On acquiring white privilege

Many things can be said about the fact that a white guy can request $10 to make a sub-par potato salad for the first time and end up with $43,000 in under 24 hours. Numerous speculations can be made as to why our society feels more comfortable giving to this young man than to numerous other diverse causes and individuals of value who are also in need.

However, in lieu of a rant on the matter, I believe this urgent plea best sums up my personal assessment of the situation.

An excerpt from the appeal:
I am writing you today to ask that you assist me in acquiring some white privilege. Although I have layered oppressions that have affected my ability to access my slice of the American Pie™, no issue has affected me more readily than my lack of white privilege…I am hoping that, through this campaign, I will begin to make some headway towards closing the gap that white privilege has created in my life.

See the rest here.

On Father’s Day

Once, when we were much younger, my dad threatened to hang me and my siblings out the window by our toes and, much to his chagrin, we laughed. We laughed and laughed. The reason we laughed is because my dad is the least violent, most cuddly teddy bear-esque (though possibly the most shit-talkinest) black man I’ve ever met. I say “black man” specifically because it is important to note that as a black female-bodied individual, I have been subject to a large amount of physical violence at the hands of men and those men have always been black.

I know that’s supposed to be a secret. I am not supposed to be allowed to say that most of the violence my body has known comes from black men and I know why. I know what people think about black men — white people, other brown people, even black folks — hell sometimes even black men themselves believe the shit we tell them about black manhood. I know that I am supposed to be on their side; I am supposed to protect black men from a world that is terrified of them and I am supposed to do so by keeping their secrets. I am supposed to do so at the expense of my own body, my own life, and my own sister’s lives. It’s supposed to be a secret that people like me, like us, are often hurt the most by the people who have the greatest access to us, the folks we sometimes even rely on for safety. How could it be otherwise? In a world that seeks to destroy the black man at every turn, we are just about the only people who they have no cause to fear. Because of this, we sometimes have to live in fear of them, and that fear OF them often sits side-by-side with the fear of what may happen TO them.

It means a lot to me that my dad was so gentle as to inspire unending bouts of giggles when he threatened a bunch of elementary school-aged children. It was important that my dad is a black man and that I was not and am not afraid of him. It is important that there are so many black men, young and old that I am not scared of, in spite of the abuses of other black men. It is important because there are a lot of people who have maybe never even been harmed by a black man who are terrified enough to kill one because in their minds, black men aren’t my father, aren’t my brothers, aren’t my best friends and allies, but are instead some monolithic and brutally dangerous animal.

So for this father’s day, I want two things. First, I want all the non-black (especially white) people who read this, who fear black men, in your large and small ways, in your trauma and in your socialization, in your privilege and in your oppression, to remember that my father is also black and so are many father’s like him. I want you to think about why you’re afraid and I want you to ask yourself if all the black men you are afraid of are putting you in danger. I want you to try not to be afraid so that our fathers can be safe.

Second, I want all the black men who read this to know that this is not a betrayal. I am not responsible for the ways you have been pathologized; WE are not responsible for that. But you ARE responsible for every time you hurt us and every time you don’t stand up for us when we have been hurt. Keeping your secrets won’t save you and certainly won’t save us. However, maybe having more black men around like my dad could.

Happy Father’s Day.

little things

you said you’d be there for me next time
and next time is right now and you boarded that flight anyway
you said you would call me when you got off the plane
not like i was sitting by the phone or anything
and you said we’d talk about it before hand
but by the time you got back you’d already had sex with her twice

so don’t tell me that you’re going to clean the dishes after i cook if you don’t mean the pot that i scorched making the rice & peas
and then expect me to get up in the morning & make you grits with no clean pots
and don’t ask me what the fuck i’m yelling about like you don’t know

because every time i wear that slinky dress out, we’re not spending enough time together
and whenever that girl calls, you’re in the mood to cuddle
and i only feel distant on the days i’m not coming straight home after work

and when i cry alone in our bedroom nothing’s wrong
and when nothing’s wrong you sleep in your studio

and i haven’t touched you in weeks
since you weren’t in the mood anyway

and i want you out of my face
but you disappear for days

so let’s have a shouting match about who gets the last of the cereal

if you loved me i would probably end up killing myself on accident

if you loved me i would run headfirst into a brick wall with you
because when we link arms i believe in us so much that i don’t believe in the real world
and that wall is a cartoon wall in a movie set that will just tip over

