BLUE LIP BLACK WITCH-CUNT

UNFRIENDLY BLACK HOTTIE (QUEEN READ #2)

TO THE MATTHEW/ROBERT/CHRIS/CHARLEY/SAMUEL:

WHO APPROACHES ME AT THE BAR, PROCEEDS TO PANDER TO AN APPARENT/INHERENT LACK OF MALE ATTENTION I RECEIVE BY COMPLIMENTING MY DANCING AND SINGING THE PRAISES OF PARIS IS BURNING, WHICH HE WATCHED STONED IN HIS SOPHOMORE YEAR ANTHROPOLOGY CLASS AND THOUGHT VENUS XTRAVAGANZA WAS KIND OF HOT

WHO CHOKES ON HIS DRINK WHEN WHEN I PREEMPTIVELY ASK IF HE REALLY THOUGHT IT WAS NOVEL THAT A) HE WATCHED SHEMALE PORN AND B) GOT HARD 

WHO IN SPITE OF SUCH WARNINGS INSISTS THAT I DESIRE TO BE DESIRED BY HIM, BITTERLY PROJECTING FRUSTRATION OVER WHEN HIS WALLET WAS STOLEN AFTER GETTING BOOPED MID HAND-JOB BY A ‘LADYBOI’ ON THE TRIP HE TOOK TO THAILAND WITH HIS BUDDIES FROM WESLEYAN LAST SUMMER

WHO REFUSES TO ACCEPT BEING TURNED DOWN BY ME IN DEFENSE OF HIS EGO, WHICH IS CURRENTLY SUSTAINED BY A BY DELUSIONAL PRODUCT OF HIS STONER SESSIONS LISTENING TO LOU REED’S WALK ON THE WILD SIDE AND OBSESSING OVER THE IDEA OF SEX WITH A TRANNY AS AN AVANTE-GUARDE FORM OF INTERCOURSE. I’M UNIMPRESSED

WHO, 3 DRINKS AND 1.5 HOURS EARLIER NERVOUSLY CHUCKLED WHEN I WAS CALLED A FAGGOT BY HIS INEPT FRIEND, AFTER WHICH BOTH  SCROLLED THE T4M SECTION OF CRAIGSLIST ON THEIR IPHONES IN THE BATHROOM ALONE

PLEASE STEP TO THE SIDE AND LET ME ENJOY MY THRONE PEACEFULLY

UNFRIENDLY BLACK HOTTIE (QUEEN READ #1)

TO THE ASHLEY/RACHEL/RE-BECCA/BRITNEY/LAURA:

WHO DRUNKENLY TOUCHES MY HAIR AND ASKS IF ITS IS REAL IN AN ATTEMPT TO MOCK MY FEMININITY IN SUPPORT OF THE ILLUSION THAT HERS IS ANYTHING MORE THAN A ‘MAYBE ITS (JUST LIKE A) RYAN MCGINLEY CANDID POLAROID MAYBE ITS A LOT OF FUCKING MAYBELLINE AND D-GRADE FLORAL SKIRT’ TOSS UP. 

WHO AGGRESSIVELY INSISTS THAT I DANCE FOR OR WITH HER AS A DISPLAY TO HER BOYFRIEND THAT SHE HAS CONTROL OVER MY FISH AS ENTERTAINMENT. WHO, IN DOING SO, INSISTS THAT I PERFORM A FAGGOT TAP DANCE THAT BETRAYS THE FISHY FLOW OF FEM QUEEN PERFORMANCE FORCING ITS WAY THROUGH THE INNERMOST WORKINGS OF MY BODY AND BRAIN

WHOSE IMAGINATIVE BREADTH CONCERNING IDEAS OF SELF IS RESTRICTED TO DISHEARTENING FANTASIES OF LIVING A DAY IN THE LIFE OF MARGOT TENNENBAUM, WINONA RYDER, CHLOE SEVIGNY, THE GIRLS FROM THE VIRGIN SUICIDES OR ASHLEY IN THE CHRISTOPHER KANE DRESS ON OPENINGCEREMONY.COM

