Straight Cis-Male Radical Acceptance on Tinder

When it comes to radical acceptance, straight men on Tinder take the cake, y’all — for realz!

The question of my gender identity is in no way the defining feature of my life, but it’s how I’m met, it is a fact and it’s something I have to deal with. The challenge of affirmation is real, too. My closest friends, my family, colleagues all stumble with my name and pronouns. My dad still calls me son, for flocks sake (come on, Dad! Yeah, you). I even get it wrong for myself occasionally (getting less) and so do other gender queer folks. We’ve been rewired to see things in black and white when the world is, not gray, it is a spectrum.

Interestingly, there is one group who apparently have no trouble figuring out that the gender and pronoun I give them is the one according to which they approach me. That is male identified people on Tinder. Tinder, you ask? This goddess dates and occasionally has a romantic encounter with a person who is not my spouse. My preference these days is other trans women. I find it grounding and normalizing to be with people who get what I am going through physically, socially and emotionally. Although COVID had slowed down the ability to have physical contact, and even though I’m blessed with a Goddex with whom I have been lovingly linked, I still spend timing browsing the dating apps to see who the capital G Goddess sends my way.

There was a shift in the quality and frequency of people stepping to me digitally once I came out as trans. Some for the better, some for the worse (in terms of appropriateness). I figured there would be a smaller pool of people down with dating a trans girl. Then Goddex suggested I change my gender on my profile to simply say woman. I was like, “That sounds like a recipe for disaster!” There’s a part of my brain that doesn’t believe I’ll be accepted as a woman.

I gave it a shot, pretty sure I’d have little interest. Within minutes my inbox was flooded with inquiries from men of all ilk—doctors, CEOs, cops, construction workers, and even a lumberjack—wanting to talk up your girl. All of these men (98%) identify as straight. Who knew that was all it took to be a woman on the virtual dating scene: changing my profile.

I don’t wanna judge these men either, or see them as deluded. They are, technically, straight as I am a woman and do not share a gender marker with them. I’m more confused about what it makes me as a trans woman who has a strong preference for other trans women (for dating at least). Am I lesbian? Am I pansexual? As my current partner identifies as trans-femme—using they pronouns—that rules out lesbian I guess. The goddex is taking a less radical approach to their reassignment treatment, and for now has a rather traditionally masculine build and, yes, I find that attractive. So confusing.

When it comes to sex and romance on the Tinder scene, you are who you say you are. I’m sure I’ll encounter my share of chasers, fetishists, and people to be avoided at all cost. I also know that I am beautiful and sexy and following my higher power. I’m learning that if I build it they will come. I always thought I’d suffer in direct relation to the amount I revealed my true self. The opposite is true. Each time I let go of a fear of stepping into my full self, the Goddess sends boons to remind me why I am who I am.

—Notorious Pink

Subaru in a Snowbank

Headline: Safety belts save lives, y’all — for realz!

Car safety. Meh, right? I’ve listened to thousands of car commercials where the vehicle safety ratings get touted like so much accomplishment and I’m like, “But is it a cute car?” Having been now, in a car tossed off the side of a mountain and caught in a random stand of trees, I beckon to bring on those safety numbers. Rolling in a Subaru down a snow bank and getting out without a scratch is a baller move.

I was probably not giving the task my 100% focus. Driving through the mountains during a blizzard requires all your mother flocking attention. Your music selection, the chapter of that audiobook, who just sent you a text, or that Grindr booty call finally getting back to you, mean nothing when your life depends on eyes on the road, the speedometer and conditions. I already know I’m not the best driver (I’m terrible). I knew when suddenly found myself I alone on the road, I needed to more carefully monitor my speed. It’s so easy to get a heavy foot and be flying along at 95 MPH.

My confused dog looked up at me from a cracked passenger-side window that pressed into fresh snow, while I reached above me for a door release that shouldn’t have been that impossible to locate. It was oddly mundane. A person walked towards me through brush and slim trees, looking panicked. I can see their whole body through the sideways windshield. They approached like they expected the worst. “Are you okay?” Would be the first words out of every mouth speaking for the rest of the day. I prepared to be called “Sir” and “he” and that seemed so much worse as the person speaking would be trying to help.

I informed the officer at the scene that I was a woman, regardless of what my driver’s license says. I prepped for the confused look, exasperation and general disapproval. The officer was affirming and it was cool to see them fill out the report with “she” in reference to the “driver” who was me. My tits were hurting the most. They are in a weird stage where they are always hard and always sore and I just want to pull them out and give them a massage, which would settle the gender question. Giving oneself a nipple massage in the waiting room of the state trooper station seemed like a poor choice.

I’m fine. I’m beyond fine. I’m enthusiastic that I am a resilient being, who can go through a traumatic situation, acknowledge it as happening, and take action to mitigate it. I also realize my resilience is the result of a lifetime of trauma that I’ve had to face and work through and name and embrace. It took a lot of emotional car wrecks, to prepare me for that real one. My thinking shifted from, “Oh shit, I’m gonna crash!” to “Okay, made it through that part! Whew!” I am unflappable. Embracing the disaster, it becomes just another experience—neutral and passing.

Thanks for all the concern, everyone. Mother (this goddess) and baby (my dog, Jack) are well.

—Notorious Pink

Sex in Omnicron

Safer sex abounds in the time of Omnicron, y’all — for realz!

These days risks have heightened engaging in sexual behavior. I don’t get out much these days, that’s for certain, and the appeal of “hooking up” is about zero.. Coming of sexual age at the advent of the AIDS crisis doesn’t make me a winner. For a quarter century—my entire sexual history—I’ve been aware of sex first and foremost as a potential hazard. Hence, I’ve historically taken a sideways approach to all things coital. I get offers that shock me as Russian roulette players—people who balk at caution—continue as of it were business as usual. Some would have themselves hermetically sealed. Regardless of one’s level of diligence reticence and/or terror when it comes to getting off, there are safer options to keep horny folks happy and healthy.

Still, stuff happens.

I do have sex. For the first time in my half centuryI can say that without an ounce of shame. I’m late to the sex positivity party and my timing is atrocious considering the current public health crisis at hand. I can confirm (first hand) that at least a handful of people have had periods of sexual activity over the pandemic. I have a long list I trust who’d testify to it. I’ve made adjustments and interests have veered away from the simply physical encounter. I’m lucky to have people in my life to engage with sexually in relative safety. I’ve basically upped the standard precautions I’ve practiced (imperfectly) for decades.

