Rainbow children over me: parabolic narratives for Sakia Gunn.

Sakia La Tona Gunn was murdered early on Mother's Day morning, May 11, 2003 in downtown Newark, New Jersey while she and her friends were waiting for a bus. She was stabbed in the heart by Richard McCullough, 29, and later died. McCullough, who is now out on bail, waived his right to appear in court at his arraignment on Wednesday, December 10, 2003, after instructing his attorney to enter a plea of "not guilty." (1) Sakia was a 15-year-old black lesbian, an "Ag" as friends called her, that is, an aggressive "butch" lesbian. Although initial reports indicated that the murder was incited by the Sakia because she chose to defend her friends, the girls who were actually there said that the men had already singled them out precisely because they knew they were lesbians.

Initially, national and international outrage and support was insignificant. This is not due simply to white racism, as was presumed by the gay press, but homophobia. The community response, including many of the local religious organizations, did not rally to support the gay and lesbian youth of the city. Why? ".... both whites and blacks wish young black queers would disappear." (2) Nothing much changed for Newark's gay and lesbian youth. Discussion threads from Internet sources by Newark's young people continue to report fear of more gay hate crimes. From the words written in the July 29, 2003 posting of online "Writings" of the organization for Gay and Lesbian Youth in New Jersey, the Galy-NJ, we hear the words of "Carrie B.": "People say, 'don't be afraid! Be proud of about the way you feel! Why would you be scared!' I'm scared because ... it's scary! The ground under my feet is gone. It has left me floating, unsure of myself, doubting, wishing, hopeless. My friends would laugh, they would make fun of me. They would threaten me. Not real friends. I'm so afraid." In the same group of writings is a Haiku poem by Andy Curto which sums up the fear:

The wind is so strong
it makes me feel so small and
insignificant (3)

Yet, in spite of initial apathy, a social and spiritual change of heart has occurred in Newark and is gaining power. According to Laquetta Nelson, activist and President of the Newark Pride Alliance, "the Spirit is moving." With Laquetta's strong and charismatic leadership, the people of Newark who were touched by this murder have not given up hope. On the contrary, they are organizing and, as Laquetta said to me, paraphrasing the African American Gospel song, these young people, their parents and friends are "not letting nobody turn me around." (4) This community conversion began at New York City's Christopher pier on Friday, June 11th, 2003 at the memorial march and rally for Sakia Gunn where hundreds of gays, lesbians, their friends and families marched, sang and recited testimonies of hope that Sakia's death would, after all, have meaning. Two of these poems, "Rainbow Children" by Piper Anderson and "Over Me" by Travis Montez, stood out as examples of how these young people, rejected by organized religion, turn to their own resources to express the spiritual power that does not waver, even in the face of hopelessness. What is striking is the passionate push by many of the young people who knew Sakia to create their own religion in the face of rejection, and to reach for some spirituality that will keep her memory and their hope for change alive. Although their theology is not systematic, I would argue that it is still theology, still words about "God." It is not the god of organized religion in whom these young people put their trust. For these gay and lesbian youth "God" is problematic. This is not because they do not believe in a god, but because for many, the name symbolizes the hate and rejection of traditional organized religion. The divine must be reconstructed in order to fit their own experience. This essay examines the religious responses and theological reconstructions manifest in two pieces performed at this event, asking the question, what are the ingredients of a parabolic narrative that can have the effect of actually transforming the religious imagination?

The Parabolic Narrative

The poems, "Over Me" by Travis Montez and "Rainbow Children," by Piper Anderson show the courage and passion that makes the narratives "parabolic," that is, containing the potential to convert the religious imagination of the hearer/reader. Before turning to the poems themselves, I would first like to address the questions, Why is a new method, the "parabolic narrative method" necessary? What does it add to the work of "queer theology"? Secondly I will explain the parabolic framework I am using to weigh a narrative and test its ability to convert the vision and the heart.

