Cultural Bastards
http://www.culturalbastards.com Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/culturalbastards Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CULTURALBASTARDS/ Twitter: @culturalbastards
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crack hiss crick
relieving, isn’t it? then shocking like the holy ghost submission and surrender snow and rain stitch pillows with wind as you begin your decent snip snap snip you take the limbs of your sisters in your collapse to remind yourself that the womb and coffin are made from one in the same you give a subtle smile a thank you as you finally get to let go and accept crack hiss crick forgive them. for carving out your root chakra for their carriages and caravans craving to see thmeselves through you– a fascination with consumption masked as a worthwhile relationship BOOM an echo then memory. the midnight gives you all she has so that you can rest a little longer before sighing from beneath your bark creases allowing the fog settle - Tayllor Johnson Giant Sequoia ‘Tunnel Tree’ in California Is Toppled by Storm via NY Times My friend and I hesitantly slid to our seats, brushing shins and knocking knees with our work bags, two $15 cups of wine, and a $10 box of Sour Patch Kids to share. We shuffled into our place during the opening number. I didn’t mind that my bag was half spilling into my friend’s lap and her bag leaning to do the same on my side; I didn’t mind that my wine was dangerously close to tipping over from between my thighs; I didn’t mind the passive-aggressive looks from the White gentleman next to me, upset that he had witness me settling into myself to enjoy the show. I didn’t mind it at all because by then the essence of the South already took over the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre. The brown bodies took up space like so many grandmothers, aunties, and sisters under less glamorous Broadway circumstances had done… It was then that I felt it; as if I was sitting at the feet of my great-great grandmother’s rocking chair as she began to tell the tale; surrounded by other young sisters, leaning anxiously on our knees waiting for the lessons, the parable, the wisdom from the past to come out and inspire us as we go into our future. In the seemingly mundane activities happening on the stage: the washing of clothes in a basin, picking up the plank of wood to complete the porch, sewing and stitching of the children’s clothes, it seemed to emit a familiar rhythm and connection. Every dip of clothing into the wash bucket was a physical hymn, every placing of wood to build the foundation of home was accompanied percussion or a verse dedicated to the scattered pieces of another life on another land, a foggy dream and nightmare from what they had to call home now: The South. I’ve seen this type of historical memory on my Southern grandmother’s face in the way she threw down in the kitchen, designed my church dresses when I was 10 with nothing but an exacto knife, fabric, and a retired sewing machine; and when she started her own beautician business right on Route 64 in Little Rock, Arkansas less than five minutes from her own home. I can only imagine my grandmother’s South or her mother’s South was not unlike what was setting the tone for The Color Purple on Broadway that night. My South was a commercial interruption to the traffic, palm trees, and beach boardwalks I was accustomed to in Los Angeles California, where I grew up. Going to my great-aunt’s funeral reminded me how the urban life that many Black people fled to was a far cry away from the Southern life. I was thrown back into the harmony of plates gaining weight, gold teeth, “amen,” “yes lawd,” and a type of unspoken synthesis of Black culture that felt less like a gun to your temple and more like a blanket for patients in shock. I was immediately at ease amongst the wasps crawling all over the screened-in porch on my grandmother’s family land; my ears adjusted to the Southern drawl as words dripped into each other on their way out; my legs all of a sudden didn’t mind the weeds and peeled snake skin frying in the afternoon sun. I knew this place, this pace, this life, it was almost as if I inherited it from my late Aunt Bernie through the stories she used to tell me about taking care of crop and family, while being hunted by the White man—and even her own men—while straightening my hair in her kitchen and cooking chitlins. Strangely enough, the stage, the presence, the cadence, felt like a childhood home.
