Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910082
Minnie Bruce Pratt
The Old Days, from S/HE Minnie Bruce Pratt The Old Days Standing in the pit of the auditorium, you are someone I don’t know yet, handsome in silky shirt and tie, hair clipped close almost as skin on your fine-boned head. You read a story about bar raids in the 50s, a dawn scene on the street between a butch just released from jail and the woman who has waited for her and now smooths her shirt, mourns the indelible bloodstains that will never wash out. As you read, I am the woman who touches the shirt, startled to be so translated to a place I think I’ve never been. Yet later I remember that when I got to the trailer she had already showered and changed out of her overalls. The plaid shirt, her favorite shirt he had slashed with his knife, was a heap on the bathroom floor. I thought then he had raped her because she was a lesbian. But he had raped her because she was a butch, her cropped hair, her walk, three o’clock in the afternoon, taking out the garbage to the dumpster behind the 7-11, finishing up her shift. I smoothed her shirt over my knees, I pinned the frayed plaid together. I hand-sewed with exquisite care until the colors matched again, trying to keep us together. In the dim light of the auditorium, you see me standing in your past. Your message on my phone machine the next morning says, “So glad to see a femme from the old days.” I write to correct you, to explain about my lesbian-feminist political coming-out. In return, your letter says, of me listening in the auditorium, “While I was reading, it was as if you were moving emotionally with me in the symmetry of a slow dance.” I don’t understand what you mean, me who begins to wander off in my own direction halfway through every dance with a lover, my attention and my confidence failing. I reply, dubiously, hopefully, “I have so much trouble following—perhaps [End Page 227] I haven’t had a skillful enough partner?” When we dance at the Phase, you have a pocketful of quarters and arrange for three slow Anita Bakers in a row. I am nervous and tentative for the first song and a half, you murmur endearments and instructions. Then suddenly I lean back in your arms, look into your eyes, and begin to move as if the dance is air I am flying into, or water I am finning through, finally moving in my element. When we sit to drink Calistogas and lime with friends, you say, “I never thought I’d dance again with a femme lover in a bar like this, like the ones I came out into.” Behind us the jukebox glows like a neon dream, and dykes at the green baize table are clunking their pool cues. I tell you about my first bar, in North Carolina, almost ten years after the Stonewall Rebellion in New York City, an uprising of lesbian and gay liberation that I had not yet heard of. At that bar we parked around the corner so the police wouldn’t photograph our license plates. We had to sign a roster at the door because it was a “private club.” Rumor was that the lists got handed over to the police. My friends taug
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Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910092
Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore
Another Way to Fly, from Terry Dactyl Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore (bio) The first time I met Sid she was on the dance floor in a silver and gold tube dress pulled over her head except it wasn’t just a dress because the fabric went on and on and somehow she knew the exact spot on the dance floor where the light would shine right on her or that’s how it felt when she was writhing inside this tube of fabric, pulling it up and down, a hand out and a hand in, and then her face exposed in harsh white makeup and black lipstick with long glittering eyelashes and then she rolled onto the floor, she was crawling or more like bending but also she was completely still in the bouncing lights and all this was somehow happening on a crowded dance floor at the Limelight while I was sipping my cocktail and I didn’t know what I was seeing I mean it felt like this went on forever, how many songs, it was like there wasn’t even music anymore just my body inside the fabric peeking out and then suddenly she pulled the dress up around her neck like a huge elegant collar, and underneath she was wearing a gold bodysuit with a silver metallic skirt that flared out, with ballet slippers also painted gold and she walked right up to me and said what did you think. And I had no idea how she even saw me but I must have mumbled something because then she took my hand and said let’s go upstairs, honey, and I thought we were going to the balcony but we went up the stairs in the back, and at the top she kissed the door person on both cheeks and then we went inside. And there was a whole other dance floor there, the club inside a club that I’d heard about, and she guided me over to the bar and said: I can’t believe she’s gone. And then she said it again: I can’t believe she’s gone. [End Page 279] And then she looked up at me and started laughing hysterically—oh honey, she said, I totally thought, I totally thought. And then she just stopped right there. I didn’t know if she thought I was someone else, or if she thought—I really just didn’t know. She said what are you drinking, honey, but she didn’t wait for my answer she just ordered two vodka sours with grenadine, I loved the color and after I took one sip I knew this would be my drink from then on. She poured some coke out on a coaster and then handed me a straw, and I made sure just to snort half but she motioned her hand like you take the rest, and when I was done she handed me a big flat round pill and I swallowed it with the vodka sour. I was a little worried because I was already a bit coked up and alcohol messes with ecstasy too, but I definitely knew not to turn down free drugs, I mean wasn’t this what was supposed to happen in New York? Sid, she said. Sid Sidereal. Terry, I said. Terry Dactyl. And she touched my back, and said: Where are your wings? It was the way she touched me. Like she was drawing my wings on. I could feel them right then. One by one, the others came upstairs, and took their magic pills—I didn’t know an
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Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910079
Susan Stryker
Abstract: This short essay reflects on desires for body modification expressed by civil rights activist Pauli Murray and jazz innovator Ornette Coleman to offer some preliminary thoughts on the concept of “nonbinary Blackness.” It compares the different ways Murray and Coleman negotiated the “glandular imaginary” that informed mid-twentieth-century ideas about sex, gender, and identity, and influenced decisions they made about their own bodies. The transmasculine Murray reconciled to living as a woman once medical examinations determined that there was no hormonal or gonadal cause for her/their masculine identifications, while Coleman, a seemingly cisgender man, drew creative insight from his decision to undergo the genital surgery of circumcision.
