1. What is Truth. Be. Told.?
Truth. Be. Told. is an episodic TV series documenting the lives of Queer Black Visionaries. Each half-hour episode features an intimate conversation with a noteworthy interviewee as they discuss their lives, loves, and personal callings, as well as the experiences, realities, and identities that fuel them. 

To date more than 50 people have committed to being interviewed. Confirmed participants include: Emil Wilbekin, Editor-at-Large for Essence magazine; Dr. Alexis Pauline Gumbs, Co-Creator of the Mobile Homecoming Project; Patrik-Ian Polk, Creator of Logo TV’s Noah’s Arc; and Dr. Kortney Ryan Ziegler, Filmmaker & Transgender Activist.

Executive Producers for Truth. Be. Told. include Carol Ann Shine, who produced Noah’s Arc for Logo TV as well as the feature film Noah’s Arc: Jumping the Broom, and Jennifer MacArthur, National Engagement Consultant for Independent Television Service (ITVS) and former Director of TV & Digital Media Engagement for the National Center for Media Engagement (NCME).

I direct and produce Truth. Be. Told. I am also an instructor at the Center for Documentary Studies at Duke University. Peace Process, an award-winning film that I made about transforming youth violence, airs regularly on The Documentary Channel.

2. How did the project start? What inspired you to make this documentary series?
Truth. Be. Told. is an outgrowth of my experiences while working at the Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) as a Communications Strategist. There, my primary objective was to create visibility for Black LGBT issues in mainstream media. When I began at GLAAD, there were only a handful of Black LGBT people who were willing to speak publicly – and intelligently – about our issues. Over the years, I logged thousands of miles spokesperson-training more than 500 Black LGBT issue experts in New York; Washington, DC; Atlanta; etc. In the process, I came to know intimately the network of courageous pioneers who have chosen authenticity over fear, and met many of the bold young people who are poised to take us into the future.

Now, 8 years later, I can see the impact of the work that I did in conjunction with a few other pioneering communications strategists – holding editorial board meetings that pushed major media outlets to be more inclusive of LGBT people, empowering local community groups to pitch and tell their stories to area press outlets, and fostering opportunities for national media exposure with The Oprah Winfrey Show, CNN, etc. But we have only scratched the surface when it comes to visibility for Black LGBTQ people. While our stories are told more frequently than they used to be, our lives are shared in sound bites, book-ended by the editorializing of journalists. We don’t get enough prime time real estate (in media or in formal community spaces) to engage in full dialogues about who we are and what we stand for.

Truth. Be. Told. tells our stories of transcendence and triumph by positioning the cultivation of personal identity and transformation as a mark of innovation.

3. What makes this project so necessary right now?
Clearly, Black LGBTQ people need the space to tell their stories – and we’ve needed it for some time. I can’t possibly sit on or sit through another panel, over-crowded by LGBT issue experts of every persuasion, who have been given the task of summarizing all of our collective issues in 90 minutes or less, i.e., coming out, homophobia in black churches, transphobia, Black LGBT images in media, the impact of HIV/AIDS on Black gay men, bullying, gay as the new black, etc. I’m tired of Black people being blanketly characterized as homophobic, whenever marriage equality gets major media heat. The nuanced and explorative conversations that so many of us have with our loved ones deserve elevated visibility so that others who don’t have immediate access to our circles of influence can be included. And we deserve to be strengthened by a show that captures our resilience, our complexity, and our commitment to change.

4. How do you define “Queer Black Visionary”?
For the purposes of Truth. Be. Told., a Queer Black Visionary is someone noteworthy, but not necessarily famous, who has a compelling personal story to tell. Per the life experience of each person interviewed, the testimonies cover a broad range of topics, but generally center around the interviewee’s journey towards self-discovery; important moments that defined them; love lessons they received; how they came into their vocation(s); exploring, naming and elevating cultural/spiritual practices; and navigating bias – all against the backdrop of the community, family, and friends who support them.

We use the word “Queer” to describe the plethora of gender identities and sexual orientations represented by those who’ve agreed to be interviewed; however, within each interview, participants are encouraged to use the self-identifiers with which they feel most comfortable. Those identifiers may include: queer, gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, genderqueer, same gender loving, two spirited, intersex, cisgender, etc.

5. Why are images and representations of Black and Queer people so important to you?
There was a time when I felt so isolated that I considered taking my life, when it was easier to be a drug addict than it was to be me. I was clueless about how to be an out, queer Black woman. I believe that my coming out experience might have been less chaotic and self-destructive if I had seen more people who looked like me, who thought like me, or who had healed enough to serve as a living example of the possibilities that were ahead of me. I want to widen the path for those who have already come out, who are in the process of coming out, who are friends and family of those who are LGBTQ, and in order to do that, we need to see affirming images of Queer Black people. By telling our stories, we create spaces where more of us can bring all of who we are, wherever we go, all the time.

6. What is your wildest dream for Truth. Be. Told.?
I plan for Truth. Be. Told. to go 5 seasons. I want to create 122 episodes in collaboration with 122 Queer Black people who have done the work to show up as authentic in their own lives and the lives of their loved ones. We plan to distribute the show via a major network like Showtime, BET, or TVOne, and to reach people through digital platforms like Hulu Plus, Netflix, and iTunes.

7. How can people get involved?
Currently, we are on a mission to raise $10,000 by 11:59pm, PST on Wednesday, April 17 to fund a pilot episode, which will be used to:

• Secure a world premiere at the OUTFest Film Festival in Los Angeles (July 2013). OUTFest is the oldest LGBT film festival in America, having screened over 20,000 films and having reached over 1 million people in its 31-year history;
• Secure digital platform distribution via HuluPlus, Netflix, iTunes, and Amazon Video on Demand;
• Secure network distribution via either Logo, Showtime, BET, or TVOne;
• Screen at pride festivals, film festivals, fundraisers, and LGBT events throughout Fall 2013.

Donations start at $5. Perks include digital downloads of the pilot, postcard sets, signed posters, and producer credit. To view more info about the Truth. Be. Told. IndieGoGo campaign visit: http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/truth-be-told-pilot-fundraiser-take-two

8. What’s next for you?
For the next few years, I will be landing this mother ship known as Truth. Be. Told. By the end of summer, Lord willing/Creek don’t rise, the first season will be fully-funded with distribution deals in place for network TV and digital platforms. Getting there is a process and a serious commitment. First, we have to get the pilot cut and out into the world so that people can see just how fly the show is. Then there’s raising the money. And once we have the money, there’s production, editing, and finally distribution and marketing. It’s a process, but it’s so worth it. This series will be one for the books. Legendary, I tell you.