Dear Johnny Oleksinski,
“Entitlement, dependency, nonstop complaining, laziness, Kardashians?” Really? The Lousiest Generation? While I admit that I do not understand some things about the millennials, I would not demean them as you did in your article. To be a millennial means you were born within a certain time frame. The generalizations and critiques that you ascribe to my generation relate to a limited population, which we expect from mainstream media. It does not surprise me that you cite the experiences of two White individuals as evidence of millennial entitlement. The millennials who I know don’t build tree houses. They start businesses … while they do Snapchat. After reading your article I wondered what generation you wrote about. It seemed that you described a limited and diluted generational image that someone offered to you. Either millennials are lazy and entitled … or media and pop culture disseminate and profit off a stereotype. Friends and family often describe me as an old soul, which saved me from being looped in with the rest of the millennials. I like black-and-white movies, music from the 80s and early 90s, and am infatuated with old jazz and the past. I want to be a scholar … not a Kardashian. My old-soul tendencies notwithstanding, I learn constantly. At 23, I still strive to make sense of my life and own the right to be vocal about that process. At 26 years old, you don’t know everything. When did youth become a curse, worthy of punishment? Bashing a generation simply for being in their early 20s and maybe not getting it just yet doesn’t make sense and strikes me as counterproductive. Old souls don’t deserve a gold star for being ahead of the curve, but rather we carry a responsibility to pay it forward. My generation confuses me. We obsess on other people’s lives as a form of escapism while indulging ourselves. I mentor and teach to break the stereotypes about millennials. Someone — a Generation Xer not a meme — once told me not to complain or to critique without a solution. My question for you is: What’s your solution? You don’t put forth any ideas to inspire change in millennials. You make valid points about the portrayal of millennials in mainstream media, but something seems missing from your analysis of the Lousiest Generation. Do you know the recent grad from Haiti who wants to start her business and earns a fellowship? What about the young writer who works menial jobs while perfecting his craft? Johnny, maybe you need to do more research than simply reading Buzz Feed. You might find out how serious we are about changing the world for the better. "I have a dream that one day women of color can pass by each other and not see Imaginary Enemies"- Byakko Many people ask me: Where did your shirt idea come from? Who is the Imaginary Enemy? How did you come about creating this? My short answer: America. Being a Black woman in America inspired this movement. And it is the contagious nature of this movement that will make America question everything she ever assumed about the power of sisterhood amongst women of color.
But before I got to a place of declaration and appreciation of sisterhood and Black womanhood everywhere, I had to find it in myself. Not an easy task. I was a high school senior fed up with the idea of sisterhood, solidarity, and pride in Blackness. What had Blackness done for me? I spoke too “good” for the black girls to take me seriously and I was just enough Black for the white girls, as long as I kept up the hyperactive and over indulgent public minstrel show for them to marvel at. It seemed like I could not win no matter what I did. I was whitewashed. I was "bougie". I was red-bone. I was an Oreo: black on the outside, white on the inside. They never let me forget that one. Oreo. What was exploring my Blackness going to do but give people more opportunities to ostracize me? It was the spaces and communities that I found myself in while in college that, over time, opened me up and deconstructed the oppressive armor I was wearing to protect myself from past hurt. By sophomore year, I found myself surrounded by an army of Sisterhood Excellence. My identity began to emerge with the support of my newfound friends of all backgrounds. It was like looking into the mirror through a kaleidoscope lens. My name was mine again and Oreo was a snack you had when you studied for finals. By my junior year, I began to see that I needed multiple spaces to feel safe in and that was my responsibility to make those spaces. I spent more time in communities and spaces of color. I couldn’t believe I felt safe in those spaces! I also began to learn about an insidious system called White Supremacy that is multifaceted in how it oppresses marginalized individuals, down to the historical trauma that plagues the way we Black people treat each other everyday. I finally had a community to call my own! But the real world has a powerful way of reminding us that we are not in control. Outside of college, it was all too apparent that I changed, my circles changed, but the world hadn’t. Walking