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whitneysparkswillfly · 9 years ago

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#forcoloredgirlsjustwanttohavefuninthesun

This essay is dedicated to the people of the Black Diaspora– from the cradle of humanity, the dawn of civilization, to the Mediterranean migrants of today, to the Caribbean refugees and those dispossessed everywhere, to the landless workers movement and the prison uprisings of Brazil, to those incarcerated by the US prison industrial complex and those fighting its neo-apartheid terror, to the Chibok girls and their sisters, and all of our tethered-to-the-heart loved ones.

This is also for Greece, a country so clearly both sharply modern and deeply ancient, birthplace of democracy, drama, tragedy, comedy, and the first best kept original secret raves the world has ever known. Courageously keep in mind what true democracy could be. Hold fast to that idea. Never forget your ancestors who included women, queers, people of color, in general, and black people specifically, in their society and spirituality.

This is dedicated to squatters and homeless people. To artists, writers, musicians. To the lost, kidnapped, trafficked, abused. To those whose childhoods were stolen, by any means. To storytellers. To mystics and addicts and gender queer folx. Together we know something that the rest of the white, western world is only just starting to wake up to.

We are not afraid of radical anarchy. We still believe in love. We know the power of the people unprejudiced. We know the worth, and weight, of the unknown. We find the roots of equality in our heritage of treasured memories, in our designed destinies, from our ancestors, from our dreams, observed through time in nature. We have lived with fluid borders– across rivers, mountains, oceans, seas, fields; across genders, families, appearances, abilities, practices, communities, ethnicities, cities, lands and countries.

But this is indeed a scary time for us. For all humanity. Frightened by loss. All our savings disappearing until there will be none left. The haunting shadow of poverty, lack, dispossession, homelessness. Bullied with the absence of safety. Under constant threat of violence, the ever-looming specter of untimely death. It feels like we’re under attack. If our parents seem to only care about labels, titles, degrees, and respectability, manners, correction, grammar, etc, it’s because they hope with all their minds that this will protect us, and them, their kin, loved ones, from a world that doesn’t seem to care very much if at all for human nature or human beings or any nature or us in particular.

We, the next generations, want to make people, including ourselves, happy, content to smile, relax. We want to help. We have found new forms of pleasure and we want these to be our buffer against the cold, cruel world. We’ve found value in service and cultural exchanges, in having a good time and partying it up, in kicking back and reflecting.

Our future is bright with the inner light of awareness.

Have no doubt, this is a spiritual opportunity for us all. (If you groan to read “spiritual,” you’re not alone. I only hope I’m not…). Like the Star of Bethlehem that reappeared in our night skies at the hot heart of this summer, we are Venus and Jupiter, Love and Power, approaching each other. We are coming together. We are shining in brilliance, in the dark.

My painting teacher used to say “work the whole canvas.” I still try to do that all the time, of which the vast majority, unfortunately, is not spent painting. My first editor wrote of the greatness of the “Glorious Generalist” I aspired to be. “Everything is connected!” I know.

So, here is my BIG QUESTION:

How to play to x to the nth degree’s strengths, where x is a whole integer representing the number as it approaches infinity of human beings on earth? In other words, How is it possible to play to an exponentially increasing number of people’s collective strengths? My question is about the multitude. What are the predominant strengths, let’s define this loosely as “good character traits,” of the human race? What are these qualities which rise up from our diversity?

Why do I ask, you ask? Because these qualities, traits, behavioral patterns, that is human nature, are our (only) superpowers– and we sure as hell are going to need them! To save ourselves. From ourselves.

This is the summer I went on a road trip with my brothers and cousin– the black men, aside from our fathers, I am closest to in all the world. In fact, perhaps the only men with whom I am closest. We went driving while black, got stopped by the cops twice in a row, in New Mexico, with two different drivers: first Zachary, 25, our cousin from Chicago, then Kyle, 24, my little brother who lives in Los Angeles.

My dad had called us that morning to to berate my brothers, Kyle, Brandon, 29 (my 11 months younger Irish twin), and me for taking the initiative to reorganize and clean out our childhood home. “LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE,” Zach recalls as the first thing he heard waking up that morning in a motel in Alpine, Texas. Keith? he thought, recognizing the voice (and parlance) of his uncle immediately. You’re shouting at the wrong people, Dad.

Arriving at night to Grandma’s house, the house where Dad grew up, in the middle of the Sonora desert in Tucson, Arizona, I had my first encounter with Dad’s sister, my aunt Robin since she called the cops on me New Years Day 2014, because she erroneously believed me to be dangerous and/or mentally ill. This, all because I had tried to start a conversation while my sister, Haley was still (as she is often near-constantly) watching television. I had tried to turn off the TV when all hell broke loose. Haley, the baby of our family but much taller and bigger than I (the eldest), immediately physically attacked me. Eventually, the cops, too, would tackle me face down into the hardwood floor in our living room, adjacent to the Christmas tree, and restrain me with plastic handcuffs. I had tried to walk upstairs to my bedroom to change out of pajamas, because I was fed up with the absurdity of the situation, because I thought I was at home, and I thought I still had rights. I did not. I did not ever get back to my bedroom that day or even that week. I walked barefoot to the neighbors, because the cops decided I wasn’t allowed to stay in the house where I grew up. Someone who would sacrifice TV binging in favor of communication is obviously way too much of a threat to be allowed to be free, or comfortable, or presentable.

