Creating art and self from the intersections

With the $1 Play Project underway (and if you have 60 seconds and $1.00, you really should give what you can), and way too much to do in not enough time, I want to take a moment (read: procrastinate) and talk about what it's like and what it means to create art from a perspective of intersectionality.

Before buzzwords like “intersectionality” came along, a lot of people assumed that womanhood was White, Blackness was male, and both were straight. When Black feminists and womanists proclaimed that All the Women Are White, All the Blacks Are Men, But Some Of Us Are Brave, they created a new paradigm for examining race, gender, and sexuality that centered on the lives of Black women.

When I started writing Tulpa, or Anne&Me in late 2009, I had no idea I'd be doing the same thing for theatre. As much as I like to fantasize otherwise, I'm not really all that brave. I hate pain (receiving or inflicting it), and I am more easily hurt than I often let on. I'm much more prone to shyness, anxiety, depression, and exhaustion than my online persona indicates. My outspokenness about racism, sexism, and homophobia says more about their magnitude and the peril they pose to human beings than about any particular courage or wisdom on my part.

So when I set out to put down on paper some of the many thoughts and feelings I have when I try to relate to White women about race and gender (all from the perspective of a woman who loves women), it wasn't because I was intentionally trying to provoke people. It initially started out on my LiveJournal on something of a lark that channeled my infatuation with Anne Hathaway into something more meaningful. Since the discussions about race I was having with real White women were often so lacking, why not make up the conversations I wanted to have?

As Black women, we are constantly being asked to hide away or tear off chunks of who we are to make us safer for consumption. When we are with women, we're supposed to magically forget we are Black. When we are Black, we're supposed to ignore our womanhood. And we'd better keep that queer shit deep in the closet if we know what's good for us. Yet in Tulpa, all three of these identities are necessary to fully understanding the characters and the story.

Tulpa, or Anne&Me is not Intro to Intersectionality. The dialogue is pretty exclusively about race. But it's a queer woman's experience of race and how it impacts her most personal moments. The play focuses on an intimate relationship. But it's a relationship between women trying to maintain that intimacy in the face of racism and what that means for both of them.

“Your silence will not protect you,” Audre Lorde once said. Even prior to reading Sister Outsider, I may have sensed that this was true. As much as I hate being the center of attention or the object of scrutiny, the alternative – my silence – was even worse. My silence would mean allowing someone other than myself to define what my life means or what it should mean. My silence would mean becoming a shadow not only of myself but to myself. My silence would mean accepting my own dehumanization.

Despite the fact that I live as a queer Black woman in my queer Black woman body, as an artist I often wrestle with a sense that my life as I live it diminishes my art because it's somehow not as universal. But creating Tulpa, or Anne&Me cured me of that.

My art does not happen despite my queer Black woman self but directly because of it.

My queer Black woman self is not an obstacle to my humanity – it's the key to truly acknowledging and understanding it.

Present-day African theatre forms

I came across this article about present-day African theatrical forms while doing research on a few things. It's an intriguing read, especially in comparison and contrast to discussions about devised theatre that crop up from time to time.

I'm not yet sure how I'll relate this to the poiesis as a whole, but I do know that I am reluctant to do what's always been done with African culture and limit analysis and engagement to specific forms as opposed to digging a bit deeper. For instance, I wouldn't want to end up focusing overmuch on masks and dance -- the predictably "exotic" elements -- while ignoring the different ways African cultures conceive and construct reality. I'm far more fascinated by, say, the impact of a diunital worldview upon the ways people of African descent construct and interpret story.

QBWL poiesis: go figure

Somebody beat me to it. It's worth a read, especially as a way of putting a lot of what I say in context. While the linked article described what womanist theatre is about, my poiesis seeks to be more about how to make it work.

QBWL poiesis: creating space

In my previous post about a queer Black womanist liberation poiesis, I talked about queer space and Black space and what I imagine that being like. Now that I'm thinking about how the next phases of Tulpa's journey will take shape, I am starting to believe that I was not far-reaching enough in my analysis. Rather than define queerness, Blackness, and womanhood as abstract concepts and attempting to create aesthetics from it, what I should have been doing is assuming queer Black womanhood from the start and working on the ramifications for allowing that to express itself. I should have known better than to try to force that reality into a format that was not meant to contain it.