down the street, I saw Black women look at me as if I challenged them or cursed them. They eyed me up and down, as if searching for something. I found myself many afternoons engaging in the silent battle. What was the point of all this? Even if someone had a bad day and just looks nasty, I see more Black woman with that default face than anyone else. Why? I decided to explore that question in a Facebook post one day: I have a dream, that one day women of color can pass by each other and not see Imaginary Enemies”- Byakko (my pen name at the time). I was surprised how many likes the post got and how many people commented co-signing and agreeing with me. A poem is in there somewhere, I thought. I remember exactly when the movement was born and beating inside me. I was under the Eiffel Tower with my mom in line waiting to go all the way to the top. I felt beyond blessed to be able to share this moment with her. That is when I caught the eye of a young lady of color in line, I gave her a smile, how could I not? We are both about to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower! What I received was a defiant stare at my outfit and an eye roll. My old Facebook post came back to mind. Maybe I’ll make one shirt, I said. That summer I had shirts made for both of my moms and I to wear. The universe did the rest. Airports, grocery stores, buses, women of all backgrounds stopped me and asked, “Where did you get that shirt?”. They told me that this constant battle against other women was their experience too. That was the magic. A conversation ensued about what made women feel they had to break each other down instead of building each other up. Patriarchy and racism were being explored and deconstructed amongst strangers! More often than not they would finally ask, “Are those shirts for sale?” Then it hit me, and with the support of my family, I trademarked the quote and made more shirts. With the help of this movement, I was able to write the most important poem of my life thus far, Letter to My Unborn Daughter, All Women of Color, and Lastly to Me. I met amazing creative director and photo editor, Amanda Luxe, who saw my shirts and felt compelled to direct a photo series inspired by them, Jumping Colors II: #ImNotYourEnemy. The photo series was submitted to Blavity and accepted! More conversations are happening; friendships are being born from nothing but words. But I want to make it bigger. So big, that pop culture will have to stop depicting women of color as hyper sexualized caricatures just long enough to listen; so big that women will have to stop carrying the world for two seconds to get the support they need. I want sisterhood and solidarity amongst women of color to become mainstream, and I am not going to stop doing the work until it does. When I first heard about Beyoncé’s Lemonade, social media was abuzz
with gossip. All I saw were posts speculating if Jay Z cheated, or whether this was all a ruse to get more people using Tidal, a music streaming site founded by Beyoncé and Jay Z. I knew then I was in no rush to see Lemonade. Beyoncé is a brand, I thought; it’s her job to keep us curious and engaged in her content. The public knows nothing about Beyoncé’s life besides what she wants us to know and even then, the public can only guess. What was going to be different about this album? All of a sudden she was going to share herself with all of us, revelations about her marriage, of all things? HA! Not a chance! I’ll pass on that publicity stunt. When a good friend of mine invited me to a Lemonade listening party to watch and discuss the film among other women, I must admit thatI finally conceded to seeing what the hype was really about. After experiencing Lemonade (and it is an experience) as a film and an album, I saw less of a confession of fidelity to the public and more a testimony to the complexity of a woman’s world; the acceptance of that world in all its seasons and forms. Yes, we had some confirmation that Jay Z and Beyoncé had marital problems, but in Lemonade we witness a woman’s perspective, exclusively. The three male features on the album, Kendrick Lamar, The Weeknd, and James Blake, are nowhere to be seen in the film. Jay Z is also missing in action until the end and even then, does not utter a word. Lemonade is not about a man cheating; it is about a woman being, which is apparently much less exciting to the general public. Beyoncé takes us through 11 states of emotion during Lemonade: Intuition, Denial, Anger, Apathy, Emptiness, Accountability, Reformation, Forgiveness, Resurrection, Hope, and Redemption. I not only witnessed her expressions of those emotions, but my own as well. These emotions existed in me and they were just as powerful, dynamic, and colorful as she was in portraying them. From the shameless glee of denial to the absence of my own father’s sound advice, I saw Beyoncé provide a mirror to my own womanhood, as complex and messy as it can be. She told me it was okay, okay to be complex, to fall, to cry, to love… as long as I got back up. It was comforting to see