I'm thrilled to share that I defended my dissertation prospectus in May and am now ABD! Completing and defending the dissertation is my final requirement before I secure the doctorate. My eyes are set on a May 2020 graduation. 

It's been a busy few months since I became a candidate: I taught an online course on LGBT Film and Video, conducted research at the Japanese American National Museum in Los Angeles, attended a week-long summer institute in Performance Studies at Northwestern University, and I presented at the Affect Theory Conference in Lancaster, PA this past weekend. ​

My dissertation is titled Bad Memory: Colonial Afterlives in Mixed-Race Asian American Art and Performance. I argue that the formal institutionalization of the “multiracial” category in the 1990s has left little room for minoritarian and speculative practices of racial hybridity to emerge. Narratives of racial mixture not only render the mixed-race person as a harbinger of post-racism, but reinforce the hegemony of reproductive futurity and conceal the ways in which war and empire continue to haunt the construction of mixed-race. My dissertation examines mixed-race Asian art and performance in order to, on one hand, inquire into the colonial legacies that the contemporary language of multiraciality obscures, and on the other, build a methodology for tracing how the body retains, remembers, and contests those colonial legacies. To these ends, Bad Memory reveals moments in art, record, and practice in which memory has failed, gone awry, or is otherwise incomplete, imagined, dangerous, fantasized, or defiant. The contemporary works of art and performance featured in this dissertation compile an archive of decolonial and queer aesthetics which I analyze as alternative modes of entry into the politics of multiracialism. 

While much of the research conducted in studies on multiraciality utilize qualitative and quantitative methods such as ethnography, data analysis on the census, observation of media, or journalism, this project examines art and embodied performances as sites where the convergence of racial histories linger both in the body and outside the bounds of linear straight time. Drawing from queer theory’s perspective on temporality, its critique of reproductive futurity, and its historical speculation into undocumented moments of queer desire, this dissertation considers the racialized, gendered, affective, and temporal projects of mixed-race Asian art and performance. The ultimate goal of this project is to envision a methodology of memory that tracks historical silences through the body.

My use of the term “bad” raises a critical eye towards multiracialism’s reparative and celebratory stance as well as its reification of interpersonal and systemic racial violence. Badness at once denounces the well-held notion that mixed-race citizens will cure America from its racist past and muses over how mixed-race people may actually be bad themselves. I locate badness, then, in various colonial afterlives - the enduring restraint of linear straight time, the shifting terrains yet lasting presence of toxic white masculinity, hidden, shameful, or untranslatable narratives of war and exile, and growing levels of environmental decay. Each chapter is an attempt to trace how and at what consequence the mixed-Asian body confronts these colonial afterlives. I argue throughout the dissertation that a focus on colonial afterlives in studies on Asian multiraciality in particular unearths elusive, corroded, and queer lineages of transpacific history. 

The first chapter I’ll write is the dissertation’s last. Chapter 4, "Transpacific Collapse, Apocalyptic Aesthetics, and Bad Futures of Multiraciality," engages new materialist thought in order to ask the following question: What remains concealed if the politics of multiracialism is not examined with a thorough attention to accelerated environmental decay? I examine Jenifer Wofford’s 2016 solo exhibition “Collapse” and Saya Woolfalk’s multi-year and mixed-media project “The Institute of Empathy.” Wofford’s “Collapse” is a collection of paintings featuring roads destroyed by seismic rupture across the Pacific Rim; Woolfalk’s “Institute of Empathy” creates a fictional race of women able to alter their genetic make-up to fuse with plants. Where Wofford’s work draws our attention to the earth’s deterioration and demise, Woolfalk’s project imagines a feminist praxis of hybridity in a post-apocalyptic world. By placing “Collapse” against “The Institute of Empathy” I juxtapose two historical events: seismic rupture and the looming multiracial majority in order to exhibit utopian performatives and multispecies possibilities of biocultural hope.