Enter a sex-positive and resplendent Goddex to introduce me to the wide world of toys and their applications. Toys assist masturbation, extend fore play, or can be the headliner with a friend or more. Goddex swears by plugging—the insertion of a device into the anus, stimulating the rectal/anal goodies, leaving hands to work on other areas. We discovered the Satisfyer, an electronic plug that can be remotely controlled from the other side of the room, or outer space if you can get a connection.

When I do meet a partner in-person, my interest in typical intimate practices like kissing, caressing and frottage have been replaced with fun that doesn’t require direct contact. Yes: I’ve discovered kink. There it is. Turns out, I’m quite the Domme, if only by aspiration. I’m cultivating a persona, and I’ve amassed a fair amount of gear—corsets, leather, restraints and instruments of “torture”. I study Japanese rope tying. Shibari, as it’s known, amounts to intricate crochet designs made by knotting cord around a human subject. I find that practice extremely soothing. It also requires complete submission of the subject (AKA the “sub”). It’s an extended trust exercise that, like much of sensuality and intimacy, can be wholesome and healing.

Sexual expression is hard-wired. Safe sex practices are radical self-care. Normalizing sex is an act of revolution. I strongly recommend adrienne marie brown’s Pleasure Activism and the recent (3rd?) edition of The Ethical Slut. Talk to people. Others in your life like sex too. They might get a kick out of sharing tips, and be flattered and affirmed that you recognize them as having sensual lives.

Sharing any space, at any time, comes with risks, especially in the time of COVID. Discernment goes a long way to mitigate danger. Mindfulness, resourcefulness, imagination and planning can yield hot results while greatly reducing chances of harm. What’s lost to spontaneity, is made up for in peace of mind to enjoy the others involved. I hope people feel safe to share pointers in the comments. I wanna know.

—Notorious Pink

Trauma Not the Problem

Trauma is not the problem, y’all, it’s the solution — for realz!

I don’t think I’m exaggerating. Resistance of the medical field and politicians over the last several centuries shows that, even while understanding the profound effects of trauma, the maintenance of a traumatized society is a desired outcome. Conspiracy crazy as it sounds, if you’re trying to have a maleable society you gotta apply pressure and what better way than systematically pulling the rug out from under healthy mental development—psychologically breaking citizens at their most vulnerable when they are babies. I swallowed sentiment that fears blaming the inability to cope with life on our broken pasts avoids personal responsibility—stripping our agency. Major institutions dig in their heels against trauma informed service. Fact is children are by default targets trauma-inducing action leading to trauma, with one million children suffering violence, abuse and disruption, while having little to no agency to address it.

Historically, resistance to understanding the impact of trauma—specifically sexual trauma—on children has met with outright denial. “Parents don’t do that to their kids!” remains the key argument against labeling incest a serious social problem. On the opposite extreme, mental health professionals once argued that incest had benefits. Look that shit up. I’ve been reading Bessel Van der Kolk’s The Body Keeps the Score which chronicles like a thriller the fight to have developmental trauma designated a mental illness. The documented progress of the profession on considering trauma has been slow despite overwhelming evidence of its lasting damage.

Doctors agree past violent and otherwise horrific events experienced by children over time lead to a reliable set of complexes that differ from those experienced by adults who face calamity. Still, despite documented events themselves, as well as the acceptance of them as factors for a person’s mental health status, there isn’t a stand-alone diagnosis for individuals whose mental illness is founded in a history of abuse and dysfunction. Though decades of study have shown identical gene-level physiological and behavioral phenomena in people (and animals) who’ve survived trauma, the world has flatly refused to categorize those distinct phenomena under a heading and system of treatment.

Accepting the fact of development as a primary link to mental illness would require a huge shift in the way children are reared. We might actually put effort into providing for the safety of every child. We’d make sure every child had enough to eat, had a comfortable place to rest, and we’d provide resources so that every household understood the impact of trauma on the young people in their lives. We’d also make sure people acting as care-givers to children had the support they needed to get the job done. We’d do more than just penalize and take their kids away when they fail. Trauma informed support would prioritize individual needs over generalization.

I know some of y’all think I’m dreaming when I propose that each persons developmental needs be analyzed and met. “It would cost too much money to have individualized care plans for every child in the world, Pink!” It would be so cumbersome! Except it wouldn’t be more cumbersome than the later-in-life applications for traumatized adults. The US spend $50 thousand a year per incarcerated adult—one person. Reducing childhood trauma reduces incidents of harmful social behaviors of adults. We, as a society, prefer to fund the maintenance of violent systems over harm-reduction for youth at a financial loss. When you follow the money trail, it looks like a lot is being invested in keeping us mentally ill—stealing sanity from babes.

— Notorious Pink

Alone on Christmas 2021

I’m alone on Christmas Day, y’all — for realz!

Talk about the margins. I just tried to make a quick run to the grocery store. It’s Christmas morning. I don’t celebrate Christmas, which is part of another story (one for the book). I don’t even thinks it’s a first. I’m humble enough to recognize today as significant in my society of choice. Choice, as in I haven’t made much effort to leave, while admitting I have gifts (talents, friends, and resources) to get me anywhere I wanted to go and support me if I did. So, choosing to be this Westerner, while I avoid custom carries meaning, especially as I’m choosing to share my thoughts about it. I get it. I’m a heretic.

Take this as a holiday greeting as well as a reminder that these holidays can oppress as much as they liberate from routine. That’s not new. What needs acknowledgment is that all my internal oppressors step in where bosses and commutes leave off. I can be the most triggering company on days like this. I’m finding ways to keep the day and myself sacred. Bringing the “holiness” back. I’ll take a moment to fill my own cup to the rim before more sipping here and there of service daily. I’m gonna give myself a break and extend the same to others.

I wanna call it a day of reflection, but truth, I’m finally getting to read the play I’ll be directing in a month (more on that in another post). I started out with a recovery meeting and then Walking Dead. I tried a grocery run and failed closed market after another. I pulled out the play to read and then started this post. An Ohio Domme is having a Festivus gathering and, my growing interest in kink culture (more on that, another time), I’m considering a drive to Cleveland.

I frame myself alone on Christmas Day. I’m not alone. I’m in the world and that shit is packed! I am taking time to be on my own. Partially, I’ve been overstimulated and just need to turn everything off for a moment. Doing that on the day feels like protest so I call my Dad who does his best, but gets my gender wrong. My brother does a better job. The next day with in-laws I am called by my dead name and “he” and everyone is tripping. I fail to answer to my own name. Taking a time out for Christmas Day, to be myself seems fair.

