Queer Rebels Illuminate Our QPOC Present with Their ANCIENT FUTURES

feature image is a still from “Land” by Lares Feliciano

It hadn’t been an easy year. Fall followed a blistered summer, where I was broker than ever and drunk on the beach. The summer heat sweated out of a fevered spring full of recklessness and self-abandon. I gnawed away at the roots of myself. The spring had come after the worst of it: in the blinding depths of the endless winter, I thought I would disappear, maybe for good.

Something I had believed in no longer was, and I couldn’t move past it. Nobody likes a breakup. But I had to move past it, with or without the help of the community I had found and lost.

The entire day while I waited to leave for Queer Rebels’ ANCIENT FUTURE, I felt the distinct presence of terror inside me, despite having seen them multiple times before. I wasn’t just going to see films that night, I was going to see fucking everyone at this show, whether or not I was ready for it. I just couldn’t do it, but I had to. 

MIX NYC is a really special thing for queers in Brooklyn. It’s a week-long experimental film showcase that takes place inside a giant art installation, which more often than not features something gauzy and womb-like. There are parties every night. People wake up at the Mix Hive. It’s fucking magic, and for many queer people of color, the Queer Rebels night is the best of it all. I had to go.

Queer Rebels directors Celeste Chan (left) and KB Boyce (right) 

Founded in 2008, the Queer Rebels are a West Coast dynamic duo made up of performance artist KB Boyce and visual artist Celeste Chan. They showcase queer artists of color with an emphasis on intergenerational artistic legacy. Their selection this year was titled the ANCIENT FUTURE.

Drawing inspiration from the ancestors and projecting it into a future where we’ll live forever, the Queer Rebels curated a selection of nine short films that ranged from a full-moon escape through the Iranian desert to psychedelic music videos featuring women of color and back to an abstract contemplation of apocalypse vs. rebirth. ANCIENT FUTUREs revolves around the idea that the future is not only ours to inherit, but ours to create. 

In the East Coast premiere of their collection, the Queer Rebels quote the late José Esteban Muñoz, whose work on queer futurity is some of the most groundbreaking, boundary-pushing, comprehensive work on the subject to date. In his introduction to Cruising Utopia, he says, “We must dream and enact new and better pleasures, other ways of being in the world, and ultimately new worlds. Queerness is that thing that lets us feel that this world is not enough, that indeed something is missing.” But what is it that’s missing? That’s what we’re asked to sit with as the lights go low and the films begin.

Forming and finding community can be terrifying, especially for those of us with multiple intersecting identities. There’s a lot at stake — so much to gain but just as much to lose. And so there’s a special feeling for being rejected by people who claim to be a part of you, and you a part of them. In white queer communities, I felt unseen. In this queer community of color, I felt seen but unheard. I felt that community had been discovered, claimed, conquered, owned. A new social hierarchy had arisen, and we called it separatism. A line had been drawn around it, a skyscraping metropolis built in the center, and I was on the outskirts, alone, pressed against the barbed border, not good enough, not brown enough, quiet again. In biological families, we are not bound by blood; in QPOC identities, we are not bound by flesh. Shared identities do not make us one. At best, they make us “other,” together. And that’s where we were then. Was this community? Is this what was missing? I sat in the audience, surrounded by strangers or friends.

Still from “Keep It In, Keep It Out” by Wizard Apprentice

In ANCIENT FUTUREs, we see queers shaping their own realities. It’s a vulnerable moment to have in such a public place. It is anxiety-inducing and paralyzing. It is exhilarating, rewarding, life-giving, but in the end, it is a risk. In the feature’s two music videos, “Keep It In, Keep It Out” and  “Molten Tea,” the creators, Wizard Apprentice and Laura Kim, respectively, not only dare to thrust their images into the glitched-out futurescape, they replicate these images over and over again, populating the scenery with infinite visions of themselves, a far cry from POC erasure everywhere else. This is the queer future. We’re not waiting for it, we’re building it. It’s already here in the ways that we dream. I grew more comfortable in my seat. I was scared, but I wasn’t alone. I couldn’t forget that I had come with the people I loved and who loved me, even if that love was nearly impossible to accept in this last long year.

In Lares Feliciano’s “Land,” the narrators are forsaking their claim over the planet, traversing the desert alone, and abandoning the worlds that have tried so hard to erase them. It’s a different kind of separatism, one that relies less on exclusion and more on agency. It’s solitude as a choice, an escape from a colonized planet, a fresh start with the land. Is this a future that we’re allowed to imagine? And if not, what’s holding us back? It’s not that hard to see what’s stopping us. 

This world was not built for our survival. As queer people of color, we hardly see ourselves in visions of the future. We’re disappeared from TV, movies, even books — replaced with glowing white bodies. We see images of mankind traveling across galaxies, traversing space and time, forging interstellar imperial war on planets with seven moons, rivers of molten steel, flowers that grow in the absence of water, and somehow, no brown people. 

Still from “Land” by Lares Feliciano

Michael Chabon has an essay about this giant clock that Brian Eno is building where he claims that the future is no longer something that we worry about, that we spend creative time envisioning, that we insist on. The future, he claims, is a concept that we no longer consider. But don’t we? There are two big reasons why you’d never consider the future: because you’ve always taken it for granted, or because it was never promised you to begin with. ANCIENT FUTURE hits that concept hard and doesn’t attempt to put forth an answer. That’s our job. 

In “Finding Home,” Celeste Chan bears witness to a painful histories, stories that would be fully and aggressively wiped from our minds, classrooms, and consciousness were it not for our elders who remained to tell the tales. We see the risks that other queers have had to take to ensure that we can live, even if we continue to struggle. For many of us, the world is unkind. So little is promised to us, not wealth, not safety, not a home, not soundness of mind, and certainly not the future. This is a queer inheritance. But fortunately so is resistance. Believing deeply in a future when yours is threatened is an act of resistance. Not just any future with a house and a job and a marriage, but a future that’s something radically different. 

ANCIENT FUTUREs closes with “We Are Mangoes,” by Jeepneys and Low Leaf, depicting a celebratory dance that transcends space and time. We find our two protagonists reveling in a vivid abundance of wildlife and in the company of each other, eventually donning masks that are not for hiding but for exploring an infinite number of identities that are not only imagined but actualized. 

By the time the lights came up, I remembered how much I wasn’t alone. In that blinding endless winter where I thought I would disappear, I didn’t. I had survived it, and I hadn’t survived it alone. My people, queers of color, were out in the world manipulating film, video, colors and distorted sound to project possibility into the atmosphere, to plant visions of the future into the chests and hearts of all us watching. In Muñoz’s work, I read about the concepts of the not-yet-here, the things that were to become, the possibilities being built on our very survival. In his work and in the work of queer filmmakers at MixFest, I saw the something that I didn’t realize was missing: the future.

Still from “We Are Mangoes” by Jeepneys and Lowleaf

In ANCIENT FUTURE, not very much is shocking or spectacular or inconceivable: it’s much, much better than that. It’s familiar. What we see is beautiful in its familiarity because we engage in these imaginations every day. We see the risks that other queers have had to take to ensure that we can live, even if we continue to struggle. The not-so-ancient wisdom of our ancestors’ survival builds every moment of our present, and in this present, we are gifted, we are magic — we don’t just see the future, we make it. 

Want more Queer Rebels? They’ve just been invited to present ANCIENT FUTURE at the first ever OUTsider Festival in Austin, TX from February 18-22.

On May 28-29, they’ll be launching another first, the Queer Rebels Fest. The event will consist of two days of performance, films, and multidisciplinary arts by queer and trans artists of color. The theme is “connection,” where they and several other artists will be looking at spaces of tension and solidary between and amongst communities of color. 

Stay tuned by checking out their Facebook page!

Featured in ANCIENT FUTURE:

Desert Lullabies (Monely Soltani, USA, 2014, video, color, sound, 15:00). 

Keep it in, Keep it Out (Wizard Apprentice, USA, 2014, 2:00, video, color, sound).

Land (Lares Feliciano, USA, 2011, video, color, sound, 5:49)

Words of Sonny (MOON RAY RA/KB Boyce, USA, 2014, video, color, sound, 3:25)

Finding Home (Celeste Chan, USA, 2014, video, color, sound, 3:25)

We Come from Earth, We Come from Space (Black Salt Collective, USA, 2014, video, color, sound, 8:37)

Molten Tea (Laura Kim, USA, 2014, video, color, sound, 3:30)

ABSENCE: no fats, no femmes, no Asians (Celeste Chan, USA, 2014, video, color,

sound, 7:17) 

We are Mangos (Jeepneys and Low Leaf, USA, 2014, video, color, sound, 4:22)

Marching Toward Tomorrow with Trayvon on Our Minds

feature image copyright Kyoko Takenaka 2013

Photo Copyright Kyoko Takenaka 2013

A gathering of hundreds turned into a march of thousands Sunday in New York City, where there was a mass gathering in Union Square to rally against Saturday’s verdict in the Zimmerman trial.

George Zimmerman, as all we know by now, was found not guilty for the murder of 17-year-old Trayvon Martin. Martin was unarmed and alone when he was shot in the chest by Zimmerman in February 2012 in Sanford, Florida. Although many are rightfully appalled by the verdict, few who have encountered or observed this country’s (in)justice system can truly consider themselves shocked. In a nation whose pre-eminence relies on the fragile balance between White Supremacy and mass complacency towards it and calls that balance “justice,” it should come as no great surprise when Black bodies are disregarded as valid.

If indeed, America’s dominance relies on that delicate balance, it’s safe to say that Sunday, we began to tip the scales. I have yet to find truly accurate or consistent numbers that reflect the turnout of the march, so for now let’s leave it at “enough to shut down Times Square.” Protestors took the streets at about 6:30pm for an un-permitted march that snaked through the streets, weaving through cars, buses, and trucks, soliciting support from drivers, tourists, and residents, some of whom left their posts on the sidewalks to join the thousands. A little before 9, the march entered Times Square, rallying around various speakers posted on tables, mailboxes, and lamp posts, holding the space until 9:30 when the crowd began to dwindle.

Exhausted after three hours of marching, many headed home, while a few hundred marched on to Harlem – the entire marched covered upwards of 100 blocks – almost six miles over the course of 12 hours.

Photo Copyright Kyoko Takenaka 2013

The protest was entirely nonviolent, except of course for the part of the NYPD, who stalked participants through the Upper East Side, pepper spraying a woman (who went on to rejoin the march) on Lexington and making about a dozen arrests.

