CF Jalylah’s Aunt Pearl and mother, Julie                    Photographed by Cynthia Burrell

call it our craziness even,

call it anything.

it is the life thing in us

that will not let us die.

Poet Lucille Clifton’s language for lineage was cherished. “roots,” a poem from her  1974 collection An Ordinary Woman named it light and I choose to liken it to mothering.

it is the light in us

it is the light of us

it is the light, call it

whatever you have to,

call it anything

I call it mom. I call it a practice of unconditional love that this weekend calls us to celebrate. To all who mother, thank you. Such living is love.

the light of us: a mother’s day mix

“My Mother, My Father, and Love” Duke Ellington
“Mother’s Theme (Mama)” Willie Hutch
“Mother’s Prayer” The Dynamic Gospel Flames Of Griffin, Georgia
“Aja’s Mom” Kindred The Family Soul
“Easy Goin’ Evening (My Mama’s Call)” Stevie Wonder/ “Always There are the Children” Nikki Giovanni
“Mother’s Song” Gregory Porter
“A Mother’s Love” Aretha Franklin
“Thinking About My Mother” Little Richard
“For Mama” Linda Lewis
“Synopsis Two Mother’s Day” 24 Carat Black/ “Mother To Son” Langston Hughes
“Mama’s Soul” Gary Bartz NTU Troop
“Give Thanks” Sizzla
“Universal Mother” Don Cherry

[STREAM/DOWNLOAD]

*Last year’s inaugural CFC mother’s day mix, a praise song for mamas, is still available here.

Blue Ivy, last week, post-play

All blackgirls have a hairstory.

I have always had a love-hate relationship with my hair.  When I was little my mama called me tender headed when I shrieked at the harsh brush bristles pushing my hair and scalp together until it laid all the way down, or enough to keep the inevitable frizz at bay.  I grew used to people making mention and comments about my hair by comparing it to my sister’s.  My sister’s was “good” (I am sure then, you can imagine what was said about mine).  It was hard to love my hair when it was constantly described with negative descriptions: bad, knotty, kinky, wooly, nappy, messy.

I remember my hair as

stocking caps

blue pomade melting in my mama’s fingers

beads that hit against each other when I whipped my head

sounding like baby bracelets

cornrows

pony tails

plaits

wrapped in rainbow colored plastic bows

barrettes

banana combs

rubber bands

ribbons on Sundays sometimes

picture day at school when I secretly took my hair loose so it would be like the “white girls’,”

my mama’s disappointment and disdain when the pictures came back,

my first grade hair “all over my head” from playing on the playground

sweating out mama’s Saturday sacrifice

of hot combed kinks pulled out for Sunday service

***

The politics of hair reaches back much farther than I can tell it.  I remember my mama confessing that she was way more concerned about her hair than her complexion when she was growing up, especially because the same comparisons I heard about me and my sister’s hair, she got about hers.  The same chastisement I heard about my hair, she heard.  Those kinds of comparisons and judgments lead to blackgirl insecurities.  That is one blackgirl legacy we can do without.

Gabby Douglas, last year, after winning a gold medal

When Gabby Douglas won gold at the 2012 Olympics I was shocked and confused when I read the rants of black folk who were more interested in talking about her hair style than her monumental accomplishments (I never look at black woman athletes while they are performing and expect their hair to be “layed”–I’m not sure what folk expected from her).  And last week I was again offput when pictures of little Blue Ivy surfaced on the internet to vitriolic comments because she dared be a blackbabygirl without bows and braids in her hair (and oh yeah, not be wearing pink or a dress).  Hmmmm.

I don’t know if it is internalized racism as much as it is internalized standards of beauty within black communities that makes this so commonplace.  Well that and an obsession with blackgirl hair that is tamed, in order, slicked down on the sides, wrapped around in braids or covered in curls.  We don’t seem to know what to do with blackgirls whose hair is left to do what it will, with baby hairs flying with wild abandon and little afros sticking out every which-a-way.  We want black women’s hair to be “fixed” in the same way we want them to be “fixed” (and “right”–whatever that means).  And blackgirls are no exception.  They are not protected from the harsh judgments about our hair that we oftentimes received ourselves.

***

We had Saturday morning hot comb rituals in my house and I succumbed to them.  But at some point, due to the peer pressure of long haired friends in the third grade, I begged for my first box perm, hoping it would both make me feel grown up (for whatever reason getting a perm was a pre-menstrual sign of womanhood) and supposedly make my hair more manageable.  It didn’t.  Years later, when my hair was damaged I was told that only a jheri curl (as soon as jheri curls went OUT of style) would make my hair grow again.  After transitioning back to “straight” hair from my “curl,” a woman-friend of my father’s gave me my first box braids.  As she wove the synthetic hair around mine she instructed me to prophesy when people did my hair, and to say “more hair” instead of “thank you” when they finished (it must have been a reverse curse because as a result of those braids my hair thinned out and fell out at the edges…”more hair” my ass).