I believe that, instead of trying to fit my selfhood into these neatly defined ideas, I instead need to start by affirming that . . .

I am Black. I am woman. I am queer.

And then asking . . .

Now what?

This shift in perspective is due in part to some soul-searching I had to do about what I wanted for Tulpa, or Anne&Me and the role that each potential collaborator will play. For a while now, I've been reflecting on some of the patterns I enabled in the development and performance of Tulpa, and I come at it from a few conflicting places. At the root of these conflicts was a question: How do I create a space where the queer Black woman voice can be heard as free of distortion as possible? Who is permitted in that space? What are the mandates of that space?

You have to understand why these questions are so essential to creating a praxis that allows me to exist in the fullness of myself.

Oftentimes, in order for the world at large to recognize my humanity, I must excise my queerness, my Blackness, my womanhood. I have to effectively erase the parts of my identity and the experiences I've had - those things that signify my uniqueness as a living, breathing human being - in order to even be allowed entrance into the human family. In a weird sort of cognitive jujitsu, I must mutilate my humanity in order to affirm it.

Given that the world is hostile to my full self - especially to my woman self, my queer self, my Black self - art becomes a sanctuary in which I can feel free to be myself for myself. Ironically, theatre allows full self-expression by giving us permission to fully be other selves. Just as a physical location creates a space that can be filled by the world of a play, the masks we wear create a space that our selves can fill. Through the dynamic interplay of these spaces and selves, a voice* can emerge.

*Here I should probably update my definition of voice as the relationship between the spaces created in the play. Plot, character, theme, and spectacle are aspects of the voice, but they do not define it as I suggested earlier.

But there must first be the space.

And, again, I must return to the question of how I will construct space. As you may have guessed, the creation of space has more far-reaching ramifications than the particulars of, say, blocking or design. It influences the relationships that artists have with each other, perhaps even the relationships that audience members have with one another and/or with the artists.

While it's tempting to simply say, "It all depends" and leave it at that, the fact of the matter is that I am creating a queer Black womanist liberation poiesis, so defining how to create such a space is part and parcel of this effort. If pressed for a concise definition, I would define a liberated queer Black womanist space as one where womanhood, Blackness, and queerness - all these symbols of Otherness - may be fully integrated into that space.  It is a space that embraces Otherness as an essential component of selfhood and one that makes room for fully engaging that Otherness without stating or implying a reduction of the self to Otherness.

In more concrete terms, a liberated queer Black womanist space expresses its Blackness through diunital cognition (both-and thinking), is queerness through embracing difference and fluidity, its womanhood through  birthing spaces via the self. Such a space is liberated because it frees those of us who dwell in these spaces to (finally!) express the fullness of who we are.

Of course, when creating these spaces, it is not simply a matter of stating, "This is what I want." Again, it must go back to praxis. What must be in place for this space to exist? What are the demands this space would place upon those who would step into it?

I honestly haven't thought about it too much, but the main thing that comes up is that it must serve the needs and interests of queer Black women by placing queer Black women at the center of knowledge and authority. This does not allow, say, a Skeeter to swoop in, take our stories, and use them primarily for her own gain. It does not allow someone who is not a queer Black woman to set the agenda, determine the terms of engagement, or control the process. Yet, it encourages self-examination. It encourages intimacy. It encourages solidarity. But it must be free of the taint of domination in order for us to find our own voices and realize our own potential for freedom.

I hope that explains it. Does it make sense?

QBWL poiesis: queer space and black space

I've been away from this project for a while, namely because I haven't had much time (for reasons you know very well from reading this blog). The other reason is that I simply hadn't been doing enough theatre to remark on it. But now that I'm in practicing mode, I can talk about it more freely.

It's been a few months, so let me recap. The "poiesis" label has all the relevant posts, but for the scroll-phobic, here's an overview. Feel free to refer to them and to force me to focus on what I meant to do. It's really easy for me to get trapped in theory when I'm trying to create a guide for practice.

"Big projects for 2011" outlines the gist of what my queer Black womanist liberation poiesis is about and what I'm trying to do with it.