Homophobia characteristically has had as its bedfellow orthodox monotheism which, as many feminist and womanist liberation theologians have pointed out, depends on heterosexism to support its hierarchy of values. When gay and lesbian theologians first began to write an apologetic for the affirmation of homosexuals by the Christian faith, they overlooked this phenomenon. This resulted in the passionate, but stubborn effort to convert the religious imagination of mainstream Christianities by exegeting the problematic biblical texts and by emphasizing the approach of liberation theologies. Even though the work did pave the way for some understanding, the majority of Christian denominations are still as reluctant to accept same-sex partnerships and bless them, as they are willing to ordain "sexually active" lesbian and gay ministers. (The exception is the consecration of the Right Reverend Gene Robinson, recently installed by the diocese of New Hampshire as the first openly gay man with a partner. This act alone has precipitated a mild schism in the Anglican communion.) What is needed is a new approach that can fundamentally convert the heterosexist religious imagination, stories that interrupt assumptions and call heterosexism into question. But not any story will do. These stories must be powerful, intrusive, demanding, sometimes, even frightening.

The first characteristic I look for from a parabolic narrative is its ability to intrude. The narrative must interrupt the familiar religious discourse that has shaped the religious imagination. Yet, it must not be motivated by an ideology. This is not to say that such a story lacks the motive to persuade. All stories, particularly those that are autobiographical, or come from a very personal experience, are told in hopes that they can woo the reader's imagination. (5) Parabolic narratives, however do not attempt to convert. They are not self-conscious in their motivation, not written in order to change minds and hearts. They are testaments, witnesses to a vision, but do not demand assent. These narratives are self-compelling; they simply must be told and often take on a life quite apart from the writer.

These narratives are "parabolic," for they appeal to a common humanity that makes them approachable and insist that the reader confront him or herself. Narratives such as this have at least four characteristics that set them apart from other stories. The first is recognition of one's common humanity. No matter where the reader "comes from," she or he can enter the story through recognition. The recognition may come through pain or pleasure, but it creeps through the skin, not through the brain. At the same time, if the story is parabolic and has the power to convert, it must contain a certain transcendent quality. I do not mean by "transcendent" an otherworldliness. On the contrary, the transcendence of the parabolic narrative begs to be embodied, but its "over allness" is that it gives permission and lots of space to the hearer to feel oneself inside another. This is a neutral space that does not condemn, but at the same time confronts with such honesty, that the reader can see her or himself clearly. It is not only that the reader sees things from a broader vantage point than her or his particular experience can imagine, but the reader can step back and see the self that has formerly been protected and validated and admit shockingly, in the words of the prophet Nathan to David, "You are the man!" The reader can self-convict and see him or herself in horror as being the perpetrator of the crime, either deliberately, or by thought or even failure to act.

The space and permission given to the reader to confront former assumptions and prejudices begins with the narrative leading the reader along, as if the feelings are mutual, then suddenly pulls the rug out from under the feet, and lands the reader in a new terrain. So there is a recognition of oneself, but at the same time, a realization that there is something larger than the story, the author, or the reader. But a parabolic narrative does not stop there. It goes on to woo the reader with the songs of hope, disappointment, longing, all fueled by the complexity of desire. When I refer to "desire" I am thinking along the lines of Audre Lorde's broadening of the term "eros," the erotic being "creative energy empowered." (6) Lorde finds erotic power in the "sharing of joy," (7) but she also recognizes that the erotic is to be feared because it calls us to something greater: "For once we begin to feel deeply all the aspects of our lives, we begin to demand from ourselves and from our life-pursuits that we feel in accordance with that joy which we know ourselves to be capable of." (8)

When desire is excited by the erotic in the exchange between the story and the reader, this results in engagement, which is a dialogue beyond words, theories and dogmatic discourses. This is engagement with truth, shocking truth, because it knows you better than you know itself. The process of recognition, realization, desire, and engagement is dislocating. It dislodges the reader from his or her secure seat and sets him/her down in an unknown wilderness. From then on, it is in the hands of the reader to do something. He or she must either change or become more entrenched in the old religious discourses, but the narratives beg some movement. These parabolic characteristics can be found in many texts, not all of which are deliberately "religious," yet implicitly are discourses about the divine-human encounter.

Turning to the two poems included here and gauging their ability to be parabolic, the first thing that needs to be imagined is that for full effect, these words must be performed, as they were when I first saw and heard the words. The bodies spoke first, Piper, light-skinned, willowy with a melodic, hypnotic voice and quiet flowing movements; Travis, dark-skinned, powerfully built punched out his words like a boxer with his "in your face" rapster delivery. Yet even without the performance, these words have the power to open the heart and deliver a new spirituality. Each one opens the way for the parabolic process, for recognition, realization, desire and engagement.

