Before I knew of virtue, I
knew of vice.
It’s not a stretch to say I
grew up hand in hand with
the knowledge of sin, from the
fairly innocuous to the fairly
extreme: to hurt someone is a
sin, to blaspheme is a sin, alco-
hol, greed, sacrilege — the list
goes on and on. But with the
knowledge of sin came also an
understanding of hierarchy,
with some sins taught as per-
missible and others damning.
All are sins against god, but
some are excused, and others
abhorred. Eating meat, sacri-
lege: it’s not exactly a problem.
Even drinking, hurting others:
it’s fine! Maybe a reprimand,
maybe someone will be disap-
pointed. But no one will ever
be hated for those vices. No
parent will ever put down an
ultimatum, detest their child
forever or weep in sorrow for
them.
On the other hand, I was
taught early on of a suppos-
edly unpardonable sin — being
Queer. Yet as I became more
cognizant of myself and the
world, I began to revolt against
this idea that I’d for so long
been conditioned to revere
as an axiom. And as a result,
I’ve
always
unconditionally
wanted to know, to ask god
and attempt to understand
the incomprehensible: If we
can say that all love is intrin-
sic, why bestow it upon some-
body at all? Why bestow upon
somebody what’s considered
an unpardonable sin that is
simultaneously
irrevocable
and undeniable? Why are some
people given a simple and easy
love, and others not? Are we
not all deserving of loving and
being loved in return? Am I not
deserving? I guess what I want
to know is: If to love and be
loved is our destiny, then how
can we be expected to want to
escape it?
It reminds me of these lines
I once stumbled upon: “wheth-
er you love what you love / or
live in divided ceaseless revolt
against it / what you love is
your fate.” These lines make
me think of something else
I was once told by a friend,
years ago: “if I had to choose
between blissful sin or loveless
eternity, I’d choose the for-
mer.” Back then I’d heard this
and struggled to understand
why. What’s temporary bliss
to eternity? I understand their
words so much differently now
that I no longer see love as a
temporary bliss — love holds
so much more weight to me.
As such, I want to say that I,
too, would choose the former.
But every time I find myself
ready to concede to my fate, a
part of myself I can’t seem to
let go of unwillingly hesitates.
Like all others, I want noth-
ing more than to bask in the
simple feeling of loving and
being loved in return. Yet,
simultaneously, I can’t help but
yearn for the possibility of an
eternity that outlives my mor-
tality. And unlike other sins,
I’ve been told for so long that
I can’t have both, can’t coexist
between vice and virtue. This
one is given a clear ultimatum,
which is: choose. One, or the
other — virtue and eternity, or
vice and love.
And what if I choose the
latter? If what I yearn for is
eternity, why is it that I must
forever be trapped in a strug-
gle against the very nature that
god himself bestowed upon
me?
Yet if I choose the former, a
love that is my fate, it’s prac-
tically the same as giving me
the knife to place upon my
throat. I guess what I’m really
trying to get at is: Part of me
revolts against this dichotomy
because, despite it all, I truly
believe I am deserving of both.
And who’s to say I’m not? I
want to be good. I want to live
forever. I want to love. Maybe
it’s enough that I think I can.
Sweat seeps through my
tank top, reaches the back
of my dress shirt and crawls
down the nape of my neck. It
doesn’t slow me down. My feet
continue to stomp the devil.
The heat is something fero-
cious, but so is this music.
Women in ankle-length skirts
and ornate hats sway to the
sound of men’s palms on tam-
bourines. Saints run across
the church, hollering in a lan-
guage only God can under-
stand. There is no AC. I know
they hot, but hell is hotter. So,
we all dance.
My parents sowed the fear
of God into me early. I was
raised to shun sinful things
– which makes becoming a
sinful thing rather compli-
cated. On Sunday, the pastor
preached to his congregation
that homosexuals will burn.
Maybe that’s why I dance so
hard and ignore the sweat:
I’m practicing for everlasting
burning.
Sunlit stained glass win-
dows illuminate my dysfunc-
tional family. A weathered
Bible tells stories of my father
and his son. The soprano choir
girls are my sisters. The dea-
cons with deep voices and
even deeper pockets are my
brothers. The woman smiling
next to me every Sunday is my
mother.
My mother is in rare form in
these four walls. She talks to
other churchgoers for hours,
even when the pastor himself
has already gone home. She
wears her best outfits – spar-
kly long gowns – that I don’t
think we can afford. She wor-
ships like nobody’s business.
