Letting Go of Latinidad

Welcome to Autostraddle’s Latinx Heritage Month essay series exploring the theme of death and rebirth.

When I heard about George Floyd’s killing by Minneapolis police on Memorial Day, I felt the anger well up in me. The few weeks and days leading up to Floyd’s death were already filled with anger and grief but I knew this time was different.

I had already seen the video of Amy Cooper calling 911 saying she was threatened by an “African-American man,” knowing very well what her words meant. The reality was Christian Cooper, a Black bird-watcher, had asked her to put her dog back on a leash in Central Park. A couple weeks earlier, a video was released that captured Ahmaud Arbery’s last moments before being shot and killed by a white man near Brunswick, Georgia. Ahmaud was out for a jog around the neighborhood before three white men were suspicious and followed him until, ultimately, they killed him. And before that, I learned of Breonna Taylor, who was asleep at home with her boyfriend before being shot and killed by police.

The culmination of these racist events ignited a rage in me that I couldn’t ignore. Black people were dying for simply living. I felt like a coward for not protesting in the streets in the days that followed Floyd’s death, but I felt wholly unprepared to face rubber bullets and tear gas without support. I didn’t know what to do besides share my rage on social media.

Later that Sunday, I attended a vigil for George Floyd put on by In Defense of Black Lives Dallas, a newly-formed queer and trans BIPOC-led coalition. As I stood among the masked crowd, I spotted a friend who I hadn’t seen since the pandemic hit in March. I confided in them how I felt called to do more in the moment but didn’t know where to start.

The next day my friend messaged me asking me if I’d be down to do social media for the coalition’s week of action. I was in. Before I knew it, I was jumping on calls to plan the days ahead. I felt hella intimidated by the other organizers, but also energized by the task set before me to launch a social media presence.

I had always been in social justice spaces in Dallas but this was my first time being an active participant in community organizing. Joining the coalition led me to a summer of working on a campaign with mostly queer and trans folks to demand the city council to defund the police and instead invest in resources for vulnerable communities. I contributed my writing and editing skills, time and energy to the movement for Black lives and finally, I felt like I was actually doing something meaningful.

Why was it so important for me to do something more in this moment? Why did I care so much? I felt a sense of urgency as a non-black Latina to show up and take action for Black folks. As a mestiza — someone of mixed Spanish and indigenous descent — my proximity to whiteness affords me the privilege to navigate this world without being subjugated by constant violence or being killed by police. I believe it’s my duty to speak out against anti-Blackness and to stop being complicit within white supremacy. And, I feel strongly the most impact I will have is by bringing other non-Black Latinxs with me to fight for the liberation of Black people. Queer AfroIndigenous poet and artist, Alán Pelaez Lopez, shared a graphic on Instagram that reminds me of why we must take action: “When non-Black Latinxs stay silent in moments of violence perpetuated against Black communities, non-Black Latinxs become the warriors of White Supremacy and global anti-Blackness.”

For far too long, white and mestizx Latinxs have perpetuated anti-Black racism within Latinx communities in the United States. It’s been imported from the racism found throughout Latin America with their own colonized histories and then filtered through the ways the U.S. has categorized a wide range of people of all races and ethnicities from Latin America. If you examine Spanish-speaking television shows, novelas, news programs, white and mestizx Latinxs dominate the screen. When you take a look at who’s a notable Latinx person in media in the U.S., the same is true — white and mestizx Latinxs are front and center when Black Latinxs are constantly sidelined.

My own concept of Latinidad was completely unraveled through a reckoning of my celebrity crush on Gina Rodriguez and her subsequent downfall, at least in my eyes. After her constant failure to take responsibility for her anti-black remarks over the last three years that culminated in her using the n-word, I realized Gina Rodriguez represented the ugly, insidious ways we, non-Black Latinxs, perpetuate white supremacy and continue to benefit from the oppression of Black people. I adored Gina Rodriguez because I saw myself in her. I connected with her through her role as Jane Villanueva, a writer and certified chillona. Her reflection on screen of a young Latina woman navigating love, family, her career and finding her voice resonated with me.

But in Gina Rodriguez’s quest for more Latinx representation in Hollywood, she highlighted the fallacy of Latinidad. What is it that ties us together? What exactly does Latinidad look like? Who is it for? Who is it representing? She stumbled upon the very real racial conversations we have yet to have grappled with across Latinx communities.

Latinidad is an illusion because we’re not all united under this umbrella term. This term is supposed to encompass the vast experiences of people across races, ethnicities and cultures. In the U.S., Latinxs are racialized as “people of color” when that’s certainly not true for everyone who is Latinx. When Latinidad is embodied by only white and light-skinned people and only benefits them, it’s just a continuation of white supremacy.

Unchecked anti-Blackness in Latinx communities has very real consequences. In early June as Black Lives Matter protests spread across the country, a group of protestors in downtown McAllen,Texas, near my hometown, were threatened by a Latino man with a chainsaw. In a viral video, he yells racial slurs as he charges at protestors. “That bullshit with some fucking [n-word] with a bad cop don’t belong here. This is not up there, this is here…This is the Valley.” The Rio Grande Valley, near the Texas-Mexico border, has a 90 percent Latinx population. Some residents shared the same sentiments as the man with the chainsaw — with a high Mexican population, racism doesn’t exist in the Valley. But this incident demonstrates how very real and alive anti-Black racism thrives when not confronted.

I’m not here to celebrate Latinx Heritage Month. During a year full of grief, anger, and despair exacerbated by a pandemic and a near fascist government, it’s time instead we look inward and let go of our concept of Latinidad. I want us, non-Black Latinxs, to reflect on the ways in which we’re aiding white supremacy and how we can instead be accomplices for the liberation of Black people. The time is now to shed what is rotten, to excavate and dismantle what serves us no longer, and to plant new seeds of solidarity and the courage to dream of a future full of collective care.

In its place, I hope we can build a world where the most vulnerable communities have the necessary resources to thrive. With such varied people who are considered Latinx, I hope we are more specific and nuanced in our storytelling and shine a light on our complex histories and lived experiences. Only then can we celebrate.

When I was asked to return and guest curate Autostraddle’s Latinx Heritage Month essay series, I knew it would only be fitting to center on themes of death and rebirth. I’m excited to present to you over the next two weeks, four essays that touch upon the theme in their own way: a meditation on the death amid COVID-19, honoring queer ancestor Walter Mercado, using ancestral technology to heal the wounds of death, and an essay on the inheritance of silence.

A big part of my unlearning and understanding of Latinidad have come from listening to queer and trans AfroIndigenous and Black Latinx folks including: Alán Pelaez Lopez, Ariana Brown, Zahira Kelly-Cabrera, and Briana L. Ureña-Ravelo. I’ve also learned from queer non-Black Mexican-Americans like Rubén Angel and Cassandra Alicia. I urge you to learn from them and to uplift the work of Black people but most importantly to sit with your uncomfortable feelings about race. More than likely it’s because you’ve benefited from the oppression of Black people.

Interrogate yourself: How do I move through the world? How am I perceived? What are my experiences like with regard to race? When you’re ready, I encourage you to take action, plug into your community, and organize, however that may look like for you. It’s the only way to real change.

Our interrogations of race and our privileges don’t erase our vibrant cultural heritages or other oppressions we might have faced as an immigrant, as a poor person, as someone who has struggled to access healthcare, education, food or housing due to other types of discrimination. But if you’re a non-Black Latinx, we aren’t met with the same violence as Black people. We have to acknowledge that and stop pretending that our struggle is the same as theirs. We need to make that clear, so we can then do the work for our collective liberation.

Year of Our (Audre) Lorde: September’s Afterimages

Year of Our (Audre) Lorde is a monthly analysis of works by queen mother Audre Lorde as they apply to our current political moment. In the spirit of relying on ancestral wisdom, centering QTPOC voices, wellness, and just generally leveling up, we believe that the Lorde has already gifted us with the tools we need for our survival.

There’s so much that can be said, that seeks articulation in the wake of the Breonna Taylor verdict. After the ravages of this year, the anger and fear that comes along with the decision to value property over a Black woman’s life feels to me like an unbearable weight. The pain is raw and too tender to try and explicate now; the fear that I am safe nowhere, the Black women in my family of origin and family of choice are safe nowhere. It’s a fact we’ve known but one that feels all the more threatening in the wake of continuing injustice for Black women.

At the same time, we’re faced with the utter devastation that has ravaged the West Coast. As I write this, I’m curled under a sweater and blanket in an unseasonably cold apartment whose heat hasn’t been turned on yet. The cold is a result of the hazy gray saturating the sky in upstate New York and so much of the country as the smoke from the fires moves farther and farther east. Whether for the best or the worst of reasons, we are all connected to each other. The pain of others, of our Earth is viscerally real.

There’s an immediacy to the recent razing of the West Coast that demands our attention. As it should. Especially knowing that the devastation, we’ve learned, was not only preventable but premeditated. Like so much of the pain and loss of 2020, it simply did not have to be this way.

I wrestled more with this month’s choice of focus than I have any other. I was captivated by Audre Lorde’s startling use of imagery as much as I was disturbed by the pain and discomfort she stirred up. The poem “Afterimages” is Lorde’s juxtaposition of nature, violence, and loss.

In one vignette there is a white woman standing near the Pearl River in Mississippi after a hurricane, stilled by shock at all she’s lost to the storm. In the over vignette we are still in Mississippi, but decades earlier when the body of young Emmett Till is found.

however the image enters
its force remains

I can’t even begin to explain how tired I am of being made to bear witness to Black death and to the destruction of Black life. But I think what’s different here, what Lorde witnessed with the highly publicized account of Till’s murder was the power of the image. I suspect that for most of us Emmett Till is perhaps the first image of Black death and murder we encounter, at least on a nationwide scale. His mother crying over his distorted face in that open casket is one I will never forget. But what’s happened in our complete saturation cycle of images and videos of Black death is a numbness, or at least an uneasy sense that this is commonplace. I’ve seen on Twitter and elsewhere multiple comments on the use of Breonna Taylor’s name and image to promote everything from sporting events to social media influencers, yet she was denied her life and — in the aftermath — any sense of justice. The fires ravaging the Western U.S. are growing to be expected each year. Our climate crisis grows more and more perilous and again we are uneasy in how commonplace it is.

In each of these instances, it’s not that these atrocities happen — it’s the scale that is newsworthy. What’s just as important here is that Lorde’s calling into question so many crises that have been “naturalized” in one sense or another. The destruction of nature itself is utterly violent and completely unnatural. The disregard for Black life, the casual and frequent murders of Black people are utterly violent and completely unnatural.

A white woman stands bereft and empty
a black boy hacked into a murderous lesson
recalled in me forever
like a lurch of earth on the edge of sleep
etched into my visions
food for dragonfish that learn
to live upon whatever they must eat
fused images beneath my pain.

It’s not nearly as simple as the water which characterizes both of these figures. What Lorde does here is draw our attention to how we become inured to these violences, these assaults on nature — both the environment(s) we inhabit and our human nature, our shared humanity.

The Pearl River floods through the streets of Jackson
A Mississippi summer televised.
Trapped houses kneel like sinners in the rain
a white woman climbs from her roof to a passing boat
her fingers tarry for a moment on the chimney
now awash
tearless and no longer young, she holds
a tattered baby’s blanket in her arms.
In a flickering afterimage of the nightmare rain
a microphone
thrust up against her flat bewildered words
“we jest come from the bank yestiddy
borrowing money to pay the income tax
now everything’s gone. I never knew
it could be so hard.”
[…]

I inherited Jackson, Mississippi.
For my majority it gave me Emmett Till
his 15 years puffed out like bruises
on plump boy-cheeks
his only Mississippi summer
whistling a 21 gun salute to Dixie
as a white girl passed him in the street
and he was baptized my son forever
in the midnight waters of the Pearl.

What strikes me most about these lines from the poem, and its title, is that Lorde is once again demanding that we don’t look away. We are bombarded with so many of these images now and so many of these videos, data visualizations, and more of these devastations. But what Lorde is articulating is that we must register them as the individual losses they are.

Each incident haunts her as each of the incidents this year haunts me and I’m sure haunts most of us. But after this news cycle, after the fires die down, we cannot seek to erase the after images. We have to do all we can to ensure that these atrocities do not continue.

His broken body is the afterimage of my 21st year
when I walked through a northern summer
my eyes averted
from each corner’s photographies
newspapers protest posters magazines
Police Story, Confidential, True
the avid insistence of detail
pretending insight or information
the length of gash across the dead boy’s loins
his grieving mother’s lamentation
the severed lips, how many burns
his gouged out eyes
sewed shut upon the screaming covers
louder than life
all over
the veiled warning, the secret relish
of a black child’s mutilated body
fingered by street-corner eyes
bruise upon livid bruise

[…]

and wherever I looked that summer
I learned to be at home with children’s blood
with savored violence
with pictures of black broken flesh
used, crumpled, and discarded
lying amid the sidewalk refuse
like a raped woman’s face.

When she says she learned to “be at home with children’s blood,” I think Lorde is giving us a warning. We cannot naturalize this. The unnatural nature of the hurricanes she writes about, the fires we know continue on today, and the open killing of Black people all over this country are anything but natural disasters. We need to stay attuned, not only to the fact that these things keep happening, but to the ways in which we’re conditioned to passively consume Black death and the ravaging of our planet.

Within my eyes
the flickering afterimages of a nightmare rain
a woman wrings her hands
beneath the weight of agonies remembered
I wade through summer ghosts
betrayed by vision
hers and my own
becoming dragonfish to survive
the horrors we are living
with tortured lungs
adapting to breathe blood.

I think about the relationship between blackness and land a lot. As the descendant of enslaved people, that relationship used to be so fraught, more of a weariness of strange fruit than anything else. But in pushing beyond my initial discomfort, I came to realize that the problem isn’t the land but what humans do to it. There is a disposability, a capitalist consumption of land and labor and Black people and Indigenous folx, for anything and anyone that supplants the unquenchable hunger for our lives.

Audre Lorde implores us to bask in the difference, yet in “Afterimages” she articulates her own struggles with the task that she herself requires. It is anything but easy to witness so much of your own people’s destruction, wear your voice thin by decrying the injustices, and then watch that destruction ripple into others. While the differences are there, what Lorde so beautifully and achingly makes clear is that one person’s ruin will soon lead to another’s.

We can no longer adapt to breathing blood.

“Antebellum” Forgot That Black Women Can’t Save the World From Fascism, We Only Must Save Ourselves

It’s almost spooky season, I’m gearing up to watch my 31 in 31 horror films and am incredibly excited to do so. When I was asked to watch and review Antebellum, I had already had apprehensions. To be quite honest, I almost never watch movies about slavery. I find them pretty exploitative, repulsive, and an excuse for white actors to get in touch with their brutality a little too comfortably. So, I admittedly went in with my misgivings. However, with Janelle Monae as the star of this film, I was expecting some black queer majesty to go along with some disturbing imagery.

Due to the trailer and the promotion around the movie, I think many of us have had the idea that this would be very “Octavia Butler’s Kindred: The Film.” It’s not. Antebellum is its own story with its own motifs and motivations, though I think it could have drawn and learned from the lessons of Kindred, namely, the ability to draw fear into the heart of the viewer.

My biggest take away from Antebellum was this: I wasn’t afraid, wasn’t disturbed or challenged. The movie, while aesthetically beautiful, fell flat. Before I dive deeper into that, I want to give a brief criterion of what I look for during my viewing experience:

1. Diversity of characters: the more women and gays the better
2. Suspense and surprise, I don’t want to see the ending coming 15 minutes in
3. Number of frequency of kills
4. Method of kills
5. A movie aware of its cultural and historical context
6. Does it make me jump or scream? If I have to pause before I can continue watching, that’s a good sign!
7. A damn good score
8. For me, horror includes: ghosts/demons/hauntings in general, creature features, vampires, body horror and torture, and the occasional psychological thriller.

Now, with Antebellum and possible other slave-centric horror films, I’m not going in with this thirst for blood and kills, though I do expect there to be some violence. I go in with a revision to this clause because the violence of course will be enacted savagely on black people, which is not necessarily something that I can get excitement out of. For me, and many other horror fans, part of the appeal is knowing that people will die in new and creative ways. In a world where I can open my phone and stream racist violence enacted against black people by the state on a daily basis, it’s not something I was looking for during my watching of this movie. I was, however, at least hoping to be frightened. To have to look away or pull the covers a little tighter around me, for my heart to pound or my blood to race. With Antebellum, I didn’t get that. I often even felt — dare I say — bored.

The film starts by introducing us to Eden (Janelle Monáe), a slave who has tried to escape from the plantation she is on, governed by two cruel men, Him and Captain Jasper. These men are your typical, run of the mill overseer characters that revel in calling black people racial slurs of all varieties, threatening and being imposing to women, etc. The film doesn’t do anything to complicate or change these characters; it feels like the archetypes could have been cropped out of any slave movie. They aren’t memorable for their own sake. Eden spends all of her time plotting an escape, practicing walking in her cabin as to not step on the creaky floorboards, even greasing the hinges on her door so it too doesn’t make any noise in the night. Eden’s opening is played beside Eli (Tongayi Chirisa). Eli’s lover murdered in front of him, presumably for trying to escape as well. Eli often visits Eden at her cabin, begging her to make another attempt to escape, even after she is painfully branded.

As expected, Antebellum contains violence against black people, but that violence feels almost… comical. It’s just bad and unbelievable. There is something inanely missing from those moments. I think this is where the film lacks. Part of the fear factor of any horror thriller is that the viewer has to connect with some character, to be able to imagine themselves in that situation, so they themselves can feel the fear that is being portrayed on screen. In Antebellum, I feel like I’m being held at arm’s length from the emotion of the movie.

When a new slave, Julia (Kiersey Clemons), is introduced to the plantation, things start to change for Eden. Julia is pregnant and desperate to get off of this plantation no matter what she has to do. She’s unabashed in her lust for freedom, not afraid to show her emotion or roll her eyes at the overseers when interacting with them. Kiersey Clemons’s performance as Julia is one of the few shining points in Antebellum, though I still found it lacking.

