These two pieces were read by Dev Blair (they/she) at the Boston Black Trans Pride March in Ringer Park on Juneteenth 2020
Good fucking morning Allston-Brighton! I say good morning this afternoon coz we know how that pandemic time go, we clearly woke a lot of folks up today! And that’s because y’all showed up and showed out for Black trans people specifically and especially! Shout to that, buuuuut more importantly shout out to us! Lemme hear my Black trans sibs holla!
Let us also take a moment to acknowledge whose land we stand on.
“WE ARE ON INDIGENOUS LAND
The Black Lotus acknowledges the sacred land where we work, live, and build community, which has been a site of human activity for 13,000 years. …
A white fag tries on a Black thing to try to make themself feel more queer.
A white fag tries on a Black thing that they stole from a Black queer who knows and believes in herself.
A white fag who does not know and believe in themself tries on a Black thing to try to make themself feel more queer.
The white fag has never known what it feels like to know and believe in themself and so they stole the Black thing right off the Black queer’s back while they slept in their room in their shared apartment and they tried to move through the world like the Black queer did. …
I built myself in six days, on the seventh I rested
A sculptor low on tools n clay, her patience was tested
Mistakes were made, the sculpture caved, she felt that she was bested
but she gathered up the shards because she wouldn’t accept it
Pieces cradled like a womb, seeking to unmake their doom, she couldn’t build the perfect body coz the body is a tomb,
So she laid in herself,
looked up at the moon,
and let her tears fill up the rest of the room.
Sleep schedule shattered,
she split herself open yelling at her mind’s…
Once I heard a story of a white dude with a brilliant brain, conducting science experiments in the desert n what did he gain? Gamma rays lit him up n now a big green guy shows up whenever the white dude’s anger makes him come unchained.
What’s the white guy’s secret? Well of course, he’s always angry-but imagine what would happen if the scientist was black? Man, a comic of that would be packed with more facts than a Mac-now that we’ve established that, let me do a little introducin, hi, how are you, my name’s revolution.
I am the one who calls smoke on ya names when y’all spark fires and fan the flames, the one you blame, the one who claps back with not a modicum of…
There is no easy way to say any of the things that I plan to say in this post. I don’t even know how to say some of the things I plan to say in this post. I am scared by this post, I am terrified of this post, I can’t believe I’m making this post. But one of the few guiding principles in my life that has always brought me happiness in the end, despite whatever else is happening, is my commitment to being my most honest, most authentic self. …
What is love?
An old question, but a question nonetheless and I am a seeker of answers, restless in my galloping pursuit of the truth.
Everytime I ask it, I try something new.
Do I pour everything into myself or everything into you? Will it hold this time, be sustainable, or will I lose it again, my latest passion proven unretainable?
Try and fail but what is the consequence? When you give a part of yourself to know the unknowable, where do you get the energy to make sense of what you’ve done? …
For a long time, I didn’t quite understand the term “natural.”
See, I knew that curls grew from my scalp naturally and I also understood that I could see my curls intertwine and loc beautifully — if I ever stop tryna cop Britney’s ’07 hairdo every time I have a breakdown.
But what I didn’t get was how we could name our curls — something so deeply personal and meaningful — “natural,” as if to make them sound normal, plain, ordinary.
See, I don’t want my curls to be something you can stomach, another ethnic dish for white eyes and mouths to consume. …
I’m sitting on the dock
The sun is setting
I’m high as hell off half a bowl, so I guess this is another poem about my depression
In truth, reality is a subjective thing to behold
My gears was turning before this plant started burning
The wheels of my skateboard running off the pavement like smoke out of a new smokers chest
A coughing fit feels like Death tryna claim me
But nah, she’s a tease.
So of course, I’m in love with her.
Folks like to ask me about my daily grind
For me it’s grinding weed every day just to pass the…
So before I start, some necessary context: I’m a Boston-based artist who has spent the past two years training as a theatre actor at Boston University. When I entered college, theatre, specifically acting, was my primary artistic outlet, having spent three years of high school doing it (though I did sing and “dance” as well). Through my training I have found my voice as a poet (specifically spoken word) a playwright, screenwriter, and prose writer. I have become more than simply acquainted with the world of dance. Singing is more of a personal hobby now than anything else (me and musical theatre have had a falling out), and I’ve also found ways to pair each of these things in some capacity with my activism. …
Three white ladies once tried to teach me about gender and sexuality. That’s the set up and the punch line.
Queer. Non-binary. Femme. Somehow, these three words are supposed to represent my whole experience, somehow they can tell y’all what I’ve been through, how long I’ll live, how likely I am to get HIV.
I storm out of the academia’s sociological halls with a question: how can I find freedom within a label that wasn’t created for someone like me? Can “queer,” “non-binary,” or “femme” describe what kind of person I’ll be?
I say those three words, and y’all think y’all know me, you’ve got all the stats on someone who just wants to be free. …