In the winter I'll begin writing Chapter 1 “White Residue.” This chapter features a comparative case study on mixed-Asian and white monsters: serial killer Andrew Cunanan, mass murderer Elliot Rodgers, and serial rapist Daniel Holtzclaw. I bring together the cases of these three mixed-Asian and white men in order to explore the ways in which their proximity to whiteness breeds a legacy of mass violence. Quite opposite from the figure fastened to multiracialism’s often exemplary depictions of mixed-Asian and white bodies, Cunanan’s, Rodgers’, and Holtzclaw’s deviations from this tenet of multiracialism demand an interrogation of the shifting terrains of white masculinity. Set against both the historical interpretation of mixed-race monstrosity (Nakashima, 1992) and the contemporary celebration of growing numbers of mixed-race citizens, this chapter articulates what I name to be "white residue." 

Chapter 2 “How To Be a Monster” analyzes performance artist Chanel Matsunami Govreau and her evil alter-ego Queen Gidrea and feminist artist Maya Mackrandilal and her photography project “How To Be a Monster.” Both Govreau and Mackrandilal’s project’s illuminate a relationship to femininity that merges the desire to kill with the desire to seduce. Through these artists’ projects, I document the aesthetics of mixed-race Asian monstrosity as I argue that a queer femme positionality reverts the narrative of violence to reveal the lasting presence of coloniality through a queer articulation of femininity. 

The 3rd chapter, "Muscle Memory," continues my project’s focus on the body as a site of imperial debris by exploring the performative ways the mixed-Asian body remembers and relays colonial trauma. I trace the intersections of affect studies, critical trauma studies, and performance studies’ theories on hybridity and cultural memory in order to articulate the ways the mixed-Asian body houses afterlives of conquest and memories of migration and exile. I highlight the performance art of Zave´ Martohardjono. I read Martohardjono’s work outside linear time thus situating the enigmatic figure of the queer mixed-Asian body as one that emerges and fades beyond the frequency of straight time.  

Last Friday April 22, I presented a paper titled "The Glorification of Mixed-Race as Reparations | M!xedness Beyond Repair" at the DC Queer Studies Symposium. The theme of this year's symposium was Queer Beyond Repair. I juxtaposed Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha's memoir Dirty River: A Queer Femme of Color Dreaming Her Way Home with the case of Daniel Holtzclaw in order to explore counterdiscourses of mixedness in general, and mixed-Asianness in particular. Much of the conversation on mixed-race identity formation and embodiment regards multiraciality as an indication of a post-racial contemporary moment; the acceptance and proliferation of mixed-race bodies is seen to be on the right side of history. Within this train of thought, mixedness serves as a reparative tool that positions the nation as a progressive entity. In writing this conference paper I read the phrase “beyond repair” as a call and demand to situate our questions of queerness, difference, and recovery alongside a critical mixed race perspective that both complicates dominant processes of racialization and emphasizes the mutability of race. How can mixed-race be employed to do things other than repair histories of slavery and exclusion, to indicate something other than a hybrid future? 

I concluded my talk with a musing on m!xedness. Rather than perpetuate narratives of repair, my use of m!xedness with an exclamation served as an exclamation: a sudden reaction, remark, and demand that racial mixture does so much more than signal progress. 

I'm blogging this morning with another exclamation. It's been more than a week after the symposium, and I'm still thinking about conversations on repair. What is beyond repair? How might we consider queer critique beyond repair? The symposium featured an amazing slate of panels. I find my thoughts of the day, however, hinged on the keynote address delivered by Kathryn Bond Stockton. 

Queer critique needs repair!

I'm posting the open letter to Stockton in full here:

On Friday April 22, you closed the 9th Annual DC Queer Studies symposium with a keynote titled, “Impure Thoughts and All They Birth: What Does the Dildo of the Future Look Like?”. After a long day, the four of us (one black queer woman, two mixed-race queer women, and one white queer woman) were excited to listen to your talk. As we sat down and your talk progressed, a flood of emotions overtook our bodies: confusion, anxiety, disgust, anger. We began shifting in our seats, looking around, fidgeting. These corporeal movements transformed into visceral responses: a churning stomach, nausea, an accelerated heartbeat. Our bodies were under attack.
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While most of your talk was unsettling, we would like to focus on our larger concerns:

