By Robert Jones, Jr., Son Of Baldwin
That is to say that his identity is not tailor-made for non-queer sensibilities. It isn’t quiet or hidden in the shadows. It doesn’t alter its shape for the comfort of prudes or puritans. It doesn’t render itself sexless on behalf of straight people’s disgust. It doesn’t cower in the face of deities. It’s self-conscious, but not in the way that diminishes itself because it’s insecure, rather in a way that empowers because it’s relentlessly honest about both its deeds and intentions.
He isn’t merely a thorn in the crown of bigots. He also wages full-scale magic against the institutions that manufacture and uphold the social hatreds designed as compulsory. The music video for “Montero (Call Me By Your Name),” for example, didn’t only strike at the shriveled hearts of the pious and their apocalyptic fetishes; it also utilized the symbols conjured by the church in an about-face. X said, essentially: “You say I’m a demon and will burn in the lake of fire? Fine. Let me show you what your own imagination looks like then.” The fact that many people were angered by the video only proves that they lack the courage of their convictions, and rarely, if ever, do they take self-inventory. Imagine the Christian church (of all places!) having the nerve to lecture others about sexual degeneracy. X held up the mirror and they were horrified by what they saw. But because no one ever taught them what the truth is (and, therefore, they can only imagine themselves as “innocent”), they called him demonic not realizing they were talking about themselves.
And in “Industry Baby,” he comes for the prison industrial complex, a rape factory that unfairly incarcerates the people of the global majority, the most marginalized, not for the benefit of society’s safety, but for the unfettered wealth of the few. Here, the jumpsuits are pink not orange, and that is what is determined to be the crime: a man lampooning the patriarchy’s definition of manhood as protector, provider, breeder, laborer, soldier. The brutality of “Don’t drop the soap!” returned to the homes of its makers; but tellingly, they don’t want it.
It’s not just within the structures of the non-queer frame that X finds hostility. His unabashed embrace of his whole identity is often equally offensive to other queer people. His ability to freely flow across the spectrum of masculinity and femininity has insulted the tastes of many in queer communities, too. We would much rather that he pick a characteristic and adhere to it. We, like every other human being, also crave simplicity; and nothing is more simple than placing everything neatly into boxes.
Some of the reasons for this are selfish: We need a definitive, static image to solidify the fantasies that we project onto X. We wish to speculate about either his penile dimensions or his ability to suffer ours—when we’re not bottom-shaming, that is. Others originate from justified fears: If he’s too transgressive, non-queer people may be inspired to be crueler to queer people than they already are. We recognize both the courage and the danger in X’s craft. Thus, his fluidity ensures that we don’t know whether to be proud or ashamed of his gender performance; whether to see ourselves in him or disown him entirely.
This is our pathology because non-queer people rule the world—not simply with their fantasies, but also with their barbarity. “Here be dragons,” James Baldwin once said. We shouldn’t wake these sleeping giants, lest we end up burned, or massacred, our very body parts spread across the city, like what Kwauhuru Govan did to Rashawn Brazell. So, we tread as carefully as our aesthetics and expressions will allow. We dress in a different kind of drag, one that allows us to blend in with those whose displays of gender manifest in the rigidly prescribed manner: masculinity for men only, femininity for women only, and never the twain shall meet. Let the beast maintain its slumber and all shall be right with the world. In this way, we are our oppressors’ keepers.
In an act of authenticity and intelligence rarely seen in an industry that is comprised of (and, in fact, profits from) distortions, X said fuck that shit. He pole-dances to Hell, gives Satan a lap dance, and then takes over the bottomless pit himself. He recalls ancient African civilizations and reinscribes queerness into the story just in case Nyankh-Khnum and Khnum-hotep are too open to interpretation. He dances naked in the prison shower, inspires other inmates to embrace their human value, then leads a rebellion that ends with the prison in flames (pun intended); and he’s also raising money for the Bail Fund. In all of these, revolutionary action leads to transcendence. It’s spectacle, yes, but it’s also beautiful—exquisite shade, a mighty read, gagging those who profit from our creativity while demeaning our existence.
My spirit tells me that somewhere in the universe, Sylvester is shouting in the name—not of Jesus, but of liberation. Perhaps at one point in history, those two words suggested the same thing. These days, however, those who claim to adore Christ most have ensured that the two are thoroughly oppositional.
But Lil Nas X is attempting something different. His perspective isn’t insular or shrinking. It doesn’t attempt to constrict or suffocate. It isn’t synonymous with chains or dehumanization. It’s big and freeing. For unlike his detractors, Lil Nas X doesn’t choose violence. He chooses art.
Not that it matters to them which he chooses. Like he said: They were never really rooting for him anyway. And never will be.
Therefore, it’s clear to him and us: Why not choose to be great and let them suffer under the weight of being so cut off from their own humanity that they will never know what that feels like?
Their cruelty is its own penalty. A shame that they don’t even know it.
This op-ed was originally published on the Son Of Baldwin