A combination of worry and stress manifested in temporary alopecia and my hair fell out at the temples when I was in high school, again in college, and when I was working on my Ph.D.  Every other year I would have to disguise bald spots with  strategically covered bangs or dark gel to cover up the ‘problemed’ areas.  I felt lost without my hair and I worried about what people would think and/or say if they knew.   I imagined I would be accused of not looking right, of not properly taking care of my hair, of not knowing any better, using the wrong products, going to the wrong stylist…or my mama would be blamed.  To this day I get a sickening feeling when it’s time to trim my ends.

***

I never cried about the things people said about my hair in public.  I waited until I got home, securely behind closed doors, to stare at myself in the mirror and feel inferior.  I will never forget my aunt pulling her permed hair from a roller set in the mirror, combing out the curls and recovering them in a top swoosh with her fingers saying, “when your hair is done it makes your outfit look better.”  My insecurity about “looking better” meant I wrapped my hair every night, slept on a silk pillow cover, and kept oil sheen in bulk to help my up-do’s (of the 90s, hard gel style) last longer.  I had a standing appointment every two-weeks, drove over an hour to Durham to meet those appointments, and usually spent all day in the salon.  Appearance was everything.  I gladly traded my Saturdays for temporary pretty.

Me, circa 1980-ish

***

These days I have plenty of hair, but it is usually tucked beneath a weave, head scarf, kangol, or some combination of all three.  I get extensions regularly for convenience but I am not preoccupied with my hair the way I was when I was a little girl and/or in my twenties.  And I don’t think Gabby should have to, or baby Blue Ivy.

I am grateful that there was no such thing as the internet when I was young.  And I am grateful that folk don’t just follow me around taking pictures all willy nilly (cause truth be told, a sista doesn’t doll up to run to the grocery store).  Perhaps then blackgirls could go outside and play, or perform their sport without worrying about what they look like doing it.

***

I wonder if Gabby Douglas has a love-hate relationship with her hair.  I wonder how she felt, 16 and beautifully brown, when she read twitter taunts about her split ends.  I wonder if Beyonce can teach her babygirl what beauty looks like… that all 1 year old little blackgirls are gorgeous, whether they have a head full of hair or none at all.

I wonder what would happen if we praised blackgirls for their beauty instead of looking at them through a lens of criticism.

I wonder what would happen if instead of focusing on Gabby’s hairstyle, people paid attention to her gorgeous eyes and smile.

I wonder what would happen if instead of demanding feminine conformity people saw Blue Ivy’s beautiful curious eyes and pouty lips, looking like a spitting image of her daddy and momma put together.

I wonder what my self-esteem would have been like if my hair length, style, and texture didn’t matter when I was a little girl.

I wonder what would have happened if blackgirl pretty wasn’t culturally defined by hair length/color/texture.

For our sake, I hope we figure it out sooner rather than later.

#blackgirldreams

But can I be real with y’all? Sometimes being the one to wave the red flag is tiring as hell. I’m down for the struggle. I got serious Black Girl Freedom Dreams, like most of the sisters I know.

But sometimes you just need to twerk!

So now that I’ve done the requisite acknowledgements, I’m ready to get a little ratchet and hip you to three new songs that have me feeling optimistic about what Black girl pleasure can look like.

First, there’s the homie K. Michelle of Love and Hip Hop ATL fame:

Check this lyric: “Cuz I just wanna fuck and not fall in love/I’m over all the pain that love can bring/tonite I want sex that doesn’t mean a thing/ that don’t make me no slut/A woman has her needs”

Now despite what you may think of the actual song, two things are true: 1st, the chick has an amazing set of pipes. She can seriously blow. 2nd, these lyrics are powerful, and kind of ironic in a song that sounds like it’s going to be a love ballad.

Oh yeah, and all I’ll say about her love interest is I guess she figured if she was gonna put out a video objectifying a dude she might as well flip the script entirely.

Anyway, this song is a statement of Black female sex positivity, and as I’ve called it elsewhere “Ratchet Feminism” that we shouldn’t overlook.

(So stop clutching your pearls.)

