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(I dedicate this column to young homosexual warriors who are out and proud everywhere. You all are my greatest inspirations. I live for you…AB}

It is an undeniable and historically proven fact that those who are oppressed often become the most cruel oppressors. The United States were founded by slave masters who wanted to be free from British rule, even as they simultaneously stole, enslaved, dehumanized, and forcibly ruled captive Africans for centuries. As fellow hostages on plantations, mulattos were often the most rabid overseers and treacherous house niggers, and often crueler than many white slave masters. In Nazi death camps, Jewish and Polish SS officers who passed as Germans were far more brutal than their actual German Nazi peers. During America’s genocide against Native Americans, Native American scouts and African-American Buffalo soldiers legendarily assisted white men as they robbed and slaughtered red, brown, and black people who looked like them. White gays are usually more blatantly racist than any of their racist heterosexual peers, especially those who control gay media. Closeted gays and gays who feign at being “healed heterosexuals” gaybash more rabidly than any homophobic or sexually bigoted heterosexual…

Murderous gaybashers exist and are religiously sanctioned in every human race. Yet, I remain convinced that racism and sexism combine to create a uniquely hot hatred of homosexuals within most black gaybashers globally. I have penned many columns, hosted countless talk radio shows, and engaged in heated debates with diverse friends on the subject of black gaybashers for decades. I have elaborated ad infinitum about precisely how racism and sexism combine and degenerate too many black men who regard themselves exclusively as life support systems for penises, and too many black women who regard themselves exclusively as concubines/breeders for these aforementioned black macho men.

This toxic combination of psychoses fashions turbo gaybashers in blackface, who passionately regard homosexuals as literal nullifiers of their very existences. Their twisted insecurities are expressed as fatal gaybashing/self-defense mechanisms in the paranoid and insane wars that their hatred fuels against sexual truths in general and homosexual persons in particular. Combine those toxins with the additional madness created by the oceans of blood awash upon the hands of droves of black pastors, who continue to preach lies about God and the bible to their mindless and robotic flocks. These evil and bigoted pseudo-christians truly regard gaybashing and murdering homosexuals as divine acts!!! Also, blend in the arrogant ignorance of uneducated masses who know and desire to know absolutely nothing about the universal scientific nature of homosexuality in literally every living species. All of these ancient ingredients mesh into a perfect and pervasive recipe for social poison that festers deep within the core of global black cultures and ferments into a potent emotional and psychic venom that is spewn by a diaspora of African gaybashers like legions of deadly cobras.

When these misogynist morons lash out, they often do so with deadly force. As more young black homosexuals refuse to live lies and dare to live honestly and openly within black communities, their death tolls are rising at the bloody hands of black gaybashers. Sakia Gunn is only their most recent casualty…

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Look Within

guest post by by Being True

When one thinks about religion and sexuality as something that can intertwine it becomes a conversation that can be never ending. Especially in very religious homes. There is not a faith, that I know of, that welcomes homosexuality with open arms. Growing up in a strict Christian home it was made very clear to me that a man and a woman is the only way that God meant it to be. Our purpose in this life was to procreate. Anything else was a sin and earned you an immediate seat in hell. It was something that never really set well with me. Even as a young child. I could not understand how a God that loved everybody and was all about forgiveness would exclude a whole group of people.

I believe that my conflict with this made the first of many steps that I took away from believing in one specific religion. The next was my mother marking a cross on my head with holy water when I came out to her. It was like I was out of the “godly” club and because of this she had to change me before I became an embarrassment for her. She turned her back on me. Disowned me really when she realized tat I would not follow the rules of her religious ways. What would make a mother act like her daughter did not exist. Surely this “God” that she worshiped did not believe in treating family like this. I had committed no crime in my eyes. I was just being the only me that I had ever known.

When I realized that I was indeed attracted to women I searched for a religion that would embrace me without me having to lie about who I really was. I found that many places of worship had the policy of the military, “don’t ask, don’t tell”. This was very discouraging to me. feeling comfortable in other churches until I disclosed my sexuality became a cycle. I could no longer take the looks of pity and disgust. I realized that I could not be around the hypocrisies anymore. I left the church.

