BLACK QUEENYOU ARE ANGST-DRIVEN, GUILT-RIDDEN, CHURCH burdened, and Mama worrying. Your Grandmother sees her Grandmother in your legs and the way you walk. She wags her tongue and predicts you will never marry. Aunt Sister tells your Mama, “I told you not to let that boy’s hair grow down his back when he was a baby. He weren’t no baby Jesus then and he ain’t one now!”
School was one long lesson in vocabulary words—sissy, fag, punk, and cocksucker. You dreamed of cutting off Mr. Sims’ hands years after fourth grade when he slammed the chalk down after writing those words next to your name. No boys ever chose you for Kickball again. Revenge wasn’t your Mama cussing him out. Revenge happened at the spa (Man’s Country) when you were eighteen. You recognized the penguin shuffle and the big
