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COLUMN | AUGUST 1, 2017

KID IN THE HALL
 
 
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@PICASSOMOORE

I got a column y’all. I deserve this. Lets start there. I deserve a lot of things that I have yet to receive but we can talk about that in another addition, an addition that will de nitely exist because as stated... ma’ma’s got a mutha FUKKing column. It wasn’t supposed to be this. The idea was initially a weekly pop culture breakdown but now I’m supposed to give more me. The original concept seems tting because I am pop culture. Not in the ‘I embody it’ sort of way, more in the ‘you are what you eat’ sort of way. But I suppose, I hope there’s more. My editor (I have one of those y’all) says that an aspect of my writing and I presume me is performative. He referred to me as a character. Those adjectives are like the friendship between Lena Dunham and Janet Mock. I don’t know how I feel about it. Or rather I feel so much about it.


It contradicts everything that we already know about the two parties and also just feels generally annoying. I hear mention of their kinship and I just picture Lena draping Janet on top of all of her problematicness like she’s Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility. Just the idea of them having breakfast together makes my hands cold (thats bad y’all). I demand an explanation and more insight into this union’s inception and development! On the other hand the prospect of a true and understanding friendship between two titans of the zeitgeist with seemingly opposing everythings makes my hands feel like they have a thick cock in them (that real good y’all). Just those words, you know? “Performative”, “character”. A part of me felt seen, through a hazy lter but still seen. I felt grateful that I’d been studied and dissected but enraged that my pages had been combed through and my skin was sliced open. His words felt just like Lena and Janet but I nodded and agreed with him because I wanted this column. I deserve it.


I’m sitting in the sta cafeteria at IKEA. My computer is open, I have nothing on the page, and the dra is due on Tuesday. It’s Tuesday. My lunch break ends in fourty-three minutes and I keep alternating between two distractions. Gazing at the Brooklyn skyline and checking Instagram. I’d much rather be sitting in a sleek o ce in soho looking at whatever is out of the windows there. I’m sure that the view is pretty similar to views out of every other window, but I’d still rather be there because there is an o ce job wherein I get paid to be thin and sip iced lattes from cutely designed cups while selectively replying to emails from other thin latte sippers. There, I’d be friends and lovers with all of the models and “in uencers” (FUKK every digital in uencer in the world but also how do I apply for that job?) I follow on Instagram as opposed to envy-stalking them. Alas I’m here. Disgusted with the view out of the window (or is it the window I’m looking out of ?) and trying to put more ‘me’ on the page. What’s more me than a hastily written piece that I vomited onto the page?
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Let’s call it art or at least just my process. If my editor (the one that I now have y’all) gives a lot of notes or seems suspicious about my ethic that’ll be my lie. I’ll pull a January Jones and hit him with a blank stare and the words “I’m very particular about my process”. Maybe that’ll work. If not I’ll pull out my fail safe invention: bring up my childhood trauma (patent pending). See I’m doing it now. It works in all sorts of situations. Getting attention, getting out of things, getting free things, and most handily padding out a column that you had days to work on but never touched. I’ve got nothing to write about so lemme just bring up something big and hope it’s so big that people don’t notice what’s small. Raped twice, thrown onto the streets at een for queerness, lived in my car for three years, currently in a shelter for queer youth in New York, stru ling with sobriety (so much cocaine), using sex as self harm, eating disorder, mental health problems for days, child hood conversion therapy, physically abusive father, mentally ill mother, and blah blah blah. Did it work? Are you still there? Is this good writing yet?


“What could this be?”, “What am I gonna say?”, “Whats the point of this?” I hound myself with questions that remind me of Katy Perry’s singles, basically just the same thing over and over with slightly di erent phrasing. Then It’s back to distraction number two. Instagram! I follow an account that’s just a mood board of out ts from “Sex and the City”. It’s pointless, I know, but I love it. But isn’t that okay? Why does everything need a point anyway? Whats the point of that? I’ve got it! Maybe this could be like one of Carrie Bradshaw’s columns. Maybe I’ll just put some bullshit on the page and then ask some questions that feature the words “love” and “aren’t we all” and “in a city like New York” at the end. Maybe I’m the black queer Carrie Bradshaw! Maybe I’ll take her formula and improve it. Y’all, maybe I’ll write about how my life is the black queer “Sex and the City” spin o that I’ve been in imaginary talks with HBO to executive produce and star in.
Imagine:

— Sex and the Shitty:

A young black boy with a dark past moves to the big apple to make it big, fall in love, and gure out if he wants keep bottoming or buy a vagina. And if he does, does he want one because it’s what he want’s or because the men he wants want pussy? Does he even want men? Sometimes he eats pussy, but only trans men and AG’s, so does that make him a straight cis man? Or a trans lesbian? Or just a very messy confused hoe with daddy issues? Girl, He don’t know.


Admit it, you’d watch that show. You’d read that column, because even if it was pointless it’d be an adventure. A vary black very queer adventure. As crony as it is, maybe thats enough. Maybe you, the readers of my column, and I are going on a journey together. Maybe we’ll all nd love in a big wild city like New Yo— yeah, it’s bad I know. So not that.

Lemme try this:

My mother is an asshole. She threw me in the street which sent me spiraling into addiction and led me into the arms of my rst rapist. I actually hate when people use asshole as a pejorative term. Some people like assholes you know? It’s very gender normative. Language is important and when we so frequently equate negativity with the anal cavity we foster ideologies that contribute to sexual shaming. Queer oppression comes down to even the smallest of micro a ressions of our every day interactions and in order to create real change and to have true sexual liberation in our society we must change not only our more obvious tendencies towards heteronormativity but also our colloquialisms.

What about that? I could do a whole Roxanne Gay sort of thing. Start with a personal revelation that feels super intimate and then make my way into a cultural critique. Use my personal experiences to make my political views more impactful. I love when she does that. It’s like a personal essay and a Viola Davis award acceptance speech all in one. Lots of sad shit followed buy a thunderous call to action. Do you think my editor would be into that? Would you? Okay.

What if it was something like this: