reading when i can

my eyes glued to a constellation (they call these types ‘dreamers’)

Who was this reader? A man or woman? Maybe lying in bed, without anyone around, heavily underlining, several places in red, or commenting in blue while waiting at an airport for a delayed flight. But the loops that circle words are isobars— one needs to have reached rock-bottom to understand these marks. And now it’s my turn to add my own geography. There’s hardly any space left, not even for shadows. The black ring of a coffee cup and the careless ash of a cigarette are my only traces. My fear of clarity.

Even the shore itself is a lure for the dark waters, high tides under a full moon, apotheosis of the universe.

Names leap ahead like hunting hounds, with the belief they clear the road of the journey’s unexpected obstructions. And we call ‘destiny’ our common unknown, a genderless, unconjugated, unspecified name. Its authority hangs on one shoulder like the tunic of a Roman senator leaving only one arm bare and free.

When a child is born, we name it after an ancestor, and so the recycling continues. Not out of nostalgia, but from our fear of the unknown.

Solidarities of any kind are never easy. Yet, they are necessary for the survival of us all and the natural world. Every group that seeks to be in solidarity with another bears the burden of conflictual histories, within itself and across groups with whom they aspire to bond, to build relationships, and to create societal changes. Most often, the conflicts are not of their own making, and the groups are positioned as “opposites.” Nonetheless, the burdens and scars of intentional and forced divisions shape the values, intentions, and relational practices of the actors, not to mention the groups’ collective memories.

Creating a radical self-love world requires our willingness to have challenging conversations about privilege, power, history, culture, inequality, pain, and injustice.

Moving from a radical self-love that transforms you to a radical love that creates justice and equity in the world may feel like a tall order, but you are already on your way. As we cultivate new ways of being in our own bodies, we develop new ways of being on this planet with other bodies. A return to radical self-love requires our commitment to building shame-free, inclusive communities that uplift one another while honestly addressing body terrorism and all the ways it manifests as oppression based on age, race, gender, size, ability, sexual orientation, mental health status, and all other human attributes. Some will deride our efforts with charges of playing to “identity politics.” We should remind those people that they, too, have identities that are informed by their bodies. Their lack of awareness about those identities generally means their body falls into a multiplicity of default identities that uphold the social hierarchy of bodies. The luxury of not having to think about one’s body always comes at another body’s expense. We should, with compassion, remind them that oppression oppresses us all, even those who are default. Not even they will always have a body at the top of the ladder. No one wins in a world of body terrorism.

I am stardust sparkling the night’s sky. Not bound by any limitations. Free to be seen, free to be heard in all of my beauty.

Diaspora has the agency to remake culture and tradition, just like those in the homeland.

Names are complicated. They’re sacred and beautiful. And they’re also hidden away, stolen, forced on a person, made up, and subject to change.

We must define care, love, and intimacy for ourselves outside of capitalist logic and abandon the grammar of patriarchy. I believe love requires care, but care does not require love. You can care for someone or be caring, but that does not mean you are loving. Like bell hooks, I view care and care ethics as something we do and show praxis. I am not invested in making people love each other. My care ethic says I do not need to love you, and I don’t exactly need to know you. Still, I understand our fundamental interdependence, and I am clear about what the stakes against capitalism and patriarchy are.

When I use the word “love,” I do not mean agape or any Christian-based idea pushing us to love our enemies. I mean a love and care ethic rooted in Black feminist principles—it acknowledges that the world is awful and wants you to hate yourself and Blackness. Still, you instead practice refusal of patriarchy, capitalism, and white supremacy.

Pain as a uniting force can be useful. It has the power to bring people into the struggle. When we are able to name the harms against us, we can then band together to protect ourselves against them. Our disappointment, grief, and righteous anger drives us to fight back and to imagine a better world in which we can thrive. But more and more I’ve found myself curious about the opposite: How can we unite based on our shared love, joy, and humanity?

There is a conscious choice in aligning yourself as part of a larger group beyond the prebuilt identifiers offered to you—like ones built on race, nationality, ethnicity, religion. To claim an identity built on solidarities requires a larger view outside of oneself and interrogates the functions of “identity.”

The notion of going beyond gilded cages is both about real cages—jails, prisons, detention centers, foster homes, psych wards—and the glittering lies used to weld them. It is also about the metaphorical cages: the lackluster politics of representation, fantasies of multiracial unity, and callous dismissals of past failure, which degrade our humility and infuse our organizing with self-interest. By rejecting these false solutions, engaging in cross-border struggles, and creating necessary antiviolence resources within our communities, we can destroy the power relations that entrench injustice and oppression.