After a brutal night where she’s beaten by a soldier for talking to him without permission, Julia loses her baby. She discovers this while in the field picking cotton and drops to her knees wailing. It felt like the often parodied scene in a movie where the main character, having lost someone, kneels in the rain and screams “NOOOOOOOO” at the sky. I found myself sighing with disbelief — even the score lags, failing to make the guttural feeling of loss swell within me.

Something about the movie just feels off at this point, the accents are barely there for the time period and to be set in the Civil War era South. This is in part due to the big twist at the end, but also feels like a poor storytelling choice.

There’s a scene where the confederate soldiers are scene marching holding torches, mirroring the now infamous images of 2017 in Charlottesville where Nazi’s were seen carrying tiki torches. In the movie, the soldiers also chant “blood and soil,” same as they did at the Unite the Right rally. It’s here where Antebellum begins stitching together past and present, making them inseparable as we understand them to be. But even in these scenes, the movie feels afraid to really “go there.” Something about it holds back, possibly the fear of being exploitative when it comes to depicting racist violence against black people. It’s tame when it should be bold, there are moments where I found the symbolism a little too on the nose.

After a short scene of sexual violence, we are transported to the present. Eden falls asleep and wakes up as Veronica Henley, a successful, highly educated black woman sociologist at the top of her game.

Veronica appears as a guest on television debating a white analyst and so-called “eugenics expert” about racial inequity. She’s in the midst of promoting her new book “Shedding the Coping Persona” which appears to be a new way of referring to code-switching and the idea of double-consciousness.

The scenes that take place in the “modern world” are some of the hardest to watch — not because of fear and suspense, but the acting and the content. The dialogue feels like white liberals using black actresses to feel comfortable getting away with Black Twitter slang. At one point, Veronica’s best friend Dawn screams “The Caucasity!” in a restaurant after berating a white waitress. Dawn, played by Gabourey Sidibe, in particular feels like a caricature of a black woman dreamed up by a white person. She calls the waitress Becky and carries on about the injustice of being seated at a bad table. While Veronica speaks to the audience about the harmful trope of the “angry black woman,” Antebellum then goes on to make a living, breathing one in Dawn.

Veronica, by contrast, is cool and poised. Her success is supposed to be a focal point — we see a slow pan of her degrees on a wall, her perfect husband, daughter, and life. Money appears to be of no consequence to her. Despite her success, Veronica still has to deal with microaggressions from white women. During an interview with a mysterious blond named Elizabeth, Vernoica is told she is “so articulate” as if it is a surprise.

Now I might get some flack for saying this, but bear with me. Veronica herself feels like a neoliberal fantasy. She’s an educated powerful black woman that appears to have no worries, save the occasional off-color comment from a white woman. The end that Veronica ultimately meets feels like the all too common positioning of “black women as saviors” that we have seen in political discourse lately. Everyone seems to be waiting for one black woman to rise up and save the world from fascism. And Veronica is the kind of woman they imagine.

This is not to say that there are no successful black women, of course there are. Yet, Veronica feels more like a plot device instead of a real person. She has a conversation with one of her friends, Sarah, about how “the past is the present”  — which feels a little too on the nose by the time it comes up. The movie is already doing the work to show us, we don’t need a line of dialogue about it.

Here is where I’ll spoil The Big Twist: After a night out with her friends, Veronica is kidnapped by the same white woman she had an interview with earlier, Elizabeth. We learn at this moment that we aren’t shifting between the past and the present, we have been in the present this whole time. Veronica has not been transported back in time, she is just being held captive on a civil war reenactment plantation where presumably rich people pay to enact violence and horror on black people. We are lead to believe that Veronica is chosen because of her success, that because of her high standing she needed to be humbled.

This big twist is a part of what troubled me at the beginning of Antebellum. Early on, it made everything feel off. There’s a big difference between building suspense and intrigue and just coming off as wrong on the screen, and this movie felt wrong from its beginning. I will give credit in that I was led to believe we would be alternating between past and present when I first watched the trailer. Being proven wrong is one thing I like in a film, but this reveal was another moment where I rolled my eyes. It felt forced. In some ways, I think Antebellum would have been better if it were in fact a time-traveling thriller.

After we are back on the plantation, Eden makes her second attempt at an escape with Eli. Here we see a cell phone come out, further grounding us into this twist. Him/Senator Denton (Eric Lange) takes a phone call and later, his phone is stolen by Eden and Eli as they try to make their escape. One thing that again felt off during the film is that Eden calls the police when she first gets the phone. Seeing as the modern police force is just an evolution of slave catchers, for a film trying to make a point about how the horrors of the past still exist in the present — this feels both ahistorical and like a serious misstep.

After losing Eli, Eden does get her chance to escape, but not before a showdown with Elizabeth, Mrs. Microaggression from earlier who literally pays to play the headmistress of the plantation. The one thing Antebellum gets right is the villainy of white women, showcasing how they are just as complicit in the horrors of white supremacy as white men. Eden and Elizabeth both race on horseback, Eden toward freedom and Elizabeth toward enslavement. After a tussle, Eden/Veronica captures Elizabeth, tying a noose around her neck and dragging her through the forest, mirroring the first death we see on screen, but now with a white body. Elizabeth finally dies when after being dragged she is struck on the head by — and I’m not kidding — a statue of Robert E. Lee. This movie hits you over the head with its symbolism, hard enough to knock you out.

It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Like with writing, a good movie trusts the viewer enough to draw parallels and conclusions; it doesn’t carefully place them in our laps all tied up in a bow. Antebellum really wants to make a Big Point while leaving the fate of its characters in the shadows. What happens to Veronica after she charges toward freedom? And the other people who have been kidnapped? What about those that acted as enslavers, what will happen to them? We never learn that or are even pushed to really care. The humanizing parts of Veronica, her husband and daughter, are an afterthought — though they are seemingly what she is fighting so hard for.

Antebellum left my yearning for something that challenged me, something with substance and meat. I commend the effort to tackle one of our history’s most difficult topics but like with most slave films, it falls short. I’m still bothered by positioning Veronica as wildly successful. It’s supposed to make the scenes where she is enslaved more horrible to watch in comparison. In that vein, if Veronica were a black woman working in the service industry, would the violence she suffered be less jarring? It seems like Antebellum is setting us up for that kind of thinking, and it doesn’t sit well with me.

While Antebellum has been lambasted for gratuitous violence against black women, I think it pales in comparison to the actual bad writing. After shaking off my apprehension, I went in hoping to at least be dazzled by Janelle Monáe’s performance but even found myself wanting in that area as well. Antebellum fails to measure up and tell the story it is so desperately prodding at. In the end, I was glad to see no white savior appear. Veronica saves herself, as many black women do, but at what costs?

Queer Arabs Taking Up Space: An Interview With Zaina Arafat

Scrolling through Instagram for book recommendations in early quarantine, I stumbled upon Zaina Arafat’s You Exist Too Much. The writer’s debut novel tells the story of a bisexual, love-addicted, Palestinian American woman, toggling present life in New York City and flashbacks from childhood trips overseas. Giddy at the prospect of LGBTQ Arab representation (which can be hard to come by, to say the least) I immediately pre-ordered the book.

The unnamed narrator in You Exist Too Much brilliantly sheds light on the murky overlaps between cultural traditions, intergenerational trauma, and LGBTQ identity. She’s witty and self-deprecating, at times chaotic but always genuine, in a way that feels overwhelmingly human. It was easy to fall into the world of this book and into the inner workings of the narrator’s in-betweenness. To me (and I imagine that to other LGBTQ Arabs) it’s a story that felt overwhelmingly relatable.

Literature and media often fail to portray the multiplicities of Arab culture, instead relying on one-dimensional tropes of violence and decay. Yet, these moments of violence frequently become the moments where Arab culture penetrates the mainstream – the recent blasts in Beirut have continued to keep the state of the region on people’s radars, and in June, news and social media covered the suicide of Sarah Hegazi, a lesbian Egyptian activist. You Exist Too Much nods at the persistence of homophobia and transphobia in the Arab world, but goes beyond being merely a book about identity. Arafat uses this cultural context to explore and inform the way a body exists, feels and loves in the Western world.

I had the privilege to chat with Arafat, and we covered an immense amount of ground – from Arab parents not even knowing the word “lesbian” to finding possibility amid trauma. The interview has been edited for clarity and concision.

Zaina Arafat via Carleen Coulter

Sarah Sophia Yanni: Your protagonist’s story is the furthest thing from one-dimensional – she deals with hyphenated identity, familial disarray, queerness, love addiction, infidelity and eating disorder recovery, among other struggles. What was the process like of developing this character? Was there a specific aspect of her story that served as the starting point?

Zaina Arafat: The starting point for the story and the character was thinking about somebody who would set their sights on something unattainable – a woman who set her sights on unattainable women. And this became an almost safer way to love. It spoke to her shame around being gay or being bi, her choices colored by this internalized homophobia.

From there, I began thinking about her cultural background as a Palestinian, and how unattainability exists in that realm of her life, being in between cultures and not being able to fully attain either one or a sense of belonging. Then on a more political level, as a Palestinian, thinking about her quest to attain statehood and self determination, which are elusive for Palestinians. And the eating disorder also grew out of those quests and pursuits…her one-sided love relationships where she’s sort of disappearing into people without getting anything back from them.

SSY: The narrator remains unnamed throughout the whole book. I interpreted this as a reflection on silencing, or the tendency to shrink oneself down. What informed this choice for you?

ZA: The namelessness did indeed come from a sort of silencing, the first level of silencing coming from the mother. There’s this quote (and of course, it’s the title of a book) from the mother, where she tells the daughter “You exist too much,” which is essentially a way of saying to somebody “You should exist less, take up less space.” So her having no name was a way for her to really take up less space on the page and then try throughout the book to come to a place of taking up more space, letting go of that impulse to self-negate, to silence. And in some of her relationships, she doesn’t even have any lines of dialogue, like you never hear words directly from her mouth, so that’s another part of the silencing. So that’s part of the journey – to feel entitled to one’s existence and one’s voice and place.

SSY: Another aspect that largely goes unnamed is sexuality itself – the narrator shies away from labeling herself as lesbian, gay, queer or bisexual. How do you connect this ambiguity to some of the mindsets and traditions of Arab culture?

ZA: For one thing, in Arab culture – at the risk of sounding simplistic – there isn’t really even a concept of like gayness, let alone lesbian, bi, trans…like all of those categories, they just don’t exist. So for her, part of this ambiguity and non-definition comes from the fact that it’s just not even recognized, at least in her specific community. So part of the struggle is that – not having any form of external validation; it all has to come from within. And I think there’s also just this impulse, at least for her, and even for me as a writer, to resist categorization. There’s so many overlaps and intersections and messiness that is intentionally constructed as such. I sometimes wonder if I even use the word like bisexual – I don’t know that I did. Readers use it, and I’m like, “Oh yeah, I guess she is bi!” But yeah, the answer to the question is a desire to resist categories combined with the fact that these categories don’t even exist. Which is almost worse than somebody being mad at you for being bi or gay – the notion of somebody completely denying your existence, because it isn’t real for them. So she has to find validation from within.

SSY: The book features flashbacks, largely of the narrator’s time in Palestine as a young girl. I think for a lot of us – people raised by immigrant parents in the US – these long, childhood trips to see family in the “homeland” can be some of our most vivid memories, something we carry into adulthood. Was this part of the reasoning behind the decision to pepper in the flashbacks throughout the book? Why not tell the narrator’s story chronologically?

ZA: Totally, it’s exactly that – I wanted to really get at the way that these seemingly innocuous memories or experiences matter so much to who you are as an adult. So much of one’s time overseas is spent just watching – it can just be you at your grandmother’s house all day, but there is so much nuance to those experiences, and they’re so weighted and full of impact in a way that seems barely recognizable. I wanted to explore the significance of that upbringing and those memories and how that impacts the person in their present life.

SSY: One of the most striking parts of this book is the narrator’s relationship with her mother. It’s a relationship that veers into toxicity, but at the same time, she wants her mother’s approval so badly. How does this dynamic speak to notions of intergenerational trauma?

ZA: Part of the journey for the narrator is to understand that dynamic, and part of what that involves is understanding her mother’s trauma. I think of it as trickle down trauma, because it’s the mother’s trauma from growing up under occupation, in between wars and surrounded by violence, and this impacts the mother of course, and it impacts the way she exists in the world, the way she raises her children. And there are wounds associated with these traumas that the mother hasn’t processed, so they trickle down onto the narrator. I think that’s what often happens with immigrants and the first generation – there are traumas, whether from the process of migration or in the reason why they’re even migrating in the first place. And I think for me, that was so interesting to explore and also so essential to understand, because it was how the narrator could come from a place of anger and hurt when it came to her relationship with her mother and arrive at a place of empathy and compassion.

SSY: A large part of the book also centers on the narrator checking herself into The Ledge, a facility for addiction recovery. It’s not her first time in a rehabilitation center. Although these ailments aren’t explicitly culture-related, how do you think mental health struggles differ for first-gen / immigrant children?

ZA: Basically, there’s a denial of mental health. It’s like “Mental health struggles? So American! We grew up under occupation and war, what do you mean mental health? What do you have to be mentally unsound about?” So there’s the obstacle of the refusal to acknowledge it as even a thing. And I think that’s why the narrator resists the treatment center, and why when she’s in it, is so observationally snarky and resistant, until she realizes it is actually real. And whether or not the facility can really understand her specific family background, I knew that I wanted to humble her and create this place of unlikely community for her. Because in some sense, even though she seems different than the others and thinks of herself as different because of her cultural baggage, she’s not. They’re all tragic in similar ways. That’s the thing with the first generation – we have really nuanced issues and we also face a lot of cultural resistance when it comes to anything related to mental health and mental wellbeing and mental illness. But at the same time, we can forge a sense of community in a setting with other people who don’t share that background. It’s very humbling and humanizing.

SSY: In their review of the book, NPR wrote: “This is not a happy story.” And in many ways, it’s not; it isn’t some grand coming-of-age story where things are clean and simple. It’s a reminder of perpetual otherness that is the reality for many of us. It is also a reminder that lots of us come from families, countries, religions, etc. where queer embracibility is incredibly far from being mainstream. But while it may not be a happy story, there still seems to be a sense of hope; small interactions, moments, or conversations that push your narrator forward. What was your relationship to hopefulness when writing the book? How did you balance being culturally realistic with maintaining a sense of possibility?

ZA: It’s funny that you say that it’s not a happy story, because even though obviously there’s a lot of unfortunate struggles and destructive behavior, I think of it as the happy story. I don’t think you have an unhappy story.

SSY: Okay, well, it’s not necessarily unhappy, maybe just not as gung-ho as other books.

ZA: No, totally, I think that’s right. And the number one most important thing for me in telling this story was that everything be authentic – that the representations of Arabs and Arab women be authentic, that the character’s addiction be authentic and that her ability to overcome be actually realistic and authentic. Which meant that I couldn’t control her. Even though I wanted her to make the right decisions and take the healthier path, sometimes she didn’t, and I couldn’t force her. She’s up against a lot of obstacles, and her journey is to overcome those things, while the mother’s journey is to come to accept her daughter, and those two have to meet in the middle at some point. So staying true to what was realistic in terms of a Palestinian Muslim mother and what was realistic in terms of this narrator who had all these traumas and all this baggage and all this internalized shame and homophobia, I could only get them so far. But I think that they did make progress by the end, even though it was not major. It’s not like there was some like big gay wedding where the mother was administering the service. But clearly, there were inches that were moved, maybe even more than inches, keeping in mind the parameters of culture and her own inner limitations and traumas.

SSY: How do you generate possibility in your own writing practice? Has quarantine changed your writing practice or relationship to creativity?

ZA: I think what’s actually changed my relationship to my writing practice and possibility has been publishing a book, and the reality of what that is. It has been liberating, because not only is this book out, but it’s also not as scary as I thought. And seeing that, and watching the way that readers connect, it’s been freeing to me and given me more impetus and liberty to take on the new writing that I otherwise would have been intimidated to. At some point I felt like I’m never ever going to write anything risky again, but now I’m like, you know what, I am going to keep taking risks and writing and going to weird places.

SSY: Lastly, can you recommend any artists or writers who engage with similar themes?

ZA: Because there’s so many authors that come to my mind, I always draw a total blank cause I feel overwhelmed but okay, I’m a huge fan of Garth Greenwell. He writes really explicitly and honestly about gay sex. Also T Kira Madden is another whose work I really admire, and she writes a lot about being a queer person of color. And Randa Jarrar – she’s Palestinian, and she has a memoir coming out about being a queer Arab.

Mud Wrestling Showed Me How To Want

I didn’t know what I wanted so I went mud wrestling. Almost two years ago in a warehouse in downtown Los Angeles there was a makeshift ring, a blue tarp laid on the floor covered in a slimy mixture of silica and water. The room buzzed with art queers, who donned sequined mustaches and chain necklaces. Yet I hardly knew anyone there. In fact, the only thing that pulled me into the ring that night was desire itself. Desire to be in my body and for rough touch, and moreover, my desire for Frankie, the night’s slippery host.

I met Frankie in the parking lot of Gracie’s Pizza in East Hollywood after briefly messaging on HER, a pre-Lex dating app for queer women and nonbinary folks. A few minutes after pulling into the lot and saying hi, Frankie spotted their friend down the street and sprinted over to greet them. Their friend had just started T, they said, and they wanted to check up on them. I watched their dyed blonde hair bounce as they ran. I waited next to their RV and talked to their human-faced dog. When they returned, they asked if I wanted to smoke a joint in their van before we ate. Against all previous parental advice, I went in and closed the door behind me.

