Press Release For Northern Illinois University

“Shine a light through an open door/love and life I will divide/turn away cause I need you more/feel your heart beat in my mind…”

It hurts to be disappointed. It hurts to hurl your expectations onto a time, place, or person and watch as those projections disintegrate before you, leaving behind the full, naked, nuanced truth. Even though I know that “expectations are resentments under construction*,” I have found myself still harboring them, still longing for someone(s) to be that which I can only, really be to myself. I have found myself doing this with black queer men more than any other group. There is something about someone who shares your face, your identity, and many facets of your experience that makes it easier to obscure their individuality and subconsciously inscribe onto them your private judgments and unrequited desires.

I have gone through a time when I really wanted—and thought I needed—a group of black queer men to be something to me.  I longed for a space where I did not have to verbalize, but just feel. A space that could mirror the communities I had seen and admired (and as someone who can only exist at the periphery of them, eroticized) among queer and lesbian feminist women of color. From my vantage point, those communities seemed to be more adept at holding the nuances of human behavior, the dichotomies of desire, friendship, and betrayal while still maintaining connection. This is not to say that women of color communities were utopias of healing, nor that violence or disconnection did not regularly occur. Goddess knows this is not the case, and I want to be careful in not spreading this idea, as I feel it has helped the continual minimization of violence within these communities. However, it is to say that from where I stood as a queer male looking into queer male dynamics, these spaces appeared to have counter narratives, whether in use or not, that had the potential to be more healing and whole.

In my time engaging in feminist queer men of color spaces, I found that we were often too busy trying to be fierce, read each other or engage in intellectual dick fighting to be of much use to each other emotionally. These combative narratives combined with sexual predatory socialization, intellectual worship, and patriarchal ownership seemed to rule our spaces, too often in the absence of a competing narrative to counter those dynamics. My perception of this led me to participate in many attempts to create feminist-inspired healing communities with queer and gay men.

The first time I tried to be part of the creation of such a group was in Atlanta. Though we were not all black, this was the first space where I found camaraderie in not just political philosophy, but in mutual support and love. We met and cooked together, wrote together, and shared stories about our lives.

Our group was not without its challenges. Most hurtful among them for me was the choice of one of the members to leave abruptly. In his leaving, he offered us a short email where he said that he wasn’t sure he believed in what we were doing anymore. There was no deeper explanation, and he declined our attempts to create a conversation or learn more about what he meant. His leaving, while clearly a part of personal challenges he was dealing with, created a chasm for some of us. It was not spiteful, but still It reminded us how quickly men—fathers, loved ones, partners—can disconnect and leave us without explanation or accountability. It was in my opinion, a part of a small wound that escalated into other challenges that made it difficult to maintain the collective.

A few years later, I left Atlanta and moved to New York. Looking back, I realize that I left partly because I was looking for black, queer, feminist, male community.
While ATL was not short on black gay men, black men who were feminist, queer, radical, of my generation, and residing in The Bible Belt South were rare. Googly-eyed, I saw the many amazing queer men of color in New York as potential members of the space I longed for. I even expressed with many of those men my desire to create such a community. In my naiveté, I didn’t stop to consider that I was entering a dialogue that predated me. I also didn’t realize that even though we shared similar ideas and political philosophies, those commonalities did not always mean we shared an emotional connection or that we even liked each other. I also quickly learned that the things that had been imbued in us as men— competitions for power and control, sexual exploitation, inherent distrust, and an inability to connect emotionally without ownership—was not easily abdicated. I also learned that though my own ideals were high, I was hardly free from these dynamics.

In respect to black queer men, New York has definitely had its lessons.

One lesson came during a dinner. At this dinner, several black queer men and I talked openly about our fear of being vulnerable with each other. We talked about how we still, as queer men, look to women to be our emotional caretakers and nurturers. Even seeing the inherent sexism in this, we admitted our dread of being emotionally close to each other and of trusting each other. I shared that even though I have close queer male friends, they are not the first people I call in times of crisis. They are instead the people I speak to after the storm has passed. They are the people I call on once I can reflect and discuss the lessons I have learned, not the people I call when I need to cry.