"Why should you give a shit what queer Black women have to say?" is basically me trying to justify my efforts.

"Why queer Black womanist liberation poiesis matters to straight White guys doing theatre" looks at the benefits for even it's "natural enemies." Scarequotes on purpose because, despite what some people seem to believe, it's not about the Scary Black Dykes coming to cut off White men's penises.

"Dog Act and the power of naming" gets into identifying voice as the primary element of QWBL theatre by using Flux Theatre Ensemble's Dog Act as its case study.

"Voice, critique, and QBWL poiesis" springs off the Dog Act post to start looking at ways to critically engage with a piece without relying on the concept of picking apart what is good and bad about a piece.


"QBWL poiesis and Buber's I and Thou" explores how QBWL poiesis can be a powerful way of practicing the I-You relationship, which is incapable of domination, objectification, or dehumanization.

With those posts in mind, let me get into the next thing I wanted to explore.

A lot about this QBWL poiesis is about how we position ourselves and others in our own narratives. As such, space becomes another vital concept. While in previous posts I tended to lump that into voice, I now think that is an error. Looking back on it, I'd characterize voice as the What and space as the Where/When. Naturally, this is not set in stone. This framework is not about establishing rigid categories, but for the sake of understanding, a bit more precision is desirable.

This, in my mind, ties into the queerness of a QBWL poiesis. As suggested in this post, the main trait of queerness is how it occupies - or rather, embodies - a fluid space. It resists pre-defined positions and embraces paradox. It reveals the illusions of boundaries within and between Self-Other. When I talk about queering space or coming from a queer space, I'm talking about approaching understanding physical and conceptual structures this way.

Queering space is about naming and exploring boundaries. Where do the boundaries of a piece lie? Where are they transgressed? What maintains the boundaries? How are they crossed? How does that manifest? Who or what creates the boundaries? Why are they there in the first place?

The boundaries a queer space explores exist not only within a piece, but outside it as well. Part of what makes a piece like Tulpa, or Anne&Me so powerful for the people who've seen it is that it reflects and confronts the boundaries we carry with us outside the play.

In more particular terms, queer space also challenges what we've come to assume is true about gender and sexuality. It's not just who we are and what we like, but how we are and/or like those things.

Yet, while a QBWL poiesis stands firmly in a queer space (inasmuch as anything queer can be fixed), it is also a Black space.

Here it might be useful to explain - at least insofar as I am able - the associations I make with Blackness. For me, Blackness is not just a color or culture. It is a sense of the center of things. It's about our origins, the source from which we emerge and express. It's the fertile soil that gives birth to us. When I talk about a Black space, I mean understanding from a sense of where we come from.

As part of the Where We Come From, this poiesis is rooted in the African diaspora experience. As such, it operates on diunital cognition (both-and) rather than dichotomous cognition (either-or). The direction is parallel, rather than perpendicular or hierarchical. Naturally, the reality is more nuanced and complex than this definition, but I will say that this difference in ways of thinking is, in my experience, very real and often a source of conflict when that difference is not named or acknowledged.

Of course, there is also a feminine space, but I haven't given it as much thought, so I can't talk about how it fits at the moment. My intuition is that feminine space is related to how we create the space itself, but that's neither here nor there right now.

Let's give this framework a shape. A circle is rather fitting. Queerness would be the ever-shifting circumference, and Blackness would be the point at the center.

A more accurate visualization would be a sphere with a core of dark matter emanating colors that shift amorphously in all directions. In two-dimensional terms, however, picture it as a circle with a dark point at the center, with various colors and shades occupying the space in between.

QBWL poiesis and Buber's "I and Thou"

I've been working my way through Martin Buber's I and Thou. It is, shall we say, a challenging read, but it's riveting and thought-provoking nonetheless.

In a nutshell, there are two modes of existence: I-It and I-Thou. The I-It mode is bound by connections between things - ie, something as this, that, or the other. The I-Thou mode is a mutual relationship between subjects that are whole in themselves. These are not mutually exclusive; we inhabit both simultaneously.

As I was reading I and Thou, I recognized the ultimate goal of a queer Black womanist liberation poiesis - or, to be frank, the ultimate goal of social justice, period - to increase our capacity for expressing our I-ness and recognizing the You-ness of others.