• Penetration:  Throughout the talk, you used “penetration” as a central metaphor - equating teaching as penetrating and learning as receiving. What violence occurs when you fail to contextualize and historicize sex (penetration, barebacking, dildo-ed/ing, receiving, kissing, orgasm) as a metaphor? We live in a rape culture in which sexual violence goes unseen and unacknowledged. You asked, “Did you feel that? I just penetrated you,” which conveys that this penetration was an unexpected violence. Your use of penetration without communicating consent perpetuates rape culture. How does a queer white body that can be read as masculine continue to perpetuate white heteronormative masculinity? Or, how does a queer white female body make invisible sexual violence within queer communities?

• Race:  The teaching and circulating of stereotypical characterizations of Eldridge Cleaver privileges white students and renders students of color, and the trauma their bodies carry, as invalid. While you claim “historicizing doesn’t fit the way we read,” what violence occurs when you don’t contextualize and historicize a complicated figure such as Cleaver? As problematic as Cleaver is, exhibiting him and his “codpiece” pants serves as more than just a punchline in your keynote address but continues to perpetuate the fetishization of the Black body.  
• You justified usage of, and risk the reification of, these over-simplified archetypes through pedagogical commitments, arguing that Cleaver’s work is demonstrative of the ways that “we are all infected with racial cartoon,” which students need to recognize, and by declaring this exercise as an “equal opportunity offense.” However, the operating assumption at work here is that your students are equally unaware of “racial cartoon,” thereby presuming a white student as subject – presuming your students are sheltered by whiteness, allowing them the privilege to not see themselves in racialized terms. Further, in suggesting that these generalizations function as “equal opportunity offense,” you refuse and obfuscate a historicization of the explicitly racialized, sexualized nature of these representational tropes, which disproportionately influence depictions and popular understandings of Black women and men. Given the way these images and characterizations have populated our collective national imaginary throughout history, and still haunt depictions of blackness today, these tropes are anything but “equal opportunity offense.” It is epistemically violent to presume that “stereotypes” about white people are weighted, circulated, and concretized in the same ways as are stereotypes about Black people. How might our theories be compromised when we don’t acknowledge our positions of power? How does a queer white body simultaneously silence and speak for racialized bodies?
• Trickle-out theory: We understood your notion of trickle-out theory as an attempt to disrupt the hierarchical dispersion of knowledge: “trickle-out theory vs. trickle-down economics” as you distinguish. By positioning academics as “repair queers,” you center the academy and decenter those “at the dinner table.” Your notion of “succinct complexity”, the ability to translate theory at the dinner table, mirrors code-switching, the practice marginalized students employ in order to communicate their academic endeavors to those who have been historically disenfranchised. You proffered the concept of  “swiss-cheese” minds; not everything we learn will remain and this is okay. You claim students no longer need to articulate rigorous theoretical language. What is disconcerting is the lack of recognition that this rigorous theoretical aerobics has historically been and continues to be a key mechanism used to deny marginalized persons access to the academy. How is the queer white academic body exempt from the standards placed upon academics of color?

We composed this letter in order to ask questions, and while this letter is addressed to you, we are fully cognizant that your theorizations emblematize the structuring logics of the neoliberal academy. It is not that your keynote “kisses” racist and colonialist discourses, but is made possible through these logics. We cannot begin to express what it feels like to sit in a majority-white audience as they laugh at rape jokes and racialized bodies. We hesitated to bring these points up during the Q&A - were we understanding correctly? Being too sensitive? Too emotional? We questioned what our bodies were telling us, our embodied ways of knowing that you so easily dismissed. This is the power of Academia. We have similar fears about this open letter - will there be consequences for speaking our voices?

Ultimately, we are writing this letter because we cannot let this violation of our bodies, knowledges, and experiences remain invisible. Your keynote was a visceral reminder of not only (white) queer theory’s limits but also that the Academy is in need of desperate repair. You asked us if we felt you “penetrate” us and we can guarantee that we did and continue to feel this violation. In fact, your non-consensual “penetration” birthed this letter.

QX Collective 

Other than teaching, coursework, and conferencing, this semester has seen the beginning of SPREAD. 