While this action was scheduled in direct response to the acquittal of Trayvon Martin’s murderer, this mass movement was of course provoked by much, much more. In a gathering of thousands, we found a reflection of ourselves. In a demonstration that encompassed a stronger, vaster presence than we ever could have imagined, we found a physical manifestation of our private grief, fear, sorrow, and rage.

Photo Copyright Kyoko Takenaka 2013

We walked through our city full of fury because the verdict of the Zimmerman trial gave us evidence of what we always knew: that that some lives were not meant for this system, or rather, this system was simply not meant to protect certain lives. We knew always some are more valuable than others, that our justice system is a painful misnomer, that many of us – especially those who are young and Black – are unsafe in our own homes.

But we know something now that we didn’t always know before: we are not alone.

Katrina is the newest editor for {Young}ist. You can follow them on Twitter @KCDanger.

Originally published on {Young}ist.org. Republished with permission.

Joy and Rage: Why the Fight for Queer Equality Doesn’t End with Marriage

This Wednesday the Supreme Court overturned the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA), so now we have to talk about it. DOMA was instated in 1996 under President Bill Clinton, and now 13 years later, it’s gone.

This, of course, has been a momentous week in American politics. The Supreme Court, being the showy queens that they are, save the best for last for each season that they’re in session, and this time around they made some decisions that will weigh on their legacy of human rights and change the immediate realities of millions across the country.

Human rights, of course, mean much more than gay rights, despite what the genius branding of the Human Rights Campaign would lead one to believe. Human rights are civil rights, a concept most strongly associated in America with the Black struggle for racial equality in the 1950s and 60s. In 1965, the Voting Rights Act was passed, which at the time was a landmark case that outlawed discriminatory practices that systematically prevented Black Americans from voting. Up until that point, this blockage from voting was one of many institutions that perpetuated the disenfranchisement of Black bodies and lives. Voting confirmed, at the very least, that they were participating citizens of this country, and that could not be taken away, no matter hostile the climate may still have been. The Supreme Court gutted this historic bill on Tuesday. DOMA was defeated on Wednesday.

Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera know what’s up with intersectionality, marching for the Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries (STAR) at 1973 Christopher Street Liberation Day March.

What does this have to do with gay rights? Well, nothing explicitly. The cruel juxtaposition of the two decisions is what’s most startling. We may call it progress when one historically oppressed group gains unprecedented rights, but what do we call it when another group simultaneously loses theirs after decades of brutal struggle? Furthermore, how do we begin to understand the total cognitive dissonance that begins to settle in when we realize that these groups are not mutually exclusive? There are now Black and Latino voters in “our community” who are not voters anymore. Their marriages may be recognized in the eyes of the state (if they are married under very specific circumstances), but suddenly their votes are not.

The idea seems to be to divide and conquer. Oppressed groups can’t gain true power in this country without each other. They may be placated with wins throughout history, but as we’ve just been shown, these wins can be taken back at any time, given the right context, political climate, and national culture that is taking place at any given historical moment. The act itself seems to be one of hypocrisy toward the idea of human or civil rights. Rights mean that we are entitled to them, that we are born with them, that we do not have to earn them, that they are irrevocable because they are our given fucking rights, and we have them because we’re human. At the very least, we have them because we’re citizens. Now we know that’s not the case, and we should keep that in mind before we get too distracted with this victory.

LEST WE FORGET THAT ONE TIME WITH THE AIDS CRISIS

But can’t we just be happy for marriage for just one minute? Well, I think it’s fair to say that we have been, and I think it’s unfair to say that we can’t continue to be, even while remaining critical of the institution that enabled this freedom.

After all, it is the same institution that revoked it in the first place.

The frustration on all sides isn’t new. There’s this thing that happens on the left where you start a movement with huge blanket causes. It gains momentum and a large following, and with that large following, inevitably garners criticism. Your movement isn’t inclusive enough. Where are the people of color? Where are the queers? Where are the women? All too often, these questions are seen as “holding the movement back,” to which I say:

You’re damn fucking right. Because the struggles of queer and trans* people are no less important than the struggles of gay people, and if they move forward without us, they are not moving forward at all.

There are, of course very practical, very immediate, and very much deserved upsides to marriage. This is now especially true for binational couples, as laid out here by Immigration Equality. Married couples enjoy tax breaks, hospital visitation rights, and shared healthcare. Through marriage, individuals who are U.S. citizens could sponsor their partners for citizenship. It’s also worth noting that this is could be the second institutional channel recently opened to queer people. Under the Immigration and Nationality Act, members of the U.S. military also have a streamlined naturalization process, giving undocumented people – yes, even queers – the same opportunities to endanger their lives in exchange for access to basic human protections within this country’s borders.

For some people, this is more than just a theoretical argument or a symbolic stride, it’s a day-to-day reality. These are people’s lives. For some people, marriage matters. Increased access to resources matters. Being able to treat your partner as your partner – not just as a stranger – in the eyes of the law, that matters. And so celebrating a victory which might allow them greater access to those resources and rights is totally appropriate. But our power as citizens is what enables us to win these victories, and so by the same token, our celebrating should be done with the knowledge that many peoples’ power to effect more changes like this has been stripped away.

Is this indicative of a deeply flawed system in which couples may only gain access to healthcare, tax cuts, citizenship opportunities, and legitimacy of their own relationships through an institution supported by a government that refused to act on AIDS, that mandates policing of our bodies, that puts us under surveillance if we step out-of-bounds (or really even if we don’t), and that passed DOMA in 1996 “to reflect and honor… collective moral judgment and to express moral disapproval of homosexuality”? Well, yes. But that’s why the fight doesn’t end with marriage.

We won this past Wednesday. Well, at least some of us did. So celebrate, because you have the right to do that, and maybe now you have a future that you could have never imagined before. That’s something to celebrate. And then think about what it could mean to be an ally to those who may not have benefitted from this victory that changed your life. How can those living on the margins of the queer community expect to win their rights to dignity without the allyship of those who have greater privilege?

As Mia McKenzie of Black Girl Dangerous said yesterday in “Calling in a Queer Debt: On DOMA, the VRA, and The Perfect Opportunity”, this time is about action. She points out something that many people know but few people really, truly internalize – that you can be queer and something else. And that many, many of us are:

“Will you make room in your agenda for the rest of us? Those of us who are queer and black, trans* and Chicano, intersex and South Asian, and Two-Spirit? Will you speak up for us, while the cameras roll? Will you speak up for all the people in this country whose rights are being taken away while yours are being increased? Or will you be silent? It is not enough to acknowledge your privilege. Acknowledging it will never make it better, will never, ever change anything. At some point, you must act against it. This is that point.”

We are queer people. We have struggled with our desires. We’ve grown to fit our bodies. We’ve built communities. When society at large told us that we should feel hatred and shame towards ourselves, we found comfort in each other. We’ve defined love by our own means and standards. We’ve found a way. We create and struggle and feel. We survive. And we’re going to continue to survive, not just for ourselves but for our predecessors who died neglected by the government, who were beaten, arrested, and humiliated, for those who live and die on the streets, for those young people we’ve seen pass who felt that life as a queer person was unbearable in today’s world.

We just won marriage, but we won’t stop there because liberation means creating and living in a world that’s actually worth living in. We’re not going to stop at marriage, because we know now what we didn’t always know: we deserve so much more.

Ode to: Spam, Bitch

Learning to feed yourself can be one of the most terrifying things. Am I about to give myself food poisoning? If I eat this too often will I end up with scurvy? How can I get the most nutritional bang for my buck? Why does this still taste like ass?

With Ode to My Pantry, learn to navigate a grocery store and a new cuisine without having a meltdown in the “ethnic” food aisle. Give a man a fish and feed him for a day, teach a queer to cook with Katrina and stave off malnutrition for another semester.

Spam: it’s good. Well, also, it’s bad. Or, actually, it’s complicated, especially if you think about it a lot like I do. Like technology, superpowers, and human nature, Spam is neither inherently good nor bad, but it comes with a lot of connotations. Prompted by a modest debate a few weeks ago on Slate, I spent some time obsessively researching the history of the canned meat, which played a pretty substantial role in the food pyramid of my childhood. It turns out that I’m not alone in my fixation and enthusiasm, which made me feel that you might be interested too. This is kind of like when I get drunk and lecture about Filipino history, except that I’m sober right now, and maybe you are too. The following is what I found, starting with some facts and followed by some speculations, feelings, and finally, recipes.

i am totally fucking serious about this

Spam has enjoyed a long legacy in America and abroad, even if that legacy hasn’t necessarily enjoyed Spam back. It was introduced into supermarkets in 1937, toward the end of that whole big Great Depression thing. It was a fitting time, as no one had any money but still needed to eat, and if possible, they wanted to eat something that they could trust. Spam was originally intended to be that thing they could trust, presented to American consumers as a less questionable canned meat alternative; while most of its competitors were using lips, snouts, and various unnamed cartilaginous bits, Spam utilized the most food-like parts of the pig: the leg (ham) and the shoulder. In fact, it’s even been rumored that Spam derived its name from said ingredients, (S)houlder (P)ork and h(AM). Could they have done a better job with naming this? Maybe. But Vienna sausages were invented by a guy from Frankfurt, and hot dogs are just not made of dogs, so who are we to judge, right?

Our canned friend increased in circulation during World War II, when it was distributed to American GIs stationed in the Pacific Islands. Spam was the obvious choice for this mission. In addition to being highly transportable and easily preserved, Spam is also pre-cooked and extremely filling.

Objectively, Spam is pretty bad straight out of the can, though I suppose that is an option, if you must. But somewhere down the line, someone learned how to cook it, like actually  cook it ( and let’s be real, they were probably someone’s military wife). In countries like South Korea, whose economy had been destroyed by warfare and whose land was being occupied by American soldiers, Spam was like, the shit. While some rejected Spam for its mysterious pink nature, others recognized its flavors (mostly salt) and its culinary potential (endless), pairing it with local ingredients that actually complimented the mass-produced meat product. These traditions have continued in many of these regions, most notably with a Spam Jam competition in Hawaii, a Spam Jam restaurant chain in the Philippines, and Spam-centric menus in Hawaiian McDonalds.

The Bad
Ok, so there are some things we cannot deny. Spam was born out of the worst economic conditions that the United States has ever faced and gained mass popularity by being distributed to American soldiers stationed in Asian and Pacific islands, locations that would feel the devastating effects of this war for over half a century to come. Not a great track record.