Although we only hung out a few times that summer, I quickly became infatuated with Frankie. They were someone who lived for the present. After our date they sent me a video they filmed while driving home, of their dog licking one of the popsicles we bought from a corner store. The footage was shaky and blurry. It was weird, reckless even, but I loved it.

I loved that Frankie was 10 years older than me and never seemed to shed this kind of chaotic-verging-on-careless energy that I craved. When I met up with them and their friends one Saturday afternoon in Echo Park, Frankie played the class clown. They danced and struck poses. Their ass hung out of the slits of their jeans. I was struck by how singular they came off to me even as their personality transformed with each turn of their heel. I wondered quietly later to myself if this kind of behavior was only cute on white people? If I too could be so brash, so unapologetic. I knew that wasn’t fully true, but watching them vibe without abandon made me question how many times I stopped myself from this kind of lightness.

It was two weeks before my 24th birthday. I spent my days in a frustrating desk job on the westside. On nights and weekends, I dipped my toes into the chaos of other people: a sculptor who used wind as her medium; a formerly-Tumblr-famous fashion icon who claimed, as they brushed their green mullet away from their eyes, that they had been high for seven years.

“I’m distracting myself from the distraction,” I’d tell my housemates as I snapped the buttons on my one good shirt on my way to my next date. The distraction, I’d explain, sometimes meant texting my college ex-girlfriend but more often meant the grandiose, nebulous things like figuring out how to release myself from my job, my gender, this unending cycle of time.

The night we met, Frankie told me they had hosted queer mud wrestling parties for the last few years in Joshua Tree and other parts of the desert. With DJs, glittery lights, and lots of squishy participants. That summer was the first time they were bringing the brawl to Los Angeles.

When I pictured mud wrestling, my mind conjured images of very heterosexual and porn-like battles. Women in pink bikinis, lubed up and sliding around in inflatable pools. Or worse, an even campier version of the already violent WWE fights.

But when Frankie called for willing participants at the next wrestling match that hot July evening, I didn’t think twice. My hand shot up and I watched myself walk up to the faux gold podium. I peeled off my tank top, wearing only a sports bra and swim trunks I put on at the last minute. “I’ve never seen this much guapo coming out of you,” hollered Frankie to the crowd from the overturned trash can from which they played referee. I donned a bad wrestler name and climbed into the ring.

To be clear: a past version of myself would never have even gotten this far. They would have just texted Frankie for a while and let the conversation trail off to a sputter, or maybe they would have gone on one more date but certainly not this. After returning unexpectedly to Los Angeles from an exciting yet challenging year working at a newspaper in Myanmar, I came home unsure about my next moves. In the absence of self direction, I made people pleasing my personal sport. I wore dresses to work and family events even though they made me wince. I turned down a job offer abroad. I let things happen to me.

Earlier that year in February my then-girlfriend Rachel, broke up with me for the second time as we walked to a Shibori workshop near my house. A few months into dating, she asked me what we were doing — a temperature check. I worked as a tutor at the time and was applying to reporting gigs left and right, in Tulsa, Abu Dhabi, New Delhi. At any minute, I knew I might hop on a plane. “I just want to see where this goes,” I remember saying. I wasn’t prepared to sit still.

When she asked me again on that cold afternoon, “What do you want?” I stumbled. I couldn’t tell her because I didn’t know or maybe because the truth was frightening. The answer was a black hole of wordless, almost embryonic wants. I didn’t blame her for not wanting to stick around while I figured it all out. After we broke up, she asked if I still wanted to go to the workshop. I shrugged, “I guess so.” When else would I learn the art of Japanese textile dyeing? We walked there in silence.

In the days following, I started to panic. What did I really want? Why was I letting a nurturing relationship slip through my fingers? Not only did I not know if I wanted her, I didn’t know how I wanted to be addressed, what I wanted to wear, or how I wanted to be seen. For so long I’d hid behind a red fleece that I wore so religiously throughout college that it was practically proverbial to my being. Now it was starting to feel too snug. Slowly I gave myself permission to search, but I knew that I would have to do it alone. At the recommendation of a friend, I made an appointment with a queer sex and relationship therapist who worked to help me to articulate what it was that I most desired.

In one of our first sessions, she gave me a homework assignment. A lifelong teacher’s pet, I reveled in the opportunity to finish something and finish it well. For a week she had me keep a journal of everything that I wanted, no matter how trivial or lavish, and, if the desire was within reach, she encouraged me to grasp it.

The first day I dutifully took notes of my wants on an hour-by-hour basis. By the end of the week, I was writing long lists and passages, my wants extending into a vision of a future self I could yet imagine. One afternoon, my want was quite mundane: a turkey sandwich. I broke a vegetarian spell and bought a pack of honey smoked meat. Another day, I found a queer barber on Instagram who translated my wild hand gestures and photo archive of hot Black dykes to the cropped fade I most desired. I wanted men’s boxer briefs. I wanted a room with a door.

I wanted non-tangible things too. I wanted to feel free to say no without regret, to place boundaries on relationships that had oozed into the beautiful, yet dangerous undefined ether. I continued the assignment long after that session, compiling a mental list of wants as the months passed by: to spend chunks of time in the desert; to test out and then feel certain about using they/them pronouns, to go on silly and casual dates; to write, to kiss, to be alone, to let myself be chased.

Inspired by my undergrad dance classes, I gave myself a challenge of moving through the city in new and unexpected ways. I’d press my back into the corner of the library stairwell because I could. I’d stand in the middle of the dance floor and let my body be pulled by the rhythm of the crowd. Once I took myself on a date downtown and let whatever shiny objects I spotted lead me all the way up the stairs of a parking garage — where I did not have a car — to gaze at the great cluster of skyscrapers.

My first opponent was tall and slender. She and I were cordial at first, sidling up next to each other as the small, clothed crowd cheered us on. I’m not sure who lunged first but next thing I knew, we were covered in mud as we tried to pin the other down for three seconds. The fight was raw and animalistic, like we were breaking the law.

Despite my opponent’s height, I contorted my body and slid out from her grasp. I advanced to the next round — albeit achy and out of breath — to a more seasoned athlete who came to win. Our thighs slapped against the tarp as we threw each other across the floor. Our eyes and ears were painted in mud like two casts of the human form. At one point she pinned me down so hard that I could feel the air vacate my lungs. I waved an arm at Frankie who called a time out. One of their friends who doubled as the bartender and medic swiveled around with a towel to wipe the sludge out of my eyes. I thanked her, took a breath and jumped back in.

I couldn’t fumble too long with what I wanted to do. One wrong move could result in defeat, injury, or worse — the ending to this reifying brawl. Each moment in the ring I was becoming undone as my body was crushed, the air literally emptied out of me. Or rather I was becoming anew by following the intuitions of my body, ready to be replenished.

That night I went home a loser. My only keepsakes were the two brown bruises on my kneecaps, peeled and bloody from grating against the tarp. Frankie was busy entertaining the other guests and the friends I invited had left early, not inexplicably drawn to the ring like I had been. I rinsed off in a trash can that moonlighted as a bathtub. My body was still covered in mud and somewhere along the evening my chest and back had accumulated scales of confetti and glitter. I was amped up on adrenaline, high-fiving strangers and threatening a rematch.

I shook hands with my second opponent hoping to bum a ride home off her or the art types that lingered in the warehouse. But everyone was headed back to Silver Lake or Echo Park and nobody wanted to make the quick dip into South LA. Frankie offered to give me a ride home in their van, but it wouldn’t be for a few hours. They still had to clean up the oozing pool. I looked around for a familiar face and saw none, but it was alright, I thought, I was nearly invincible. I would have embraced the darkness of downtown and walked home alone if I had to.

Frankie kindly ordered me an Uber. I tried my best not to smudge the seat while the driver set the destination. “It’s not actually mud,” I reassured him, to calm his clear unease, “It’s silica, which is a very common ingredient in face wash.” He peered at me nervously through the rear view mirror while I balanced my body, careful not to put my butt fully on the seat. The downtown skyline faded beneath the freeway exit. The roads were empty for a Saturday night. I looked at the reflection of myself in the mirror, mud in my nostrils, covering my earrings, and slicking back my curls. Summer fireworks exploded in the cloudless night. I looked like a creature reborn from the swamp. I didn’t quite recognize this version of myself, but I liked them and knew that I wanted them to be with me in the morning.

“Set It Off” Is the Queer Tribute to Black Women’s Friendship We Need After a Summer of Black Mourning

In “Lost Movie Reviews From the Autostraddle Archives” we revisit past lesbian, bisexual, and queer classics that we hadn’t reviewed before, but you shouldn’t miss.

Set It Off cannot be divorced from its context. In 1996, F. Gary Gray’s Black film classic — part heist thriller, part iconic loving tribute to Black women’s friendship — stood on the immediate shoulders of other defining movies of the decade. Depending on the circles you traveled, it was known as the “Black” version of Ridley Scott’s 1991 Thelma & Louise or the “women” version of the Hughes Brothers’ 1995 Dead Presidents. I can even imagine some slick film critic probably describing it as “Waiting to Exhale, but with guns” and laughing at their own joke as they click-clacked away on their Windows 95.

But it was never any of those things, not in its totality. Because it was always ours. I don’t know that F. Gary Gray knew that in casting Queen Latifah as a breathtaking, once-in-lifetime Black butch action hero, he was changing the face of … well, everything. That in this film’s creation would become a Black lesbian icon burrowed right into the core of our canon.

I do know that Queen Latifah had some doubts before taking on the role of Cleo, the cornrowed, baggy jeans, bare faced, California cool, handsome goddess and powerful muscle of her four person bank robbing crew.

In 2017, reflecting back on the role, Latifah reminisced with Tracee Ellis Ross that the choice to embody Cleo was difficult. She sat down with her younger siblings in the mid ‘90s and told them, “Listen, I’m playing a gay character. Your classmates might tease you or say negative things about it. But I’m doing it because I believe I can bring positive attention to the gay African-American community, and I believe that I can do a great job as an actor.”

It is chilling in retrospect, because my God — as Cleo, Latifah has never been better. Young, mighty, unadulterated, sweet to her friends, sexy in the way that only studs can be — an energy that radiates beneath the pores and melanin; the quiet, intoxicating confidence that comes from truly owning your shit. It’s almost too perfect that they cast the Queen, because she truly sees Cleo’s royalty.

I could spend this entire article writing a love letter to Queen Latifah’s performance, I’m clearly already at a head start. But rewatching Set it Off this summer — and yes, I mean this summer in particular — is unexpectedly (or perhaps alternatively, far too expectedly) heart-wrenching.

For all the times that we, as Black people, as queer women, we as me specifically (I’ve written about Set It Off in short form twice before on this site) have talked about the adrenaline-pumping tear jerker — we don’t talk enough about the fact the catalyst for the central action happens when the police kill a young Black man. Stony’s (Jada Pinkett, before the Smith) younger brother Stevie is murdered while laying face down in the parking lot of an apartment building in his own neighborhood.

Stevie, tall and broad shouldered with an easy smile and twinkling eyes, is about the same age as Mike Brown when Darren Wilson of the Ferguson PD took his adolescent life. Though the fictional Stevie is murdered nearly 20 years earlier, it’s hard to watch it now and not imagine that the officer would refer to the charming Stevie as monster-like, as a “demon” who made him fear for his life, in an effort to cover his tracks. Even though the fictional murder takes place three years before a mistaken wallet would cost Amadou Diallo his life at the hands of NYPD, it is a mistaken champagne bottle that costs Stevie his. As Stevie lays face down on the ground, of no threat, and bullets riddle through his back — no matter how fast I can squeeze my eyes shut, it’s too late, I already see Jacob Blake’s white shirt in Kenosha.

There’s so much about these Black lives lost, the imprints left on our spirit. So much I’ll never know what to say — how to explain. I’m a writer, I’m supposed to know how to put pain into words. I’ve stayed up, night-after-night, all summer, just like the long hot summers before, looking for even the beginning of how to grasp it. What can I possibly contribute? When Jada Pinkett, covered in her brother’s blood, wails over his body “What have you done?” I have to wonder, as my stomach lurches into my throat, why I would have picked this, of all summers, to revisit this infamous Black story again.

There’s a deleted scene that’s been recently restored to the film. It’s about the things we don’t talk about it. It’s about what happens next — the two days that Stony won’t leave the house. Her three best friends sitting in her dark living room with her as she vomits. Vivica A. Fox’s Frankie has her hair wrapped up, Kimberly Elise’s T.T. is sitting on her knees on the floor. Stony buries her face into Cleo’s sweatshirt. There’s a mourning that this country keeps forcing Black women to live through. I almost said “right now” — but what Set It Off is trying so desperately to tell us is that there’s no “right now.” Not at all. Now is 25 years ago. It’s 50 years before that. And one hundred before still. When no one else is looking, when the cameras and Twitter feeds move on — when we still can’t get up from the couch except to cry and shit — Black women still only have each other.

So when Frankie comes up with her big idea to rob banks — “We’ll just take away from a system that’s fucking us all anyway” — the only thing left to feel is catharsis.

The central conceit of Set It Off is lifted directly from the playbooks of 1970s blaxploitation films, even if it arrives to us 20 years later. The question of what would happen if — just for once — Black people took back what’s been stolen from us? If we took back our lives, our divinity, our dignity. What sets Set It Off apart is that when they finally take back what’s been stolen, they take it back from capitalism itself. It presents a macro understanding of the intertwined systematic nature of police violence, capitalism, and racism that’s hard to pull off on screen.

F. Gary Gray does so nearly flawlessly because he understands that first and foremost the story belongs to the Black women upon whose shoulders this entangled mess has always fallen onto in the first place. He lets their story, four working-class Black women who work as an overnight cleaning crew and dream of one day making $15 an hour (a dream we still haven’t accomplished yet, by the way), be the first and only one that matters.

More than anything though, when it all comes down to it, it’s still their sisterhood. It’s their laughter. The way they are always always just within arm’s length of each other. It’s that when Stony gets high she thinks that Cleo looks like Sugar Bear. It’s that they’ve been best friends since first grade. The way they know each other’s vulnerabilities and what they can joke about or when to hold back. These are four women who they love each other with everything they have.

That’s what makes it impossible not to love them in return.

You can rent Set It Off for $2.99. It is also free on Netflix for the month of September.

Want more movies? Check out Autostraddle’s 200 Best Lesbian Movies of All Time.

Anatomy Of A Mango: Seed

This is the last essay in Anatomy Of A Mango, a series where Dani peels back the sweet, tart layers that have led to her “fruitful”, healthy sexuality.

When I was a young girl, my mother caught me touching myself under the covers when I was supposed to be asleep. I say touching myself, but I mean it in a way that is non-sexual. I was mystified by my vulva. It did not make sense to me. My arms I understood, my legs I understood, my eyes I understood. My vulva was a different texture to the rest of the skin I had come to know. This part of my body not covered by my smooth brown skin or hair. Every night I would explore it: folding up my labia and unraveling it in my hands. Trying to figure out why it was outside of my body instead of in. It was my fun, night time, solo activity.

When my mother caught me, she acted swiftly and with violence. She squeezed my wrist and demanded to know what I was doing. I wouldn’t tell her, it was my secret. Badgering me for the truth, she continued to yell in my face and ask me what I was doing. I wouldn’t give in because I knew she would take it away from me. She finally grabbed my wrist, smelled my hand, and knew. I slept on the top bunk and she dragged me down and into the bathroom, cursing all the way, calling me nasty. I remember being afraid but not surprised, it was another day of enduring her meanness and cruelty. I learned at a young age that I couldn’t do much right. My memory cuts out after this, I don’t know if I was met with more violence but I’m sure I was.

Though it had brought me immense satisfaction and happiness to play in this way, I became afraid of my body. For my mother to react that way, what could it be between my legs?

This moment scarred me irreparably for years. I stopped my nightly routine then. Though it had brought me immense satisfaction and happiness to play in this way, I became afraid of my body. For my mother to react that way, what could it be between my legs? Why was it evil enough to warrant physical harm? Though my mother had purchased many of those educational, “don’t be ashamed of your body” books, she had violated my curiosity. I hid the books away and cringed when we skimmed over anatomy in health. When I showered, I kept my eyes averted from my body and refused to linger what I deemed “too long” on certain body parts. Once, the stream of the showerhead lightly passed over my vulva and hit my clitoris and I jumped and shrieked at the sensation. The pleasure felt sinful.

So much of the perception of my body was tied up in Christian concepts of good and evil. My mother’s reaction to my inquisitive nature was a sign that my body was evil, and in order to stay pure, I needed to avoid it.

It took me a while to undo the damage my mother had done, and once I did I was able to view my body as my own, and not in the possession of others.

I finally did begin to explore again my sophomore year of college. For Christmas, my best friend took me to Adult Mart to buy a vibrator.

We had spent the evening having dinner with our dates and friends and then parted to go to Adult Mart with her girlfriend and the rest of the crew. As we walked over, I expected to be met with a tall, brimming building with huge, flashing neon signs that read ADULTMART! PERVERTS ENTER HERE!! but instead approached a sliver of a building with an innocent brick front. The lean stairs led up and out into a wide showroom with wall to wall sex. There were whips and paddles, dildos, harnesses, and video pornography. I felt scandalized and giddy all at once.

My best friend led me to the vibrator wall and my eyes were immediately drawn to a silicone, purple vibrator with a little butterfly wing attachment that was for “clitoral stimulation.” I pulled it off the wall and grabbed a pack of AA batteries to go with it.

The next day I sat up in my room and had my first orgasm. My legs shot up in the air like I was in a cartoon and had been knocked out.

The next day I sat up in my room and had my first orgasm. My legs shot up in the air like I was in a cartoon and had been knocked out. My eye twitched and my stomach fluttered. The explosion of sensation and ecstasy was so much that I almost bit a hole through my lip to keep from screaming. The feeling was astronomical, I felt like I wielded a supernatural power. The next couple weeks of winter break were spent stealing batteries from the remotes in the house. I was ravenous for orgasms and probably drove my family out of their minds in the process.

