Recently: (Anti) Black History Month
When people ask me what I been up to I say shidddddd...recently...
stop running from the gift
slow down to catch up with it
knots mend the string quilt
of kente stripped when kin split
white covers of black material
dense fabric that obeys its own logic
shadows pieced together tears and all
unfurling sheets of bluish music - from "Muse & Drudge [why these blues come from us]" by Harryette Mullen
Recently, it has been the small things keeping me afloat. An overdue phone call with a friend, seeing liberty cap mushrooms for the first time (in the wild), giggling in Black affinity with my class, despite the horrors and the weight of winter.
Recently, this Black History Month has felt more like a burden than a jubilee. We are reminded how we wander the outskirts of Personhood, but damn if that borderland ain’t filled with secrets, magic and possibility.
Recently I’ve been crying to JID, Lonnie Liston Smith & Bbymutha, wondering what they might have to say to each other across the Bluetooth buzzing of my headphones. Sometimes you gotta release while letting the tears fall and shaking ass all at the same time.
Recently, it feels as though conversations around solidarity are obfuscated by anti-Black rhetoric, that we may never come to terms with the depravity associated with a Black disbelonging, which thusly shakes foundations already rotted. At every turn, we are asked to be forgiving: to remain steadfast in our politic while being denied the full scope of our humanity.
Recently, “humanity” has seemed like a buzzword I want to remove from my vocabulary. It does nothing to disabuse history’s violence.
Recently, I find myself wanting to keep more to myself, that perhaps language (and strategy) are best articulated through action and a deeper sense of affiliation.
Recently, people have been egregiously mispronouncing my name, purposefully, loudly, and I’ve found some solace in the fact they may never appreciate the majesty and magnitude nestled amongst those five letters, because perhaps then, they would try to own it.
Recently, I’ve been enchanted by the sublime beauty of seeds, how they are their own technology and language.
Recently, I’ve been tending to the animal in my chest, feeding her the bits of myself I wish to transmute and transform into something beneficial. I am listening to her gnaw and chew and snarl and digest…
Recently, I’ve been stockpiling mini-archives, proof of life and culture, and feeling grateful I have a printer that sometimes, when it is feeling generous, churns out materials for safe-keeping.
Recently, I visited my hometown of Denver, Colorado and caught the final days of Amoako Boafo’s Soul of Black Folks debut solo exhibit, where I was captivated by Boafo’s portraits of Black people in masks, or more specifically, captivated by their eyes, the soulfulness, the depth, yet the respectful distance, reminding me of Zora Neale Hurston’s titular work, “you don’t know us negroes.”
Recently, I’ve been reckoning with the fact that so many people think they know me, and yet can only touch a shadow of me at best.
Recently, I’ve been reading about how some plants have evolved tolerance to herbivory: some species hide in spatial or temporal refuges where consumers can’t reach them, others employ associational resistance, which reduces the chance that an herbivore will consume neighboring plants of a difference species, change their microclimate (think small delicate plant under heavy brush), or of course, use camouflage to deter predation.
Recently, I’ve been sharpening my oyster knife.
Recently, I’ve come to understand that the revolution will require masking (expansively).
Recently, I’ve been reading laws passed that ban face coverings, laws that disproportionately target Black and Muslim folks, laws that simultaneously criminalize and pathologize public health/safety. I think about the woman in Colorado who was placed in an involuntary psychiatric hold because she asked medical staff to wear masks. I’ve been thinking a lot about how our language surrounding masks is one that attributes masking to deception, when in fact masks may reveal just as much as they conceal.
Recently, during this Denver visit, my mother and I also checked out the Arts of Africa gallery, which highlighted both ancient and contemporary African sculptures, paintings, artifacts and media. I’ve always been intrigued by masks, how they are used in ceremony, in grief, in conjuring, as a means of resistance. In lots of Gullah Geechee art, individuals are rendered faceless, which is not to indicate that they’ve been stripped of their personality (though the Trans-Atlantic slave trade in so many ways, did), but represents a will to survive, a will to continue beyond the gaze of outsiders. This sense of knowing renders a certain intimacy that is not guaranteed, nor inherent.
Recently, I’ve been reflecting on the intimacy I have been given from others, and who have made me feel comfortable returning that intimacy. Masking is a form of intimacy. Fugitivity is a form of intimacy. Refusal is a form of intimacy.
Recently, I’ve been watching videos (usually sent by my friends) of newly discovered deep sea creatures, wondering if they ever wished to be seen. If their affinity for the dark maw of the ocean developed over a long evolutionary desire to be left alone. Our networks expand beyond our biological families and neighbors: as Black environmentalists and mythmakers, we see Blackness emerge in seemingly unconnected pockets of existence. Are the souls of my people alive in these dark waters? Have they reemerged, reimagined, navigating a comforting darkness, protected and held by the sea they once fell prisoner to?
Recently, I learned ocean temperatures passed a new threshold where now, if you pee in the water, it makes it cold instead of warmer.
Recently I’ve been thanking Yemaya. And apologizing. And atoning. And grieving.
Recently, I’ve been referring to myself as one of the bastard children of empire. I am here watching the world reshape herself, partially by our hands, in large part by the hands of those who wish us harm, and partially by her own momentum.
Recent events have molded me like clay. Recent hungers spark the kiln.
Personal announcements:
On March 14th (9 am PST/12 pm EST) Oak Spring Garden Foundation will be hosting Ariana Benson and I for Seeding Black Futures, a reading and conversation.
What I’m currently reading:
Against Purity: Living Ethically in Compromised Times by Alexis Shotwell
Jazz Fan Looks Back by Jayne Cortez