WHOSE DRUNKEN ACCOSTING OF MY PERSON IS SPILLING PBR ON THE NYLON AND PAPER MAGAZINES NESTLED IN THE OUTSIDE POCKET OF HER MOMA/STRAND/NASTYGAL/URBAN OUTFITTERS TOTE THAT HOUSES CLIPPINGS FROM THE WEDDING ISSUE OF VOGUE, SETTING AWAY THE WEIGHTLESS, SUBSTANCE FREE SUBURBAN ASPIRATIONS THAT WILL ULTIMATELY MOTIVATE HER TO MOVE TO JERSEY OR PARK SLOPE IN HER 30s, HAVING SUCCESSFULLY LIVED AN OSTENSIBLY GLAMOUROUS’ NY LIFE DOCUMENTED, I ASSUME, IN THE NUMBER OF ‘FIERCE/CRAZY PPL’ SHE HAS DRUNKEN IPHONE PHOTOS WITH, SINGLE TAG: HERSELF

WHOSE TRAGIC LADY GAGA HOMOSEXUAL BEST FRIEND LOOKS ME IN THE FACE IN ALL SERIOUSNESS AND ASKS ME IF I GOT MY HAIR DONE AT THE SAME PLACE AS MYKKI BLANCO,

PLEASE STEP TO THE SIDE AND LET ME ENJOY MY THRONE PEACEFULLY

How do you deal with the social stigma of being trans in the black community? I am sure you’re hard to clock but do you ever feel discriminated against? Do you feel the aggression more from women? or scorned men who find you drop dead gorgi?

MY REPLY: 

Luckily I live in NY and although this city is by NO means free of trans-hate, I can generally choose to navigate in ways that allow me to minimize the risk that I’ll have to deal with explicit stigmatizing via verbal violence or otherwise. That being said, I still have to ride the train and participate in public spaces daily. The stigma that comes from the black community hurts the most, because of the wounded attachment I have to it. I grew up in the black community, was raised by a black family, and culturally LOVE my blackness. Unfortunately, that love is returned less and less as I transition more and more. There is slowly but surely a visibility (albeit limited and surely conditional) opening up for the black lgbt community, but the last group that will ever participate in this opening up is black transfeminine folks. So much of the black community centers around masculinity as the organizing point for our collective identity, even to the degree that it trumps homophobia in its pure form. The biggest example of this to me is the acceptance of female masculinity in the black community. Masculine women, assuming the masculinity they perform is hard enough, are often more accepted, even if on the condition that it not be explicitly linked to lesbianism (although even this isn’t always true - the fact that Set it Off even exists as central reference in black culture speaks to this). With that being said, femininity is generally denigrated and reduced to a servile position in relation to masculinity. I think that the disenfranchisement (economic, political or otherwise) of the black community as a whole has been equated with emasculation, and there has been a sort of collective identity formation around the idea of the black community as being robbed of its power (power being equated with masculinity). HERE is a detailed explanation on how i feel about all of this. Now, how do i deal? Well firstly, I have found a community here in NY that, when we congregate, allows me to be black, trans, cyborg, cunt, witch, and all of the other beautiful things that make me who I am. I’ve also found a family in my house (LADOSHA!) that is largely black and queer. The stigma that I deal with from the rest of the black community is generally easier to deal with knowing that I have my queer family to remind me that I am not less black by virtue of the fact that I’m a t-gurl. There is also a good portion of the black community that, even if in silence publicly, LIIIIIVES for my rage. I have been approached by mostly black women from the building I work in, the neighborhood I live in, my hometown among other places who have confided in me that they live respect and appreciate what I serve and how I serve it. It sucks that many of these same women are silent when men decided to turn it on me in public, but even just to know that the love is there means a lot to me. As far as black men are concerned … GIRL.