As I drove up the gravel driveway to Grandma’s house at night, a rattlesnake crossed the path. Once inside, I saw Robin and I know, now, only a year and half later– a time-span filled with the stories of police-caused fatalities, Eric Garner, Mike Brown, of Ferguson, Freddie Gray, Baltimore, with Department of Justice investigations, the McKinney, Texas pool party, and more– she has got to be sorry. I can tell that she is. Before arriving I spoke with my grandmother on the phone. “Ask Robin not to call the cops this time,” I told her. Grandma agreed to pass on the message. But, for the record, on January 1, 2014, she inquired to the police officers about what it would take for them to take me away. She and my father considered how (conspired?) to have me confined to a mental hospital! Locked up, against my will. With the help of my maternal grandmother, who thankfully was also there at that holiday time, and the suburban Texas neighbors to whom I’d been exiled, I escaped. I left back for Europe as soon as I possibly could.

I don’t regret being back here in US as opposed to EU, where I was for years before now, especially to share support and love (+ plenty of fun and scheming!) reunited with my beautiful black family and my dearly beloved friends of all colors. And, of course, I don’t regret being black, at all. But I’m not gonna lie, all this recent news has been really heavy for me personally.

Could 2015, as-yet unbeknownst to us, be the year the US FINALLY wins/ends: 1. The War on Terror, by correctly identifying the true terrorists: white supremacists; 2. The War on Drugs, through nationwide legalization of marijuana; AND 3. The Civil War, through crackdown on said terrorists/white supremacists, the final and permanent removal of all confederate flags, actual gun control, and nationwide police plus prison reform to repeal Jim Crow and stop the prison industrial complex machine?!?!

On the one hand, I’m glad white supremacy is finally being called out where it really is (pervasive/around every corner), for what it really is: *exploitative* hate, cruelty, hyper-capitalism. That’s a kind of a relief. Because I always knew it, but did not always feel at liberty to say so.

I do now, so: LOOK— or better yet, LISTEN: the headlines I’ve read today are “Black People are Not Safe Anywhere in America” and “The Condition of Black Life is One of Mourning”. This is Painful. But I do not agree 100%… A black person presently in the US, I know a few places where I’m nearly as safe as it’s possible for anyone to be: in the homes of my white friends, for example. That does not change the fucked-up-edness of the US situation, for black folks predominately, including me.

The same day as the speeding tickets, the call from dad in the morning, the reunion with dad’s sister at night, the rattler: MASSACRE AT A BLACK CHURCH. Nine killed. A place called EMMANUEL in South Carolina. The Confederate South. An African Methodist Episcopal church.

Emmanuel was the name of my best friend in Greece. I encouraged him to run from the cops, who were, with his parents permission, trying to detain him/lock him up, against his will, in a mental institution, in Athens. Emmanuel means “God is with us.” I sure hope– Let us pray– so.

In Tucson, my great-grandfather, from whom my father gets his middle name, James Sparks founded Trinity Temple Colored Methodist Episcopal church– the place where my father, all my siblings, my aunt, and I were baptized–in 1952. He and my Nana, Evelyn Jeanette Sparks, at whose funeral I sang a duet with my grandfather when I was 11. We all sang actually. Just like Obama did at the service for State Senator, Rev. Clementa Pinckney . Anyway, James and Evelyn Sparks moved to Tucson from Texas when their first child, my great aunt Gwendolyn, was born because they felt they could protect her– from white supremacy and its sadistic, often sexual violence– better elsewhere, further west, further free.

My dad has lived in Texas for twenty odd years now, in the one of the many sprawling suburbs of the United States’ fourth largest city. Just south of Houston lies Galveston, where the first Juneteenth occurred when the announcement of the Emancipation Proclamation reached the last slaves… The next day, hitting the road again, in 2015, some of us remember to celebrate the beginning of the end of this still ongoing senseless and cruel war against black lives and black people. The Civil War, as the Crusades, never ended, apparently. They have yet to be “won” ; we have yet to be one.

Granddaddy would have been 14 in 1952, and I know he already knew what he wanted to do. In fact he was quoted as saying exactly that in the newspaper when he was 11. Dr. Edward Franklin Sparks, a dentist who also sang in the local opera, and drove a fancy car just like his inspiration, his uncle Cory Sparks, also a dentist who drove a fancy car.