This particular tea bag came with the following words of wisdom: “Live to share”. Dumplin’ A looked at Dumplin’ M. Light bulbs went off. They decided that instead of lamenting about not having a community, they needed to cultivate a space where good people can come together and share good food. The two dumplin’s decided to bridge community and cuisine. 

After weeks of deliberation, they decided that the bridge would be: the dumpling. Why dumplings? Dumplings can be found in all cuisines but they go by several different names: the Nepali momo, Puerto Rican pasteles, Indian samosa, Italian ravioli and more (seriously. check out the Wikipedia -https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dumpling). Dumplings are small pieces of dough wrapped around a filling. This concept of an ingredient wrapped in dough can be found in all cultures.
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We came up with an idea. Now, came the issue of naming.

Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha’s memoir Dirty River: A Queer Femme of Color Dreaming Her Way Home is not your traditional survivor memoir. Dirty River tells the story of a queer disabled femme writer and mixed-race activist of color whom, after years of abuse at the hands of her white mother, fled the US and sought refuge in Canada. Leah ended up in Toronto where she was offered promises of love, revolution, and queer South Asian dance parties. As she struggled to obtain citizenship and as she dealt with a turbulent queer brown love, Piepzna-Samarasinha remained haunted by the reasons she left home in the first place. 

Dirty River begins with a declaration; one that proclaims surviving abuse is a “choose-your-own-adventure story”.  The memoir is, according to Piepzna-Samarasinha, “heroic, not heartwarming”. It strives not to tell a survival story where the end is becoming normal, but instead offers a riveting detail of how running away from abuse & from America towards a queer brown love revolution in Toronto reveals how a disabled queer woman of color navigates the past, disrupts normative representations of trauma, and ultimately dreams her way home. 

Piepzna-Samarasinha begins her chapter “Learning to Be Brown, Parts 1-3” with the following anecdote: 

“I don’t know how to write about becoming brown, but I know I have to. 

Learning how to be brown is a process some of us go through. Most of us don’t talk about it. We shut the fuck up, study up, and pass into brownness as fast as we can. We don’t want to admit our dorky inauthentic, mixed-race roots. We are fragile. We are making up for lost time. People already laugh at us mixed-race kids because we look weird; they’re going to laugh harder if we admit what we don’t know, what we were never taught by parents who were trying to survive by assimilating into whiteness, or at least not being noticed, as fast as possible. We have to get it back, get it all back.”

Growing up with a white mother who encouraged her to pass and a Sri Lankan father who shielded her from Sri Lankan culture and language, Piepzna-Samarasinha was an awkward mixed kid who never learned what it meant to be brown.  

“She’s not white, she’s mixed. Biracial. I know she looks white, but she’s mixed. I have to ask you a question … are you mixed? I knew it? I couldn’t tell what you were. Mixed people are so beautiful! Oh. You’re the best of both worlds, huh. Oh. You must be confused.”

She began to study what brownness was. At 22, she put away feelings of inauthenticity rooted in her light-skin and lack of cultural competency and faked it until she made it. She read South Asian & feminist of color anthologies, got down at queer South Asian dance parties, and began to cultivate a queer South Asian community. Throughout the chapter, Piepzna-Samarasinha shares her efforts learning how to be a brown queer woman and many of these efforts revolve around food [1]. As she made her way through Sri Lankan cook books, restaurants, and grocery stores, Piepzna-Samarasinha began to cook her way to becoming Sri Lankan. She mastered the spices and perfected dishes, all while ballin' on a budget. 

Piepzna-Samarasinha's “Learning to be Brown” is an intentional and moving process that prioritizes survival and self-creation in addition to receptivity and affinity. At once a mental awareness and a physical navigation of cultural space, learning to be brown as a representation of mixedness uncovers how non-binary experiences cultivate an embodied consciousness rooted in ambiguity. In this "choose-your-own-adventure-story", Piepzna-Samarasinha's Dirty River alludes to the ways in which queer mixed-race folks imagine and create themselves after familial and state violence and trauma. Rather than reach towards normality, Piepzna-Samarasinha struggles, keeps on, and struggles some more. Her story is her gift to us. She leaves us with a challenge:

"You ran away to find freedom, and you found it. You made it. Now you gotta tell it. You gotta figure out how to tell the story."




