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.

Watch this video - Gay in America: Color Lines Across Rainbow Skies

Xem Van Adams' Gay in America: Color Lines Across Rainbow Skies explores ethnic and racial divides in the LGBTQ community. It's a look at queerness that rarely get highlighted in mainstream media when it comes to LGBTQ people (who are always assumed to be affluent and White).

I love the emphasis on personal stories and reflections as opposed to a more academic or journalistic style. It humanizes the issues in ways that a more "objective" approach cannot.

LGBTQ erasure and the hunt for the elusive Good Black Man (TM)

I don't normally talk about the intersections of race and sexuality that much. It's not for lack of awareness, but all too often, the commentary I make can be abused by people who don't know and/or don't care about the broader context. There are people who have a vested interest in seeing Black people as uniquely sexist, misogynist, and homophobic and would take what I say as ammunition to fire that charge. Being that I am Black and woman and queer, I would be less than thrilled if such a thing were to come about.

Cyberstalking trolls take note.

That said, I'd like to address a really persistent meme that keeps going around about Black women and what we want out of life. It goes like this: every Black woman is desperately searching for Good Black Man (TM) to make her life complete. Everything she is and everything she does is made to snag such a rare and elusive creature. He must (among other things):

• make good money
• have good looks
• be Christian
• have no Baby Mama Drama
• love his mother without clinging to her
• be straight

I'm not knocking anyone for having standards about what they're looking for in a life partner. But there's a stark difference between an individual sharing their desires and the sort of stuff that gets shoved at people as being important to the lives of all Black women. There's nothing wrong with straight Black women who want to start families with straight Black men who share their values and don't come with a lot of extraneous baggage. But when that's the only story that gets circulated? Then we have a problem.

In the case of the hunt for the rare and elusive Good Black Man (TM), it's a problem because the assumptions involved in that conversation cut out pretty much every Black person who is not cisgender and heterosexual. Oh, it's never as blatant as "no homos allowed," but not formally excluding Black LGBTQs is not the same as including Black LGBTQs. Saying, "I don't have a problem with the gay lifestyle" is not the same as inviting us into your space. There's a huge difference between a lack of overt hostility and the presence of welcoming.

Heteronormative assumptions about Black relationships used to not bother me. I used to take the attitude that the conversation was by and for straight Black people, and I didn't begrudge them that. Now it's starting to get to me, and I'm just starting to figure out why.

For a long time I couldn't articulate what irked me so much about it. Reflecting on experiences and conversations I've had about this, it's not merely the erasure of queerness. It's the fact that in order to contribute in these conversations - at least around straight people - I need to mute or dilute my queerness. I have to pretend that my queerness is ultimately a different flavor of heterosexuality. Unfortunately, that's not how I experience it.

Queerness is not just about who we want to fuck. It's also about the visceral relationship we have to gender and the nuances of how attraction and affection work for us while single or in a relationship. I am always queer no matter who I'm with or who I like. Even if I were to settle down with a man, I am still queer because I would relate to him as a man differently from the way straight women relate to men.

How can we have that Gotta Find A Good Black Man (TM) conversation in a way that's queer-inclusive? I honestly don't know. Maybe it starts with broadening our ideas about the relationships we can have with Black men. How about we stop focusing exclusively on romance? Think beyond boyfriends and husbands. What about Black men as fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins, mentors, muses, students, peers, and (gasp!) friends?

More on being queer: required reading

The Pressure of Being Expected to Know: Reflections on Sexual Fluidity and Sex- and gender-exclusivity in dating: What's that like then? at The Pursuit of Harpyness


Genderqueer tumblr

Why I call myself queer

I don't often talk about my sexuality in great detail on my blog. It's not because I'm a prude by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm intensely private about that aspect of myself, at least online. Like many women, I'm reluctant to say too much for fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention. And, to be blunt, my sexuality is one of those areas where I have zero patience or tolerance for other people's ignorant bullshit.

Labels, for instance.

I say queer because that's easier than saying, "I don't want to deal with your pre-/mis- conceptions about who I can fall in love/like/lust with and how that happens for me."

When I saw the Big Reveal in The Crying Game, I didn't get what the big deal was. In fact, I felt bad for Dill because of how Fergus reacted. In fact, I realized I was queer when I realized that a Crying Game moment would not be a dealbreaker in my attraction to someone.

My sexuality does not fit into neat little categories and patterns. I am not gay, lesbian, or bisexual. Pansexual/omnisexual don't fit either, and if bisexuals get a bad rap - well, at least people assume bisexuals are limited to humans. And if I never have to deal with, "Would you sleep with [random person/animal/inanimate object]?" followed by (when I say, "No." or "I don't know."), "But I thought you liked everything." Cue me explaining - again - that I cannot determine who I can love/like/lust based on gender alone. I won't even get into the conversation about pansexal and polyamorous not being the same thing.

So, I call myself queer. Because I don't want to fucking explain. And get this: I don't have to explain. Know why? Because whatever gender and sexuality hangups you have - that's your bullshit. It's only a problem for me because you can't keep it to yourself, which makes life difficult for me.