*****

Second, there’s post-Destiny’s child Kelly Rowland. She’s found her niche, making sexy, grown Black girl music like “Motivation,” “Ice,” and this newest joint “Kisses Down Low.”

Some of my homegirls are mad that she has limited herself to putting out sexy songs. And that’s a legitimate critique. But I’m more interested in the unapologetic nature of the music she’s putting out, and her willingness to ask for what she needs.

Check this lyric: “I like my kisses down low/makes me arch back/when you give it to me slow/baby, just like that”

Then an autotuned masculine voice (maybe Bey from I Been On — J/K!) repeats the lyrics as if to make sure he has the instructions just right.

All Black feminists need to know how to give instructions! And you need a partner who can follow directions!

As someone who definitely likes her kisses down low, I ain’t #hatin.

*******

Last, but Best, is the new Janelle Monae’ joint! Now y’all this is pure fiyah! It exemplifies what Renina Jarmon is talking about when she says #blackgirlsarefromthefuture.

“Is it peculiar that I twerk in the mirror?” is an existential question of the highest order in my estimation. And it’s a question you should ask while you twerk.

“Testify: The Booty don’t lie.” This line bespeaks another truth that Black girls need to tell: the radical truth that Black girl’s asses are not merely archives of pain, but active sites of pleasure. Because of the ways Black girl booty has been treated at least since the days of Sarah Baartman, we’ve engaged in a collective, respectable kind of denial about these other truths that Black girl ass can tell. But here’s the point: they tell the truths that are true for us, to us, when we twerk in the front of the mirror, by ourselves or with other Black girls.

What I love is that while we can acknowledge that the mirrors (and hands and policies) of others have been quite brutal to us, we can also tell a different story about what the mirrors in our own lives say to us. But my mirrors are not only stationary pieces of decor. I also have human mirrors, in the form of other Brown girls who reflect my truths back to me, often when my own view has been distorted.

Sometimes that distorted view keeps me from reveling in Black girl joy. But I’m so glad that Janelle Monae’ won’t be denied!

And for those of you who are mad that I would put Kelly and K. Michelle in the same stratosphere as a talent like Janelle Monae’, I say simply to quote my homegirl Kaila Story, “there is no singularity of Black girl truths.”

And quoting my damn self: “there is no justice without pleasure.”

So enjoy, Crunk Family!

And feel free to weigh in:

Do you think we need a pleasure politics in Black feminism?

Are these songs examples of what feminist Black female pleasure might look like?

For more on Black Feminist Pleasure Politics, check out this latest work from Joan Morgan, yours truly, and the Pleasure Ninjas.

Thought #1:  When I first saw the name of this song go across my Facebook feed a few weeks ago I didn’t know what to make it of it.  I assumed, at first, that it was an unfortunate spoof or offensive rant.  I was disinterested in either so disregarded it.

Thought #2:  When I realized, some days later, that Accidental Racist was a song by Brad Paisley featuring L.L. Cool J., my curiosity got the best of me.  When I listened to the song and read the lyrics I had back and forth feelings, at times finding it awkward but well meaning, at others feeling utterly offended and angry.

Thought #3:  Can we talk about why this song is a problematic failure with good intentions?

Let me start by saying that I honor the spirit from which it was written.  I get that we (as a nation) are ill-equipped to have these conversations publicly, and I can appreciate that in defense of the song Brad Paisley said, “what we’re trying to do is explore what happens when two people have a dialogue.”

I teach classes on diversity in the deep South so I am painfully aware of how difficult it is to have difficult dialogues, especially about race and racism (and difference in general).  For example, while honesty and transparency is important, so is context and accountability.

L.L. said in an interview that some people had a shallow understanding and hyper-sensitivity (of the song’s lyrics).  Hm… I don’t think that people of color (or any marginalized group for that matter) can be accused of having a shallow understanding of or hypersensitivity to racism.  It is something we live with every single day of our lives.  And I personally think it is irresponsible for anyone to try to police someone else’s feelings in situations like this (however you feel in response to discrimination: angry, sad, disillusioned, numb…is legitimate and justifiable).  When you are constantly bombarded with offensive and dismissive attitudes and responses for simply existing, and when you are regularly exposed to racial micro and macroaggressions but then told, when you notice and/or acknowledge them, that you are overreacting…it is disrespectful (and this is true of those who experience discrimination on all fronts).  We can do better.  And this song could have done better.

Thought #4:  I don’t understand how no one, not one person, white or black or brown heard the song in the studio and was like, “hmmmm….”  I know that I don’t always fully think out/through everything I say before I say it, but damn.  If the point of the song was to take someone else’s point of view, how did they miss the problems in what was being said?  Did they not think to ask, say, one extra black person what they thought?