9. What truths do you tell through the work that you do?
Most of my work is about the healing powers of love, self-care, self-reclamation, compassion, and forgiveness. I believe in others the way I believe in myself.

Three essential themes in my work:
1) Your search proves your love.
2) People grow and people change.
3) Talking is loving.

1. What made you want to write a book with this format of affirmations?

My love of affirmation books made me want to put it in this format. I grew up reading books by Iyanla Vanzant, Susan Taylor, Wayne Dyer, Pema Chodron and many more. I love  those books and some of them have similar formats as “Dear Universe.” But one thing I realize with them, and the new age movement in general, is that they are sorely lacking in structural analysis and social context. In fact, the new age movement at large has been built upon the exploitation of indigenous and people of color’s beliefs. This has helped to fuel conversations on things like  “creating your reality” that completely miss the “realities” of sexism, racism and other forms of oppression.  All those things to me seem to be big omissions.  So I wanted to create “Dear Universe” in this format so that it could be used  as a tool to build upon those conversations. It’s really the first step in a broader dialogue about self/community care, spirituality and emotional wellness that I feel is a large part of my life’s work. That’s why I wanted it to be accessible so that it could not only appeal to progressive communities, but also to the mainstream as well-people of all faiths and political perspectives. It’s small and cute, but packs a lot of power and can catch you off guard at times (Kinda like me I’d like to think! lol)

2. What does the Universe mean to you?

The universe means community. The universe to me cites us as the place where spiritual power lies. When we call on the universe for support or guidance, we are not calling on some externalized far away force. We are calling on ourselves, our families, our communities.

I believe the universe as a theoretical concept can push back against spiritual belief systems that say “God/spirit power is out there somewhere.” This idea has always been troubling to me. It makes me think of the elder christian women I have met throughout my life, who are amazing healers. However, they always said that the power to heal was not them. They didn’t think they had spirit power, but that “jesus” or someone else only gave it to them at intervals. I often wonder for many of them what their lives would have been like if they believed that power came from within them, not from a man, or anyone else. I always wonder, what more would they have done? How much more could they have healed if they had been able to embody their power differently?  This is why I think the Universe as a term can maybe get people thinking differently. Because if you have the power, and if you are the power, then what else is possible.

3. How did you feel while writing the book? Do you practice these affirmations in your own life

When I wrote the book I was depressed. Honestly. I was in the middle of my Saturn return, and most of my life had fallen down around me, along with my idea of who I thought I  was.  Writing those affirmations was a way to pull myself out of it. I didn’t even consciously realize that was what I was doing, but that’s That’s what Dear Universe did for me. I wrote those affirmations because they were what I needed to hear. They were what I needed to remember to find the strength to pull myself together. People always quote Toni Morrison as saying “ Write the books you want to read” well with Dear Universe, I wrote the book I needed to write to survive. I wrote the book that contained the magic and love that I felt was missing from my life at that time.

And yes, I absolutely practice these affirmations in my own life. I work hard to inscribe them into my everyday way of being. I don’t just read them in the morning; I take them to heart and try to consider them in how I am in the world. This is why writing them down became so necessary to me. I needed them in physical form. I needed them as reminders when the world tries to get me not to trust myself.

4. As a queer Black man, what lens do you bring to spiritual/new age conversations? What do you think about those labels as it relates to your work?

I’d like to think that my lens brings a sharper consciousness to these conversations concerning the isms, inequality and social justice.

5. Do you see your work as an intervention or part of a continuing conversation?   

Dear Universe is the beginning of a conversation. One of the things I will be releasing in the future is mini curriculums that take many of the affirmations and expand upon them.  If you want to, you can do an entire two hour workshop on just one affirmation. There’s that much in there, if you look closely enough. Using the book as a starting point, there are lots of opportunities to help facilitate emotional wellness discourses, workshops and much more, particularly with young people, which is a large audience I want “Dear Universe” to reach.

6. Your work acknowledges structural oppression which is not often talked about in new age conversations. Why do you think that is and why is that important for you?

Many  Spiritual communities have long seen “structural issues” as something to transcend-which really means-not deal with. Yet to me, if  everything is interconnected,  our spiritual lives can never be disparate from our physical realities. The psychological and structural realities of the isms are embedded into everything, and those themes, which are ultimately about the suppression of spirit based on it’s physical manifestation, have to be dealt with. It’s important for me because I am concerned with contributing knowledge and work to the world that helps to eventually end unnecessary suffering.

7. You use the term “crazy” in one of your pieces. What does that word mean to you and how do you think about it in the context of anti-ableist work you do?

The piece you are referring to is the affirmation that says “I have to own my own crazy.”

When I was young, my grandmother taught me that everyone has a “little crazy” and that always stuck with me. Her idea of “crazy” sometimes did reflect psychological challenges, but more often it was more about psychological difference. She would say “You can’t never make up your mind and that’s yo crazy” or “Chile it ain’t about finding someone to love who is not crazy, it’s about finding someone whose crazy works with yours!”  She encouraged us to “Affirm and own our crazy” which I read now as meaning “affirm our difference” or sometimes “affirm our trauma” as the things that has caused us pain and made us different (particularly me as a feminine black boy) were read as “crazy.” We couldn’t do anything with our “crazy” until we embraced it. If we kept running from it, we could never be whole.

In the context of the work,  I understand the term crazy has a complicated history. It has been used against those of us with mental health differences and disabilities, women, African americans, trans and gay folks, in fact-almost every marginalized group you can imagine. “Crazy” seems to often be the pre-cursor for subjugation and silencing. Yet on the other hand for many of us when white folks, heterosexuals and even queers have said we are “crazy” –what they were naming as crazy sometimes– is embracing our self value, worth, and our gender expression without apologies — because in a racist heterosexist world it is understood to be crazy for us as black and queer people to do so.  So I respond by owning “all my crazy” and that term. If that’s what crazy looks like,  I will be that.  I know that many people disagree and think that this word, and certain other words, should never be used. But honestly, I’m not from the school  of thought that says silencing language leads to liberation. I’m not going to run around and say “the word that shall not be named” because that gives it more power. I don’t think language is one dimensional and as someone who has been impacted by the term, I think I have I have an opportunity to reframe it.  Don’t get wrong, I do believe we need to question our use of terminology and be conscious of how it impacts others around us. And every word is different. This is just one way I (and my grandma) reclaimed “crazy”, in the context of how crazy has been used against us.