Never did it enter my mind to become a atheist. Not at all. I just felt at a lost. I still believed that there was a spirit out there that was looking over me and the rest of the world. I just felt that there was not a place were I could be with people who were like me. Spiritual but not religious. Where were we supposed to worship? I questioned myself many times. Was there such a thing as believing in God without being part of one of the godly clubs? For a while I decided to just stop thinking about it. I knew that I was a bisexual woman and if that meant, to some that I could and would never be seen in a good way in the eyes of the Lord then so be it.

I accepted my place in Hell. I could not change my sexuality so it seemed like the only logical thing for me to do at the time. I lived my life and did my thing. I walked this earth for years with my spirituality in the back of my mind. I know know that I was a ticking time bomb. I was losing myself. Youth cannot only make you rebellious towards your immediate authority but can reach far beyond that. I don’t remember the exact time or the incident but I realized that my life was going in a downward spiral. I was losing focus and hope fast. I wanted to pray but I felt that because I had turned my back on faith that I was not worthy of any help. I fought with myself night after night. I’m in the group that is said to be sinful. Hell bound. Would HE listen to my cries.

I got on my knee’s one night and I prayed like no other. I wanted to know why HE made me the way that I was. WHY! I said that I never stopped believing but I could not hold true to one religion. I had many beliefs and I took a little something from each religion and put my opinion in the middle of that. Was I too opinionated? I needed guidance. Could HE guide me? After I finished I felt cleansed. I had never cried while praying. It was a feeling of nirvana.

After that night I put my spirituality in first place. Whatever I did and whoever I became to be would be between me and my maker. I was not going to let other’s interpretation of the books of of faith deter me from embracing the way I felt. Even thought the struggle with myself seemed to be ending it took a long time for me to voice how I felt to others. I am around people who of are many faiths and even though they seemed to love me regardless my choice could be a problem. Some see not focusing on one religion makes you a non believer and therefore not worthy.

I opened up about the way I felt and I luckily received good response. Even so, religion is still a hard topic for me to bring up because there is always going to be someone who is going to make me feel like I have to defend myself and my belief. It is a sore topic in my current relationship. Especially because we have a child together. The fact that I am bisexual and do not follow one particular religion is looked at as if I will be steering my child in the wrong direction. Which of course is ridiculous. As long as you have a concrete feeling on what you feel and are leading your life in a way that is happy for you there is no problem.

People should realize that religion is like eye color, you can change it if you choose but to be spiritual is within. It is your definition of life. Your meaning.

This Easter, like all my Christian sisters and brothers, I long to celebrate the resurrection and new life. As a child of the Black Church, I long to hear on Easter morning the inimitable way that black gospel choirs sing my favorite hymn, “Because He Lives.” Yet as a lesbian, it’s not always easy to know where I can worship and not have to leave my sexual orientation at the door.

I recently asked Mickey N. Medlicott, a lesbian from New Jersey active in the welcoming church movement, how she understands the meaning of the cross for LGBT people in these times. She said: “The cross is always with us LGBT people. Sure, I can see and sometimes feel the light, but I never feel like I really arrive at the resurrection. Just when I feel comfortable in a job — to let a little of myself out, to let my guard down a little — someone will tell a gay joke, and I am forced to focus on the cross again. Trading `How was your day?’ stories with my partner sometimes leads to lessons on how little things have changed. It makes us cautious, fearful, and makes us live a certain way to avoid ending up on the cross ourselves.”

Despite the centrality of the cross within our tradition, many Christians pay little attention to the reasons for Jesus’ death and the systems of oppression that brought it about. This is tragic, since the forces that crucified Jesus on Good Friday have everything to do with the physical, spiritual, and emotional violence faced by marginalized people today.

Two thousand years ago, Jesus was unquestionably a threat to the social and political status quo. Viewed as a religious threat because of his iconoclastic views and practice of Jewish law, and as a political threat to the Roman government because of his popularity among the poor and oppressed, Jesus was nailed to a cross, an attempt by those in power to eliminate him.

