Tag Archives: queer

Video: Recognizing Each Other: Adoptees of Color

Recognizing Each Other Video Transcript

Just over a month ago, I met up with two other queer adoptees of color to talk about adoption.  Mariama Lockington is a queer black transracial adoptee and So Yung Kim is a queer korean adoptee, both of whom have done writing and work around adoption.  (We had over an hour and a half’s worth of footage, so it took awhile to whittle it down and pull out some of the highlights and pieces from what was shared.)

As with my last video*, whenever I get to hear queer adoptee of color stories, I am entranced.  I crave adoptees of color that want to talk about adoption, what it was like for us growing up and how we are still being impacted by adoption—and always will be.  I crave time and experiences with other adoptees of color that is not mitigated through, by white people, white parents and non-adoptees.  It is so rare that I get to hear queer adoptees of color talking about our lived experiences.

I love hearing our words (all of them, in whatever way they come tumbling out) and feel ever-so appreciative, especially knowing how long I went without ever hearing any of our voices tell our own stories and stumble through sharing and asking and loving.

As adoptees, it is so important for us to tell our stories and to leave evidence for each other.  We are often isolated, individualized or discouraged from connecting our stories with each other.  There may be adoptees who will watch this in secrecy, who have never met another adoptee, who never talk about being an adoptee with anyone in their life or don’t think about how adoption impacts them.  It is not easy.

Our stories are all so different and complex and they all have value–we have value.

We will not be polarized, made one-dimensional and pitted against each other.  I don’t want to be used by non-adoptees to prove, justify, and support arguments about adoption that don’t include us, profit off of us or don’t speak to our whole, full and various lived experiences.  There is no “good adoptee” or “bad adoptee,” as many of us may have come to understand.  We are complicated, our lives are complicated, our histories are complicated; our identities are complicated.  And as adoptees of color, all of us have the lived experience of being people of color who were adopted, and that thread connects us all.

Immense love and gratitude to Mariama and So Yung for sharing some of your story, knowing that it’s not all of your story.  Thank you for your honesty and humor.  And most importantly, love and gratitude for being visible (as adoptees), for being recognizable to me and for recognizing me.

(*This is the second video in a series of videos I am making for Leaving Evidence.  They are video snap shots of some of the brilliance and deep complexities that we hold individually and collectively, as a people.  We must leave evidence for each other.)

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Reflecting on Frida Kahlo’s Birthday and The Importance of Recognizing Ourselves for (in) Each Other

self portrait of Frida wearing a white brace-like aparattus that wraps around her chest and torso four time and come over her shoulders. A broken cement column is in place of her spine going from her neck to her waitst, a sheet covers her naked body from the waist down.  There are metal nails nailed into her on her skin and the white sheet, her breasts are exposed and she is crying, though her expression is stoic.   Today is Frida Kahlo’s birthday.  In honor of her and her work, I took time to sit, breathe and reflect on Frida and all that her work has meant to me. I often think about Frida and what it means to recognize each other, as disabled queer women of color.  I don’t know if Frida would have described herself as “disabled;” if she would have even used that language, that thinking.  Would she have thought of herself as what we understand as “queer,” using whatever language and words she chose around her open bisexuality?  I don’t know.

I found Frida when I was young, and it seems I have been continuing to find her my whole life.  Frida was originally introduced to me when I was a young teenager as a feminist symbol; as a “strong woman of color artist.”  As one of the few non-black woman of color thrown in amongst majority white women, I remembered her.  It was only later that I found out she, like me, had polio as a child and about her bisexuality.  For me, Frida was a symbol of one of the few disabled queer women of color that I knew of.  Her paintings conveyed things beyond words about bodies, death and pain at a time before I had the tools and language with which to talk about disability, surgeries, legs, spines, backs, pain, womanhood, suicide, shame, desire and self-hate.  She was a necessary reflection of parts of me when I felt so alone, cut-off, isolated and like a freak.  Her paintings were some of the only visual images of disabled women of color that I had, period.  And the fact that she was painting herself and deciding how she wanted to be seen and understood was even more powerful.

Frida helped me to recognize pieces of myself and for that I will forever be grateful.