Back then I guess black people saw other opportunities to succeed and achieve wealth and respect besides becoming a sports star (although my great uncle, Granddaddy’s older brother, did try that route) or musician (Robin tried that too. Neither of these cases could be called a success, to my judgement.)

But I’ll be DAMNED if my life, the lives of my family and friends, the experiences we are enjoying– some of us even NOW, at this moment– get reduced to a sensationalist NYT headline that seems to indicate all blacks do is mourn… WTF!!!!! We– I can speak for myself, I am fighting for the PEACE to GO SWIMMING, the FREEDOM TO CHEER LOUDLY, TO [expletive] GO ON A ROAD-TRIP without the extra ticket tax that comes with the territory of #drivingwhileblack. I AM FIGHTING FOR MY RIGHT TO PARTY, as well as our right to pray.

A young black woman artist and filmmaker, (as I often describe myself!), Bree Newsome, however decided, enough is enough, to remove the damn confederate flag from the South Carolina state capital herself, last week. Let freedom ring.

On the other hand, a lot of this– identifying the myriad tolls and causes and places of racism– makes me worry, for my young brothers and cousins especially, also for myself, for my sister, for my dad, and my grandmothers. To witness the up-tic in oppression and threats of violence… at home… is genuinely frightening and certainly stressful.

Then my cousin DJ got shot in a drive by shooting in the mean streets of Chicago, the city where I (my mom, her mom, her mom, and so on) was born. Now AKA Chiraq.

I am not above leaving the country again; I surely will. But where is truly free from racism? And don’t you dare try to answer Europe or Brazil. Do your homework. The DR, the Mediterranean, US, across EU, in Asia, too, Australia is heinous, and then again back to Africa. We– and by “we” I mean HUMANITY, not just black folx– have nowhere to run and no business hiding. The presence of ethnic prejudice, heartlessness must end. No human being is disposable!!!! All lives do matter. #Blacklivesmatter, and for that reason, an era of truth and awareness must dawn. How did we get to this point? Don’t [expletive] forget.

Go on and get your ass kicked in the name of beauty. It’s an art. Take fun extra seriously. Pretend; It’s not up for debate. It’s not just a game. Play time and images have become life or death. Imagination, our (everyone’s) forever territory, is not at all clean but full of dirt, soil, and it’s down to earth. Art, sport, forms of gambling essentially, mafias, indigenous exchanges… And what’s the deal with all this proliferation of non-reproductive sex? Hate it or love it, the underdog’s on top.

My cousin will likely be paralyzed from the waist down for the rest of his life. He was shot on the streets around where I remember visiting my great grandmother, Grandmama my mom called her, who was paralyzed.

All over some dollars probably. And weed, which is almost– like our lives– but not quite– legal in this country, on this planet. WTF. Weed That Frees… my mind, necessarily, quotidian, toujours sil vous plait. This mad, mad world kills and locks up my brothers and sisters for the same. As long as I smoke and stay sane, they’ll never catch me. They’re to blame. They– white supremacy, white privilege, driving while black– have given us paranoia, if/when not addiction, something to be afraid of, fear itself. My other colored (all other colors, -black) friends partake of equal amounts, in truth much more freely, everywhere in the world, including here. Partake of Mary, of Molly, of white girls, of travel, gay sex, leaves of absence, of leisure, of swimming pools, shopping malls, and airplanes, of some of the sweeter sides of life much more freely!

To my brothers and sisters, colors of the rainbow, never fear! Don’t ask for permission to be, to live, to act, to think, to go, to stay, to love. Trust our Darkness– for that is the depth of wisdom from the ancestors. The spectrum of our emotions is timeless. Look into it. THE WHOLE WORLD IS OURS. Life and the Earth and the blessings of Nature Are our birthright, so don’t let anyone, not even yourself, not your family or friends deny you that, not even for a mental second. This shall be enough. The spirit of victory is already, innately ours. We have to identify and claim it, though. Remember Eric Garner, with sorrow, anger, pride, regret… then TAKE A DEEP BREATH before diving into this work, to ask again,

#WhoIsBurningBlackChurches?

#HeartofLight

Hell. Take a deep toke. Off the same plant, my BFF MJ, that caused my kindergarten puppy lover to say (years later, about three years ago) that my ex-BF should have, was right to beat me up. This he said because he wanted to– even, it turns out, if the feminist in me dares to let me say this, needed? to– smack me, cause I’m a woman and I had embarrassed him in front of his brand new drug dealing partner in actual, literal crime. West coast bitches. No. Texas bitches. Where that pool party went wrong. It looked just like where we grew up, my brothers, sister, and I on the neighborhood swim team every summer. I involuntarily tried to protect Kyle from that news, the video I got hungover Monday morning, coming down off a full on festival weekend in the Houston Heat and blazing sunshine, with my brothers. That made me cry uncontrollably.

#forcoloredgirlsjustwanttohavefuninthesun

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