Today, we live in a world where some individuals feel free to re-enact such a crucifixion, to destroy any whose existence threatens their own way of life. We’ve seen a recent rise in social intolerance and hate crimes, the worst since McCarthy’s witch hunts and the lynching of 14 year-old Emmett Till in the 1950s.

In June of 1998, the remote east Texas town of Jasper consumed the nation’s attention because of a heinous crime against a 49 year-old vacuum cleaner salesman named James Byrd, Jr. Walking home after a party one night, Byrd was offered a ride by some passersby. Little did he know that he would soon be chained by his ankles to the back of a pick-up truck and dragged to his death — because he was black.

Later that same year, after an explosion of ads in major newspapers from right-wing Christian “ex-gay” ministries, we heard the deadly news from another remote place: Laramie, Wyoming. This time, the victim was a 21 year-old first-year college student named Matthew Shepard. Under the guise of friendship, two men lured Shepard from a tavern, then bludgeoned him with their rifles and tethered him to a rough-hewn wooden fence, like a hunting trophy — because he was gay.

These modern-day crucifixions — one because of race, the other due to sexual orientation — raise serious questions about the classic Christian understanding of the cross as the locus of God’s atonement for human sin. For marginalized persons who want to avoid hanging on their own crosses, questions of how we understand Jesus’ crucifixion are not mere theological conundrums, but matters of life and death.

Within Christian tradition, the cross has too often been used to justify suffering and abuse, especially in the lives of the oppressed. The image of Jesus as the “suffering servant” has served to ritualize suffering as redemptive. While suffering points to the need for redemption, suffering in and of itself is not redemptive. Furthermore, the belief that undeserved suffering is to be endured through faith can encourage the powerful to be insensitive to the suffering of others and forces the less powerful to be complacent to their suffering — maintaining the status quo.

It is sometimes said in the church that “Jesus died for our sins.” Such language masks the reality that Jesus died because of our sins — our intolerance, our hatred, our violence. Jesus’ suffering on the cross because of these sins should not be seen as redemptive any more than the suffering of African-American men dangling from trees in the South during Jim Crow America. The lynchings of African-American men in this country were not restitution for the sins of the Ku Klux Klan, but a result of those sins.

As many liberation theologians have pointed out (whether they be feminist, womanist, African American, or lesbitransgay), the cross can be a valuable lens to examine the connections between Jesus’ suffering and the suffering of marginalized people today. The same abusive institutions and systems of domination at work in Jesus’ day now shape our current reality.

Suffering is an ongoing cycle of abuse that remains unexamined and unaccounted for. If we unmask the powers that create suffering, the powers that led Christ to the cross, we begin to see they are manifest in our everyday lives in systems of racism, sexism, classism, and heterosexism. Because the cross reveals how suffering victimizes the innocent and marginalized, it can extend to us all a promise of liberation.

When the Christian community looks to the cross, we must see not only Jesus, but the many other faces of God that are crucified with him today. In so doing, we deepen the church’s solidarity with all who suffer; those who are Christ in our midst.

(c) 2001, Rev. Irene Monroe

(For my dear friend Claudine O’Leary, and to all my fellow afrocentrics who love me as I love them)

I am proud to be a regular contributor to a superior journal entitled “Rain And Thunder: A Radical Feminist Journal of Discussion and Activism”. Claudine O’Leary is my dear friend, fellow warrior, and editor of that outstanding journal.
(For more information, contact Rain and Thunder c/o P. O. Box 813, Northampton, MA, 01061).

In a recent column, which also appears in her special zine: Suicidal Ideations: Writing and Art by Wimmin on Suicide, Claudine recently penned a magnificent moving, and simultaneously sincere tribute to both her eternal soulmate, Terri Lotz, and to her new friend Jonna. Claudia wrote:

“We can only go so far with our struggles alone…it is in community and through love and connection with someone else that we can go deeper…”

As always, I share Claudine’s passions and pains. We share missions as activists, lesbians, and comrades who have both lost wimmin we adore to suicide.