Having my first orgasm was revelatory. I became so incredibly interested in my vulva, what it looked like, the shape and length of my labia, how my clitoris responded to stimulation. Masturbation was a place of inhibition and freedom for me. It was my first step toward reconceptualizing my idea of my body as my own. I still felt a little sinful, but most of that feeling dissipated once I was back in the habit of masturbating. Somehow, when I started having sex with other people, the story changed.

My first time having sex with another person, I had to get drunk in order to find the confidence to share my body with them. It was a wonderful experience, but looking back, I would have loved to have been sober for it. The experience, while vibrant, was curved in some places, buffed out of my memory. I bottomed my first time, but I remember the urgency with which I threw myself into her, took off her clothes, tried to hide in her body. Bottoming is a very vulnerable act, to let someone pleasure you is to put the body into sharp focus. I couldn’t bear it without the haze of alcohol. Those first sexual experiences with women, I was often near a blackout drunk because I was in that bottoming position. I was still learning how to please and pleasure a woman and so relied on their guidance. Once I found my footing in the world of lesbian sex, I quickly learned that the best way for me to feel safe was to take a more dominant role and control the situation.

When I was a senior in college, I got the chance to hook up with someone I had a crush on when I was a freshman. She had graduated and moved on to different opportunities that I didn’t have the wherewithal to learn. I was of a singular mind in those days, and I was set on hooking up with her after she had rejected me when I was too young for her. We were at a bodypaint party when two of our friends, a couple, started hooking up in the same room as us. We took this as a cue to spend some time on our own as well. We went outside to the side of the house, slowly moving our bodies against each other in the dark, kissing and making promises to bring each other to ecstasy.

Once we got back to my dorm room, a different story unfolded. I was still young and had assumed that a partner presenting as masc meant they would want to be a top: this was not the case. After running to the bathroom to freshen up, I was surprised to find her sprawled naked on my bed in a coy, feminine posture, her eyes cat-like and enticing. “I want you to fuck me” she declared in a sumptuous voice that almost came out as a growl. My heart jumped in excitement, I was ready to do the work.

I assumed the position on my knees and began to pleasure her with my hands and my mouth, I remember being guided by the principle of doing what sounded like it felt good. I asked questions, got consent. When she moaned or screamed, I kept doing the thing that elicited that reaction, feeling my focus sharpen like a knife as I lay on my belly, watching her writhe and purr. With every new move I tried she melted, and with that, I felt a confidence and assuredness in my capabilities.

After a while of giving, I was ready to receive and asked if she would mind switching positions. I’ll never forget the tone of her voice when she replied, “Sorry, I don’t eat hairy pussy.” I was stunned and frankly, ashamed.

After a while of giving, I was ready to receive and asked if she would mind switching positions. I’ll never forget the tone of her voice when she replied, “Sorry, I don’t eat hairy pussy.” I was stunned and frankly, ashamed. I had never encountered a woman who had refused to go down on me because of my body hair and I certainly wasn’t going to hop up and shave after that. The moment made me flashback to the scene with my mother– someone else dictating what was and wasn’t appropriate with my body. It had made me angry, but I quickly snapped out of it, not wanting her to have a bad time because of me. I went back to bring her to orgasm again and again and would wake up with her the next morning, never addressing what had transpired between us.

This interaction colored the rest of my sexual experiences after. I was a Women’s Studies minor and what I considered to be a devoted feminist, so I wasn’t going to shave on account of one person. But I did continue to take the role as a top during sex from then on. I didn’t want another person to shame me, to know my body intimately enough to have the power to shame me. Taking my clothes off during sex was a feat. I often got my shirt and bra off then stopped after that, not wanting to expose what was between my legs due to fear of an adverse reaction. Sex became a space for me to not be a body, and with the aid of alcohol and drugs, I abandoned myself entirely.

When I started entering the world of sex and dating even more after college, I found that I only explored my own wants and desires within the confines of my own mind and during solo masturbation sessions. Sex with others wasn’t much about what I wanted, even though I took a dominant role. This was never more evidenced than during my “relationship” with C. C and I had a tense, sexually charged relationship that started with us innocently drinking wine and would end after hours of sex with us standing outside my apartment, smoking cigarettes at the bus stop as I pretended to be a stone-cold dyke with no feelings who didn’t really care about her.

During sex, I would top her, and then when she tried to please me I would push her away; when she wanted to do things I considered too intimate I would shift the focus toward her desire again. We once had a terse struggle for dominance in which she grabbed my face and begged me to look into her eyes while I fucked her. I couldn’t do it, I could barely let her kiss me on my mouth. In a space of dominance, I could relax knowing I wasn’t the focus. That I could direct my attention on another woman’s body, enjoying her curves and signs she was enjoying what I did to her.

In many ways, my sexual relationships mirrored my relationship with my mother. Everything about me was secondary: my thoughts, my emotions, my wants. My mother was a very domineering force who commanded the love and affection of others, she was a magnet that many people were drawn to or were in the service of. As her daughter, I was one of those people who were in her service. Everything I did was to get a positive reaction out of her, to earn her love. I disappeared when I was with her and became an extension of her personhood. During that scene with her in my bedroom, I learned that my body wasn’t mine, that anything I did to explore myself was forbidden and dirty. It made it easier for people to take advantage of me when I was a young girl and made it easy for me to slip in and out of whatever personality I needed to when I became an adult.

Because of the positive affirmation I received during sex, I began to believe it was all I was good for. When people wanted me, I assumed that meant that whatever I felt was irrelevant; my job was to provide joy for other people, and so I did.

Because of the positive affirmation I received during sex, I began to believe it was all I was good for. When people wanted me, I assumed that meant that whatever I felt was irrelevant; my job was to provide joy for other people, and so I did. I gave myself to a lot of people in that way, only turning someone down occasionally for odd reasons. More often than not I pushed myself further than I was willing to go in these situations and found myself feeling uncomfortable or violated afterward. Sometimes, my reputation caused trouble in the relationship I was in for almost two years. I liked being wanted, it made me feel good, but I found it hard to say no to people when I was in a committed relationship. I flirted endlessly, sent nudes back and forth with women. When my partner wanted to get closer emotionally I found myself wrestling with an internal dialogue not to trust her, that I could turn my love for her off if I needed to, that I was only useful as a sex object and not someone to truly love. She was one of the few people I did trust enough to let her touch me in very intimate ways, but that intimacy often terrified me.

The first person I began to explore my own body with was H, who I talked about in the second essay in this series, Flesh. For some reason, the fact that H was a total stranger to me made it easier to let my guard down, and focus on being catered to. It helped that H was incredibly sexy and skillful — once their tongue touched me I began to melt almost instantly. What I remember the most about that interaction other than the orgasm was my staring up at the ceiling, tightly gripping the bedsheets. I hadn’t shaved and this person was getting a full view of the very thing I had spent years trying to run from. My breath caught in my throat as I tried to relax into the situation, hoping to overcome the cacophony of voices in my head telling me that trying to feel pleasure was useless and I needed to put a stop to this whole thing. H was kind, checked in, was very communicative about what they liked and did not like. I found their confidence comforting and was excited to see them the next time they were in town.

I met my ex shortly after I had hooked up with H, and stayed pretty exclusive in that relationship to its end, and so when I came out of that breakup I was ready to explore myself more. A lot of that occurred during masturbation: I took a few months celibacy stint after getting sober and wanted to refocus my energy on what I wanted, and not what others wanted of me. Masturbation became such a healing space for me, I was in control of my fantasies and the pace/rate at which I could have an orgasm or not have one at all. I could revisit really hot past experiences or make up whole new people that I would want to sleep with.

Sometimes, after masturbating, I would return to that place of play. Just resting my palms over my labia to feel its warmth, slowly touching and exploring it, the clitoral hood, becoming curious again. I needed to learn that I was in possession of a body that I could do what I wanted with, but that I wasn’t just this body. I was more than just the things that had been forbidden to me. When I shared myself with other people, I had to remember that because I was entering into an intimate space with them, I had a right to pleasure as well. Masturbation provided a unique, hyper self-focused place for me to gain back the autonomy I had lost.

I needed to learn that I was in possession of a body that I could do what I wanted with, but that I wasn’t just this body. I was more than just the things that had been forbidden to me.

I don’t want to write this and make it sound like all the sex I had was bad, that having sex with lots of people you don’t know is bad. Being a sexually free woman is a great source of empowerment in my life. Where I went wrong was that I was using the other person as a means to disappear and to not have to reckon with my personhood. Being my own person felt impossible on its own, but when I had to do it in sexual experiences it was downright scary. My mother’s perception of the kind of girl, woman, and person I should be still clouded my own actions and self-judgments.

On bad days, it still does. I recently had an intimate interaction with someone who I didn’t like, but I kept going because this person was into me and I didn’t want to disappoint them. There were many moments along where I could have brought the situation to a halt, but I blew through every stop sign, again, not wanting to be the source of someone else’s “bad time.” I used to think back on these experiences with great shame. How could I not say “no” to someone I didn’t even want? Was I so damaged as a person that I couldn’t even communicate what I needed in a situation as fraught as sex? These questions went on and on in my head and would often wear me down. In this situation, I decided to cut things off with that person and to focus my energy on pursuing people I was really into. I haven’t met anyone I’m super into yet, but I’m looking forward to getting to know these people. Been heavy on tinder in these quarantine days and ready to risk it all!

The seed of a mango is nestled snuggly inside of its pit. I didn’t realize this until recently when I watched a woman separate the seed from the pit with her hands, struggling mightily with each layer removed. Every part of our personalities has a seed, a root that is at the core of our motivations. The seed, of course, is the reason things grow, the reason we bare fruit and flower. Sometimes, if the seed planted is toxic or harmful, it can bare spoiled fruit. The event with my mother was a seed that spurned into an unhealthy relationship with my body, which led to sexual relationships that weren’t fruitful. This is a seed that is implanted in me forever. It has grown into what it has grown into, my job now is to do the work of tending to the rest of my garden, planting different seeds, ones that will sprout into bright orange, sinfully tasty fruit. I’m planting seeds for myself that will blossom into the trees I contend with for the rest of my life, so it is my job to care for them with good intentions and healthy boundaries.

This seed of shame that was implanted in me, what do I do with it now? That shame, while I’ve worked on it immensely, still pops up in my life. It usually rears its head in the moments after sex and masturbation, an impulse to not make noise or to immediately “button up” after the orgasm is over, as if I don’t want to be caught naked and vulnerable. The moments after ecstasy, from someone hearing your sex sounds to seeing your face, are a different kind of nakedness. In some ways, giving someone the power to pleasure you is also giving them the power to hurt you — the two are not so far from each other. I realize now that this is the root of my shame; it is protecting me from being caught like I was as a child. It keeps me alert and vigilant, protected me from what I assume will lead to violence. I have to fight that impulse now and remind myself that I am safe, and that I can let the walls tumble, especially in my most intimate moments with myself. I will always struggle with being afraid to be my fully realized self, in sex and in life, but it is through my writing about it and confronting it that I begin to win that battle a little more every time.

NIECY NASH DONE WENT AND GOT GAY MARRIED

Okay listen, if you didn’t grow up watching Niecy Nash convince hoarders to throw things away in Clean House after you unlocked your own back door coming home from school to an empty house because your mama was at work, we have very little in common. If you didn’t sneak episodes of Reno 911 because your same mama was home by the time it came on and thought it was a little too grown for you, we also have nothing in common. But if you did, bayyyybbeeeee have I got news for you! Niecy Nash just announced via a Twitter post that she is MARRIED. And not just married, honey, Mrs. Nash, or should I say, Mrs. Betts, done went and got gay married!!!! 

As in to a woman! And a fine one too!!!!!

Mrs. Carol Denise Betts 💍 @jessicabettsmusic #LoveWins🌈 📸 @robertector pic.twitter.com/aPsx03PvtT

— Niecy Nash (@NiecyNash) August 31, 2020

Mrs. Carol Denise Betts said “love wins”, and yes it does! Also, look at her looking like a WHOLE snack in that dress?!???? Wow! This is so JOYFUL!!!

How the two kept this a secret for so long, I’ll never know, but it was just the surprise I needed after a hellish last week. On her stories, Niecy posted a picture of her new wife and her boo-ed up together, beaming with the caption, “Plot twist 🌈”. Uh, yes. Plot twist INDEED!

God DAMN they are fine. I’ll get over that eventually, but right now I’m swooning. Nash’s new wife, Jessica Betts is a musician and a star in her own right, and the two of them seem perfect for each other. Also, no heteropatriarchy, but I’m obsessed with Niecy taking Jessica’s last name. She said, “GAY RIGHTS!!!”

Congratulations are pouring in over Twitter and Instagram, as well as dropped jaws and choruses of “oh my GOD?!” because really, how didn’t we know?!

https://twitter.com/tira_tira_tira/status/1300524322574888960

I’m so happy for them and their joy, and wish them a long happy marriage together. Love really IS real y’all. And it’s winning!!! Whew, this is gonna pull me through for the rest of the week. Mazel to them and their families ❤️❤️❤️ Go leave them some love on their social media accounts.

14 Knuckles: Femme Top Revolution

Z slowly kissed down my chest like no one ever has before while I sunk into the corner of the sectional. They traced the wet of their mouth all along my skin while I played with their hair, a smirk forming on my lips. “Oh, you want to worship me, huh,” I said.

Their singsong, appeasing voice, mouth finding my hip bone, hummed, “Mmmmhmmmm,” and continued to my belt buckle. “Can I take this off?” they asked.

“Yes,” I said, giddy. “But if that’s the case, I’m not gonna do any work at all.”

I let them peel off my jeans and crouch on the floor between my legs, I let them curl their lips against my still-there underwear, feeling myself get wetter as I observed. I set my feet on their shoulders. Had I ever been served like this? Like I am indeed royalty, worthy of devotion, a precious golden gift treated with care?

They would have stayed there as long as I let them, but I couldn’t imagine their broad shoulders slumped in such a small space for much longer. We made it up to the loft of the cottage and they undressed. Shirt off, revealing their blonde chest hair, ring against pink nipple, and a comforting belly. Pants off, exposing the lacy thong they’d described to me the week prior.

“Wow, you look good in that,” I said, mesmerized. I touched, grabbing their sides, feeling the thong’s sharp fabric against my skin, the way it defined an edge to their body, a delicacy to their strength. I kept pulling and, soon, they were on their stomach. I stroked their ass cheeks, pulling them away from each other, asking them what they wanted me to do with them.

Z and I have talked about so many things. We’re open to doing damn near everything to each other, but sometimes it’s our switchiness that wants everything and when the moment comes, we aren’t sure exactly what first. Who has power, who’s initiating, who’s willing to be vulnerable right now? It’s constantly shifting, our sexualities as mutable as the temperature, and in this loft it was hot.

“I mean, you can do lots of things.”

I rubbed circles on their asscheek with my right hand and brought my face up to theirs. I want to spank them but, more than that, I want them to tell me what they want. I lean down and bring my lips close to theirs. I whisper, “Okay…but what do you want me to do?”

“I feel like you’re trying to spank me, so let’s try that,” they said, wrapping their arms around a pillow and sinking in.

ABRA played as I sat up, rubbed their ass, and hit them. I started soft, I started awkward. The last time I spanked them, they hadn’t been particularly into it. It’d been six months and many lovers since then and this felt so different, this time they grabbed the pillow and clutched it in their arms and closed their eyes, this time their lace thong gave me guidelines, framed their body into zones, and I hit them harder and harder. Their tender flesh turned pink and started to swell on each ass cheek. I rubbed them slowly and traced the untouched skin.

“How does this feel?” I asked.

“It’s definitely doing things,” they said in the way that queers can put glitter into even the simplest words. “You can keep going.”

I hit them increasingly hard until my own hand stung so hard, but I kept going. The pain I gave felt connected to the pain I was receiving — I can’t usually feel my hands, they’re numb or tingling in a constant state of vague tightness. This pain was different, this pain was from the transference of energy from one fleshy body to another, love moving between us.

Somewhere along the line, I realized that Z was offering themselves to me. I could do anything to them that I wished someone had done to me. Flash, to when I’d gotten spanked recently and my lover kissed my ass and it felt like a blessing, but their lips left my skin too soon. I kissed Z’s ass where I’d left marks. I stroked their asscheeks with my tongue and suckled on tender points like nectar, pulling the pleasure living inside of them to their skin. I massaged, I traced the edges of their thong with my lips, tongue, fingers. I let myself linger, cool down, let the pain drift from my fingers and the energy seep back into Z’s body. My tongue traced down their crease and shifted every single hair, letting them feel what happens when we stay slow. I buried my face in their ass until I felt them open for a finger, I tenderly traced a coconut-oiled fingertip in circles around their hole.

When they asked for things, I gave it to them, and when they asked for a break, I lay beside them. Their eyes remained closed, so relaxed like I’d never seen them. “How are you feeling?”

“I think maybe it’s just, it makes sense and it’s so obvious but maybe it’s just my Taurus — I’m so comfortable and taken care of. The music, the temperature, everything is cozy, I don’t have to do anything, and I think that was the first time I’ve gotten anywhere near subspace, like I’m so relaxed and I don’t even know what you were doing and I don’t really have words, but yeah, I feel good.”

I felt a rush in my chest and almost started crying. “Babe!” I exclaimed. I took them into my arms and held them until they opened their eyes and returned to adoring my body.

Later, Z told me they were startled when I pointed out that they wanted to worship me. They said that I voiced the pure earnestness of what they wanted without shaming them for it. I gave them permission to step into devotion. Their reverence helped me claim my place — a new place, as a femme top worthy of worship, capable of inflicting pain and exchanging love, and responsible for their wellbeing.