To me, Frida was descriptively disabled and queer, even though she may not (or may) have identified as such or used that language.  When I say “descriptively disabled”, I mean someone who has the lived experience of being disabled.  They may not talk about ableism, discrimination or even call them selves “disabled,” but they know what it feels like to use a wheelchair, experience chronic pain, have people stare at you, be institutionalized, walk with a brace, be isolated, etc.  There are many people who are descriptively disabled who never become or identify as “politically disabled.”  When I say “politically disabled,” I mean someone who is descriptively disabled and has a political understanding about that lived experience.  I mean someone who has an analysis about ableism, power, privilege, who feels connected to and is in solidarity with other disabled people (regardless of whatever language you use).  I mean someone who thinks of disability as a political identity/experience, grounded in their descriptive lived experience.  (The same is true for descriptively queer, descriptively woman of color, descriptively adoptee and so on.)  I don’t know if Frida was politically disabled or queer.

This distinction is helpful for me, because the majority of the disabled women of color (especially disabled queer women of color) I meet are descriptively disabled, not politically disabled, as was I for a long time.  Or they are descriptively queer, not politically queer.

in this painting, frida is in her wheelchair, next to a portrait of Dr. Farill.  She is dressed in a white top and black long skirt and holds her paint brushes in one hand and her palette in the other.Though it is hard, it makes sense to me because the risks of being a political queer disabled woman of color are great.  The risk of more isolation, more stigma, more annoyance (“You’re bringing that up again??”), more visible-invisibility can be too much to even consider.  The risk of being yet another woman of color who is thought of as “too much.”  I meet queer women of color who are descriptively disabled, but have enormous resistance to thinking of themselves as disabled. Narratives of “independence,” “miracle,” and “super crip” abound or the cost of being a political disabled woman of color is too high and survival as a disabled person depends on not connecting their disability with their race…or queerness.  (And the cold, hard truth is that there is just as much ableism within queer communities as there is within straight communities—don’t be fooled.)

The risk of having to begin to have conversations about ableism, access and power in our families, with our caregivers, attendants, co-workers, friends and lovers is tremendous, often times threatening the very delicate web of access we’ve managed to create—threatening our very survival.  How do you talk about queerness when it is assumed you have no sexuality as a disabled person, while simultaneously you are washed with racist gender stereotypes about women of color’s desire and sexuality?  What does it mean to be stripped of our sexuality at the same time we are hypersexualized at the same time that we are infantilized at the same time that it is assumed we will shoulder the brunt of the work?  There is great risk in visibility.

And even when we are visible as disabled queer women of color, sometimes we don’t even recognize each other.  We don’t recognize each other because we’re not taught how to do it; because we’re taught how to be afraid of each other.  Because we are taught how to not recognize each other more readily than we are taught how to find each other.  Where are we? How do we find each other? And how do we do the work to recognize each other and to be recognizable to each other?  Sometimes, as is so often the case with queerness (and disability), I see you, but I don’t know if you see me.  I feel this acutely with adoptees.  We share space together, but often times we don’t know how to recognize each other.  We look right through one another, or avoid each other as if we were taught some kind of secret script.

I wonder about Frida and my recognition of her and if she would have recognized me.

I want you to recognize me.  And I want to leave evidence about how I made myself recognizable to you (for you) and about how I tried to find you—to make it easier for the next time we are faced with ourselves/each other.  Because there were so many times I chose not to recognize myself inside of me as well—there were times I avoided pieces of myself.

We can learn how to recognize each other.  We can teach each other.  We must practice recognizing each other.  And we need as many visible queer disabled women of color as possible to help us get there.  As many of us who are living our lives and are able to leave trails and stories about the way we felt, looked, moved, survived and created.   As many of us who refuse to let our disabled queer struggles get subsumed by the able bodied queer movement as only queer; who refuse to let our disabled people of color stories get subsumed by the white disability movement as only disabled; who refuse to be invisible, for the sake of each other.  As many of us who are cultivating the elder in us all to be here (in whatever way we can) for those who come after us, because we need them and they will need us.

So, today, on Frida Kahlo’s birthday, I sit in gratitude for her paintings.  They were an avenue of recognition for me.  They were a way for me to recognize pieces of her, and in turn, a way to recognize pieces of my self, and allow me to recognize others.  I thank her for her life and her honesty and all of the complexities she holds.  Thank you.

photgraph of frida laying in bed painting.  Diego Rivera is next to her, looking on and holding her palette.“I paint myself because I am so often alone and because I am the subject I know best.”  –Frida Kahlo

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Video: Crip Sex, Crip Lust and the Lust of Recognition

Here is the first of many-to-come videos of snap shots of some of the brilliance and deep complexities that we hold individually and collectively, as a people.  We must leave evidence.