Seriously, why do you need to know? You want to have sex with me? You know someone I could hook up with? Are you insecure about your relationship to your partner and want to make sure I don't use my African Voodoo Pussy to steal them from you? Is there a Nice Jewish Boy/Girl/Noneoftheabove I should meet because you know we'd rock each other's worlds? No? Then why the fuck is any of this anybody's goddamn business? Again, refer to, "I don't want to deal with deconstructing your bullshit ideas about who I can love/like/fuck."

So, that's why I just say queer.

For my straight White male friends re: Ramona Flowers (may contain spoilers for "Scott Pilgrim vs. The World")

(H/t: neo_prodigy, re: "What If Scott Pilgrim Wasn't A Straight White Male?")

Dear Straight White Guy Friend:

Are we friends? I mean friend-friends? Like we can be honest with each other about things?

That Ramona Flowers girl you keep ogling as soon as her scent is in the air? Can't stand her ass. I hate her guts. I hate her fashionably pale, barely legal-looking, wig-wearing, roller-blading, spiritual-but-not-religious ass. Seriously, whenever I get a whiff of her, I'm like this:



It's enough to make me forget I like women! And considering my taste in women, that's just wrong.

I hate Ramona Flowers for what she says to the rest of womankind. She says to us, "Don't take responsibility for your life. Cultivate worldly innocence and play muse to some random lowlife instead." She says to us, "Don't fight your own battles or use your own strength. Pretend to be helpless and get some pathetic slacker to do it for you." She says to us, "If you're cute and skinny and White enough, you won't have to do anything for yourself." She says to us, "Don't make choices and accept consequences! Wait around for the right people to pick you and feel like the victim for not getting the life you wanted." She says to us, "If you want to be loved, you must first and foremost be a fantasy. You are not allowed to be a complete and complex human being."

Simply put, she's a fake, a phony, a passing fancy. There's nothing real about her but the damage she does. I could almost respect her game if there was anything new in it, anything of substance that would make her appealing besides not being like your parents. I won't even say weird. Wednesday Addams is weird. The Ramonas of the world are merely quirky.

Speaking of damage, what kind of person has seven evil exes? I'm not going on that "What did she do to turn them evil?" nonsense. For real, what kind of person would choose to have a relationship with somebody evil who has superpowers? Not just once - seven fucking times!

Let's take the superpowers out of it. As a matter of fact, let's flip the script and make it your mom or your sister or some other woman you care about but don't want to sleep with. If she were seeing someone who had seven evil exes, wouldn't you be just a little bit concerned about her? Let's take this to the real world where instead of seven evil exes with superpowers, it could be seven evil exes with hardcore underworld connections. Would your assessment of the situation be different? I'm not saying you should judge people by who they used to date, but you should wonder about the company they keep, especially if said company will fucking kill you!

*sigh*

File this under Dumb Shit Guys Do They Wouldn't Let Their Mom or Sister Get Away With.

The next time you see Ramona Flowers, wipe the pixie dust out your eyes and take a good hard look at who you're with. You might not feel so enchanted when you realize the hell you'd be putting yourself through for something that's really not worth it.


Yours truly,

Me

P.S. For my feminist and womanist sisters, the next time you see Ramona Flowers, kick her in the cunt and beat her over the head with bell hooks until the words sink into her brain.

Oh, HELL yes!

Alienated Conclusions gives us the Black Girl's Manifesto: The Basic Rights of Femininity. A few drops of awesome sauce:

6. Black women and girls have the right to love, to be loved, to be treated as human beings effortlessly.


15. Black women and girls have the right to sexual freedom and identity. Like straight black women, GLBT black women have the RIGHT to demand fairness and marriage over the stereotypes that prevent it.


21. It is not black women's responsibilities to take on the burdens of their community, anymore than any other women, because of their skin color.


30. Black women have the right to reject white feminism, black male nationalism, liberalism, anarchism, and so forth because it does not apply to their particular circumstances. They are allowed to do so without fear of alienating potential ally's. Such groups have never really considered their particular struggles to begin with.

Go read the rest here!

Interesting reading to do

I came across a preview for Derald Wing Sue's Microaggressions in Everyday Life: Race, Gender, and Sexual Orientation. Perhaps having copies of this on hand for those . . . "educational" moments would help my blood pressure a bit. Although all three categories are things I deal with on a daily basis, I wonder what if it addresses intersectionality (even obliquely) like . . .

Sheri Parks' Fierce Angels: The Strong Black Woman in American Life and Culture. I hear you groaning now. "More of that Black woman stuff?" Yes, but think of it as research before you go creating Yet Another Black Best Friend.

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."

When does a play with issues become an Issue Play?

I saw Garlia Jones' Stranger in My Body at the New School on Saturday, and I came back to witness a reading Monday night for Blackboard Play reading series at the Cell. I thoroughly enjoyed it, especially when watching what the actors brought to the readings of the characters, both on stage and in a reading.

