on his chest and ran one long hand up and down Arthur.

“You the most beautiful thing ever happen to me, baby,” he said. “Thats how I feel.” Then, “Thank you Arthur.”

“For what?” Arthur asked- teasing, bewildered, triumphant and – and safe in Crunch’s arms.

“For loving me,” Crunch said.

After a moment, he pulled up the covers. They went to sleep in spoon fashion, Arthur cradling Crunch.

“Just Above My Head”, James Baldwin (pgs 209-212)

land grabs.

i knew you’d be a nasty motherfucker.

one of the ones you bed

and break up with

only to- be made to suffer through

a river of pleas and insults.

hurt feelings

and things not completely turned over being thrown

as violently as our fathers threw fists.

 

as fast as our mothers covered up our queerness by playing up the need for every child to self express.

 

as deadly as the silence we fucked in.

 

I knew my number should have stayed mine.

knew you’d get mad

same as i knew showing interest in your life would get me in your pants.

 

i knew that we both were being unfair.

Both praying on emotion for ends left unsaid.

 

we are two Black men.

who are  predators of flesh in so many ways

and victims of a nervous condition

perpetrated on us

by a colonial power.

 

and when speaking, thats how it out to be told.

with truth laying on some part of it.

how you like me.

you like me submissive

like some bitch- open for use

a hole

to be bred and pumped

full of your cum and misery.

 

touching is for your own pleasure,

rights and permissions.

 

because i ,like the boys before me,

will suffer you, for now.

 

In our longing for shinning armor,

horse backs, candle light, dope dick,

and lips wet with emotion

there you stood- erect

with promises.

 

I am growing tired of once a month fucks,

forced embraces and half held “hi’s” preluding

“lemme see that ass”, “suck me”, “you like this dick?” and “roll over”

 

You like me submissive

because i am for you.

like i am for you.

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. 

Wings

Mama’s smile has wings

and her arms- warmth.

She’d make sure our water always had sugar and that the stench of poverty never sat on our clothes too unevenly.

She tried to build us with blocks of her own making-

Trust and confidence,

love and faith,

endurance,

strength,

pride and self worth.

Mama sat hiding crack pipes and upturned bottles

Throwing all the nasty bits behind the couch where she thought we didn’t see them.

Sending us floating on smiles.

Mama’s love set foreign standards on our project block

She meant it to carry on . . .

But you can’t make love real for another’s heart.

No more than you can stop the passing sands

And mama’s love can over carry over only so much into the world without her.

There comes a time where us got to find our own.

And grow in it for ourselves.

And you should never mistake the intimacy that comes at the start.

The feelings moving about between moist flesh

and the thoughts dancing about like wonder

The quiet on his face.

Id wish to reshape it-

the space, touch his face and rest.

But sometimes smiles can mean other thangs

and a kiss can be empty.

Love like there is in this world misleads.

Misinforms.

And mistreats.

Leaves you alone and believin’ friends to be lovers and lovers to be eternal

and so on and so on.

I found my love in my wash bason.

Clinging to dirt, reaching for me.

I took a rag and wrapped it.

Whispered to it.

Held it.

Read it for what it was and placed it down.

Talked it off the ledge it was on, in my room.

Amongst all the misfortune and patriarchy.

In my heart theres a space for hope to land.

Dig roots and lead.

And theres a place for my love to breathe.

Move past the manipulation and define itself for itself.

Something like a resolution came about as I went to sleep.

A promise to do better with ourselves.

To teach others how to treat us through how we treat ourselves.

To be able to stand to them and say:

“I am the somebody I want to love”

As If Bullets . . .

This post started out as a poem. It isn’t complete in any sense. It is, rather, a series of thoughts put together with a poem rounding it all out.

One of the most devastating and tragic effects of the human condition under Capitalism is the psychic dissonance erected in the souls of the working class. By this I mean that people are alienated from one another and themselves. My first boyfriend kissed as if bullets were coming through bedroom walls. When we touched it was like there was a profound fear and loneliness that needed desperately to heal. Our relationship was a closeted one and existed long before Oprah gave it the name “Down Low”, before the witch-hunt and the fire that came after that; the ways in which queer Black men became the scapegoats for all things AIDS related in the Black community.  That persecution and hatred was one of the many reasons why he and I chose not to come out.

As I develop my Feminist, Marxist, Black and Queer politics more, I see a large absence of analysis of Black men’s particular oppression under patriarchy. I don’t see anything beyond a paragraph or a sentence and I believe it to be crucial to the revolutionary project to analyze the ways in which men, in particular Black men, are raised as half formed humans.