Yo I heard you like Spam

Hormel also doesn’t have the best reputation when it comes to treatment of animals, but this is big meat in America. Everything is fucked up if you have even the least bit of a critical lens or moral consciousness. It’s in what you eat, it’s in what you consume. If you shop at WalMart, Urban Outfitters, and Target, if you have it your way at Burger King, if you’re a quinoa junkie or you assuage your meat-guilt with soy, let’s be real, something, somebody, somewhere is being abused, exploited, destroyed, or made into a hamburger. There may be legitimate reasons to dismiss Spam, to dismiss it upon its moral value as if it was singular in this aspect is just sort of narrow.

What about its aesthetic value? Those who quickly deem it “gross” often ignore the fact that food taboos come from a highly subjective and often contentious place. Is Spam gross because poor people eat it? Is it gross because people who don’t look like you eat it? Is it gross because you’ve never tasted it? These foods were shipped out from America into the Pacific, where they were received and interpreted in ways that couldn’t have been imagined on the mainland, and eventually they became parts of culture. If you must shame some aspect of Spam, don’t shame the meat itself or the thousands (millions?) who love it, be critical of the culture that produced it. That culture may just be your own.

Spam may be “gross” because it has no significant nutritional value. And that’s fine, but there’s a time and a place for every food, and chances are that even if you like Spam a whole lot, you’re probably not eating it every day. It’s not a gateway drug like that.

The Good

Sometimes you can’t help but love the things you grew up with. For me, Spam feels like Sunday mornings, the only breakfast of the week that I actually sat down for. It reminds me of coffee before I even liked coffee (pouring a cup for aesthetic value) and learning how to appreciate fried eggs (cooked over-easy with the yolk leaked out over white rice). Coming from a culinary culture that puts chopped-up hot dogs in sweet spaghetti, fried canned corned beef hash into rice, and has a ubiquitous presence of Vienna sausages, Spam seems like a shortcut back to the Philippines, the place where I’m from-from, right in my Brooklyn kitchen, feeding me on the cheap every once in a while.

This shit right here.

If you can’t get down with a big pink mass, you can’t hate on innovation and versatility. It’s quick, it’s cheap, and Spam doesn’t discriminate – it tastes good with the sweet, the savory, and the bland alike. It’s good to go for any meal. As my friend Charlotte, a California-born Vietnamese-American says, it’s “the maize of our people.”

And! If you’re looking for an opinion from someone who wasn’t indoctrinated at a young age, my girlfriend – who ate sauteed pig cartilage with me on our first date and was extremely receptive to bone marrow when out to lunch with my parents – initially refused to try Spam. When I cooked for this article and had her try a piece, she deemed it “not horrible.” So there we go. You gotta start somewhere, you know?

The Yummy

So on that note, let’s start somewhere. Here are two few quick, easy introductory recipes to Spam, as well as some suggestions for further exploration.

Mini Spam musubi

O-musubi is a Japanese food that’s made by surrounding a salty or sour ingredient (salmon, dried tuna, roe) with white rice and wrapping it in nori seaweed. Predictably, Spam musubi, which originated in Hawaii, takes this concept and replaces the traditional filling with – you guessed it – marinated Spam. I made them mini for no other reason than the fact I think it’s cute.

Spam (duh)

Soy sauce

Chili flakes (optional)

Pineapple juice

White rice

Strips of nori seaweed

1. Cook yo’ rice. One cup uncooked rice makes about two cups cooked rice, do with that what you will. Pour your chosen amount of rice into a pot, and fill the pot with enough water to cover the top section of your pinky. I swear this works. Cook to a rolling boil and then put the heat down to its lowest setting and let it cook partially covered until it, y’know, looks like rice.
2. Slice the Spam thin off the original block, and then cut those slices width-wise so you have three or four little pieces per original slice.
3. Make your “marinade!” Combine soy sauce, chili flakes, and pineapple juice in a small bowl, and add ingredients to taste, depending on how savory or sweet you prefer your Spam. Some other recipes use white sugar instead of pineapple juice, but it really sucks trying to clean sugar off of pans. You can do it though, just make sure to clean up properly afterwards.
4. Fry yo’ Spam. Put it in a pan over medium heat (as is – Spam doesn’t need butter or oil to fry), and when it starts to sizzle, pour your marinade in, not enough to totally cover the Spam, but enough so that the flavor can be soaked up. Once this happens, it’s important not to leave the Spam in there for too long. It cooks pretty quickly, especially if it’s thinly sliced.
5. Mush the rice together into little blocks the length and width of your Spams. You may have to squish it a little to get it to stick.
6. Place your Spam on top of the block of rice.
7. Wrap a strip of nori around it. The seaweed will stick to the rice, so have the two ends meet at the bottom for a full wraparound.

Pineapple Spamwich

This was adapated from a few different recipes and works with Spam’s versatility. Spam has a reputation for playing well with others, including sweet and spicy tastes. It’s a sandwich, so this is really simple.

Spamwich with musubi backup singers

Spam

English muffin

Pineapple slice (if canned, the juice can be used for the musubi marinade)

Mayo or vegannaise

Sriracha (or any Thai chili sauce)

1. Slice the Spam (thickness is up to you!) and fry it. I prefer it crispy.
2. Mix Sriracha and mayo to taste.
3. Toast your English muffin (or don’t! Whatever!).
4. Stack all the ingredients in a sandwichy manner.

Other really amazing Spam dishes include Spam with garlic fried rice and egg, Spam fried rice with veggies, and pretty much anything that you would eat with bacon. The possibilities are basically endless. Are you convinced? If so, how do you Spam?

Briefly Noted: Underwear for Your Masculine Center

The gender politics of underwear are weird. What makes “men’s” underwear exclusively for men? Is it still men’s underwear if I’m wearing it? Why do I have to look at so many pictures of washboard abs and generous crotches? If clothing is how you express yourself to others, then underwear is how you express yourself to…yourself. Sometimes wearing men’s underwear is the smallest transgression we dare to make. Sometimes it’s the loudest secret we have. Sometimes it peeks out the top of our jeans. Sometimes it’s all we’re wearing.

So come all ye of varying genders, and let’s talk about underwear for the masculine of center.

Breaking Tradition

by anon

I’ve always been that kid with hyper-senses. A loose hair between my back and shirt drives me crazy. That ball of fuzz that forms in the toe of the sock after washing drives me crazy. Traditional underwear seams? Used to drive me crazy. It’s been almost a decade since I last wore a pair of traditional underwear. When I started college, my (then) girlfriend wore Hanes boy short underwear and I was excited to get in them. Get in a pair of my own, I mean. So it all started there; with this idea that I was still wearing girl’s underwear. The model on the little cardboard covering was a girl. So when I checked out at the register, it was okay. When my mom saw them, it was okay because they were girls’ underwear.

Fact: It’s really only men’s underwear if men are wearing it.

The next change happened about 4 years after that when I met my now (and forever) girlfriend. It’s another essay and several poems to explain how she changed my life. She taught me everything I know about sexuality and gender. Taught me, really taught me that it was okay to be me; whoever that me is. That’s when I got my first pair of men’s underwear. Actually, she got them for me in a surf/skate shop in Eilat, Israel, where we met. They were Rip Curl and they were teal and they were – and still are – my favorite pair of boxers. Over that year, I acquired several more men’s trunks, but was still wearing my girls’ boy shorts as well. It wasn’t until I got back to the States that I really changed my whole wardrobe.

I started buying everything that made me feel comfortable, and that included more men’s underwear so that I could be wearing them on the daily. I started with Hollister – my brand of choice at the time. Since then, I’ve branched out to American Eagle, Express, Hanes and even Champion. It took some time, but I’ve finally figured out what I like and what I don’t like, and I never realized boxers could be so different.

I heard you were gay, so I got you this rainbow of boxers

For anyone just starting to venture into the surprisingly wide world of boxers, I’m here to provide some recommendations. As a size guide, I’m a 32″ waist and I wear a size small.

1. Hollister – $16 a pair but can be found for less when they start pumping out good sales deals, like everything else Hollister. I like that Hollister has a white waistband and most of their boxers have stripes – I’m a sucker for stripes. They’re cut a little shorter than I like, and they ride up like crazy. There isn’t a band around the seam of the thigh and they end up riding up and feeling like a traditional pair of underwear. Other than that, they’re light and comfortable.

2. American Eagle – $12.50, but I only buy when they have a 2 for 20 deal. AE has the most cuts: Boxers, slim boxers, briefs, trunks, athletic cut and performance cut. The athletic cut is my cut of choice. They’re longer than the trunks, which I like. The more thigh coverage, the better. Unlike Hollister, these stay in place – no riding whatsoever. I mostly own solid colors, but sometimes they come out with some patterns, which I dig.

3. Express – These are cut slightly shorter like Hollister, but they’re tighter so they don’t ride. Actually, they’re a little too tight; if I had known, I would’ve gone a size up. But they feel nice paired with an Express suit.

4. Hanes – like anything else from Target, they’re cheap, so you can get several in one pack. It’s a good alternative when you don’t feel like spending 10+ bucks a pair. They’re also looser, if you like that fit, and they stretch out over the course of the day. It’s a thicker material – unlike the other brands – so I don’t pair them with skinny jeans, but definitely under a pair of sweatpants.

5. Champion – I recommend these for the athlete. They’re the longest pair I have, and they’re made with a lighter, more breathable material. They’re great under basketball shorts, when working out or going for a run. They air out the sweat more than a cotton pair. Nowadays, I’d check out AE’s performance boxer, but I got these before I knew of them. Also, they’re cheaper because, again, they can be found at Target.

Eventually, I’d like to add a little Calvin Klein (6) to my drawer, but that’s a top shelf boxer for my wallet right now. So if you’re shopping on more of a budget, I guarantee the American Eagle band peeking out above your jeans will be just as sexy to your human-love as Calvin Klein. It can be a little scary walking into the men’s department for the first time and especially purchasing men’s underwear, but it’ll feel so good knowing that you’ve fucked with at least one person’s idea of gender. And it’ll feel even better when you wear them for the first time.

Underwear Undercover

By Malaika

Bey rockin’ the calvins

When it comes to my personal preference in underwear, I’m all over the map. My favourite place on that map is where the masculine of centre underwear live: boyshorts, boxers, you name it – if it’s marketed for a man, it’s perfect for me. I have been known to reduce my food budget to make room for an expensive pair of European boxers (or two) while on exchange in France. I wore said boxers under my favourite pink and purple skirt with flowers on it and felt completely like myself – my secret butch side tucked safely away, only to be revealed to those I trusted enough to let in close.

I like pink and frills and makeup and sparkly stickers but when Kate made her butch gift guide, I had never seen a list of items that was more me. When it comes to gender presentation, I don’t want to be pigeonholed and my underwear reflects that. When I get dressed, I want my underwear to contradict my skirts; when I get undressed, I want the layers I peel off to be full of surprises and contradictions much like my body, much like myself.