Reflecting on this conversation and many others makes me realize that my past experiences have hardened my heart. I realize how that wounding has led to fear. I know I am afraid of what we are capable of– I know I am afraid of what I am capable of. I am horrified knowing that I can be cut, stabbed, and beaten emotionally without any compassion or remorse. I am horrified at how easy it is to hate each other and how hurriedly we can rush to condemnation. I am frustrated with the lack of emotional courage to express grievances directly. I am scared of being left when it gets too hard, or when it’s not “cute” or “trendy.” I am scared of being used as a token or a trophy to be carried around as a symbol of someone else’s socio-political relevance. I have a lot of fear.

I know releasing my fear means I must forgive. It also means that I have to ask myself: What am I getting from my fear that supports my allegiance to it? How does my fear serve me? The answers are sobering.

I recognize my own addiction to these unhealthy narratives. Believing that no black queer men are emotionally available has helped me to keep a “woe is me” attitude. The belief helped me pretend that it was others who were not available, instead of looking at how I was making myself unavailable to others.  I was so busy viewing others through my idealized projections that I wasn’t seeing them for who they were. Just like a stereoptypical Libra, my disappointment came when my image of them no longer could be rationalized through their actions.

Although it’s hard, I know I have to forgive myself for expecting black queer men to be anything other than who they are. I have to forgive the choices they made and have compassion for the consequential trauma and wounds. I have to forgive myself for having unrealistic expectations of me. I have to forgive black queer men for all the times they were absent when I needed them. I have to forgive myself for hurting black queer men. I have to forgive black queer men for hurting me. I have to open my heart, petal by petal, and let out all of the pain. I must pull back all of the projections, and see the world as it is, not how I wish it would be…..

A long time ago, I made a ridiculous promise to myself. I promised myself that no black gay/queer friend of mine would pass away the way Joseph Beam reportedly did. I told myself I would work tirelessly to try to create a community where no black queer person could rot away and never be missed or decay and never be called. I told myself that only a feminist and womanist inspired black queer community could make such a reality possible.

Now at a crossroads, I recognize the implausibility of such a reality coming into being any time soon.  I know that while we can write grants, papers, and establish non-profits to try to save our lives, learning to be consistently tender with each other, transforming our emotional narratives, and taking care of each other is another task entirely. I know my own limitations and I have serious questions about how committed we are to our patriarchal emotional norms. I am skeptical and unsure if our programming will always undermine our potential.

What I can say is that even in my own pain, I have hope. I know that we are loving each other everyday in the best way we know how. I trust that we all will continue to grow in love with each other everyday. Even when things get hard. Even when things in this world and with each other seem hopeless. I know we can and will continue to find love in all its forms. I know I will continue to try to keep my heart open. I hope we all will.  Not just for ourselves, but for Joseph.

-Yolo

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*As stated by Author Anne Lamott

photo by Swedish Carana   This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic License.

Recently, my good friend Moya Bailey sent me the following post via tumblr:

http://ourcatastrophe.tumblr.com/post/21377821535/probably-my-most-unpopular-opinion-is-that-i-just

The post, written by a person named Liz, raised some important points that often get dramatically overlooked within the context of emotional justice and masculinity.
She questioned the idea that men sharing their feelings is an inherently feminist act, ( a concept that has been running through many feminist and pro-feminist circles as of late) and that she, or women in general, should care whether or not men learn “how to cry.” Liz also challenged the idea that men struggle expressing their feelings and that gender as a whole plays any part in this challenge. Lastly, Liz questioned whether it was true that men did not know how to express their feelings, or if it was more likely that we did not know how to express our feelings in a manner that was not manipulative or abusive.

I’d like to share what Liz’ piece brought up for me.

