where i been, where i'm at, where i'm goin'
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this past Saturday, five people were killed and 18 were injured during a mass shooting that broke out at Club Q, an LGBTQ+ club in Colorado Springs. this tragedy would be senseless and heartbreaking in and of itself, but the fact that it happened on the eve of Trans Day of Remembrance adds another layer of unspeakable cruelty. incendiary events like this are offshoots of the quotidian violence trans people face every day, and it they serve as regrettably-consistent reminders that safe spaces for us to exist — let alone mourn who we've lost — are getting scarcer by the moment. every year that passes outdoes the one before for trans death, particularly for Black transmisogyny-affected people. i'm sick and tired of memorializing my kin, of witnessing all the ways bright souls can be dimmed forever more. each hashtag is a laceration. i'm fighting tears as i write this, honestly. right now, hope feels porous and words feel insufficient, so i'll turn to the words of someone else to restore my faith in the vengeance and liberation we deserve: “You died. I cried. And kept on getting up. A little slower. And a lot more deadly.” (Assata Shakur)
where i been, where i'm at, where i'm goin'
[image description: i'm sitting on an examination table in a doctor's office and throwing up a peace sign. i'm wearing a white shirt, olive green pants, a black shoulder brace, and a black N-95 mask. my shoulder-length braids are in an up-do.]
hey there reader,
it's been a minute, ainnit? the last few months have been both exquisite and excruciating over here — ever since i published the last issue, i've been staving off an increasingly debilitating flare-up that's only recently seemed to subside. as much as i wanted to "keep up" creatively and at least put out a Halloween-themed newsletter, i was far more fascinated by the unexpected testimony my body had to share.
first, my jaw started locking up, no Konvict Muzik. not too long after, the joints in my hands and wrists started growing noticeably stiff and swollen. by the end of September, i'd experienced more consecutive days with pain than without, but i still figured it had to be a psychosomatic and/or self-imposed fluke. whenever it comes to physical pain, i'm hesitant to pathologize an issue just in case it works itself out quickly enough to avoid a trip to the doctor's office, which, as U may know, can be an unpredictable and invalidating terrain for Black people in peril or pain. if anything, i'm more prone to understand sudden changes in my body as the magnitude of different transitions metabolizing themselves, or as a sign to temper at least one of my vices. so with each day that passed without resolve, i convinced myself, "maybe it's the changing weather, maybe it's the recent breakup, maybe i'm using my phone and laptop too much..."
then the pain began to migrate and intensify: to my knees, ankles, hips — U name it, chile. some mornings, i awoke barely able to walk, one of my legs faltering from the searing shockwaves that rippled through its joints. then in a couple days, i'd be fine on my feet, but i'd struggle to hold items in my grasp, my fingers petrified and throbbing once again.
as bemused as i was by it, my new somatic reality mandated that i adapt, so i never strayed too far from my Bengay, ice packs, and heating pad. i learned how to roll joints with fewer functional fingers than usual (sometimes while wearing press-on nails), and i bought my first cane to help me with mobility. i even started recalibrating my relationship to divination: since i couldn't easily shuffle my tarot decks on the days where hand pain was more of an issue, i considered how i might continue exploring other forms of channeling intuitive messages, like dream-tending, water-gazing, or tossing dice.
the worst part of the flare started right before Halloween (my fave holiday), which was wack as hell since i had plans to cut up with the homies at a Black queer Halloween party. by that point, the pain had fully consumed me like a dense fog at dawn, so it was clear my health problem was more complicated than i'd originally wanted to believe. i wasn't finna let that stop no show though: i willingly pushed my body more than i should have so i could show out in rare form, dressed up as Cam'ron in his timeless pink mink outfit.
[image description: a side-by-side comparison of Cam'ron and me in my Halloween costume. on the left, Cam’ron wears his famed pink mink headpiece and coat. he’s holding a pink flip phone up to his ear and wearing two big rings on the same hand. on the right, i’m wearing a furry pink headpiece and a matching jacket, big silver bamboo hoops, silver rings, pink glasses, and a black N95 mask. i'm holding a pink iPhone up to my ear.]
i had fun braving the elements to dance with my friends, but i definitely paid the price afterwards. being active on my feet for hours reactivated and exacerbated the inflammation in my left knee and ankle, which left me limping for days until it migrated to my shoulders. there were several nights where the pain jarred me awake into a bleary, pulsating haze anywhere from 2:00 to 4:00 in the morning; most notable is the time my shoulder joints were so aggravated that it felt like they were trying to eject the balls from their sockets if i moved even an inch in bed.