Sakia Gunn, "Proud Passionate Ancestor"

Sakia's death was not pretty, nor was there any ritual that might contextualize her death so that it can be easily woven into an existing religious mythology. Unlike Matthew, who was hung, arms outstretched on the wooden cross of a lonely Wyoming fence, Sakia was abruptly stabbed in the heart on a dark urban Newark street. The murder cannot be sanitized, washed and hung like a piece of jewelry around the neck. There is no effort then in these poems to fix Sakia in any religious tradition. She was black, she was queer, she was butch, she was an "Ag" and, although only 15, stood up to a couple of black men and told them to "back off." Sakia does not fit the image of "God" that most Christians want to worship. She is not God made in the image of the male heterosexual who supposedly sacrificed himself for the sins of others. Sakia embodied "sin" as defined by others, and was murdered for bearing them. Just by being who she was, she was transgressing religious expectations.

When we look at Piper Anderson's "Rainbow Children," it is important first to see how she pictures the murder victim. As the poem opens, Sakia is called a "Rainbow child, Fierce with living/Still to be done" (1-3). But the effect of her death goes far beyond her living. Anderson asks, "Who knew that you held the power to bring truth to light/As over 2,000 rainbow children/Pool tears and chorus pain" (4-7)? Sakia brings truth and light, not to those who do not understand, or fail to help or remember; she takes care of those who do understand, who must hide their voices in a chorus. Some must remain anonymous. In the next section, the author valorizes these "rainbow children" and is soothed by their tears and questions that go unanswered. She is comforted not because she gets help or answers, but because of the new generation of courageous young gay, lesbian and transgender people who were raised "Having never known a thing about closets ... [who] Never look away or look done when they pass you on the street." (16-18) The poet expresses some shame that she did not have the same courage, but is strengthened by theirs.

Sakia's courage is now projected on all of the youth. One of the effects of the murder is that it has the power to spread the courage of the victim to the community. Although she was murdered because of her courage and willingness to protect the weak, her power to stay strong is now available to all the "rainbow children." In section three (21-42), the author admits her lack of courage. She knows what it feels like to run from those who hate and even use weapons (24-25), but, unlike the LGBT youth today whom she now calls "my rainbow babies" who "sometimes say 'fuck it, I'll stay and fight'" (33), she can only admire their willingness to stand up to oppression. At the same time, she loves them, and appeals to the hearer to love them too. They will enfold you, she tells the reader, if you will let them in their "rough, full, anxious, passionate love" (36). But the author recognizes that acceptance will not come easily. She wishes for a time when there will be no more fear and no more hatred, "... a gathering of young queer babies without the tears, the lost, the questions" (41-42). Sakia's death, even her courage, did not change anything, the hatred, the fear, the longing or the potential for violence.

In the last section of the poem, Anderson gives her final benediction:

    But I want you to know
    That the violence is a lie
    You are precious.
    You are children of spirit
    the many colors of light
    and Sakia now watches upon us all
    A proud passionate ancestor
    guiding and protecting her rainbow tribe (43-50)

Although nothing has changed, and the world is still seen in somewhat gnostic terms, with the children of spirit and light portrayed as resistant to the evil of hatred, Sakia, although unable to change this, "watches, guides and protects." But this help from the watchful Sakia only assures that the "tribe" will go on; it does not suggest that individuals will be rewarded for their courage or be saved from future violence. The promised "protection" is only that Sakia's death and those of others that came before and will surely follow, will not be meaningless.

Is this narrative parabolic? Does it have the power to change the religious imagination? Here is where many other questions intrude, for one of the things we must keep in mind when listening to a text is the complexity of context. I can apply the requirements of my own framework, those criteria of recognition, realization, desire and engagement. But one of the problems of this narrative may be that it does not contain the element of universality perhaps needed to engage any reader. Could it envelop any person, regardless of race, class, gender, sexual orientation or religion? To put it another way, the narrative must be able to rise above the particularities of context in order to catch the reader/hearer off guard and capture the heart. In the case of this testimony, the appeal seems to narrow itself to the "rainbow tribe." The speaker is deliberately tribalizing the message so that its ability to change the religious imagination is restricted to only a few. Sakia is no universal messiah, but she can raise the hopes of her children who live in an unconverted world, a world where those in power are of the same race and could understand oppression, but do nothing. Could the mayor be moved by this poem? Could someone who is white, privileged, heterosexual and homophobic be moved to change by this narrative? How about the clergy and lay folks in the black church who remain silent and unsupportive of their own gay and lesbian community? Maybe the issue is not universality, but the ability to shock. Does this poem have that shocking quality that could open up a heart? Could such a reader/hearer look to Sakia for the same empowerment that she offers to her rainbow children? Rather than be "parabolic," it could be that the merit of this piece is comfort, comfort that comes not in accepting one's fate or an otherworldly Jesus who is only interested in the afterlife of the soul, but rather the comfort that comes in patience, solidarity and perseverance, the very characteristics that originated in the African American religious community.

