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Black

The Black Jacobins / C. L. R. James / 1938 

The Black Jacobins narrates the story of the Haitian revolution largely through its focus on one of its most critical figures Toussaint L'Ouverture. James narrates the military drama with a novelist’s eye for detail, psychological depth, and tension. His occasional asides to provide his own thoughts and connect the history to his times are revelatory and shrewd. It can be easy to be fatalistic about the rise of technofeudal fascism in our era, but during the Haitian revolution, a largely enslaved population had to shake off the chains of three imperial powers: the French, the Spanish, and the British. James spares no detail on the cruelty of the slaver’s torture tactics, from the burying of Africans to be devoured slowly by ants to the dogs to the branding. In some of its most moving passages, James narrates how in the last battles of the war, the generals told their men they did not need to fight with bravery but with an abandoned rage to survive and win; the formerly enslaved faced their deaths with an unhinged pride and resolution that stunned the colonizers. James astutely points out the catch-22: the enslaved were accused of being less than human for their “willingness” to accept slavery, but when they resisted it with all their might, sometimes petting the dogs sent to devour their limbs, other times placing the noose around their own necks at the gallows, they accused them of being incapable of feeling human pain, of being monstrous in their strength. I could say more, but you ought to just read it. 5 out of 5.

Gangs of Zion / Ron Stallworth / 2024

Gangs of Zion / Ron Stallworth / 2024

I read this book at the recommendation of a former colleague for a Utah-related project of mine. From the author and subject of Black Klansmen, the book and the film, we have a follow-up project fleshing out his career as a gang unit police investigator and the so-called hip-hop cop in (drumroll) Utah of all places.

Stallworth begins this memoir with a hamfisted rebuttal of Boots Riley. For those unaware, when the BlackKklansmen rollout began, Riley released a forceful critique of BlackKklansmen as revisionist history, copaganda, and pointed out Stallworth’s history of infiltrating radical Black organizations, including the one Riley’s father was a part of, as part of COINTELPRO. Stallworth fixates one aspect of Riley’s blistering and effective critique: turns out, Stallworth was too young to have participated in COINTELPRO. He definitely DID take part in infiltrating radical Black organizations, just not under the behest of the FBI. Stallworth lambasts Riley for this factual inaccuracy, completely missing the thrust of Riley’s critique. Everyone I love and care about would consider this a minor hiccup in Riley’s critique, since Stallworth did in fact break up radical Black orgs. 

For his part, Stallworth justifies infiltrating these organizations using explicitly anti-communist rhetoric and claiming they were a threat to national security. To the surprise of no one, a cop is a cop. What was mildly surprising and thoroughly entertaining was Stallworth’s confession to physically assaulting Riley at a dinner, where he boasts of squeezing his hand too hard and holding him hostage by squeezing a pressure point on his neck. Later on, he describes patting Riley’s back and telling him he just used the bathroom and didn’t wash his hands. He literally brags about making Riley “my bitch.” The moments reveal just how disgusting, insecure, and brute Stallworth’s masculinity is. What a weird little clown! 

The first bit of Stallworth’s memoir details his rise in the police department and the emergence of his “Black consciousness.” We see Stallworth refuse to tokenize himself in moments and opportunistically tokenize himself in other moments. He’s clearly a bullheaded person with a high tolerance for external criticism and disapproval as both his Black community and the officers on the force didn’t really like him much, it seems. He relates to Malcolm X, but never bothered learning the history of policing or thinking critically about solving societal problems, so he’s completely bought into the prison industrial complex as our best option it seems. 