the day before the party, i attended Speak of the Dead Vol. IV, "an annual Hoodoo Halloween event that's a virtual gathering of Black (mostly trans & queer) folks communin and kiki-in around ancestral reverence, conjure technologies, spiritual resistance, and holistic healing." in Hess Love's workshop "Black Walnut Blues: Hoodoo Heartbreak Healin" on breakups and relationship grief, someone shared that they were feeling adrift while mourning the loss of their mother. Hess validated them in her response and said something along the lines of "U a lil more butt-naked in the world when you don't have your mama with U." the event continued, Halloween came and went, and that line kept coming to mind as i struggled to get around my house alone. as timing would have it, i had to figure the flare out largely on my own because it spiked right after my mom left to visit her homeland of Tobago in time for their inaugural Carnival celebration.
readjusting my life around the flare while she visited her ancestral lands felt like a fraction of a pinprick of the isolation and self-caretaking that happens after a mother's more-final homegoing. that's a grief i don't know yet, nor is it one i'll ever be prepared to meet. still, it awaits the moment of departure that will permit its crystallization. i just pray it is patient, that it gives us many more days together in this realm.
in this unpromised expanse of time that i hope for, our dynamic will look much differently than either of us originally anticipated. the transition from October into November was additionally meaningful to me because November 1st marked my one-year anniversary of moving back to Georgia. besides the pressing personal need to get out of Central Ohio, one of the major benefits of my return home was the expectation that my physical proximity will ease my mom's process of aging (and the disablement that might come with it). now, we're reconciling the present possibility of my own disablement with how our shifting relationships to our bodyminds will require more fluid, multi-directional care as we aspire to meet each other's access needs.
my first (relatively) flare-free day in over two months coincided with the recent full moon lunar eclipse. that morning, i woke up finally able to raise my arms above my head again, so i took the opportunity to prepare for wash day by taking down my box braids and detangling my natural hair. i relished in the deeply sacred, meditative process of tending to my crown, making way for much-needed release and renewal. every unwoven braid felt like snakeskin, every fallen follicle like the husk of a cocoon.
at nightfall, i took the ball of my dead hair and burned it in my backyard. under the moon and over the flame, i sent up several prayers, including one for physical reprieve, another for clarity on the flare's cause. i'm grateful to say that the first prayer has materialized for the most part: i've had no major pain since that day. as for clarity however, i still need an official diagnosis, though the bloodwork i've gotten so far is enough to raise suspicions of a chronic/autoimmune rheumatic issue. while i wait to meet with a rheumatologist, i'm still simply praying that i get the initial answers that i seek, as well as non-paternalistic guidance on long-term treatment. (i know, "dream big," but i always been a big dreamer!)
i'm gingerly taking my first steps on the other side of the flare fog, and i'm feeling truly mystified by my body. i'm almost tempted to muse "did that happen?" as if acute agony could ever vaporize from my somatic memory like the unpredictable mist that ushered its arrival. i know i didn't imagine it, as convenient as that would be. the underlying force behind my "doubt" is really the bewildered uncertainty of what's next. for me, the body is a site of belonging; i don't know if i feel like it can ever betray me, as if it's meant to do anything other than house my spirit. i think the question i really want to ask is "will the rest of my life be like this?," but i hesitate since i don't want to run the risk of sounding fatalistic, and certainly not petulant. i'm just tryna find the balance between mourning things i cannot and might not be able to do as easily anymore, and identifying ways to leverage resources for disabled and neurodivergent people who have dealt — and will deal — more profoundly with medical apartheid, institutional violence, incarceration, poverty, and/or meta/physical precarity.
i can't predict when the next flare will occur, so in the interim, i'm simply enjoying existing within my body again. like i said, life has still been exquisite despite the discomfort. i traveled back to Ohio last month, so i got to do everything from celebrating queer splendor at the Community Pride Festival, to leaving offerings near my favorite tree, to breaking bread with my loved ones at a cookout right before 10/17 (the high holy day of Woptober). i've also been steadily embedding myself in the devi co-op's Survivor Defense Project after having been on hiatus from organizing since spring 2021. so far, it's been fulfilling to participate in a space that materially supports incarcerated survivors of intimate partner violence within an abolitionist framework (instead of one that reifies state power), especially in a way that helps me feel more rooted to a sense of place and home. i'm glad i found my way back into organizing on my own terms, and i'm energized by the prospect of eventually making a sustained commitment to spaces in Georgia that specifically center Black trans liberation.
also, returning to the Source turned two years old on November 14th! it's been such an affirming, fun, generative experience to share my words and weave unsuspecting connections on a platform separate from social media. i look forward to carving this niche deeper and wider because i'm always gon have something on my mind! thank U, dear reader, for accompanying me on this creative journey.
speaking of birthdays, i'm finna be 27 soon, y'all! as far as i'm concerned, Sag season BEEN here, so big big Jupiter-sized shout out to my fellow straight-shootin' fire starters, it's our time! for my next trip around the sun, i'm openly welcoming more life, more love, more ease, more pleasure, more freedom, more diligence in all my crafts, more trailblazing brilliance, and more acceptance for new — not slower — paces, should chronic pain become a mainstay as i age. i've been making that distinction since coming across Jesi Taylor's (@moontwerk) Instagram post on pain and limited mobility:
...I’m retiring the word “slow” from my vocabulary when I talk and think about how I move in the world now. I’m not slow. I’m moving at a pace that feels appropriate for my body.