1. Men Sharing Feelings As A Feminist Act

Men share their feelings all the time. We curse. We rage. We scream. We read.  Most of us really don’t have any problems publicly expressing our rage, frustration, or anger—which are all definitely feelings. So, is the sharing of (those) feelings always a feminist act?  Hell no. And I would have to agree with Liz on this, because the idea that simply sharing feelings is feminist is downright laughable.  In my opinion, it is not the expression of feeling that is feminist, but the dynamic through which that feeling is expressed.

Allow me to explain what I mean by feminist, because my understanding of the term may be a little different from how it is normally used. When I ask if a dynamic is feminist, I’m wondering if the act in the question is one that promotes an equitable engagement. Is it taking place in a spirit of sharing, connection, and honesty? Is it considering all of the power dynamics at play (gender, race, ability, sexuality) and taking steps to address them? Are all parties involved given an equal space to convey their perspective?

For instance, expressing emotions in a way that violently attacks, assaults, or belittles another, to me, is not feminist. An emotional dynamic where someone is being used as an emotional dumpster is not feminist.  An emotional dynamic where someone is being ridiculed or demeaned is not feminist. It doesn’t matter who the agent is in the situation. These nuances and many more point to why a discourse that states that men expressing their feelings is a feminist act without context is dangerous, and in my opinion, ultimately irresponsible.

SIDEBAR 1: There are ways to express how we are feeling that do not rely on vengeance and violence. Those methods are largely foreign not to just men/masculine folks, but the culture at large.  Instead, we all too often use the tools we have been given by this system. Consequently, we “other” those who hurt us by dehumanizing and/or erasing them altogether.

SIDE BAR 2: Methods that do not reciprocate violence are not the “right way” to do things. They are simply methods that potentially help end the cycle of harm. When we make choices to respond to our external reality aggressively, we are not “wrong” in that choice.

The non-violent, moral discourse that asserts we are “wrong” to respond with aggression when attacked is part of the same ideological discourse that needs a perfect victim in order to justify accountability for those who have created harm. Therefore, I feel we need to be cautious about attributing judgment to all acts of  aggression or acting like violence will disappear one day into a vapor of MLK quotes.

While it is my desire that we work consistently towards embodying an ethic that does not perpetuate violence, given the current psychological and social state of humanity—a more useful endeavor may be to employ the harm reduction model. A harm reduction model would help more of us recognize that in this global context, we are never able to stop participating in harming others. However with practice, we can lessen our harm a great deal over time. This is a model used in many sectors of healing work, from working with intravenous drug users to Buddhist theory and practice.

2. Men having a harder time expressing their feelings

I’m very clear that part of my life’s work is striving to help expand the emotional lives of men and masculine embodied individuals. In my opinion, it’s very difficult to dismiss the reality of how intentional the emotional castration of men has been and continues to be in this country. This is a place where my thoughts with Liz diverge.

I am also clear that every individual in this country has internalized our dominant emotional scripts differently. Thus each of us enacts/resists/expresses in a manner that is inconsistent with the shallow, un-nuanced “men don’t work with their feelings” and “women are more emotionally healthier” dichotomy—a dichotomy which is ultimately ridiculous, sexist, and often virulently transphobic.

One tool that I find useful in acknowledging how we each interact with the dominant emotional narratives differently is psychological astrology. Psychological astrology is a discipline that is a blend of depth astrology (the study of behavioral patterns) and psychology. One of the many gifts it has given me is the ability to understand that not only do we experience our life through the lens of our gender, ability, race, etc., but also through our own unique psychology. For instance, a basic astrological analysis shows that a Taurus and an Aquarius will process, interpret, and respond to their lived experiences in very different ways. This theory of psychological difference becomes a useful tool to query how each of us—not just based on our birth date, but our life history, as well—will respond and are responding to the dominant narratives about feelings as it relates to gender, and many other things, very differently.

Our emotional bodies are always at work in our lives. The question is whether we are working with them, or if in our absence of attentiveness, they are working against us.