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I HATE WHEN PEOPLE ENTER DISCUSSIONS ABOUT RACE WITHOUT TAKING THE TIME TO EVEN DO A BASIC WIKIPEDIA SEARCH ON THE HISTORY OF THE ISSUES THEY’RE DISCUSSING. BEFORE YOU WRITE OFF FRUSTRATED AND IRATE RESPONSES TO RACISM AS POLITICAL CORRECTNESS OR SILENCING YOUR EXPRESSIVE FREEDOM, YOU SHOULD AT LEAST TAKE THE TIME TO UNDERSTAND THE HISTORY BEHIND WHAT YOU’RE SAYING. IT WOULD BE RIDICULOUS TO HAVE A CONVERSATION ABOUT, FOR EXAMPLE, SHARON NEEDLE’S ABILITY TO EXPRESS HERSELF VIA SHOCK VALUE AT THE PRICE OF POC AND TRANS PEOPLE WITHOUT  UNDERSTANDING THE HISTORY BEHIND THE WORDS AND POWER DYNAMICS THAT SHE WAS USING. ITS NEVER SIMPLY ABOUT PERMISSION TO EXPRESS. IF YOU HAVE A VIDEO OF A BLACK WOMAN ON A LEASH IN A SEXUAL CONTEXT, YOU DIDN’T ‘CREATE’ THIS IMAGE IN A VACUUM OF INFLUENCE AND ACCORDINGLY THAT IMAGE DOES NOT EXIST IN A VACUUM OF REFERENCES. QUESTIONS SUCH AS YOUR OWN ACKNOWLEDGEMENT/AWARENESS OF THE DYNAMIC THAT PROMPTED YOU TO FIND SUCH AN IMAGE ‘SHOCKING’ OR INTERESTING IN THE FIRST PLACE (OR LACK THEREOF) ARE CENTRAL TO THE CREATIVE GESTURE THAT YOU’VE MANAGED TO PORTRAY AS A QUESTION PURELY OF INTENT. I HAVE NO PROBLEM WITH THE FACT THAT PEOPLE CHOOSE TO USE OPRESSIVE LANGUAGE, IMAGES, ETC. I THINK YOU SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO SAY AND DO WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT, IF FOR NO OTHER REASON THEN TO SHOW (ESPECIALLY WHEN VIEWED IN A LARGER CONTEXT) A BLATANT EXAMPLE OF THE COLLECTIVE UNCONSCIOUS IN ACTION. I DO, HOWEVER, HAVE A PROBLEM WITH THE PREMISE THAT YOU SHOULD BE PROTECTED OR IMMUNE FROM THE RESPONSES OF THOSE WHOSE REACTIONS ARE CONSCIOUSLY OR UNCONSCIOUSLY INFORMED BY THE HISTORIES YOU WERE TOO IGNORANT OR OBLIVIOUS TO EVER TAKE THE TIME TO UNDERSTAND. THE ONLY REASON SOMEONE LIKE BROOKE CANDY IS SHOCKING IS BECAUSE OF THE REFERENCES SHE MAKES. IF SHE HAD DONE THE SAME VIDEO WITHOUT THE HAIR, WITHOUT THE HOOP EARRINGS, WITHOUT THE ‘CHOLA’ (SELF-PROCLAIMED) INFLUENCE, WITHOUT THE FEMALE BRAGGADOCIO THAT SHE GOT ON LOAN FROM LINGERING PERCEPTIONS OF WOMEN OF COLOR, SHE’D BE AN IRRELEVANT WHITE GIRL RAPPING IN A NASAL ARTIFICIALLY TOUGH VOICE FOR THE APPEAL OF STRAIGHT DUDES WHO THINK ITS ‘SUBVERSIVE’ THAT SHE’S WEARING STRIPPER CLOTHES AND ‘EMBRACING’ THE WORD SLUT WITH A PACK OF 14 YEAR OLD BOYS STARING AT HER CHEST AND AN ASIAN CHILD ON A LEASH THAT I PRAY LEAVES THE EXPERIENCE WITH NO SCARS. BROOKE CANDY DEPRESSES ME, NOT BECAUSE SHE USES THESE INFLUENCES, BUT B/C SHE’S CLEARLY TOO OBTUSE TO KNOW WHAT THEY MEAN OR WHY SHE’S USING THEM. I’M STILL WORKING ON MY READ READ OF THIS WHOLE CARRY, BUT I ENCOUNTERED A LOT OF THINGS TODAY THAT, IN TANDEM WITH THE GENERAL UNACKNOWLEDGED RACIAL CLIMATE WE’RE IN (A BLACK WOMAN WAS SET ON FIRE BY THE KKK BTW), IS LESS NAUSEATING OR ANGER-INCITING THAN NUMBING. BOOP GENERALLY

"AGREED"

Mere transvestism is not the same as drag and drag is not the same as transitioning. Although there is no clear demarcation between these categories of gender performance, there are differences that impact  how individuals that inhabit these spaces relate to each other and to the world around them.