Bois/Boys/Bois and The Little Boys Department

By Madi

I like to tell my closer friends, and apparently anyone on the Internet who will listen, that I have a dream to someday revolutionize pants. In my utopian view of the future of the clothing industry, clothes will be made, sized, and marketed based on body type – which may or may not be associated with sex or gender. In the meantime, on a quest to find the most comfortable and rad underpants for my physical and emotional person, I have found myself time and time again in the little boy’s clothing department.

As a member of the population who possesses less than, what I feel, is their fair share in derriere department, I often find myself with extra fabric around the back, resulting in less-than-optimal wedgie situations. That being so, purchasing underwear made for the segment of the population most at risk for outwardly-inflicted wedgies – that is, actual little boys – is a logical choice. My experience only extends to boxers and boxer briefs, as most of the fun boy’s briefs are too small even for my microscopic bum.

But a modest ass

For those of you thinking about taking the plunge into the wonderful world of underwear made for little superheros, I have a few words of wisdom. Shopping in the little boy’s department only seems shady if you act shady. Most little boys don’t buy their own underpants and you’re probably closer to the demographic generally present in that area of the store than you would generally assume. Don’t be worried if that pair of super snazzy boxers only comes in up to a size medium: if you stitch the crotch shut, you’ll probably be ok. Because trying on boy’s underwear isn’t generally an option, a good place to start with sizing is to measure your waist, or to look at what size waist people who wear your current underwear size generally have. Honestly, there will be quite a bit of trial and error involved.

For minimum wedgies and maximum comfort, the best fit has the crotch resting against your own, the waistband on the lower curve of your hips, and the bottom of the legs tight enough to stay put but not cut off circulation. This especially applies when wearing tight pants and/or working out/ moving around a lot. My favorites are the kind with visible elastic and the fabric that is kind of ribbed. When the fabric starts to pull away from the elastic waistband, you can either obtain new underwear like a practical person, or see it as a built in handle, like I do!

A good thing to keep in mind is that the tightness of your pants and underwear should directly correspond. You can wear tighter underwear with looser pants, but not the other way around. I do however prefer looser underpants with looser outer pants and also for sleeping. I bought this underwear in XL because I must have been feeling like a big kid on the playground that day, but they turned out to be large enough that I could probably wear them on the outside of my snowpants. Regardless, they are extremely comfortable and if you wear loose pants, I would highly recommend them.

Smaller does not necessarily equal better, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices when it comes to your underwear. It will probably be worth it to wear those underwear made for an eight year old even if they sometimes ride up to well above your belly button just so that you can have the bat signal creeping up above your waistline. You will rock a special kind of courage and attitude that day. Just try to pick that wedgie in private.

Next: Ariel Speedwagon trangresses bravely and Katrina talks underwear-as-outerwear.

We Were There: Phresh Cutz Pop-Up Barbershop Chopped Some Locks

PHRESH CUTZ hosted So Phresh, So Clean, a (Formal) Queer Pop-Up Barbershop and Dance Party! on Saturday, January 19, and we told you to go. The event was fanfuckingtastic as anticipated. Now you can read Autostraddle’s own Katrina KC Danger’s reflections on how PHRESH CUTZ came into existence and what it means to her and to all of us. Then, when you’re done feeling All The Feelings, you can scroll through an incredible gallery and appreciate the humans, the community, the sexiness and the perfection that is a PHRESH CUTZ event.

We did it because we wanted to, and we thought maybe some other people might want to, also. It seemed simple: a party where people could get their hair cut, for queers, by queers. We felt safe with each other, and we wanted to spread that feeling to others. We cut our own hair, and we figured we could probably cut other people’s hair too. We liked how the way that we looked made us feel, and we wanted other people to look and feel that way too, without shyness or apology. We wanted to drink and dance late into the summer. And we wanted to do it for as little money as possible.

And so PHRESH CUTZ was born. It wasn’t the simplest thing ever, but it also wasn’t too hard. There wasn’t much adversity involved. No one told us we couldn’t, no one tried to stop us. Friends took us into their homes, they put their heads in our hands. Time passed, and the crowds grew, our staff expanded, the buzz rang louder, and this little idea we toyed around with became a full-fledged, regular, well…thing.

We never felt luckier.

But luck is a funny thing. It implies that the tides could change, that things come and go — both of which are true — but it also implies that the success we’ve had is pure coincidence, and it’s not. One of the hopes that built PHRESH CUTZ was the idea that you could spontaneously create space, but often what appears to be spontaneity is actually the result of extensive planning. And that’s what it was. A labor of love that started as a conversation, that stretched across networks, that engaged people with so much talent and so much enthusiasm, that it did in fact seem – even to us – that it had built itself from the ground up.

And in a way, that’s luck. When I think of the talented, passionate, beautiful people I work with, I feel infinitely fortunate that I didn’t have to go far to find them: they’re my best friends.

We didn’t see it coming, the way this little project went from zero to 60 in just four months. But in retrospect, I guess can’t say that we were too surprised. Why don’t the things we want deserve a little spotlight? Why shouldn’t we expect to see our queer experiences reflected back at us? We found love (in a hopeless place), it seems, by giving the people what they wanted — because it’s what we wanted too.

It gets weird to talk about after a while. We get so immersed in it that it can get to the point where it’s sometimes like, “Yeah, it’s a party, and we cut hair,” but it’s also something I actually never get tired thinking of or talking about or sharing with people: “Yeah, it’s a party! And we cut hair!”

And we love it. We love you, in every moment. We love giving someone their first queer cut while their partner stands smiling on the sidelines, camera phone poised to capture the moment. We love dancing with you: on the floor, on the benches, screaming the words to every song. We love the last-minute rush, setting the stage — lights, camera, scissors — and filling an ordinary space with the potential for transformation. We love the diversity that exists, from the newly out queers to the couple who came to PHRESH CUTZ to celebrate their 17th wedding anniversary.

That being said, we could always do better. We could always be bigger, brighter, we could push the edge forward, challenging our own imaginations and reaching farther out. We could always do better, yep, and we plan on it, too. The next few months have a lot in store. With each party, we’re looking for more space, more barbers, more haircuts. And soon we’ll have a Kickstarter video to really get us off the ground. Scout, one of our barbers, and Ronika, our head photographer, are both coming to A-Camp (which influenced PHRESH CUTZ in a big, big way), and maybe we’ll spread the PC love.

The future is as bright as it is long, and one day, we hope to set up shop for real.

Thanks for your support, for making this possible. Never forget that you’re as complicit in our future as we are, and that that’s no small thing. For us, for now: all we can do is grind harder, reach farther, and speak louder, because we’ve found that the more we insist on putting our voices out there, the more clearly we’re being heard. We did a thing, and people are paying attention, because we deserve it like that. And more importantly: so do you.

You can find PHRESH CUTZ on Tumblr, Facebook, and Twitter.

Photographs © Ronika McClain, Julieta Salgado, and Vanessa Friedman 2013.

Autostraddle received all images from the photographers — if you see a photo of yourself here that you do not want on the Internet, please email carrie [at] autostraddle [dot] com so we can remove it.

Queer Doc Series SIGNIFIED Launches Season 3 Abroad

Katrina’s Team Pick:

Perhaps you remember a year ago when we first mentioned SIGNIFIED, this rad bilingual documentary series that gives voice and light to queer people working to harness power in their communities. And even if you don’t, we’re here to talk about it again because SIGNIFIED is back for a third season, and this time, they’re focusing on queer folks and communities in Argentina, Colombia and Cuba.

Created by Anna Barsan and Jessie Levandov, Season 3 of SIGNIFIED focuses in on LGBTQ artists, activists, and academics throughout Latin America, reminding us of what many forget, and what some know all too well: queerness does not necessarily mean whiteness, and queerness is not only limited to the U.S.

Sentime Dominga in Buenos Aires, Argentina

There is a very specific language complication that exists in within the barrier between English and Spanish, and that is the lack of a direct translation for the word “queer.” But just because the direct terminology doesn’t exist, that doesn’t mean the concept isn’t there and already in practice. In fact, the lack of the word itself seems to command a deeper exploration of its implications, as well as an openness to a wider range of expressions and perspectives, with each individual, community and organization given the power to define and re-define queerness for themselves. This season was inspired by various discussions rooted in Seasons 1 and 2 that raised questions about accessibility, sharing resources, and cross-cultural dialogues (or lack thereof).

Through interviews, travel, and events, SIGNIFIED continually works to create common space for the endless diversity of queer communities and to participate in discourse regarding strategies of resistance. SIGNIFIED seeks to re-conceptualize resistance, redefining it as “narratives of collective education, radical interpersonal relationships, artistic creation and identity formation.”

All of this seems like something to celebrate, and so this time around, SIGNIFIED is working in conjunction with La Joteria, a community of queer latin@s, and QUEEROCRACY, a NYC-based grassroots organization promoting social and economic justice. Together, they are launching the third season with a premier screening and latin dance party TONIGHT.

Event info:
WHAT: “Dia de los Muertos Masquerade” and SIGNIFIED Launch Party
WHEN: Tonight, Friday, November 2; 9pm-1am
Screening starts promptly at 9:30 followed by a party with DJ RIMARKABLE
WHERE: Freebrook Mansion, 375 Stuyvesant Avenue, Brooklyn
COVER:  $5

And because Brooklyn (and the rest of New York City, as well as the Caribbean) is now living in the wake of Hurricane Sandy, SIGNIFIED will also be partnering with Red Hook NYC Recovers for the event. They will be there accepting donations and coordinating volunteer efforts for all those interested.

Anyone who can’t make it to the party tonight can catch Season 3 on the SIGNIFIED website coming up soon.

You Should Go: Alternative Lifestyle Barbershop Comes (Back) to Brooklyn!

Yes yes y’all we are back!

For those of you who missed it last time, PHRESH CUTZ, your favorite queer pop-up barbershop, is back and better than ever! This month’s party (just like the rest of them) is put on by Hair Force One, a teeny tiny collective of queer amateur barbers of various skill levels and gender identities spreading hard love and good looks through Brooklyn and beyond.

OktoberPHRESH is our second party (so far), and boy (boi?), are we fucking excited.