[1] future post in the works about my take on this. Hint: #decolonizingdumplings

I don’t know how, but spring semester is here. I’m a TA for “Women’s Bodies in Contention,” enrolled in a “Comparative Race and Ethnicity” graduate seminar, and faced with the task of completing my second year interdisciplinary paper (IDP). During the first meeting for Comparative Race and Ethnicity, our professor reminded us of the simple question we must ask ourselves: “so what?” These two words bring me back to “Ethnography and Performance,” one of my first graduate seminars in Fall 2014, when my professor also pressed us to ask ourselves why our work and research questions matter. 

So what?

This question is a timely one to ask as the semester begins. I’m continuing to make my way through coursework while also working towards completing my program’s next benchmark, the IDP. In coursework I’m constantly immersed with new and exciting theories&texts, making my task of selecting an IDP topic challenging. The IDP is rooted in original research, should draw on at least two modes of inquiry, and should mark a familiarity with the relevant theoretical literature. I have some ideas - I just need to narrow. Blogging weekly will hopefully help with this process. In this semester's first musing I’ll tackle the simple yet complex question, “so what?”

I wonder why some consider our contemporary moment a post-racial one. I wonder how the mixed-race body factors into this progress narrative. Why am I concerned with the body? The body, so what? To me, the body is an agent - an acting subject rather than a malleable object. (Or the body is part of a subject - the body, mind, soul, and machine exist in a vortex). Rather than consider the mixed body as fetishized, sexualized, or glorified, I want to think about the ways in which mixed people enact agency. In this vein, I consider the body to be an archive, a corporeal collection of lived-experience, trauma, and emotion. I wonder how these things get branded onto the flesh. I wonder how the body resists normalizing apparatuses.

With these questions and curiosities in mind, my attention has focused on images of mixed-race bodies. Do these images of mixed-race people contribute to a post-racial myth? How do these images get circulated? How might these images objectify mixed-race bodies? How might they also restrict understandings of mixedness? What do I mean by mixedness? How could we represent/document/portray mixedness as a bodily phenomenon without subjecting mixed people to objectification or glorification? How does mixedness contribute to anti-black racism? How is mixedness always already framed by whiteness? How does mixedness offer a way to move beyond dichotomous identity categorizations? 

While the body is usually characterized in physical and external terms, I want to think of how mixed people are more than that. I’m eager to explore how mixed people enact their mixedness beyond the flesh or photographic image. How does mixedness become an intentional mode of navigating public space or a queer way of building relationships? What would happen if we view mixedness less as an exotic set of features and more as a borderlands consciousness?

I’ll use visual culture to critique the objectification/glorification that occurs within the images of mixed bodies. Then will use queer of color critique and women of color feminism to think about this form of consciousness. I think this form of consciousness can be traced not in the images of mixed people, but in the mixed-up narratives they construct themselves; cultural productions such as memoir and poetry.

If the social materializes in the flesh, how can mixedness transcend the subject-object duality that Anzaldúa speaks of? Maybe I'm less concerned with the body and more concerned with how a mixed person is racialized as such as well as the effects of this racialization. I wonder not only how mixedness is embodied, but how that embodiment is transformed/evolved into a form of consciousness.

​So what? 

“The work of mestiza consciousness is to break down the subject-object duality that keeps her a prisoner and to show in the flesh and through the images in her work how duality is transcended. ... A massive uprooting of dualistic thinking in the individual and collective consciousness is the beginning of a long struggle, but one that could, in our best hopes, bring us to the end of rape, of violence, of war” (102) - Gloria Anzaldúa, Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza.

It's the first Monday of the year and after weeks of quality time spent with loved ones, it's time to begin planning for the spring semester. I, however, continue to find my thoughts wandering back to the fall. These reflections almost wholly consist of my time TAing for Katie King in one of our department's introductory courses, Women, Art, and Culture, a course which also satisfies one of the university's "diversity requirements".