The Goddess has been kind to Pink and I certainly have a lot for which to be grateful. I take credit for only my small part, but I am accepting the boons and paying them along in goddess (little goddess that I am) fashion. I am expressing gratitude in the ways I can. Likely not enough. I am in a beautiful rustic space with everything I need and many friends with whom to share abundantly. I have a support system of chosen family, mentors, professionals (like doctors) giving me world class care. I am getting myself for Christmas! I couldn’t ask for anything else. I am enough. I do enough. I am worthy or I wouldn’t be here. The universe doesn’t have time for that.

I hope you are all well and happy.

—Notorious Pink

Love Can’t Bank On

Pink’s love is not bankable, y’all — for realz!

My love isn’t currency. It is a gift. Sometimes, when I give it, I’m met with suspicion. That astounds me. It’s as if the person thinks I’m trying to bribe them into something. I’ve moved on and they are still sniffing around my love package ready to call the bomb squad. If you see something say something. That’s really unfortunate, since I was probably loving on that person because they had inadvertently earned the admiration. It’s little things that warrant affection—a kind word, a hand, an acknowledging glance in my direction when I’m feeling isolated. Then they have to go and ruin it by treating me shady for gratitude. Gratitude is a form of love. It’s okay. I know about hurt people.

Love is funny that way. It’s something people talk about a lot. Usually, it’s desired. I choke to say everyone about anything, but I’m damn tempted to venture everyone wants love. A person might appear to shun the idea of what they perceive as the love of others. At some point in that cynics existence, however, they yearned for affection and affirmation. It’s in our wiring. That’s the only weapon we come into the world ready to wield. Our cry for love and assistance starts fresh from the womb.

People treat love like it’s a rare commodity when, in fact, love is in surplus. Love is an unlimited resource. We can choose to love anyone we encounter. Love is so bountiful it’s often frittered away on inanimate objects, and not just anthropomorphism of dolls and teddy bears. People love music, even from a loathed composer. People love their cars. People love their clothes. People even love ideas. People will love a phrase, a look, or any passing moment.

It’s out of alignment. We absentmindedly give away love in droves, but when love is requested we get all discriminating. I do. I want people to earn my love, like it’s a paycheck. I kind of put my love up for sale and I don’t think I’m alone, if I’m entitled to an opinion (which apparently I think I am). My love can be bought, but so what, if someone is willing to pay for it. I like to love, though, and I don’t wanna have to wait for someone to buy my love. I also have to accept others as deserving of my love for the sake of their humanity. The payoff is that become worthy to myself of that same love.

It’s generosity and selfish. Love is a blessing we bestow on others, only to have it effect ourselves for the better. It’s the opposite of the hate that drinks poison hoping the other person will die from it. Love is the medicine we administer to someone else to have it heal us. It’s super counter intuitive, but makes sense it would be that way. Nature requires us to want—need—each other, so it plays this trick of mirrors.

I’m banking the idea of limitless love that grants by giving will resonate with most people—many. Still, many—most—will proceed with caution. I say don’t give up trying to break the backwards conditioning. I say fake it until you make it. Worst case, you’ll have fun proving me wrong. Have at it.

—Notorious Pink

Joking as Vocation

Saying “just joking” don’t make it a joke, y’all — for realz!

People say all humor stems from a kernel of truth. Practical jokers are often seen as people who have insecurities, who work them out in the soft “abuse” of shock, surprise and knocking others off center. I’ve been notorious for it. I owed the phrase “just kidding.” It’s been such a part of who I am that my name became synonymous with enigmatic behavior and statements. I express myself in riddles and hold up funhouse mirrors to the world around me. I’ve been a real asshole about it too, with reactions to my jibes gamuting nervous giggles to a punch in the face.

I was just joking. That doesn’t mean I didn’t intend to rouse people with my word games and eccentricities. I fit all the definitions too, not just the cute harmless cut up. I am the card that doesn’t quite fit in the playing deck, accept as a wild card. I have been the person of disrepute. I am the clause added that makes everything else seem pointless. What I didn’t know then, that I know now, was that I was playing an essential role, although a thankless one.

The European depiction of joker (jester, fool, etc.) has the character basically shucking and jiving for royalty. They brought a little merriment to an otherwise dull court life. The joker was also the person who brought the bad news to the monarch. That tradition in Africa (especially the Wolof) and among indigenous tribes of Turtle Island (AKA the Americas) are a role in service of the whole community. Their role includes saying the shit that other people are afraid to say. They are the social critics.

I didn’t appoint myself joker. I am the culmination of a blood line of survivors who likely had to be clever AF to survive the trials that beset my ancestors. “Shining” described the act put on by Africans in captivity (and forced into labor) to appease their captors and stave off harsh punishment or even death. Mel Watkins breaks down the whole tradition of Black humor in their book “Laughing, Lying, and Signifying.” The movie Dolemite Is My Name depicts real-life comedian Rudy Ray Moore who signified their way to stardom.

I ain’t saying I’m special, other than we all special or we wouldn’t be here. The Universe is efficient and doesn’t waste time or energy. Every community, family, or whatever group will likely give birth to a joker. Jokers are “black sheep” and trouble makers. They are critical thinkers, exploiting the contradictions around them. I’ve been lucky enough to find a line of work where being the Joker is a privileged position. I use joking techniques as a teacher, as a director and as a Theater of the Oppressed facilitator. Like I said, I’m notorious for it. Mind your fingers and toes.

—Notorious Pink

Is Fat Phobia the New Black

Just because it’s not fat, don’t make it fat phobic, y’all — for realz!

A friend of mine spent a fair part of the shelter in place period over the last 18 months doing a daily home workout. It’s resulted in significant weight loss. I’m not sure that was the point (it likely was not), but it happened just the same. Her (yes this was a cis woman—a Black cis woman) muscles got more toned, she likely raised her metabolism, and she was probably prone to less body fat. That’s just what happened. Good for her.

Accept it wasn’t exactly good for her for everyone. She decided to post about her progress. I was frankly inspired by her. I know my body became de-conditioned during COVID-19 from lack of regular activity. I like walks, I like the community of group workouts (it’s the closest I get to being in a dance class). My friend posting that progress was breaking her own isolation, offering a point of connection, and countering messaging about the health statistics for people of color. Not everyone was impressed. In fact, my friend heard from some social media followers that her posting her daily routine was a form of fat shaming.

Hold the phone.

I get that we live in a culture that tells us thin is good, while fat is bad. I get that as a person whose weight has fluctuated from so-called obesity, to appearing anorexic. I get it. I also understand that not everyone who is trying to stay “fit” has the primary concern of their appearance. For example, I go bike riding several times a week with my neighbor who is 67 years old and a two-time cancer survivor. Her “fitness” is essential to maintaining her health.

I get that fat phobia is real and pervasive—as are Black phobia, and “fem” phobia (among cis gay men). I also understand that every time someone chooses to date a non-Black person, it is not necessarily a demonstration of their racism. Even when it is a discriminatory choice, it’s not always a conscious one. People follow fashion. Even people who are knowledgeable about the way bias is manufactured, will follow trends. No one is completely impervious to outside influences that tell us what’s what (deceptive as that telling may be).

All this to say, let’s not get so hell-bent on eradicating every action that moves us in the direction of a dominant cultural standard. In and of themselves, these are not anti-revolutionary and anti-inclusive actions. When that is the case it just becomes another bias—anti-normativity. Also, I note that the folks who scream the loudest about being inclusive, are often people who fall well within societal norms. I further note that those people tend to gather, in their off-time from social justice activism, almost exclusively with other people who meet well-centered standards.

I admit, I experience the urge to reshape myself in the image of my own oppression. I live the real world. I want to be able to function within it well enough to fend for myself. I don’t want to have anymore hostility directed towards me than is already the case because I’m queer, Black, fem-prone and neurodivergent. It’s no different than people with the means sending their children to the absolute “best” school they can manage. One of the marks of sobriety is being able to adjust to conditions as they are, doing what one can reasonably manage to shift those conditions.

I’m not apologizing for oppression. This shit is fucked up. It’s also not the work of oppressed people to change the minds of their oppressors. I’m just trying to get some joy out of this life. I want to feel good about myself and I want to belong. I want those things with the least possible effort. I also have to work with the tools at hand, at least until I’m in a position to develop new tools. I’m probably stating the obvious, but sometimes the obvious needs repeating. If you see me making bad choices to be more “acceptable” to the mainstream, don’t hate me…date me instead.

Just an Ugly Woman

I’m okay with being an “ugly” woman, y’all — for realz!

There’s some chest tightness as I dive into this one. I can feel the energy draw back as people knee jerk respond to the idea of me or anyone being considered ugly. Some of you got about two sentences in and were already in the comments to reassure me how good-looking I am. Thanks for the thought. I appreciate the sentiment. I shouldn’t need that validation and the urge people have to provide it probably has more with being in denial than a desire to comfort. That reaction is in the same ball park as color-blindness. It’s the impulse to assure someone who has a high Body Mass Index that they aren’t fat. I can be fucking ugly if I want.

We live in a society where people get labeled as unattractive, and there’s seems to be general agreement about what ugly looks like. I learned beauty the way I learned the color red. Even when I talk about Western beauty expectations as a matter of resistance, I have to have a reference in mind. I can’t describe it, but I can’t sure as hell point it out. Every time someone puts on a scary mask, they are banking on others to agree that it’s ugly and scary (okay, not equivalent, but I’m keeping it brief). I certainly have a concept of ugly and sometimes, looking at myself I see someone who fits the description.

I do not project standards. I defy standards. In that regard, I am ugly. The fact that I identify as a woman at all strikes confusion, anxiety and horror. I’ve been flat out told that I “make an ugly woman.” I’ve been told I was “clockable,” which means I do not “pass” as female. It would be unreasonable, and probably unsafe, for me to operate as if that were not the case. To write off people who think along those standards would leave me in a very very small world. That would amount to hiding. To be in the real world, I have to consider the impact of my being, in the same way people should consider the impact of their actions, regardless of their intentions.

I predict the resistance. No one is ugly. Looks don’t matter. You’re perfect the way you are. These are the rote responses we give when someone expresses doubt about the acceptability of their appearance. Those are pretty lies (literally). It’s true that people are more than the way they look. It’s also true that people who aren’t the definition of good-looking face discrimination and experience the material effects of their plainness—not getting picked. To tell that person that it doesn’t matter what they look like or, worse, to tell them that they’re gorgeous is basically gas-lightning.

No fat person ever learned to love themself by pretending they were not fat. No person of color forgets they have skin to find self-esteem under White supremacy. I have to accept the face, the age, the body, the gait that are mine and present those as the gifts they are and stop trying to see them as “beautiful.” I have to interrogate all the language associated with self-love and body-positivity. We might also stop assigning value to people, places and things based on any of these externals. Ugly doesn’t need to mean bad any more than beauty automatically denotes goodness.

Instead of trying to expand definitions of beauty to be more inclusive, perhaps I can explore more fully what it means to be ugly, which is often a catch-all word for something my eye can’t make sense of at a glance. Ugly defies what I had my heart set on having. Pretty is simple. Ugly requires discovery. Perhaps what is ugly, is simply that which requires more courage, curiosity and consideration to be appreciated for exactly what it is.

—Notorious Pink

Caution: White People

I need to practice more caution with ‘White’ people, y’all — for realz!

First, I don’t have anything against a stranger just because they happen to fit a description of Whiteness. I don’t think there is anything—good or bad—inherent to character based on lightness of skin. I have, however, come to understand White culture—the practices, ideologies, and modalities that are particular to aspirant Whiteness—as problematic for me. These cultural peculiarities make it psychologically treacherous for me to engage with people in a White cultural context without taking precautions.

Foremost, Whiteness was not developed with the safety of non-White people in mind. Whiteness was developed specifically at the exclusion of non-Whites and to subvert the sovereignty of non-White people. (Read Theodore W. Allen’s ‘The Invention of the White Race’.) Historical reality makes being White as an intentional practice, an act of anti-Blackness. Fortunately, a lot of people already know that, and adjust accordingly. Most people I encounter don’t make a production of their White cultural identity the way other cultures get promoted and performed outwardly and openly. That is not a contradiction.

If you’re scratching your head right now, don’t worry, you’re not alone. Most people I’ve encountered don’t even know what Whiteness is. It’s not that they think it’s one thing when it’s something else. People generally can’t answer the question “What does it mean to be White?” or name a common practice of White culture (other than comic stereotypes). Jokes about rhythm, cooking ability, blandness, lack of style and the like are humorous attempts to give a benevolent face to something that is anything but harmless.

I’m not conflating White with being Western, either. I’m not using White as interchangeable with being of European descent. I’m not even referring to phenotypical Whiteness—having so-called white skin. I’m talking about the Whiteness that was codified in law in the U.S. and then exported to the rest of the world by theologians, scientists and political thinkers. I’m talking about the Whiteness that was asserted as the dominant race under a doctrine of White supremacy.

That being the case, it is a risk for me as a non-White person to engage with anyone within a White context—in an environment that has been shaped predominantly by an adherence to White standards—who hasn’t investigated what it means to be White. This is regardless of their appearance. Those spaces were routinely weaponized against non-Whites and still do psychological damage. Entrances, facilities, amenities were weaponized with “Whites only” signs. Times of the day were weaponized by nefarious activities taking place routinely and exclusively at those times (such as night raids). Actions were weaponized like reading, looking, and walking. Where a person is allowed to live was weaponized. Black bodies have been weaponized against themselves (what they look like and how they are exploited).

Once weaponized, Whiteness can never be benign and can be wielded against non-Whites at-will. Proximity to Whiteness that hasn’t been examined is a minefield of triggers based on the ways that Black and Brown bodies have been under threat because of the general weaponization of our existences. I acknowledge that danger and enter those spaces with caution. I allow myself time to calibrate my own apprehension—not paranoia—and assess potential hazards. I have to read the body language of the people present. I listen for tone and check the decor for signs of hostility and welcome. This kind of inspection isn’t unique to being Black among dominant Whiteness. Women do it in male-centric spaces. I do it as a trans person.

My experience of race requires safety checking and it’s time I made that transparent. I’m asked, “Is something wrong?” at a loss for words not having taken the time to articulate it for myself. I’d like to be able to ask the question openly: Does this place seem safe to everyone? I want to get better at checking in with myself and to stop assuming a place is safe just because it’s “nice.” As for my White-passing colleagues, it might not hurt for you to do some of the vetting as well. In case you’re not sure how to start, perhaps you can count the number of non-Whites in the room and ask yourself why that is.

—Notorious Pink

Sex Education: A Review

The show Sex Education is living up to its name, y’all — for realz!

I shy away from comedies. I love to laugh, but I generally doubt they will deliver something smart and funny and believable. I will risk it, however, for shows that seem to feature characters, settings, and situations highlighting groups who don’t get much screen-time (think Atypical, Dear White People, Jane the Virgin…). I didn’t expect much from Sex Education, but it came across as something that might have a queer angle, so I gave it a go. I was immediately turned off by the gratuitous sex, allusions to sex and…well…sex. I mean, they’re high school students (even if played by actors pushing 30).

Recently, a friend I trust recommended I give the show another try. They are from Brazil with only three years of English under their belt. They also happen to be a neuroscientist. They have little patience for subtlety and sentiment (they hated Dear Evan Hansen). Their surprise recommendation of a teen soap opera peaked my curious, and I decided, however reluctantly, to give the hit British show another chance. Allowing I’d missed something under the hoards of teen libidos run amok, I watched the pilot for a second time.

Same as the first time, I wasn’t impressed, and was ready to flip to Fear the Walking Dead, when the sex clinic happened.

I’ll back track. At the show intro we meet Otis (Asa Butterfield), an awkward teenager whose mother (played with apt tautness by Gillian Anderson of x-files fame) happens to be a therapist specializing in relationships and sex. I know, all very titillating. When an outbreak of Chlamydia causes a school-wide panic, Otis takes on the role of peer sex counselor at his school, as part of an operation run with partner Maeve (Emma Mackey), a loner with a head for business. Maeve also lives in a trailer park. Toss in a gay best friend (Rwandan actor Ncuti Gatwa), the school “slag”, a jock, a bully, some mean girls and a dictatorial head master and it’s the same old teen romcom schlock. Will Otis and Maeve get together? Will the gay friend find romance among the normies? Who is doing whom in the bathroom stall. Typical mindless sexy fun. Except it isn’t.

Where sexy in mass media is usually a question of “to have or not to have” or, on a good day, how to have it better, Sex Education delivers on its title in every episode, exploring the not so sexy side—the downright “ugly” side—of sex. Otis presents an opportunity for a teenager to be armed with way more knowledge (accurate information) about bodies and practices than your average high-schooler. In the meantime, the adults are going through their own changes (not with the students, gratefully), and seeking their own answers about things they weren’t taught in school either.

The show trades realism for an opportunity to weave important lessons about sexuality, sexual health and gender identity into a clever, funny, and often moving story. The information is delivered with surprising sobriety and frankness. It presents a wide range of behavioral models for navigating relationships, changing bodies (puberty to menopause and beyond), sexual intercourse and all the shit (there’s even an episode that addresses “cleaning out” before anal sex) that comes with it.

There’s plenty of antics and scatalogical humor as I expected. The thoughtfulness of the show outweighs the lame elements by far, though. Many painfully awkward moments (including ones involving poop) are normalized in a world where everyone (everyone) is trying to figure sh*t out.

High-Heeled Evolution

I got caught with my heels in my mouth, y’all — for realz!

I’m gonna be honest: I’m embarrassed AF by how much of my gender transition story is getting told through my wardrobe. I’m like, “Does this make me shallow that I f*cking love these so-called women’s clothes so damn much?” Even working to reject many of the socially imposed ideas of gender, especially the whole passing and realness thing—where you can only be a real girl if you look like you fell off the cover of Vogue—doesn’t keep me from the allure of feminine accoutrement. I love regular trips to the salon, slathering myself with Shea butter and other luxurious product; and the cling of form-fitting clothes around my goddess frame is empowering AF.

Recently, I got ever so lovingly called out—not so much called as pointed—over my affinity for high-heeled shoes. I was breaking in a new pair of heels (a five-inch patent leather platform ankle boot) and decided to show off, posting a video of it. Stepping into my gender, I hadn’t connected the heels I’ve envied women wearing so freely (irony) to Sunday brunches, job interviews, professional engagements, or just frigging walking the dog, were exactly the kinds of shoes women have been rejecting for the last fifty years as a gendered symbol of oppression. I was like, “well that ruined that!” Then I was like “Wait a second.” Me rocking pumps cannot amount to nothing more than me giving up the ground the feminist movement has fought hard to gain. There has to be more to wearing heels than dressing like a “girl” is supposed to dress.

I’m not sure how heels became such a female obligation. When the ancestor of the modern high-heel shoe was introduced four hundred years ago, they had the practical purpose of keeping Persian cavaliers in the saddle, securing their feet in the stirrups while they waged war. This is funny to me since my friend Kim Morera, whose comment led to my sole-searching, was a horse trainer for years and ran a horse farm. After that, heels became a masculine fashion trend made popular by French royal Louis XIV. Queen Elizabeth was the first female to famously front a heel. She insisted on it to demonstrate her equality to men! Can you believe that? Elizabeth was the real drag queen.

Over four hundred years, heels evolved from literal battle gear, to becoming a status symbol of masculinity, power and wealth, with extreme shoe heights topping a meter, until they became the modern shorthand for ultra-femininity. On the way they served other practical purposes, like keeping people’s feet out of the shit and filth that covered the streets (before we figured out how to pump all that sewage into our water supply). It took three of the four centuries of their existence for high heels to become a women’s thing. I’m not detracting from the oppression intended in a pair of stilettos. I’m just noting there was a progression and at each stage, the shoes retained some of the previous meaning. However submissive one considers the wearing of a heel, it is still a pedestal.

For me heels aren’t just embracing a gender norm. Yes, I see heels as a feminine expression. For me heels have always, since the first time I slipped on a pair from my mother’s closet, been outlaw wear. My heels break rules. They also hurt my feet just like everyone else, especially if they aren’t well-made as most of the heels I wore when I was calling it drag. I don’t want my choice if shoes to be a trigger for others. I don’t, however have any plans to stop wearing them. It’s gonna take a lot of time to unpack. After a lifetime of taking my gender for granted, I expect there is more to uncover. I’m just growing into myself and I’m not gonna start the process by telling myself “no” every a desire happens to mirror the status quo.Y’all just gonna have to give a goddess some slack.

Dave Chappelle’s Trans Faux Pas

I’m going in on Dave Chapelle, y’all — for realz!

This is not a pre-drafted post. I don’t have that much time to give something so obviously whack. I’m gonna keep this short, and apologies if anything I say is triggering. Also, there’s gonna be typos.

Recently, in a comedy special, Dave Chapelle brought up J.K. Rowling (of Harry Potter fame) for her broad claim that gender is real. That seems like a no-brainer until you consider the underlying assumptions it espouses. Yes, gender is real. What Rowling is implying is that gender is fixed. She is making a non-scientific claim that there are two choices: man or women. Regardless of all of the scientific evidence and support of it in the natural world around us every day, J. K. holds firm in her miseducation. I guess for her, if you have a dick, you’re a man, and if you don’t you’re the other thing.

That’s just some plain old dumb assery. For the people who haven’t been privileged with an education that explains the distinctions between biological sex (which is fraught with its own set of fallacies), gender (which gets assigned to everything—trees, seasons, the sky, water—not just people), and sexual orientation (which is just about who gets your blood racing). I blame some of the confusion on the fact that academics have made it so complicated to understand something so simple, that people are afraid to begin.

Let’s look at race. Biologically people are born into a particular phenotype. That’s all the physical shit we use to identify people, even though we know that has nothing to do with anything other than what we see with our eyes, some people mistake that for race. Then there’s culture. Culture is all the ways people might behave because of where they were born (environment), how they are raised (indoctrination) and the expectations thrust on them (societal norms, laws, stereotypes and shit). Individuality is the choice made (or the natural drive) to be and behave in ways in spite of what’s been pre-determined by any of those things. This is not a point for point parallel, but we can accept that biology is minimal when it comes to personality and identity.

If we can separate the biology of phenotype from a person’s culture and individuality, why can’t we offer the same rationale to sex, gender and orientation? Rowling doesn’t want to do that work and so she makes a comment that she believes let’s her off the hook by appealing to the bias and ignorance of others, who will smile, nod and confirm her ignorance. The Alt-Right did the same thing when they forwarded their idea that race is real. Only the ignorant and those predisposed to White supremacist beliefs bought that shit. So, when Dave Chapelle stopped the show for serious reflection (it was a stop the music moment if ever there was one) to say “It’s true, gender is real” he was not only spreading a message of ignorance to the millions that watched the special (or at best generating insecurity for people more open to question) that they are right to stay ignorant and that all the people who are living their lives (and expressing gender) based on lived experience and aspirations are wrong. Hm. That’s a bold statement and one that holds little water. Mr. Chapelle, just cause you co-signed some bullshit, doesn’t make it not bullshit.

Thanks J. K. And Dave and all you others out there taking a stand for ignorance. It’s so courageous of you to use your huge platforms to talk out of your assholes. We who are apparently doing gender all wrong will try and keep it our own fucking business so as not to bother either of you. Perhaps you might try doing a bit of the same.

Digital Brouhaha

I can’t believe people are still talking about the digital divide, y’all — for realz!

Back in the early aughts, organizations that served communities—communities otherwise delegated to the margins—kicked off funding efforts to get their “populations” access to ever advancing and “essential” technology. People feared a generation might go through life lacking proficiency with computers, smartphones, the internet, and all the exigent shit more privileged folks have. I mean, heaven forbid, right?

I’m not a very skeptical person. Many would describe me as a sap—a downright mark. Approached with a personal story (sob or inspirational) or a good cause, I’m a true believer—I’m all in. I’m the person who nearly joined a cult, remember? I may play devil’s advocate, but I’m not naturally inclined to be a cynic just for the sake of cynicism. In my mature years, I’ve come to loathe contempt prior to investigation.

That shifts when large sums of cash are involved. This is the case with multimillion dollar not-for-profit outfits (and I ain’t talking fashion). At extremes, I think the whole thing is a racket to sell poor people to rich people—people whose poverty make all that wealth possible. The wealthy demonstrate their concern (not remorse) by funding programs to aid the less fortunate.

A condition of privileged generosity is that those funders then get to decide what causes are worthy of their money. Not-for-profits then must song and dance for grants to continue serving, while getting to prioritize who gets served. I am aware I’m speaking from the position of a not-for-profit manager who has participated in the charade.

Tech companies are subsidized by taxpayer dollars via money donated to ensure even under-resourced households have flat screens and smartphones. We could instead be aiming for less tech dependence. In “Tools for Conviviality” Ivan Illich makes the argument for maintaining technology standards (including low-tech and no tech) that don’t automatically disenfranchise people who opt not to be so cutting edge. That’s the conversation I wanna see pop off. Might we fund a way to get free from our iPhones, please?

Dear Evan Hanson: A Review

I’m conflicted as hell about Dear Evan Hanson, y’all — for realz!

I’ve got about 30 post lined up, but I’m realizing that’s too much for most folks to keep up. It’s gonna be one post a week.

Now to business.

I’m not gonna hate on Dear Evan Hanson. I have only the most minuscule complaints about the movie’s artistry. The music isn’t one of them. I’ve been wearing out Spotify listening to the soundtrack on repeat. The film was well acted by a stellar cast that included Amy Adams and Julianne Moore as the moms in the two families that become enmeshed. Everyone was good, if not great in their respective role. The story was engaging. All the ingredients of a great tearjerker were in the mix.

The tears were not shed. What didn’t work for me? First, Ben Platt in the title role, for which they won the Tony, Emmy and Grammy Awards for work in the Broadway production. The diva has pipes. Their singing was just phenomenal. Platt’s acting is always riveting, but not since Diana Ross played Dorothy in the film version of The Wiz have I been so jarred by the obvious age inappropriateness. Platt is not believable as a high school student. Their gaunt face is clearly closer to 30 than 20, much less 16. Casting older can work if it’s across the board (as with the movie Grease and all those grown ass actors playing kids). As it was, it bordered on absurd.