In an email, they wrote, “I inherently assumed that for someone to get me into subspace, it would take some wearing down (possibly in rough physical ways that I wouldn’t enjoy) for my defenses to soften enough to reach that sort of submissive space. But what happened with you was that all my concerns and needs and considerations were tended to, the worrying nerve endings clamped off for the evening. I saw it as the femme-daddy-top long game: I’d been fed, we’d chatted, you’d put music on, the loft of the Airbnb was warm (perhaps even too warm, but in a pleasant way), I felt safe, etc. the anxiety stilled to nothingness…I realized it wasn’t so much that I couldn’t move as I couldn’t imagine why any part of me would want to. Where I imagined an overcoming, I got an easing into.”

God. When I got this email, I was speechless for weeks. I’ve been through a sexually abusive queer relationship; I’ve had casual encounters where people pushed my boundaries; I’ve topped people in ways where I’ve lost my sense of self and ended up really hurting people. After all that, I am so, incredibly concerned with not transferring my own sexual trauma to other people, and with making sure my bottom feels safe and empowered. Reading this email made every cell vibrate in gratitude for Z’s openness and vulnerability. And it’s weird, I don’t really feel that “I want to buy you a black matte Audi” energy with Z — that energy that became so all-consuming and toxic with others. I’d do so much for them, but that’s not what they need from me. They don’t want me to give up my life for them. Instead, they want me to know that I am deserving of their service, they want to know that they’re doing a good job, they want me to experience power.

If I fully step into my power, they can know that their role has been fulfilled. They know their work, as a white masc queer, is to uplift people of color. When our friendship first started to deepen, they talked about how they see themselves as a stable support to facilitate the art and lives of people of color in their personal world. They know that part of their creative and sexual existence is in service to their POC lovers.

After that night, we talked about our race and sex dynamics in ways we hadn’t before. By having a sexual role that is in service, they can transmute the energy that would otherwise be guilt, shame, or anxiety, into a kind of action that tangibly uplifts the people of color in their life. They do this with me by worshipping me, with other lovers by topping them hard, and with their husband by continuing to explore how deep their husband’s dick will go down their throat. Z is a shapeshifter, enabling transformation through deeply, but temporarily, becoming what their lover needs to grow their power.

And because we’re both switches, I feel them returning the femme top energy that I give them. They check in about how they take up space as a masc person within our dynamic and I tell them something I’ve felt since day one: “I’m so used to doing emotional labor in relationships, but in our dynamic, you were the one who first reached out vulnerably. You were the one who offered gifts, information about yourself, who asked questions and listened intently even when I wasn’t easily reciprocating. You were the one who was consistent and, I know you present as pretty masc, but I just want to acknowledge that throughout our relationship, you’ve been doing a lot of femme labor, especially when I was in a place where I couldn’t be vulnerable.”

There’s a kind of femme-top long game that they’ve reciprocated back to me, in curating the kind of soft, slow, consistent intimacy that has allowed us to grow closer over time. I can feel their femme top energy in those moments of worship: they, too, are claiming their ability to care for another as power. In offering themselves to me in these nuanced ways, I can own a piece of myself that is deeply powerful and actually decide what I want to do with that power. There’s a difference between domination as a way to take control or claim power over another person — the way certain lovers have done with me — versus domination as a way to provide comfort and care, and to grow one’s power without harming anyone else. With Z, there’s space to explore how we claim and release power in a way that honors the multiplicity within each of us.

Year of Our (Audre) Lorde: August’s New Spelling of My Name

“Once home was a far way off a place I had never been to but knew well out of my mother’s mouth. She breathed exuded hummed the fruit smell of Noel’s Hill morning fresh and noon hot, and I spun visions of sapadilla and mango as a net over my Harlem tenement cot in the snoring darkness rank with nightmare sweat. Made bearable because it was not all. This now, here, was a space, some temporary abode, never to be considered forever nor totally binding nor defining, no matter how much it commanded in energy and attention. For if we lived correctly and with frugality, looked both ways before crossing the street, then someday we would arrive back in the sweet place, back home.”

“But it was so typical of my mother when I was young that if she couldn’t stop white people from spitting on her children because they were Black, she would insist it was something else. It was so often her approach to the world; to change reality. If you can’t change reality, change your perception of it.”

“I remember how being young and Black and gay and lonely felt. A lot of it was fine, feeling I had the truth and the light and the key, but a lot of it was purely hell. There were no mothers, no sisters, no heroes. We had to do it alone, like our sister Amazons, the riders on the loneliest outposts of the kingdom of Dahomey. We, young and Black and fine and gay, sweated out our first heartbreaks with no school nor office chums to share that confidence over lunch hour. Just as there were no rings to make tangible the reason for our happy secret smiles, there were no names nor reason given or shared for the tears that messed up the lab reports or the library bills. […] We did it cold turkey, and although it resulted in some pretty imaginative tough women when we survived, too many of us did not survive at all.”

“In a paradoxical sense, once I accepted my position as different from the larger society as well as from any single sub-society—Black or gay—I felt I didn’t have to try so hard. To be accepted. To look femme. To be straight. To look straight. To be proper. To look ‘nice.’ To be liked. To be loved. To be approved. What I didn’t realize was how much harder I had to try merely to stay alive, or rather, to stay human. How much stronger a person I became in that trying.”

Foolish Child #79: Comply

..

“The Chi” Season Three: Easy on the Eyes as a Queer Woman, Hard on the Heart as a Black Woman

On Sunday, the third season of Showtime’s The Chi ended just as the season began: with a wedding and a funeral. The episode also concluded a season’s long shift, away from the rich but almost exclusively male-centric stories that highlighted its first two seasons and towards more equitable storytelling. The show’s new direction brought the storylines of five black queer and trans women — one who’d existed on the show’s periphery plus four all new characters — to the forefront. Suffice it to say, Lena Waithe knows how to get our attention.

With that influx of gay energy, Carmen and I had to have a conversation about The Chi’s third season. Our TV Team has always been quick to ask showrunners to “make it gay” and finally, someone listened. But did making The Chi gayer turn it into a better show? We looked at what worked, what didn’t work and what scene we’re still drooling over rewatching periodically on our DVRs.

Carmen: Those who’ve never seen The Chi are probably wondering why we are covering a show in its third season with a full post when we never have before. So, what is The Chi? And why haven’t we talked about it before now?

Natalie: Though in terms of creation, Twenties actually predates it, The Chi is Lena Waithe’s first solo production to make it to air. It’s about life in her hometown on Chicago, Illinois.

One of the things that Lena talked a lot about during publicity for the first season was how she wanted to really humanize the experiences of the people who lived in the city. All too often we hear stories about Chicago that treat it is this flat, one-dimensional stereotype — one that the president employs with regularity — but she wanted to provide more dimension, more depth to what we see.

As for the reason that we haven’t really talked about it at Autostraddle… despite Lena Waithe’s involvement, the show wasn’t really gay? We learned in Season One (I think) that Kevin’s mom had a girlfriend but that was about the extent of it.

Miriam A. Hyman as Dre and Tyla Abercrumbie as Nina, The Chi Season Three

Carmen: Yeah, we are first introduced to Kevin’s two moms very early in the first season — Nina, and her partner Karen. They were pretty inconsequential to the series, you’re right. When the show first premiered, I wrote about them that “I wish there was more direct plot [about Nina and Karen] to share. There’s lots of fun teasing and love shared and television trope of parents embarrassing their kids, except this time centered on two black lesbians living in the city. That’s a rare gem worth noting all by itself.” But a lot has changed quickly in terms of black lesbian representation since 2018 (to be fair in part because of Lena Waithe’s work). I think it’s acceptable to say it’s past time we demanded more.

This is complicated to explain for those who haven’t been watching the show, but this year “Karen” got switched out for another entirely different masc black lesbian named “Dre.” I won’t necessarily ding The Chi for making move so notorious in television it has its own nickname (I’m guessing straight white people probably reference the two Darrins from Bewitched in this moment, but this move will always be known as pulling an “Aunt Viv” to me).

Natalie: I didn’t even notice it at first! That’s how little they were part of the series… they swapped Karen out for a whole ‘nother chick this year and I didn’t even notice it until you pointed it out after the Season Three premiere!

Carmen: Hahahaha, yeah! But once it became clear where this season of The Chi was going, I understand looking to move into an actress who could hold the weight that would be placed on Dre’s shoulders.

Natalie: But even beyond the show not being gay, at least initially, before now the show wasn’t really invested in telling the stories of the women of Chicago.

Carmen: Which is something I know we felt differently about! I fell in love with most of the young boys that the story centers on right away, I think Lena Waithe writes some of the best portrayals of young black men — in all of the messiness, their bravado, their vulnerability — that we are getting right now.

Natalie: I don’t know that we felt that differently about it… I loved Jake, Papa and Kevin from the start and I still love Emmett for reasons that I can’t understand… but I was surprised and a little disappointed to seeing all that dimension being afforded to black men and not black women.

Carmen: Yes! It’s your disappointment that I remember.

Natalie: I think we see that play out a lot with black narratives, where correcting misconceptions about black men gets prioritized over showcasing black women… and so you’ll get people who remember Laquan McDonald but won’t acknowledge Rekia Boyd, right?

And it’s not that I think Lena had to write a gay show — though admittedly, I liked the gayer parts of Season Three — or something that was representational of her background. I’m just saying our stories need telling and we deserve to be humanized as well.

In hindsight, I wonder if the lack of focus on women’s stories allowed the toxic environment on the show to fester?

Carmen: I think it absolutely did, yes.

Natalie: To clarify for those who are new to The Chi, following the show’s first season, it was beset with misconduct allegations against its male lead, Jason Mitchell. Going into the second season, the network provided additional HR training for the writers, cast and crew and replaced the white male showrunner with Ayanna Floyd, a black woman.

The changes didn’t impact the toxicity on the set: Tiffany Boone, who’d been an early target of Mitchell’s inappropriate behavior as his on-screen love interest, asked to be released from her contract and Floyd became another target for Mitchell’s ire. Eventually, Jason Mitchell was fired and Waithe expressed regret at how she’d handled the situation.

Carmen: It’s a fine line, because toxic sets can happen with women in charge (as is the case on The Chi) and with more women in the writers’ room and with more women on screen. Toxicity, sexual harassment, and abuse can happen anywhere.

I know you’ve had some strong feelings about this!

Tiffany Boone as Jerrika, The Chi Season Two

Natalie: I just think, if Tiffany Boone’s higher on the call sheet — if her story is given the same level of priority and care that Jason Mitchell’s is in that first season — then maybe she’s heard a bit more more when she makes her allegations against him.

I hope that something was really learned from that experience… not just that networks and showrunners should be more proactive and value the safety of their colleagues over story considerations, but that we can’t just throw a black woman into the mix and assume that systemic issues are going to fix themselves. That said, there was a story in the Times last week about the writers’ room on CBS’ All Rise and, despite almost all of the writers of color in the room leaving the show, the network’s decision was just to pair the white showrunner with a black woman… so, you know, I’m not convinced anyone really learned anything.

(Both CBS and Showtime are Viacom properties.)

Carmen: Given The Chi’s history and mishandling of Tiffany Boone’s sexual harassment claims, it was very hard for me to think that we would be engaging with the show ever again on this website, to be honest.

Then came Season Three! In no small part in response to what had happened the previous years behind-the-scenes, this season brought a re-energized focus on telling the stories of black women that the show had lacked in the past. One of ways that played out was with a newly diversified cast including many more black lesbian, bisexual, and trans women characters.

So to quote the Autostraddle t-shirt, “Who’s all gay here?”

Natalie: LOL!

Kandi Burruss as Roselyn, The Chi Season Three

Carmen: There’s still Nina, Kevin’s mom, and Dre — formerly Karen — his stepmom. Then there’s new characters as well: Camille, Lena Waithe’s new insert who appears to be a vague stand-in for real life Chicago mayor Lori Lightfoot, the first black lesbian mayor of a major city (Camille is running for mayor of Chicago); also there’s Roselyn (played by former Xscape singer and ATL Real Housewife Kandi Burruss) — the bisexual wife of Camille’s opponent in the mayoral race; and Imani (Jasmine Davis), the trans girlfriend of Jake’s older brother, new to the scene.

Did I miss anyone? Is it possible that The Chi came from behind and somehow put forth the largest cast of LGBT black women characters that we’ve seen on television thus far?

Natalie: Aside from Pose, you’re probably right in that assessment.

Carmen: So then definitely the largest cast of black lesbian and bisexual women characters then.

Also how sad is it that the bar for this category is so low that it could be passed with… five characters? Wow.

Natalie: Don’t forget the stripper!

Tamara Davis as “The Season Finale Stripper” (we had too, you understand), The Chi Season Three

Carmen: HAHAA!!!! YES!!! There’s also a stud stripper in the season finale! Dreams come true.

Ok but seriously, what worked for you?

Natalie: I mean, let’s be honest and talk about what really worked for me…. Nina and Dre’s wedding and then the wedding night in the hotel. So much about those scenes felt authentic and lived in…

Carmen: I love how polite you are being for “the sex was very hot” (and it’s true! That’s easily one of the sexiest sex scenes I’ve ever seen, credit to Lena where it’s due).

Natalie: One of the things we’ve talked about with Twenties is how adept Lena is at portraying intimacy between black women in a way we haven’t seen on television before. Even when you think about how far we’ve progressed in seeing queer sexuality — with Vida and The L Word: Generation Q setting the new standards — seeing a strap-on on-screen is still a rarity.

And, so admittedly, when Dre came out, strapped up and Nina is just ready to be devoured… it was both really, really hot and really emotional to see it portrayed that way.

Carmen: Yes! absolutely!!! ESPECIALLY a brown strap-on! On a brown woman!

I think “really emotional” captures it well. We never, and I do mean literally never, get to see black queer sex scenes like that on television. I joke a lot about how great Lena Waithe’s sex scenes are, but more than that — they are important. It takes a stand that we’re here, too.

Natalie: It really does.

The other queer scene that stood out for me are the trip to the gay club with Imani and Trig, her boyfriend. He has this outburst of toxic masculinity when a gay guy mistakes him for trade and yells at Imani for taking him to a gay club in the first place. She clarifies that they’re not at the club for him; they’re there for her… so she can be back among her family.

Jasmine Davis as Imani, The Chi Season Three

Carmen: Yessss, along with black women in an actual loving and supportive and sexy relationship with each other, something we almost never get to see is black trans women being loved on and supported by their partners, at all.

It matters that Imani and Trig love each other, and that she feels comfortable taking him out to the gay clubs because that’s her family, her people. And that when Trig has to deal with his own insecurities and homophobia (and the ways that overlaps with his own latent transphobia to be honest), that they are able to have a constructive, honest, and ultimately healthy conversation.

The Chi is watched by a majority black audience. Black cis men in particular — and if we’re going to be frank black cis women, too — need to see this modeled. They need to understand that loving black trans women out loud and in public isn’t something that should be shameful. The opposite message is already far too prevalent in our community and it’s causing real tangible violence and death for our sisters. It’s long past time to fix that shit.

Natalie: Absolutely!

I thought Imani’s conversation with Jake in the season finale spoke to that as well. Trans people are part of our community and are doing what we all strive to do, which is live our authentic lives:

Jake: I know what you are.
Imani: And what’s that?
Jake: You were born one way but inside you felt you were someone else.
Imani: Yeah, that’s right. How do you feel about that?
Jake: About what?
Imani: About me being trans?
Jake: I don’t give a fuck.
Imani: Really, it doesn’t bother you?
Jake: Nah, I read about it in school, and it’s not that big a deal. It’s not like you bad or nothing.

Carmen: Yes, Jake, who’s like this fifteen/sixteen-year-old cis black boy who’s looking at his new step-mother over this dinner that she cooked for him, and they are coming to an understanding. In particular they’re talking about how Imani suffered anti-trans violence and abuse from her own father and self-defense actions she had to take to save herself. And Jake kind of just takes it all nonchalantly.

Jake isn’t the kind of kid where I would use “tender” to describe him often, but that moment between him and Imani is incredibly sweet.

Natalie: I also like that it sets up the next conversation to be entirely about Jake not really respecting anyone telling him what to do, when it could’ve easily gone the other way.

Carmen: Yes, this moment between the two of them allows Imani to be Jake’s stepmom, and to tell him to do the dishes — and for Jake to catch a typical teenage attitude over being told to do the dishes. It allows for both of them to just become family to one another.

Natalie: Yes!

I wish they’d done more with Imani’s character, though. Mid-season there were hints that she was ready to go back to that trap house and rescue some of the girls being trafficked there, but the storyline never really went anywhere.

Carmen: Yeah. In terms of what worked well this season, for me a lot of it comes back to: bringing along majority black audiences to queer black stories and conversations that they otherwise don’t always get to see.

Like when Nina and Dre are married in the season premiere and two neighborhood aunties stop Kiesha, their daughter, to ask: “So how does it work with the lesbians? Does the femme-y one take the butch-y one’s last name?”

And then the other auntie says, “Don’t say butch-y! Say masculine presenting!”

I laughed so loud. But it’s also really nice.

Natalie: LOL.

Carmen: I’ve been following The L Word rewatch that Autostraddle has been hosting with To L and Back. Though I love both TLW and Generation Q, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Tasha Williams (Rose Rollins). And about how, even to this day more than decade later, so often the biggest black queer characters that everyone “watches” or “knows about” happen on majority white shows where they face rampant anti-blackness in the storytelling, if not also behind the scenes (paging Kat Edison in The Bold Type). What does that do for black queer people watching at home? When do we get to see ourselves living fully?

Conversely, on a lot of majority-black television shows with black audiences, queer women characters are often sidelined due to… well… homophobia. We see that with Anissa Pierce in Black Lightning or to a certain extent with the uneven handling of Nova Bordelon on Queen Sugar.

And frankly, up until this season, with Kevin’s moms on The Chi.

Natalie: Preach!

Carmen: What felt very special about The Chi this year was that there are these fully formed black lesbian wives and a black trans woman who live as a part of their neighborhood, and are loved and cared for and have independent motivations for their actions that aren’t solely predicated on their sexuality or gender. That’s rare. Even more so to have those characters, and then also have additional tertiary characters like Roselyn or Camille — who don’t have as much to do, but fill out a world that reflects our reality. A world where black queer people are part of the fabric of black communities.