Let me give you an example. In Tulpa, or Anne&Me, the I-You mode allows [Name] to relate to Anne as Anne instead of Anne only as actress, pretty, celebrity, female homo sapiens, feminist, Caucasian, and so on. At the same time (and this is important!), the I-You mode lets Anne relate to [Name] as [Name] and not just [Name] as web comic artist, African American, introverted, woman, queer, unknown, etc. At its most extreme, all sense of division dissolves, allowing for a relationship like that of Chuang Tzu and the butterfly.

In short, the I-You relationship makes it impossible to objectify people and therefore dehumanize them. It completely obliterates the ability to oppress and makes way for real freedom.

Later, I'll talk about the importance of voice to I-You.

Voice, critique, and QBWL poiesis

A couple of days ago, I gave this response to my viewing of Flux Theatre Ensemble's production of Dog Act, and through that I placed voice as the central element of this paradigm. Gus, being the generous, thoughtful guy he is, responded with this post at the Flux blog. Here's a snippet that I found particularly interesting:

Often, the critical response focuses on the form and execution of the play, and rarely on what the play is actually about. Shawn's post is a nice reminder (Sean Williams' response to Lesser Seductions is another example) of how satisfying that difference can be.

It's interesting that he found that most noticeable about what I wrote. Honestly, it comes naturally to me. I've never really understood the need to come into a theatrical experience carrying a sort of Platonic Ideal Of Great Art that all individuals works must measure up against in order to ascertain their worthiness. I pretty much do my best to experience a piece on its own terms (or at least admit my own warped sensibilities - such as finding most horror movies hilarious). As a result, I tend to enjoy most of what I see on some level, even if that means I get more out of it by what I bring to it than what's actually there.

For instance, one of the things my mom and I like to do together is go see a movie every Sunday. Yes, every Sunday. When there was still a video store nearby, we'd also rent videos to watch on a weeknight. Mom and I are not what you would call passive consumers. Part of the fun is responding to what we're seeing.

* We'd be great to have on DVD commentaries. Imagine watching a horror film, where the virginal female lead is going back into the house to look for the monster/killer/alien/ghost, and then hear someone say, "Look at this ignorant motherfucker."

To be honest, we've had more fun talking about movies with no redeeming aesthetic value than by watching critically acclaimed films with Academy Award Winner already plastered on the Special Edition DVD packaging. I think it has something to do with being broke. When you can't afford to waste money, you're going to do whatever you can to make your entertainment worthwhile, even if you have to add it yourself.

Which brings us back to the star/thumb/grade model of reviewing. Very often, they read more like consumer reports than the reactions of a real human being communicating their experience of a film or theatrical performance. In and of itself there's nothing wrong with it, but we need more than one way to engage with the work that's out there. But how can we go about doing that in a way that does more than say something like, "I enjoyed the costumes"?

Allow me to take a detour. It'll seem out of nowhere, but it's actually closely related to what I'm getting at here.

If you pay attention to business and marketing trends, there are a couple of themes that keep cropping up lately. The first is authenticity. The second is distinction. The struggle for businesses these days is not to be the biggest and baddest mofos on the market, but to be the little guys everyone roots for because what they do is different and interesting and important. With so much out there bombarding you day in and day out, what's going to grab and hold your attention? The things that have something of substance to communicate in an interesting way.

It has nothing to do with technical proficiency or special effects. Flux Theatre Ensemble will never do a straight-up production of Spiderman, Turn Off the Dark. Just as Nosedive Productions is unlikely to do slice-of-life naturalistic stuff that takes itself way too seriously. There's more to distinction than simply, say, everyone dying their hair purple or speaking Klingon. Those are simply gimmicks. It might work for a time, but if what's beneath it is the same thing that's beneath more conventional fare, it'll be treated just like any other distraction.

In the same vein, voice is not simply style, although style is (or at least should be) directly linked to it. The ways people speak in Dog Act and Finding Harlem Dawn differ from the ways we speak in everyday life. There's more to voice than words, though. It includes every aspect of a performance. And that means something about the worlds these plays invite us to inhabit, which, simply in the act of contrast, says something about the world we live in today.