8. How should people use this book? What do you want people to think about and do while reading it?

However they like! Lol. I’m not issuing directions!

9. How do people get the book?

Books will be available at online retailers April 15th, and you can pre-order books now at DearUniverse2013.com.

10. What’s next for you?

Promoting the book and expanding on the concepts within it. My plan is to grow this discourse  about spirituality, social justice and emotional wellness more and more.

For more information on Dear Universe visit DearUniverse2013.com and follow on twitter at http://twitter.com/@_DearUniverse

On March 26^th, 2013 in Sapele, the Delta State of Nigeria, Pastor Henry Enuta was physically stripped and humiliated in public because he is an intersex person.  According to news reports, he was almost killed by a lynch mob before being taken into custody by police.  Most of the headlines covering this story grossly refer to Mr. Enuta as a “hermaphrodite” because he has genitals that are characteristically male and female.  To sensationalize this story and humiliate Mr. Enuta even more, media outlets have published pictures of him bare chested and with torn clothes, holding onto his dignity while passers-by capture pictures of him with their mobile phones.

When I saw this story, I was horrified at how Mr. Enuta’s humanity was reduced to a mockery simply because his body did not conform to narrow standards of what a man’s body should be.  For him to be forcibly stripped with no one to offer him clothes or rescue was atrocious.  I was doubly astounded at how members of his community sought to kill him for the mere fact that he was different and considered some kind of freak. Nevertheless, given that this incident has taken place in Nigeria, I want to be very aware of my position as an African American queer intersex man living in the United States.  People with intersex conditions living in the United States are just as vulnerable as intersex people living abroad.  The medicalized and state sanctioned violence that impacts intersex people living in the United States is a pervasive, isolating, and silencing kind of violence that recreates stigma and shame.

In speaking out against this act, my goal is not to impose a critical, patronizing gaze on how people in Nigeria should respond to queerness or difference.  Considering how the United States and Europe have responded to legislation that seeks to punish, kill, and “reform” queer people in Uganda, for example, I find myself both wanting to fight for the sovereignty of Black African nations and also asking those same nations to uphold the humanity and dignity of their queer and sexually differentiated citizens.  Those of us committed to the upholding the dignity and respect of intersex people around the world must be willing to do the hard work of both checking our biases and privileges while also continuing to advocate for justice wherever injustice occurs.

Caster Semenya winning second place in the women’s 800-meter final during the IAAF World Athletics Championship in South Korea in 2011 (Stu Forster / Getty Images)

We have witnessed a hazing similar to Henry Enuta’s experience on an international stage before with Olympic runner, Caster Semenya.  A gold and silver medalist hailing from South Africa, Caster’s glory was shrouded by “genetic testing” to prove whether she was a “man” or a “woman,” since having XY chromosomes as a female athlete would give her an “unfair” advantage.  Although we as a society should have used Ms. Semenya’s experience as an opportunity for education and reflection about gender identity and sexual differentiation in human beings, we instead responded with slander and ignorance toward a young Black South African whose goal was to compete in an international arena.  What does Caster Semenya have to do with Henry Enuta? Simply put, both of their experiences reflect two cases of intersex African people whose reception in the media did nothing but reinforce our perceptions of intersex people as “freaks” and as “other.”  I also bring Caster Semenya into this conversation because this freakish display and exploitation of African bodies is not unlike the colonial exploitation of Sarah Baartman, also known as the “Hottentot Venus,” a Khoi woman from Southern Africa who was toured around Europe as a spectacle because of her “enlarged” labia and “oversized” buttocks. Just as Sarah Baartman did not deserve this violation, neither do Caster Semenya or Henry Enuta deserve to be so unfairly and violently treated. It is critical that those of us fighting for intersex rights speak out against the public humiliation and violence perpetrated against these individuals.

In light of the U.N. Report on Torture in Health Care that includes intersex infants as a vulnerable population, I ask that we as a global community respect and uphold the integrity of intersex people wherever they work, live, play, and worship.  I also ask that we continue to examine how racism and other forms of oppression lend themselves to the way we depict intersex people of color in the media.  Given those requests, I hope that those responsible for the ill treatment of Mr. Enuta are held accountable by their community members and that future coverage of this case respects Mr. Enuta’s dignity and person.  As members of the movement to end violence and stigmatization of intersex people we must continue to stand united against injustice, while also moving forward in creating a world safe for all people.

They say eating pineapples makes your juices taste good.

Lately, I find myself ordering lots of fruit salads, tryin’ to guarantee that my juices keep her coming back for more.

She doesn’t know this of course.

I mean, I know she loves me and I know she loves my goodies but still … I’m trying to lock this one DOWN.

I’m not sure how she does it.

Again and again.

Well maybe, I do.

It’s the way she looks in those boxers I selfishly buy “for” her.

Her soft skin on mine.

The way all her juices penetrate my lips.

It’s the fact that she makes each night feel like I’m at a Maxwell concert.

The screams always surprises me.

Always.

I never have enough time to grab that pillow.

What must the new neighbors think?

“The Beloved Community. . . is a global vision, in which all people can share in the wealth of the earth. . .poverty, hunger and homelessness will not be tolerated because international standards of human decency will not allow it. Racism and all forms of discrimination, bigotry and prejudice will be replaced by an all-inclusive spirit of sisterhood and brotherhood. . .Love and trust will triumph over fear and hatred.” –The King Philosophy

Despite the harsh reminders of how hate and ignorance can pollute the world, brought forth this past week with the anniversary of Trayvon Martin’s murder (February 26), and the mean-spirited attacks on a beautiful blackgirl genius, it has been all love over here at the CFC.  And while the work of critical thinking, intervention, outreach, transformation and social justice work will never be done it is good for the soul to shift the focus every now and then and meditate on the transformative power of love.

Truth is we, as single solitary beings, as a community, and as a nation, are desperate for love, so much so that we accept the 28 days (29 on a leap year) we are offered in February to focus on our love of black folk, intimate others, and if we are lucky ourselves.  Folk oftentimes spend money and not time, and idly take advantage of the one day (February 14) they are given public permission to show public affection (but this of course depends on who you are and who you love–for those who are nonheterosexual and noncissexual it is always, February 14 included, a risk to show love in public).  Love-starved and sometimes blinded by the false offerings of love implied by a $5 card, $10 box of candy, and $80 day-old flowers, many people buy into the propaganda of a Hallmark holiday that leaves them feeling full of love when they are in romantic or intimate relationships  and empty of love when they are not.  We forget to challenge the notion that love should only be celebrated on designated days and we forget to remember that not everyone is afforded the same “rights” to love.