Transvestism/Cross-dressing implies that a male-identified man chooses to wear women’s clothing. Aside from private fetishes, the more developed form of transvestism  often expressed through exaggerations of femininity for aesthetic or entertainment value, is drag. Irregardless of the intent of the male who chooses to engage any range of activities from mere transvestism/cross dressing to the art of drag, your performance is encoded with social and cultural meanings, many of which you may or may not be in control of.

To equate the act of mere cross-dressing or its ‘everyday’ nature with a directed or subversive performance of feminine power is to equate the brilliance of drag with (what is inevitably) circumstantial entertainment value.

Although the category trans relates to a range of identities, there is a thoughtlessness and eagerness with which many engage the title as the core (or antithesis) of their identity, and such dismissive and purely discursive acts risks reducing the bodily lives of those of us who bear the weight in-the-flesh of that title. Those of us who exist in a world where, whether on stage or not, our bodies have wounded and inescapable attachments to the word trans, whether we want to or not. Many of our lives, performances, or personas complicate and question the validity of these categories, but such complications shouldn’t forego scrutiny merely by virtue of the fact that they ‘play with gender’ at all. At a time when the visibility of gender variance is increasing under an uninformed and prejudice public eye, I think its imperative that we not forget to think about what the categories we operate in and with mean, not just for ourselves, but to the world around us.

SOME DAYS TRANSITIONING CAN BE SUCH A CRASH COURSE IN PUBLIC SCRUTINY. ITS AS IF THE GENERAL PUBLIC FORGOT THE BASIC IDEA THAT ITS RUDE TO STARE. ITS GETTING ON A TRAIN FILLED WITH EYES DETERMINED TO DECIPHER MY BODY AND ITS COVERINGS WITH CODES AND SEMIOTIC SYSTEMS THAT CAN’T EVEN RECOGNIZE MY FACE. ITS CIS MEN, OLD AND YOUNG, FLUCTUATING BETWEEN DISGUST, SEXUAL INTEREST AND/OR A REFUSAL TO ENGAGE EITHER OF THE TWO. ITS CIS WOMEN, YOUNG AND OLD, SPITTING ON MY FACE WITH THEIR EYES, SHAMING ME WITH GLARES. ITS A WORLD OF PEOPLE HURRYING TO GET TO THEIR 9 TO 5 AND TRUCK IT BACK HOME BEFORE THEY HAVE TO DEAL WITH THE SPACE I’M PRESUMED TO NATURALLY INHABIT - THE UNREGULATED LAISSEZ-FAIRE MARKET OF DESIRE SYMBOLIZED BY THE NIGHT. I AM AN UNWELCOME REMINDER THAT THEIR WORLD IS AN ILLUSION. A VIRUS INCARNATE

NORTH CAROLINA TOURIST DADDY WITH A BROAD RED CHEST FANNY PACK PENNY LOAFER AND AMBIGUOUSLY GENDERED ARYAN CHILDREN IN TALBOTS PIQUE POLOS

The aesthete faggots were in their own world of nostalgic sub-cultures organized around lived dreams of undying youth: tragic androgynes glamorously avoiding middle-age life.

HE SPOKE TO ME WITH A MUTED BRAGGODICIO THAT LURED MY EMOTIONAL TRUST IN INDEFINITELY

DALE

"Stand up and dance for me," he said, pissed at me for prolonging the engagement and mesmerized by the sheen of my freshly baby-lotioned body. I rolled my hips in a pendulum pattern, shifted my weight to one side and rolled my hands down my right leg. Dale was lighting candles now. Determined to erase the dirty rag aura of the College Station Comfort Inn, the candles filtered the smell.of the 15 year old long-past-due-for-a-filter-change air conditioner.

"Bend over."