My other issue was, in spite of a fairly diverse cast, the film so centered the same old middle-upperclass cultural perspectives that dominate films. It was just soooo, White. I’m also over seeing onscreen families (even poor families) living in beautiful homes with kids attending impeccable and fully resources schools. Stories of the traumas in this uber-privileged environment, get lost as I find myself thinking, “What a nice kitchen they have. The street all look so clean. They sure have a lot of extracurricular activities available”.

Lastly, several plot points just didn’t ring true—major plot points. The story is jolted forward by some character choices that didn’t make sense. What happens to the letter referenced in the title (that begins “Dear Evan Hanson”), the family members convinced by details later fabricated about the letter, and the reaction of the community to the sentiments spoken by a moments heretofore figure of derision—all rang fake. Even pumped up on estrogen, I didn’t get to have the cry I went to the movie to enjoy.

I’m not saying don’t go. There’s a lot great about the picture. Perhaps start with the sound track and if you love that, go see it and enjoy the visuals that go along with the music. I imagine a lot of people will really love the movie. It would certainly be hard to hate, if you like musicals and aren’t too triggered by yet another visit to the jungle that is high school. Not a glowing recommendation.

The Privilege of Trans Prettiness

I don’t even know how to talk about “pretty” and “passing” trans privilege, y’all — for realz!

Passing privilege, as I understand it, is the ability of a person from one group to successfully “pass” as part of another, with White passing the most common I’ve encountered, with preference to those with greater proximity to Whiteness. Pretty privilege is less objective, but pervasive AF—at least in Western society. It’s generally based on Western standards of beauty (slimness, fairness, symmetry, etc.), and is often (if not always) an extension of White supremacy.

In the trans community—especially for (but not limited to) the trans feminine—pretty privilege and passing privilege are often one in the same. The most “passable” trans women are those who look like runway models and the message is broadcast across media. Trans feminine spokespersons tend to be the “prettiest” ones. Trans women folks who don’t look like supermodels are more vulnerable to harassment (including misgendering) and discrimination across all facets of their lives.

[Check out Juno Roche’s article What Is "Pretty Privilege" — & How Does It Affect Trans Women? at refinery29.com.]

I can’t hate on the Laverne Coxes, the Indya Moores and other trans women who are trailblazers just because they grace fashion magazine covers. Even mentioning them in this context feels like unfair singling out. These women are survivors and fierce advocates fir the rest of us. No doubt. I do question the continued preference for European beauty (human) standards regardless of how far one might situate oneself beyond the margins. How and why are we replicating dominant cultural modes in our safest and most progressive spaces?

I’m a beautiful specimen of humanity regardless of perceived gender or other presentation. My identity is not based on my appearance. My appearance is just the neon sign that lets others know they have arrived at an amazing destination. I live in the sunshine of the spirit. I am enough. Sure, I wanna be cute, but I am the perfect expression of my ancestors wildest dreams today, at this moment. I have to break out of this thinking that I will only be myself when the world sees me as a bombshell. I’ve been a bombshell my whole life.

Boom, baby!

Micro-Aggressions

There’s a reason they call them micro aggressions, y’all — for realz!

This one’s more anecdotal (and a bit of a rant). It ain’t meant to delve into social justice lingo (about which you may sense my distain—read my older shit). Sometimes terms are razor accurate describing things barely perceptible that have a big ass and long term impact, like a hit and run. Truth: I don’t need to name what ails me. I just need to trust myself to recognize a hostile situation when I’m it. It’s also helpful when others around me just frigging heed when I say, “This don’t feel right.”

I was with a Brazilian friend whose first language is Portuguese. They shared about a recent date that left them feeling shaken and shitty. At a restaurant a server asked a question that momentarily confused my friend. The date says, to my friend, something along the lines of, “It must be so frustrating for you not being able to express yourself in English. I went through the same thing when I visited Spain.” My friend explained the comment brought up a lot of insecurity. They understood their date was trying to be supportive (even sympathetic) but my friend left feeling bad about themself. They couldn’t understand how such a minor comment could send them spiraling. I was like “Bitch, that’s why they call it a micro-aggression!” My friend was all, “What’s that?”

Do-over.

People (regardless of communication skills) get confused, have misunderstandings, and/or mishear shit, all the time. The moment my friend got confused by the server, to relieve the discomfort the date could ask the waiter for clarification—problem solved. Failing that intervention, date could ignore it, reading the damn menu, and let the moment to pass sans fanfare. Incapable of either of those things—say, caught up in their own discomfort—they might simply say “that was awkward!”

There’s a slew of ways to lighten the mood (if it even needed that) without calling out the other persons handicap (by which I mean any inherent trait resulting in a challenge). Imagine someone with unaccommodated mobility needs. A comment like, “It must be hard getting up stairs. I broke my foot once and know what you are going through” would be understood as insensitive if not a downright jerk-ish. The person dealing with the challenge doesn’t need it pointed out, or to be outwardly pitied.

Whether or not they understand micro-aggressions, people gotta recognize the arrogance in making it about them self. Sure, it’s uncomfortable being struck aware of someone else’s struggle. News flash: that’s called privilege. It’s nothing compared to frequent snags people hit in an environment designed without them in mind, or intentionally to trip them up. They don’t need your elementary deductions, Sherlock, nor impromptu solutions.

Complimenting their dark skin to put a Black person at ease, doesn’t. Pointing out others novel bodies, practices, culture doesn’t make put them at ease if they’ve been penalized for it. Projecting dissonance in a situation someone’s already wrestling, makes it worse for them. If you find yourself feeling luckier than, sorry for, or inspired to save someone because of their predicament, you may need to check yourself. Your ass (and ignorance) may be showing.

If you really really really feel you must insert yourself, go do some research, join an advocacy group and start getting to the root of the problem. Hint: It’s not the individual problem of person having the struggle.

Taking the Kids Away

When it comes to parenting, I’m a radical socialist, y’all — for realz!

Somebody’s like, “This queen is talking about taking people’s kids away.” I guess I am, except even the notion that someone’s children can be taken away from them carries this underlying fallacy that people own the children under their care. I commend anyone who dares usher in another human being biologically or through other labor. That’s in many ways the prime directive for all life (one we fail to prioritize, if you ask me). If we desire a world full of people (a topic for another day) somebody certainly has to make the people. That is where the individual responsibility comes to an end IMHO.

