In the spirit of documentation and tying our histories to our present realities, BQIC presents this zine in an exploration of discussing “mutual aid” in its many forms. We invite you to discuss what “mutual aid” means or looks like to you, and what our world can become when it is part of an overall radical and revolutionary shattering practice.
How have your families, chosen or not, practiced mutual aid? What did it look like before a term was applied to it? How do you practice or hope to practice? What could it look like moving forward?
©BQIC 2020 Published July 2020 Cover, design, & Layout by Lauren Lacks
Ben Willis Photography
Taking Something Back Written submission, by Prince Shakur (pictured on right) We have been stolen from, so we deserve to steal something right back. Arriving to South Korea with a sense of doom and bewilderment, it was the first time that I felt this sentiment. The Philippines had been twelve weeks of roaming through islands, sidestepping the pointed fingers of children, and being likened to Bob Marley by teenage boys. By South Korea, I felt like some vital part of me had been scooped out and left in the sun to melt. I arrived with $20 and spent $15 on a taxi to my hostel that I was volunteering at. While scrubbing bathroom floors and changing bed sheets in exchange for a bed and ramen, I was hungry. In Seoul, there were universities, rows of shops with glittering neon lights, batting cages, restaurants where people sat around and ate grilled meat together, and tattoo shops down alleyways behind unmarked doors. Feeling distant from many there guests and more aware than ever of how my black skin made me stand out in a foreign land, I started to trudge to the copious 7/11 that marked almost every other street corner. The blues, reds, greens, and bright oranges adjourned the packages and by then, I had learned my strategy: walk in, introduce myself in English very loudly, hope that other patrons were milling around the store, having a large hoodie to hide my waist or a jacket that things could easily be slipped into. In so many other radical spaces, stealing seemed to be some sort of politic, some way of exercising a belief we should take as a means of showing that we oppose capitalism. In my blue denim jacket, scuttling away from my third 7/11 of the evening, I could earn a more relaxed evening. A bowl of rice with curry dripped over it, SPAM fried on a skillet in oil and then eaten with an egg, ramen with kimchi swirling around the bowl (bleeding), or yet another bottle of Soju to wash my throat before a night out. On skateboarding sessions by the water, I could bring snacks to my friends, listen to rasping wheels, and watch as the birds flew over everyone. Some moments felt freer than others and I wondered why. Could it be the realization that our lives can amount to more than our ability to produce for some company, entity, or boss? I hadn’t noticed it then, but all my weeks of fasting and sidestepping meals for the sake of money had shaved me down in a way that I could never imagine. I sat in the hostel lobby, watched cooking videos online, and plotted. “Anyone want to get some soju?” I would scan the guest in the lobby and some would join. While on the walk there, they trailed behind me like infant ducklings. Everyone had a role. The distractor would go to the counter, introduce themself, and ask repeatedly for some item the store didn’t sell. The lookout would try to steal quickly and was usually European and would mill around by the door. I would entire a minute or two later, crack a joke at the person distracting the worker, mill about, and stuff as many bottles of soju into my pocket as possible. It was interesting, seeing the others shift from outright discomfort at the idea of stealing to enjoying the fruits of its labor when someone else did it to a childlike wonder while jogging away from the shop, bottles clanking in our pockets. These trips to the store with travelers from all around the world were not some wide encompassing political strategy or some way to upend capitalism. It was a way for a black boy in another place to eat. It was a way for a black boy to feel powerful and to share some of the fruits of what my political life has led me to. Large moments that fling open the windows and sends light pouring in are just as important as the little moments that rattle bones and make us more awake. We have been stolen from, so we deserve to steal something right back.1
Ben Willis Photography
Untitled Collage 2
It was not the Panthers: Huddled in basement kitchens, aprons around their waists And over cauldrons of oatmeal Trading bullets for guns As police rain down hail, blood With secrets like, This is how you stop the bleeding. This Is how you survive The Soul Breaker. But the Soul Breaker is many things Forgetting an ancient knowledge Forgetting ourselves Forgetting others But there is so much more to revolution and change: A soft clamor A low boil An explosion moving through the stomach to the heart4
Public Service I used to give blood a lot in my early twenties Filling those bags have me peace I’ve rarely known since I didn’t have a lot of ways to give back back then
I was in school my meals: paid for my car, clothes: provisioned in advance and nothing I could do could pay it back back then
I learned everything I could never knowing if it would ever be useful never knowing if I would pay back what I’d received so back then more than it being something to do it was a way to hedge my bets to make sure that