Which I did, feeling the rush of daddy validation as Dale, the 46 year old consultant from Biddings prepared himself for baptism. He was unable to loose his 15 year old self and so what began as an benign adolescent desire became a fixation. I was his fix and 5 minutes later he went in to shoot. The thick and frictious oil sank into my skin when he tried the first shot. Dale sublimated nearly directly the fixation itself and the frustration that accumulated as a result.


"Be good and relax baby, daddy is going to treat that tight pussy right."


He went in again and I held back the urge to scream. His pupils dilated as I cried, tensing up and pulling away from him. I could see his pores raise and the sweat drip down his face while he tried to make me daddys girl. But my pussy wasn’t having it. My sphincter tore and I pulled away a final time.

"I can’t do this" I said

"Well suck me off and give me a handjob"


45 minutes later I was in his van on the way home. He dropped me off and I knew I would never stand up to him again.

RUDE

I felt like it was rude, even if unintentionally so. I had reached that harrowing point in my pre-life crisis where emotions invested in him were sensitive reminders that i hadnt bottomed out on a plateau of inertia and under achievement. I loved my life as a creature of a NY night, but he wasnt there. He saw me in ways dead to those i surrounded myself with and reminded me that they were there, quietly informing me when they could be heard over my headphones on the train and the speakers that ushered in my nightly intoxication. I dressed and I danced and I lived as a drunk work of art, funneling my literary and aesthetic inclinations into the auto-construction of an urban muse. If I couldnt absorb knowledge I would (at least try) to embody an inspire it. In a moment that spared me at least a week of anxiety and sleep-deprivation fueled pseudo-depression, my friend Jeremy quoted one of oscar wilde’s aestheticist aphorisms to flatter me and I was elated. I couldn’t tell if i had delusional-y slipped into extreme megalomania or if I was reaping the rewards for years of servitude to the projections  and violence of the world outside of this strange extraterrestrial solstice that never seemed to end. While most lived in the shadows of “old new york” i had managed to find a place among those who simultaneously lived and idolized each other without mourning decades past. A playground of queers and adonises - young at heart even if in contrast to actual years accumulated - set against a horizon of romanticized joblessness, cultural unrest and general aversion to the political world-as-is that everyone on earth continued to fret over.

THE DIFFERENCE

The difference is clear. The way that dress sits on your body is clear. The way that wig sits on your head, itching to be taken off. The extensions hanging from your head are costume accomplices to a minstrel crime. Transparent to the eyes and clear in intent. Less intentional malice than a sense of term-free liberation you make clear that the performative gesture is theatrical and separate from yourself. Praised for your bold spirit at night and on stage, the day and the street unveil your so called courage as fear. A fear not of your deflowered feminine virginity but of the isolation that the true soldiers among us face everyday.

IM OBSESSED. FAÇODOMY WAS STARTED BY ONE OF MY SISTERN RILEY WHO I  RECENTLY HAD AN INTENSE HEART TO HEART WITH ABOUT THE FACT THAT I OFTEN FEEL ALONE IN SITUATIONS WHERE BLATANT TRANSPHOBIA COMES UP IN SOCIAL SITUATIONS (STRAIGHT OR QUEER) AND NOBODY SPEAKS UP ABOUT IT. IM OFTEN SILENCE OUT OF SHEER AWE AT THE AUDACITY, OUTRAGE OR BECAUSE I’M NUMB TO THE BULLSHIT. WE WORKED THROUGH A LOT OF THINGS IN THIS CONVERSATION AND A FEW THINGS STUCK WITH ME.

Pronouns are honestly not that hard to address or change. Making a drawn out and dramatic show of ‘adjusting’ to changing pronouns is a passive aggressive way of refusing to respect someone. Identifying someone’s desire to use a different pronoun should not be written off as a phase as carrying as drama or as something that is ‘absurd’ given the presentation of that person. This is dismissive of the internal pain and struggles that trans and gender variant people deal with everyday, not to mention the violence and constant sense of mis- and dis- identification forced on us by the general public. Regardless of what  someones presentation is, you should take their request for specific pronoun use with full respect b/c it can sting a lot more than you think, especially coming from people who are supposed to be your peers. I’m not carrying to ask you to use ‘she’, you’re carrying to have such a stake in linking pronouns with what your ‘normal’ idea of gender is … its so sad coming from gay ppl too who don’t even realize their doing the same shit they think their exempt from doing by virtue of their sexual orientation