Thought #5:  Most of the time if and when people talk about race they have intraracial conversations behind closed doors.  It is considered taboo and impolite (two things that are rarely violated in the South) to have these discussions (about race and racism) out loud and in mixed company, even though those are the conversations that will instigate change (of thought and focus).  So I can appreciate what Paisley and LL were trying to do.  However, that does not give them a pass for doing it so badly.  Hopefully, once the shock of the song wears off the intention behind it can be redeemable enough to spark important and necessary discussions about race and racism.  I can appreciate the fact that they wanted to initiate dialogue about this open-secret topic, but unfortunately the conversations being had are less about how we can talk with and about difference and more about what is wrong with the song.  What we need are some ways to redeem the intention of the song (what is right) without getting caught up in what is wrong with the song.  We don’t have to throw out the baby with the bathwater.

To redeem the song and move to useful dialogue we have to admit a few things:

1) We are all socially conditioned to be prejudiced against difference.  This includes race/ethnicity, ability, gender/sex, sexuality, age, standards of beauty, etc.   And we have to consciously resist what we are taught (consciously and unconsciously, in our households and friend circles, media and music, etc.) about engaging people who are different from us. The tone of the song in some ways reminds me of the well-meaning racism of students, over the years, who have prefaced a racist comment or declaration by saying, “I’m not racist, but…”  And that is what the song felt like, a half-assed apology, an excuse, a cop out.  In most cases racism is not accidental (though you will be hard pressed to find someone who will openly admit to being racist, sexist, classist, etc.,) it is a purposeful measure of hate passed down like an inheritance.  However, in some cases, I think racism (and other forms of discrimination against difference) is circumstantial (based on who you are, where you live, how you were taught).  But if/when you know better, you do better!  It starts with one conversation.

2)  White privilege is a real thing, and because of that privilege it is not necessary for people of color to ever “walk in a white person’s shoes” to understand a white person’s perspective.  The hegemonic, social, cultural, ubiquitous perspective is a white person’s perspective (to be exact, it is a white male Christian able-bodied, heterosexual, financially secure, educated perspective).  As Leonard Pitts, Jr., explained in his article in the Miami Herald, blackness is not an alien position, it is simply different from whiteness.  And pretending to not see color, and/or to say that being “like” someone is the only way to understand them is misguided.  You can know and learn about someone’s experience by exposure (how do you think POC are so familiar with whiteness, we can’t help but “know” it).  You don’t have to be marginalized to understand that privilege exists and it benefits some groups and not others. (I re-watched Another 48 Hours over the weekend and in it Eddie Murphy has a brilliant line in response to class disenfranchisement…he says, “if s*it were worth something, poor people would be born with no asshole”—I’m paraphrasing, but you get the point).

3)  There are ways of having honest conversations that take responsibility for our pain and issues, that acknowledge our history and legacies, and that leave room to move forward.  Forgetting and/or pretending the past didn’t happen is not the answer.  Trading conditional forgiveness (if you don’t stereotype me for this, I won’t stereotype you for that) is not the answer.  Victimizing (or victim-blaming) is not the answer.  Listening (to people about their experiences) and believing them is a good start.

4)  Paisley and LL don’t speak for all white and black people.

5)  We should be having honest conversations about race in the fullness of its complexity, not picking and choosing the sanitized parts that make us feel most comfortable.

As per usual, the range of responses to the song mimic how people react to discussions of racial discrimination all the time.  People are said to be “too sensitive” or too insensitive; we go from wanting to pretend it’s not relevant to making it more relevant than it supposedly deserves, and then people take sides with the race they identify with.  We need to move past ambivalence and blame… this song gives us the opportunity to have some very transparent and visible conversations about race and racism in the South and the triggers attached to it.  It can’t be about assuaging guilt, finding fault, or picking out who is to blame.  It needs to be about acknowledgment, understanding, and talking it out.  It is a conversation worth having on purpose, not by accident.

Sonia Sanchez and CF Jalylah at the Spelman College Women’s Research and Resource Center

But we knew. And
our knowing was like a sister’s embrace.

Sonia Sanchez, “A Letter to Dr. Martin Luther King,” homegirls and handgrenades (1984)

I first sat at the feet of Sonia Sanchez at Spelman College where I was assiduously loved and educated. Sanchez was invited by the Women’s Resource and Research Center to help train us up as scholar-activists in the Toni Cade Bambara way. She sipped water green with liquid chlorophyll while she spoke with us. It became my habit soon after.