Unlike Claudine, I do not share the special grief of losing a lover to suicide. But, I have recently severed all ties with an emotionally abusive lover of three years, which required an intensely painful emotional divorce. The virtual death of my ex was mandatory to embrace my own life, and welcome my own new soulmate into my life and heart.

However, there is a kind of emotional death which I must die repeatedly. Being an afrocentric lesbian requires that I walk a constant tight rope among the types of persons I prefer to allow inside my social space. Inevitably, many who embrace Africa will always embrace its sexism as tradition (See columns on Gays in Africa and Female Genital Mutilation.) Gaybashing is intensified by sexism in any culture. Gay men are despised for being womanly. And gay women are despised for daring to be manly. Not just physically and sexually. Primarily, it is a political and financial problem.

Brothers who revere polygamy can never accept that two wives may enjoy each other more than they enjoy being in stables/harems. Brothers who adhere to the sexist edict that “The only position for a woman in The Revolution is prone”, truly loathe the control of both our posture and our revolutionary roles which lesbians demand. And, so many sisters gaybash simply in order to please and obey the brothers. Most brothers just do not know how to relate to a woman unless she is a lover/mother/chef/maid.

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Popularized by young African Americans’ use of it in hip-hop music, the word “nigger” is no longer heard only in the heat of an argument, but is now also heard in polite conversation. It is used as an expression of love that a person would say to another, like, “You’re my nigger.”

Agreeing with its popular use, Harvard Law School Professor Randall Kennedy’s latest book, Nigger: The Strange Career of a Troublesome Word, suggests that the word nigger should be used not only by African Americans, but also by whites. After all, given its broad-based cultural acceptance, whites now can be “niggers” too, and they can not only hurl the epithets at each other but at the intended group it was used against: African Americans.

While it is easy to get sidetracked by raising queries about the tenor and intent of Kennedy’s promotion of the use of the word, we cannot ignore the moral and ethical issues this word raises for all of us who want to be racially responsible, inclusive and well-intended in our use of language. The bantering and bickering over this word today is no longer about who has been harmed or hurt by its use, but who has the right to use it.

In my opinion, our cavalier use of the “N-word” speaks less about our rights to free speech and more about how we as a people — both white and black Americans — have become anesthetized to the damaging and destructive use of epithets, and our ignorance of their historical origins.

Is it appropriate for people to use these epithets if they do or do not belong to the group it was originally intended for? Does reclaiming these words serve as an act of group agency or as a form of resistance against the dominant culture’s use of it?

Derogatory words like “bitch” and “queer” also have broad-based cultural acceptance.

In commenting on reclaiming the use of the word “bitch,” Joan Morgan, author of When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost: My Life as a Hip-Hop Feminist, told the Boston Globe, “I don’t think that we can then make the leap that it’s really going to change or impact the way that men see and use the word. The word is firmly embedded in the lexicon of male language that’s used to disparage women.”

A reader of my New England column for a LGBT paper, “The Religion Thang,” posed an important yet troubling question to me. In a letter to the editor, he asked me, “In your writings, do you ever refer to black people as ‘niggers’? If you don’t, why not? Many young blacks refer to themselves as ‘niggers’. Isn’t it empowering for you people to take back such an ugly word?” He asked this because I commonly refer to lesbians, gay men, bisexuals and transgendered people as “queers”.

The word “queer” entered the American lexicon as a self-referential term in the 1990s. It was hailed as a chosen term to reflect the new paradigm in LGBT politics, hence the birth of queer politics. I embrace the term to stand in solidarity with this new movement and to reflect its diversity by adding my voice and activism.

Also, the term “queer” has been embraced by the majority of LGBT people both in the academy and on the street, and you see that acceptance in bookstores where a plethora of material on topics like queer theory, queer literature and queer theology are displayed.

The term “nigger,” on the other hand, has not as of yet been hailed as a chosen term by the majority of African Americans. The term “nigger,” has neither been embraced by African Americans in the academy nor in the Black Church, nor by the majority of us on the street.

