Tag Archives: queer

Questions in August 2014

            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be 

in the streets, with my thoughts in front of me

ten feet.

            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be on 

a tree, swinging slowly, 

feet dangling?

            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be 

on a fence, scaring crows


            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be

in a class, my head across the glass as the

screen blinks/

            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be

in a street, with my skirt and 

legs open?

            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be 

on a sidewalk, throat 

pulled in

            Will they find me? 

Where will they find me?

Will I be 


Or will they hide me

will they wise up and hide me?

            Will they find me? 

Where will I be when

they come for me 



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That Moment When Lafayette Read The Nation

“Has it ever occurred to that I want a piece of happiness to. Lafayette that queen who makes you white heterosexuals feel happy? No.”

I am sure that the quote is not 100% accurate but forgive me because I was too busy screaming, “Speak my life!” It was not because it was such a great read, I mean it was an epic read, but I screamed because so many times in my queer black life I have been made to feel as if I am to exist solely for the pleasure of straight females, or the curiosity of straight white folk, or to teach straight black folk about gay and queer rights, to convince masculine gay guys that fem guys deserve more respect than we are given by our brothers, or to tell white gay folk why Sierra Mannie’s article deserves something better than a “Bye Felicia.” I have been made to feel this way and I refuse it; I struggle against it on a regular basis.

It becomes repetitive.

It becomes too familiar.

It makes you numb.

This can be exhausting.

So, when Lafayette said his speech he was not speaking only to Jessica, nor was he speaking for all gay folk; he couched his words in a rhetoric that acknowledged sexuality, race, and gender performance. He was speaking to so many of you about us.

We black femme queer bois and gurlz want that piece of happiness and we don’t exist for any of you.

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“Let’s Take A Long Walk…”

I hear the question every time I leave my house; I step onto a sidewalk and walk: one foot in front of the other, my hips unhinged, dropping in diagonal directions to the beat of whatever diva coos in my ear; I walk deliberately and with an awareness that each time I move, I do so to the rhythm of: Who… do… you… think… you… are?

I answer with my body: more than big, gargantuan, and soft, unmistakable. It should be unruly but I swing all my pounds gracefully, demanding space, commanding attention. I will not cower. I will not apologize.

I strut down city streets because I am not supposed to, because I can. I have paid the price; the ticket is in my pocket. I feel your brother’s eyes on my chest. I have felt eyes on my chest since I was a boy standing in midwestern high school hallways; I have felt the hands connected to those eyes of greedy sweaty pimple faced white boys who didn’t take “No!” as an answer. I fought the hands that reached past my “NO!” and grabbed my chest to preview what Friday night with their girlfriends would feel like. “Who do you think you are?”

I, the tank with a little sugar, slink down the avenue. I am searching for sweet potatoes. The big ones are the sweetest, their flesh the deepest orange. I, the tank with a little sugar, slink down the avenue for potatoes to boil in water and mash with butter and sugar and milk and spices. Sunday is soon and there will be pie. We took the pie with us to Angleterre; we left the pumpkin in Amérique. I slink toward the shucking of corn, toward buttered dough made soft by brown hands, toward a salty smoked bone placed in the freezer, toward ham fanned on a plate, toward tough greens made soft. I slink toward Sunday. I slink away from bruschetta and small bites, away from thinly sliced fish, away from fish that can swim out of its roll, away from crepes with Nutella. I slink away from Friday. I slink about this town gathering my mind. I slink South. I, the tank with a little sugar, slink to the buzzing of that hot question: “Who do you think you are?”

The question stabs me everyday when you, yes you, look at me. I close my eyes and see myself: A figure, large and black. My edges dissolve into the soft black shadows that ziggs and zaggs through the city, limitless. Those parts of me forever trailing away from me, forever infinite. But my core, that stands out against the brilliant white of the city. A city that glitters all around me, sounding like coins fighting each other as they cut through the air, falling but never reaching a floor. This American city that does not hunger for me. If it devoured me, it would vomit me up. But, I bite it, lick it, kiss it, tear at its flesh and swallow, and call it love.