her break windows, swim in her own madness, become the tormented mistress herself, and heal her wounds in mother nature’s bath. My womanhood became a mosaic of experiences stuck in my throat, mixing with the tears on my face. She was not speaking to her own isolated existence but to all of us woman who exist on multiple realms of being at any given time. In Lemonade, Beyoncé shares a narrative of mothers, daughters, sisters, and grandmothers . It was clear to all of us watching the film that day, among pie and lemonade, that this project was for us. The dancers were women, the poet featured in the film was a woman, the community of women gathered for the song “Freedom” were all women–Lemonade embodied the epitome of womanhood, down to the very end when we witness womanhood as a community effort. We were transported to a different time, a community of women living in wooden cabins surrounded by willow trees, as if in the deep South. A time when women ate together, laughed together, planted together, and unapologetically stood by each other’s side. The tears started up again as I knew so many women, myself included, who were striving for that sisterhood–-that utopia of women showing up for women, just because it was our pleasure to do so. It says a lot about a society when a woman opens her mouth to speak her truth—and all too many see is a man on her tongue. How did we miss the positive symbolism of sisterhood and womanhood only to ask whether or not Jay Z is cheating? Jay Z remains voiceless in Lemonade for a reason. Do not be confused: Beyoncé’s womanhood is the only muse here. Images of trees, the ocean, the moon, fire, dirt, and sunlight were the only transitions Beyoncé needed between songs to make it to the final track, “All Night.” Just like she did not need a man to verify her process, I did not need a confirmation of Jay Z’s marital commitment to be moved by her healing. All I needed were other women who sat with me, crying, laughing, and snacking on guacamole together, as we witnessed some facets of our own womanhood via the big screen. Lemonade is the space for a woman to be; and through that vessel we too gain access to freedom. Beyoncé speaks for all of us women who sometimes get tired, get sexy, get defiant, get angry, get insecure, get heartbroken, get confused, but most of all, must heal in order to keep moving forward. Lemonade is a declaration that all of our emotions deserve space in a woman’s being, just as Beyoncé gave herself an hour to explore visually and through an album without interruption of the male perspective. We as human beings and as women are allowed to be complex in our own way, but society has failed to recognize that. We are either bosses or we are worthless. We are either sexualized deviants or pure angels. We are men’s puppets or their nuisances. But we are so much more than that, and we have the right to declare and celebrate it. This is Beyoncé’s Purple Rain. She cannot take the transparency, honesty, and inspiration back from our eyes. I am irrevocably inspired and can’t wait to see what comes out of me, when I too try to hold my womanhood in my own hands. What will she say? What drink will she personify? How many colors can my womanhood paint me in one day? How many windows will she break? I think all of us should rise up to the challenge, and dive deep into our own womanhoodto see what we find, no matter how undefinably beautiful and complex it is. Because freedom is sweeter than Lemonade The cassette danced around my mother’s Camry
To the percussion of a road that we weren’t on Demanding space Demanding recognition Rattling like a world unhinged, bursting from his plastic barriers Begging to be rewound, studied, captured in the black hands of a black girl in the backseat. What a world to be in, I thought! If purple raindrops of royalty could never stop, the lightning must fly like lavender pedals. He stayed by my side the rest of the trip Until my mother asked for him, reaching back the lyrics catapulting from her heart the speakers her lips Listen to this part, she would say. He kills it! Contorting her fingers all over the steering wheel like guitar strings and madness Her voice and his riffs would wrap around the open road and choke that empty space– the miles between us and home cracking the chains off my mother’s memory Stretching her face to the place that many artists go once they truly find themselves I never forgot this praise dance for the downpour This pull towards freedom that my mom and him translated for me so early in my artistic journey That response to the calling To find one’s self is not just for the sake of being comfortable in this world But for the purpose to unravel into something more With Gratitude, Tayllor Johnson Creative and Administrative Assistant to Kevin Powell and BK Nation I remember when I first saw the Facebook campaign supporting Harriet Tubman on the $20 bill. The Internet buzzed with a cry for women to be represented and to replace the face of patriarchy and racism. A Black woman at that! Talk about win-win. Let’s do it!
