<BGSOUND SRC="http://divsoffdeps.com/yellowlovesgreen/sounds/missampu.mp3">




click me if nothing's goin down gender is the... milieu
i've only barely begun...
tapping in some effort to "remake"?
or be more expressively honest...
It extends beyond formal appearance (though these are valuable social
signs of solidarity)
but... further dismantling oppressive patriarchal attitudes, turning an identification of my complicity in these structures into an
opportunity for change

doseone said "pretend night sky the interpretive day disguised
force so devout but rarely felt perspective dripping with a masterless
man..." since this begins in san francisco. with the sky.


perhaps san francisco is the naivete I regress to. this is where I fell out of ventura parental
wings after 21 years and discovered how to support and

feed myself. I don't recall a precise moment when
i overcame fears of the unknown
to reach a remarkable discovery, probably because the trans
ition was extremely traumatizing an
d in order to protect myself f
rom something pale and hideous in the


void bey
ond the ov
erly familiar safety of the evergreen


indian la
u
rel fig canopy of my middle
class white suburban childhood. the e
ducational history portion of a paper employ
ment

application. how
much of the socal relative cold the nights
here often become, and
my own rented walls around it. a rainbow flag.


why is it
valuable for me to persist under the
nebulous pretense of this city's so-called
enchanted nature? the buses run on wires. unimagined
utopian qualities to my closely guarded suburban stupidity.
despite the identification of an actual
character flaw, no valid sense of caution
has ever obfuscated it. even
in the plain recognition that urban nor
thern
california white people
are just as given to enacting
racial barrier dynamics as the southern california
white people i grew up with. the san francisco
experience of this recognition benefited


from arriving later in my life,
entirely through circumstance, and
therefore assisted me in forming
a more fully conceived racial analysis.
through this
analysis i've been able to
understand a cycle of constant negotiation
with how i move through the world as a spectacle up
the street in geographies of disdain

in order to have
substandard and modified social needs met.
there is a senseless feeling of being grounded that
i've accessed through recognizing myself as a colonized
body in violent systems of misogynist, racist,
classist domination . through pornography i engage in patterns of consumption
which prioritize "hot," non-black and
predominately white, young male (i.e. "boy") bodies
of a presumed middle class (projected through
grooming, dress, tastes). to be precise:
he's the default american blockbuster protagonist
i just paid $10 for, and nobody can see me
masturbating in my SUV no matter what
when I got my tinted windows double
clicked and closed shut.


The blockbuster suburban pornographic childhood
memories which weave in and out of dream express
a longing to be vindicated through contact
with purity, innocence, valor, integrity, etc.
by those in power, in such a way that the sole
act of consuming these images assumes
an articulation of institutional
authority. The process
assumes a formaldehyde eternal past
that exonerates the present of any responsibility
in captured depictions of youth.


Everyday pornography of consumption and the
consumption of pornography seem to necessitate
an austere and stereotypically male
way of being in the world as it moves around
me. objectification narrows the potential for certain
forms of communication, instead abetting
a model of silent masculine invulnerability through
typed text and types of text. Chat windows,
Hollywood movies, various sociopathological phenomena…
accepting that alienation is fact, i find that i have a longing
for a gentleness i witness absent from any
inch of my loathsome corpse... will i find it
here? other questions: what is generosity? what is
trusting myself? what is a genuine show of
affection? when did i learn to find comfort in never
feeling comfortable? i even suspect
the sincerity of my inquiry's motives. i wish
that i felt the world acknowledged any sign of
sensitivity in my eyes. lacking
this acknowledgment, i must presume my
own lack. isolation compounds isolation,
echoes in a pseudo-cruisy bathroom stall.
paper-colored city-issued room.


i do know what these emotions turn into when i have no outlet.
laughter.
misrecognition. sneers.

fountain
in

my guts. when my ambitions and deluded

exchanges are routed,
frustration with under-acknowledgment
beyond these insuperable dynamics causes me
to issue a constant flow of parental cruelty,
comic ugliness and distance. and i ironically perform precisely the same sorts of pathology socially prescribed to black people throughout history.



this false sense
of self-determination
through acting negatively on justified
negativity could be described as highly addictive.
i also find that i yearn for desirable embodiments
of whiteness to acknowledge my sensitivity,
kindness or generosity or anything that would vaguely
fit in that category.



this particular appetite is one of poisonous
self-negation, a taking on of the doctrines
of utter domination. My expression of
desire for the seal of whiteness seals
this class-assigned, gendered and racialized
contract with the state, giving me
for legitimacy and citizenship.
To be active within the status quo,
one requires both the ability and willingness
to enact patronage to its norms of physical
containment, as well as to consume an ideology of violent,
class, race and gender hierarchies. It’s essential
to my politics of resistance to respond effectively
to the functions of such binaries between subordination
and dominance. I am not excluding the multiple ways in which various
transactions along these dynamics occur,
where the oppressed can assume the position of the
oppressor, and where likewise regimes can be
dissolved.
Hi, I’m miss ampu,
how are you doing, nice to meet you.

consumption and resistance has come to exemplify the confusion
i'm presently in as of this writing, a strategic act of self-destruction,
a fearful identification of a manageable confusion… witnessing the
possibility for both at any moment: resistance or consumption…
screaming on the bus, or sitting patiently.
whenever i'm able to handle my own
internalized racism, i smile at another
black person on the sidewalk.
i'm sensitive to the ways in which
the idea of manhood is stylized and
desired through the black experience
in america. i'm alienated from
people who feel attached to their supposed nation through their
interpretation of a history of oppression thereby legitimizing
rights to an abstract sense of justice which is
often more concerned with acquiring privileges
from institutions rather than abolishing them. the
masculinity of black people seems exaggerated in our
culture. my smiles are seldom returned. which is
not to say that when my smiles are frequently
returned that this doesn't inspire an emptiness i can
neither account for nor rationalize away. nothing feels
as satisfying as a sense of acceptance from a
wholesale packaged whiteness. fear and pride. I’m convinced
that I don’t love myself.


