A Queer Black Woman Goes Salsa Dancing

One of my best childhood friends was a Puerto Rican girl whose family would host impromptu parties (that I sometimes accidentally attended), and I remember people of all ages dancing in their living room. Her dad had a set of congas in a corner that I never saw anyone play but that I had a feeling were more than decoration. Whenever I walked by them, I would brush my hand across the rough skin of the drum head.  Their neighbor (who they called “Cuco”) played in a salsa band. I never saw or heard the band play but I he had that cool, musician aura about him. I would sit on the couch and watch them laugh and spin in the living room. I remember wishing I knew how to do what they did. The music was familiar to me (my dad often played salsa music) but the movement was not.

In my 10th grade English class, I had to give a demonstration speech and decided to demonstrate the basic steps of salsa. So, I did a little research to learn the basic steps in preparation for the speech. 😉 None of my classmates (in suburban Milwaukee, WI) knew that I had never really danced salsa. I stood on top of a table at the front of the room, counting as I stepped back and forth. (I think I got an ‘A’ on that speech.)

In college, I finally ventured onto a few dance floors to try my hand at this salsa thing. I didn’t yet know  enough to know how bad I was. As far as I was concerned, I was killin it! I certainly had a lot of fun.

In graduate school, I really dialed up my salsa dancing. Every opportunity I could, I went out salsa dancing. Live bands in the campus pub every month! Weekly salsa shows in the dive bar down the street (which most other nights hosted random hard rock bands). I became a regular in the salsa scene, made some dance floor buddies, and had soooooo much fun. Some of my favorite memories from that era of my life involve live bands, sweaty bodies, and smooth moves. I officially LOVED salsa. 

But my relationship with salsa has gotten more complicated over the years. Part of the complication is caused by my increase in knowledge. The more you know, the more you realize you don’t know. And my increased technical proficiency has also, unfortunately, increased my inhibition and self-consciousness.

But much more of the complicated relationship can be attributed to my own personal evolution and coming into my queerness. To be a queer black woman in salsa spaces is to crash head-on with traditional gender roles and the type hypermasculinity/femininity that constrains queer possibility. For many, salsa is considered a sensual dance form and it is exceedingly heteronormative–from the names of the moves to the ways men and women are expected to move their bodies. Men are ascribed as “leads” and women as “follows” despite the fact that there is nothing inherently gendered about the dance moves of leads and follows (I mean, other than the obvious fact that men are natural leaders. *rolls eyes*) I should mention that it is not uncommon to see two women dancing together, and it is usually inconsequential provided they both present in gender-normative ways (i.e. they’re both feminine). But this also subjects them to a sexualized, male gaze.

I can remember nights when I was getting ready to go out dancing, and I would spend so much time and energy figuring out how to feminize my look (deeper V? tighter pants? bigger earrings? more  lip gloss?)  so that I would be read as feminine on the dance floor and therefore more likely to be asked to dance. The reality is that all the guys want to dance with the “pretty girls”…even when those girls can’t dance worth a damn. The social scripts of salsa scenes rely on expressions of hyperfemininity and to miss the cue is to exclude yourself from the pool of desirable dance partners. I have had many salsa nights of standing on the sidelines, never being asked to dance all night. I would go home, feeling defeated and self-critical, wondering if men avoided dancing with me because the presence of my own masculinity (even when dialed down to its most subtle form) compromised their own performance of masculinity. I wondered if men avoided dancing with me because black American women offer so little social capital, and who wants to climb down a rung on the social ladder for even the 6 minutes and 30 seconds it takes to dance to one salsa song. I wondered if men avoided dancing with me because, for whatever reason, I would not make them look good.

I still LOVE to dance salsa, and I have had to accept that the culture of salsa scenes is not bound to change any time soon. I have spent countless hours learning Cuban salsa and salsa rueda over the past few years; I don’t want to walk away from a hobby I love because it is difficult for me to fit in comfortably. And yet…I don’t know if it is good for me, psychologically, to repeatedly participate in social environments that make so little room for queerness and so rarely celebrate me as I am.