A few weeks ago, during a powerful conversation with @yogitones about movement I wrote this poem I’m about to share. It was inspired by a train of thought that began when I thought about mountains. How often mountains are seen as being “immovable” and “still” and so firmly rooted in place that they’re not in motion. That is so far from the truth. Even if mountains are living at a pace that capitalism bemoans and seeks to eradicate, mountains are constantly in motion. They’re not slow. They’re in rhythm and in tune with the pulse of the universe.
I’ll stop for now. Move at your own pace whenever you can. You’re not slow, you’re flowing to your own rhythm.
Here’s the poem:
slow burn
mountains
—the afterlife of a restless earth’s flow
from still to quaking
tectonic surrender
through fluvial veins
need not crumble
need not fall
let the Lands hold you
as you are
coming home to your body
one with soil and sea
🏔
...
by rejecting the tempo capitalism sets and extending my bodymind extra patience, i align more closely with my own embodied wisdom, and subsequently with the earth's ancient wonders. how are U honoring the testimonies your body has to share, dear reader? how does that inform the relationships U cultivate with the spaces U inhabit? as the days grow shorter, what new creative, spiritual, somatic, etc. rhythms are U exploring? i hope U can approach winter unhurried and at peace, but if life's demands currently make that an impossibility, i hope networks of support stretch far enough to eventually catch U and place U on solid, still ground.
until next time,
Dkéama
post-script
poem: untitled by @nicothepoet, posted in the wake of the Club Q shooting (emphasis mine)
text reads: "trans day of rage. trans day of vengeance. trans day of bleeding bigots. trans day of not being the bigger person. trans day of every statistic and gunman broken over our knees. trans day of we are going to make our own world. trans day of we are the ones we've been waiting for. trans day of morning coffee in bed. trans day of never having to explain our bodies or language. trans day of eyeliner and glitter and body hair and sweat and flashing lights. trans day of dancing until we can't anymore. trans day of coming home. trans day of no apologies. trans day of fucking forever. trans day of guns melted down to o-rings. trans day of unapologetic faggotry. trans day of free surgeries and hormones. trans day of living a long, long life. trans day of i love you. trans day of i love you. trans day of i love you. trans day of get home safe. trans day of i will see you in the morning."
creative non-fiction piece: "and this city is a grave" by Devyn Springer
as i prepare to dive more fully into organizing in the metro Atlanta area, this reflection from Devyn Springer came as a timely omen that every city is haunted, death-dealers and ghosts alike on every street corner. i witnessed it firsthand for years in Central Ohio, and i suppose i'll encounter it again down here. i'm not dissuaded by this though. apprehensive, sure, but i'm resigned to it too. i can only hope that my comrades and i cultivate abundant liberatory, life-giving resources for those caught in the crosshairs of anti-Black cisheteropatriarchy.
working definition of ableism by Talila "TL" Lewis: January 2022 Update
being introduced to TL's analysis of ableism in 2019 was a key moment in shaping my personal disability justice politic; aside from the succinct clarity their definition provided, it was the first time i had seen someone directly link ableism to anti-Blackness. it set off a light-bulb that illuminated how ability and Blackness are both social constructions that have been tied to labor for as long as they've existed. it's been dope to witness how TL's definition shifted over the years, most recently to "explicitly name birth place and living place...to include people who have pathological/criminal labels that invite surveillance, incarceration, institutionalization, etc., and for people who are transient, nomadic, non-possessory in how they exist, and more."
article: "Ancestral Tech and the Future of the Black Body" by Ras Cutlass
tap in to these Afrofuturist reflections from a disabled and neurodivergent person shared during the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic. nearly three years later, their thoughts on lineages of Black embodied wisdom feel even more applicable as the need to strategize towards our freedom and well-being heightens in urgency.
"I look at the everyday ways Black people shapeshift, control, temper, and use our bodies to get by, how we find joy and humanity, take control of our health all on our own terms....My hope is that we can begin to use these ancestral body hacks to do more than just get by. I refuse to continue teaching Black people how to make their bodies cope with the dehumanization of late capitalism and the carceral state. Rather than transcending the fallacies of our bodies, we must collectively undo the unnatural order of anti-Blackness and colonialism in our communities. That is the real disease."
playlist: it's some horrors in this house (Halloween 2022)
i scrapped my Halloween R2TS issue (for now), so i wanted to share the Halloween playlist i made instead! "this a Memphis-heavy selection of spooky, scary, and sinister songs — U can fight to it, feel a fright to it, pop out at night to it, etc." iss several junts from Three 6 Mafia and affiliated members because how they paved the way for horrorcore (and rap in general). i hope U enjoy, or at least feel a chill run down your spine.