However, this year, I have found that an intentional focus on love that concentrates on how we can help build and sustain it, for ourselves and others, is a remarkable endeavor whether you have a boo-thing, a bootycall, or just your damn self.  Love is a powerful drug.

I spent the night after Valentine’s Day in community with SONG (Southerners on New Ground) in Alabama for The Right to Stay Screening Party.  As part of the event I was invited to do a reading from my book which talks about rural lived experiences and spoke to the heart of the campaign, which sought personal narratives from diverse individuals about why they have the right to stay in the South.  This campaign was a part of The People’s 100 Days, a 100 day-long event following the presidential campaign (November 7, 2012 – February 14, 2013) headed by Project South, a nonprofit organization started by a coalition called Southern Movement Alliance, which is part SONG, part Project South, and part other organizations that have a stake in the South, representing issues from the prison industrial complex to voting rights to queer liberation.

February 14 marked The People’s 100^th day and to commemorate the event, SONG-Alabama sponsored a Screening party  that included chocolate, good company, a book reading, piercing poetry and soulful singing.  We had church (metaphorically and literally since the event was housed in the recreation area of a Birmingham ministry).

Jazz Franklin, a member of SONG and organizer of the February 15, event, shared that “the role of the people’s 100 days was focused on the fact that after the presidential election our lives were not going to change.  After Obama was elected the lives of marginalized folk would be the same.”  She described the campaigns, that concluded mid-February, as focused on how we can rely on and transform one another, shifting the focus and the importance from the national political sphere TO THE PEOPLE.

Southerners on New Ground is a South-based organization out of Alabama, Georgia, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Virginia that offers “a home for LGBTQ liberation across all lines of race, class, abilities, age, culture, gender, and sexuality and is dedicated to building, sustaining and connecting a regional base of LBGTQ folks and their allies to respond to the conditions of their communities through leadership development, intersectional analysis and organizing.”  SONG was committed to regional action/s in response to The People’s 100 Days which culminated in campaigns that centered on the right to love and included Video Valentines, The Love Truck, The Love in the Streets Caravan, and The Right to Stay campaign/s (for more videos see the SONG vimeo page).

The focus of The Right to Stay campaign was that if you love the place you live then you have the right to stay in that place, and love who you love in that place, and build solidarity and power in that place.  The video compilation was powerful and as I listened to the narratives of the contributors and later listened to the responses during the talk-back I was moved.  The love in the room was tangible.  And later as I watched and listened to the other SONG-sponsored initiatives (many of which I include here) I was continually reminded of how beautiful love is, especially when it is allowed to just be.

As an ally I am committed to helping to foster and create the kinds of space/s SONG is creating.  As a woman of color who is still practicing the practice of self-love, I need them.  As a professor and scholar who does work centering around diversity I am invested in them.  And as Jazz shared when telling me about her personal stake and commitment to Southerners on New Ground, “Loving, lasting, beloved communities can be found in unexpected places…even the Deep South!”

As we wrap up our love series this month I urge you to love yourself and others, honor the love of others, and do the work to create a space, and a world, where everyone is open to love who they love fiercely, out in the open, and in public without fear of judgment, violence, or reckoning.  Our love series reminds us that love is a revolutionary and resistant act.  Loving oneself, one’s partner, one’s neighbor, and one’s community is a beloved endeavor.  So love, let love, and be/loved!

If you have not already, please check out the following list of community-centered and community-based organizations that are committed to creating loving, safe, inclusive, and positive spaces for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, pansexual, queer, questioning, + folks and allies.  And if you know of other organizations not listed, please list them in the comments section.  And if you want to show love, share love, or be loved… the floor is open for that as well.

Love in its various incarnations ain’t just for February. #payitforward

Organizations You Should Know About & Support:

Southerners on New Ground: http://southernersonnewground.org/

Project South: http://www.projectsouth.org/weallcount/

Bay Area Transformative Justice Coalition

FIERCE: http://www.fiercenyc.org/

Sylvia Rivera Law Project: http://srlp.org/

Audre Lorde Project: http://alp.org/

National Center for Transgender Equality: http://transequality.org/index.html

Creative Interventions:  http://www.creative-interventions.org/tools/toolkit/

Left Turn: http://www.leftturn.org/about-us

National Organization of Black Lesbians on Aging: http://www.zami.org/

All My Children Project: http://www.amcproject.org/index.html

Quirky Black Girls: http://quirkyblackgirls.blogspot.com/

Incite: Women of Color Against Violence: http://incite-national.org/index.php?s=1

I have spent this Valentine’s Day season wrapped in the loving embrace of feminist friends and family who have expressed their care and affection through thoughtful cards, shared meals, and copious amounts of cocktails. I have been reminded numerous times how bootleg a holiday is that celebrates heterosexual coupledom at the expense of all other kinds of love, and I have felt blessed to be reminded of all the other kinds of love and care I experience routinely.

But can I talk about how sometimes a sister just wants to get laid?

I mention this not because it goes against all that I laid out at the start of this post, but because, for me, the love I get from friendship and family has not coincided with anything approaching a vibrant sex life and, if I can keep it 100, that’s not something I feel great about. Real talk, this year I have felt my lack of sexual intimacy more keenly than I have for a while. For a long time, I felt like I could go on forever being celibate, but now I’m not so sure.

Was that a tumbleweed going past my vagina?

It’s been almost five years since I’ve dated, or kissed, or touched another person in a non- platonic way. After a bad breakup and a series of hilariously tragic dating mishaps and misadventures, I took a little hiatus.  One year became two years, two years became three years and, before I knew it, I had spent almost half a decade sleeping alone. Some of my friends wondered why I haven’t just exploded or looked for a rifle and watchtower. There are lots of reasons.

Reason #1. Oops, oh my!

I’ve also been busy getting my career together and living my life. And it’s not like my life has been sad and pitiful. Quite the contrary. Plus, loving and loving on myself is a delicious pleasure. I definitely know what I like and am more than happy to lavish myself with orgasms. But I do miss touching, kissing, and hugging another person—especially since there is so little space for such activities outside of romantic relationships.

Owning this desire has been a journey. Putting yourself out there can be scary. And with so much foolishness in the world, it can be perversely easier to pour yourself into activism or scholarship rather than working up the nerve to holler at a cutie—or maybe it’s just me?

Don’t front. I’m not the only one

The fact is, however unfeminist it may sound, after this epic dry spell, I definitely have trouble thinking of myself as someone that other people might find sexy. But, then again, I had trouble with that ish before. And, as I’ve been told time and time again, the energy you put out there is what attracts people. So, I have to feel to sexy to attract others? But feeling attractive to others makes me feel sexy. Color me confused.