Recently, I met up with Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha and Ellery Russian for an evening and got to capture some of our musings, sharings and stories.  Whenever i get to hear crip stories, i am entranced.  i love hearing our words (all of them, in whatever way they come tumbling out) and feel ever-so appreciative, especially knowing how long i went without ever hearing any of our voices tell our own stories and stumble through sharing and asking and loving.  It’s so important for us to tell our stories–to each other.  As much as we can.  There are so many different stories that we have to tell about (queer) crip sex and about our relationship to crip sex, to sex period, to sexuality and more.  Our stories are so different and complex and they all have value–we have value.  Much love and gratitude to Leah and Ellery for sharing some of your stories, knowing that it’s not all of your story.

Click here for the transcript of this video:  Crip Sex Video Transcript

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Desiring Revolutionary Bodies and Movement(s)

I believe that disabled people have so much to give and so much to teach from our lived experiences.  We have so much that our movements can learn from.  We have so much to learn from each other, cross-disability.  I believe that disability justice can be something that shifts and changes how we have been taught to organize; how we have been taught to move.  There are many different ways of moving through the world.  And the more I learn, the more mistakes I make, the more victories I have, the more time I take to reflect, center and listen to myself and those around me, the more I keep coming back to disability justice.

For so long I have tried to (been forced to) squeeze myself into ableist ways of doing things.  The way I thought about activism and the revolutionary body was never with disability at the center.  And I was so hungry for things that reflected me, that I settled for crumbs: a little queer here, a little people of color here, a little Asian here, a little feminist here, a little woman of color there.  And part of it was that I wasn’t raised by disabled parents and family members and the community I was raised in, though disability was everywhere you looked, never talked about disability—and certainly not in a political way.  And I was so used to doing without and being separated from pieces of myself—being cut right down the middle; having to survive on crumbs as a transracial and transnational adoptee of color, that I didn’t ask.  I didn’t say what I knew inside:  something is wrong.

And I was seduced by ableism, as we all are, as I still fight against.  The seduction of ableism is so strong, sold to us as so absolutely desirable that we don’t notice when there are no disabled people in our lives.  We don’t notice when we never have to think about disability and ableism.  In fact, we prefer it that way.  The seduction of being desirable—of even the possibility of being desirable—is enough to keep us hooked.  As I fight against the ableism inside of me, it at once forces me to shift and queer what desire means.  It at once forces me to shift and queer what I desire.  It forces me to shift and queer racist, gendered and capitalist notions of desire; of who and what is desirable.

And as revolutionaries, I believe we have to shift and queer the kinds of revolutionary bodies, minds, thinking, and movements that we desire as well.

Most of us are beating down the door, trying to get in to have access to the skills, conversations, strategy and knowledge that is kept at the top/bottom of stairs, bound by language, locked by pace.  Most of us are aching for cross-movement work with an integrated anti-ableist analysis and commitment that includes (but doesn’t stop at) access; that understands access within a political framework.  Some of us have turned away completely—why should we fight to be a part of something that doesn’t even want us?  That doesn’t even include us?  That doesn’t even desire us—that doesn’t even know the first thing about how to desire us; about how we want to be desired?  Some of us will not or cannot turn away, because these are our people too, we are you and you are us—how can we be divided?  You are my people too, am I not yours?  So we have carved out ways that we can stay connected anyway we can, pushing for more; slowly and firmly.  And many of us have felt all of these at one time or another.  And all of us are doing our work: to survive, create, organize, fight, build community, build movement, and tell our stories.

Someday we will all look back at the segregation of our organizing and movements. How many cross-movement, social justice, multi-issue organizations, groups, collectives working for liberation would dare move forward with all men or with all whites?   Someday we will talk about the days long ago when non-disabled folks never included disabled people, politics, histories and legacies in their work.  Because it is our work, we are each other in so many ways.

