I know that Black creativity has saved your life many times before. I know, because I’ve seen it happen. I’ve listened as non-Black people in my communities raised on Hip Hop talked about how it was the only relatable, empowering culture they found that also educated and radicalized them as a youth. It was formational. I’ve watched people become politicized, shaping their new political identities after bell hooks, Audre Lorde, Assata Shakur, Angela Davis and Frantz Fanon. I’ve watched as folks become activist celebrities using radical ideas from Black Power and Civil Rights movements to shape programs that do not benefit Black people. I’ve watched as people make livings and loads of social capital off of DJing Black music, dancing, walking and dressing like Black people, selling the Black aesthetic to others. I’ve heard that friends use Nina Simone and Sade to sing them back from depression, Rihanna and D’Angelo to get them in the mood. So many people in my communities, lately, have been using Octavia Butler to renew their hope for radical futures. Without Black people, what would your lives be? You might be thinking, you know, it’s so much more complicated than all this, race is complex, we’re all part of the human family, etc., etc…
Black art is not free for all damaged souls. When Nina sang about strange fruit, she was talking about a lynching…of Black people. When Black rappers say Fuck the Police, they speak to a state system of lynching…Black people. Your pain and isolation, however real it may be, is not the same as being Black. Your self-adoption into hip hop and djembe drumming and spoken word, makes our art forms all about you. You, however well meaning, have stolen Black labour and invention and used it for your own purpose. It warps the medium and changes the message, the magic, the healing. From now on, consider how the cost of consuming, appropriating, regurgitating, and getting your life in multiple ways from Black art, Black culture, and Black peoples’ creative genius detrimentally impacts our lives. Being Black in an anti-black world means experiencing daily attacks that threaten our dignity, our happiness, our freedom, and often our lives; and in order to enjoy Black culture, you’re going to have to take action to help get these back.
But because Black people’s labour, language, intelligence, creativity, and survival arts have always been considered free for the taking, you probably didn’t feel ways about using it. You probably didn’t think twice. Black culture is the most pilfered, the most ‘borrowed,’ the most thieved culture, and we’ve seen this happen time and tie again.—
Quote is from her essay Black Art Is Not A Free For All on Black Girl Dangerous. Read it all. Truly exquisite writing, especially as non-Black people continue to use, consume, pilfer, plagiarize and be appropriative of Black cultural production and art while simultaneously suggesting that Black culture, especially that Black American culture, does not exist.
I’ve also watched non-Black people suggest Black people contribute “nothing” to anti-oppression theory or praxis while their ENTIRE FRAMEWORK for approaching it is via Black cultural production or Black women’s epistemology.
Like…the cognitive dissonance proffered via perspectives shaped by anti-Blackness is astounding.
hit reblog before i even read it
Returning to a sense of self and seeing that my words are my actions, not my body; I have a body to inhabit. I don’t bleed when my sentences are ripped in half and a stray dark thought is not my negative image lingering, haunting lonely spaces. My book is burned and I do not die. My wayward pups nibble but do not maim. I have sense memory of living in fragments across screens like the body phasing through rooms thrown together for a dream.
Shout out to Biyuti Publishing!
My review of Tristan Taormino’s website circa early zero zeroes
This is a site about getting laid a lot while you look kind of like Lisa Loeb. It talks about sex in a feminist way and doing the coolest gay shit. The gay shit is all real as hell. Years from now you will see her thick book on the shelf at your girlfriend’s and, later, on your own (still her copy) and you won’t have read any of it yet. She makes you think of the 90s, the 00s, hot summers, insomnia, light through translucent plastic marble over window, terrified optimism, and nausea. She’ll post a link to Buck Angel and your head will partly reject it, partly ingest because porn. She’ll say MTF, FTM while you’re reading Grant Fucking Morrison’s Invisibles. Dyke. Her relationship to sex looks like yours, extracted, and set free to wander without you.
At present: you don’t know who she is. She’s on twitter. She reminds you of sweat and of oil and headaches, but all that recedes month by month.
ask yourself ‘does this center the legitimacy of trans women’s lives and narratives as they are lived and experienced or does it center widespread cisnormative assumptions’ about everything
begin to understand why so many trans women eventually find that they have turned recluse
LucasArts' "Sam and Max Hit the Road" Erotic Fan Sequel UNOFFICIAL
- Max: I'm nude
- Sam: little buddy (sam runs his hand down max's bare back)
- Max: I love that you're strong enough to pick me up and carry me
- Sam: we have to go to the carnival
- Sam: ok we're here
- Sam: this is Man or Chicken Dumpling, who is also nude
- Max: Sam, only you wear cloths
- Man Or Chicken Dumpling: I love being nude with you, Max
- Sam: I am the only one wearing cloths. It makes us all hornier.