Be aware of whats going on around you, b/c chances are you’re making a lot of small decisions to ‘not see’ shit that going on around you. The number of times that i’ve sat in spaces and blatantly been attacked, dismissed or derided b/c of my gender presentation and after the fact been told by others that they ‘didnt see it’ or ‘didn’t know it was going on’ is so shock value. Making a series of small choices to avoid the reality of trans or gender variant people in your loives is still a choice. If you are in a room where someone is being misgendered and claim to not notice it then you are simultaneously stating the fact that you don’t notice that person as real. Its insulting to be told that a part of your reality that so clearly is fundamental to your sense of self and safety is functionally an afterthough of those who claim to love you. Don’t be like that white person who says they don’t get “why black ppl are angry” and sits at a party watching blatant (albeit at times ubiquitous) racism going down.

Its not my responsibility to call ppl out, its your too. If you take me seriously as a person, don’t look to me and insist that i need to ‘start saying something’ or ‘putting people in check’ so that i can be typecast as the carrying political queen that has a chip on her shoulder. Putting trans* and gender variant ppl into that position is bullshit and makes it out responsibility to both deal with the bullshit and address it on our own. Whats even more terrifying is the thought of what happens when there is none of us in the room. What do a room full of gay men do when shit like this goes down? Stare at each other and awkwardly avoid the topic and let out a breath of relief when you realize no one is there to be offended in person?

THIS SHIT HAS GOT TO STOP. AND GAY PPL SHOULD BE DOING BETTER. I LIVE IN NY IN A MOSTLY QUEER COMMUNITY AND THIS IS SHIT I DEAL WITH REGULARLY, SO I CAN ONLY IMAGINE WHAT THE REST OF WORLD IS GOING THROUGH. CALL A BITCH OUT PLS … IT WOULD END A LOT OF TEARS PAIN AND ISOLATION

facadomy:

This one is for you Juliana

The white kids—the güeras—you can’t trust ‘em. The junkies are the worst kind, eh. They’re too weak for the life. They got the nice pad to live in, always had it nice, got a bedroom just for them and their shit. Not sharing with no one. Then they get greedy. Nothin’s ever enough for ‘em. Just like that they’re doing six, seven balloons a day. Like there’s an unlimited supply. C’mon, ain’t no one’s gonna give ‘em enough feria to keep that up. So they come to you with the wet eyes, thinking you’ll give a shit. That’s how they do things in their neighborhood. That’s how they get by: “Oh, Ernesto, please. I need it. I had a bad day; I had a bad week; I’m stressed.” Sometimes, if I’m in a good mood, I’ll let ‘em bullshit me…I might go easy…But hey, I wouldn’t fuck ‘em. Not the white bitches, not the junkies, naw. But it gets me hard when they offer. It gets me hard just to say, “al rato”; leave ‘em standing there in my neighborhood all alone. Where they don’t know nobody. Nothing they know means shit. Their wet eyes are everywhere and they don’t buy you heaven. Not tonight, baby.

Bullet Man (Ernesto), Mi Vida Loca, on dealing with white clients

I find this quote to be a terrifying, problematic and simultaneously beautiful depiction of Ernesto’s (as a megaphone for the Chicano community he is part of) relationship to whiteness, particularly the way he juxtaposes disgust and sexual fascination with white entitlement, desire(ability), and the power of white tears. Its a tenuous moment where I am both apprehensive at the gender dynamic of what he says, but in many ways appreciate the metaphor and what it suggests about communities of color insofar as they’re framed as masculine in relation to white people as a feminine and deserving/warranting of sympathy. The white junkie as a central figure of the film (and life generally) fascinates me, as it complicates the roles of whos in power and who is not. Ernesto is disenfranchised in many ways  independent of choice. The white junky, arguably at some point, made a choice to indulge their habit, yet at this point is powerlessly addicted (at least one can imply as much). One resorts to tears, the other to an indifference informed by the powerlessness of his tears, the powerlessness of his appeals to be taken seriously by the world outside of (and in many ways within) his neighborhood.