Oh my god. The words come hard today. How do we get up? How do we speak to one another? I’ve been feeling sick for days, as many of my friends have according to their facebook posts. The news around Trump’s (and the U.S. largely) treatment of immigrant children at the border keeps coming and it keeps getting worse. One of the only good things about this horror is that the U.S. treatment of undocumented children and all immigrants and atrocities committed long before the kidnapping of children hit the airwaves is starting to be widely discussed and criticized.
Many of my white friends are outraged but many are silent. Some are making comments jibing at the Trump administration that make light of the impact that this suffering by making jokes about it. White people are so quick to deny their whiteness and distance themselves from white nationalists that they use this as an excuse to not take responsibility for whiteness. In some ways it would behoove them to think of themselves as a race, as a community. If not them, then who?
This could be my family. It could be yours. The story of the child who was “adopted” at 11 months old from a Guatemalan woman who was arrested where she worked, and the white parents who refuse to give him back, is about colonialism. The fact that the white parents think it is about their love is racist. Love him enough to give him back to his mother, who did nothing wrong but try and seek a better life for him. Love forged in violence and racism is not pure, no matter what you feel, and recurring to your feelings (what about hers and his when he grows up, motherfuckers?!) is allllll about your whiteness. Do the right thing and give him back.
I don’t know how to go about my day. I feel so fucking helpless. What can we do to make this better now (and in future)? I’m going to a letter-writing campaign today. I am consoled by this opportunity, and grateful to those organizing. At the same time, it feels so small. So futile. Helplessness is a terrible feeling. Position. The link between whitecisheteropatriarcy’s oppression of the free life and movement of other’s and sexual violence are intimately linked. Our helplessness is the bedrock of American “freedom.”
Is good and evil a binary? I don’t really believe in binaries but it feels like it right now. I wish I had a time machine. I wish the man who invented gun powder was never born. I wish the man who invented the nuclear bomb had never been born. I wish everyone could take a critical race and feminist theory course or elsewhere find the knowledge that it has been this nation’s history to cover over and I wish everyone could find it now.
What can I be grateful for? I can be grateful for the ways in which this pain and injustice make me more alive. Even the surface of my skin hurts. I can be grateful that I woke up, even though I wanted to start crying as soon as I remembered this world. I am grateful that these atrocities help teach us about the world, about what has already been happening before the flashlight shone on the cockroaches scattering away (or in plain sight). I am grateful for the opportunity to learn more about how justice matters and how to delve further into figuring out how to best sing justice in/to/through my life. REGISTER TO VOTE RIGHT NOW. DO ONE (MANY) THING(S). Or just lie in bed for a while and really try and rest.
People sometimes get weird with me when they see/hear how mad I am at the world right now. I understand that this usually comes from a well-intentioned place. They’re concerned for me in some way, and I do appreciate the concern. But this response affects me in another way that I need to write about today.
There are a lot of (mostly white) unpoliticized people right now who are getting really good at making angry people (mostly people of color) out to be “crazy” for agitating so vociferously. Our anger becomes part of “us.” This is, of course, not a new phenomenon in any way. Black feminisms have offered many theories about how and why some people become “the angry person of color” which obliquely distracts the eye/ear from seeing/hearing the actual subject matter we are trying to get them to pay attention to. Let’s face it, none of us like being wrong.
Trying to explain oppression to people who have been positively affected by the world with regard to their intelligence (which maybe is as good a definition of middleclass white people as any), is hard because people who think they are smart and know a lot have a hard time being taught anything by anyone--much less by someone who, without their even realizing it, they don’t think is as smart or knows as them. All of our Pollyanna seeming norms around what men do to attract women, and vice versa, are structured around normalizing the idea that those of us with one genitalia and requisite gender are dummer and less good at doing stuff than the other.
