February, the shortest month
Dispatches from the Pandemicene, my green velvet couch, the absurdity of Black life in the Western hemisphere
So would I live in rich imperial growth,
Touching the surface and the depth of things,
Instinctively responsive unto both,
Tasting the sweets of being and the stings,
Sensing the subtle spell of changing forms,
Like a strong tree against a thousand storms. - Claude McKay, “Like a Strong Tree”
“I’m more African-American than you are, you need to understand that. Because I'm from Africa” - Random white lady on Survivor
Black History Month so far has been defined by the sound of coughing. Babies coughing at coffee shops, dogs sneezing up dust, adults covering their coughs with laughter. A convenient myth. In late stage capitalism no one wins but at least we got some chuckles out of the whole deal. In a world defined by climate catastrophe and widespread suffering you might as well get a kick out of the absurdity of being. Apocalypse is a helpful framework. It abdicates us of any responsibility to it.
It is my God given right as an American, dispossessed inheritor of the greatest Nation on Earth, to my mild irritants. I’m overwhelmed with dreams of vandalism, never self-immolation; someone else should have to pay for this destruction. Doom scrolling with the best of ‘em, I passively watch tiktok influencers get existential with it while hocking the next new Indo-Euro-Igbo halal fusion restaurant or cravings management supplement or get-rich-quick multilevel marketing scheme. In between crowdfunding posts I’m watching multiple genocides happen through my phone. Following the inauguration, my neighbor took down her Black Lives Matter Flag.
Little Miss Flint spoke about the loss of innocence, if any was ever presumed, for Black youth. After she turned 18 and lost her baby face, folks started treating her differently. Her activism became less of a cutesy childhood project and morphed into (at least finally in the public eye) what it always was: a demand. And Black agency is only ever met with violence or suppression. The last time I went foraging alone, a white lady with her dog approached me with a smile. When the dog lunged at me, she said “don’t worry, he’s friendly.” (:
My friend tells me to say hi to everyone on the trail who passes by so folks remember that you were there. Leave No Trace is a remnant of Indigenous & Black exclusion in public parks. Clogged sinuses and phlegmy coughs are the backing track to every outdoor excursion. I can’t wait to inherit my mom’s impressive CD collection. The Black archive is not just physical objects but an embodied practice. I’ve been a semi-profesional killjoy since I first learned the word “no.” Everybody’s praying for a miracle or citing the Book of Revelations but rock bottom isn’t the Final Destination when we’ve got a $850 billion military endowment. Drill baby, drill.
Good music drops though. One thing the creatives will do in hard times is get to work. How can you be an artist and not reflect the times? Ask every Black Capitalist who’s abstained from comment on American “intervention” in Third World Countries, or wants to bring crypto to the hood. We’re experiencing a jazz renaissance (though isn’t it the case that someone says that every couple of years, I never see y’all at the local jazz club hmm…) Marshall Allen, fellow Gemini and saxophone lead of the Sun Ra Arkestra released New Dawn on Valentine’s Day, and the title more than lives up to itself. Kelela, who I only recently retroactively got into by way of JUNGLEPUSSY (iykyk) released In the Blue Light, a live jazz album. Towards the end of the track “30 Years,” Kelela shouts to the audience “Reparations Now!” and “Free Palestine!” The former is met with a brief pause, then a smattering of woooos and claps. Before starting the next song, Kelela repeats “Reparations NOW!” Let’s get the same level of applause as well. It’s like when a guest speaker comes to your school at 8 am in the morning to talk about some topic you’re barely half interested in and says “I CAN’T HEAR YOU MAKE SOME NOISE” so you dig deep in your diaphragm to shout out as loud as you possibly can manage so they don’t say it again.
The enemy of my enemy is also my enemy. Last month, Cornelius Taylor was run over by a bulldozer during an encampment sweep in Atlanta, but Beyonce won a Grammy so we can save that conversation for another time. Two Black trans siblings were violently murdered, one tortured for months and all people can say is “I told you it would be worse under Trump.” God will provide but not in the ways Hakeem Jeffries assumes. At parties, people can’t tell if I’m joking or not. Really, I’m just testing out the waters. Blacks by and large are ungrateful. I should be happy we’ve been absorbed into the empire’s gut, a strange twin swallowed whole by an impressive embryo.
So when Chase sends me a “Happy Black History Month” GIF after each purchase I laugh. Maybe I’ll earn enough points to buy a plot of land near the recycling plant. Somewhere me and my fellow DEIs can kick up dust in praise of what we meek might inherit. My pole beans are sprouting, and Sun Ra’s Arkestra wants me to know it’s (almost) Springtime Again.
I’m writing a book about Black life while trying to live mine. Daddy, watch me twirl!
Personal announcements:
I’m going to be a part of Critical Ecology Lab’s Liberation Ecology Field Course 2025 Cohort!
What I’m (Re)Reading:
A Map to the Door of No Return: Notes to Belonging by Dionne Brand