Then again, I have noticed that folks who I might find busted and disgusted and that ooze negative energy, but who fit particular aspects of the beauty spectrum—thin, able-bodied, cisgender, for example—don’t necessarily have trouble getting their mack on. I’m not saying all thin, able-bodied cis folks are just fucking with reckless abandon, but I am saying that some shit matters more than others—even in so-called progressive queer spaces. Take it from someone who puts the “B” in LGBTQIA.

Still, I’m trying to make an earnest effort in pursuit of some good loving. What I do know that you have to do more than talk about it, you gotta be about it. So, excuse me while I clear out the tumbleweeds.

Have you experienced an epic (or not so epic) dry spell? What’s been your post-dry spell experience? How have you gotten back in the saddle? 

A few weeks ago, a young Indian woman went to the movies. On her way home she took a bus on which she was raped and brutally assaulted by six men. We don’t know the name of this 23-year-old student.  We do know that  she was tortured so badly that she lost her intestines and needed numerous operations. Six people – including the bus driver – have been arrested. On Friday, December 28 she died.

I don’t know her name. I don’t have an adequate response, but I feel I should say something. Because I was born in the city where she were assaulted. Because so many, too many, experience such violence. Because I spend most of my waking hours thinking about how we can create a world where women are safe. Because she wanted to live.

●●●

This is both about and not about men. Here are some statistical knowables, true across most societies (just take a look at the extant research at both the global and national levels).

• Violence against women and girls occurs primarily at the hands of men and boys.
• Violence against men and boys occurs primarily at the hands of other men and boys.
• Nations, statistically speaking, commit far and away, the most of the world’s violence via war and conflict. This involves military forces comprised largely of men and boys, who are both perpetrators and victims of this violence.

Gender, then, rises up as an undeniably important variable in regards to understanding violence. And though we might not have a shared understanding of this fact, sex and gender are different and there are more genders than two. Further, people who are gender-non-coforming, genderqueer, trans and/or those who complicate the gender binary experience violence at disproportionate rates.

In my work at Men Stopping Violence, our focus is on ending male violence against women. Far and away the most common first response to my explanation of our work goes something like this: “Yes, violence against women is a problem but, don’t women ALSO commit violence?”

Let me answer that question now: Sure, yes. Women are also perpetrators of violence. As are people of all genders, sexes and sexual orientations. But to refocus the question on women’s violence is to obfuscate the real problem. And that problem is violent masculinity. If all the above data has not convinced you yet, please note: According to the National Academy of Sciences, in the US, “Male criminal participation in serious crimes at any age greatly exceeds that of females, regardless of source of data, crime type, level of involvement, or measure of participation.” I say this not to pathologize masculinity as inherently violent, I certainly don’t believe it is. I say this to move us away from wringing in our hands in despair about a seemingly intractable problem (male violence against women) and move us toward naming the fact that this problem is deeply structural, rooted in patriarchy and colonialism.

The point here is this: violence in general and sexual violence in particular, like all social ills, is best approached with a multi-faceted and intersectional perspective.

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“Power corresponds to the human ability not just to act but to act in concert. Power is never the property of the individual: it belongs to a group and remains in existence only so long as the group keeps together. When we say someone is “in power” we actually refer to his being empowered by a certain number of people to act in their name.” –  Hannah Arendt, from On Violence

What is the function of violence?

Resisting essentialist notions about sex and turning to think about gender, there is something in pervasive understandings of masculinity or masculine identity that accepts if not encourages violence.  This begs the questions: Is masculinity itself violent? Is there a way to be a man/masculine without being violent? What causes violence? What sustains it? These are questions that I think about daily and with my colleagues around the country. At MSV we work with many different men who join in this conversation with us. For us, that involves honing in on the problem of men’s violence against women.

Let me be very clear here, because this is the bulk of my point: we fail at answering these questions if we think of violence as merely a symptom of something else. If you listened to the NRA press conference last week in response to the shooting in Newtown, Connecticut, you might be lead to believe that the perpetration of violence is some elusive phenomenon, committed by the criminally insane, or at the behest of video games and violent movies. If you watched some of the Indian coverage of the Delhi gang rape story you’d hear lots of speculation that the young men who perpetrated this gruesome act, must have been intoxicated by drugs. I wholeheartedly disagree with this assessment of violence. It’s not merely a tragic happenstance. It is not something only done by those who have ‘lost their right minds.’ Violence is functional.

It is a means of asserting and securing power. When violence targets women in the dark of night it ensures, among many other things, that women stay out of the streets. When violence against trans women goes largely unreported in studies of violence against women, it is tacitly legitimated. When violence against white school children raises a national furor and violence against an innocent black teenager wearing a hoodie doesn’t provoke a national conversation about legislating guns, we can see the fault lines.  When a football player kills his partner and then himself and we find ourselves knowing his name but not hers, we see which victims matter.

Violence is functional and our response to that violence is also functional. Violence is functions by silencing those whom it targets. Let us not forget that most cases of rape and sexual assault go unreported. Let us not forget the stigma that survivors face. In the US only 24% of rape allegations result in arrest, never mind conviction. Whether it is perpetrated by an individual or made invisible by our social, cultural and political institutions, violence has an aim – to remove power and instill fear.

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The numbers can tell us most of what we need to know. But not all. What is lost in the statistical knowables, is the lived reality of women, LGBTQ people and others of us whose stories don’t make it to the headlines. Women’s lives bear out patterns, and patterns tell a story. If we ask intentional questions about trends – we can learn something about our social orchestration. Looking to recent stories, we might learn something about this functionality.

Kasandra Perkins was killed by her partner, a professional athlete, who had threatened to shoot her weeks before he did. No one was able to protect her despite the fact of his threat.

CeCe McDonald, a trans woman, faced violence in the form of a hate crime and for her retaliation was sentenced to serve her time in a men’s prison, denied the right to name a very basic fact of her existence.

Victoria Soto was a school teacher with her students in the classroom one day when she was killed in a massacre by a lone gunman with easy access to assault weapons.

Savita Halappanavar sought refuge from the horror of a wanted pregnancy gone awry at an Irish hospital which (legally) refused to save her life.

And then a few weeks ago a young woman in New Delhi took the bus home one night after watching a movie with a friend and was brutally raped and died, 12 days later, from her wounds.