There are two worthwhile histories described in this book. The first is the history of the JobCorps in Utah. Stallworth focuses in on this federal program, which took low-income, high-risk youth from major cities like LA and brought them to suburban Utah for job skills training, because JobCorps brought gang culture to Utah. Utah officials were in denial of this, because JobCorps stimulated their economies with fat federal checks to administer the program. In my opinion, the JobCorps also likely increased the racism of Utahns by making some of the few people of color visible in their communities, some of the poorest and in need in the country. Of course, their presence brought social problems that proliferate among any historically oppressed working class and racialized youth. For his part, Stallworth provides a sturdy critique of how the program was administered that actually shows a deep concern for these youth. It’s hilarious to learn more about white, Mormon gangsters of Utah committing petty crimes and aggravating to learn about the Pacific Islander Mormons swept up into gang culture as a reprieve from a racist society. Stallworth rebuts criticisms of his profiling of youth of color by providing anecdotes of families crying racism when they had proven gang ties and never by describing actual data and letting us know what his profile looked like. Overall, this is socially complicated territory, where actual racism is certainly at play, as well as actual violent criminal activity in some communities of color at the time. Stallworth’s voice and bias here is useful, even if I disagree with him, in painting the larger picture of what was happening in Utah’s lower income community at times. For his part, Stallworth genuinely went out of his way to do what he thought was right in revealing the way JobCorps was failing both youth  of color and the communities these youth were brought to. 

The second history tied into this one is the rise of gangster rap and its influence on youth. During the hysterical pearl-clutching of the Ice T, NWA, and Tupac era, Stallworth gained a reputation as a so-called “hip-hop cop,” where he would rap and breakdown rap lyrics in universities and serve as an expert witness in the “Gangster Rap Made Me Do It” cases. I listened with troubled curiosity about how Stallworth claims to have learned the “G-code” by listening to gangster rap. He became a fan of 90s gangsta rap, falling hard to Tupac’s consciousness in songs like “Dear Mama’ and “Brenda’s got a baby.” During this era, Stallworth became a N-word-whisperer for scared white people and elites. His representations of hip-hop culture were sympathetic, as he saw gangster rappers as expressing the genuine concerns of an oppressed community. He defended hip-hop culture in courtrooms and warned politicians against culture wars that simply made gangster rap cooler. While I agree that Stallworth’s experience as a cop, a Black man, and a fan of hip-hop, who self-studied sociology and ethnic studies to better understand the culture, give him some insight in the gang culture and communities of color, I believe these experiences gave him too much confidence. He acts as if hip-hop culture can substitute actually getting to know people. His relationship with community remains antagonistic, even in his somewhat believable anecdotes about former gang members saying he was the only positive male role model in their life. Even if these anecdotes were true, a handful of anecdotes hardly compare to the many other lives he likely ruined and made much more difficult in his role.  

Even when Stallworth is dead wrong, he still manages to be entertaining. 3 out of 5.

Bluff / Danez Smith / 2024

Bluff / Danez Smith / 2024

Danez Smith been one of my favorite poets. In Bluff, they reflect on their meteoric rise and the tokenism that they tried and feels they failed to resist. In some of their best poems yet, they criticize the “hope industrial complex” and feel embarrassed about having written poems for presidents. I laughed out loud at the line “they untapped my phone / found no threat, the shame i felt.” Despite this, Electric Literature still insists Smith “Sculpts Pessimism into Hope”, which isn’t exactly wrong but feels like it misses the critique, as if readers can’t stomach the Afropessimism intrinsic in the project. I can’t say I’m well-read in Afro-pessimism, but as a neophyte to Marxism, I did feel disappointed in Smith’s inability to articulate much of a vision throughout the collection. The poem “principles” is particularly underwhelming: it argues against “all lives matter” as if Smith is trapped in some racist white woman’s facebook page; it puts its most radical position--a desire for a stateless society--into parentheticals, not giving it much space to breathe and develop meaningfully. No doubt Smith’s life as a poz nonbinary Black artist has not been an easy one, but still, Smith has been granted lots of money and time and connections to develop their ideas and be heard, so it’s a bit disappointing to read poems from a dude in their 30s still writing about “three soulmates” that they lost. The essay “My End of the World” about BIPOC relationships to nature, for example, merely seemed to catalog introductory talking points of Black and brown environmental thought. The highs in Bluff are great, but Danez sets a high bar for themself and at times I feel like they gets lost in the sauce, flinching when they could choose to grow into new territory.    