We’re excited because we believe in a lot of things. We believe in queer visibility, we believe in safe spaces. And not only do we believe that those things are inextricably linked, we believe that they are things we can create, things we can build with our own hands, and maybe with a pair of scissors. We want to give that to you. And we want to have a damn good time doing it, which is why we want you to show up to our rad-ass party this Sunday.

first round of cutz from pcI

Details from the Facebook event (please RSVP!):

WHEN: TOMORROW, Sunday, October 28, 4-10 PM
WHERE: 627 Madison between Stuvyesant and Malcolm X, Bedstuy, Brooklyn
COVER: $7/2 drinks, $10/2 drinks + haircut, $5 non-drinkers, regardless of haircut status

Another good reason to come to this event is because the idea behind it was, in part, inspired by Autostraddle! When running A-Camp’s Alternative Lifestyle Barbershop, I realized this little crazy phenomenon: if you put a chair down and you start cutting someone’s hair, people will gather. They’ll just show up, and they’ll stay. Apparently it’s true: if you build it, they will come. And so that’s another idea that PHRESH CUTZ is based off of: the old-school barbershop. We wanted to combine that with the feel of a block party, but queer, which I think just means that at least one person will be shirtless by about 6 PM.

But other than that, we’re coming at you with a four-chair barbershop with seven rotating barbers (all amateur), a full-ish bar (Hair Force One proudly boasts PBR on draft, as well as some liquor and wine and stuff), three DJ sets (our sexy friends with computers), and a bunch of certified cuties (us). We will also have sandwiches and candy. Even for you vegans. Yes, we see you.

Partial team shot of Hair Force 1 Grinning at the Prospects of Infinite Possibility: Em ‘Tears for Shears,’ Katrina ‘KCDanger,’ Jess ‘Buzz Lightshears,’ and Zulai ‘Ace of Fades.’ Not pictured: Scout ‘Dances With Scissors’ and Izzy ‘Gives No Undercutz’

And oh yeah, and it’s a costume party. Hair Force One will be rocking out as the cast of Grease, as well as screening the film on a projector throughout the event.

So come if you need a haircut, and come if you don’t. Come if you wanna drink (though we’ll also be serving non-alcoholic beverages!), come if you wanna dance. Come if you want to meet people. We’re friendly, I promise. And we’re also a safe space. So just come (that’s what she said).

Also, follow us on Twitter and Tumblr!

Y’all, this party is going to be fucking fun. All ages, genders, sexualities, hair textures, and feelings more than welcome. See you there, cuties.

PHRESH CUTZ: A Queer Pop-Up Barbershop

Hi, hey you! Do you need a haircut? No, it’s not that your hair doesn’t look great right now, it’s just that I think that I have something that might be relevant to your interests.

See, a long long time ago (were we ever so young?) in a campsite far, far away I gave a bunch of queer haircuts to a bunch of queer people, and – I’m gonna be honest – it was pretty cool. And it wasn’t cool because of the undercuts, though those were pretty cool too. It was cool because, all of a sudden, this space appeared. A space to chill, a space to crochet, a space to be with people looking to be with other people while a crazy person with a pair of clippers cut their hair.

via the lovely vanessa

It all seemed so good, and so simple. But how to bring that idea down from the mountains? Well, the next step was easy: open up a monthly pop-up barbershop for queers and their friends!

So people of Brooklyn, the surrounding areas, the Internet and beyond, it has arrived!

Starting Sunday of Labor Day Weekend, PHRESH CUTZ is going to be a spot for queers and friends to kick it with like-minded individuals over beers and beats. We’re going to be dishing out food, drinks, dances and haircuts to celebrate the last licks of the summer.

Hair Force One is a small Brooklyn-based collective of queer kids with nice hair looking to spread the love. If this doesn’t already hit close to home, it might be worth noting that the five of us essentially met through the Internet over the course of four years. We finally found ourselves in the same city, and now it’s time to celebrate.

hair force one

So if you’re around Brooklyn from 2-10 on Sunday, September 2, stop by! Vegan and meaty cuisine both available, and drinks will be available in abundance. Cover $7/2 drinks or $10/2 drinks and a haircut.

Added bonus: brand spankin’ new writer and total sweetheart Vanessa is our photographer  and will be doing before-and-after shots for the adventurous of heart and hair.

Join us on Facebook, or kindly reblog us on the Tumbly. And if you can’t join us, don’t be bummed! We’re (hopefully) doing it next month, and the month after that, and the month after that until you all are shorn.

So if you want a haircut, or you want a beer, or you want to cheers with queers, come through PHRESH CUTZ. You won’t be sorry.

Who Run the World? Brown Grrrlz

In a society that devalues femininity and lays claim to bodies of color, it should come as no surprise that being a brown femme is complicated. Coming from a masculine-of-center, non-brown POC perspective, it’s easy to relate to complications. There’s an empowerment that comes with self-identification and a growing consciousness of self. There’s also the experience of erasure: the battle between the way you experience your body and the way others perceive it. So if woman-centered femininity is the norm, and brownness is ignored, then brown femmeness is almost like a tree falling in a forest when no one is around to hear it — you just have to make a louder sound.

Femmeness is a deliberate reclamation of femininity. It refutes the idea that femininity is in any way inherently weak, silent or anti-feminist. It is experienced by cis women, trans women, two-spirit people and intersex people who claim ownership over their chosen femininity and who find power without leveraging or requiring masculinity.

Although there’s a lot of power in chosen femininity, there also seems to be the universal experience of invisibility. This is especially true for women of color who are systematically disregarded, whose existence is often invalidated and who historically have been left out of “progressive” movements like first- and second-wave feminism.

And if movements don’t exist for you, if they don’t include you, if they don’t put your needs on the same level as their own, then there’s only one thing to do: fuck ’em and make your own.

baby hard femme

Introducing the Brown Grrlz Project, a response to and partner of the Brown Boi Project, which is a community of masculine-of-center people of color working for gender justice. The Brown Grrrlz Project, co-founded by activist and artist Kim Crosby, is a collective dedicated to “challenging the way that hegemonic society defines and oppresses Femme identified womyn of colour” by allowing them to author their own experience through networking, support services, skill-sharing and community-based education, because of course, knowledge is power. But it’s not just knowledge that’s power, it’s solidarity that’s power; it’s community. It’s the rejection of normalized gender roles, of compulsory heterosexuality, of the idea that one’s own femininity can be used against her. It’s women empowering each other, instead of women competing against each other for the respect of the white male world. There’s room for all of us, but we need to create the space.

The Brown Grrrlz Project seems to view femininity as a form of resistance in a world where brown women are either terrorized or ignored. It is liberation from the idea that beauty is dependent on physical characteristics. It also acknowledges that an important part of femmeness is the aesthetic, and that aesthetics are valid and important. They are a form of expression that we can control without giving even one fuck about whose gaze they may attract.

It’s also probably important to mention that the Brown Grrrlz are coming out with a calendar. Featuring Grrrlz from Toronto, California and New York, the project seeks to “amplify the work, vision and visibility of the members of the Brown Grrrlz Network.” And, because femme appreciation isn’t all about how these women look (though that’s nice too), each month you can check out the Brown Grrrlz tumblr to see outtakes from the shoot and read about each woman’s contributions to the community. It’s an aesthetic with a political conscience. There’s no one way to look or be femme, and so the calendar will feature individuals of varying abilities, ages, experiences, genders and sexualities. Say the Grrrlz:

“We recognize the diversity and the transforming nature of femmeness. It is complex and layered and we all hold varying levels of power and privilege. We all have work to do on ourselves, for others, for our communities and at the same time none of us are disposable…We ask that you join us in this celebration both imperfect and divine, just like us.”

Keep rocking it out ladies. Femme appreciation life.

Gay Rights Are Not Queer Liberation

Katrina’s Team Pick:

I came out as bisexual when I was 16. And although I had a girlfriend who I had very serious 16-year-old feelings about, my coming out always came with a qualifier. “I’m bi – I love my girlfriend, but eventually, I want to be with a man. I want to marry a man and have a house and have children and put them in that house.” When I was 18, I realized I was gay, and suddenly not only was the thought that I wanted to be with a man untrue, the idea that I could ever be married seemed completely impossible. This was in 2008. In 2008, I thought that, by being gay I had nonconsensually committed myself to a life off the grid, a life that would never be recognized or respected, a quiet life of commitment ceremonies in the woods, Birkenstocks, the inescapable word “partner” instead of “husband” and a lifetime’s supply of closet doors.

And in some ways, I was right. But it’s 2012 now, and New York, my home state, is celebrating one year of marriage equality. I’m gay now, and I’m also queer, and I’ve gotten to keep a lot of my original expectations. I got to keep the Birkenstocks, I love the word “partner” and a life off the grid doesn’t seem too bad. I’m not invisible, I have a future and if I want, that future could involve marriage.

Phyllis Siegel and Connie Kopelov, New York City’s first legally married same-sex couple

Last month, the New Yorker posited marriage equality as a “historical inevitability.” And it’s not to say that the fight has not been hard-won, it’s just that in the larger scope of history, marriage won’t be the end, and “what people say about it now, for and against, will be seen in that light.” Basic legal rights have a tendency to always seem obvious to those who have access to them.

But legal rights are not the same as human rights, just like gay rights are not the same as queer liberation. And that’s where Amber Hollibaugh comes in. Below is a video interview that Hollibaugh did with The Nation, in which she discusses movement priorities, economic justice and queer assimilation.

[yframe url=’https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fqNrCMG4tjI&feature=plcp’]

Hollibaugh is the co-director of the New York-based Queers for Economic Justice, which, as its name suggests, is “a progressive non-profit organization committed to promoting economic justice in a context of sexual and gender liberation.” Founded in 2002, QEJ works to challenge and combat the systems that create inequality, taking into consideration the importance of race and class, and acknowledging that economic status and sexual identity are often closely tied. Because besides the idea that “love is love,” the right to equal benefits and protections under the law is one of the main arguments for marriage equality, isn’t it?

Hollibaugh speaks on the gay rights victories that have been won in the past three decades, but acknowledges that the progress we see now isn’t always the progress she’s had in mind: “Being respectful of the extraordinary work that’s happened within the last 35 years is not the same thing as it reflecting my values. I’m not sorry we can now enter the military, and I’m not sorry that we can now marry. But frankly I come from a moment in time, and a radical vision in time, that never made marriage or the military my criteria of success.”

As we move forward in the struggle to be regarded as fully human in the eyes of the law and within society, it’s important to remember that milestones like marriage and the repeal of DADT are certainly victories, but they are not end goals. When the queer liberation movement rose up in the 1960s and 70s, the goal wasn’t equal protection through matrimony, it was ownership of our bodies and the right to exist and feel safe in public spaces. We’re still fighting for that. Rights are only rights if everyone has access to them. Being queer is being anti-racist, being queer is being anti-classist. Acknowledging the struggles of people who aren’t white, who aren’t cis, who aren’t economically privileged, who don’t have access to the victories that have already been won isn’t being divisive, it’s being inclusive. And that’s what equality means.