This was my first time teaching at the college level and I could not have asked for a better experience. It began with the expected nerves. In hindsight, my outlook entering the semester was shaped by a weird mixture of tense|thrilled imposter syndrome feelings. Was I capable of teaching college students? Will they take me seriously? What did I want them to leave the semester with? What were the course's take-aways? What aspects of Women's Studies do I feel obligated to share with students encountering this material for the first time? How can I work my politics and my pedagogy into a fruitful synergy? A Feminist Pedagogy course with Katie was pivotal to considering these initial questions. In this weekly seminar, I was able to supplement my time in front of the classroom with a critical conversation on the type of teaching feminist educators opt to practice. Carving out time to meet with four other Women's Studies PhD students was extremely constructive to my own developing pedagogy. We shared lesson plans and teaching materials and held the occasional grading party. Shoutout to King's Queens!

By the end of the semester my students began to acknowledge the nuances of privilege and individual identity intersections as well as question systemic and structural oppression. And honestly, we had fun while engaging in these challenging topics. I began each discussion section by screening a music video. I followed the video with a Think-Pair-Share: Students wrote a short response to the video in their journals, paired up with peers to discuss their writings, and finally the class opened up to a large conversation where everyone was asked to share their opinions on whether or not they thought the music video was feminist. I started off with Independent Women by Destiny's Child, my middle school anthem. As the semester progressed, I threw it back to More Than a Woman by Aaliyah and Video by India.Arie. I then played some of the songs that frequented my headphones during the fall months: Pretty Girl by Little Dragon, Hotline Bling by Drake, and Borders by MIA. During our final meeting I let them choose the videos - We spent the afternoon watching Justin Bieber videos back to back... #notabelieber. 

Women's Studies is often regarded as an "Easy A" class. On the contrary, our course demanded an interrogation of gender norms, capitalism, metacognition, and artistic expression. Our course, thus, demanded critical thinking. Above all, I intended to instill in my students the willingness to question everything and to practice generosity in listening. I shared with them Foucault's words: Where there is power there is resistance. I was open with my politics and shared my activist experiences as a college student. This openness seemed to help develop a team camaraderie within my section. As I look ahead to my second and final semester TAing before I begin teaching my own course next fall I'll keep in mind my investment in this critical|convivial spirit as well as the concept of listening with raw openness. Listening is beginning to become a sort of schtick of mine.  

Below is the first draft of my teaching philosophy, a document that will play a significant role once I go on the market. The teaching philosophy was one component within our Teaching Portfolio, the major assignment in the Feminist Pedagogy course. I'm posting it here so I can look back and track its changes - to see what remains constant - & to remember what I felt was important during my first time teaching.

From the beginning of the text, however, Muñoz cautions that disidentification is not always a sufficient strategy of resistance or survival:
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"At times, resistance needs to be pronounced and direct; on other occasions, queers of color and other minority subjects need to follow a conformist path if they hope to survive a hostile public sphere. But for some, disidentification is a survival strategy that works within and outside the dominance public sphere simultaneously" (5).

At its center, disidentification is a form of worldmaking. Through disidentification, change is enacted within. The disidentifying subject works “to enact permanent structural change while at the same time valuing the importance of local or everyday struggles of resistance” (12). Disidentification imagines a queer world for the future while also staging new political possibilities in the present. This disidentifying method of survival and resistance disrupts linear time. With a coterminous focus on the future and the present, disidentifications simultaneously tears down the values of the majoritarian public and recycles these dominant structures in order to make a new world. This is seen vividly in the text's final chapter on "Latina Performance and Queer Worldmaking; or, Chusmería at the End of the Twentieth Century" where Muñoz spotlights Chicas 2000, a play by Carmelita Tropicana. In this chapter, Muñoz ruminates on "the burden of liveness", an embodiment and temporality that positions the latina performer in a perpetual state of liveness. To "be live" is to be denied history and futurity. To "be live" is to always exist for the consumption of the spectator. Chicas 2000, for Muñoz, maps a future where minority subjects resist the dangerous threats of the majoritarian public sphere by performing the very embodiments that are expected of them by dominant ideologies. For minority subjects, "the burden of liveness" is neither simply a lack of futurity, nor solely a means of performing for elite audiences, but a significant and daring gesture of disidentification.