It takes way more than a lucky sperm and eager egg to bring a person into the world. Unless two people, who are biologically capable of successfully mating and bearing kids, spend their entire lives in isolation, having no contact with any other living organisms, those people are not doing it alone…not even close. To create life requires heavy lifting from a lot of players. For starters, everybody is born. That is the first huge public assistance program. No one would be in the position to do anything unless they got born and raised. That’s like a quarter century of output from doctors, parents, teachers, advisors and a whole lot of other people (and other beings) who make sure an individual gets to the place they can pop out a human. Society and accompanying infrastructure—a complex array of shit working together—serves as a lifelong foundation…for everybody…period.

According to my shrink, and no reason to question [note: since writing this, I fired my damn shrink], only about 60% of children get sufficient support from their guardians to prepare them to be healthy, independent and productive contributors to our Western society. That means almost half of parents are fucking it up—they are fucking it up bad. That brood of young people who got cheated of what they needed to successfully launch, become 40% of the population who will likely be having and raising kids.

I went broke toward getting a terminal degree. I was committed to my education enough to get as much as possible and way more than I could afford. Guess what? Not an hour was dedicated in that education to being a parent. I am not equipped to raise a child. I would want as much help as possible with that task, as most people do. If we were being equitable, we’d understand that different people need different levels of support. If we really wanted to serve in the area of child-rearing we would normalize the idea that it really does take a village to raise a child. In fact, the village spares a lot of children from some dangerous situations when families become dysfunctional.

Blah blah blah. That’s a bunch of rhetorical bullshit. Parents don’t need people poking their noses in. Parents know what’s best for their own children (their property). That’s why no children get abused, neglected, or abandoned. Fortunately, for the naturally ingrained genius of every human being, no children have their characters assassinated by toxic families. Certainly no child [trigger warning] would ever be murdered, as no parent would ever do that…ever. Lol [not]!

Child-rearing needn’t be any more a private arena as home ownership or driving a car. We accept that the state should intervene when it comes to keeping homes “up to code.” The state ensures at least a minimal familiarity with the operation of a vehicle and traffic laws (understanding of the law is another topic for a future post). Unless people can pay for the support they need (and look how much people with the resources to spend, make sure their children get the best) they need help. Like the COVID-19 vaccine, some people would rather risk it, making the choice not only for themselves, but those to whom they expose themselves daily.

Sadly, any such required orientation for being a parent would disproportionately impact already vulnerable families, while wealthy people would find (buy) ways around it. I also suspect that what was deemed the “correct” way to rear a child would skew heavily towards White Western norms, traditions, ideologies, etcetera. The Indian Child Welfare Act is an example of that kind of indoctrination when Indigenous people in Canada had their kids kidnapped and westernized without consent.

Yeah, it’s a can of worms. I should probably just stop talking now. Still, something have got to be did!

Requiem for the Hippies

What happened to all the hippies, y’all — for realz!

This one is directed mostly at the youthful folks in the movement for social justice. I feel like I’ve met you before. The first time was in the late sixties (yes bitches, I was alive in the sixties) during the hippie movement—the powerful movement led mostly by youth and co-signed by artists and theorist around the world. Those kids (yes, kids) we’re gonna change the world. Historic images of protesting Flower Children (the name that became synonymous with “hippie” during the 1967 Summer of Love) would lead one to believe that these young people waging love were singly responsible for ending the Vietnam war. Think of the iconic photograph snapped by Marc Riboud of that androgynous youth holding up a flower to the armed soldier.

Fact check: the anti-war movement was made up (mostly and as usual) by middle class women, academics (elders), and Civil Rights activist. Blacks protested that war due to disproportionate African Americans shipped to serve on the front lines and dying. Students (who had chosen to remain in the system while the hippies were “dropping out”) also played a huge part in that movement. They had an impact, however the main reason the US pulled out was ‘cause we were getting our asses handed to us. It’s complicated.

I’m not here to hate on hippies. I do understand that, after dabbling in those hippie ideals, the movement matured (settled) and went on to pursue “normal” vocations (sell out). Hippies came to realize their idealism as impractical. The fashion may have remained, but a capitalist in tie-dye is still a capitalist. The same happened with the #occupy movement, down to the unsanitary conditions that made the radical takeover of public (and sometimes private) spaces a health hazard.

The social justice movement is once again dominated by young Whites (and the White adjacent) from middle, upper-middle, and sometimes straight up wealthy families. These are the folks privileged enough to have the education, the resources and the time to protest while subsisting on generational wealth extracted from people for whom the struggle is waged. Experience predicts the “woke” will parlay their radical credentials to into well-paid positions (likely in non-profits). Would be radicals will enter new roles under the status quo, armed with inside information about movement strategies to serve the counter-revolution. The system is like the body snatchers waiting for woke folks to take a nap.

Of course, nothing is written in stone, and perhaps a generation (of those in struggle through no choice of their own) will learn the lessons, and choose their allies for more than rhetoric (or fashion choices).

—Notorious Pink

Candyman: A Review

Candyman got me shook, y’all — for realz!

Y’all must be like “This bitch watch a lot of trash, yo!” Yeah? And? I’m an artist and it is my occupation to explore what’s out there in the world. I refuse to engage contempt before giving something a good shot within the appropriate cultural context. Anyway, I got plenty of justification for watching a movie “like” Candyman, whatever that means (a scary movie, a movie with black people, etc). Just read the post! Lol!

Candyman is the new latest release from Jordan Peele (Get Out and Us fame). Both previous films are giving you horror with a modern and critical eye (no spoilers for the Get Out fans) peering through the lens of race. Racial anxiety, in fact, seeds the terror and is a key component. Both of those films (and Candyman) feature Black characters confronting manifestations of Black paranoia as it reaches the level of urban myth.

Get Out’s fear of appropriation and commodification of Black excellence specifically among progressive-minded Whites goes as far as auctioning off Black talents. The film Us evoked the inevitable cognitive dissonance in a society fabricated on the exploitation of people, places and things we do not see. There’s some debilitating imposter syndrome going on in these films as well.

Jordan Peele (and director Nia DaCosta) twist the plot of [trigger warning] a Black man lynched for sex with a white woman who haunts the former site of Chicago’s Cabrini Green housing project, with the new film daring to address the very existence of “projects” and the gentrification that makes them, and the people who live in them, disappear. It finds its outrage in modern the injustice of displacement and police brutality. By the time they got done with the material, I was rooting for the ghost!

Aside from Yahya Abdul-Mateen II’s (be still my heart!) performance, supported by Teyonah Parris and Coleman Domingo (if you don’t recognize the names, please look them up), Candyman is serving critical awareness and a wake up call that’s way scarier than a spook (I said it) with a claw hand—that is, if you care to actually stop, look and listen. The tag line “Say It” evokes the likes of Sandra Bland and other targets of state violence. None of that shit is accidental. I don’t know about Candyman, but I got a list of other names I dare you to say.