Finally, my analysis of this poem and the second one which follows must be understood as that of an outsider. Although I am a member of the LGBT family, I am white, an academic and thus enjoy a relatively privileged position. I can afford to be moved as well as comforted by the poem. For me, and many like me, the parabolic moment was coming out and putting myself in danger of being abandoned by privilege. Parables for those who are not heterosexual revolve around honesty and a willingness to claim a public place in the tribe. This inevitably leads to a need to become political, which is why many remain in the closet. So the poem could very well be parabolic for those who remain frightened and unwilling to risk claiming who they are and being proud. This seems to be the case with the author, Piper Anderson, who admires and finds courage and hope in the rainbow babies of Sakia Gunn.

Whether or not the poem is parabolic, it does manifest the ability of the rainbow tribe to rework a spirituality that, even if not consciously originating in a particular religious tradition, is reminiscent of Christian themes: belief in an afterlife where individuals continue to live and have power, personalizing of a god figure who is empathetic and in some way participatory in the lives of those who are oppressed, and the belief that a martyr's death is not meaningless. In addition, this is a very "incarnational" religion even though there is firm belief in the world of the spirit and the declaration that those who gathered and wept for Sakia are "children of the spirit" (46). The author valorizes the way LGBT people love: they "wrap you" and their love is "rough, full, anxious and passionate" (35-36). Anderson grounds this love in the body by evoking particular ways of incarnating this love: "... whether you be a cute AG, fly femme girl or hot trans" (37). Unlike the religion from which many of the religious images arise, this spiritual reworking of the religious imagination is far more embodied and inclusive of the varieties of sexual expression than any orthodox Christian theology would dare to express and bless. Unless the reader/hearer is enticed already by the "courage in the face of tears" referred to at the beginning of the poem, this deliberate blessing of hot, anxious, passionate love could ruin the parabolic moment simply because they are the very "freakish" images heterosexism fears.

Over Me

Quite a different tone is set in this poem by Travis Montez. (9) Unlike "Rainbow Children," this poem is edgy, and begs to be spoken, provoking a physical response. According to an email exchange with Travis, "Over Me" was written about a "friend he knew" who was murdered by his father, a Puerto Rican American, who discovered his son was gay and had a lover who was a very black African American. He told me that there is a bias among many lighter skinned African American-Latinos against very black African American men. Homophobia runs very deep among this ethnic group as well where "machismo bullshit" (162) makes a man. The poem refers to this:

   see
   he had traded
   one star for fifty
   just so his son could be a man
   and
   a number one gay nigger
   would ruin that dream (30-37)

       he had cashed in
   one star for fifty
   just so his son could be a man ... (115-117)
   but his son
   wouldn't be a man
   if i could touch him
   like that
   in the dark
   if i could touch him
   with my music
   if i could touch him
   with my heart (122-130)

The details of the murder are vivid. One Sunday morning "while the son was sleeping" (132), the father killed him, tore the flesh from his bone,

   because he had been looking
   for the little thing
   that made his son a faggot
   and when he could not find it
   and there was only the skull
   when there was nothing left but the skull
   he wrote his reason across it,
   he addressed it to me,
   he wrote
   he scratched
   he carved
   number one gay nigger
   because he thought that
   that was my name (139-153)

Can such a poem relating an ugly brutal death be "parabolic"? Recalling the framework I am testing and the four characteristics of what might set up a narrative so that it is potentially converting, namely recognition, realization, desire and engagement, the poem raises the possibility that there is a universality and recognition of the extent to which hate can develop into brutality and violence. Hate is not rational and under certain conditions, if the reader/hearer is "set up" to receive it, it can rope him or her in to a place of recognition. The poem does just that.