But there's more to voice than what we put out there. It's also what we bring to it. In today's market, the difference between success and failure is not quality and/or price, but what a product or service or company says about who buys it. People don't buy your stuff because of what you say about it, but because of what buying from you says about themselves. Where have we seen a point like this before? Oh yeah, in theatre!

The audience doesn't come to see you. They come to see themselves.

--somebody important

So the thing I'm interested in exploring with you is: what are the questions we need to ask when responding to a work from a position of making voice primary rather than something tacked on after plot, character, and spectacle?

Dog Act and the power of naming

I recently had the chance to see Flux Theatre's production of Dog Act. Long story short, you should go see it while it's still playing (until Sunday, I believe).

There are plenty of people giving great reviews for Dog Act. I don't believe I can add much that hasn't already been said, so I encourage you to read those for a good idea of what works in the play and why.

Instead, I'd like to connect Dog Act to my ongoing project: a queer Black womanist liberation poiesis.

I think it took actually seeing theatre to solidify some of the more nebulous ideas that have been floating around in my head for a while. It's already been established why it's necessary to have a queer Black womanist liberation poiesis (yes, even for straightwhitedudes). What has been fuzzy thus far is what such a poiesis would look like.

The comments in this thread touch what I think is something that will (hopefully) become a major breakthrough somewhere down the line. Ursula K. Le Guin hints at possibilities in her essay, A Non-Euclidean View of California as a Cold Place to Be. From an aesthetic point of view, I can see the poiesis I'm trying to create veering towards yin.

[...] we must return, go round, go inward, go yinward. What would a yin utopia be? It would be dark, wet, obscure, weak, yielding, passive, participatory, circular, cyclical, peaceful, nurturant, retreating, contracting, and cold.

--Ursula K. Le Guin, A Non-Euclidean View of California as a Cold Place to Be

Speaking of circular, back to Dog Act.

In Dog Act, the voices at the end of the world sound like the voices at the beginning (at least, the beginning according to how Americans reckon it, during that once upon a time in the Old West when there was a guy named Shakespeare and everybody talked funny).

As such, the dominant aesthetic element of a queer Black womanist liberation theatre is neither plot nor character, but voice. Of course, voice is not merely what is said out loud (or rendered into words via ink or pixels). It's the unique expressions of those experiences, memories, dreams, fears, and hopes that root individuals to the source(s) of themselves. Plot, character, theme, spectacle - all these are but aspects of the voice.

Even as all the characters in Dog Act share a similar situation on both a local and global scale, they each have very different voices, from the fuck-laden quasi-Shakespearean tongue of the scavengers, Zetta's straight-outta-movies Old West talk, the ambiguous veracity of Vera Similitude, Dog's plain English plus canine, to Jo-Jo's twitchy and manic storytelling style that's part doberman and part spark plug.

The most potent use of voice is the power of naming. Through naming, we not only identify but manifest what is possible. Naming, of course, is not a moral process. Its power can be used for good and/or ill, to oppress and/or to liberate. An oppressive use of naming acts as power over - especially as manifest as power over others. A liberating use of naming is more like power of - especially as manifest as power of oneself. In Dog Act, for instance, there is power over dogs but power of story. It's a subtle but crucial distinction. Both in the play and in life, power over brings ignorance, enslavement, and suffering, whereas power of leads to the potential for wisdom, freedom, and happiness.

Yet there is more to voice than naming. Or is there? Let's try this exercise. Take the word "spoon." Now imagine it from the point of view from each of the following:

• Someone who collects rare antique spoons
• Someone who was regularly spanked with a spoon as a child
• Someone who has no spoons
• Someone who makes spoons
• Someone who eats with their hands

Another exercise. This time let's use the word "dog" and examine it from the perspectives of:

• Someone attacked by a police dog during a civil rights demonstration
• Someone who had many beloved canine pets
• Someone raised by wolves
• Someone allergic to dogs
• Someone who eats dogs

Now what do you get?

So we come to another aspect of voice, something I'll call resonance. Resonance is linked to the associations people make to their named experiences. For example, a person who has nothing but contempt for canines would not say "dog" the same way as one who truly believes them to be man's best friend. And they certainly would mean something different when they called a person a dog. Say, "Men are dogs!" vs. "You're my dog, man!"