key to constructing my social analysis
was the often fragile friendship i made with oriana when i
first came to san francisco. well, daly city. oriana was an activist.
at one point, she was working with the commemoration committee for the black
panther party and my sense of kinship for her and
the apparent affinity that we shared compelled
me to join this group as full-time cadre.
I don't know what i was thinking. I believed that working with
this group would rescue me from the menial drudgery
of my four jobs. the relationship oriana had to this
group i'd perceive as her being inscribed as sexually desirable
by the mostly male group as (a token) female as well
as an asset of functional male dependability. this
seems to happen a lot in our society.
i recall her describing being in her car with our mentor-figure
in the group while running one of the many errands she'd generously offer
transportation for. he found him objectifying young
women at a post office. i often wondered how she had gotten to be in such
situations. her background in the context of the race-based
character of this sort of activism allowed to project a
certain degree of authenticity on to her both despite her sexual orientation
creating an inaccessible allure for the men of the group, and also because of
the often radical culture that can emerge from her sexuality.
in this case in particular, i view this as an example of how black bodies
are masculinized in white supremacy, even when they're sexualized as female.
oriana informed me of enraging incidents of sexism which caused her to gradually separate her
participation with them. on the other hand, my male homosexuality never obstructed my
interactions with the group as far as i ever noticed. nonetheless, i would
ultimately abandon them a week after joining because i was horny. We're both pictured
on the boxes to porn that we've been in.


getting to open... "why can't i be soft?" i can conceive
alternatives but i have too much fear and investment
in this partial alternative to pursue others. rout.
discomfiture. foil.

the only happiness i've found is in working through
painful confusion. why should i have discovered
all of this in san francisco? what role does this venue, locale,
space play? i reiterate: here this is a chance that has
only served to validate my original naivete. because these precise
understandings could not have been possible anywhere else. Destiny of an
affected innocence, innocent affectation of destiny. many of the
things that mystically attract me to san francisco all seem to have found
themselves in such close and appealing ensemble through all this
shivering under a night sky like the first i had thought i
had never known before, or like none before me had ever known anything about
because i had found it, created it, first.


this mythic sky hung precariously, improbably over
a weekly regiment of interlocking shifts at four
separate
menial workplaces. i would always state a preference for
the separate consecutive stations as this
would make

the necessary mo
noto
ny more bea
rable

. here it
feels appropriate to describe where work and gay identity
sit in this new san francisco geography. arduous
labor appeared to secure financial access to a sexuality
i believed would never have been possible for me in my native ventura.
i ritualistically frequented sex clubs after getting tipped
out at work. i don't feel comfortable merely collapsing

work, sex and gay identity into an interdependent
circuit of production and expenditure, because the actual significance

both these components of my life had at one time becomes erased. it is more accurate
for me at this moment to explain that i
saw my homosexuality conditioned by a sense of
stylized desire in a present whiteness handed over from
an earlier acclimation to whiteness visible just behind the
plaster walls of the sinkroom where i would help wash dishes with this
older guy who washed dishes just as he had
always washed dishes in this exact same room when it was
under the previous management of a different establishment, menial drudgery
contrasted by the silhouetted shapes of unlimited possibility
against a perfect untenably mythic night sky i made
up
. i washed
dishes
to cruise
sex clubs

to avoid any

wretched
awareness of myself


in a
black body,
only
to find
that this further galvanized
my senses around this irrevocable fact.

this guy, his
name
was

luen (my

spelling may not be
cor
rect), would stay
till four in the morning everyday
cleaning every object in the restaurant, from the greasy
kitchen mats to the cheese grater while i pursued
orgasms with boy
s in a
near
by sex club.
i befriended
many of my

queer co-workers there in
that restaurant. i ignored
the class implications
of sex
u
al identity as it existed
here in san fran
cis
co. It appeared to be in
separable from an ability
to engage in a con
sump
ti
on of some sort. hindsight
provides me with many ways to
un
der
stand how gay identity
is both

racialized and relates

to a class
system.
i was not privileged enough to have a room
larger than my residence hotel's
or seem to meet mainstream standards
of a desirable sexual body, but i could
choose not to do luen's backbreaking
tasks. luen would often run sentences by me that
featured a presumption dressed
up as a question about my girlfriend.
like regularly.
he was asian and much older than me.

i've unfolded the dishwashing
room for the deceitfully tabloid t.v. dramatization set that it is, and introduced
day sky to night sky, not because i thought the
risk involved might provide some distraction but
out of necessity. more clearly, i've acknowledged
limits on what my life can be, but these experiences
have forced me to attenuate what financial, physical
and social space i have. my politics supposedly stand
for resistance against exploitation, but the distance
i've placed between luen and myself during the time we
were acquainted and now suggests an inability to functionally
adhere to my professed politics.


i've prioritized my own pride over participating in unequal
subordinate patronage. i'm not attempting to cast
myself as better than menial labor. and i certainly
can't justify exploitative labor in service of gay
identity. my gay manager was exploiting luen and
me. i might be able to confide this to luen.
specifically, i can see how luen's drudgery makes
the higher standard of living for our gay boss possible.
i don't doubt that he would immediately agree,
especially remembering the work we used to do.
a sense of wonder. wind-tossed rain droplet, sodium-vapor
streetlight glow, trees in front of sky.