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“Intersectionality” is a Big Fancy Word for My Life

(Excerpts from MBGLTACC 2010 Keynote Address)

picture of a green bottle with grass and trees behind it.We have to confront white supremacy within LGBT and Queer communities.  A queer politic MUST include solidarity with people of color; it MUST include fighting racism and white supremacy.  Because we aren’t queer OR people of color; queer OR white; queer OR able bodied; queer OR working class.  We can’t just decide to come together as queer people and expect that we are all going to be united and work together—or that we’ll even feel comfortable.

We must be willing to have hard conversations as queer people with each other about how we are different as queer people.  It helps us to expand what “queerness” is—to see that there are many different ways to be queer.  We can’t be afraid to do our own work at our own tables.  And yes, there is much work to be done out there, with folks who aren’t queer.  Yes, that is important too, but we are outsiders here as well.  Because really, there is no “out there.”

For those of us living with multiple oppressed identities, we know this well.  And as adoptees, we know this well—especially as transracial and transnational adoptees.  As people who straddle many different communities, so much of our work must be done with the people in our own communities.  And we do this work for our very survival, because often times, we do not have a choice not to.  There is literally no where else to go.  Our homes are rarely comfortable. (And I know as queer folks we know something about that too).

To the queer white folks in the audience and the folks who benefit from white privilege, I would ask you: how are you connecting your fight for queer liberation to challenging white supremacy?  How are you connecting your queerness to your white privilege?  How are you listening to queer people of color in your world, supporting them and practicing solidarity?  How are you actively noticing how whiteness, racism and white supremacy play out in queer communities, student groups, organizations, and movements?

Racism and white supremacy are so pervasive, that we don’t even have to be consciously or intentionally doing anything to participate in them.  It’s in the air we breathe; it’s how the machine rolls; it’s the default.  It’s backed by everything in our society.  That’s the thing about oppression, power and privilege: unless you are actively challenging it, you are colluding with it. We live in a heterosexist society, we live in an ableist society and we all have a responsibility to actively work against it. We can’t guarantee that things won’t be ableist or won’t be racist (that’s not the world we live in right now); but we CAN guarantee that when there is racism, when there is ableism, that we will do something about it.  We will LISTEN to those most impacted; we will listen to people of color, we will listen to disabled folks; we will listen to trans folks; we will listen to queer disabled people of color—and hear them.  We can guarantee that we will act and communicate with each other.  And we will make mistakes; and we will learn from them.

There is no such thing as neutrality.  If you have privilege, you can never be neutral, because you are constantly benefiting off of that privilege—even at the same time as you are also being oppressed. That is what “intersectionality” (for lack of a better word) is about.  It is about moving beyond single-issue politics; it’s about understanding the complexities of our lives.  It is understanding that fighting for racial justice IS queer; fighting for disability justice IS queer.

It is trying to understand the way our differences lie down inside of us, as Audre Lorde would say.  It is knowing that heterosexist and patriarchal modes of family and gender and sexuality were used in service of white supremacy as the building blocks used to colonize first nation communities and communities of color and their lands.  It is knowing that women of color’s sexualities and genders are policed everyday (in different ways), whether they identify as queer or not. It is being able to hold the trauma and exploitation of transracial and transnational adoptees, as queer people who often think that transracial and transnational adoption is a valid route to parenting.  It is holding the power of building queer family and new models of parenting AND also challenging compulsory child bearing in a heteronormative culture.  It is knowing that race gets used strategically to divide us all the time as queer people.  That ableism, capitalism and class get used to make us think that independence, freedom and consumer choice are more important than justice and liberation.

“Intersectionality” is a big fancy word for my life; for your life, for our lives.  It encompasses so much more than I could ever talk about in one talk.

Intersectionality is not just talking about the places you’re oppressed, but also the places where you have privilege.  Intersectionality is disabled white folks enacting their white entitlement through their disability identity.  It’s me having to choose between the POC caucus, the disability caucus, the API women’s caucus, or the adoptee caucus at the Creating Change in Detroit.  It’s thousands of LGBT and queer folks coming out for pride and 150 people coming out for Transgender Day of Remembrance…

So I would say the same thing to the queer able-bodied folks in the audience and the folks who benefit from able-bodied privilege (in many different ways):  how are you connecting your fight for queer liberation to challenging able-bodied supremacy?  How are you connecting your queerness to your able-bodied privilege?  How are you listening to queer disabled folks in your world, supporting them and practicing solidarity?  How are you actively noticing how ability, ableism and able-bodied supremacy play out in queer communities, student groups, organizations, and movements?

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