“Who do you think you are?” I answer:

I am a “We.” “‘Who we be’?” We be screamers, dancers, singers, and dreamers. “‘Who we be’?” The children of the first hym and hir. The South’s forgotten ones. “‘Who we be’?” No one named Tom; we know no Jemimiah. We have no uncle named Ben. “‘Who we be’?” Sugar made hard, candy laced with testosterone. Who are you? Hungry little ones craving something sweet. “‘Who we be’?” Jawbreakers. Who are you? Little boy lost and little girl scared; children who ate the lady’s house and blamed her for wanting justice. Who are you? Just Jacks and Jills dropping the pail because you were busy trying to kiss. “‘Who we be’?” Stars fucking, knowing that “this nut might kill us,” still; we engage in that “revolutionary act.” We be not shadows but suns. All that heat you feel be us twerkin’. We be young. We be gifted. We be the song that bird sings.

“‘Who we be’?” The originators of you.
Who are you? Imitators of us.

I switch all through the fucking city––––– the whole fucking city.

*For my fellow black queer brothers and sisters. We stomp all over this town they call America.

(Contains references to Nina Simone, Maya Angelou, Essex Hemphill, Marlon Riggs, Jill Scott, and my Mother and Grandmother’s kitchens.)

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I want a disruption, a commotion,

an explosion.

Sing out loud in the restaurant,

sing out loud in the library,

sing out loud in the lecture hall.

And scream

at the house,

at the green grass,

at my car parked on the curb in front of the plastic mailbox,

scream till blood runs

and coats my throat;

scream that this suburban life is killing me.

I had a dream

that one day I would be fucking

beautiful, in NYC,

and setting the sidewalk aflame with my sashay. I had a dream


And it exploded in my mind.

And it exploded in my mouth.

And it exploded in my hand.

I have no dream.

Only a deep aching need,

for disruption

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When I let myself wander–not wonder, for this for me always implies childhood amazement of the cotton-candy tinted variety–into the back parts of my mind, I ask–quietly and plainly–the questions: Who sings for the kid who never walked or threw or caught a ball? Who sings for the boy who is a speck of dust in a snow filled class photo but deemed soft and white on the inside when surrounded by his supposed reflections? Who sings for the boy with limp hands and a loose gait? Who sings for the boy passed around from one man to the next but is never asked his name? Who sings for the boy buying skin fade creams? Who sings for the boy too fat to ride the rides? Who sings for that boy still demanding love? Who sings for boys like these, outcasts casted out? Then it comes to me: I do. I sing for him with a voice of bird just escaped from the fire. But he shall hear the call and find it beautiful.

But, to ask, “who sings for the dark boy,” always and already places him in a position of need and dependence; moreover it is a useless question because we all know the answer, nobody sings for his body. The better linguistic movement would be to say: I sing for the dark queer fat boy passed around from one anonymous man to the next; I sing for him-looking-for-validation-in-the-dark; I sing for him because he is I and I am he so when I sing for me I sing for we. The question is not, nor has it ever been, who sings for the dark queer boy–we do and brilliantly–but why do you make a dedicated effort to not hear the truths of which we sing?

Magpie Songs

When I let myse…

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Queer Body Project (Our Queer Bodies Ourselves)

Maybe, probably, it has existed before but I want to try to do a queer bodies project, “Our Queer Bodies Ourselves”; the question is: What is a queer body? For our purposes a queer body is a body that does not conform to beauty ideals: obese bodies, bodies marked by disfigurement or disease, average bodies, bodies in transition, bodies that are “too dark” or “too light,” bodies like mine–perhaps bodies like yours. Every movement starts with bodies; so, if, from the start, the movement does not challenge the idea that certain bodies are better, superior, to others then that movement is destined to be a failure. That movement will not , cannot create change, only accommodation. We want change. Email all pics and any writings to Blaqueer@gmail.com or tweet pics to @Blaqueer or @MLukas82.  I can’t do this alone but hopefully together we can (re)start a conversation. Image

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On: Why Queer?

Someone, again, asked me “why queer? It means weird and odd and is a [pejorative]; I prefer gay.” And to that I said that “gay” can be used as a pejorative as well and carries with it, especially as it is most commonly publicly performed now, an air of homonormativity. But I should add: 
I choose queer because for me gay is about my dick, my ass, my lips, my heart and that is it; it tells you very little about me. Queer is about my dick, my ass, my lips, my heart, my mind, my walk, my talk, my wrists, my hair, my skin, it is my body, all of me is essential and central. For me queer is my embracement of how most people actually live their lives–whether they recognize it or not. My queer politics does not work along side my racial politics or my gay politics or gender politics, etc, but these are all my queer politics.

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New HuffPost Blog Post

New HuffPost Blog Post

I even used the term “blaqueer.” Share the post luvs.

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Born This Way?

A little grad student and queer theory humor. Sent to me by a friend in response to my post about the born this way song:

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