So I guess that’s what I think The Chi got really right this year.

And if I ended up with a woman who loved me as much as Dre loved Nina, someone who wanted to mend me in my broken places, I certainly wouldn’t be mad about that AT ALL. Let me find a cutie who wants to split a spliff (I don’t smoke, but!) and slow dance in my living room to no music for the rest of our lives. A dream!

Natalie: I think you’re absolutely right about show’s previous failing to pen the kind of intersectional storytelling that our lives merit and that this season, The Chi, got a lot right on that front. What did you think the show didn’t get right?

Carmen: Literally everything else!

Natalie: LOL!

Natalie: So I don’t think I hated the rest of the show as much as you did but I wasn’t a big fan of the season overall either. I feel like the show tried to tell some important stories — like the kidnapping and trafficking on young black women and our near indifference to it — but I think the execution just felt off.

Carmen: Yes! Please say more about that! Nina and Dre’s teenage daughter, Kiesha, was abducted by a man in the neighborhood and was forced to live in his basement for months, where she was also abused and raped.

I think this is actually our biggest point of divergence in how we experienced the season because for me, “the execution felt off” doesn’t begin to cover it. We’ve talked about this a lot over the course of the season, and I’ve come to respect a point of view that says: “We don’t talk about kidnapped black kids, and especially black girls, enough. We let our girls stay missing and forgotten.” The Chi, however ineptly, is trying to enter into that conversation.

But the decision to not only kidnap Kiesha in the Season Three premiere, but then spend weeks detailing her abuse and horror in such graphic terms. I didn’t find that to be educational or a tribute — I found it to be trauma porn.

Natalie: Oh, I agree! That’s what I mean in terms of execution; it just got to the point where it felt gratuitous. It felt like they were emphasizing the trauma, even at the expense of common sense writing, as a way to force its audience to care about Kiesha and missing black girls writ large, rather than leaning into the emotional fallout — with Kiesha, Kevin, Nina and Dre — of the kidnapping. Once you cross that line, I think you undermine effective the storyline’s effectiveness at creating empathy.

Carmen: All of this!! This is what I meant when I said I disliked everything but the gay parts.

It’s a real act of a cognitive dissonance when as a queer black woman, I’m watching The Chi to see representation of my black queerness that I basically have to scrape for crumbs for everywhere else — queer black women getting to be their whole selves, not sidelined, and in their own community. But that for me to enjoy those experiences, I also have to watch the continued overwhelming torture and weight put upon a teenage black girl. On a show that already has a history of behind-the-scenes sexual misconduct.

I really don’t have another way to put it than “WTF?!?”

Natalie: I totally get that. My hope is, as frustrating as this season was, if you think about it as The Chi‘s reset — like a rebuilding year in basketball — then I think they’ve set the stage nicely for some good queer and trans storylines for next season. Trig’s going back to gang life over Imani’s apparent objections. With Douda becoming mayor, there’s space for Roselyn to really assert herself as the city’s First Lady. Nina and Dre are going to have to continue supporting Kiesha through her recovery while making sure not to lose Kevin and each other in the process.

Carmen: The Black L Word of my dreams is just around the corner. Maybe I just have to, to quote Chi-town legend Jesse Jackson, Keep Hope Alive?

The Allure of Chola Femininity

As a child, I desperately wanted to wear hoop earrings. In first grade, I made makeshift hoops out of Barbie bracelets — my unpierced earlobe occupying the space between its open clasp. My repeated attempts to jam its metallic painted plastic into my skin left my ears pink and inflamed.

I envied a baby girl at my grandma’s at home daycare who had pierced ears, who thrashed around her crib in sparkling studs. Though she had not yet turned one, her studs seemed to put her years before me. I wished secretly that my ears had been pierced when I was a baby, so I could boast the accomplishment without having to remember the pain. These are the veins through which I first understood femininity — endurance, strength, pain. When the time finally came to select my first pair of hoops from a rotating mall kiosk, it felt like a sacrament.

In middle school, I fell in love with the ritual of make-up. I doted over lipstick ads in NYLON and consumed newly emerging make-up channels on youtube, always zeroing in on the most dramatic portrayals of beauty; the most cutting lines, the deepest hues. When I was alone in my room, I exhausted the one black shade of an eyeshadow palette I’d gotten for Christmas; I loved the crackling of the powder under the tiny sponge brush, each stroke of the wand against my eyelid felt like a gift, a rebirth. The first Revlon liquid eyeliner I got in middle school was sacred, its application intuitive. Makeup allowed me to embody myself in a way that felt ancestral.

I slowly came into my identity as a femme lesbian in high school. Throughout my first queer relationship, my masculine partner considered my femininity both threatening and frivolous. They worried that my presentation correlated with heterosexuality and that I would leave them for a cis man. They expected my constant attention and unending emotional labor.

My attempts at dating and finding community in college were equally as unsuccessful. At queer bars, gay men accused me of being straight. I was fetishized for my Latinx identity by people on Tinder— it became comical the number of people who just so happened to mention their attraction to Barbie Ferreira to me during our dates— and I was often used as a disposable vessel for their traumas. One summer, I sat with a date in Washington Square Park and off-handedly mentioned being femme, only for them to cut me off mid-sentence— “No, you’re so femme. With that valley girl accent, you’re so femme…”

Femininity was something I cherished, I spent years aching for the future in which I could meticulously adorn myself everyday. Yet, my presentation didn’t seem to resonate with the people I met, leading me to believe my femme-ness was something better nourished in private. Looking for solace, I began to collect vintage photos of cholas on my computer, studying the heavily made-up Latinx women of Southern California’s past who donned glimmering gold hoops, wicked wings, and acrylics long enough to pierce. Perhaps part of me felt that if I saturated my brain with images of them, I could inherit their pride.

Before there were cholas, there were pachucas. Pachucas were a subculture of Mexican American women who lived during the 1940s and were known for sporting oversized menswear. Pachucas, and their male counterparts, pachucos, were targeted by white Americans who claimed the excess fabric in their clothing represented a hoarding of wartime resources and racially stereotyped the community as violent and criminal. This antagonism reached a boiling point in 1943 when white military officials began assaulting and stripping pachucos and pachucas on the Los Angeles streets in a ten-day series of incidents later known as The Zoot Suit Riots.

Pachucas were deemed especially controversial because their presentation carried an added layer of gender incongruence — painting their lips and drawing their eyes immaculately while wearing men’s trousers and blazers. While much of the scholarship on the time period credits pachucas for transgressing gender, they do so while using the white mainstream as the compass — a group these women would be alienated from regardless of their fashion choices. Many pachucas were first or second generation immigrants who had no model of Mexican American women represented in the media. They were literally creating a new way of being, and looking cool as hell doing it.

Later on, the chola look gained popularity in Los Angeles barrios, particularly among individuals involved in lowrider culture. Cholas evolved from pachucas, embracing their signature teased hairstyles and occasionally borrowing elements of menswear, but their style was more influenced by street fashion; the cholas were apt to have tattoos and sport baggy jeans and sneakers. In contrast to the androgyny of pachucas, chola fashion was also marked by skin-tight crop tops, large hoops, and boldly lined lips. The chola look engaged with white beauty standards by containing traditionally feminine signifiers like makeup, manicured nails, and styled hair, but dialed all of them up to their most dramatic proportions. For average white observers, who associated them with violence and criminality, their presentation seemed to taunt them: why are you threatened by my femininity?

This is precisely what I admire about cholas, and what I wanted to emulate for myself as a femme. These women were highly feminine, but not the dainty kind, the kind that has lived a thousand years. I love cholas because they couldn’t afford to be subtle and didn’t want to be.

It is also why I see my Latinx and femme identities as interrelated, both containing within them women who are fiercely feminine, but who are not assigned the same softness and purity as their white and or straight counterparts. Instead, femmes and cholas serve as the outlaws of their gender — existing in the sweetest point between soft and hard. Femmes dare to imagine a femininity outside of heterosexuality and cholas dare to imagine a femininity outside of whiteness. This is how we survive, writing the scripts for our own existence.

Femmes dare to imagine a femininity outside of heterosexuality and cholas dare to imagine a femininity outside of whiteness. This is how we survive, writing the scripts for our own existence.

The summer I studied cholas, my soon-to-be-roommate invited me over for stick-and-pokes. She sat on the wood floor of her basement apartment and I rested awkwardly on her lap, gazing up at her wall of vintage playboy clippings as she slowly pressed the ink-dipped needle into my ribcage. The end product read “HIGH FEMME” in letters too jagged to decipher. For a long time, I hated it. Yet, years and many more semi-regrettable tattoos later, I return to the image of when I saw it for the first time —”femme” written in rugged script on my puffy, stinging skin — and it just feels perfect.

To be Chicanx is to embody a degree of pain, whether lived or inherited. Pachucas demonstrate the way in which Latinx people in the United States have been tasked to write our own anthropological histories, and the cholas upheld their honor. Both groups wore their refusal to assimilate on their backs, even in violence, poverty and oppression.

I want a femininity that has struggled, that rejects subtlety. Our survival, beauty and complexity as femmes lies in our perfect calculation of grace and toughness. I no longer shame my femme-ness. There is a divinity in the fluid movement my fingers inherit after they’ve just been manicured and in the rhythmic tapping of their faux tips against everything I touch.

There is nothing like spotting another femme. It’s that look — the locking of flawlessly lined eyes. This is our language.

Anatomy of a Mango: Pit

This is the third essay in Anatomy Of A Mango, a series where Dani peels back the sweet, tart layers that have led to her “fruitful”, healthy sexuality.

My first time having sex sober was one of the most frightening, intense moments of my life.

For so long, I had come to sex with the aid of alcohol and drugs. They acted as a lubricant, a bridge toward believing in my own desirability and sexiness. Alcohol, my drug of choice, especially gave me a feeling of tallness and invincibility that extended into all facets of my life. When I drank wine or some fancy cocktail I thought myself more refined, I felt the bones in my face sharpen and my poise stiffen into an elegance. I wasn’t just Dani anymore, I became confident and sexier, people were charmed by me and I was more open to their flirtations.

I already recounted it in the first essay, but my first time having sex I was very drunk. That night I had roughly twelve shots, a few beers, and a couple of glasses of wine. The woman that I had sex with had been drinking too, and while we both were under the influence it is still one of the highlights of my sexual life. In that case, I knew I wanted to have sex with this woman, but I didn’t have the bravery or confidence to make a move without alcohol.

My college was celebrating what we called Springfest, so most of my day was spent sitting around drinking with my friends, running from house to house with open containers and laughter spilling over our shoulders. What I remember of that night was not only the sex but the pulsing of the blood through my body, I swear I could feel it rushing through my brain, the cacophonous evidence of my living. The alcohol seemed to light up my body and make every touch more pronounced.

Of course, this feeling of sharpness never lasted very long, because I craved more of it always. I drank until I ran soft and languid; until I could barely stand anymore.

When I had sex under the influence there was a dizziness that I could never shake, but sometimes that dizziness felt giddy and airy. My eyes were all I could feel. It felt as though I were watching a POV version of my life. There was nothing like kissing someone else and getting the faint taste of liquor or wine on their tongue. Or to languish in the building of sexual tension as you both share a drink. Even though I’ve been sober for over two years, it’s still exciting to think of walking into a bar with the intention of meeting someone and going home with them, or inviting someone over for drinks and knowing what you’re in for later.

The problem with drunk sex is that nothing gets easier when you’re drunk.

When I was in college, I had heard through a rumor mill that there were a couple of women that thought they were bisexual and they wanted me to be the first woman they were with. One of them was bold enough to make a move. We were partying together and drinking heavily when the group of women we were with decided they wanted to go to a bar. M was sitting on my lap, and we rose to walk down the hill hand in hand. When we were just inches to our destination, we turned to each other drunk and desire-ridden and decided to head in the opposite direction toward my dorm room.

My head was spinning from the work of the tongue and the alcohol — I didn’t want to stop pleasing her, but I had to stop from time to time to scream into the skin of her thigh.

Once we got back there, things unfolded quickly. We fell onto my little twin-sized bed and began taking our clothes off. I remember thinking M was a great kisser and pretty good with her mouth for someone who had never been with a woman before. She climbed on top of me and we began to eat each other out. My head was spinning from the work of the tongue and the alcohol — I didn’t want to stop pleasing her, but I had to stop from time to time to scream into the skin of her thigh. Things were going fine until M abruptly stopped and started to head naked to the bathroom. I stopped her and we spilled out into the hall with robes barely on, laughing at ourselves. In the bathroom, I sat on the windows ledge and waited for her when I heard an “uh oh” and the sound of a splatter.

M and I were both far too drunk. I ran back to my room to get her things but the booze had finally got to my head, I swerved, knocking into my dresser and the microwave barely balanced on top of it. My body buoyed onto the bed, my back landed on the mattress, and my legs hung off. I passed out that way and woke up in the morning with my door open, everything in my room slightly skewed to the left, and clothing strewn across the floor.

That night was one I will never forget and for all the wrong reasons. It was one of the ones where I vowed to stop drinking, but the next time a drink was presented to me, I took it. I always started drinking to gain that sharpness and confidence, but very quickly jumped passed the goal line. That was until I built up my tolerance and was able to achieve the illusion of control. Drunk sex was my first, and all I could think to engage in, the idea of taking my clothes off in front of a stranger or even someone I vaguely knew seemed impossible without the veil of liquor, its guard and its bolstering.

When I got sober, I was warned that I should stay celibate and single for a while. I was able to hold on to this sentiment for about two months before I got jealous of a roommate who was actively hooking up with someone and decided I should be getting some too. I jumped on Tinder and met the woman I talked about in the last essay, J. J was about my height and incredibly muscular. I led them to my bedroom and we sat on the edge of my bed. We briefly talked about her tour and her band, I offered her a glass of water because the room I was staying in was incredibly hot, and mostly, as a motion to stall taking my clothes off. Without the coursing of alcohol through my body, I found myself playing with my nails and grasping at conversation instead of my usual, self-assured, “did you come here to fuck” attitude.

I was piercingly aware of every hair on my body, especially those hairs in forbidden places. I suddenly became insecure at the fact that I did not shave. My outfit, which I once felt sexy in, now clung to my body in nagging ways. J touched my thigh, it was already after midnight, she gently said: “It’s late and I don’t really have much time before I have to leave again.” We began kissing at that urging, an urgent kiss that fit both of our mouths, her lips were soft and searching. J gripped my thighs with a ferocity my body had never been dealt and I moaned into her mouth. I remember the distinct feeling of wanting things to move slower, but being caught up in the fervor of having a first, and so moving forward.

Sex with J was hot with its own helping of awkwardness. I remember laying on my back and succumbing to that old feeling of fear of not being able to orgasm. I repeated to myself that it was impossible and I wouldn’t be able to do it. I masturbated, let J touch me, but couldn’t get out of my head enough to thoroughly enjoy what we were doing, how we were connecting. I got her off, and our night ended with a sweet kiss on the front porch of the place I was staying and a promise to connect if she was in town again.

To describe my relationship with alcohol, to say it gave me courage isn’t enough. Alcohol was me, my whole personality was built around being the one that was always drinking wine, the one at the party who fell out of her shoes. From the time I woke up to the time I fell asleep, all I could think about was the fluid levels in the bottles of wine I had at home. My obsession and anxiety welled each time I poured myself a glass, the fear of running out ruled me. I felt entirely inept in everything until I had a drink to calm my nerves, and then another to shake off the jitters, and then another to smooth out the kinks. I had some idea that I had a problem, but being sober was agonizing to me. At the core of my drinking was a desire to be someone else.

I had some idea that I had a problem, but being sober was agonizing to me. At the core of my drinking was a desire to be someone else.

I was always under the influence when I had sex with my first love. Whether it was alcohol, pills, or weed, I always had something in my system in order to feel good in my body. Yes, I loved her, but I didn’t trust her entirely. How could this blue-eyed, fit, blonde want anything to do with me? I had to be drunk to believe it. Once I was on such a different cocktail of alcohol and drugs I began hallucinating in the middle of sex. Often, the combination of intoxicants I was on made it harder for me to orgasm and left me in sexual situations feeling guilty and bereft. These instances, while they caused me shame, didn’t deter me from drinking. I needed to, it was a part of me, I had no other choice but to listen to what my body needed.

The second person I had sober sex with was R. I talked about R in the first essay. We had met on tinder after a brief exchange of championing each other’s fat bodies. The first time we were together, the room was completely dark, which I think aided in my ability to relax in my body. There was also the fact that R was fat, and being with someone with a similar body type made me feel even more at ease. I remember being chiefly excited about R because they are a Taurus, and I had heard Tauruses were especially good in bed.

The stars were not wrong. Having sex with R was much more freeing than the first time with J. I relaxed into my body and let myself be pleasured and explored with a vigor that shocked and delighted me. R devoured me and I held on to the sheets with white knuckles. Their tongue moved in ways that felt foreign and exciting to me, so much so that I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming “what are you doing to me?!” I thrashed around on the bed as R brought me closer and closer to orgasm, finally relenting to their touch and their tongue. When R was done, they came up and laid on me, their arm thrown under my breasts. We stayed there like that for a while, until it was time for me to go home. I still wasn’t keen on spending the night with casual hookups and I wanted to spend some time by myself to think about what had happened.

When I got home, I took a shower to wash the stickiness from my body. In the shower, as the mountains of suds rolled over my shoulders and thighs, I was able to reflect on the beauty of the moment I had just experienced. Not only had I succeeded in having sex with another person sober, but I had enjoyed it. The initial discomfort I felt had disappeared into a few moments of unfettered bliss. The sex seemed to imbue me with new confidence and comfort that I hadn’t felt before. I didn’t feel shame in my body — instead it felt like this was something I could do, more than once, again and again.