Upon further reflection: Do we really want to take up space on American currency? The same currency that many people of color don’t get to hold when they live below the poverty line? The same currency that recent college grads like me fight for to pay off our student loans? The same currency that causes bullets to fly in the streets when drug dealers conduct business? The same currency that didn’t help clear the water in Flint, Michigan? The same currency that went missing during the fundraising after Tamir Rice’s murder? Do we want to see the face of one of the most revolutionary activists and humanitarians on that dirty paper? No, thank you. Spare me the symbolism America. This announcement came around the same time that police officer Peter Liang received community service and probation after killing an unarmed Black man in Brooklyn, New York. After hashtag after hashtag of memories and murders justified by a system meant to protect us. What about the symbolism of the current election in which pundits tell Hillary Clinton to smile more while responding to Donald Trump’s comments on his own penis? Putting Harriet Tubman’s face on this America’s currency does not make me feel warm and fuzzy. It does not make me feel like America has heard me, my mothers, or my ancestors. It makes me feel cheap. Representation on money would mean a lot more if women received the same pay as men. Department of Treasury: Please take those $20 bills to the community leaders who risk their lives and sanity every day to keep their communities thriving while confronting forces that work twice as hard to tear those same communities apart. Take those $20 bills and invest in quality education for ALL children that includes the Arts. Take those $20 bills and fund solutions to intractable problems like stopping the deconstruction of marginalized communities, mass incarceration, and sexual assault. Spend those $20 bills to honor people of color and the historical trauma that still plagues us. Harriet Tubman’s face on the $20 bill will provide a constant reminder of how much more work needs to be done. She will remind me that I cannot be distracted by peace offerings or symbols of an attempt to give women of color the credit for all that we did and that we put up with. She will remind me that I must continue to move our nation and our world toward freedom … by any means necessary. Listening to President Obama’s announcement of his executive order on gun control regarding background checks for potential firearm purchases brought me back to my mother’s cautions to “be careful” when I left the house to hang with my friends. I would tell her about the precautions I took to keep myself safe while out in the Wild Wild West of Los Angeles … the faces I made when walking the streets so I did not look lost and vulnerable … my fake phone calls when I felt followed … the small Swiss Army knife in my front pocket in case things got really bad. Proud. Street smart. My mother taught me well and now she could rest easy. After listening to her warrior daughter’s preparation for the real world, my mother asked a simple, straightforward question: “What are you going to do if someone takes that knife away from you?” I didn’t know how to respond. Many Americans believe that a gun will keep them safe and that Obama wants to remove that sense of safety from them. The reality: You are only as safe with your weapon as you are against that weapon. Since that conversation with my mom, I never felt as secure with a knife on my person. If someone stronger or faster than me got ahold of it, I would be in trouble. I want those who wish to own guns to answer a few questions:
*Originally featured on BKNation.org http://bknation.org/2016/01/owning-guns-in-the-name-of-safety-is-not-safe/ So begins
The post-tragedy Facebook arms race Where everyone (including me) engages in public posting of sympathy and empathy For all worldly devastation From here, we slowly come to the realization of how maniacal and draining hatred can be when constantly monitored and reported We get sad, countries turn to fire as we all rush to try to understand How can this happen anywhere? We post all we can gather throughout the day Researching reliable resources. But then, We lose stamina, We cease to have the capacity for such sadness on a constant basis Or the media lost interest before us We rather watch puppies swim for the first time Or relatable sketch comedy (Laugh factory serves as my escape) And before we know it Silence Buzz feed shenanigans and Reddit Tumblr Kardashians We sink right back in because It's so hard to give breathing room to things that take breaths away and Publicly proving we care is another layer of pressure before we become numb again, in one form or another, and our consciousness fades With a type of dissociation that is only human when you try to fathom why certain injustices and massacres exist And so becomes the conflict of consciousness: How do we not lose ourselves before another tragedy awakes us to the rest of the world and their grievances? How do we stay engaged to seek knowledge, seek service, seek information, seek justice, seek hope without the media asking us? How do we remain okay in silently praying in the dust of destruction Rather than yelling it from cyber mountaintops, Sometimes contradicting ourselves, sometimes policing others’ attention spans, or simply not knowing what to do to cope? How do we make humanity a daily routine? Not a meme, A filter, Or re-post or re-tweet How do we breathe humanity Without losing our breath? |
AuthorTayllor Johnson currently resides in New York City where she has begun her journey into Poet. Passion. Period. In between those learning moments, she sometimes has just enough time to jot a few lines... Archives
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