When something horrific happens, near or far from home, we tend to ask the same questions: Why? How? So, what, then, are the ‘whys’ and ‘hows’ in these cases and in inumerable others? There are few actual similarities in these cases, but there are many potential points of convergence: laws that do not protect, credibility that is denied, legislation that is missing, stories that are made invisible. If we are to change things, our belief systems, social structures, and institutional practices must come under the spotlight. And that is because these stories complicate the statistical knowables.

Interpersonal violence usually belies a whole host of social conditions that are hard to qualify and quantify (i.e. privilege, race, poverty, gender, oppression, resistance, wealth, cultural norms, etc.). In this, as in most things, historical context is key. The US has a long history of state sanctioned violence. Consider the genocide of Native and First Nations people, the ever-present legacy of slavery, the internment, without due-process, of those considered a threat, be they Japanese immigrants or detained in Guantanamo via the War on Terror.  These factors complicate our understanding of who perpetrates violence and against whom and why. Knowing the statistics is important. Knowing the stories, unearthing the legacies, speaking aloud the names of the victims and the survivors is just as important.

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Women’s bodies serve as battlegrounds: metaphorically and practically. “Western” feminists look toward the “East” and see beleaguered women facing oppression at the hands of savage (read:black and brown) men. Never mind that staggering and horrific violence happens in the “West.”  Never mind that the US has never taken a stand to ratify the global Convention on the Elimination of Violence Against Women. Never mind international conventions, the US is not able to muster the political will to pass the Violence Against Women Act, or gun control legislation. Never mind that we all have remained  unable to effectively address the phenomenon of rape as a tool of war, so as to prevent women’s bodies from serving as the actual sites of war and conflict.

Despite all these facts, in the wake of this story, outrage began seeping out from the US, the UK and Europe (which I am loosely defining as the “West” – the demarcations of and within these places could be a topic of a separate blog post) at the problem of patriarchal “Eastern” cultures. The narrative looks something like this: Those poor women suffering at the hands of those horrible men. We must loudly proclaim our empathy for those people, who either know no better or are unable to live by our enlightened social standards.

This narrative is racist, homophobic, sexist, heteronormative and imperialist.

And to step away from all that politicalese: it is quite simply just wrong.

Violence is global. It pervades all cultures and communities. Yesterday, in a brilliant conversation, Kavita Krishnan, Secretary of the All India Progressive Women’s Association and one of the main organizers of protests against sexual violence in India and Elora Chowdhary, associate professor of women’s studies at the University of Massachusetts in Boston, joined Amy Goodman and Juan Gonzalez on Democracy Now to talk about the case and the way it’s being discussed here in the US as well as in India. Chaowdhary says,

So, on the one hand, we see in the Western media some reporters taking this moral high ground and pointing fingers and demonizing Indian culture, as though sexual violence against women is pervasive in only certain parts of the world and that it’s somehow reflective of deeply inherent cultural traditions of that part of the world. Of course, what that obscures is that both rape and domestic violence are pervasive in the United States, and domestic violence being one of the leading causes of injury to women, and exceedingly high numbers of rapes that, in fact, mostly go unreported in the United States. So, I think embedded in these kinds of reporting is a certain colonial mindset, of course, there’s a long history of that. And this kind of mindset that women are the measure of the progress of a society emerges from colonial practices, that these ideas were used to legitimize both colonization and also imperialism.

I don’t say all this to discourage global dialogue. Very much the opposite, in fact. We have much to learn from each other, by sharing our struggles and our victories. Such exchange is key to our success. What we cannot abide however is the reductive and disempowering narrative that allows some folks to offer no local, national or global context. What will not help is an essentialist narrative that paints all (or even most) Indian women as victims and all (or even most) Indian men as perpetrators, by virtue of their culture. We must banish these spectres of our colonial legacy if we aim to build an intersectional, transnational and transformative movement to end violence in our communities.

As I’ve said, violence, here in the US and abroad, is functional. Violence against women, is rooted in colonialism and patriarchy, in their varied and sundry iterations.  We’d do well to keep our eyes on that, and work like hell to dismantle the belief systems, social structures, and institutional practices that support it.

The Summer We Got Free is Mia McKenzie‘s first novel and I was honored to be asked to write a blurb for the back. I wrote:

Mia McKenzie’s The Summer We Got Free answers Toni Cade Bambara’s question “do you want to be well?” with it’s own. Do you remember what I was like when I was? The novel won’t let you go as it surges forward with truth only fiction can tell. I was eager for answers as I followed a trail of not bread crumbs but whole pieces of toast slathered in butter that makes you moan or as I did, read passages aloud and neglect sleep for want of the next savory morsel. The Summer We Got Free is the product of a girl child grown up in the stories of June, Alice, Zora, Pearl, Gloria, and even Octavia, told in palimpsestic time where McKenzie’s own life doesn’t overlap with her characters but it doesn’t even matter. Ava is the black girl who reminds us that we are the ones we’ve been waiting for, to the delight of some and the displeasure of others. McKenzie’s masterful weaving of narrative belies an inaugural effort yet it is clearly an afrofuturistic vision of healing transformation and an affirmation that we have what we need. The text is saturated with an effortless queerity and a brush of magical realism that show what’s possible when you focus off center. I’ll be thrusting this into the hands of everyone I know as I return to it myself to remember I can get free again.

This interview with Mia McKenzie of Black Girl Dangerous is the first in a series of talks Crunk Feminists will have with people we think are creating the world we want to see. We do a lot of critique on the blog but in the new year we want to do more to highlight the folks who are doing the work of fostering activism and alternatives now! CF Crunktastic describes the project as a “Crunk Digital Salon.”

I mean salon both in the sense of the kind of intellectual gatherings that Madame CJ Walker and Georgia Douglas Johnson used to preside over in their homes during the Harlem Renaissance, but also in the sense of beauty/barber shop talk and politics, and the level of community, candor, everydayness and humor that one finds in those spaces.

CF Crunkonia characterizes it as a kitchen table.

I like the kitchen table for reasons involving my love for Paule Marshall. I also miss MHP’s old blog with the same name. And although the kitchen table may not mean to our generation what it did to Marshall’s foremothers, couldn’t we play with the whole digital age meets the kitchen thing because the kitchen table may double as an office desk for many of us? A play on women’s work?

CF Chanel reminded us that a cypher invokes our initial inspiration and connections to hip hop feminism.

I’m moved by the tumblr practice of Signal Boosting, of lifting up important messages that we want spread and that we want people to hear by reblogging them and asking others to do the same.

As we continue to work out what we call this thing, please enjoy our first offering. Get Crunk!!!