What makes voice really interesting, though, is when one act of naming creates two or more areas of resonance. People who've been attacked by dogs have also had them as beloved pets. People allergic to dogs may also admire them. Consider how often the love-hate relationship (romantic or otherwise) features in contemporary media.

But there's more to voice than either naming or resonance. It's something more internal, which I am too tired to name properly at the moment, but has something to do with the nature and temperament of the individual who shares similar frames of resonance. An impulsive, aggressive person who's been bitten by a dog would react differently to a strange dog wandering the street than one who is patient to the point of passivity.

Both resonance and this other thing I'm talking about are not limited to characters. It includes every person involved in the process of creating the performance - actors, directors, writers, designers, and even the audience.

So this is where it gets really tricky: How do we unify all these elements into a single voice? Is that even desirable?

Why queer Black womanist liberation poiesis matters to straight White dudes doing theatre

Earlier I talked about why you should care what queer Black women have to say. Now I'm going to talk about why a queer Black womanist liberation poesis matters to the people who seem most diametrically opposed to it, at least in principle - (presumably straight - but in theatre it matters a bit less) White men.

But first, a slight detour to provide a little context. Isaac is asking who the greatest living playwright of the English language is. Coming right on the heels of That Coversation, this seems a particularly intriguing juxtaposition. How many of us would be surprised if most, if not all, people on that list were White and/or male? Are we then to assume that the reason why we don't come across more Great Works of Theatre by women and/or people of color is because they simply can't hack it? If not, then what is it about our criteria for determining quality that makes it highly unlikely that a woman or a person of color (or - gasp! - a woman of color!!!) would appear on anyone's top ten lists for The Greatest?

It would be easy to dismiss this as a matter of taste, and I've often done just that. The fact of the matter is that in the world we live in, theatre is dominated by the tastes of well-off White dudes. There are already so many stories about how wonderful, special, and unique White men are (and how lucky we are that they're in charge!). But we already knew that. In my more cynical and self-doubting moments (which are more frequent than this blog makes apparent), I can get pretty down on myself for not being eager and/or able to make works supporting that fact. I can feel guilty and ashamed of myself because my energies are not spent toward silencing and erasing myself from my own stories. Yet this seems to be the exact reason why simply throwing up our hands and saying it's a matter of taste is the wrong way to go about it. It leaves the current system the way it is and limits opportunities for finding new ways of knowing and expressing - of being in the world.

I understand the desire to understand "pure" art uncontaminated by messy, chaotic life and dirty, nasty politics. I'm afraid that's impossible. Art for art's sake is dead, if it ever existed in the first place. This is especially true of theatre because it is the art form most intimately connected to life as it is lived (internally as well as externally). So, for me, discussing quality without addressing liberation is not wrong so much as incomplete.

Art does not need to serve a political agenda to be art. However, politics is a part of the human condition. I don't mean politics in the terms of law and government and policy, but in the terms of the power dynamics between people. As the art form that is, at its core and without exception, about people, theatre is - from initial concept to final curtain - innately political, even if particular political concepts and buzzwords are never uttered in the piece.

Personally, I believe that liberation is the most important act an individual or society can participate in. With various systems of oppression still in place, ideals like justice and freedom remain much too far out of reach for way too many people. Without justice and freedom, much of what we do is ultimately arbitrary and meaningless. I'm not here to convert anyone or convince anybody to agree, but if you want to understand how I define quality, you need to know this about me.

When I talk about liberation, I'm talking about what Chimamanda Adichie mentions in "The Danger of a Single Story." I'm talking about the power of stories to shape lives. The stories we tell to and about one another define the possibilities and limitations we accept for ourselves. As such, stories are absolutely vital to the process of liberation - from exploring the things that imprison us to giving us visions of liberated selves.

That's not to say I don't appreciate craft, but there needs to be more than that. I'm remembering a visit I made to Miya Shoji a few months ago. Looking at the shoji screens and tables and other furnishings, I saw more than craftsmanship. There was more to what's going on than the smoothness of a table's surface or the way parts fit together without using a single nail or screw. I saw creations inhabited by the values of a people. I saw a process informed by history and language and culture. I saw simplicity, elegance, a reverence for natural harmony. Yet each piece was vastly different from the others, even those of the same type, not by surface distinctions such as color or shape, but by the approach to these ideas. This was a liberated space - a space where each piece could freely be itself for itself, a space where each piece is appreciated because of rather than despite itself.