What’s my point? That there are other factors, especially in our internal lives and our responses, that complicate how we act emotionally or even pay attention to the dominant emotional scripts. Women don’t have an easier time expressing emotions by virtue of inhabiting a body marked female. Even if the culture allots more space for it, in many instances, women’s internal psychology may just not be conducive to that mode of expression. While less complicated ideology would have us believe the opposite is true, the reality is we actually embody the gendered norms in a number of nuanced ways. And perhaps the only constant is how we project them to be the definitive reality when they are not.

3. Expressing Feelings Versus Expressing Feelings Equitably

One of the things I love about Liz’ piece is how she makes a much-needed distinction: that men don’t have any problems expressing our feelings in a manipulative and abusive way. Most of us don’t have any problems expressing ourselves to women—or to other men, when the feeling is not hurt or sadness—either, which Liz’ piece clearly illustrates.
I also respect that Liz, and many women and feminine-embodied people, will make the choice not to be involved in “helping men [learn] to cry” or develop emotionally. Good.
There are plenty of us who know or can learn, and I feel that part of addressing sexism is relieving women from being the primary (if not sole) emotional caretakers of our communities. (This is not to suggest some biological essentialist mode of emotional relating where all “the men” do their emotional processing separate from “the women,” but instead a hope that ongoing work can lead to more equitable spaces.)

At the end of the day, Emotional work is social justice work. And when it’s between people of different abilities, genders, or races, all sorts of inequitable dynamics appear that are difficult to shift. Yet to make that shift—and we can—we have to do the work ourselves. That work is messy. It’s nuanced; it’s not always nice. It’s irrational, it’s not always clear. It’s us in our totality—as complicated, troubled people in an increasingly troubled and beautiful world.

-Yolo

(Thanks to Liz for posting!)

*(Even as I understand that the  context of “men crying”.feels somewhat patriarchal and homophobic. Whenever conversations about emotions and men comes up, the first thing people say, in a patronizing manner is, “Who cares if men cry?” There’s something troubling there.)

I was recently interviewed on Whereisyourline.org, an amazing blog run by The Line organization. An excerpt from the interview is below. You can find the full interview here.

The Interview:

The Line features Interviews with your favorite badass feminists and activists. Whether social media queens and kings, creative artists, sex educators, or just kick-ass personalities, these people harness righteous anger, instigate movements and inspire cultural change. We’re here to honor them and their work, but more importantly, to highlight how we can all get up, plug in, and Just Start Doing.

This week’s badass is Yolo Akili. Yolo is a writer, astrologer, yoga instructor and social justice advocate. He has a B.A. in Women’s and African American Studies from Georgia State University and is the author of the poetry collection “Poems in the Key of Green” and the spoken word album “Purple Galaxy”. You can learn more about him and his work on his website.

Let’s hear what he had to say!

You have a BA in Women’s and African American Studies. Was this the starting point for you, or did you already know that you wanted to be involved in social justice activism? How did you evolve as an activist, and how did you get to what you do now?

I think the starting point came from my experiences in college. I went to a small University in Southern Georgia before I transferred and completed at Georgia State. Being in a southern rural town exposed me to many stark racial inequities that struck a chord in my consciousness.

I went to college in a town where in the year 2000, a local high school prom was racially integrated for the FIRST time. A few days after the announcement was made black Barbie dolls were tied to “nooses” and hung all around the high school. Seeing things like that and also experiencing the racial climate of the campus and city firsthand, lead me to become more interested in how I could actively work to change systems of inequity.

My evolution as an activist is a direct result of the work of black feminist and womanist scholars, namely Layli Phillips and Audre Lorde. Audre Lorde gave me a frame to engage the erotic and spiritual in the context of social justice work. Dr. Phillips, as both a teacher and now as a good friend, taught through her example the necessity and reality of how the emotional/spirit world/esoteric operates within political systems and inspired me to be more vocal on them in social justice spaces. Their work gave me the ability to move through working in HIV & AIDS, Violence Against Women, and LGBTQ rights, and recognize that they were all different facets of the same form of healing work, because from a spiritual perspective, all pain is apart of the same problem.

Read the rest HERE