Promise / Rachel Eliza Griffiths / 2023

Promise / Rachel Eliza Griffiths / 2023

I read Promise with To Kill a Mockingbird in my head. Both are written from the perspective of a girl in the Jim Crow South, struggling to understand the social complexities of violence as racially charged incidents embroil their hometowns. What Rachel Eliza Griffiths manages to capture, however, is infinitely more soulful, weathered, and gritty. 

Promise opens with a tricky scene where three young girls, two Black sisters and one white friend, explore one another’s vulvas in a non-sexual manner--a classic I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours--. The reader is immediately thrust into a world where the intricacies of race, gender, and queerness can be traced through their reactions. 

Promise is a coming-of-age story of these three girls as their dreams collide against the barriers erected by a society that hates women. As such, Griffiths doesn’t sidestep the humanity of any of them. This is particularly impressive in the case of the white girl Ruby, who eventually lashes out with slurs and worse as her friendship with the two sisters devolves. The reader witnesses how Ruby’s unstable family life damaged her sense of self and the way white society and teachers preyed on her vulnerabilities. Ruby’s class background and shattered home is in stark contrast to the Kindred sisters’, who come from a strong Black family with an educated father. Griffiths narrates the process of Ruby slowly accepting the racial bribe through her class ascendency, rising from her ragged clothes to clothes purchased with stolen money to ribbons gifted to her by her predatory female teacher and mentor. Griffiths narrates--through the Black sisters at times--how Ruby was essentially bought and purchased, commodified by her white teachers and family, in painful detail. This close attention to Ruby is one of the novel’s greatest strengths, an immeasurable act of love to what easily could have been a cliched villainous character and an act that illuminated how gender, race, and class collide to hurt and manipulate people like Ruby. 

The story of the Kindreds, on the other hand, tells a story Black folks tell often: the story of what it meant to survive in the Jim Crow south. It’s a difficult story to tell for a variety of reasons: the intergenerational trauma, the politics behind any telling, the cliches of the genre. Griffiths somehow managed to tell it in a way that felt fresh to me. She puts the reader alongside Ezra and Cinthy, the two young Black sisters, as they resist and stumble their way through their racist school system and society and watch an emerging civil rights movement brew from afar. I especially cherish the dialogue between older generations and these two young girls as elders tried to guide them through a survival that did not compromise their dignity but would keep them safe from racial violence and terror. The sisters and their family survive and lose a lot. In the process, readers have the gift of witnessing the power of Black love, how it can even survive and nourish a family after a death. I love Promise for its willingness to show some elders’ sloppiness through survival and healing, as the last quarter of the novel introduces a vulgar grandmother who is called in to help during a time of crisis. The attention to the grandmother’s story, as well as Ruby’s for that matter, help Promise not fall into the traps of respectability politics. Ezra, in particular, is forced to engage with her own biases and learn to respect--with boundaries--a more rugged part of her literal history. 

Promise is so fully wrought and so magnificently intimate that I loved it against my will. I admit, I picked up the book out of loyalty to Rachel Eliza Griffiths and wasn’t sure if I needed another story from within this particular era of Black history. It quieted and instructed me, even when like Ezra and Cinthy, I wanted to rebel against it. So reader, sit your ass down and study it. Rachel has an important story to tell. 5/5

Against Heaven / Kemi Alabi / 2022

Against Heaven / Kemi Alabi / 2022

Against Heaven rekindled my love for poetry and inspired me to read more poetry after months of dragging my feet on some titles. It did so by its delectable combination of pin-like precision in form (the flawless double golden shovels, oh my) and the bubbling energy of its voice. Kemi inhabits a meditative and grounded eros that cohabitates with grief in a very present mundane way. Yes,  there's some healing, but it's the way scarring is healing, the way taking the time to be present and truly curious about grief can make it blossom into something deeper and soulful.  4.5/5