Judge a Book By Her Cover: Queer Ladies Speed Dating at Strand!

Still need a date for pride this weekend? Are pride dates even a thing? Maybe not. Maybe you’re looking for a lesbian wolfpack to travel with.

i am about to tell you what this has to do with your love life

Strand is everyone’s favorite independent bookstore. Open since 1927, Strand is known for its “18 miles of books,” its outdoor Central Park kiosk, and a suspicious amount of attractive queer-looking women in cute glasses. And now, this Wednesday, they’re having a queer ladies speed dating event hosted by Rose Troche, director of Go Fish, The Safety of Objects and The L Word.

AND. There are going to be free cupcakes from Magnolia bakery. YOU GUYS. Do you even know how great this is? You (you!) get to meet girls (probably lots of girls) who read books (probably really interesting books), and there will be cupcakes (cupcakes!).

Also, there is free wine. Maybe you can talk about lesbian pulp fiction.

You have to go to this. Think about how many awesome independent businesses you’ll be supporting while also meeting a bunch of cool women and maybe meeting your future book club partner/romantic or sexual activity partner? I know we say this a lot, but this is relevant to your interests.

It’s NYC Pride Week, y’all, and while it’s important to go out in your underwear and bask in rainbows and party like it’s 2004 and you’re lesbian Brian Kinney (I encourage you to remove your pants in public), it’s important to remember that as queer people, we do our best to take care of our own! Sometimes it’s easy to feel weird or out-of-place at huge corporate gay pride events that tend to forget about women and queers and transfolk and people of color. It’s important to remember that there are a ton of independent events going on this weekend, and this could be your opportunity to kick it off!

ladies love literacy

Are you into it? You should buy your ticket now. You can do that here. You should totally do it.

Where:
Strand Bookstore
828 Broadway
New York, NY
When: Wednesday, June 20, 7PM
Why: Ladies. And cupcakes. And books.

And don’t put too much pressure on yourself. Unsuccessful dates can make the most successful pride buddies/wingmen. Just come out. Meet some people. Talk about some books. Eat cupcakes. Be merry.

Also, if you’re looking for more pride events with some independent realness, check out:
Audre Lorde Project Trans Day of Action
Queer Ball!
Choice Cunts’ last party
Brooklyn Boihood Pride Picnic

Add your own to the list! Happy Pride! See you there!

Grrrls! Grrrls! Grrrls!: What I Learned From Riot

click for other "the way we were" posts

June is LGBT Pride Month, so we’re celebrating all of our pride by feeding babies to lions! Just kidding, we’re talking about lesbian history, loosely defined as anything that happened in the 20th century or earlier, ’cause shit changes fast in these parts. We’re calling it The Way We Were, and we think you’re gonna like it. For a full index of all “The Way We Were” posts, click that graphic to the right there.

1. Call For Submissions, by The Editors
2. Portraits of Lesbian Writers, 1987-1989, by Riese
3. The Way We Were Spotlight: Vita Sackville-West, by Sawyer
4. The Unaccountable Life of Charlie Brown, by Jemima
5. Read a F*cking Book: “Odd Girls & Twilight Lovers: A History of Lesbian Life in 20th-Century America”, by Riese
6. Before “The L Word,” There Was Lesbian Pulp Fiction, by Brittani
7. 20 Lesbian Slang Terms You’ve Never Heard Before, by Riese
8. Grrls Grrls Grrls: What I Learned From Riot, by Katrina

I wasn’t there when it happened. Not by choice, just by circumstance.

In 1991, when the riot grrrl scene was growing in the Pacific Northwest and Washington, DC, I was one year old. I was taking my clothes off and screaming and breaking things, but that was probably just a coincidence. And even though I wouldn’t learn what riot meant for another 16 years, what was happening then would inevitably shape the feminist consciousness that I would grow to inherit.

My generation is the one that knows Kathleen Hanna from Le Tigre. Our friends who don’t run in feminist circles know Carrie Brownstein from Portlandia. And for those of us who do know who Brownstein was in relation to the movement, the only way we could have ever seen her gloriously kick and cartwheel across a stage was not with Sleater-Kinney, but with riot supergroup Wild Flag.

These are the heirlooms of riot. They’re what our foresisters left for us to make sure we would never forget.

We may not have experienced it firsthand, but there is a story that is told to us as young feminists, artists, organizers and – yes – rebel girls. It’s like a punk rock bedtime story to know by heart, sort of like a tweaked-out lullaby set to the tune of a thousand wailing guitars.

joan jett and kathleen hanna, 1994

Here’s how I understand it:

It wasn’t that riot grrrl was born out of punk. It was more like riot set punk on fire and rose screaming out of its ashes. Riot wasn’t about punk like feminism isn’t about men. It didn’t happen because we hated men, it happened because we loved ourselves and knew the kind of world we deserved. What riot wanted couldn’t be contained. And that was the point, wasn’t it? That women and grrrls didn’t have to accept a world built by men. Women didn’t have to adhere to men’s standards of beauty or power or worth. We didn’t have to have conversations using their vocabulary.

In 2010, Sara Marcus published Girls to the Front: The True Story of the Riot Grrrl Revolution, a thoroughly-researched analytical memoir of the riot movement. Marcus explains the grrrls’ outrage:

“The girls were furious about things like parental-consent abortion laws, bikini-clad women who hawked beer and cigarettes on billboards and TV, and the archaic gender roles that pervaded the cartoon section of the Washington Post. They were ready to revolt over things like hallway gropes and sidewalk heckles, leering teachers, homophobic threats, rape, incest, domestic violence, sexual double standards, ubiquitous warnings against walking certain places or dressing certain ways … The affronts were neverending. The girls couldn’t block these things out and they didn’t want to; they wanted to stay acutely aware of the war against them so they could fight back.”

The grrrls were coming to realize the extent to which violence pervaded culture. They knew that violence wasn’t necessarily rape or abuse (though it certainly was that, too); it was also something much more quiet and insidious than that. Violence was a systematic force that worked within our society to tell us, as Kathleen Hanna put it in her Riot Grrrl Manifesto, that “Girl = Dumb, Girl = Bad, Girl = Weak.”

Marcus’s book received overwhelmingly positive reviews from both mainstream media as well as the women who were involved in the founding of riot. This was a particularly huge accomplishment, as riot was decidedly averse to mainstream media, making it practically a policy to refuse interviews for fear of misrepresentation. But this policy came at a price, because there’s something that happens when you don’t let the mainstream media represent (or misrepresent) you: people either make their own judgments based off stereotypes and hearsay, or they forget you exist. Facing the issue of erasure, the riot grrrls created their own narrative, writing their history through art, music, documentaries and zines that honored the work they were doing using their own words and their own voices.

Riot was a way for women to politicize themselves while remaining creative and badass. Creation in itself was a form of resistance and a validation of their existence. They weren’t asking for permission or respect. They didn’t need to ask. That was also the point: not needing anyone’s fucking permission.

When we live our lives bending to patriarchy – intentionally or not – we do this thing where we sit around waiting for someone to tell us it’s okay. Riot said we didn’t have to. It was a coming-of-age where women who were making music could stand next to each other on a stage without fearing a comparison or a pigeonhole. Standing alongside each other wasn’t a threat, it was an honor, and it was solidarity in an unprecedented manner.

Riot showed us what revolution could look like. We had a new concept of what power could be. We could find it within ourselves and in each other — and we didn’t have to ask. Power lay in our ability to create and in our refusal to be silenced or ashamed or sorry. We could use this to build communities, validate ourselves, have our own voices and see ourselves reflected in the world we wanted to live in, the world we wanted to create.

For grrrls in my generation, riot is literally a history. Two years ago, the papers of Kathleen Hanna were added to the Riot Grrrl archive at the Fales Library at NYU. The university’s newsletter covered the decision, explaining that “the Riot Grrrl Collection will support scholarship in feminism, punk activism, queer theory, music history and more.”

We didn’t see the riot, but we saw the aftermath. We came to the point where we could view it with a critical eye, and we’re coming to understand the ways that race and class play into our activism today. And that’s our responsibility, isn’t it? To hold each other accountable, to respect what came before us, and to keep the legacy strong in the best way that we can.

babes in toyland

So without further adieu:

Rebel Girl – Bikini Kill
Crying Shame – 7 Year Bitch
I Like Fucking  – Bikini Kill
Shove – L7
Brat Girl – Bratmobile
Ladybug Superfly –  Slant 6
Vintage Piranha – The Bangs
Uncle Phranc – Team Dresch
Off With Your Head – Sleater-Kinney
Bruise Violet – Babes in Toyland
Terrorist – Heavens to Betsy
Smells Like Teen Spirit (cover) – Kathleen Hanna

Stream the playlist on 8Tracks!

Get it, grrrls.

Artist Spotlight: Heidi Barton Stink

It would be a vast understatement to say that rap carries a huge stigma in queer communities. It’s a genre largely dominated by straight men who have a tendency to talk about violence, misogyny and excessive wealth. And while some may accept this as a universal truth about the genre, in actuality, it’s more of a huge generalization. And — excuse the generalization — who knows more about the dangers of lumping a vast diversity of ideas and identities under one label than queers? There are a number of disagreeable songs and artists out there, but that fact in itself isn’t a good reason to exclude hip-hop from your music library. Rap has always been about expression against repression. Just because a certain type of voice has always been able to gain greater prominence, recognition and respect, doesn’t mean other voices aren’t present.

Meet Heidi Barton Stink, a transgender community organizer, activist, and dope-ass emcee who knows that generalizations don’t help anyone. Being queer and having a relationship with hip hop is complicated, but that doesn’t mean the two are mutually exclusive.

First let’s get one thing out of the way: rap with a conscience does exist. In fact, it’s actually called “conscious rap,” or “positive hip hop.” It’s intelligent, reflective thought with a flow and a beat, and it gave rise to the careers of some contemporary greats like Mos Def, Talib Kweli and Jean Grae. Conscious rap isn’t just about talking about what’s positive and what’s possible; at it’s base, it’s about identifying what’s truly fucked up in this world and holding the perpetrators accountable.

In her just-released sophomore album, A Charming Gut, Stink launches a full-frontal assault on oppressive power structures and the individuals who participate in them, both actively and passively. Stink’s lyrics are densely packed with cleverly and artfully articulated ideas on complicated topics like corporate greed, assimilation, transmisogyny (what even rhymes with “transmisogyny?”), police brutality and gay rights versus queer liberation. She presents aggressive views in an assertive tone, which is something, I think, we all struggle with. Being outspoken doesn’t come easy, something that Stink, who began her career as a “straightish male-identified” rapper, learned in her coming out process. It’s hard to defend yourself when you don’t even know if you’re right, and in her music, Stink willfully reassures you that: yes. Yes you are.

On top of all that, she sounds good, too. That might seem like a silly thing to mention, but in cases like this, it’s important to note that the message doesn’t overshadow the quality of the music, nor does the music depend on it. As queers, we sometimes have a tendency to support each other’s endeavors no matter what – which of course is a great thing – but at the same time, there’s nothing wrong with expecting greatness from the things that we do. As a rapper, Stink is also an artist, and she’s one who understands that art and expression are forms of  resistance. And  she does it well, perhaps because she views it as her duty to do so.

A Charming Gut‘s highlighted single is “Consent Song,” which is, as you may have guessed, a song about consent. It’s about as straightforward as it gets, but it also views consent from a number of different – and often marginalized – angles. In it, Stink re-frames the normalized dialogue of consent, describing it as a process, not an act, and speaking about sex work, consent in partnered relationships and holding ourselves accountable:

Accountability is more than just a vital form of justice
It’s a trusted means for survival
…
You can’t punish this away
It’s rape culture here, and it’s deeply ingrained
We need a new standard, hold ourselves to the same
As we would a perpetrator in the light of the day

Stink’s beats err on the darker side, which is appropriate for something as heavy and emotionally charged as the politics of queerness. It also makes for some seriously solid rhymes. Other highlights include “Direct Action (Do-Over),” which speaks on violence against trans* people and the silence that accompanies it, and “Won’t Let Ya Slide,” a statement against political neutrality. Featured artist Guante raps:

The curses, the blessings, the silence, the sadness
The ripple effect, the impact of our actions
I’d rather be fed to the fire than be innocent alone
In the box with all the fucks I didn’t give
Cause innocence is ignorance
And neutral is the ugliest color to paint your image with 

Stink is unafraid of being pigeonholed as a queer or trans* artist. For her, rapping about queer issues and social injustice is her speaking from her own experiences. It’s also a responsibility, as she explained in a 2010 interview: “Queer and trans rights are my life. My quality of life as well as most of my friends’ lives are dependent on queer and trans activism. There are a lot of homeless queer youth, addiction runs rampant in queer communities, the number of murders of trans people is staggering. From my point of view, if you are queer [and you] have a mic and a roomful of people, you would be committing a grave injustice not to talk about this stuff.”

When it comes to rap, shit may still be complicated, but when reconciling a number of identities in this heterosexualized world, what isn’t complicated? For now, one thing is certain: with the help of Heidi Barton Stink, our voice is one emcee louder.

You  can download A Charming Gut on her website.

The Peculiar Kind Episode Three: Where I’m From…

Never interested in treading lightly around the big conversations, “The Peculiar Kind” dropped its third episode yesterday, this time discussing how queer sexuality is viewed in respective ethnic cultures. The spread is pretty solid on this one. In addition to the already-familiar faces, this episode features a new cast member, Adrien, as well as a conversation between eight younger queers from various ethnic backgrounds. One of them is me! But that’s not why you should watch this.

The episode, titled “Where I’m From…” reminded me of the age-old question, “Hey girl, where you from? No like, where you from? Like, where you from-from?” Answering these inquiries has probably become part of the conversational repertoire for anyone who is any shade of off-white. And although this question is usually totally offensive, often eliciting responses like “New York,” “Brooklyn,” “Oh, where am I froooom? My mother’s uterus,” it’s interesting to think that it can actually mean something. We’re shaped by the experiences of our lives, but we’re also shaped by forces that we never chose to participate in, like culture. And as POC, that culture is often generationally very close to us. Often we don’t have to trace immigration back to Ellis Island or the Mayflower – our grandparents and parents are the immigrants we grew up with. They’re the ones who taught us about our culture; sometimes they’re the ones who didn’t teach us about our culture in hopes that we could be that much more American.

[yframe url=’https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ytcB1hUi8U’]

Whatever the situation, POC often have to navigate the murky waters of connecting to a cultural identity while also reconciling the fact that doing so often means being othered in the environment where we grow up. Add a little (or a lot) of queerness to the mix, and you’ve got a whole lifetime of confusion, alienation, and feelings to deal with.

Taking part in this conversation reminded me of the A-Camp Queer Women of Color panel, which was probably one of the most valuable and gratifying experiences of my life as a queer lady of color. I’m not friends with many Asian-Americans. I’m friends with even fewer queer Asian-Americans. The lack of those kinds of relationships can really get you feeling like you don’t exist. Witnessing and being a part of projects like this confirms the opposite. Your feelings are valid, your experience is relatable, and you exist.

Sidenote: While we’ve got your attention, don’t forget to check out Episode 2.5, “For Hire,” which discusses employment and discrimination, and features Brooklyn Boihood’s own Ryann. What a big gay internet family we all are.

[yframe url=’https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ee_Bz8NX1tY&feature=relmfu’]

Queer Women of Color: The Peculiar Kind Wants YOU!

Katrina’s Team Pick:

Have you heard about The Peculiar Kind yet? Because, you know, we keep talking about it and stuff. A product of Brooklyn art collective, The Artchitects, TPK is an honest, thoughtful, intelligent web series created by and featuring queer women of color. The first episode, which premiered last month introduced us to a cast of five super dope women who had a ton to say about sex, community and safety. The second installment, whose topic, gender roles, was inspired by a woman the producers of TPK met on a night out, saw an expansion in the cast with the addition of two new women.

The producers of TPK, Mursi Layne and Alexis Casson, found the original cast through networks of friends and acquaintances, and now, in a concept that we here at Autostraddle obviously very strongly support and believe in, they’re using the Internet to find YOU! They’re looking for four rad people of color to hop on the TPK bus for an episode and share their sagely awesomeness with the world. Think about it: it’s an opportunity to participate in a lesbian reality series that does not require you to go out to the club and yell at somebody’s ex-girlfriend for two hours. I would list the criteria needed to apply, but they made this flyer that tells you everything:

But if that’s not reason enough, then there’s this: the only thing better than consuming media that actually reflects your life is participating in it! The Peculiar Kind wants to give you that chance.

So go ahead, be the media you want to see in the world.

Where Were They While She Was Getting High?

Last week the Center for American Progress released a study about things we already kind of knew, namely the fact that LGBT populations experience higher rates of substance use and abuse, and that this fact may be the result of systematic discrimination and prejudice. These are facts that we keep hearing and re-stating and complaining about hearing again, but there’s a reason that we keep hearing them, and that’s because no one is doing anything about it.

You’ve probably heard them before, but let’s run through the numbers.

+ Gay and trans people smoke tobacco up to 200 percent more than their heterosexual and nontransgender peers

+ 25 percent of gay and transgender people abuse alcohol, compared to 5 to 10 percent of the general population

+ Men who have sex with men are 12.2 times more likely to use amphetamines than men who do not have sex with men and are also 9.5 times more likely to use heroin

+ Gay and lesbian adults are roughly twice as likely as the general population to be without health insurance coverage, and rates of uninsurance are even higher for transgender and bisexual individuals

Granted that this study is a little bit less than fair because it tends to lump statistics for cis women, cis men, trans women and trans men altogether under the title of ‘gay and transgender people,’ it still speaks loudly to the utter lack of resources available to LGBT people in the face of adversity, and later, in the face of a health crisis.

Despite the flaws that may be present in the study, it’s a big step in the sense that rather than painting a portrait of depraved individuals lying in gutters or empty hotel rooms, we’re starting to actually make the connections between the individuals and the causes, and through this, we’re starting to understand the gravity of the effect. At the most simple and possibly most dramatic, we can say that discrimination is literally killing us. At the least, we can say that the manner in which substance abuse is viewed combined with the lack of resources available for LGBT people is not only dangerous but downright irresponsible.

At the same time, however, some of these numbers are caused by less dramatic ideas — LGBTs reliance on “bar culture” for socialization is also a contributing factor.

The Center for American Progress attributes LGBT substance abuse primarily to what it calls minority stress, or “the negative effects associated with the adverse social conditions experienced by individuals of a marginalized social group.” Minority stress ranges from individualized attacks such as verbal or physical harassment to more institutionalized forms of discrimination in areas like employment, housing, relationship recognition and healthcare. Also, there’s often tension between LGBT people and their families or communities that lead them to feel alienated in a way that easily engenders substance abuse. From having to remain in the closet to being kicked out of one’s home to having to deal with a breakup you can’t talk to anybody about, the list of reasons LGBT people are more likely to turn to substances to cope than other people are numerous.

And while it seems like kind of a stretch to say that discriminatory laws are an indirect cause of substance abuse, the danger in systematic discrimination is that it implies an invalidation of personhood. Although ideally we’d all get our validation from someplace besides the government (or, you know, smash the state and liberate everyone from the tyranny of marriage), there’s a certain level of validation that many people need from the state in order to, well, survive, and that’s important too.

The problem is that we continue to trivialize substance abuse and pathologize individuals rather than ask tougher questions about what in our society might causing huge spikes of abuse in certain groups. It’s actually scary because sometimes the only resources or coping mechanisms available to individuals dealing with ostracism, homophobia and violence are drugs and alcohol. These things are compounding upon each other and killing individuals while making it look like they’re killing themselves. It frees society from the blame, and it frees the government from any sort of responsibility. It has an adverse effect on the LGBT community, facilitating a narrative of queer people as disposable drug addicts with little to contribute to society. And it almost seems to make sense: if the laws don’t fully recognize us, why should we fully recognize the law?

We need to view substance abuse as a health issue, and we need to understand that the presence or lack of culturally competent healthcare providers can literally be a matter of life or death when it comes to LGBT folk seeking help. We should not consider it anything less than a right to have our health ensured by the government, and we should demand a level of cultural competence that makes us feel welcome and comfortable in health care facilities, not anxious, violated or unsafe.

Kreayshawn Comes Out In GQ As “Bisexual, But Not That Bisexual”

This month in GQ, Kreayshawn came out as bisexual. Or something like that. The Oakland whitegirl rapper who, as a teenager, drew her name from the need to create (creation = kre-ay-shawn), first caught our attention over the summer when the video for her first single “Gucci Gucci” threw our gaydars into overdrive with her single feather earring-wearing, thick-framed glasses-sporting, denim-vest dawning swag, which, apparently was “pumping out her ovaries.”