After the reading there was a brief talkback. Several people made comments to the effect that they were relieved that Stranger in My Body was not an "issue play." I found that . . . odd (read: slightly disturbing), particularly since the blurb about the play makes it quite plain that Stranger in My Body grapples with Issues. I also found it odd (read: slightly disturbing) to see who the comments were coming from, especially taking into account the playwright herself and the performers. Here are a few things to give you some context:

• The playwright: cisgender Black woman.
• The actors: 2 Black women, a White woman, a Black man, and non-American woman - all cisgender as far as I know.
• The audience: 20-30 people, male-to-female ratio about even, a 50-50 split of White and non-White. All cisgender as far as I know.
• The people who said that they liked Stranger in My Body for not being an issue play - all White.
• From the looks of it, a mixture of sexual orientations.

Let me get this out of the way: I'm sure they meant it as a compliment. Apparently, many plays that deal directly with "issues" can come across as pretty fucking didactic. I can see why that would turn people off. Nobody likes to be manipulated, and no one likes being told what to think or how to feel. I get that.

But that's not what I'm talking about, so please don't make comments pointing out the obvious.

Here is where I start to squirm a bit. Of all the things that Stranger in My Body does right, what's with the trend of praising it for not being an "issue play"? What is that even supposed to mean in this context? The play itself has issues all over the place - gender issues, sexuality issues, religion issues. Stranger in My Body focuses on the lives of its characters and their relationships with one another, but does not make it apolitical. Hell, the play opens up at a fucking voting booth! The personal is political, and all that.

What am I supposed to take from this sort of commentary? The playwright is a Black woman who writes a play full of Black characters who don't make race the topic of conversation, and that's what's praiseworthy about it? Nevermind the sensitivity and nuance she brings when she writes about a man trapped in a woman's body. Nevermind how she brings complexity and depth to characters who would be all to easy to stereotype. Nevermind her skill at writing naturalistic dialogue that flows smoothly and feels spontaneous each time the actors say the words. Nope - the thing that 3 or 4 people felt most compelled to comment on is that Stranger in My Body is not an issue play or a topical play, but the only topic I see not getting any attention is race.

No, I'm not going to make this post about race per se, but I will venture a working theory I have about what constitutes an "issue play." Especially considering this discussion happening over at Parabasis, I'm starting to get the idea that an "issue play" is any play that directly confronts the experience of a marginalized identity that makes those who are not marginalized in the same way feel uncomfortable.

I wish I could be more precise than that, but I'm working with what seems to be the only two criteria: privilege and discomfort.

What do you think an "issue play" is?

Seriously? Is this sexy?

"The Remasculization of the American Man" (even though Pattinson is British - h/t Womanist Musings and Sociological Images).

Depersonalized female bodies - are they really that sexy? Really? Even as someone who likes women, I don't get it. Really. I. Just. Don't. Get. It.

Intersections: Race, Gender, Sexuality, Class

African Americans First Gay Couple to Marry in Washington

I think that it is important that all see this video. There is so much talk about homophobia in the Black community, that those who are same gender loving, who are both gay and Black are erased. Their stories and their truth is ignored and silenced in order to push the grand narrative. Let their love stand as a testimony that gay rights are an issue for people of colour because Black gays and lesbians are affected by homophobia.

LGBT Athletes of Color: Intersections of Racism, Sexism, and Heterosexism

Addressing discrimination and prejudice against lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) athletes and coaches requires an understanding of how other identities besides sexual orientation or gender identity affect LGBT experience. Every athlete and coach is more than their sexual orientation or gender identity. Race, economic class and religion are among the many other aspects of social identity that add to the complexities of addressing discrimination and prejudice in athletics. The interactions of these identities complicate the experiences of LGBT people in athletics and make the experiences of individual LGBT athletes and coaches different from each other.

Is Homophobia the Same as Racism-Sexism?

For example, at the University of Texas at Austin, I had a roommate who took a race relations class. He was white. For some reason the professor brought in a young gay male who stated that he knew what it was like to be black because he was homosexual. I assume that he would probably argue that he knows what it is like to be a woman as well. That is problematic for me because I do not think he knows what it is like to be an African-American or a woman. Likewise, I do not know what it is like to be gay. It is easy to think that racism is just like sexism, homophobia, and classism. That is an easy way to think about the problems of discrimination. Then we do not have to think about the distinctions in those persons due to whatever unique characteristics he/she possesses. In academia people are taking the easy way out. What is easy politically can be intellectually dishonest.

The Other Black Unwoman (at TransGriot)

One of the things I thought about was how Black women are considered by society as the 'unwoman'.

Black women aren't considered beautiful vis a vis the vanilla tinged beauty standard. We're considered 'angry ' just for speaking our minds, less than intelligent despite having advanced degrees earned with summa cum laude grades, and when we excel in athletic endeavors we're presumed to have either cheated or it's dismissed because of 'natural ability'.

Black feminism wiki article

Homophobia and racism: the failed policy of ranking oppressions

The Truth That Never Hurts: Writings on Race, Gender, and Freedom

African Ancestral Lesbians United for Social Change

Yes, we exist - LGBTQ POCs

Seriously, you'd think that'd be freaking obvious. But apparently it isn't. Where the hell do people think disco music came from?

How NOT to engage in a conversation about racism (or any other -ism or -phobia)

Just read the comments for this post. It all goes downhill from about here.