Without liberation, we cannot even approach the discussion of quality without acting out oppressive frameworks. I'm not arguing over whether there is or is not such a thing as quality. If we want our theatre to do more than ego-stroke the privileged, we need to examine what we bring to our understanding of quality. We need to interrogate our assumptions, not to shoot holes into them, but to name them for what they are and explore the possibilities and limitations they put in place.

For instance, in Aristotelian drama, there is not much room for the kind of playing that validates and affirms anyone except those occupying dominant identities. In Aristotle's time, it was wealthy, land-owning Greek men (One wonders what Aristotle would have thought about Lorraine Hansberry or Suzan Lori-Parks). Today, it's affluent White guys. There's nothing bad or wrong with it, but let's be honest and say that this paradigm doesn't speak for or about everyone - including White men who participate in and benefit from it.

Of course, contemporary theatre has long since moved away from Aristotle as the ultimate authority on what defines quality. But there are still people everyone should "just know" if they want to participate in the dialogue without looking or feeling stupid. They are often male and/or White. This in itself is not a problem, yet there seems to be an implicit understanding that in order for it to matter, we have to put male and/or White ways of knowing at the center of our conversation - even if those ways of knowing are in direct conflict with who we are (which includes a whole lot of White men too!). This way of knowing tends to prioritize the abstract over the concrete, the impersonal over the personal, mind over body, objectivity (or the appearance of objectivity) over subjectivity, education over life experience, reason over feeling.

A liberation poetics frees us from the expectation to act, react, and interact from only half (or less!) of who we are.

Why should you give a shit about what queer black women have to say?

This is my first conscious effort and establishing a queer Black womanist liberation poesis (as I've described here). Like I mentioned before, this is probably a lifelong work, and one that will probably change over time, so don't hold me to dissertation-level consistency and rigor because it probably won't be there.

Naturally, when it comes to creating a queer Black womanist liberation poesis, the first thing that comes to mind is: Why?

It's a legitimate question. Why should anyone give a shit what queer Black women have to say? At the moment, queer Black women can offer neither the promise of prosperity nor the threat of destruction. If I can't kill you or make you rich, what difference does listening to me make?

I admit that this line of inquiry can veer existentialist. I may as well be asking what the value of human life is outside of what people can do to or for each other. However, I believe that the question itself deserves better than for us to render it pointless through abstraction. So let's not do that, OK?

While the answer I'm probably supposed to give will say something along the lines of "diversity is good for you" ("Read stuff by Black women and eat your spinach!"), that feels more like regurgitating a slogan than an actual engagement with the question of why our voices are not just beneficial, but critical, to our plays, films, TV shows, and so on?

I think Toni Morrison says it best (emphasis mine).

Almost all of the African-American writers that I know were very much uninterested in one particular area of the world, which is white men. That frees up a lot. It frees up the imagination, because you don't have that gaze. And when I say white men, I don't mean just the character, I mean the establishment, the reviewers, the publishers, the people who are in control. So once you erase that from your canvas, you can really play.

As a creator, that ability to play is vital. I mean that quite literally. We've all come across various works that have been watered down for popular consumption, and in catering to our assumed ignorance and egocentricity, it has sacrificed no small part of its vitality. Now, instead of being a doorway into new ways of expressing and knowing and being, we are constantly faced with mirrors of the same old bullshit. The same old values, the same old ways of interacting, the same old ways of understanding. This makes our collective understanding of our art and audience stagnant, inert, decaying, dead.

When "you can really play," you can imagine - and therefore create - new possibilities. But all those possibilities cannot come from only one source of experience. Seriously, how many ways can you talk about how unique, special, and wonderful straight White dudes are (and how fortunate we are that they rule the world)? Even when there is not a single straight White man present in a particular work, that is overwhelmingly the perspective through which people must experience and interpret it. Without that pressure, without that weight, our plays, films, TV shows, and so on are able to exist with greater breadth, depth, and richness.