Lucifer halts when he hears
her coming, for she slays
demon-made dragons with a
single prayer. A Black momma
with something to fight for
is more vicious than a black
mamba, fangs and all. Her
high heels and high-pitched
“hallelujahs” shield us from
the underworld.
When I was 15, I told her I
was flammable, and she has
been trying to save me from
hellfire ever since. I don’t
think she realizes nothing
burns hotter than her rejec-
tion. In her mind, religion is a
bulletproof vest. Each prayer
is a protection. In my eyes,
her Bible is the bullet. Each
sermon is salt in the wound.
I don’t want a warrior for a
mother. The only protection
I need is her embrace. I want
her to believe in me like a
higher power. Accept me like
I am a Bible verse. God has
enough hymns; sing to me
instead.
Being closeted in a church
means hiding love from a
group that claims to worship
a loving God. It means your
“family” picking and choosing
which parts of you are divine
enough to hang on to, and
which are demonic enough to
be hung. The holy spirit won’t
stop haunting me.
That’s why “sinful” love is
so special to me. I am not just
choosing to love someone. I
am choosing their heartbeat
over heaven. I am choosing
their full-body smile over
my family. I am choosing the
erratic butterflies in my stom-
ach over eternal life. I don’t
need to worship a man in the
sky. There are men on earth
who’ve learned how to make
music with my heartstrings. I
will love them instead.
Sweat seeps through my
tank top, reaches the back of
my dress shirt, and crawls
down the nape of my neck. It
doesn’t slow me down. I con-
tinue to sway with his head on
my chest. I barely even notice
the
entire
room
burning
around us. The heat is some-
thing ferocious, but so is our
music.
Michigan in Color
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
May all things dissolve in
an ocean of bliss
ANONYMOUS
MiC Contributor
Anonymous Contributor/MiC
Wednesday, April 5, 2023 — 9
A conversation in precedents
Summer of 2019: the 50th anni-
versary of the Stonewall Uprising
in Union Square Park. The parade
started in Madison Square, swam
past us, went down to the Stone-
wall monument in Greenwich and
then flowed back up through 7th
Ave to the AIDS Memorial Park.
I don’t remember much, only that
the pride flag cost $5 while the
Bi flag was $7; I don’t get why
it’s more money for less colors,
someone had said to me. Nor do
I remember the floats or the pro-
cessions, because I didn’t see any.
We were too early — there were
only narrow streets filled with
people in rainbow corporate wear
waiting for a cue.
That summer I was green:
fresh-off-the-boat kind of green,
kissed-a-girl-and-I-liked-it kind
of green, green like summertime
ginkgo, like wet lawns and ten-
der daffodils. Green as I was, just
being there — sitting in the park
and licking the vanilla ice cream
that melted onto my fingers —
filled me with self-importance.
Back then, I would’ve preferred
the word “confirmation,” but it
didn’t really matter. Self-impor-
tance comes from confirmation,
confirmation in the image of odd-
ly-priced flags, rainbow prints
and whoever, whatever else came
before me.
Exhibits that summer: The
MET had “Camp: Notes on Fash-
ion” and the Brooklyn Museum
“Nobody Promised You Tomor-
row: Art 50 Years After Stone-
wall.” The color pink became a
confirmation. So did Oscar Wil-
de’s portrait (his actual portrait;
not to be confused with that of
Dorian Gray) and Bjork’s swan
dress. Then we went to Brooklyn.
After walking past paintings of
mangled bodies, Judy Chicago’s
porcelain dinner plates felt warm
to the touch. Echoing in the halls,
the tables and the plates, someone
sang: We have always been on fire
/ We have always been let down /
We have always been an island.
Confirmation
comes
from
precedent: and as I walked out
with too much pocket money to
spend, I bought something for
myself from the museum store —
a Queer of Color poetry anthol-
ogy, with big names like Audre
Lorde and James Baldwin and
Ocean Vuong. I don’t remember
reading it because I didn’t think
I understood poetry. But I still
kept the book on my bed stand,
because the list of names that line
the back cover proved that I have
lineage.
Though I do remember one:
Richard Blanco’s “Killing Mark.”
I had read it in the gift store, with
the final line echoing in my head
as I made the decision to buy the
book. I die each time I kill you.
And no writing on difference or
exclusion or discrimination rec-
ognized me as clearly as a line
about loving too much.