Becoming aware of your privilege is like retroactively waking up, Shannon Jackson says. You think you’re already awake, and then you wake again. And the hard part, I think, as someone who has done it over and over, and who has committed themselves to a practice by which they continue to do it but also have learned that it is necessary to give themselves credit for what they know and how they think (i.e. for their labor), in the context of a world in which few people treat me like I know as much as I know I know now, is that becoming aware of one’s lack of knowledge around the atrocities that are committed every day throughout most of the world, by global policies that instantiated unrepayable debts to countries that should not have decimated much of the world’s population, requires that you are able to sit with not feeling good about yourself. And, the more you learn, the more you becomes politicized, in some ways, and this is kind of hilarious and I’ve never thought about it this way before, the more disgusted you become with yourself. Until a certain point. But I digress.
Oppression and privilege, power, exists mulimodally and in multiplicitous sites, Foucault theorized. To me, that means its working in a lot of different ways in a lot of different places at every moment in time. That doesn’t mean that there aren’t some things that aren’t only about power, sorry for the triple negative (I try not to edit too much because in these posts I’m really trying to stream-think out loud, like when I write lyrics). Furthermore, the two are inextricably bound. My friend Treva has a name for the inextricably woven togetherness of privilege/oppression and I CANT WAIT FOR THEM TO WRITE ABOUT IT.
What I wish everybody understood is that in every ounce and/or moment in which we are actively forgetting and being made to forget (another mutually-generating duo, until if/when one or the other chooses remembering) about how the modern world, and almost everything we know or could easily come to know is saturated in the milk of this forgetting. The colonial amnesia of four-five hundred years ago is part of what makes the atrocities our country enacts now possible. How the state treats the poor and those who are racialized as nonwhite (both in and outside of its borders), is a new version of a very old mechanism called racism. Ruth Wilson Gilmore defines racism as, “the state-sanctioned or extralegal production and exploitation of group-differentiated vulnerability to premature death.” I love Achille Mbembe’s idea of necropolitics, the way the state produces certain populations for death, as much as for life (which was Foucault’s focus in biopolitics).
Today, it was reported by news outlets around the country that the Trump administration has forcibly separated 2000 children from their parents at the Mexico-United States border. Sec. Nielsen, who implemented this order created by Trump, justified it by citing a passage from the bible. This is literally what colonizers did centuries ago throughout the Americas and throughout the world and what has continued to happen since. This is not academics being hyperbolic. We preach WAY too much to the choir, but people who are not necessarily in the choir also need to learn to listen better. The hard part is, we need to learn to listen better too. Be careful who you invest this energy in. Being there for someone who is waking up is a lot of work. I urge my queer and trans of color colleagues in the academy to talk to each other about how they deal with white colleagues trying to learn by osmosis or more often it feels like transfusion, how to “understand kids these days.” What they really want to know is why are people so mad, and they want us to hold their hands through it. This is not part of our job, and we have to find ever creative ways to respond to it. My friend calls it contortion and is thinking about writing a book about it.
But that’s where I’ll end for now. By the way, I donated to a fund that is trying to help the families that, thanks to our government, are in a traumatic event that they will remember this for the rest of their lives. Please consider donating here: https://www.raicestexas.org/advocacy/
I am angry because that is the only reasonable response to the world sometimes. Real talk? I know you may wish me well, but I am kind of offended by your assumption that my anger is about some mental state I’m in, or something about my life that has gone terribly wrong. I struggle as much as the next person, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t have righteous anger. It doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t and couldn’t be doing more to learn how you can help. I find it disrespectful, paternalizing/maternalizing. It reminds of the fact that getting a Ph.D. has had no affect whatsoever on people assuming I know things. It hasn’t. Please do me the honor of really considering what I’m saying. Thank you.
That's all. Except also to say, shout out to the trans people, mostly of color and mostly femmes, who made gay rights possible. #marshapjohnson #sylviarivera #leebrewster Happy Pride, y'all!