Sonia Sanchez and Spelman College’s Toni Cade Bambara Scholar-Activists

Last winter when she was welcomed by the good folk in Yale’s Department of African American Studies, I nipped at her heels. I was seated at the back of a minibus of Black Studies-waymakers and sprinted after her when she politely beckoned the driver to stop so she could offer greetings to nearby Occupy New Haven activists. Later that night she retraced her footsteps as a founder of the field of study and not without critical reflection. She ended the evening by calling all assembled into a hand-clasped circle of gratitude.

Sonia Sanchez at Occupy New Haven December 9, 2011  (Photographed by Jennifer Leath)

Just yesterday I recovered a portion of my sense at the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture in Harlem. I went there to finish reading an out-of-print anthology of short stories by black writers that I had begun at Yale’s Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library. I had been working through anthologies of African American literature when I was interrupted by a major depressive episode. Three weeks into a successful medication regimen and in the thick of therapy, I am now returning to the privilege of this work. We Be Word Sorcerers, published in 1974, witnessed Sonia Sanchez assembling writings from the seas of black genius. Her careful curation said that the river has always been turning to paraphrase a poet I will always be carrying.

“My people, black and black, revile the River.
Say that the River turns, and turn the River.”

Gwendolyn Brooks, “The Sermon on the Warpland,” In the Mecca (1968)

By introduction Sanchez wrote, “The stories in this book are about us during our long journey to tomorrow.” The songs on this mix approach that arc that Black Studies enables, that Black Feminisms always extends. A distiller of language, Sanchez did not belabor the task. A page later she punctuated her introduction with these words:

We Be Word Sorcerers. Indeed. For we are the disenchanters of the gospel of inferiority, the exorcists of hatred of self, the enchanters of our renewed circle of Blackness where the love of self and each other has no Beginning or End.

Sonia Sanchez, “Introduction,” We Be Word Sorcerers: 25 Stories by Black Americans  (1974)

This is for the word sorcerers, chiefly my mother Julie.

always arriving: a black scholar’s mixtape

“Frederick Douglass Afro Sheen Commercial” (for geneva)
“Cloud 9” Donnie (for moya)
“A Different World Season 6 Theme” Boyz II Men 
“Breakthrough” Tia Fuller/ ”Black Studies” Sonia Sanchez (for spelman)
“Black Scholars” James Williams (for joe, kyra, daphne and ferentz)
“Abbeylude” Les Nubians
“Caged Bird” Abbey Lincoln
“Crow Dance” Zora Neale Hurston (for dr. gayles)
“Work To Do” Carl Allen and Rodney Whitaker/“Whoo” Sonia Sanchez (for elizabeth) 
“No Time To Play” Guru feat. Ronny Jordan, Dee C. Lee and Big Shug
“Work” Barrington Levy
“The American Promise” RAMP
“Bicentennial Prayer” Richard Pryor (for my dad)
“Ever” Zora Neale Hurston
“Women’s Love Rights” Laura Lee (for all my black feminist kin)
“Sweet Sister Funk” Ramon Morris (for the cfc)
“Black Enough” Galt Mac Dermot and Melba Moore
“Prelude Welcome” Francisco Mora Catlett/”Poem for July 4, 1995″ Sonia Sanchez (for yale afam)

[STREAM/DOWNLOAD]

If you ask me who held up the light, I could write a book. From Lakeside to Li Po Chun to Spelman Lane to Washington Square to 81 Wall Street but today on my radio program There Ought To Be More Dancing  I will call many of their names. Tune in from 4-5 pm EST on WYBC Yale radio.

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.

CF’s Moya and Jalylah at The March for Women’s Lives on April 25, 2004 in Washington, D.C..

“You are magnificent.” So read the final line of an email I received from the CFC’s Moya Bailey the first Friday of 2012. The subject line was, “Love for you in the new year!” It recalled the summer we became friends and its consequence on her journey. She offered thanks and called me by a name I still shrink from.

We met ten Junes earlier in Harlem. We both were attending Kevin Powell’s HipHop Speaks! event at Riverside Church. She wrote I said hello. I remember that being the first of many summer days we sat together. Wee hours talking on the steps of Union Square are what I mostly remember and dancing to Donnie at Brooklyn Academy of Music’s R&B Festival at MetroTech. She insisted on the genius of his debut, The Colored Section. I remembered the roar of Atlanta’s Yin Yang Café when he sang and underage-I checked IDs at the door but I was dismissive. I have always preferred pretend aloofness to exclusion.