When we talk about Black men’s oppression it is essential to discuss the ways in which patriarchy has shaped a destructive silhouette of manhood.  One of my most vivid childhood memories is of being punched in the chest routinely by my older uncles, not because I had done anything wrong but because that’s he way young boys were taught to be men. When we were stopped from crying it was a hardening; a training in being void of emotion. These scars carry into our adult lives, as we become fathers, lovers, and friends. Something as simple as saying “I love you” becomes an illusive and rare thing because of the immense vulnerability shown in the statement. A hug or a kiss, especially given to another man, is something not commonly given because these displays of emotion tear at the very foundation of our socially constructed manhood. Our male-ness is sheltered in by our hardness, and guided by our erections and fist. To be male means to dominate. This holds true for most men, but especially for men of color, whose identities are measured against their white male counterparts. And it is this mix of oppression and male privilege that makes non-white male’s existence so damaging. Men of color often times find themselves attempting to access a power that is never completely within reach and this creates a violent nervous condition within the communities we occupy. To be queer and Black was the ultimate betrayal to the race and gender. You are screaming against the wall of silence that surrounds Black sexual politics and divorcing yourself from a male identity that was built through the domination of womyn.

It would be easy to just dismiss men as “men” (this fixed evil creatures), but that would not be revolutionary or productive to anything other than out and out separatism and the abandoning of hope in the human species. Additionally, since we are talking about Black men here, my position as a Black male does not allow me to dismiss members of my race like this. Our shared racial oppression binds us; holds us together. Instead I want to build a politic that challenges men’s position under patriarchy while understanding their development as a part of the capitalist structure. We have to learn to be kind to one another in this way, to strive to understand.

When we begin to talk about queer Black men, in particular ones that are labeled “Down Low”, we are delving into a deeper level of socially constructed behavior. I want to look at two points really on this subject. Lets see if we can expand this narrative a bit.

“LOVE”: 

I would argue the capitalism teaches us that love is the stuff of co-dependency, annoying romantic comedies and monogamy- effectively destroying any true understanding of the word that could exist. In a way I’m saying that an idea such as true love is hard to understand and find in our current society.

In the case of Queer Black men and those labeled “down low” love finds itself struggling to find light. The common narrative is that a Black ma has a wife and leaves their bed at night seeking some high adrineline fuck by moonlight. Some time later the wife finds out that she has fallen prey to HIV/ Aids. Rarely do we ever unpack this and look at the men in these stories as fully human.

In a society where almost any love between men is vulgarized or unacceptable it becomes difficult to come to terms with the range of sexuality that we all possess. If we conceptualize male identity as one of power then homosexuality is an affront to that.

“MANHOOD”:

One of the largest and most violent arguments I had with him was when he told me to not “act like a faggot”. He wanted me to present myself like other boys our age so as not to incriminate himself and, in a way, to protect me from the harm that would come my way when people no longer tolerated my defection from gender norms.

In this instance we see how narrowly constructed and dangerous this idea of manhood is. For a Black boy who grows up with a little more switch in his hip, more sass in his speak, and more fabulousness in his genes life is a constant game of chess. Each movement must be deliberate or else. The violence with which flamboyance is met in oppressed communities is dis-heartening at times. This horizontal violence comes as no surprise, however. Often times, communities that are under attack from the larger society begin to police one another more harshly for difference and deviance from the prescribed norm.

So when we talk about the “down low” phenomenon or anything else in that vein, it is important to point out the material (and cultural) conditions surrounding actions. If there is a culture that violently socializes men in a manner that is incongruous without access the full range of human emotion, then we are setting up a situation in which we have people unable to be at peace within themselves. If men cannot access, understand, and express their essence then there is no way for them to do that with another person. Furthermore, in a culture that devalues femininity and builds the foundations of manhood in patriarchy there can never be a situation where men showing love to one another is completely acceptable.

As If Bullets. . .

I have been in the shadows with men

Known their loneliness

Kissed, held and touched it – tucked slightly behind their prostate

My first boyfriend kissed as though bullets were coming through bedroom walls

His narrow hips grinding against mine in the dark

hoping to communicate something that, if spoken, would mean suicide.

I remember the feeling of first laying my fleshy self down before him

Smelling him and listening to the command to remove more clothing

The way he felt around his shoulders.

The way his jaw line formed a perfect frame

The way he smiled when I found that spot on the back of his neck

I remember that knowing that came with pulling him in

Torn fabric and the faint sound of someone laughing

Around us, bawled up clothes, salted sheets, days when daddy didn’t show up and news clippings of attention worthy dead faggots formed mountains.