…from the force of our love

if you loved me i would dance in traffic with you
because when your hand encircles my waist everywhere is just a field of daisies
and those honking car horns are merely a symphony playing a song

..to honor our love

if you loved me i would dive off a cliff with you
because when you take my hand firmly into yours my spirit is so light that i could fly
and we are merely diving into clouds which will create a soft fluffy cushion to break our fall

..into love

if you loved me i would spin in circles until i threw up with you
because when you kiss me the room starts spinning and i become light-headed
and we are simply spinning in the opposite direction to create an equilibrium so the room will be still enough

..for us to make love

if you loved me i would swallow live snakes whole
because when you touch me the army of butterflies fluttering on my insides makes me levitate
and i need the snakes to eat them so they don’t carry me away from you

..my love

if you loved me i would sit through a hurricane with you
because when we do it the whole world tumbles around in the sheets with us
and “a hurricane” is just what people who don’t know what’s going on call us

..making love

 

but you don’t love me
so i guess i’m safe

me for sale

take my hair
call it permed
call it textured
call it all natural fibers
make a perfect halo of loose curls on a high yellow model
take the kink out of every strand my gramma ever slid a hot comb over
make one product that will straighten it and another that will curl it back the right way
box it in cardboard and put it on the shelf
sell it back to me

take my mouth
call it pouty
call it collagen
call it exotic
make a humbly-sized lip coated in volumizing optical illusions
take out that evolutionary throwback quality that justified our subjugation
make an incision to bring them down to size and an injection to plump them back up
suck it into a tube and lay it under glass
sell it back to me

take my sound
call it a revival
call it rock
call it world music
make a commotion over the originality of blue-eyed soul idols redoing decades old black anthems
take the struggle out of all the melodies we ever moaned our passions over
make the lyrics about middle-class white today-isms that we can all relate to
record it on wax and slide it in a sleeve
sell it back to me

take my religion
call it spirituality
call it kwanzaa
call it paying homage
make a non-denominational altar in honor of all your favorite beliefs
take away my ancestors and erase the context of every deity we ever invoked and every shrine we ever knelt before
make the hallowed into fashion accessories and the rites into irrelevant pastimes
record it on parchment paper and bind it in leather
sell it back to me

take my skin
call it spray tanned
call it ethnic print
call it fake baked
make a complexion just dark enough that you don’t need no melanin to achieve it
take out that rough midnight that we lost our freedom over
make a cream that will bleach off that nasty history and a machine that will bake it back on clean
bottle it in a spray can and store it at room temperature
sell it back to me

sell the knock off
make it sparklier than me
have it be so good that the original just looks outdated
call me traditional
call me unprofessional
call me oppressed by my own culture
buy the rights to my existence
make it palatable for them
have the look so down that they think you invented it
you be creative
you be worldly
you be fashionable
in my brown skin

us.

us.

 

me.you

you.me

me.intriguing with rambling analogies to communicate the things that lie outside the boxes in which we often find ourselves confined while

you.using concise sureness so eloquently put, made the same thing sound like verse,
engaging

me.so we met and drank of each others concepts and philosophies and ate of salad because

you.where a vegetarian and, now inebriated off of those libations, with no particular intentions invited

me.better looking standing here than i ever did seem in those photos, to come see
you.better looking outside of that shirt than you ever did seem in it, laid down next to

me.skin soft like the parts of me tucked away under the bravado that you saw through else would i be here with

you.for whom comfortable was a word forgotten until you asked to drape your arm across my waist meaninglessly and yet so relevant to

me.melting into that gently heaving chest like the cocoa butter you smelled of, i belonged here and didn’t realize it until

you.impressed at how easy this piece fit into your puzzle, drew attention to how much i drew you to me and how much i drew you to attention and who would have guessed that

we.tumbled through the sheets like an mudslide and nobody can do anything but get out of the way watch their house fall down under the pressure of

us.equally as passionate about our people, our country and our be bop, and

we.don’t stop just like hip hop and neither do our arguments until things get dizzy, miles and brubeck who i also put you onto and you wrote love poems about

us.set to cool jazz for when we chilled and hid the ones from when it got heated from

me.falling uncontrollably like precipitation into love with

you.yet still clearly a storm but there were dry spells because you loved me and listened to

me.and i heard you too until the thunder came and then it seemed i was fighting for us alone because

you.stopped carrying an umbrella but somehow managed to stay dryer than

me.too tangled up in our kinks to pick up on that far away look recently acquired by

you.like you had something on your mind but just not

me.you

you.her.