Golden Ax / Rio Cortez / 2022

Golden Ax / Rio Cortez / 2022

I'm kicking myself for not reading Rio Cortez sooner and am somewhat stunned we never crossed paths as young poets of color in Utah. Golden Ax forges a rooted Black identity in Utah in a way that feels deeply familiar in the odd and only way Utah is familiar. Golden Ax is an eco-poetics that feels dramatically different than most of what I've read of Utah environmental writing.  Perhaps it's in Cortez’s willingness to embrace her historic relationship to the land, to find joy and connection to it in a way that doesn't at all feel romantic of the past, present, or future, or perhaps as viscerally angry or stormy as me or most other writers of color who I’ve happened to read. Golden Ax is a Black feminist counterpoint to (slave) master narratives of Utah and nods to Brigham Young and Sun-Ra, the Broad Ax, and other historic touchpoints to elbow her way into a fully realized Utah Blackness. The poems are full-bodied, lyrical, and thoughtful in a way that made me feel like I just had an amazing dinner convo with Rio, complete with music recommendations, Utah upbringing stories, and soulful contemplation of our racial and environmental predicaments. 4/5

Some Changes / June Jordan / 1971

Some Changes / June Jordan / 1971

This is Jordan's first collection of poetry for adults and the first time I've read her in book form. She did not disappoint. I'm charmed by how absolutely weird she is, jamming words and phrases together until they're jelly on your tongue. Included in this collection is my favorite Jordan poem "In Memorium: Martin Luther King Jr" as well as new-to-me bangers like "What Would I Do White?" As always, her political vision is impeccable. 5/5

Who Look At Me / June Jordan / 1969

Who Look At Me / June Jordan / 1969

Published in 1969, Jordan's debut poetry collection was written for children yet retains many hallmark features of her style. There is a twist in Jordan's rhythm, a willingness to say something that feel strange in the mouth, even as it fits between your teeth. This collection doesn't shy away from the grief of history, tackling the turmoil of the violence and wreckage head on. It conveys the lessons of survival urgently. In this era of picture books and talking animals, we need more of this energy, of taking children's intelligence and sturdiness seriously. At the same time, I cannot imagine reading this to the children in my life, although upper elementary aged children who have been given solid educations can probably handle it. 3/5

Early Uncollected Poems / Lucille Clifton / 1965-1969

Early Uncollected Poems / Lucille Clifton / 1965-1969

I read this collecting to Anushka after a wounding day where an immigration officer grilled me for 1.5 hours during Anushka's green card interview. It succeeded in calming us, making us laugh and hum and ponder in the Indiana gray. It's stunning how good these poems are when she hadn't even truly began her literary career yet. Better than most bonafides tbh. There's an especially good nursery rhymes here for young girls. 4/5

Choir boy / Tarrell Alvin McCraney / 2012

Choir boy / Tarrell Alvin McCraney / 2012

From the creator of Moonlight and equally as touching of a work on queer Black boyhood. Includes a great conversation on Black cultural mythos and the value of African ancestors contributions even if they weren't superhuman. Made me fall in love with theatre again.. 5/5

The Hate You Give / Angie Thomas / 2017

The Hate You Give / Angie Thomas / 2017

Banned in Utah, this is a gripping story of the realities of police brutality and crime in the hood. Written in a sometimes painfully sophomoric way, it's shortcomings are familiar to anyone versed in YA. Where it fails in craft, it makes up for in content, perfect for sparking nuanced conversations about race, violence and policing. That said, I hate how much it insists Tupac is still relevant. It comes off as a preachy old head. Why not connect Pac's legacy to that of a worthy new generation rapper. The conversations it opens are more complex than those of the movie. This book is great for its target audience. 3/5