Welcome back to the Wig Crypt, Crunkadelic!

But, seriously. I’m glad the election and the election coverage is over. Sure, I love a giddy Rachel Maddow gushing on MSNBC. Sure, I like the idea of chastened, sullen, defensive conservatives whining and licking their wounds, embarrassing themselves by saying increasingly stupid, pitiful, and asinine things, while all the while revealing to anyone with good sense that their ideology and policies are out of touch, retrograde, wack, and shamtastic. Their tears are delicious. So, yes, I’m not above putting the shade back in schadenfreude.

Mostly though, I’m really ready to be done with the in-fighting among the Radical Left. If you feel that Barack Obama is the antichrist because he has initiated moderate health care reform but are cool with his policies on Guantanamo and drones, I am yet lifting you up in prayer and inviting you to take a stadium of seats. Just sit this one out, boo.

Some folks voted for President Obama, albeit in a range from enthusiastic to reluctant support. Some voted for progressive third party candidates like Jill Stein, choosing to give the side eye to the binary of the prevailing two party system. Others abstained altogether, rejecting the notion that voting for the lesser of two evils is any choice at all.  The Radical Left is not a monolithic entity, but rather a diverse set of communities that approach the realization of justice in a variety of ways. I’m not suggesting that we become more alike, but I am concerned that the way we talk about our differences is not only unproductive but oftentimes a violent distraction from our shared goals.

While some folks are still popping bottles and dropping it like it’s hot to Jeezy’s My President is Black, others are shaking their heads at the complicity of supposedly progressive folks with the imperialism of the State, and, because of Sandy and now Athena, still more are just trying to get electricity and heat on in their homes permanently and aren’t exactly studying this ongoing family drama at the moment.

The past two years have been like a family reunion gone terribly wrong. Folks get drunk and start arguing, secrets get exposed, proverbial dirty laundry gets aired, people choose sides, and nothing gets solved. Then we do it all again in a couple of years. It’s not that we don’t love each other—we just got some major ish to work through. So let’s work through it. What follows is not an exhaustive list, but a few ideas to the get the conversation started.

1. Let’s reject binaries: good/bad, Democrat/Republican, liberal/conservative, revolutionary/uncle Tom. I think we experience and engage politics on a spectrum and trying to take a snapshot of someone’s beliefs from one action (e.g., voting and not voting) and then running around being like, “Aha! You’re not quite right because you believe in xyz!” is neither cute nor productive.
2. Along those lines, let’s rebuke authenticity wars. I think the most recent fissures in the Radical Left should invite us to consider the ways in which the organizing and ideology coming out of the Liberation movements of the 1960s and 70s challenge/inform/undermine our current work. I see some folks wanting to eschew the call to honor the legacy of the civil rights movement, finding such calls often mean shutting up about their concerns in order to appear legitimate. Other folks warn that if you completely abandon the ideology and action of what came before us we are doing a disservice to history and not wanting to authentically connect to the struggle. I don’t think these conversations are completely at odds, but reducing the convo down to one about legitimacy just doesn’t serve us well.
3. Let’s reject elitism and navel gazing. We are a part of complex communities and we don’t deserve to be leaders simple because we have degrees or work at certain organizations. Yet some of us treat our family, friends, and neighbors with condescension and disdain, acting like we are radical evangelists among ignorant heathens (h/t crunkonia). That’s why sometimes the folks we work with and serve don’t like and, more importantly, don’t trust many of us.
4. Let’s be nuanced in our discussion of respectability politics. I’m all about calling out investments in dominant notions of what is normal and acceptable as a way to harness power, especially in communities of color and among queer folk. (I’ve spent the last few years writing a book about this very thing). But, sometimes the zeal in calling out respectability politics fails to recognize the complicated, ambivalent ways in which folks adhere to and/or reject what it means to be respectable. Also, see #3.
5. Let’s recognize that pretty much all of us have some type of privilege and we should make pains to interrogate our ish and really listen to one another. Also, being an expert on racism, for example, doesn’t mean you always get the nuances of, say, ableism. But, thankfully, you—we—can learn. Our brains are awesome like that.
6. Let’s passionately disagree with one another without eviscerating each other’s humanity. For real.

Ultimately, my thoughts are that we need to have difficult dialogues without cannibalizing each other. Let’s embrace our diversity in the movement and not call for a unity that steamrolls over dissension. We see how the Far Right is imploding, but the difference between us and them is that they have boatloads of cash and no scruples whatsoever and we have an abundance of ethical concerns, passion, and student loans we cannot ask our parents to pay for. They will rise again, but if we become too fractured it might be a different story for us. This is a call to keep our eyes on the prize—it’s not just about being right, it’s about working together for justice.

What are your thoughts on radical communities in the wake of the election? Please share in the comments.

Crunklife: How do you marry hip hop feminism with pedagogy in your new books?

Bettina L. Love is an assistant professor in the Department of Elementary and Social Studies at the University of Georgia. Her work has appeared in numerous books and journals, including Gender Forum, Educational Studies, and Race, Gender and Class.

Bettina: Hip hop feminism is a way of life, the way I see the world. I’m an educator. Before I was ever a researcher, a scholar, a writer, I was an elementary school teacher, so hip hop feminism and pedagogy just works for me in the classroom. I also think working with young girls to create a space for them that they don’t get in schools.  I think young girls, especially young Black girls, feel so disconnected from school. Their culture isn’t there. Their stories aren’t there. Who they are is not there in formal education. To merge those worlds for me as an educator and as a hip hop feminist just feels so natural and so right because I know the potential of these girls. If we can work in spaces where there is shared knowledge and produce this shared knowledge, it’s just powerful.

Chamara: I think it is definitely a way of life and how we see the world. It is marrying the things that we see in our daily lives as Black women and bringing those elements into the classroom in different ways and shapes and forms. The classroom, not just being in these formal spaces but being in informal spaces in the community, is where we get together and talk about the ways in which our world is being shaped by—not just the music, but—the kind of things that are going on around (us) and in the everyday-ness in our lives. The book was taking the things that we had done in the community in Champaign-Urbana (IL) and then asking other people who had been a part of that or who had been a part of the Hip Hop Feminism class (at the University of Illinois) to share the things that they’re doing and the way that they brought hip hop into these spaces.

Crunklife: You talk about working inside and outside of the classroom. You all work with girls. Could you talk about that? What do the girls teach us as homegirls? What do they teach us about ourselves?