But as I mentioned earlier, we cannot express the value of our voices solely in terms of what we, the marginalized and oppressed, can do for everyone else. It must first and foremost have value for us. We've already had the experience where our worth as human beings rested upon our ability to play the roles the dominant classes prescribe for us. Yet rare is the case where we are affirmed as we are in our fullest humanity - pure, rough, messy, and beautiful.

For those of us who are silenced every day because the world we live in devalues and dehumanizes us for our gender, our color, and/or sexuality, to speak for ourselves as ourselves is an act of reclaiming what is often taken from us. Asserting our truth is radical. It is a transformative act and therefore a revolutionary act. This is not the way society tells us we're supposed to be like. We're supposed to be silent and invisible, content in our silence and invisibility, and/or afraid of what would happen were we to see or be seen as we are. Putting ourselves at the center of our lives threatens the status quo because it exposes it for the lie that it is. That there is only one truth worth knowing, one beauty worth having, one goodness worth becoming.

It's incredibly liberating to realize that our goodness, truth, and beauty comes because of who we are rather than despite it.

What about you? Questions? Reflections?

Big projects for 2011

One of my goals for this year is to put together a full production of Tulpa, or Anne&Me. I'm looking into a festival that seems right up Tulpa's alley. Also, I'm working with a director who really believes in it and wants to make it happen. Go me!

The second thing I'm working on is a Black womanist liberation poetics (or rather poiesis). If I'm honest with myself, this is more than likely a lifelong endeavor, but at the very least I'd like to make significant headway on the guiding principles. I haven't yet decided exactly what form I want it to take, but I'm thinking that I do not want to take an academic or journalistic style. Aside from my lack of interest in it, that approach would only serve to undermine one of the chief aims of this project: to help develop works that reclaim the subjectivity of marginalized people. Part of this is reconstructing ways of creating and interpreting dramatic media such as theatre, film, and television. The main idea is to start from one's own lived experience as the center then work outward from there.

I also want to avoid any dogmatic assertions about What Great Theatre Should Be and focus instead on what works and how.

Here's the preliminary reading list I'm working with:

• James H. Cone, A Black Theology of Liberation
• Linda E. Thomas, Womanist Theology, Epistemology, and a New Anthropological Paradigm
• bell hooks, Black Looks: Race and Representation
• bell hooks, Reel to Real: Race, Sex, and Class at the Movies
• August Wilson, The Ground on Which I Stand

The personal is radical - reflections on my current piece

There is something terribly radical about believing that one's own 

experiences and images are important enough 

to speak about, much less to write about and to perform.

--Deb Margolin, A Perfect Theater for One, 1997

Recently I've been thinking about how Anne&Me is, at its core, an act of radical subjectivity. For marginalized groups, it has always been a struggle to express the wholeness of who we are. Claiming the "I" - embracing one's own self as intrinsically valuable simply because it exists - is a radical political statement.

It is radical because affirming ourselves by telling our own stories and speaking our own truths, without an attempt at justification, is a transgressive and transformative act, a direct challenge to hegemonic power (the ultimate expression of which is the power to define what is true and worthy) and a catalyst for healing the internal wounds inflicted upon us by an environment that says that who we are doesn't matter. It undermines hegemonic power by revealing its own subjectivity, effectively neutralizing its power to define and determine truth and value for all people by exposing it as merely one truth among many.

This is not just a long-winded way of saying everyone is entitled to their own opinion. I'm talking about something far more nuanced and powerful: how we exist in this world. For someone with limited experience with marginalization (and I mean experience, not just entertaining the idea), it's easy to overlook or dismiss its importance. But those of us who live with marginalized identities know the power of finally realizing that we do not have to apologize for being ourselves or prove we are worthy of existing or endorse behaviors and attitudes that make us less whole.

Getting back to theatre and my current piece, Anne&Me is radical not only because it comes from me but because it's also about me - and as a piece of theatre, people literally have to see it. There's no filter named Narrator or Camera to distance people from it. It's right in their faces. In an earlier draft of the play, someone commented that it feels like someone's diary, so they were reluctant to critique it. At the time I was a bit annoyed by that, but now I'm in a position where I can say, "Good."