I wish that one of the huge cosmic shifts that needed to have was the the world imagining what the world would be like without songs, and the music industry getting some life breathed into it by entrepreneurs who figure out how to reimburse people what their music is worth. I wish there were some grants I could apply for. I wish we would stop spending so much money on prisons and bombs. I wish a lot of things. And I am hopeful.
A “femme” is anyone who makes of femininity a ritual and practice of everyday life, through dress, makeup, energy, and/or affect, whether they use that term for themselves or not. You are my greatest inspiration. You are some of the most talented healers of the world. You teach people to be better and you do it lovingly. You have such vitality that the world moves around you to let you through. You are femininity on wheels, dancing this world in a pair of heals or sneakers. When you laugh, you share it like an aural bouquet that floats above heads for all to smell your joy. It is in large part because of your nurturance, because of you lovingly schooling me when I regurgitated femmephobia, who helped me come in to my identity as such. Through you I learned that authentic beauty and sexiness is as wild as the flowers in a grassy field, and born of the sun, earth and water that is the makeup of your life.
Our vital energy, like air, water, and life, is a resource. People sometimes honor us by bearing witness, by saying “my god, YOU.” People can be with us and let us be, and often this is the most powerful way of allowing us to generate more of our own energy. But often times, people take our energy. They expect us to care for them, to do the work they just can’t do (they can), to create the structures, meals, and feelings that they need to survive. Femmes, when people do not inspire us back equally, we make of ourselves a shell to house their honesty. We place ours in the corner and say, you are so abundant, there is plenty for me. I will take it up later. It is so easy—we love to give without being asked, we are the people people feel better around without knowing why. But when people are not able to give what we give (and, let’s be honest, it is a higher bar than some of us would like to protect), our energy drains away. It often begins imperceptibly, but as surely as a body of water slowly leaking over a damn, that which we forget is a resource leaves us, ounce by ounce, day by day.
In a world that teaches us it is normal to feel like we would feel just a little bit (or some days a lot) better about ourselves with someone having staked their loving claim on us, our identities become tethered to an identity of caring for others. Those of us who are women of color carry the legacies of un- or poorly paid domestic labor in our DNA. We are supposed to love even those who are not able to love us as well as we can and in exchange for that love, we prefer to pretend that it is enough rather than challenging part of the structure of our identity in the way that we would necessarily do if we said, “I love you, but I must go heal myself now.” I believe we are on this earth to figure out how to love our own lives.
I’ve only ever fallen in love once where instead of walking around in a cloak of the other person’s energy (which is a pleasant enough feeling but is also disorienting and distracting), instead of that, I actually felt more myself. It just felt like was like I was walking around with this person’s separate energy near me, lovingly, like a celestial friend. It didn’t last long, but I am grateful for that experience because it made me ask of myself, “what would my life have to look like to be so awesome so as to not need that?” It inspired me to dive headfirst into the deep end of my music, to practice every day, and, without realizing it, it was also a practice of self-love, which, for me, also has to do with being a femme. I am also grateful for the experience because I know that that is out there and I am not losing myself to a n y b o d y. I know that that is not love. And that the only true quest is the one where I make of my life an adventure that I would go over and over again all by myself which is to say where I find myself over and over again.
When you are in a relationship, you are actively practicing a relationship with yourself, as well. In relationship, it is more important than ever to practice that relationship with yourself. If any part of you senses you are in a relationship where you are making yourself smaller, or where you are getting a feeling of belonging from that person that you fear you can’t have on your own, take some time to be with yourself. Give yourself the gift of time to look at the consolation prizes you’ve built around yourself in exchange for them not being able to give to you, or to see you. I guarantee you if they don’t see you they are not seeing anyone right now, and it’s not your fault or yours to fix. Take some time to ask when and how you make yourself feel small so that when you look into their eyes you look bigger to yourself momentarily in the reflection. Take some time to practice healing yourself. Take all the time to create the life of your dreams each day. Hoard your energy if you have to. You need it. Dare to put yourself first. Dare to be single even! Dare to be. I love you/me.