I’ve known how holding is dangerous and how men turn cold in an instance

How “cocksucker” stings and how he let them curse you

Cutting Words: Violence, Patriarchy, and Tracy Morgan

So Tracy Morgan hates gays and womyn, but I don’t want to demonize Tracy Morgan but I do want to have a dialogue.

Morgan recently joined the long and illustrious list of comedians, mostly men, who have decided to build their platform on hate. In a recent stand up act, Morgan went on what is being called a homophobic rant. An audience member reported the following:

“Mr. Morgan took it upon himself to mention about how he feels all this gay shit was crazy and that women are a gift from God and that “Born this Way” is bullshit, gay is a choice, and the reason he knows this is exactly because “God don’t make no mistakes” (referring to God not making someone gay cause that would be a mistake).

He said that there is no way a woman could love and have sexual desire for another woman, that’s just a woman pretending because she hates a fucking man.  He took time to visit the bullshit of this bullying stuff and informed us that the gays needed to quit being pussies and not be whining about something as insignificant as bullying.

He mentioned that gay was something kids learn from the media and programming, and that bullied kids should just bust some ass and beat those other little fuckers that bully them, not whine about it.  He said if his son that was gay he better come home and talk to him like a man and not [he mimicked a gay, high pitched voice] or he would pull out a knife and stab that little N (one word I refuse to use) to death.”

http://unicornbooty.com/2011/06/tracy-morgan-threatens-to-kill-his-son-if-gay-during-homophobic-tirade-onstage/

What saddens me most about this is not that Tracy, as an individual, stated the following but that it is a sentiment shared by many people. In a culture dominated by the male principle and guarded identities around “manhood”, men loving men becomes an act of high treason to the gender. The violence, of Morgan’s language and imagery serves as a sensory sweep, destabilizing me to the core. We exist in a world of suffering, all of which is important to observe, and the plight of queer youth is not something to be made fun of.

Last summer we saw the media give greater attention to the gay youth suicides and for a moment we saw this narrative in an unbiased light. For many young people who discover and begin to express their queer identities life becomes nothing but running in the streets screaming to be heard, covering your face as fist fly, or learning that no matter how much blanket you put on cement it is still cement, not a bed. Gay teens are thrown out of their homes, met with violence, and often times become sex workers as a means of coping with their crumbling existence.

Morgan’s “joke” about stabbing his son if he found out he was gay is not far from the truth lest we forget boys like Jason Mattison, who was raped, and stabbed repeatedly by a family friend and found in his aunt’s closet. It is not far from the truth when we talk about Jorge Steven Lopez Mercado who was decapitated, dismembered and burned to death. It is not far from the truth nor is it funny. And for those who would claim that Morgan’s words reflect a personal bias and not a societal problem, which is sanctioned by the state, I’d like to bring The New Jersey 4 back into the picture. Queers and womyn who seek to take their power back and fight against the violence of the society are often met with more violence from the state. Anyone remember Duanna Johnson? The trans-womyn who was beat senseless by the police upon being brought in the station.

My point in bringing up this small list of people, who have never found the end of their rainbows, is to illustrate that the society hates queers, no matter how much we see them on TV or enter into the upper echelons of the state and Morgan brings that to the forefront. It is a violence that is centered in patriarchal thought and plays out again and again and again.

This is not merely an issue of sensitivity- my abundance of it and his lack of it – this is about putting this issue in proper context. In a culture that centers itself in male dominance, thoughts like this aren’t blips on the radar; they are the radio waves that make up the radar system. Morgan also went on to a sexist tangent, blaming womyn for many of societies problems.

I think this underscores the connection between homophobia and sexist violence against womyn. Patriarchy is a system and thought that hates anything gendered feminine -seeks to degrade and subordinate it. Patriarchy is a system and thought that, though gender socialization, creates semi formed people, unable to access the whole range of human emotion.

I have hope though. Revolutionary seeds are being sewn everyday in every part of life. The other day I sat in a park and watched some young boys play football. One boy was aggressively tackled and began to cry. In less time than it took to tackle the boy, the others surrounded and began to ostracize the fallen one. One of the male chaperones came over and, to my surprise, took up for the young man’s tears. He told the group about his time in jail and his life after that and how tears are something normal in the human experience and not a sign of weakness. The masterstroke of the mini-lecture came when the chaperone told them that if Black men cried more in public a lot of our problems would be easier to solve.