In the first part of the poem we discover several things. First of all, a father is somewhat jealous that some other man loves his son, but more than that, the one who loves him, namely a very black African American "faggot" (20) is "number one." The poet sets up an understanding, an empathy with the father and a familiarity with the more "acceptable" and universal prejudice, racism. The father is portrayed sympathetically as someone who moved to Manhattan from Puerto Rico, "trading one island for another," so his son could become a real man, that is, have better opportunities. But what does the father find? African Americans "with their loud music/their tacky gold chains/their disrespectful baggy pants" (22-24) that music "that crying-wailing-dying black people music/that sounded like sin" (46-47). The only song the father liked was Stevie Wonder's "over time/I've been building my castle of love/just for two/although you/never knew/that you were my reason" (52-57). He liked that song because, "he thought/it was about him" (61-62). A father who wanted something better for his son now sees him as ruining his dream. Not only that, but the son is dirty, irrevocably spoiled. Sympathy is built, and the reader/hearer could see himself in this portrait. There is a universality about wanting the best for one's children, about keeping them from "sin" and about being fearful of anything that is not familiar.

Once this familiar ground is established, we are faced with the father's solution. The brutal killing of his son and the ritualistic writing of the name, "number one gay nigger," on the son's skull certainly has the shock necessary for a narrative to be parabolic. It can shake the reader/hearer into realizing what prejudice and homophobia will do. But could the vivid horror of that scene "disengage" rather than "engage"? Could the process of realization and desire to engage that which is higher, namely the longing and love referred to in Stevie Wonder's song be derailed by the ugliness?

What allows the narrative to remain potentially parabolic lies in the intrusion of biblical metaphors. At least there is the comfort of the familiar. The first biblical reference comes from Leviticus, the verses from the Holiness Code often used to argue that homosexuality is a sin (18:32):

   and the ironic thing
   is just like that song,
   over heart
   i had painfully turned every stone
   just to find
   that sometimes
   fathers love Leviticus
   more than they love their own sons (69-76)

Linking the universality of rage and prejudice and longing for a dream for one's son to the insight that such longing can be blinding, that longing can cease to originate from eros, but can easily become dogmatic, places before the reader a question: Could this be you? The poem does not let up. It brings the reader/hearer back to the death, which, up until this point, could at least be understood as a father attempting to save his son from sin. Now the death is portrayed as a sacrifice, "like Isaac on the altar/like Jesus on the cross" (77-78). The death is seen in the first instance as commanded by God to test the father's faith. In likening it to Jesus' death, the divine murder of the son could be for a higher good: it can atone for the sins of many. In both cases, the poet is asking the question, "what is the love of this God the Father, and the father himself"? What kind of God would do this so that "sons stand forsaken/bleeding for sins/they can't name/number one gay nigger/and/he sacrificed his son/just so/he wouldn't love/no/number one gay nigger/no faggot black american/with music in the dark" (79-90). The reader/hearer is not only asked, "what is love," but also, "who is this God you worship who could condone such a crime, and even be thought to have demanded it?" To put the question in theological terms, "does vicarious sacrificial death" define love? Could it also fuel prejudice and hatred? Is this eros gone awry? Again, the poem is unrelenting, squeezing the imagination of the listener. In the next section, the poet affirms an alternative spirituality in strong counterpoint to the dogmatic, sacrificial love of the Judeo-Christian tradition. He recalls the feelings he had for the son and how it was the father who killed the dreams he had. And the death was not only 'commanded by God'; the murder was committed specifically because of the homosexual physical expression, which the father imagines as "nasty."

   I thought things
   would be easy
   believing stevie
   when he said
   true love just needs a chance
   but we never had a chance
   because one Sunday morning
   while the son was sleeping
   the father was thinking
   about all the nasty things
   we must've been doing the
   night before

   one Sunday morning
   while the son was sleeping
   the father was thinking
   about all the places
   I must have touched his son
   with my dirty nigga-faggot hands ... (95-112)

The poet is clear that there is a profound discrepancy between the love, longing and dreams that come from a particular religious worldview and love that the poet had for the murdered son. There is a big gap between these worldviews and the poet situates himself in the middle of this gap in the closing lines: "he killed his son/over time/over love/over a number one gay nigger/over me" (163-167). In the final analysis, it was not religion, nor great ideals that can account for this murder; it was the particular person, "number one gay nigger" and the love he incarnates that explains the brutal ritualistic slaying.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow ...

Although the rally for Sakia Gunn on Christopher Pier, July 11 was not first time "Over Me" had been performed, in the context of that murder, the poem, which has the marks of a parabolic narrative, much more so than "Rainbow Children," offers the reader/hearer a more incisive view of the desperate spirituality depicted Piper Anderson's poem.