So: I modeled a poem after
Blanco’s in high school. He wrote
about a man he loved, and I wrote
about a woman I missed. But I
ended up scrapping it, because
he said it better and in words that
weren’t my own.
Some words that aren’t my own:
Judith Butler thinks that gender
is built from citations, and Mag-
gie Nelson cites Butler in “The
Argonauts.” Nelson also cites
Michel Foucault, Elizabeth Weed
and Anne Carson. Anne Carson
cites Sappho in the most literal
form — by translation — in her
2002 collection, “If Not, Winter.”
Shakespeare came up with 1,700
words that we still use today, and
Gunnhild yehaug writes (400
years later) about how words are
only words because we use them,
and we only use them because
they create meaning. When we
stop finding those things mean-
ingful, the words become obso-
lete.
In my journal: I recorded a line
from a Fredrik Backman novel.
That’s the power of literature … it
can act like a love letter between
people who can only explain their
feelings by pointing at other peo-
ple’s. Below, I wrote how none of
my feelings are original; I learned
courage from “Water Margin,”
jealousy from “Dream of the Red
Chamber” and pride from my
father’s emails to myself. Maybe
these emotions existed earlier, but
they were only realized within me
when someone wrote it down, and
when I read those words. Maybe
all of our feelings are secondary
and borrowed, I wrote, though I
borrowed that idea from another
book I read a couple months ago.
To keep borrowing: I am con-
structed from words. Words that
aren’t my own — I only know that
I am a writer because a professor
called me one; I only know that I
can like girls because another girl
bravely declared, in the attic of a
sleepover long ago, that she was
in love with the female character
in a video game. To cite Nelson, I
think of citation as a form of fami-
ly-making. I come from a long line
of people who have recognized
themselves in others, and that
fills me with warm, warm self-
importance.
Last in a long line: Now it is
winter, many years later. Some
things are still new to me, though
I am not as green as I was that
summer. Once in a while, I come
across another line in a book that
I jot down, pen on paper, and what
was alien is alien no more. With
ink, I eat myself full. It is winter
but snow is thawing. The soft, wet
soil underneath sprouts young
tulip stalks, tender and green.
JAMES SCARBOROUGH
MiC Columnist
Hopeless romantic
AUDREY TANG
MiC Columnist
Queer in Color
To recognize and embrace
oneself in a world bent upon
one’s erasure is a radical and
liberative act — an act that
everyone in the MiC com-
munity bravely engages with
every day. The experience is
heightened for Queer minori-
ties, who are buffeted by hate
from their own communities,
the white majority, and the
white Queer community. Black
Queer people are pushed out of
spaces that they have created
— ballroom and cunt become
appropriated by ravenous
white mouths that try their
hardest to imitate syllables
that do not belong to them. In
this storm, they must find sol-
ace in their own communities
and histories. In this America,
which profits off and encour-
ages violence against their
bodies, they must somehow
create community and learn to
love. “We are … queer bodies
moving around in spaces that
look less like a home and more
like desperate lodgings, trying
to make our beds with other
people’s garbage,” Joshua
Whitehead writes.
Queer people of Color un-
derstand that this country was
built against them and works
to grind them to the bones of
their existence, that rainbow-
colored corporate logos are
pushing kin out of their homes
and that countries that prom-
ise to give them rights are
flimsy covers for apartheid. In
America, they speak and write
in the language of colonial-
ism, trying desperately to mold
the garbage of English letters
into spaces that can convey
an inkling of their true selves.
They are forced to turn words
that subjugated entire civiliza-
tions into blankets and roofs.
“Queerness has a type of archi-
tecture,” Aisha Sabatini Sloan
writes in her essay, “Borealis,”
and this is the architecture of
Queerness of Color: redlining,
pain, liberation, colonization,
violence and love.
In the 2023 edition of Queer
in Color, LGBTQ+ MiC staff
and contributors have crafted
architecture from the letters
that once erased them. Seven
new pieces, ranging from lyrics
to articles, celebrate Queerness
in all its forms, inconsistencies
and beauty.
We are incredibly proud of
the brave work these writers
of Color have created in order
to share their stories with
the world. During Ramadan,
Michigan in Color is excited
to celebrate a type of love that
embodies the sacrificial, reve-
latory and liberatory spirit of
this holy month.
With great reverence, we
present the 2023 edition of
Queer in Color.
Sincerely,
Safura Syed
MiC Managing Editor
Design by Abby Schreck
Audrey Tang/MiC