Hood Feminism / Mikki Kendall / 2020

Hood Feminism / Mikki Kendall / 2020

Published during the Trump era, this is great introductory text to Black Feminism for our era. Sprawling through eating disorders, gun violence, education and universal healthcare, she makes sure to cover it all with sometimes biting and always unflinching honesty. Great balance of memoir and research. Lower rating mostly bc I feel like I only learned one thing from this book: there's an unfortunate alliance between pro birth activists and some parts of the disabled movement bc pro-choice folks too frequently sympathize with the genocidal arguments of terminating disabled fetuses. 3/5

The Best Barbarian / Roger Reeves / 2023

The Best Barbarian / Roger Reeves / 2023

Through a postcolonial remix of Grendel and a poems steeped in animality, Roger Reeves carves out a vision of resistance and rootedness that growls and howls and yowls with its pain between its teeth. Absolutely gorgeous lines will make the temperature of your body drop and rise with its gallop with poems ranging from police brutality to the violence in Palestine and more. There's a set of jazz improvisation poems that lose me a bit but they deliver punchlines and Roger is never ever ever offbeat. I wanna read his nonfiction next. 4.5/5

The New Huey P. Newton Reader / Huey P. Newton / 2019

The New Huey P. Newton Reader / Huey P. Newton / 2019

An excellent follow-up to my Fanon reading, this anthology made me laugh harder at The Boondocks scenes etched into my mind when I realized how excellently Aaron McGruder satirized Newton's voice in Huey. Reading this reader filled a lot of gaps in my knowledge of the Black Freedom Movement and its communist heritage. It introduced me to dialectical materialism and revolutionary intercommunalism, some of the scuffles between Black intellectuals, and gave me a thorough sense of how much of the Black political heritage has been robbed from us by US racist propaganda in our schools. To read that Newton and the Panthers had already wrestled through so much of the common challenges of organizing was a tad frustrating as I realized how useful it would've been to have read this all much earlier. I'm committed to learning more about socialism and communism now, and I am contemplating how the queer and pox socialist heritages have been largely severed by AIDS, crack and the death and displacement of the revolutionary wars in Central America. Some of the latest writings get a little weird or at least become less mind-blowing so I'm landing at a 4.5 out of 5.

Sexuality Beyond Consent: Risk, Race, Traumatophilia / Avgi Saketopoulou / 2023

Sexuality Beyond Consent: Risk, Race, Traumatophilia / Avgi Saketopoulou / 2023

Boy howdy! This was a provocative and difficult book to read. Saketopoulou turns her gaze to the taboo--from BDSM practices like rape play and slave play to Nazi eroticism--to discuss how the opacity of their shocking content grapples in sometimes useful but more importantly soulful and human ways with historic and personal traumas and how this grappling can lead to states of overwhelm that have the potential of reconstituting the self for better and for worse. It's daring and risky work and along the way Saketopoulou manages to fit in very worthwhile insights. Take her powerful breakdown of our culture's traumatophobia--its constant attempts to heal, repress or freeze trauma--in opposition to traumatophilia, wherein the traumatized person acknowledges the impossibility of returning to their former innocence and returns to the wounds of their trauma to find new ways of relating to it. Or take her insightful critique of the neoliberal transactional nature of affirmative consent and the possibilities of limit consent, where the parties agree to open themselves to the unknown of experience, risking discomfort yes but also gaining profound self-knowledge and experience at times. Both of these explosively paradigm shifting moves are teased out throughout the book with the attention and care they deserve, using rich and difficult art, case studies, and the author's own relationship and experience to both as the playing ground where all the kinks and wrinkles are teased out rather convincingly. While some of Saketopoulou's insights aren't exactly new to those of us engaged in conversations about these topics--social justice oriented folks are aware of a number of critiques of affirmative consent and talk about these at length even as we propagandize and use it as a beginner level basis in sex education--Saketopoulou weaves insights about consent, trauma, and healing in a unifying and sweeping vision and conversation. This is immensely useful, even if you're not a fan of psychoanalytic theory. My patience with Saketopoulou’s jargon and the nooks and crannies of her academic discourse largely paid off for the ways she bolstered my understanding of things I've only intuitively understood the limits of healing and the nature of trauma and for the frankly troubling, freaky but familiar content. While horrifying, the taboos and traumas Saketopoulou discusses aren't exactly uncommon.