Does African Americans’ appropriation of the term as insiders obliterate not only the historical baggage fraught with the word, but its concomitant social relations among blacks, and between whites and blacks as well? Does hearing other African Americans use the term among themselves give them — as well as other ethnic groups — the license to use it?

Simply because some African Americans use the term it does not negate its origin to slavery, or this country’s continued hatred toward African Americans as well as African Americans’ long history of self-hatred.

Because language is a representation of culture, it reinscribes and perpetuates ideas and assumptions about race, gender and sexual orientation we consciously and unconsciously articulate in our everyday conversations about ourselves and the rest of the world, and consequently transmit generationally.

The word “nigger” is firmly embedded in the lexicon of racist language that’s used to disparage African Americans. And I argue that the word can no more be eradicated from the American lexicon than it can be from the American psyche.

Case in point: the Boston brouhaha over the April 1998 headline in Boston Magazine which featured Henry Louis “Skip” Gates, Jr., chairman of Harvard University’s African American Studies Department and director of its W.E.B. DuBois Center. The title profiled him as the “Head Negro in Charge” of the black intellectual enterprise in this country. This article had a national impact and opened a dialogue about these words.

The title “Head Negro in Charge” where the “N” doesn’t stand for “Negro”, but instead “nigger” — and in common parlance among African Americans is referred to by its initials “HNIC” — derives from an abuse of power where a white slave owner chose a field slave as his overseer to maintain his relations of racial and labor exploitations. In keeping his fellow enslaved laborers in their place, the overseer was also kept in place because his survival was dependent on executing the demands of his master. Today, the term in black vernacular still conveys and maintains the same power inequities where the white establishment chooses one African American as a spokesperson and gatekeeper for the entire race.

The notion that it is acceptable for African Americans to refer to each other as “Negroes” or “niggers,” yet considers it racist for others to do so, unquestionably sets up a double standard. The notion that one ethnic group has property rights to a term is a reductio ad absurdum argument since language is a public enterprise. No one — black or white — escapes the stranglehold of racist language and images, whether reclaimed or left alone. As African-Caribbean poet Audre Lorde cautioned us all, we cannot use the master’s tool to dismantle his house. Although the liberation of a people is also rooted in the liberation of language, reclaiming a racist word like “nigger” does not eradicate its historical baggage, and its existing racial relations among us.

Instead it dislodges the word from its historical context and makes us insensitive and arrogant to the historical injustices done to a specific group of Americans. It allows all Americans to become unconscious and numb in the use and abuse of the power of language because of the currency this racial epithet still has. And lastly, it thwarts the daily struggle in which many Americans engage in trying to ameliorate race relations.

(c) 2002, Rev. Irene Monroe. All Rights Reserved.

Larry

I have no use for religion in my life. But, I do need God. My God is a universal spirit that loves everyone and everything that is good. I am not an atheist. I pray all day each day. Unlike most persons, I have the effortless ability to separate God from religion.

All religions and religious texts were created by human men. Most religions and most men are sexist, racist, and elitist. I will never equate God with any text penned by any human. I will not use any buybull as a primer for hatred.

I rarely ever sense the presence of God in any church. I do sense the presence of God and legions of ancestral angels in my life daily. My relationship with God is deeply spiritual and deeply anti-religious. It is restricted to no edifice or edict.

I worship the very same God that trees do. And, like them, I do so without the blasphemy and ignorance of gaybashing pastors, hypocritical blind congregations of sheeple, wasted tithes, indoctrinated hatreds, contradictory texts, or opulent temples.

As John Lennon queried in his classic song “Imagine” , how many people would live for today if they were not waiting to go to heaven? Imagine how many lost gay souls would not be living in bars or drug houses if they were not taught that God hates them by the family members that they loved? Imagine how few wars would be fought if religion did not rule politics? Imagine if all churches were homeless shelters or community centers rather than shrines to fashion shows by shiny hypocrites…

I study religions obsessively. All of these human creations interest me incessantly. The bible is merely a book. Some of it is sacred. Some of it is historical. Most of it is fabricated. Much of it is flawed. All of it is the greatest story ever told by human storytellers.

