Not All Matter

There is something in this experience that I can use. More likely than not when I exit my apartment or even when in my apartment unabashed and with the sort of perverse privilege that is spoken not in a whisper but with a lash meant to blister I am assailed accosted or othered as gay. Not by the Hillary Clinton mythological boogey men of anti society and the defunct rap group, The Uncanny Apex Alphabet Super Predator Men. But by children. By young boys as young as ten. By men in passenger seats of cars going by, ” That’s a faggot”. By men trying to endear themselves to others with coarse humor. They sign a contract of inclusion that says, ” Hey look there’s that faggot hahaha I am not like him I am cool like yall let me belong because by myself the wolves may tear me a new one.” They are at an age where the teeth and pimp walk been loooooong gone . In the line from behind in a conversation between a man and a woman, ” He gay. Oh yeah they are everywhere”. I think he was hetero signaling. For a person in conflict scapegoating actually is self confessing. And the assumption I heard children promulgate, ” He gay and he a prostitute.” That conclusion could only come from an assembly of the crumbs that fell out of the mouths of adults. I have never been able to pass. I have never wanted to pass, There was a time before high school in college and after college that I could actually say to Nina Simone that I know what it feels like to be free. I have tried to limit my exposure to eyes by staying out of the commons. I have tried to make it ok and figure out a way to defeat this by never making eye contact or responding or reacting. I will not unbecome myself or betray myself by altering my sartorial choices. Because sometimes a persons choice of clothing, demeanor or carriage is not the reason they are acted upon by violence. The part they play in that case could just be that they are alive and exist in view under scrutiny and in the gaze of the person carrying an unopen can of bitters and whoop ass they wish to open. This feeling has returned and I feel small and alone. My black life does not matter to some black people. And that stings that down right burns more than the geopolitical anti blackness, the translational anti personal indoctrination(Ama Ata Aidoo), the thoughtless microaggressions of liberal/progressives that need to be Radical Americans(Lorianne Hansberry) and the necropolitical systems that have priced my black body and my black life as the least valuable amongst humxns. I read Nelson Mandelas ‘Speech From The Dock’ the other day. The first line is “I have fought against white domination and I have fought against black domination”. That really resonates with me. To some degree because I am a Black ci-sgendered man I resist white domination daily in its manifold forms and in its formlessness in my mind. Because I am Queer I fight against Black domination in a greater degree than I fight White domination in that I feel I need a hardier mental defense. The mental dissonance is not an afore experienced hypnotic. I am tossed off balance every time I meet with it. It is every time vulgar and explicit. I recall being called a nigger once as a child and it meant nothing to me. The violence in the word faggot and the disrespect to my right to live as I am has wounded me psychically. The confirmation bias I am experiencing now only further entrenches the delay of healing I so much would like to incur. I have been my smallest self and functionally operated with the empathy of a Cobra. I have been to jails and prisons where I was so in the right wrong place and still out of place in my interior self. It seems like I placed my right pinkie toe only for a moment off the path and my hold body was swept 20 years away and that just now having been thrown several life savers through nearly three decades at various multiple times drowning and dying because I would throw the life saver back as it impeded my freedom or so that was my thinking then. I am still pulling myself out of the troubled waters. More now than ever that pulling is not from my will alone. The path was drawn so vast and unclearly pre cracka lacka ding dong. I feel like I slipped out of the caring of the known worlds that fit me inside my head from foot to tome without fear or violence in my body finding home . Why have you kept me here. Lawd surely I have forfeited the benison and largesse of gifts and talents entrusted to me. Whatever I was suppose to do aint gettin done by me. Call me home. Call me home.
We, Black Americans, need to have a conversation a town hall meeting some mutha effin fireside chats amongst ourselves. Two subjects that must I say I say must be engaged in safe space with thoughtfulness and an open mind to edification are: interpretation of biblical scripture-the history of translation and exegesis; the origins of white colonial homophobia and its colonization of the African mind, The pigmentocracy doctrine and its plague in the black sub conscious along with colorism and shadism, vacant esteem and post traumatic slave syndrome . Freedom from the colonization of our mind is the beginning of our collective final frontier. The chains of the body are the easiest and the most unremarkable things to escape. For so long black queer people have lived “invincible and alone…what can I do if a star chose me for its lightening…what can I do if every gesture of my hand draws me closer to the rose…” from The Essential Neruda Pablo Neruda. I don’t really want to be alone. I want to be nights embrace of an authentic community functioning in solidarity. There are so many paradigms and archetypes our ancestors used as the technology to survive and sometimes even thrive. Like most things specifically built for a limited moment in a fraction of human time its suitability was based on the operative level of awareness making what once was a useful tool, largely due to the Law of Growth, no longer useful just another shackle. In order to see a better way for all black people we must be able to first change and renew our minds concerning how we other each other and mythologize community. The Jones Girls sing a lyric in ‘Nights Over Egypt’ that is pure knowledge set in sequins to disco: “Your eyes wont believe what your mind cant conceive”:’
has now become another shackle.

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