We both had our dragons to slay. A few remain at my neck and, to their fiery breath, I will attribute my recent hair loss. To Moya, I will attribute unconditional love. Ever open to people and process, she has modeled courage. Ever-embracing, she has made me feel like enough even when I was a mess. It is good to know Moya and I call her name in celebration of sisterhood. I call her name because she constantly calls me and you to justice whether in her blessed company, in her brilliant classes, in this crucial collective, in her activism, in her writing or her epic good-time making.

This is how I celebrate Women’s History Month. I call magnificent the women who have worked miracles in my life from Mom to Moya, Geneva to Aisha, L’Erin to Kristel, Iquo to Simone, Sunanda to Courtney, Brooke to Amy, Devin to Marcia, Kimerie to Maxine, Gabby to Xenia, Jane to Velma, April to Kristen, Frances to Lynn, Nzingha to Elizabeth, Ebony to Malika, Alysia to Teresa, Evans to Jamila, Camara to Kandia, Ruby to Roberta, Sister Bisi to Tarshia, Kyra to Lyneka, Taneya to Tiona, Sabrina to Laylah, Ana to Adom, Gwendolyn to Georgia, Spelman College to Imani House and the gratitude goes on. The full can never be told but I will not stop trying and I invite you to do the same in the comment section, in an email, a blog post, a Tweet, a Facebook status or even an old-fashioned phone call. Spread love, it’s the feminist way.

thank you: a women’s history month mix

“Miss Celie’s Blues” Tata Vega
“Giving Something Up” Amel Larrieux
“Lag Time” Ani DiFranco/ “Crutches” Nikki Giovanni
“My Crew” Jean Grae
“Apple Tree” Erykah Badu/ “Apple Tree” [Live at Black Girls Rock] Erykah Badu
“Bad Girls (Switch Remix)” M.I.A. feat. Missy Elliott and Rye Rye
“Run The World (Girls)” Beyonce
“Estragen” Apani B-Fly Emcee feat. Ayana, Helixx, Heroine, Lyric, Pri The Honey Dark, What? What? & Yejide Apani B-Fly Emcee
“Grandmother And Mother’s Legacy” Radmilla Cody
“Black Mona Lisa” Lamya
“Star” Janelle Monáe
“Cinderella” The Cheetah Girls
“Making Friends: Episode 1” Chelsea Peretti
“You’ve Got A Friend” LaBelle
“Kind & Generous” Natalie Merchant

[STREAM/DOWNLOAD]

*Special thanks to Eesha Pandit. It was after receiving her International Women’s Day tweet of gratitude to members of this collective that I decided to make this mix.

We’d initially planned to post this the monday after the Oscars but other things were more pressing.

*Trigger Warning for expletives, misogyny, and violent lyrics*

Courtesy of FAAN Mail

In the remix to Future’s Karate Chop, Lil Wayne sings the “very unfortunate” (really, Fader?) lyric that compares sex to the beating of Emmett Till.

Pop a lot of pain pill’

‘bout to put rims on my skateboard wheel’

beat that pussy up like Emmett Till

“I just couldn’t understand how he could compare the gateway to life to the brutality and punishment of death,” said Aricka Gordon Taylor, Spokesperson from the Till Family. We can though. It’s happened before, from Wayne, and friends.

People are mad. Real mad. They’re even talking about it on the radio here in Atlanta, while simultaneously continuing to play the song with Emmett Till bleeped out. Folks are calling for a boycott of Clear Channel and the removal of the song from the airwaves. There’s Twitter activism in motion as well from Dream Hampton to shame LA Reid (who should be shamed, for this and more) because he should know better. Epic, Future’s label not Wayne’s, has apologized saying that this lyric won’t appear on the final version of the song and the Family has written an open letter to Wayne.

We understand why folks are mad and in no way want to diminish this important call to action. One of the things Moya hated about other media activism she’s been involved in is the question, “why you mad about this and why now?” We want to think about these lyrics in the context of calls by feminists of color to interrogate the problems of violent sex metaphors before the name of a slain civil rights icon was invoked. With this in mind, we want to add some thoughts to the growing conversation.