As far as missteps go, there's a few, however. There's a rather unflattering moment where Saketopuolou reads a man's erection as a signal of an uncomplicated signal of his erotic excitement, despite his claims to the contrary. It's male survivor 101 that erections are a physiological response and not necessarily indicative of consent. While this misstep doesn't shatter Saketopoulou’s argument in context, it's hurtful and a breach of trust in a book where the reader needs A LOT of trust in the author as she puts traumatic and sometimes vomit-inducing content under the microscope again and again. While I dig Saketopoulou’s argumentative defenses of space play in bdsm communities, I wish she would have created more space for the interrogation of desire. No matter how heinous, it is my belief that desire is ethically neutral. It's what we do with that desire that steps us into the domain of ethics. One of the things I love most about queerness and being queer is its questioning of desire. While no one is necessarily wrong for desiring x or y, queer communities have taught me to question and turn over the why of my desires. While I get that folks with rape and/or slave kinks may have to deal with a lot of scrutiny of their desire, not all of this scrutiny is unwarranted. I don't take for granted anyone's professed self-knowledge because being marginalized doesn't mean you are granted with an innate sense of what is best for you. Each of us grapples and fumbles our way towards that, sometimes with greater conviction and justification than others.

I do not recommend this book to the faint of heart. Seriously, stay away. If you're interesting in grappling with trauma and difficult questions regarding consent, trauma, and race, hit me up after you've read this. There's a lot to unpack here. ⅘

Out There Screaming: Am Anthology of New Black Horror / Edited by Jordan Peele / 2023

Out There Screaming: Am Anthology of New Black Horror / Edited by Jordan Peele / 2023

This is a solid collection of horror with a couple misses. I know this is a hot take, but I'm still not convinced by the work of NK Jemison or Rebecca Roanhorse, whose work always feels competent but never as rigorous as the clout implies. The excellent stories in this collection include “The Aesthete” by Justin C. Key, “Invasion of the Baby Snatchers” by Lesley Nneka Arimah, “The Wandering Devil” by Cadwell Turnbull, “Dark Home” by Nnedi Okorafor, and “Your Happy Place” by Terrance Taylor. At its best, this collection imagines how technological advancements amplify the horrors of the prison industrial complex, as in Taylor's story, or the intersection of race and AI, as in Key's. The weight of intergenerational trauma and destiny is confronted, as in Okorafor and Turnbull's story. Arimah's story blew me away with its swift and terrifying worldbuilding of terrifying alien Invasion, where the lack of context didn't mess with the enjoyment at all. At its worst, the collection employs deus ex machinas and pursues blunt racial violence in a hamfisted way that definitely sucks but doesn't feel artfully horrifying. I realize I struggle with Black fiction, like Ta-Nehesi Coates’, where the author adds a magical element to Black history to explain the horror of racism or the wonder of people's resilience. I don't think it does justice to the lives lived in eras of struggle or illuminates much about their experiences. I also struggle with how authors of color rub against the magical Negro or otherwise exotic other trope in horror and fantasy, especially when actual magical and ritualistic practices in our communities are so frequently misrepresented, appropriated, and actually difficult to find authentic versions of. Even so, I was still convinced by Turnbull's story, Okorafor's story, and “The Strongest Obeah Woman in the World” by Nalo Hopkinson. This collection ends with a story analyzing the white psychology and villainization of whiteness called “Origin Story” by Tochi Onyebuchi. This story feels like it was written by a talented undergrad. Its insights into white identity development aren't that profound. It also has a snobbish experimental form as a meta-story where the characters are aware they are characters. It was a weird ass note for an anthology of Black horror to end on. This horror collection is more even footed than the last one I read though. Let's call it 3.5/5.