I
gave back something
at some time
I gave blood because it was simple They didn’t know who I was what I done who I’d loved and they let me give anyway and I was good at it I’d finish faster than my friends This time it was something to brag about and their incentives barely matter today they matter even less now
And
now
I
don’t go
I
don’t have time because
I
know
I’m
giving back now I know I am a contributing member of society they don’t have anything I want anymore my blood is better spent elsewhere about time
I guess3
blood sometimes you take it for granted sometimes you don’t appreciate the life it holds until it’s gone until the body holds on to a new life and all the blood and the water and the spaces flow together and the void fills to make room and the voids fill to forget the room making from mistake the voids fill with food and doubts and traumas while the rest resists it all exhausting and draining the rest and soon dripping, the blood to be missed forever, to be hated forever for the tease and taunt haunting the body long after it’s gone long after the cramping of the climax and the clarity of resolution emptying more than was there and taking more from me than
I could provide I couldn’t provide a better outcome I couldn’t promise to give more than just my blood and my tears5
Unitiled Collage6
Self Portrait/The Blueprint I grew up conditioning myself to loath my Blackness. Debilitating cycles of self harm and starving myself in efforts to somehow erase something that couldn’t be erased, all to succumb to this assumed eurocentric epitome of beauty and excellence. I was so hyper aware of this idea of Blackness being “bad,” that I completely disregarded the power that it held. While understanding the depth of my Blackness, the realization of its beauty manifested beyond the superficialities of just the face value. I began to surround myself with other Black people and listen to more Black narratives and began to see myself reflected in them and felt less detached from my culture and identity. Before this realization, I felt uncontrollably vulnerable and sought guidance through other Black women. Through self- reflection, I remembered my Nana constantly instilling in me at how I should never put myself down to appease white folk. And my mother constantly praising my dark skin and telling me, “You know it holds all colors right baby?” How inspired I felt reading Audre Lorde talk of her self as so self- assured within sectors of not only white spaces, but white queer spaces. Or talking with a queer Black girl about the importance of sensuality and self acceptance in environments that are against our intertwining identities. Being alone with myself during quarantine has obviously brought up many triggers, but I am willing to use these feelings to put effort into an overdue healing process. This piece is a celebration of not only my own relationship with my Blackness, queerness, and femininity outside of the structures of white hegemony, but the beauty and strength I see in Black women. They have been my mutual aid throughout all of this. Through their narratives and willingness to have a conversation I understood I was not alone and was motivated to treat myself better.7
inoculating ego
Sarcophagus (Death of Strange Fruit)
i conjure myself up i mix
black body cloaked in stone
one part honey
adorned in artifice
two parts lemon
black skin signified.
one point five grams of psyche
no air in the crypts
on my tongue and lick my lips
see these mausoleums in moonlight
wondering if trees have bad habits
bigger and blacker even.
i dance precariously
negritude drips like milk and honey
on the corners of my teeth.
but limestone requires flesh.
did
i do good
i won’t see them again
see me though
i’ll put that away for now every time i yawn i feel everything in me
a coronation of commodities.
I feel everything that is waiting for me to exhale
the blade is infallible.
in my throat
this coffin conceived
in my gut
not of myself
i raise my mouth like a rifle and i choke on loving myself i touch flesh to water
but for myself darker the berry
and water to bone
the sweeter the flesh
i contain multitudes
and black bodies
to survive in a place like this
make the best of death.9
i must become something i am not to survive in a place amongst myself
i must become more than what i believes myself to be i must become whole8
Ben Willis Photography
flesh for cash
signed and sealed deliver us from occam
is inevitable.
When I tried to kill myself, Black queer and trans people gave me a reason to live. When my biological family rejected me, Black queer and trans people invited me into theirs. When I had no food, Black queer and trans people cooked for me. When trauma haunts me, Black queer and trans people teach me to laugh at my pain as a survival tactic. When we speak of mutual aid and chosen family, Black queer and trans people are in the center of it. Where would I be without my fellow revolutionaries? Where would I be if I didn’t try to practice the love and care that Black queer and trans people showed me? When I speak of solidarity, I’m not trying to repay a debt or be condescending. When I speak of solidarity, I recognize that I benefited from the fight for survival that Black queer and trans people have had to put up to continually resist oppression and exploitation generation after generation.
I
reject the
When I speak of solidarity, ruling class’ morality, reject
respectability
politics and reject assimilation into whiteness and reject the model minority myth.