1. We need intergenerational conversations- “beating the pussy up” is a hip hop metaphor for sex that’s not new. We need and have been trying to have a conversation about the violence this metaphor (and others) conjures but folks using it don’t understand themselves to be talking about intimate partner violence when they use it. It is used by men and women to describe sexual prowess, not violence, despite its employment of the violence of “beating”. In reading the framing of the outrage we see elders taking issue with Till being compared to the “anatomy of a woman” and “domestic violence.” That’s not quite what’s happening and we wonder if intergenerational strategies can help alleviate some of these misreadings. Rather than domestic violence, perhaps we can shift our frame to think about sexualized violence and violent sexualities more broadly, which, to be clear, are not always practiced in the context of traditional understandings of intimate partner violence or under duress or coercion.  Patricia Hill-Collins already hipped us to the violence that undergirds many discussions of black sexual prowess in her incisive reading of black colloquial usage of the term “booty” and it dual meaning/invocation as both the spoils of war and conquest (i.e. violence) and as the long standing icon of black women’s sexual desirability.  Too much connection to be coincidental, no?  This framework might allow us to see how violent sexual prowess acted out on the bodies of women of color is a staple of hip hop and popular culture more generally.  The issue is not just the ill-informed invocation of Till’s brutal murder but the normalization of brutality acted on women’s bodies.

Additionally, what does bleeping out words on the radio do? Particularly when it’s part of a rhyme scheme? The absurdity of radio editing is just more than we can fathom sometimes. You want to protect children from hearing the words “Emmett Till” and “pussy” but not the “beating up” they are used in conjunction with?  Not to mention any other songs that have other violent metaphors that don’t have curse words in them that are perfectly fine for radio play. Can we talk to children as opposed to shielding them from certain words? Why are words bleepable but problematic concepts aren’t under review?

2. Is it because it’s Emmett Till? Perhaps we are bugging but doesn’t it disturb people that sex= “beating the pussy up” in the hip hop landscape already? Like “beating the pussy up” is only offensive insofar as Emmett Till is implicated through Wayne’s simile? In no way are we excusing this lyric but it’s interesting to us that the invocation of Till seems to move people in ways that regular misogynoir does not. Perhaps it’s because folks understand the dangers of the US’ ahistorical forgetting, a result of which is that many younger folks might not even know who Emmett Till is (even MTV had to assume the ignorance of their young audience when they first reported the fiasco). What a shame for those who will first come to know of Till through Wayne’s verse.  Yet, what shame for us all that we are yet again confronted with violence to women bodies and our outrage seems limited only to the context of its description.   We are not surprised by the lyric as it seems to follow the logic of “shock” that we see in verses by Wayne, Odd Future and others. Perhaps this outrage is a way to capitalize on people’s reverence for the freedom struggles of Black people but it makes us incredibly sad that the most women can hope for are comparative politics that attempt to equate our humanity to someone elses for it be understood as valuable. I shouldn’t have to be your sister, mother, cousin, daughter, Emmett Till for you to care when I say your words grate on people’s understanding of me as a person.

3. We don’t like the way people apologize for their critiques of hip hop and hip hop artists. We are conscious of the ways hip hop is denigrated but shouldn’t our work and carefully crafted statements be enough for folks to understand that a critique here is not a wholesale condemnation of the genre? We too find some of Wayne’s lyricism captivating but we shouldn’t have to say that before we say, “Dude, WTF?!” In the radio interview speakers go out of their way to talk about their critiques coming from a place of love and not from a place hate (while simultaneously calling the music poison; y’all should listen to this; there are layers). It reminds us a bit of what we are attempting to do with Feminist Care Packages. But it does make us wonder what do you do when you’ve said it all? When you’ve tried to remind people of your humanity and the humanity of other marginalized people and folks refuse to listen? Are there limits to the strategy of affirming before a critique is levied? Does that help artists hear their audience better?

We recognized that Hip Hop gets singled out for misogyny. But as Seth McFarlane, The Onion, and many others have let us know, white folks can handle that all by themselves.

4. Can we talk about what else is happening in these lyrics? Hip Hop’s love affair with weed isn’t news nor is its relationship to crack as means of commerce. However, the types of drugs referenced are changing – We’ve moved from Mary Jane to Molly, crack to codeine.   Where is the collective concern over these new narratives of addiction and the ways in which they might point to depression, PTSD, apathy, nihilism, etc.? Recreational drug use seems to be replaced with self medicating and binge activities. Moya is looking at some of these questions in her work on nihilism in the music and the ways in which Black mental health concerns are prevalent but go unacknowledged. In Wayne’s latest track, “pussy, money, weed, codeine” are rattled off as equivalent substances, raising more questions about the reduction of women to anatomy and object, consumable goods for self medicated consumption.

What do you think about this moment in music? What questions do you bring to the conversation?

We are always interested in the creative ways that hip hop fa(a)ns engage the music they love. Check out the latest such engagement from our friends at Colored Girls Hustle, with their version of All Gold Everything.