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Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910088
Rocio Rayo
“Mic check, one, two, one, two”: Hip Hop Heresies: Queer Aesthetics in New York City Rocio Rayo (bio) Shanté Paradigm Smalls’s Hip Hop Heresies: Queer Aesthetics in New York City, New York: New York University Press, 2022 Shanté Paradigm Smalls comes in hot with their recently published Hip Hop Heresies: Queer Aesthetics in New York City. In the first few pages, Smalls clearly defines why NYC, why aesthetics, and why queer; then shifts deeper into defining both queer and Black aesthetics—ultimately answering the question of why hip hop. As they remind us that “hip-hop is middle-aged,” they very clearly maintain it is a genre housed squarely with young adults and teenagers. Hip hop’s mercurial nature is one that constantly changes underfoot—making it solid ground to build a queer, Black, hip hop aesthetic framework. Smalls decided to locate hip hop aesthetic in “disorganized street culture” permitting messiness. This beautiful chaos allows the reader to jump on the beat Smalls produced through their demand to disrupt “and eradicate settled public modalities” of what “authentic” hip hop meant (and means) in NYC. They state, “The book argues that New York City hip-hop artists use queer, Black, and hip-hop aesthetics to queerly—disruptively, generatively, inauthentically—articulate gender, racial, and sexual identitarian performances through specifically New York City based aesthetic and artistic practices and cues” (24). Importantly, Smalls clarifies that this is only possible due to the “creativity and expansiveness of Black genius.” Hip Hop Heresies is broken up into four chapters, with an introduction and conclusion. The first chapter, “Wild Stylin’ Martin Wong’s Queer Visuality in New York City Graffiti,” queers the narrative that there is a “lone wolf” success story in hip hop and instead focuses on the origin point, where different styles, cultures, and people intersect. While the protagonist of this chapter is Martin Wong and his contributions, the undercurrent is the liminal space that focusing on Wong carves out and defines in relationship [End Page 265] to Latinidad and Blackness within a hip hop context. Wong’s location on the lower east side of Manhattan connects him to “Nuyorico” while simultaneously erasing his connection to Blackness. Smalls does a phenomenal job of locating him within the body of a Black hip hop aesthetic history. In their second chapter, “Ni[99]a Fu: The Last Dragon, Black Masculinity, and Chinese Martial Arts,” Smalls “offers an alternative model for Black racial formation, queer heterosexual Black masculinity, and a hybrid cultural identity” (59; spelling changed by me). Focusing on “The Last Dragon” allows Smalls an opportunity to reorient heterosexual Black masculinity as queer by removing it from an embodied experience “in relation to white, patriarchal, hetero norms” to a Black masculine experience that challenged controlling images of what it meant to be both Black and masculine. Leroy’s popular performance (
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Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910077
Chris Straayer
Abstract: This essay argues that nonbinary artist Kris Grey deploys a genderqueer aesthetic to undo taxonomy. Their ceramic sculpture and performance art cross and diffuse binaries through reversals, implosions, conversations, and invitations. I contextualize Grey’s art within the work of other contemporary artists who have creatively investigated and engineered gender, sex, and sexuality. Following Vittorio Gallese, I argue that Grey’s embodied images haptically share nonbinary physicality with audiences. Through centrifugal and centripetal reconfigurations, they make new experiences visible, imaginable, and available. Following Caroline Walker Bynum, I argue that by queerly foregrounding the nonbinary underpinning of a master aesthetic discourse, Grey shows the seemingly unfamiliar nonbinary body to be affectively comprehensible.
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Pub Date : 2023-09-01DOI: 10.1353/wsq.2023.a910074
C. Libby
Abstract: This article places Marcella Althaus-Reid’s theological reflection on popular devotion to the figure of Santa Librada in Argentina in conversation with scholarship on androgyny, nonbinary identity, and medieval gender-crossing saints. Tying together strands of medieval writing on wondrous bodies and contemporary articulations of nonbinary identity foregrounds how nonbinary embodiments destabilize modern conceptions of binary gender. Although I am not suggesting a return to premodern conceptions of the body, medieval texts are instructive insofar as they offer an epistemology of embodiment that evades the consolidation of binary categories of sex and gender.
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