On (not) being trans

nonbinary

i’m not trans

i’m not trans because i don’t want to talk to you about it
because i’ll wear a dress to your wedding, i promise won’t embarrass you in front of your fiancée’s family
because i was so surprised to hear that you just want me to be happy loving whoever i want to love that i don’t want to fuck it up
because i’m not going to sit here and explain non-binary gender to a woman who has stared back blankly at every accomplishment and trauma i’ve had for the last 29 years

i’m not trans because my identity is intersectional
because i’m not white
because i don’t have access
because by the time i found out what ftm stood for, female-bodied was already outdated and i couldn’t figure out if i was supposed to be cafab or dfab

i’m not trans because i’m not a man
because i’m a fucking faggot
because a transman called me ma’am last night
because my preferred gender pronouns are plural and i don’t know how to make that make sense

i’m not trans because my body isn’t wrong in the right ways
because i don’t hate my breasts until i’m trying to put on a button down
because they don’t make the type of body i’d be comfortable in
because i have triple d’s and a full goatee without surgery or hormone injections and i hate them both equally

i’m not trans because i’m not here for your love conditional, post-racial, binary, one-size-fits all assessments of my gender
and i don’t need to explain myself to you

- The Colored Fountain

On lemons

You’ve heard it said that if life gives you lemons you should make lemonade. But this saying relies on the assumption that everyone is given something. To all those who weren’t given anything and still made something out of nothing, your strength is your beauty…Happy Women’s History Month.

On why I boycotted black history month

martin

I was strongly considering not writing anything on black history this month. I’m anti-Black History Month and find that its celebration generally serves to reinforce the miseducation of black youth that is perpetuated year-round in the American education system. Below, I attempt to explain how:

When black children are taught our histories in the American public school system, we are taught that historically black people were “just” slaves. We are taught that there are centuries of history where whiteness is doing all the things that humans do, building civilizations and commerce, establishing scientific law, creating art and philosophy, and our history, black history, begins with “just” slavery. Additionally, we learn that, were it not for this benevolent whiteness that would eventually spread across America and save us, we would have stayed poor unfortunate slaves.

On poor unfortunate slaves: Since our lineage begins at slavery, we are rarely, if ever, shown any proof of what blacks can accomplish outside of the influence whiteness. Our whole history is of white folks instructing us on what to do and how to be in every area from skilled trades, to language, to behavior, to spirituality. It is as if we were just these animalistic creatures wandering bison-like through the lush fields of Africa the Country™ until whiteness gathered us up and taught us how to be people. That sentiment doesn’t seem to have gone away, with even the best of “good” whiteness believing we just need more training & saving (see: “at-risk youth” programs**, voluntourism in Africa the Country™, and the American food justice movement***)

On history beginning at slavery: Speaking of lineage, teaching black folks nothing about our ancestors’ existence prior to slavery makes it far easier for us to believe that we haven’t accomplished anything as a group. This combined with the smattering of post-slavery black inventors that we are given to review during black history month leads us to believe that black ingenuity is a rare moment, occurring only in the most singular individuals, who are usually only building upon what whiteness has already accomplished. Pre-slavery innovations and the diverse cultures that made them are left out of white history completely or are degraded; after all how valuable of a culture can you have if you sold each other into slavery and/or were powerless, uncivilized, and unintelligent enough to be captured like animals?

The worst result of this truncated lesson is not even our sometimes lifelong ignorance of our origins, but the fact that when we finally do research our roots, we are looking at them through a lens of whiteness. We disregard the rich tribal pasts of the west African peoples most black Americans actually hail from in favor of tales of more prominent African empires like Nubia and Egypt because we need our Africa to be impressive in relation to the kingdom of whiteness. The lives, culture, spiritual practices and deities of out actual ancestors aren’t as important as proving that Africans, and by extension black Americans, are just as important, just as clever, and just as powerful as whites. The only problem is, we have already relinquished our power by letting whiteness decide what power looks like for us.