Kreayshawn surrounds herself with a diverse crew, among them her childhood neighbor, her Filipina personal assistant and Lady Tragik, her lesbian wingman who graced GQ with such pearls of wisdom as “I’m gay and I love Jesus Christ!” and “Poop thug life!” Kreayshawn, more or less, is to be handled with the same amount of seriousness as the emotion of angst: easy to indulge in if you’re an adolescent, and after that, only appropriate to revisit only with a touch of irony. But in a lot of ways, you can’t be mad. Kreayshawn is like a lot of 22-year-olds I know. She has fun, she has no filter, she smokes blunts and she does a fair amount of shit-talking.

Snoop Dogg loves her, Azealia Banks hates her. The former has appeared on The L Word, the latter Banks recently came out as bisexual. Neither of these adds or detracts from the legitimacy of her sexuality, but her coming out in GQ is telling. The GQ writer says “Kreay told me she is bisexual, but not that bisexual.”  Kreay herself says, “I’m like, a person who likes love. And I can find love in any type of person. I’ve dated girls, and I’ve liked girls. But they’re usually straight girls, so it never works out. I’m not that gay, so I don’t have the energy to convince someone else to be gay, you know?”

The mention of her sexuality in GQ is strictly parenthetical, and maybe that’s because her persona is surrounded by so much peripheral weirdness that her sexuality is just sort of an aside. Her coming out may be labeled as bisexual, but the implications of “I can find love in any sort of person” hint at something more.

Kreayshawn’s coming out — her Kreaysexuality, if you will — seems to point to a larger trend in the sexual fluidity among female rappers (but you should read Brittani’s article on “bisexuality in hip-hop” for a more thorough breakdown of how exactly this seems to play out in that context.) I promised myself never to compare any of these women, and even at this point, it’s still hard to say: Nicki Minaj announced her bisexuality and then renounced it. Azealia Banks came out as bisexual in the New York Times, but wrote it off as irrelevant to her musical persona. Kreayshawn came out as something other than hetereosexual — in a men’s magazine no less. But female rappers have been asserting their sexuality since…well, since female rap has existed. For women in hip-hop it is absolutely imperative to assert control over sexuality before someone else co-opts it for you.

presumably flipping off the haters

From “My Neck, My Back,” to Lil’ Kim bragging about making a Sprite can disappear in her mouth, women in rap have been responsible for owning and defining their sexuality, which is now more queer than it used to be. It’s not your mom’s sexuality, it’s not yesterday’s feminist’s sexuality, it’s our sexuality, and it refuses to be defined.

How seriously are we going to take Kreayshawn’s sexuality? Probably as seriously as we take Kreayshawn. It probably won’t play into any sort of esoteric discourse about the intricacies of female sexuality. It probably won’t make it into any great academic papers of our time. This of course has nothing to do with a hierarchy of various sexual orientations — whether she identified as label-free, bisexual, queer, lesbian, pansexual or anything other than straight; she would still be Kreayshawn. But it is a segue into a discussion about female sexuality, and it is a conversation that we’re always having. Are we invalidating sexuality that’s unsure of itself or that refuses to define itself or addresses itself casually? It’s something we need to think about.

When we analyze the stated sexual orientation of public figures in their teens and early 20s, we’re not always entirely fair — she’s 22, after all, and not having it figured out yet is pretty normal at that age. She doesn’t represent anyone besides herself, ultimately.

Kreayshawn came out as bisexual or something, and we’ll probably forget about it by the time 4/20 rolls around. And maybe what we have with Kreayshawn’s coming out is just another fish in our lesbian sea. Her video for “Online Fantasy” features Kreay surfing an online dating site, which somehow results in a woman clad in lingerie emerging from the screen and immediately making out with her. This is a better outcome than any OKCupid date than I can ever imagine. And while I’m tempted to light a candle and blast “Online Fantasy” in a sapphic tribute to  who is apparently the newest member of our family, I probably wouldn’t be able to hear it over the sound of a thousand lesbians sending tweets her way.

The Peculiar Kind: Queer Women of Color Represent!

Premiering this month is an incredibly intelligent and distractingly attractive webseries, The Peculiar Kind, “that candidly explores the lives and experiences of queer women of color with eye-opening and unscripted conversations.” TPK is brought to the Internet and to our hearts by The Artchitects, a New York art collective dedicated to seeking social change through creative means.

Episode One: The Morning After packs maybe one million topics into 20 minutes, with just as many voices to match. It begins with candid conversations about topics such as safe sex with dental dams and how the cast really feels about one night stands, and ends with a news story segment, “Our News” by Elixher , featuring news of importance to the queer community that focus largely on women of color, proving that our stories are no less relevant and no less deserving of space than the narratives that tend to dominate LGB news. Pretty fantastic to see a webseries using such a creative format to speak to to such important issues as safe sex and gender violence while also getting to hear real people scoop about how best to recover from a night of drunken debauchery.

As the episode jumps between interviews, feature segments and news — all cut with footage of the cast spending time with their loved ones and each other and partying in the city — it becomes clear that this isn’t your typical dyke reality webseries. And that’s not a coincidence. In an interview with Autostraddle, Artchitect team members Mursi Layne and Alexis Casson explain their process: “[Alexis] wanted to create a fun yet informative unscripted web series that didn’t have the stereotypical docu-series dynamic or the drama filled, overtly degrading aspect of female driven reality television. Alexis wanted to create something organic and maybe even find a happy medium.” The diversity of the structure reflects the diversity of the cast, most of whom are friends of The Artchitects and who play an active role in contributing to their communities.

This episode also features RightRides for Women’s Safety, an amazing organization in New York which aims to build safer communities by helping to prevent gender-based harassment and sexual assault. Recently Autostraddle’s Lizz wrote about “How to Have Fun at a Gay Bar: 101” which touched on the “not getting too wasted to find your way home” problem some of us run into when out at queer parties. The TPK cast open up about running into this problem and how RightRides can serve as a safe way to get home should this party happen to be in NYC.

Photo via The Peculiar Kind flickr page

What’s maybe the coolest part about this series is that it speaks directly to traditionally marginalized communities without tokenizing its cast members. They’re each totally free to – and totally comfortable with – expressing themselves and their character, and it many ways, that is a radical act in itself. TPK says something a lot of us already know but few of us ever really talk about: the fact that activism can look like anything, that we feel for our work and fight for our causes, but we also find comfort in each other. We have fun, and we make mistakes, and we find love. On their creative work as activism, Layne and Casson said:

“Activism has to do with an individual’s moral compass and the issues that weigh heavily enough on their hearts to make them want to become an agent of change. As women of color, we are well aware of both the personal and emotional aspects of activism…So, in short, activism for the creators of The Peculiar Kind, would be utilizing our skills, education and resources to breakdown the stereotypes about queer women of color and expose viewers to our differences and similarities. After all, we’re still human and not that peculiar.”

Episode 2 is set to premiere March 21st and the burning question on everyone’s mind is addressed in the FAQ:

Q: IS THERE A SET SCHEDULE FOR WHEN A NEW EPISODE OF THE PECULIAR KIND WILL BE POSTED?

A: WE’RE AIMING TO POST A NEW EPISODE ON THE 15TH OF EACH MONTH, BUT THIS IS SUBJECT TO CHANGE.

Artist Spotlight: Azealia Banks and the Second Coming of the Female Emcee

It’s not that female rappers ever left us, it’s just that everyone else stopped paying attention. See, I have this weird fantasy where it’s the 90s again, and I’m kicking it on a stoop with my girl gang and a boom box. In this fantasy, someone just made a mix tape, and now we’re bumping to the likes of Missy, Lauryn, Queen Latifah, MC Lyte, Lil Kim and maybe some Salt-N-Pepa. But this isn’t actually what the 90s were like for me. I spent most of the 90s on playgrounds, because I was in elementary school. And yet there’s this weird pang of nostalgia for this phenomenon I never actually experienced, when female rappers took the mic and took the spotlight without depending on rolling with the boys to find exposure. They came out with the same bombast and braggadocio as their male counterparts, but they had one advantage: no matter how much the men could brag and rap about their bitches and hoes, they would never know what it was like to be a woman.

actually found on azealiabanks.tumblr.com

Unsurprisingly, it turns out the that nostalgia was not mine alone, and that, actually, a whole generation of women had been awaiting the return of the female emcee. Enter Azealia Banks: a New York girl with serious Harlem swag, who at 20 years old is the newest person to join the club of women who make me wonder what I’ve done with my life so far. Her talent is what’s going to blow her up, but her age tells a whole new story about a generation gap in hip hop, where the Female Emcee has been lying dormant for a decade, waiting anxiously to be awoken.

Banks, whose debut single “212” exploded on YouTube, now surpassing 4 million views, is part of a generation of women who grew up knowing that visibility was possible. They’re taking what they saw and creating their own meaning, re-shaping and re-interpreting that which came before them. These women are now coming into their own, creating their own music, and getting attention for it, and Azealia Banks is the perfect emcee to usher in the movement.

Hearing her lyrics, watching her videos and reading her interviews make it clear that Azealia (formerly known as Miss Bank$) has what it takes to deftly and effortlessly embody what it means to be an outspoken woman and a pack leader in 2012. She’s vulgar but articulate, sexy but not sexualized; she’s smart, aggressive, ambitious, sassy and a little rude, carrying it all with the sense of humor that keeps us alive.

And if she doesn’t already sound relevant to your interests, check out her Diplo-produced track, “Seventeen,” in which she raps over a sample of Ladytron’s track of the same name. She also contributed vocals to “Shady Love” by the Scissor Sisters and has a collaboration with Lana del Rey in the works, which will probably be crafted to make our hearts and minds explode.

Banks’ commentary often verges on the theatrical, a trait that she refers to as “kinda, like, obvious,” potentially owing to her former drama student status at Laguardia High School for the Performing Arts. The school also happens to be the alma mater of actor Adrien Brody, spurring an endless litany of comparisons between the two. (Just kidding.) Nicki Minaj also went there, but she and Banks are so different in style and flavor that it’s ridiculous and maybe even a little offensive to be constantly comparing the two. She’s not Nicki Minaj any more than she is Adrien Brody, and she’s becoming famous just by being herself: an anti-glamour loudmouth chasing big-time success without mercy or apology, because, let’s face it, who has time to apologize when you’re becoming famous this fucking fast?

Success is shaping up to be a strange but interesting picture for Banks, and maybe that’s because we’re not really sure what success looks like for a young female rapper in 2012. But whatever it looks or sounds like, the name she builds will hopefully be more than just a credit to herself, it will be a paved road down which future female rappers may stomp, holding their boom boxes high.