What does this mean? Does it mean Black men’s tears hold some kind of magic? No, not at all. Not literally anyway. He meant that the ways in which men, Black men in this situation, have been socialized are damaging to us as human beings because we are being raised with a huge dissonance between our social selves and our emotional selves. We are being raised as half formed human beings and as a result we see that repression manifest in unhealthy ways; domestic violence, sexism, stress, mental wellness issues, etc . . .

I think that a lot of work has yet to be done and that Morgan’s quotes illuminate that. But I also think that we are capable of doing it. Here’s to a future of organizing and love. May all of our coals turn to diamonds.

Queers and Capitalism Part One: The Dialectics of Moving Towards A Larger Social Acceptance

“. . . the waters around you have grown “

I remember the first time I saw a B.Scott video. I sat in my freshman dorm and listened to this very flamboyant, very androgynous, bi-racial man rant and rave about Shemar Moore’s penis being exposed online. A moment like this sounds very mundane and trivial, but has profound meaning when placed into context. As a queer person it is very rare that I see myself reflected, even if it is slight, in media and this doubles when we’re talking about queer people of color, who are all but invisible in the culture. So when we see representations of ourselves it becomes something spiritual, something affirming, something that touches us and says: “you are worth attention and love.” The 7-minute rant did that for me. Move ahead 5 years and we get this . . .

The same B.Scott I knew and loved is now a bonified star complete with music videos, red carpet appearances and celebrity interviews. Looking at this very feminine, queer, man of color on the screen brings all kinds of questions to the surface for me:

“Has society come to a place where we can accept queers as people?”

“Does capitalism need homophobia (patriarchy) to exist?”

and “What does this mean for queer struggle and activism?”

I want to think out loud a bit about these things . . .

“Has society come to a place where we can accept queers as people?”

For someone like this and many other gay figures to come to such prominence in our time means that there is a large shift in society. Homo-life is a commodity now, something being placed onto the pedestal of consumer culture and devoured: your favorite pop singer has probably stolen swag from the ballroom, and there is a gay plotline on just about every show. In addition to that, more and more states are sanctioning some degree of union between gay couples and DADT is becoming smaller and smaller in the rear view. The state and big business are slowly adapting to a shift in public opinion. I believe that much of the work of 60’s queer activists to prove that gay culture was just as legitimate as others paved the way for certain aspects of the culture to take center stage in the way that they have thus influencing public consciousness. I also believe that the majority of this “gay is okay” push comes from capitalism’s understanding that it cannot afford for the queer population to be isolated in total from the whole of society.

I’ve always said that queer people represented a very particular threat to capitalism, especially in the United States, because of their positioning in the society. Queer folk prior to many of the movements of the 60’s and 70’s had little to no material connection to the American melting pot. And it can be argued that in certain communities of color the nature of queer oppression had a different character because of the fact that people found themselves already segregated and marginalized. Thus, many queers of color a.) Identified more with their racial caste and were kept in the embrace of their families because of their shared oppression and/or b.) weren’t given access into larger queer spaces because of the segregation.

However, I believe that the generalization can be made that queer folks challenged the stability of capitalism because of their status as people pushed outside of the nuclear family, which is one of the most basic oppressive structures of society and patriarchy. It becomes too dangerous to have pockets of the society that have no material attachment to it. It is also dangerous for capitalism to have spaces in which the development of such a critique can be developed and shared.

In addition, radical queer politics, much like feminism challenged many of the assumptions of the culture and capitalism. What does it mean for white supremacist hetero capitalism when the nuclear family, male/ female socialization and personal identity are challenged? Many older, less fabulous, leftists would say that it means nothing or very little because the means of production, the material ways in which capitalism operates, are not immediately being challenged. But they would be wrong on multiple fronts.  The challenging of patriarchal social relations not only means liberating womyn from unwaged labor but also brings the political and the personal together. Something desperately missing from a lot of movements of the past has been the revolutionary observation and transformation of gender identities. By this I mean, that feminism and anti-patriarchal ideology have never really been taken seriously by groups involving a straight male majority and that’s because it strikes at the most guarded and unchallenged of our identities; our gender. Feminist and queer movements of the past have sought to turn this on its head by placing an emphasis on personal development along these lines along with organizing in the workplace.