There were others after R, but the one that sticks out to me the most is A. I had met A before at one of my performances when they were dating a friend. We followed each other on Instagram shortly after and had cordial if not innocent exchanges afterward. One day I fell prey to the dozens of thirst traps they had posted and decided to make a move when they were back in town. When they did come back, I invited them over to my place.

A was incredibly nervous, more nervous than I was. They talked about horses for what seemed like an hour until I finally broke the air between us and asked if they were interested in hooking up. They said yes, and we started making out on my couch. Their lips were soft and curious; I ran my fingers through their hair and over their back. They asked me if I could take off my dress and I complied. They took off their carabineer and jeans. It didn’t take long for things to progress passed the strength of my little fold-out couch so we decided to take things to the bed.

In my bedroom, we took time to slowly run or fingers over each other’s bodies. They were soft caresses and silent affirmations. I ran my tongue over their tattoos and felt the light hairs all over their body tickle my tongue. We continued this way for a few minutes — I remember feeling struck by how open and vulnerable I felt, allowing myself to be touched that way by someone who wasn’t a long term partner. I topped them, riding them until I was ready to explore more of their body: I marveled at their ass and thighs, left some marks of my own. I wanted to sink my teeth into the smoothness of their skin.

A climbed on top of me and pinned my wrists to the bed. We kissed more, there was so much pleasure in those kisses, so much of me was alive and able to feel them. Nothing was dulled or flattened by the onslaught of drink after drink. I was able to feel every touch, every stroke of their tongue.

Nothing was dulled or flattened by the onslaught of drink after drink. I was able to feel every touch, every stroke of their tongue.

Sober sex has become the only way I have sex now. It not only allows for deeper intimacy between me and my partners, but it allows me to revel in the experience of giving and receiving pleasure. When I used to have drunk sex, I often would find my mind hovering above both of our bodies as I watched myself please another person. I was just a vessel of other people’s desire, I was hardly my own person with fantasies and needs. I often found myself ignoring what I wanted and instead, being what another needed me to be. I felt so detached from myself and what I wanted that I gave in to whatever was asked of me. Drunk sex was my way of being just a body without any emotional reckoning.

Even one-night-stands have a spirit to them, but I wasn’t willing to confront that until I stopped drinking. When I did, I was finally able to place my mind right within my body, to touch and be touched without fear. Having sober sex was a way for me to unravel the contempt I felt around my body and my sexuality. Having grown up in an environment where exploring myself was seen as a sin, when I did start to have sex, I still carried some of that bias with me. It was ingrained in the way I viewed my own nakedness and that of others. I thought I had to get drunk to overcome it. It took getting sober to get to the center of these issues and start to pull back the hard shell of it.

When I’ve approached mangoes in the past, I’ve always viewed the pit as a problem. A tough, white, barrier between the flesh and the juice. I always wanted more of the fruit and felt that the pit was taking up much-needed space. Now, I am able to see that the pit is meant to hold the fruit together and to protect its most precious asset, the seed. I used alcohol as a means to protect myself, from my body shame, my sex shame, my fear. The pit of mango has its use, just as alcohol had its use. Once they both have been used as proper protectors, it is time for them to be discarded. Before that can be done, the flesh needs to be stripped away, torn away by the teeth or a knife. We must reveal the strength beneath, reveal its purpose, its tawny white husk, and meditate on why it is there.

Sam Jay’s Netflix Stand-Up Special Is Half Hilarious, Half Disappointing

Editor’s Note: The following review of Sam Jay’s comedy special “3 in the Morning” includes a discussion of rape and sexual assault.

I live in Chicago, which I have been told is one of the comedy capitals of the world. I mean, I am friends with some stand-up comedians, I’ve fucked a few improvers and our mayor is a complete joke — so I’d say that moniker is rather close to being accurate, but I can’t say for sure. Other than supporting homies and a few cute dates, I don’t go out to too many comedy shows. It’s mostly because I have a little bit of a fear. Some people worry that they will get second-hand embarrassment from watching someone bomb, or witnessing an improv scene go just a few minutes too long. My fear is getting made fun of Comicview style from the comedian for no reason AT ALL. I panic about what to wear, where to sit, how to laugh, and do all that I can to avoid being the target of whoever is on that stage.

That’s why I like watching comedy specials at home, where I am sure to be safe from random roasting. So at approximately 8:43 PM on a Tuesday me, my commitment issues and the remainder of a bottle of vodka, cozied up to watch Sam Jay’s new Netflix special 3 in the Morning. The plan was to actually watch it at three in the morning, but I spent most of the day before taking my braids down, watching Moesha (thank you, THANK YOU Jasmyn Lawson!), and sending poorly timed sexts so I knew I wasn’t going to make it.

This special may be a first for the Boston born and bred comedian but Sam has been around for quite a bit. She has been a writer at Saturday Night Live since 2017, with sketches for folks like Eddie Murphy making it to air, and her 2018 comedy album Donna’s Daughter was met with adoration and high acclaim inside and out of the comedy circles.

From the jump I was doing my shriek laugh, no doubt spreading particles all over my living room but it’s fine because I’m single and live alone. The cause? Sam talking at length about traveling with her girlfriend. I am a firm believer in traveling to whatever destination with your partner — separately. I don’t want the “let’s cozy up on the plane” moments; I’m much more of an “I’m not waking up to catch a 9 am flight so love you but bitch I will meet you there” kinda girl. I am also a panicky traveler and I would much rather freak out alone.

Listening to Sam talk about letting her girl struggle with bags and having post takeoff whisper fights did make me kinda miss having a partner — but only for the hour or so run time of her first project for the streaming platform. Watching Sam walk about the stage calling out the cis men (and queer folx) who make assumptions of her based on how she presents was great and then my favorite thing — hearing her openly talk about (and make light of) her past with men.

Countless queer women hide their past with men and that may be because of how judgmental our community can be about our sexual histories with them. Queer women are well known to utilize a chart of homo hierarchy, complete with monikers like LUG, Goldstar, Hasbien, and more, to determine just how queer you actually are. Kissed a boy? Minus two points. In a relationship with a man for more than a year? Minus seven. Sucked a dick or two? Minus 25 and you can only use the rainbow flag in your bio if there is an asterisk next to it.

So much of the special felt like a TedTalk on gender presentation and queerness. It doesn’t feel like that’s how Sam set it up to be, but that’s just how it hit for me. She’s just being herself, effortlessly filling the stage and doing something that she so very clearly loves.

As much as Sam Jay made me laugh and relate, there were also major moments of cringe that I simply couldn’t ignore. Jokes on ableism, autism, and the ones that hit closest to home for me, sexual assault and the trans community. Sam makes sure to let us know that she supposedly embraces trans women but then for about six minutes, goes on to make jokes that were transphobic and unnecessary.

I’m truly dedicated to making sure that I do my best to stay true to supporting and uplifting our trans community, while also staying in my lane. One way I’m confident in doing that is through my work, so writing about the moments in the special that made me uncomfortable is necessary. In short — it’s upsetting me and my homegirls, and if they can’t even chill out while watching a comedy special as a momentary means of escape from the absolute trash way that much of the world treats them — well damn, where the hell can they go? In 40 seconds Sam says trans women are women but also says terms like “regular bitches” and “trans bitches.” That verbal separation denotes that perhaps she actually doesn’t see trans women as equal after all. To have this special on the same streaming service that also has the Disclosure documentary is confusing to me, yet it makes me happy. If someone gets uneasy feelings from some of Sam’s jokes, they can click out of the comedy special and over to the documentary to begin addressing their discomfort. They can use it as one of their first tools in becoming an ally to the trans community.

My own waves of discomfort and irritation kept coming when just a few minutes later, a bit of #MeToo jokes started, especially when it came to the talk of women having “a choice.” Granted, I have my own experiences with sexual assault, and while there are many others who also have those experiences and are okay with lightheartedness about it, I’m not sure I’ll be at that point anytime soon. Sam says “you can always choose, and sometimes choosing to say ‘fuck you’ is the most illest choice you can make.” In one situation, I was too young to say fuck you, I was a child who was overcome with fear and overpowered by someone who should have known (and been taught) better.

In another situation, I did say fuck you. It was one of those dire situations that Sam spoke to and I did fight as hard as I possibly could. However, the choice was already taken away for me from the jump, but then my rapist offered up something else. Either stop fighting and let the inevitable happen or die in the back of a cab. I wasn’t presented with a choice — I was given options. And to me in this situation, that’s not just semantics. I selected the option that would hopefully, allow this moment to end and give me the opportunity to heal and move forward in life. Sam continued on to say “..and if we don’t pass that down to young women, then what the fuck are we saying?“ When one begins to teach about sex, we should teach all genders that if they are ever sexually assaulted, it absolutely is not their fault. Along with teaching all genders about respecting consent and boundaries — that’s what I think we should be saying.

As the special closed, Sam got off stage and was  greeted by her girlfriend and some of the SNL crew while the title of the special splashed across the screen. If you follow me on Instagram, you know what a fan I am of title cards and closing credits, they usually signify some form of a happy ending. I thought I would be jumping on social media right after I watched, lauding Sam with clever gifs. and using up my character count with congratulatory emojis. Instead, I sat up on my couch, safe from being randomly roasted, but disappointed and saddened while the yellow-hued credits gradually rolled, and the jazz track that played over them gently faded out.

Throwback to Shakedown: LA’s Black Lesbian Strip Club

Close your eyes and think of the last three queer nights you went to. Were they in a basement bar? Maybe some kind of dark, underground venue? Possibly a pop-up venue? Chances are the event you’re thinking of was one of the three things I predicted. If not, throw those nights down in the comments because I wanna be there after lockdown.

What I didn’t predict back in 2010 and on a fairly new fundraising platform called Kickstarter, was that when I threw down a couple bucks to back a lesbian documentary about a strip club in LA called Shakedown, it would still feel unapologetically ground breaking a decade later. Leilah Weinraub, a regular patron of the club in the late 1990’s and early 2000’s, brings us sexy and liberating joy in a 70-minute showcase, also named Shakedown.

In the early 2000’s (I’m talking 2002, 2003 when J Lo released her Glo perfume) and long before social media and smartphones cast an abundance of events, Shakedown advertised on DIY flyers and word of mouth. Each event, held at LA’s Club New York, filled up with a majority Black lesbian clientele. Shakedown, the documentary, was shot at a time when what happens in the club stays in the club, sex work was a less acceptable form of work than it is now and the concept of privacy (because smartphones were not so popular) was a serious matter. It’s because of these small details that I feel lucky we are able to watch the film right now for free wherever we are.

This footage may never have made its way off the reels, onto hard drives and .mp4 files without the support of community funding. Shakedown came to fruition through the mutual aid of 694 backers pledging $29,525 to support Weinraub in finishing the film. Whilst we were not there in the editing room, Leilah’s documentary certainly helps us feel like we were at the club. It’s dark and the music is loud. Shakedown’s stage is the customers’ dance floor and Black women of all shapes, sizes, identities, labels exist freely and we get to see the full figures of these women and the space full of sheer and queer joy, desire, freedom.

Exotic entertainers, Egypt, Ms Mahogany and Jazmyne share stories with Weinraub in cutaway interviews. We learn that Ronnie-Ron, Mahogany’s “gay lesbian son” and an ex-Mormon, started Shakedown because Mahogany suggested they did. We’re told Mahogany was also called “Mother” by other dances because she looked after so many of them, giving them tips on technique and confidence.

Inside my home, with our current sense of uncertainty, there’s an element of grief watching in quarantine, thinking about the ways Black queer burlesque, strip and drag nights have been part of my coming out into the Black queer scene. We see scenes of one dancer strapping a hot pink dildo and grinding into a customer lying on the floor. At first it seems wild, but to have a space like that where queer sexuality and sex acts are normalized and displayed so openly is liberating. To see both the client and the dancer enjoying this moment, as dollar bills fly in the air, is sexy. This is followed by another dancer striping down to nothing, grinding into customers. Jazmyne finds a customer and begins to lift their bra; the customer does this to reveal her breasts – Jazmyne puts the customers nipple in her mouth. Backstage we see banter between dancers joking “they got a dollar for me?”

Viewing Shakedown through an almost all-access lens, reminded me spaces like this are more than just strip clubs; they’re community. This sense of community is its most beautiful when we hear that Ronnie-Ron shut the club early to visit new parents Tara and Shan and their newborn baby in the hospital. This sense of community amongst dancers, Ronnie-Ron and customers feels joyous and liberating. As we approach 54 minutes into the documentary, the ways our spaces can be so quickly taken away comes to light.

Jazmyne, is half way through her entertainer set, when the music stops and the lights come on to reveal three police officers handcuffing her wearing only her underwear. We see other dancers and customers trying to put clothes on her whilst she remains cuffed. ”You needed to wait,” Weinraub is shouting at the cops. Jazmyne is ticketed for soliciting. Our spaces are policed by the very institutions we are told are there to protect us. What was once safe no longer feels that way even as viewers — we’re brought so close to the action through Weinraub’s filming style.

In the next scene, we see the way Egypt shows you how she wants you to interact with her — she’s in charge of the space and the performance. Yet, Egypt’s performance is cut short. The music stops and Ronnie-Ron announces over a PA that the cops are there again. In a follow-up scene it appears Weinraub is detained by the cops.

Even when we create spaces for ourselves, they are at risk of being taken away by institutions. In Shakedown, we see the policing of queer spaces as the police enter the premises several times, handcuff entertainers who are not fully dressed and carry out checks that the event is legal. The constant police interference which led to the shutting down of Shakedown feels really close to the Pussy Palace Toronto raids (around the same time), in which two undercover female police officers attended and investigated the event prior to the raid. Five male police officers then entered and searched the club, including private rooms. It was a damn mess.

In LA, Black people live in a state of being policed — at least it’s seemed that way to me, watching dash cam footage of Black men during traffic stops, the Rodney King riots ten years prior to the filming of Shakedown, and The California State Prison System. The policing of Black bodies, particularly queer and trans bodies, and even more so women and femmes who often get left out of the narrative (Breonna Taylor’s murderers are still free). I wrote recently about the policing of Black trans spaces, which highlighted anti-Blackness, transphobia and homophobia showing up in instances. In this moment of heightened awareness of police brutality against Black bodies, it’s worrying to watch the acts of violence we might choose to otherwise minimize or overlook as our spaces and bodies are being policed by institutions. Black queer communities often have to build our own families and places to be free; when we find that joy and pleasure and community it is then policed or surveilled.

If it’s not police shutting down our safe, liberating, community spaces, it’s the places we want to hold them that can become difficult to access or hire purely because we are Black, queer or running an event that does not cater to white men. When the police entered Shakedown, someone says, “There’s gonna be no peace in this place.” In light of these events, Ronnie-Ron decides to have one last Shakedown before ending the night for good. “We’re gonna go higher; we’re gonna take it to another level.”

There is yet to be space that mirrors the feel Shakedown successfully invited viewers to experience, but there are certainly individuals trying to carve spaces for Black queer communities. In London, we’ve seen a resurgence of Queer and POC spaces, like Shakedown, pop up every few months, publicized through social media, aiming to cultivate similar joy. Even 15 years after its closure pushed by the LAPD, Shakedown reminds me of a rare, yet almost vital subculture that operates in the shadows of a double edged sword. In order to remain safe, we must stay small, intimate and underground. On the other hand, to continue to thrive financially, gain momentum and share our community, we have to make ourselves known and run the risk of being shut down by a system that continues to violently police us.

From start to finish, Shakedown shows examples of the power of community. We begin with Ronnie-Ron building this space, women supporting one another as entertainers and then us, the viewers, supporting the film to be made. It’s community that’s key here. Even after LAPD’s shut down Shakedown shutting down in 2004 — we came back and supported Weinraub to finish this film and carve out a piece of history.

Shakedown is available to view for free.

What Do We Mean When We Say BIPOC?: A Roundtable

How do you understand the definition of BIPOC? How have you seen it used? What do you believe it means? 

• The first one is weird to me because why wouldn’t you just say Black and Indigenous people? I get if you want an acronym, I guess?
• The second one makes sense sort of if you want to… emphasize Black and Indigenous people? But why not just say POC?

I’ve known BIPOC to be used for differentiating the experiences of Black and Indigenous folks from other POC, but to still be able to talk about everyone as a group.

Do you (personally) use BIPOC? Is there anything you wish people would consider before they also use the acronym?

Let’s be honest, you cannot talk about anti-Blackness if you won’t even say “Black.”

I appreciate what BIPOC is intending to do, which is to recognize that white supremacy is predicated on anti-Blackness and the theft of Indigenous lands/erasure of Indigenous people… At the same time, as a Black person from the U.S., I get the sense that there is often a move away from centering Blackness.

WAP Is Still Bringing Wet Ass Joy To Queer Black Twitter

There’s no cautious introduction. There’s no hand-holding. There’s no slow build-up. What there is, however…

There’s some whores in this house. There’s some whores in this house.

This announcement, within the first fifteen seconds of the WAP music video, is preparation for a moment for Black queer women and femmes. There is little time to prepare. In the following ten seconds, we find out that WAP means wet-ass pussy. It only gets better and more explicit from there, and Twitter turned it into a community event as we watched, and then went to our preferred streaming services to listen to the explicit version. Again and again and again. We could not stop talking about it. About WAP. About that house.

WAP premiered on YouTube, immediately following a short live with Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion, at midnight on Friday, August 7. We thought we were ready, but there is no way we could have anticipated what they delivered. The confidence and comfort in talking about their sexual desires dripped off of them.

I’m talkin’ wap, wap, was, that’s some wet-ass pussy
Macaroni in a pot, that’s some wet-ass pussy, HUH!

WAP is an acronym that is also onomatopoeia and its repetition drives the point home. Everyone with a well-lubricated experience is familiar with the sounds of a wet-ass pussy and its sonic similarity to one of our other favorite things to eat. These lines are just as likely to cause a giggle as a, “Yes, bitch, yesss, this pussy is wet and gushy.” And even if it’s not, lube can help get us there.