And now some gay salsa…

 

Rachel Dolezal Resurfacing and All the Questions We Didn’t Answer Last Time Around

Rachel Dolezal is back in the news, which means I’m back into heated debates about this woman. However bizarre this story, I’m actually glad she’s back on our radar screens because we have some unfinished business.

Let me back up for a second and talk about two important concepts: race and ethnicity. Race is understood as physical differences that are assigned social significance. Ethnicity refers to shared culture or cultural heritage. It’s important to be clear about these concepts because they are not the same thing.

Now, when Dolezal identified herself as Black, everyone lost their shit. Why? Because Dolezal was born to racially White parents, and she is, therefore, racially White. And for her to claim that she is racially Black is dishonest, inaccurate, and problematic.

BUT…that’s not what she did.

I believe Dolezal has laid claim to Black ethnicity. Historically, I think Black race and ethnicity have been conflated. But if you think about it, we know that Black folks born and raised in Mississippi are culturally different from Black folks born and raised in Trinidad. They are racially Black but ethnically distinct.

Now the hard part…what exactly constitutes Black ethnicity, especially for U.S. Americans? 
Another hard question: Can someone transfer from one ethnic group to another? (“transethnic”?)
And finally, who gets to decide the criteria for authenticity concerning ethnicity? And who decides whether or not someone has adequately satisfied those criteria?

I think these are complex questions that her particular story brings to the surface, and I do not think we have given these questions sufficient time and attention. Seems like folks would rather pop off, call her out, and be pissed. Quite honestly, I think the astringent reactions are due, in part, to a deep uncertainty about what it means to be Black and who does and doesn’t have access to Blackness as an identity. (I certainly share concerns with many people around privilege, power, and appropriation.)

Is Dolezal problematic? Yeah, I think so. But I’m less concerned about her than I am about people (especially Black people) working through the hard questions Dolezal’s life presents.

Personally, I think it’s possible to be Black without being black. Know what I mean?

The Political Preventions of Self-Acceptance

Lately, I’ve felt envious of certain women. What is it about these women that I envy? I envy their total comfort with their own non-normativity, particularly around gender expression. What I mean is that women are expected to be feminine, and our culture has very particular (although often tacit) prescriptions for how that femininity should look and act. Yet, there are women who depart from these expectations and seem so at ease, at peace, and confident in doing so.

Meanwhile, at my therapist’s office, we chat about the importance of accepting and approving of myself. Seems like good advice. But I struggle still to accept myself as a woman who is a noticeable mashup of masculine and feminine, who often is read as more masculine than I feel, and who often feminizes my expression to ward off judgment/rejection from an imagined critic.

I have often wondered why I don’t have the self-possession and self-esteem to be totally comfortable with my gender expression. But that question, I think, presupposes that the qualities can develop and sustain totally apart from political realities. When I say “political”, I mean it in the broadest sense: power. To understand politics is to understand power structures. And I think what I am realizing is that there are indeed political factors that prevent self-acceptance of queer, Black, non-normative me.

In this white supremacist context, I face constant dismissing and devaluing of blackness. In this heterosexist context, I face the pathologizing of queer desire and queer family. In this patriarchal context, I contend with male privilege, the policing of female bodies, and narrow conceptions of what constitutes a socially acceptable woman.

Suddenly, the self-acceptance imperative is much more complicated than psychological actualization.

I do not think self-acceptance is radical. I do think it is exceedingly difficult, and that difficulty is an extension of our political conditions, which are best understood with a radical analysis of power. The political conditions literally prevent self-acceptance. They are vaccinations against love of blackness, love of queerness, and peace of mind about a self liberated to be whoever it wants to be. I think folks like me will struggle with this until the conditions are different.

I don’t have the solution to this problem (revolution notwithstanding, ha). I think I will just be less hard on myself about the envy I feel and the struggle I face to be okay with who and how I am.

A List of Articles in Response to Beyonce’s “Formation”

 

I am curating a “playlist” of thoughtful responses to Beyonce’s “Formation” song/video. If you have a piece you would like included, reblog or link up.

