6 Black Queers in an AirBnB
I went to a Conference called Mystic Soul- a resting place for misfit spiritual people of color who are finding their way in the world. This is the true story about where I lived while I was there.
On the first day, My Uber driver’s name was Anthony, and he took me through Lakeshore Drive, and talked to me about the best parts of the city. When we arrived at the apartment, we almost missed it- this is when I’m reminded that I don’t know how cities work. The apartment was on a regular looking road, above a place that taught Karate four days a week. I sent a message to the group, panicked that I’ve missed the address. Out comes Willow-in a pair of shorts and the glasses I knew far too well from their Instagram photos. I’m still not sure if the rush that hit me when I opened the car door was the Chicago cold or the happiness from seeing Willow again. We had connected two years ago, at a Christian conference that promised more love than it delivered. A white God can only go so far in the protection of Black bodies. We hugged much longer than we need to, our hug clearly a substitution for all of our words, each adjustment of our bodies like the start of a new sentence. “Come on in from the cold.” they said.
The apartment wasn’t entirely special- it was a solid option from an episode of House Hunters- hardwood floors, two full bathrooms, and a large open living space and kitchen. It smelled like someplace between a hotel and a home. We were comforted by the obvious Blackness of our host space-African masks and ceramic figurines lined the walls and tables. There was a photo of Tommie Smith and John Carlos’s Black Power Fist at the 1968 Olympic Games. Our eyes relaxed at the sight of familiar.
Willow had arrived first. True to their form, they messaged the rest of the group with tidbits of important information to assuage our anxieties. “The place is nice.” “Its right next to a bakery.” “There’s a liquor store up the street”. “Its right next to a police station.”The rest of the family trickled in throughout the day, each entering with the same rush of exhaustion and wonder. Cherry was staying somewhere else, and decided to spend most of their time with us. They eventually decided to stay, after already having paid to live somewhere else. Bamboo arrived with a bellowing voice that shook the sky. The spirit of the room shifted closer towards freedom-the authenticity bar had been raised. Oak arrived on the last day, they secured a home in another place, but after a series of mix ups, had nowhere to spend the last night in town.
As we unpacked, the armor we used to keep us safe on our journeys formed an altar on the edge of the counter. I gathered the offerings and moved toward the entrance of the house. I took the scarf from my head and laid it on a coffee table, then assembled the altar we created. Is this what spirituality feels like? Organic development of the presence of God? Tarot cards, crystals, sage, oils, keys, pennies, and anything else worth honoring was arranged in its rightful place, and remained for the three days we lived there.
I slept in bed with the most gentle person I’ve ever known. We did not wish for anything but the intimacy of living, breathing, sleeping so close to safety. We shared songs, stories, and dreams. We asked each other if there was anything on our minds we couldn’t go to sleep without saying. Is this what love is? Consistent subtle affirmation of your truth?
On the second day, as we fell into our routines, I noticed how much we apologized. It was second nature, the way we did it. “I’m sorry, did I bump you?” “Did I wake up too loudly?” “Did I wake up too softly?” “I don’t mean to walk so hard”. “Do you mind if I cook?” “Can I help you?” “Do you mind naked bodies?”. “I’m about to process this, but I am trying to tell you all that I might maybe need to go and be alone if that’s okay.”Is this what they mean by repentance? Embodying apology? Taking a posture that assumes your being to be burdensome? We worked so hard not to make our existence an imposition. To break in ways that were for the good of the whole. We found such creative ways to apologize for living.
Perhaps, because of such a posture of burden, the gentleness of our home was like nothing I have ever witnessed. It was like each of us had taken a silent vow not to take our collective breaths for granted. Every room felt soft, as if the builders mixed a handful of mercy into the plaster that made the walls. I remember coming outside of myself. In that house, I had no bones. I had no blood. I became so much of everything… that I drifted into a beautiful nothing. Is this what freedom is? To be so comfortable that you become a space. To be so normal that you become neutrality?
I’m sure the others think this is the world they belong to, but our home was so much more than privilege built from violence. We did not wish to conquer one another. Our home was 15 steps from a division of the Chicago Police Department. It was a giant, industrial looking building that I can’t remember all that much. I wasn’t afraid. Not for a second. I dared them, in fact, to cross the invisible line I had drawn between their world and ours. Just once, I wanted to witness the combustion of terror. Just once, I wanted to witness evil crumbling under the weight of our joy. Could this be what freedom is? When you are so happy that you could give a single solitary fuck about the things that scare you the most?
On the third day, we went to dark places in our personal journeys, and separated to gather ourselves again. We did not project our pain onto each other; instead we made our needs known and held each other’s hearts, massaging the tension away with the honor we had for our respective paths. We attempted to dance and play games, which worked for awhile, but the rooms called for more- for us to ask ourselves how we would live outside of oppression. When the room is devoid of pain, do you need the earthly rituals you use to sooth yourself?
On the fourth day, it was time to leave our new home, to return to the ones we knew. Elm brought us back to reality. Elm- the 6th, was with us someplace else. Their family had forbidden them to come to the conference. As we broke down the altar, we pressed its energy toward Elm- praying for physical presence- for Elm’s home place to travel to them next time. We sat in the loss of our new home, as it slowly became the rented apartment we knew. I remember thinking that the carriage had become a pumpkin again. I packed my bags, in disbelief that I was leaving. We held back our tears for each other. We promised to keep in touch. We took pictures to freeze our heaven in time.
In the car, on the way to the airport, I got a message: “I’m sorry if I squeezed too tight while I was hugging you goodbye”.
Jameelah Jones lives many places and loves many things. She is misfit Christian finding her way. Cite me properly. Follow me on Twitter @sunnydaejones