Bettina:  I have a chapter in my book that talks about starting my research with my limitations. I walked into this research project thinking that I knew everything about Atlanta and I knew everything about hip hop. I looked like these girls. I never thought that I had to address all of my messiness that I had in my life. These girls brought it out of me.

My queerness was on display for them. During the first interaction I had with these girls, they walked up to me and said, “You gay?” Being quick-witted and not wanting to put my guard down, I said, “You in my business.”

I could not research them, get to know them, understand them, and tell their stories until they put me on blast. They did something that was very interesting. They started talking about lesbians in their school an earshot away from me. I truly believe that they did this to let me know: Let your guard down. We’re cool. Talk to us. I couldn’t tell their stories until they put me on blast. It was an awesome, awesome experience because they wanted to tell their stories.

They are just so smart and they’re ready to critique, and they’re ready to be heard. I was there wanting to do that but I didn’t know how to do that. It helps as a researcher or someone doing this work in the community to address your stuff, your messiness when you walk into these spaces with these girls. I’ve had to address my notions of southern-ness. I’m from New York. I had to understand what my mother said about country folk, stereotypes, and all this internalized homophobia that I walked into this space with, the girls helped me to confront.

Ruth Nicole Brown (Ph.D. in political science, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor) is an artist-scholar and an assistant professor in the Departments of Gender and Women’s Studies and Education Policy, Organization and Leadership at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. She is the author of Black Girlhood Celebration: Toward a Hip-Hop Feminist Pedagogy (Peter Lang, 2009).

Ruth Nicole: I definitely echo the messiness. We see the same exact thing in SOLHOT where they call you out whatever it is when you least likely want to talk about it. They put it out there. In SOLHOT, we’ve had homegirls that have really stepped up and embraced it, and we’ve had others that once they got called out, they cried and left, you know. She said this about me. Or, this is too much. I got to go. Maybe some people are just not ready to deal with it.

Those who stay, there’s a lot to be said about the power and the presence of a woman who can address her complexities and articulate them and share them. I think that the formal classroom, the university classroom, is so into consumer education. I’m big on that lately because it’s like the students really don’t want to know what I know or what we can learn from each other. It’s, “Can I get your signature so I can leave?”

This is why outside of the university classroom is where education and learning happens in a very sincere way. We approach each other as people first without having to fight all of the isolation and the complicity that the university sets up. We can just really ask each other questions and have a real learning experience. The girls in SOLHOT drop knowledge all the time. We are there to learn from them. Like we always say [in SOLHOT], “what the work is.” We don’t presume to know what the work is before we get together with whatever group that is SOLHOT.  The girls taught me how to fix a CD when it’s scratched by dropping it in a toilet. We thought we knew what we were doing, but they taught us that. The girls constantly teach me that when one of them gets suspended, the question is not, “What did she do or what happened?” But we ask what happened to her because it’s always the person that responds that gets caught. So, we connect to her first. She reacted and subsequently got in trouble. So those are just a few that I’ve learned.

Bettina: I also think as Black feminists, it calls us to get outside of the ivory tower. It really does. To do this work and to live this work, you will not be able to do this work with integrity if you only stay in higher ed.

Crunklife: But do we want to make those divisions? What if there are first generation people like me who are now taking classes in school and see it as being part of their Black feminist construction as well?

Bettina: I think you’re right. I think we have to be in both, but we have to make sure this work hits the community.

Chamara Jewel Kwakye (Ph.D. in educational policy studies, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign) is a scholar, storyteller, and performer. She is currently a Chancellor’s Postdoctoral Research Fellow in the Department of African American Studies at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Dr. Kwakye is currently writing a book that documents the life histories of Black women in the Academy.

Chamara: I agree with most of the things that have been said. There’s no way that you can talk about somebody else’s life without being called out about the stuff in your life. There’s just no way that you can do that with any real connection to that person or with any integrity.

You’re trying to write about somebody else’s life and interrogate their life and you haven’t really looked at your own life. I don’t know anybody who’s done that successfully and it reads well. It will read like you’re five feet away as opposed to actually being in the moment and connecting with that person. So with the girls, really again, echoing what Bettina has said and what Ruth Nicole has said, there’s no way that you’re not going to get called out. And so, going into that space, you really have to be okay with being called out or really learn quickly on your feet because this is what’s going to happen. In order to do this work well and not be overwhelmed by it, you’re going to have to start interrogating your own self.

The girls are constantly, in SOLHOT, calling you out. For me, last year, it was my break-up. I may have said one thing about it, and they were like, “Did you bust the windows out his car?” They were going to call me out, but it was also taking care of me too in a way. By that time, I had spent a considerable amount of time with them and they were really checking in to make sure I was okay. If I had gone in there with my guard up, I would have never gotten to that space of care where they actually showed me that they wanted to make sure I’m okay. How are you surviving this moment? That’s what I learned from them. If you allow people to call you out on your stuff, they will also be there to take care of you too. It’s not just a one-way relationship where I am checking in on them. They want to know what’s going on outside of the spaces that we’re in. It becomes a reciprocal relationship where we’re checking in on them and they are checking in on us.

For more information about books, please visit Amazon.com:

Wish To Live: The Hip-hop Feminism Pedagogy Reader moves beyond the traditional understanding of the four elements of hip-hop culture—rapping, breakdancing, graffiti art, and deejaying—to articulate how hip-hop feminist scholarship can inform educational practices and spark, transform, encourage, and sustain local and global youth community activism efforts. This multi-genre and interdisciplinary reader engages performance, poetry, document analysis, playwriting, polemics, cultural critique, and autobiography to radically reimagine the political utility of hip-hop-informed social justice efforts that insist on an accountable analysis of identity and culture. Featuring scholarship from professors and graduate and undergraduate students actively involved in the work they profess, this book’s commitment to making the practice of hip-hop feminist activism practical in our everyday lives is both compelling and unapologetic. (Source: Amazon.com)

Through ethnographically informed interviews and observations conducted with six Black middle and high school girls, Hip Hop’s Li’l Sistas Speak, explores how young women navigate the space of Hip Hop music and culture to form ideas concerning race, body, class, inequality, and privilege. The thriving atmosphere of Atlanta, Georgia serves as the background against which these youth consume Hip Hop, and the book examines how the city’s socially conservative politics, urban gentrification, race relations, Southern-flavored Hip Hop music and culture, and booming adult entertainment industry rest in their periphery. Intertwined within the girls’ exploration of Hip Hop and coming of age in Atlanta, the author shares her love for the culture, struggles of being a queer educator and a Black lesbian living and researching in the South, and reimagining Hip Hop pedagogy for urban learners. (Source: Amazon.com)