Chosen Family11
When I speak of solidarity, I fight against capitalism, racism, anti-blackness, homophobia, transphobia, environmental destruction, imperialism, the police, the military and borders. When I speak of solidarity, I know that I will not be free until every single Black queer and trans person is free. This is a love letter for my Black queer and trans comrades and ancestors. This is my revolutionary faith that keeps me alive for the sake of my community.10
March 2020 – The world stopped. Rather, humanity was under the impression that the world stopped. The world stopped spinning many months before. Societies in regression, finances in stagnation. People across the globe slippin’ deeper and deeper into depression. Everything slowin’ to a halt. Slowin’ … to … a … halt … December 2019 – The world stopped. The world turns a blind eye to Wuhan – No one had a hand on this scary situation. No one could understand what was going on across the land; Across the oceans and the ravines and everything in between. People just dying for unknown reasons; Moms, pops, sistahs and bruddas droppin’ dead like flies, Innocent lives ending from a deadly virus in disguise. Death rippin’ through Asia and Europe but not close enough to home to pay them no mind; Ain’t no money to pay for a damn thing – Where’s the heart? Where’s the soul? Where’s the love for humanity? Coronavirus rippin’ through countries – Coronavirus killin’ from coast to coast. From east to west, from north to south. From sea to shining sea. Ain’t nothing shiny about this bloody sea; You see – people of all shapes and sizes and ages and colours droppin’ dead like flies. How do you find beauty amongst this senseless death? How do you find hope amongst this senseless death while humanity is put to the test? People with so many goals and aspirations takin’ their last breath. March 2020 – The world stopped. States sealed off, countries closed down. The world as we know it stopped dead in its tracks. Political leaders from every walk of life not knowing how to run their own damn country. A crisis like this has not been seen in generations upon generations – Ben Willis Photography
Generations
upon generations laid up in hospital beds and deep
inside graves and families grieving and hoping and praying for a miracle…
Some countries slappin’ a twelve hundred dollar Band-Aid on the scars of hopeless citizens, Meanwhile unemployment numbers skyrocketing, confidence levels plummeting; Other countries facing reality head-on with programs and finances to keep citizens above water. People from every background banding together to help out their fallen kin. People from every walk of life banding together in spite of their government. Strangers giving their last penny to help out strangers. Strangers reaching out across the aisle to help their struggling neighbour whether blue or red or purple or rainbow; Strangers going above and beyond their call of duty – Call that love. Call that compassion. Call that flippin’ the bird to governments all across the globe. Call that human beings being human. Meanwhile political figures politicizing survival. Political figures seeming like our rival; Where’s the shock value in that? Where’s the shock value in governments turning a blind eye to the struggles and injustices that we face every day? Where’s the shock value in suffering financially and mentally and emotionally and physically and spiritually during a crisis? We was struggling before this. Hurricanes, earthquakes, tornadoes and natural disasters of all kinds. We was struggling way before this. Economic recessions, poverty, pain and turmoil the world over. We was struggling way before this. Diseases, infections, illnesses and now a pandemic. We was banning together way before this. We was banning together way before this. We will overcome. We have no choice but to overcome.12
Endnotes 1 Prince Shakur, Taking Something Back Prince Shakur is a queer, Jamaican American writer and organizer based out of Ohio. He is writing his debut memoir on his political coming of age in America, and is a core member of BQIC. 2 Eric Meiring, he/him, Unitiled Eric Meiring is an artist working in Columbus, Ohio. He graduated with a degree in design and the history of art from The Ohio State University. His work has been shown in galleries across the midwest. Alia, she/her/hers, Blood 3 Rocky Hardee, Public Service, @MrRockyHardee (Twitter/Instagram) Co-host of the ImpossibleCoin Podcast. Let’s play something together! PSN: BraveryInBravado FC: SW-0665-1467-9400 4 Prince Shakur 5 Dani Miriti Pacheco, they/them, Unitiled Dani is an AfroLatinx DJ (DJ Honey Brown), co founder of Lava Reign, and artist based in Columbus, Ohio. In my work I hope to create solidarity and conversation through the deconstruction and rearrangement of pre-existing works.
6 Prince Shakur 7 Nia Abeni. Self Portrait/ The Blueprint @mindfunk.mag or website mindfunkmag.com! I am studying comparative cultural studies and human rights and the ohio state university. I love expressing myself through all forms of art, but especially through words. I started a virtual magazine with my best friend called Mind Funk for women of color and QTPOC. 8 Ben Willis, he/him/his, Insula Ben is a multidisciplinary artist, native to Columbus, Ohio. His primary medium at the time is photography. His aim is to capture the richness and complexity of blackness, specifically the vastness of black folk that make up the social and political fabric of Columbus. 9 Ben Willis, Sarcophagus (Death of Strange Fruit) 10 Anonymous Title: #BlackAsianSolidarity (Thoughts of a queer brown leftist with nothing & everything to lose) 11 Ellen Arens, she/her/hers, “Chosen Family”. @ellnarens_ (Instagram) 12 Reese Rose, he/him/his, “Mutual Aid and Political Awakening In Time of Crisis and Beyond” @MistahTP & @hausofroseofficial (Instagram); @HausofRose (Facebook)
Ben Willis Photography
Ben Willis Photography