BEYONCE IS THE NEW BLACK: THE 10 BLACKEST MOMENTS IN BEYONCE’S “FORMATION” VIDEO (VerySmartBrothas)

On ‘Jackson Five Nostrils,’ Creole vs. ‘Negro’ and Beefing Over Beyoncé’s ‘Formation'(ColorLines)

Considering “Formation” And The Politics Of A Black Woman Pop Star (The Fader)

Beyoncé’s capitalism, masquerading as radical change (death and taxes mag)
We Slay, Part I

Gentrifying Afropunk

The Afropunk Festival was born of necessity, a reprieve from racism in punk spaces and a chance for black punks to build community with one another. Today, the festival is less strictly punk and more soul, with acts like Hill, Lenny Kravitz, and Gary Clark, Jr., receiving top billing over black punk bands. While this move toward attracting wider audiences has worked, it’s also shifted the focus away from the movement’s origins—and pushed out punk fans in the process.

READ MORE

Eyebrows and Kids

Today, I went to get my eyebrows threaded. I love having clean, nicely arched eyebrows. But I dread going to the eyebrow salon. I dread it for the same reason I dread going to the barber shop. Because the conversation with the person grooming me very quickly becomes uncomfortable.

Today, as soon as I sat in the chair, this woman said to me, “How many kids you have?”  In my head, I said, “Fuck your gender politics. I’m not answering that question.” But my other self gave her the “pleasantries-with-strangers” benefit of the doubt. And so I said, “None. I don’t have any.”

Her next question: “Are you married?” In my head, I said, “Fuck your gender politics. No. And until 2 months ago, I couldn’t legally get married even if I wanted to. Now stop asking me stupid shit.”  But out loud, I said, “No, I’m not married.”

And then, “How old are you?” In my head, I said, “Why you all in my business?!” Out loud, I said, “I’m 30.” Sigh. I should have said I was 22, because then…

“You don’t want kids?” In my head, I said, “Damn. For real? You’re just gonna double down on that patriarchy on me like that? C’mon, girl.” But out loud I said, “I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just spend my life traveling.” To which she replied, “Everybody’s always traveling.” And I could feel the judgment and dismay. I immediately felt the need to explain or somehow justify why my life is what it is. I said, “I was in school for a while and I’ve been working, so…you know.”
She said, “You work every day?”
“Yes.”
“So you make a lot of money, ” she said.
I laughed and said, “I wish.” If I could rewind this whole scene, I would have said, “I don’t make a lot, but I make enough. And I’m really grateful to have a job.” But my brain was in that 4:15-on-a-Friday slump.

I long for the day when I can walk into a salon or shop without immediately being assessed against these narrow and antiquated ideals of womanhood. The reality is that, in many cases, women with husbands and children are still deemed more socially respectable, valuable, and legitimate. And that’s a shame. Because, while partners and children can certainly be a great part of our lives, they are not the sum total of who we are in the world. We are so much more. I would love for the next threader/barber/whoever to ask me:
What do you think about Austin?
What kind of music do you like?
What’s the last good movie you saw?
What are you doing this weekend?
Do you like to travel?
What do you think about Facebook?

And leave space for my whole and genuine self: A queer woman with a partner, a dog, a cool job, and lots of dynamic interests. Not just the self they expect or think I should be: a straight woman with a husband and 3 kids. But really, this isn’t just about my queer Black self with no kids. It’s also about the women who are happily single by choice, or don’t believe in marriage, or are polyamorous, or are going through a rough divorce, or are having fertility challenges, or just lost their only child, or desperately want to be married but can’t find a partner, or are trapped in an unhappy marriage. It’s about all the complexity and diverse experiences of being a woman.

Is that so hard to get? Maybe I need to learn to thread my own eyebrows.

The Man Behind the Art of the Black Panther Party

The Man Behind the Art of the Black Panther Party

I feel the need to do a feminist critique of department stores.

This is what I’ve been reading. So far, so good.  The book was published around 2000, and I think Dr. Tannen’s insight is more true now than it was then!

Yes, yes, and yes!

(Source: https://player.vimeo.com/)