Slowly and subtly, queers have been brought into the fold. One interesting moment in this history was in the wake of the 60’s and 70’s, in the middle of the AIDS crisis-we saw thousands of gays –revolutionary or otherwise- pass away at epidemic levels. This crisis had varying effects on gay communities, some of which are relevant to this post and some aren’t. Something that is important to recognize is that the effect of the AIDS epidemic and the response to it not only left a vacuum of leadership in queer spaces but it also paved the way, in part, for queer struggle to be co-opted through the nonprofit industrial complex. This is important because we see a very distinct change in the character of queer activism around this time.  Friendlier, more passive things like quilt making and appealing to the state for sympathy became more prominent. A little later on, queers became more attached to the causes of DADT repeal and marriage rights, the latter can be understood partially in the context of having to watch loved ones die without any recourse or protection from their biological families. I would argue that this more identity based activism, and less aggressive stance in the mainstream, had a less alienating and more tolerance inducing effect on the some of the population.

So I think the boost in queer visibility can be attributed to a push and pull between forces. I think that movements against patriarchy and capitalism paved the way for aspects of oppressed peoples humanity (specifically queers here) to be accepted in the mainstream and capitalism, by it’s very nature and need to survive, adapted to this shift by exploiting and incorporating what it could.

“Does capitalism need homophobia (patriarchy) to exist?”

For me, a struggle against homophobia must mean one that addresses capitalism. I see my oppression as a Black, gay male as one whose roots are intrinsically linked with the beast of capitalism. In order for the power structure to maintain itself it needs to suppress certain parts of the population. Does this mean that we will never see wealthy gays? No, San Francisco is proof of that. However, it does mean that the majority of queer and trans folk, especially those of color, can bet that they will never be apart of the ruling class. The very nature of the society cannot allow for that. Queer folk, being a one of the more vulnerable parts of the population, find themselves subordinated into lower levels of the working class through homophobia or excluded entirely as seen in the case of trans folk. This strengthens the elite and their machinery because the horizontal violence (homophobia) maintains a division of labor and permanent caste position. We also see the building of a surplus army of labor (the unemployed) to be used against working people who may feel the need to challenge their abuse at the hands of the elite. Workers who seek to withhold their labor (strikes) until better conditions arise are quickly met with the leagues of unemployed folk who will scab (break the picket and replace the strikers) and that makes sense in a society where there is no space for the entirety of the population to work for a decent wage.

Also, just as in the case of race, socialized gender is a one of the pillars of capitalism. In using patriarchy as one of it’s stepping stones, capitalism has created the conditions under which it’s demise cannot come without attacking the gendered division of labor, homophobia, etc . . . This means that our ascension into the utter fabulousness of liberation means that gender, and capitalism must be destroyed because the destruction of such a poisonous ideology (patriarchy) would mean the crumbling of walls built between working people. The system needs us isolated into paranoid fractions.

“What does this mean for queer struggle and activism?”

It is in the best interest of capitalism to bring queers into the fold (through a very narrow, white supremacist, patriarchal view of course) the potential to expand capital through an exploitation of queer images and culture is vast. At the same time this gay assimilation dulls the blade of radical queer politics. Because capitalism’s veil of justice and equality is kept in place through the façade of acceptance and limitless upward mobility, embodied in the emerging queer ruling class, it becomes harder for queer militants to argue for the necessity of a revolution against capitalism itself. Reform to the system is popular when the connection between class oppression and patriarchy isn’t clear. If I believe that patriarchy is something completely separate from the otherwise redeemable capitalist world order then it makes no sense to seize the means of production as apart of liberation because my conceived liberation is tied to the eradication of an ideology within certain people and not connected to a material struggle against the bourgeoisie (the top 10% of people who own everything) to end the totality of oppression. Radical queers, in this historical moment, find themselves struggling to articulate the need for a queer struggle that includes a radical class analysis and positive program that reflects such. We must also win people away from bourgeois delusions like equality under capitalism.

I think it’s exciting to be alive right now, and to organize right now.  We have an opportunity to present a new proposition and deconstruct past failures with the intent of building a movement that can win.  For me, radical queer organizing looks like many things: the building of safe spaces where we can heal and build self determination, the challenging of straight and male privilege, and the inverting of gender roles with the intention to create the conditions where all beings can fully express themselves are a few of those. The incorporation ideas such as self-care, and consciousness raising around gendered dynamics are some others. The appropriation of queer identities by the mainstream has, in an unintentional way, given us the opportunity to observe and reflect on our organizing and position in struggle. It also has made the ground fertile to plant revolutionary seeds. More queers are out and engaging in some form of political activity than we’ve seen in a while. (Maybe ever, I would wager that the amount of queers campaigning for reform and the amount visibly/verbally opposing the reformist queers out numbers the activists of 40-50 years ago) And that means we have some work to do. We have some questions to pose. We have some ideas to raise. And we have some consciousness to change.