Furthermore, we feel content to know anything at all about Africa, because it’s all one place for white America and by extension, many of us. We apply all of their/our stereotypes to entire continent & we apply any history we learn to the entire continent, and by extension, to ourselves. In the end we’re left with a hodge-podge of languages, religions, histories, and colloquialisms to slap together into our identity (see: Kwanzaa) but little to no real connection with modern-day Africa or the billion-plus people occupying it’s 56 countries.

On “just” slavery: However, the degradation of our slave history in itself is a travesty as it completely disregards that slave labor built the United States & many other nations besides. The free forced labor of black bodies enabled America to become an international superpower in an incredibly short amount of time compared to similarly successful nations. Money from the slave trade made fledgling financial institutions (like Bank of America, Wells Fargo and JP Morgan Chase) into multi-million dollar conglomerates, funded this nations government buildings still in use today and constructed by black hands, created cities that draw people from all corners of the world, and supported America’s entire system of agricultural production, which was the cornerstone of the U.S. economy. Black slaves not only fed the nation but also, very literally, nursed each of the members of the most powerful white families from our breasts. The 1% lives because we lived. This is our country. It seems that the only work that white America did to make this country what it is involves figuring out new ways to control black people.

On the white savior complex: Allegedly, white folks eventually saved black slaves from the evils of slavery. Not all white folks of course, but the “good” white folks*. At any rate, we have been saved and there is this prevailing sentiment that we are this poor sniveling thankless being. How can we complain about whiteness when whiteness saved us?

It’s as though our freedom wasn’t simply a casualty of a war about something else (namely the south over-compensating for their dwindling power owing to a rapidly urbanizing north by seceding from the union).

It’s as though this can’t be a “both and” situation instead of “either or”. As if we conveniently don’t remember the very same people who allegedly fought for our freedom would later not want us living in their neighborhoods, or going to their schools, or working beside them.

Or even drinking water from the same spout they drank water from.

But as we know, this same savior would later give us a Black History Month but then refuse to explain why black history wasn’t just incorporated into the curriculum the rest of the year.

- The Colored Fountain

*I think this historic mental monument whites have erected in their hearts to commemorate the goodness of this historic (and fictitious) white savior is what makes them so eager to remind us that not all whites are bad. If they can somehow link themselves to these good whites, they can more readily absolve themselves of the guilt of their ancestors’ history of violence against us.

**The “at risk” label is bullshit in the way that it labels & stigmatizes youth in lieu of the system that leaves them in danger. More on that in a future essay.

***I have things (so many things) to say about the food justice movement in another essay as well, for those interested in an elaboration.

On respectability

A co-worker recently old me that she moved to a rough neighborhood in Brooklyn, not realizing that it was a neighborhood I’d been raised in and still go to regularly to do community work. I was confused because the neighborhood never read rough to me and I wanted to know what was happening to terrify her so. She said she was forced to run home from the subway station because of all the random black men (her neighbors) just standing around at night. I always thought a street full of people at night was a great way to make it home without getting robbed or assaulted because of a thing I like to call community-accountability. Criminals don’t tend to want to get seen by a street full of witnesses.

Some black people go to college, speak “proper” English, listen to things other than gangster rap, and wear pants that fasten securely at waist height. But that 16-year-old black girl talking too loud on her cell phone on the bus with her baby on her lap doesn’t deserve your racist crap either. Neither does the black guy who is sitting on his (your?) stoop at 11pm drinking a 40 with his boxers partly exposed.

There is nothing inherently dangerous about having a loud mouth & tacky fashion sense or drinking a comically oversized beer after work. And not raising children as a teenager is a relatively new and bourgeoisie concept too. My grandmother had her first child at 18 or 19 (she was married but don’t get me started about marriage). So the real issue with these “bad” neighborhoods where these folks live isn’t the deviant behavior of the residents, it’s the fact that bigots tend to be terrified by anyone that isn’t like them.

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