The first similarity is that both refute the God of traditional religion. This God either does not exist, or has abandoned the rainbow tribe. Secondly, this rejection is necessary because that God has rejected gay, lesbian and transgendered persons. Thirdly, the only alternative is to create new values, a new spirituality that comes from the experience of love and care, a very incarnational, bodily love. Both poets do not intend to convert, nor to write in order to convert the religious imaginations of those who hate and murder homosexuals. The potential for change lies only in the alternative spirituality the poets paint.

What are the elements of this alternative spiritual world? We might compare the poems first of all in terms of the religious picture as a whole. "Rainbow Children" elevates their courageous Sakia as the "ancestor" who looks over, "guides and protects" the tribe. This acknowledges that in some way, she continues to exist and has some influence. We recall, however that this does not mean individuals are protected or saved from hate crimes. Sakia fits well into much of Womanist (African American Woman's) theology which sees Jesus as a companion who empowers and encourages, but in the end does not save from the wilderness. (10) The wilderness of oppression will continue, there is no savior who will take you out of that and bring you to paradise. On the other hand, martyrs are assumed to be "in heaven," looking down, blessed and blessing.

In contrast, "Over Me" paints a more dismal picture. While it affirms that there is no rescue from the wilderness, no savior in sight, it does not make the murder victim a martyr. We never even know his name. It is the one remaining, the "number one gay nigger" who stands between the "law-love" of Leviticus on the one hand, and the incarnated "body-heart love" on the other. The poet is the impotent savior, standing alone. He does not claim the courage of a martyr nor does he offer any hope to the tribe. This hopelessness adds a necessary dimension to the romanticized view many want to have about gay and lesbian people, the dream reflected in Showtime's "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," and its new series about lesbians, "The L Word." These shows want to portray gay men and lesbians as people "just like you," prospering in the American dream. These are "safe gays," for entertainment only. They never experience discrimination or fear of being physically or verbally abused simply for who they are. It is more often the case, especially in the African American community, that the "number one gay nigger" stands alone, defenseless and the church is no sanctuary.

Back on the Pier ...

The sun is setting, the statue of liberty stands tall in the harbor. The waves in the Hudson are choppy from the quick storm that passed through. The brief rain soaked those who came to remember Sakia, but they did not lose heart. Instead, they turned their eyes towards the sky and opened their hands, interpreting the rain as a sign of blessing that they were not forgotten. Now, standing and sitting on Christopher pier, the very pier that once was condemned because there were "too many faggots down there," has been renovated. There is no rainbow in the sky, but the "babies" are there crying, holding hands, laughing and dancing. A couple of stray recreational boats struggle to remain upright in the choppy water that laps the shore. The boats have drifted too far, too near the "queer pier." They are filled with disoriented white couples. They have no idea what is going on. They look a little terrified. But the tribe goes on. In spite of the deaths done in the name of God, "over time/over love/over me," there is always the courage, the love, the tribe, the rainbow.

"I love my rainbow babies/Y'all so colorful, so beautiful ..." Piper Anderson

Notes

1. "Lesbian Teen's Accused Killer Waives Court Appearance," Headlines: the Advocate on the Web 12 December 2003 <http://www.advocate.com/new_news.asp?id+10734 & sd=12/12/03.html>.

2. Kelly Cogswell and Ana Simo, "Erasing Sakia: Who's to Blame?" The Gully: Gay Mundo 20 July 2003 <http://www.thgully.com/essays/gaymundo/030606_sakia_gunn_murder.html>.

3. "Writings," Galy-NJ 29 July 2003 <http://www.galynj.org/libraryWritings.html>.

4. Laquetta Nelson. Telephone conversation 2 February 2004.

5. Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson, Reading Autobiography: a Guide for Interpreting Life Narratives (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2002 [2001]). Chapter two, "Autobiographical Subjects" is particularly insightful.

6. Audre Lorde, "Uses of the Erotic, the Erotic as Power," Sister Outsider (Freedom, California: The Crossing Press, 1984) 55.

7. Ibid., 56.

8. Ibid., 57.

9. Travis Montez, "Over Me," Lodestar Quarterly Issue 3, Fall 2002 <http://www.lodestarquarterly.com/work/60.html>.

10. See Delores Williams' classic extended metaphor of the Hagar story, the slave cast in the wilderness with no hope of a savior in Sisters in the Wilderness (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1995).