Unlike millions, I do not equate a book penned by dead men with the eternal spirit of God. My God has nothing to do with any religion or bible. My God is infinitely bigger than any ancient primer for hatreds and wars.

The bible is uniquely fascinating as a literary work. The bulk of the Christian bible is copied from elder religious texts and various other religions. It provides endless fodder for academic and theological debate. It inspires and it contradicts. It enlightens and it blinds.

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(An excerpt from Coming Into Power: Taking Theology to the Streets, originally published July 1st, 2001)

Coming out as a public theologian

Because I am an open lesbian, I have not found a home church in my faith tradition of the black church from which to do AIDS ministry. Nor have I located an academic base where I can do queer theology because it is not yet, in the eyes of many academicians, a legitimate theology. So I have found a home and my ministry/life’s work on the streets, with Boston’s LGBT communities. The foundation for my life’s work is in what Jesus said in Matthew 25:45: “In truth I tell you, in so far as you failed to do it for the least of these, however insignificant, you failed to do it for me.” Therefore, in wanting to be a practitioner of applied Christianity and to do a “theology-in-praxis,” I realized my work would be primarily a public theology.

As I came out as a lesbian to myself and to my church, my theological voice shifted. Where as a student at Union Theological Seminary in New York I was just focused on black church women, as a doctoral student at Harvard Divinity School my attention was drawn to the civil rights of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people. At Harvard, too, I combined journalism with my area of study, enabling me to develop a strong focus on religion in the news. As a result, in this era of the Christian Right, one of my outreach ministries is my two religion columns — “The Religion Thang,” for In Newsweekly, a LGBT newspaper that circulates widely throughout the New England states, and a monthly column online, “Queer Take,” for The Witness.

Because homophobia is both a hatred of LGBT people and a stance that is usually taken “in the name of religion,” my reporting has been about exposing how Christianity has shaped the theological and moral view of us LGBT people. Also, because Christianity impacts both our secular and religious lives, my columns try to inform my audience of the role religion plays in all forms of discrimination — in racism, sexism, anti-semitism and homophobia. My advocacy approach is to inform and to inspire my LGBT readers in a way that will bring them to the full understanding of the enormity religion plays in our lives, whether we are practicing atheists or recovering Christians, and how both religious intolerance and fundamentalism not only shatter the goal of American democracy, but also foster a climate of spiritual abuse that restrains the authentic expressions of the life of God’s people.

By reporting religion in the news, I aim to bring theological discourse outside the restricted confines of the classroom and the church and into the streets. In the process, I am making this theological discourse accountable to a population of people. Liberation theology can only have integrity if it is done in tandem with a struggling community.

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First, the clarification:
Submissions do not have to be about how or why you decided to follow a specific spiritual path. Those essays are fine (and encouraged), but so are pieces about how your beliefs impact other aspects of your life. For example, do potential girlfriends give you the evil eye when they find out you are Wiccan?

Opinion pieces are fine to — perhaps you are a Buddhist who hates the chanting scene in What’s Love Got To Do With It.

The Call:
Kuma is actively seeking personal essays/articles/old journal enties/etc from lesbian and bisexual women of color who are walking  spiritual paths that affirm their sexuality/sexual orientation.

We’d like to receive material from a variety of religious faiths. We’re also interested in hearing from women who consider themselves spiritual but don’t have a particular faith at all.

The minimum length for pieces is 1,000 words, but there is no maximum. We just want to see quality, well written pieces.

Like the other blogs on Kuma, the SpiritSpace blog does not fall into the quarterly timetable of the literature section. We are looking to post a few pieces a month–maybe more depending on submissions.

Send your submission along with your contact info (name, address, etc) to spiritspace@kuma2.net.

Hello Kuma Readers

Pardon our dust . . . everything should be up and running by 2/10/08. Stay tuned!