The Amazing Quvenzhané Wallis!

give your daughters difficult names. give your daughters names that command the full use of tongue. my name makes you want to tell me the truth. my name doesn’t allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it right. - Warsan Shire

Dear Quvenzhané,

Hi! My name is Moya. I am a big BIG fan of yours! I thought you were such a great actress in Beast of the Southern Wild. I planned to watch the Oscars and even started watching but I really hated the jokes host Seth MacFarlane was making at your expense. You had the Oscar before the show even started in my mind.

He wasn’t nice. Some of the people who have interviewed you and are talking about you have been really disrespectful. You’ve done such a great job telling people how to say your name. It makes me mad that people still can’t get it. People think it’s funny to make fun of Black girls with names like ours. When I was little people would say my name wrong on purpose. Even now, people hear me say my name and think I’m saying something that’s more familiar to them. How folks hear “Gwen” from Moya, I will never understand.

Dog purse

You are great! I love your name! And your puppy purses! How do you find them?! I am so excited that you will be in more movies!

Anyway I just wanted to send you some love! You have so much greatness in store for you!

So much love to you!

Your friend,

Moya Zakia B.

P.S. I thought I’d include some books you might like below and some really cool folks on Tumblr looked up some puppy purses you might want to check out too! I hope you had fun last night!

• Thank You, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.!
• Cornrows
• Mufaro’s Beautiful Daughters
• Cute dog purse
• Cute dog purse #2

Thank you to So-Treu, Guyanapeace, Alexcess, Writeswrongs, Fyeahquavenzhanewallis, Afrikkana, and Quixxotica for your Tumblr commentary last night and reminding us that Black girls are in fact girls and should be honored and loved as such. 

To Oscar Host Seth MacFarlane and to the person at The Onion who tweeted that horrible thing and deleted it,

My favorite biographical description of Alexis Pauline Gumbs is included in her Conscious Campus profile:  “Dr. Alexis Pauline Gumbs is a queer black trouble-maker and a black feminist love evangelist. She walks in the legacy of black lady school teachers in post slavery communities who offered sacred educational space to the intergenerational newly free in exchange for the random necessities of life. As the first person to do archival research in the papers of Audre Lorde, June Jordan and Lucille Clifton while achieving her PhD in English, Africana Studies and Women’s Studies at Duke University, she honors the lives and creative works of Black feminist geniuses as sacred texts for all people. She believes that in the time we live in, access to the intersectional holistic brilliance of the black feminist tradition is as crucial as learning how to read.”

Future Famous Black Woman

Dr. Gumbs is not just a brilliant teacher though–she is also a visionary, a community organizer, a black feminist powerhouse, an activist, a catalyst, a world-shaper, a publisher, an un-coverer, “a quirky black girl,”  a creative genius, a writer, and a poet.  She describes her latest ebook project 101 Things That Are Not True About the Most Famous Black Women Alive as, “a vaguely epic book of list poems that consider what it is possible to know about the most famous Black women alive including Oprah Winfrey, Condoleezza Rice, Michelle Obama, Beyonce Knowles, Serena Williams, Venus Williams, Halle Berry, Tina Turner, Gabby Douglas, and Aretha Franklin. Part prayer part polemic this project is an intervention into the consumption of Black women.”

These powerful poems punctuate the necessity and significance of the interior lives of famous black women, reminding us that like us (everyday folk) they have feelings, families, concerns, and emotional requirements.  In what can be described as love poems, 101 Things captures the humanity and versatility of lives the media sells us as one-dimensional.  Dr. Gumbs’ poems allow us to imagine, ever so briefly, what it might be like to be a black woman whose strongblackwoman mantle is put on display for the world to see, interrogate, and try to define.  She offers our larger-than-life women back to us as a reflection of ourselves:  vulnerable, regular, and seeking/needing/deserving sister love and protection.

The poems are thoughtful, soulful, analytical, beautifully written accounts that make you think deeply about what it might mean to be these women and what they share in common due to their race, sex and visibility.  Her focus on what is not true about these women challenges us to consider what might be true.  She shares in this interview that her poetic call is “for pause.”  She urges readers to take the time to interrogate what we are told about these women.  Dr. Gumbs also talks about why she loves black women, what inspired this project, whether or not she considers the women in this ebook to be feminist, and how she is learning to love Condoleeza Rice.  The truth drips from her lips and her words echo honesty and care.

For a brief Q & A promotional video about the project check out this interview… and by all means GET THIS BOOK!

You can download the ebook for a small donation to Eternal Summer of the Black  Feminist Mind by clicking the following link.

To learn more about APG and her current work and projects, visit her personal website , or this one, or this one, or this one!

Get Crunk!