I am here today because I am gay pic.twitter.com/wv3nB8BTQ3

— Christina Grace (@C_GraceT) August 7, 2020

WAP goes beyond lubrication to focus on assertion of our own sexualities and that is what pulled the attention of queer people, especially Black queer women and Black femmes. The song is about what Cardi and Megan want in very specific terms. It’s not new for rap music to be sexual or for women to rap about sex, but it’s less frequent that we hear women put emphasis on their own pleasure. For queer and femme people of color who are sexualized, constantly under the masculine gaze, and judged for any display of sexuality, WAP is permission to be audacious in the pursuit of pleasure. Cardi and Megan show that queer femmes don’t have to be coy or secretive about sex. The codes and guesswork make sex difficult to navigate, especially with new partners. By clearly articulating expectations before and during foreplay, we can take control of our sexual experiences.

What sets WAP apart from many other songs in this genre is the deliberate emphasis on femme desire without trying to make it appealing to anyone else, especially men. It’s not a brag. It’s not an invitation. It’s a demand that sexual partners need to meet. A Twitter user criticized the rappers for “trying” to sound sexy and not pulling it off, but he completely missed the point. Everything women do is not for men, and that includes having and talking about sex. WAP isn’t about sounding sexy or attracting anyone. It’s about owning sexuality and being explicit about sexual desire.

Much like “Bodak Yellow” in 2017 and “Hot Girl Summer” in 2019, WAP has already become an anthem — this time for Black queer women, femmes, and other queer people. Women of color are expected to appear demure and disinterested in sex, and WAP directly opposes respectability politics and limitations on expressions of sexuality. It rejects the idea that there is one way to be a woman and busts out of the narrow confines of “decency” and “self-respect” that only serve to reduce women to sexual objects. It calls attention to the power that exists in what many consider submissive acts and positions.

I tell him where to put it, never tell him where I’m ’bout to be
I’ll run down on him ‘fore I have a nigga runnin’ me

The video gave us BDE — that’s big demeanor energy. It’s set in a mansion of femme sexual energy that is both dominated and explored by Cardi and Megan — giving us strong 90s vibes wearing up-dos with side sweeps reminiscent of the iconic Halle Berry film B.A.P.S. — as they inhabit and visit different rooms giving houndstooth, red latex, and wild cats (and no, the animals were not wet).

Forty-five seconds in, we’re in a WLW scene with Cardi and Meg lying head-to-head in a room of snakes. They mimic the reptiles with their arms, reaching for each other, holding hands and, of course, opening their mouths and simulating oral sex with their tongues. Women who love women were all mesmerized by the balance of sensuality and sexuality. The juxtaposition of their dominant energy and softness is a call to queer femmes to break free of misconceptions about the correlations between gender performance and sexuality. To be femme is not to lack intensity or to be submissive. Queerness gives us space to play, to find what feels good to us, and to keep looking for more, because there may not be just one road to pleasure. One day that lipstick leaves kisses all over her body, and the next day it perfectly frames the most titillating bite marks. Queer femmes reserve the right to keep ‘em guessin’!

The snake room also gives us two Black femme women together in a way that is not often portrayed in the media. We have the benefit of the lyrics to let us know they are not all caresses and tenderness, and their social media personas that tell us they aren’t quiet submissives. This is particularly powerful for queer femmes, creating space for us to play with our positions, both literal and figurative. We can be soft, we can take charge. We can balance the energy of partners or we can kick it up a lot of notches when we match it. There is no one role we have to play. As the scenes change, Cardi and Megan give us two different versions of femme sexuality, and there are even more to explore.

WAP is going to awaken so many bb lesbians n queers cheers y’all

— Belén (@belennnn_510) August 7, 2020

As the snake room and hallway scenes toggle, we get visuals of the dimensions of women’s relationships. Cardi running her hand down Megan’s thigh, Cardi and Megan dancing together like it’s a hype girls’ night, and the sensual intimacy of suggestive touch. Outside of the snake room, the sweetness is gone and it’s all about what these women want from their sexual partners. Before Megan even names it, we see the big demeanor energy in their stances, gestures, and dance moves. Even as they delight in pleasing their sexual partners, they make it clear that they retain control of their bodies, even in the most heated moments.

If he fuck me and ask, “Whose it it?”
When I ride the dick, I’ma spell my name, AH!

The lyrics do not disappoint. They’re clever, but not overly analogous. Cardi and Megan said what they said, and they said it with their chests. There were no reservations. From being tied up and roleplaying to swallowing and deep-throating, it’s specifically and explicitly about the enjoyment of sex and transforming sex into femme power.

Pay my tuition just to kiss me on this wet-ass pussy
Now make it rain if you wanna see some wet-ass pussy

Some of the most exciting aspects of the WAP video for Queer Twitter were the top versus bottom revelations. It is unanimous that Cardi is a top. In the leopard room, she does the splits across two chairs, references a dick going in dry and coming out soggy, and she strokes a leopard. She exudes not only confidence, but dominance. She is sitting in her sexual power over another person. In her room, Megan is in the splits on a platform, bent over with her ass in the air while gyrating, says she likes pain, and does not directly engage the white tigers.

Gonna delete this in a minute, but WAP just confirmed what Twerk told us 2 years ago…Cardi is a top.

— Cora Harrington (@CoraCHarrington) August 7, 2020

In the next scene, they are together in the water and Megan is in the submissive position, Cardi behind her with the same energy she gave in the leopard room. This portrayal of queer femme sexuality is exciting for the community because it doesn’t exist in so much of mainstream media. We usually have to make up our own examples or use fan-fiction to ship people in order to move these conversations forward. This one has more depth and nuance because we know Cardi and Meg’s online personas so well. Because everyone stopped what they were doing to watch WAP, it was the perfect time for us talk about the range of femme sexuality and, what many find fascinating, the existence of the switch.

Cardi and Megan made their energy in the video fit the cadence and punch of their lyrics. It was the perfect balance of “I’m in charge, getting what I want,” and “Give it to me now, I’m ready.” Tops, bottoms, and verses could all see themselves and access the femme power we were called to wield.

They tell us there is joy in roleplaying, being loud, and being financially compensated for what we do with our bodies if we like. The decor alone demonstrated the limitless nature of sex and sexuality.

the fashions of black women, black queer/trans ppl, & black sex workers (from lil kim to amiyah Scott to pinky+) are the aesthetic blueprint it shows in WAP

— • • • (@nollywoodstemme) August 7, 2020

The sprinkles on the queer femme cupcake that is the WAP video were the rooms featuring Normani, Rubi Rose, Sukihana, Mulatto, and Rosalía who gave different flavors of sexual fantasy. The regrettable part of the video was, as has been discussed at length online, the presence of Kylie Jenner — who was unnecessary, ill-equipped, and an unfortunate distraction. The other cameos gave us what we wanted and, by the time they rolled around, had come to expect from this house of femme pleasure — sexual fantasy perfectly aligned with the decor and styling of their rooms while reinforcing the rappers’ message of sexual liberation.

WAP is a moment, an anthem and, by now, a specific kind of movement. It has awakened people to the expansive nature of queer sexuality and the power of femme sexuality. It’s not one-note. Sexuality doesn’t exist for anyone else’s consumption. It’s ours to learn, develop, adapt, harness, and embody whenever we choose. Queer femmes sit in this power every day and the rest of the world is lucky we don’t unleash it more regularly. What would they do with a queer femme WAP? Imagine! WAP is creating space for us to talk about, celebrate, and demand better sex. We are already envisioning the remixes, and the future is looking well-lubricated and pleasurable.

Foolish Child #78: We Got Jokes

..

Q & A With Kirsten Harris-Talley, A Queer Black Scorpio Femme and State Rep Candidate

Photo of Kirsten Harris-Talley by Michale B Maine

Kirsten Harris-Talley is an organizing phenom in Seattle, a one-time city council member, a queer Black woman, an abolitionist, a candidate for state representative, a Scorpio rising, an Aries moon, and a Gemini/Taurus cusp sun.

After leading in the primaries, Harris-Talley will be running in November to represent Washington’s 37th District, a Seattle district historically populated by Black and Indigenous peoples and people of color. She has worked within and alongside people-powered movements for twenty years — experience which underpins her political agenda. Her career in reproductive justice led to midwifery and doula access for pregnant people in prisons. She has offered a commitment to funding these services, in addition to expanding reproductive healthcare coverage for undocumented immigrants and trans people. As a grassroots activist, she has fought for paths towards abolition. Her campaign platform envisions an end to state investment in private detention centers and the elimination of bail and solitary confinement.

For this Q & A, I told Kirsten I was interested in queering notions of political leadership — what can a “serious” political figure talk about and value publicly? Here she discusses the importance of culturally queer touchstones in her life: astrology, ancestry, vulnerability, community, crushes and femme joy.

I named that some people might call this content “trivial,” that there are demands on Black and brown women to sterilize their femmehood and to perform a white-washed, “masculine” dispassion as “proof” that they are fit for leadership. To this, she said, “On the other side of liberation, we should all be able to be more joyous in our lives. That’s how we know that we get there.”

Anis Gisele: Pronouns?

Kirsten Harris-Talley: She/her!

A: “Queer” is a political identity and an active verb. bell hooks has called “queer as being about the self that is at odds with everything around it and has to invent … a place to speak and to thrive and to live.”

This question is a two parter: what has your queerness given you, and how do you feel like you’re queering our notions of leadership?

K: I don’t know that I have ever verbally proclaimed my queerness as much in my life as I have campaigning. Political campaigning is bizarre. It’s the hardest, longest, most complicated job interview, as well it should be. You’re asking folks to trust you. So for me, understanding my queerness, it’s an interesting exercise to be announcing it so often and have folks asking me to prove it in some way. It’s an interesting query. (Laughs) I didn’t mean to make a pun.

A: I appreciate it!

K: And because “queer” is such an all-inclusive umbrella term, some folks just wanna identify what I mean by it.

I think queerness has always been about reinventing for yourself that which will not invite and hold you dear. And almost every bit of beauty in the world that all of us embrace, queer minds and bodies and spirits built those things.

For me, my queerness, I’m attracted to folks all along a gender spectrum — that’s actually infinite. And I think we’re all coming back to that — and I say “back to that” because there isn’t an indigenous culture that didn’t understand what we’re relearning for ourselves.

It’s interesting in this moment to still have some folks say, “I don’t do politics,” and for most of them what they’re saying is, “I’m scared of conflict, I’m scared of what it is to be out of concert with things,” and the intersection of queerness with any other identity, you’re always, I’m always in conflict in some way with things, just having a critical lens at all.

A: Definitely. My queerness helps me live in what I’m afraid of. I wasn’t positive you identify as femme, but I’m hearing you do? (K nods)

May I ask about your root? Which is either your first queer crush or the first time you saw an external embodiment of your queerness?

K: I don’t think I had a full pulse on it but … Grace Jones.

A: (Author’s note: Loud smack here. Honestly can’t remember if I slapped myself or clapped.)

K: I was born in ’79, grew up in the 80’s, right, and cable was new. Our mother is white, our father is Black, and we were Black kids growing up in deep poverty in rural Missouri. One of our favorite shows was Pee-wee Herman’s Playhouse, and I remember Grace Jones on there with this fabulous hat and this dance and the way she, like, stood. I remember thinking, “This is a woman, but they’re handsome and okay with that,” and I remember being compelled by that and not understanding it totally but knowing I was very interested. (Laughs)

A: Yes!

K: It was unlike anything I would’ve experienced in my everyday life too.

A: I feel like a root, often, is about seeing a woman — and in your case definitely a Black woman — who does not give a fuck about the male gaze.

K: She didn’t care about any gaze, right?

A: For sure. If your sun were a character from The L Word, who would that be?

K: Who was Pam Grier’s character?

A: KIT! Kit sun?

K: I’m very high energy as a cusp. My cusp is the cusp of energy. I can go go go go go. You got your earth and your air thing.

Being a Taurus Gemini, I’m like, “Thank you very — oh, squirrel!” And Kit had that energy.

A: She did. She really did. Do you feel your Scorpio rising?

K: Scorpio energy, I feel like, is culturally what it is to be a Black femme.

A: Say more?

K: Truth tellers. How much that is the role of Black femmes in our culture.

A: Agreed.

K: The hard thing about being a truth teller is when you can so clearly see the truth and name it and find there are some folks who either want to ignore it or actively try to undermine it. That’s what’s so startling about the blatant context of politics in the United States now. I say “blatant context” because nothing happening under the current president is new for our community. It’s just the blatancy of what’s happening that’s new for a lot of people. We talk about misinformation more than information now. It’s an interesting time for truth tellers.

Many of the things around Scorpio I had to learn how to be, and I learned it mostly through Black queer folks and Black femmes particularly. Being vulnerable emotionally is not easy for Black femmes. We’re not allowed to have that, and Scorpios can be very transparent about the emotional life. That’s something I’ve had to nurture over time and build safety for myself to do readily.

A: Does an Aries moon resonate with you, the fire, spontaneity?

K: It does. I’ve been involved with the local police abolition work since 2012, acutely with the consent decree and the Block the Bunker campaign. [Former] Mayor [Ed] Murray had a lot of power during the start of police contract negotiations. Community came together, and we shelved the most expensive police precinct that was going to be built in the history of North America. The strategy and sophistication of that campaign — it was constantly having folks be like, “Oh, I know what they’re [the cop-aganda’s] doing, I’m gonna do this now.” It was us being able to (snaps) flip on a dime and respond in that moment. That spontaneity is the only way forward because the folks crafting what we’re living in now are doing it very deliberately and we have to move quickly.

That campaign was asking the core questions that we should have had answers to as a community: “Why are we spending this money? Why are we spending it this way? Who’s responsible? Who’s accountable? How did this happen?” There weren’t answers that satisfied people, and we kept asking until finally he got a poll that said he wasn’t gonna win on it.

A: Okay, your childhood is a TV series. What would the first scene in the pilot episode be?

K: (Laughs) Oh, wow. My people are from the East coast. My mother is from Ohio. My father’s from Baltimore. So really plainspoken people, they speak their minds. Debate was welcomed and healthy. I jive with a lot of people who are overlapping talkers. I can also literally carry five conversations at once.

A: Gemini.

K: (Laughs) There would definitely have to be some scene at the dinner table and everyone’s there and five things are happening and a conversation starts and ends then gets picked up and there’s maybe a squabble and everyone makes up and laughs. Missouri is called the Show Me State. Folks are really plain about whatever they think.

But no food fights. That’s one thing culturally in my family — we find food fights very disrespectful on so many levels. I remember, in shows, that was a big thing in the 80’s — people would break out into food fights. I was always like, “That’s … (lowers voice) not right.”

A: (Laughs) Sneaker queer, stiletto queer or combat boot queer?

K: … Yes.

(Both laugh)

A: YES.

K: I have a lot of shoes. I have a lot of moods to invite footwear. I like all those moments, all of them.

A: That’s what the people want to know. Outfit that feels like second skin to you?

K: Right now I’ve been living in these great burgundy joggers with really deep pockets and usually a really cozy goldenrod or yellow shirt. I’ve been wearing a lot of my protest shirts, of course, lately, going to lots of marches.

A: Would you describe a protest shirt?

K: Yeah! Leona and Luis own The Station in Beacon Hill. She made these amazing shirts that say, “Stop Fucking Killng Us,” and I was like, “I need that shirt.” I think it’s pretty clear!

My other one, I really adore, it’s like, “NAH,” then it’s like, “Rosa Parks.” I love thinking, like, [the white bus driver] came up, and they were like, “Ma’am (laughs), you’re gonna have to move to the back of the bus,” and she’s just like, “NAH. I’m not, and also, we’ve already organized, and you don’t even know what’s happening tomorrow.”

A: Yes! Okay, Ijeoma Oluo says, “White supremacy requires a lack of imagination, that you don’t ask where else we can go.” Imagination exercise: When we abolish prisons, what would you propose we do with the land the prisons were on?

K: Give them right back to indigenous people and let them imagine with other folks of color what to build there instead. I mean, where else could you start but to do that, to literally free the land back to the people who were the original stewards of that land to start anew collectively with others?

A: Yes. You said in a Crosscut interview, “I don’t think you can be in a position where you’re representing the people and not actually be with the people.” How did you learn to share power?

K: Oh, that’s a beautiful question. I really learned it from my mom and the elders in my life. Growing up where I grew up, in a rural community, we have close proximity to elders, and I really listened to their stories, and all their stories were about collectiveness, and where we lived was about collectiveness, like you can’t be in rural Missouri and have your cows get past the fence and not call every neighbor to come help you get them back. My godmother — Hazel Mae Free was her name — we spent our summers on our farm where she and Mr. Free, our godfather, taught me so much about that. They were stewards of their land, and it was a huge dream of theirs to own their own land and farm their own land. She grew up as the daughter of sharecroppers and had to quit school to pick crops as a child. We grew up poor poor poor poor poor. Everyone worked collectively to make sure everyone had what they needed — it’s the only way. And it stuck. It stuck.

A: What everyday practices or everyday magic connects you to your ancestors?

K: I have always been a collector of beautiful objects, and I have a lot of objects from the elders who are no longer with me in my life. My grandma Mary lived in segregated Baltimore, and she raised her four boys under what I can’t even imagine — what it was to raise four Black boys in segregated Baltimore during the height of the civil rights movement, you know? Her birth stone was a garnet, so I have a lot of garnets around, things that remind me of her.

A: This has been really lovely, thank you, Kirsten. I’m wondering if we can end with a look forward. Who is a youth activist, artist or cultural worker you find exciting?

K: Wow. I really love Jerrell Rell Be Free‘s work. I love that every bit of activism right now has been integrated in the arts. Folks try to neutralize the impact of the arts and pretend that it’s something that’s saccharine and just about pleasure, and so much of the arts is actually about struggle and truth-telling and recording these stories that can’t be told in any other way. Jerrell’s someone who’s on the front end of this work at places like WA-BLOC and speaking truth that we can hear it in a way that we wouldn’t hear it before.