For me, disidentification resembles a form of infiltration. This infiltration braids ambivalence with contradiction. Permeating the public sphere, queer of color performers do so in a way that is not always unobtrusive. In other words, disidentification reveals the ways in which assimilation is not always passive. In fact, much of Disidentifications elaborates on contradiction, ambivalence, and copresence. In the chapter, ""The White to be Angry": Vaginal Creme Davis's Terrorist Drag", Muñoz articulates Gramsci's "war of positions" in relation to the Marxian "war of maneuvers": "Whereas the war of maneuver was a necessary modality of resistance at a moment when minoritarian groups were directly subjugated within hegemony, the more multilayered and tactical war of positions represents better possibilities of resistance today, when discriminatory ideologies are less naked and more intricate" (114). By advocating for a war of positions, Muñoz argues that a microstructural analysis of oppression must be understood in terms of copresence: "interaction, interlocking understanding and practices, often within radically asymmetrical relations of power" (91). This copresence follows queer of color critique's and intersectionality's suturing of identities and structures. Each frame of analysis offers a way to conceptualize the inextricability of identity differentials. Copresence, however, also works to sustain a critical uneasiness with present modalities, and most importantly, a desire for that critical uneasiness.

Disidentifications was a wonderful way to conclude my queer of color critique directed reading. As I transition to writing my final paper I'll pay close attention to Muñoz's articulation of hybridity in his chapter "The Autoethnographic Performance: Reading Richard Fung's Queer Hybridity":

"To perform queerness is to constantly disidentify, to constantly find oneself thriving on sites where meaning does not properly "line up". This is equally true of hybridity, another modality where meaning or identifications do not properly line up. The postcolonial hybrid is a subject whose identity practices are structured around an ambivalent relationship to the signs of empire and the signs of the "native," a subject who occupies a space between the West and the rest" (78).

Chandan Reddy’s Freedom with Violence: Race, Sexuality, and the US State begins with a discussion of the 2010 National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA), an act passed yearly in order to determine the annual budget for the Department of Defense. The 2010 act was one of the first major legislations Barack Obama signed as president of the United States. This particular passage was deemed a decisive victory in the struggle against violence committed towards LGBT citizens due to the act’s attached Matthew Shepard and James Byrd Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act, which expands the 1969 federal hate-crime law to include crimes motivated by someone’s perceived or actual gender, sexual orientation, and disability. This believed civil rights victory, however, was strategically attached to an act that granted the Department of Defense its largest allocation of finances yet; the $680 billion were apportioned while the US was engaged in two wars and funded US drone strikes and the US armed forces. While the 2010 NDAA is considered a liberal rights victory, it is one that sutures liberal freedom with state violence. Reddy’s decision to open Freedom with Violence in this way reflects his overarching argument: through state actions such as legislation and the military, race, sexuality, and US globalism in the 20th century have triangulated in a manner resembling that of an amendment. In Freedom with Violence, sexuality revises and amends racial and global societal dimensions. Thus, rather than view race, sexuality and the US state in a purely intersectional way, Reddy traverses the literary works of W.E.B du Bois and Nella Larson and state mechanisms such as citizenship and the institution of marriage in order to call for a queer of color critique. This queer of color critique not only situates a materialist account of sexuality at the center, but also demands attention to the historically specific formations and events that our present moment has inherited. 
 
Moving from David Eng’s examination into the discourses surrounding Lawrence v Texas as a legal success of the past and deeming sexual justice as the issue of the present in The Feeling of Kinship, Freedom with Violence continues this directed reading's trajectory of a coiling queer of color critique, one that engages with the epistemological foundations of our contemporary political practices. In the bounds of my directed reading, Reddy’s study is situated alongside Ferguson’s Aberrations in Black. Just as Roderick Ferguson simultaneously centers queer of color critique, critiques canonical sociology and calls for a more expansive American studies adept to assessing historical subjects and phenomena, Chandan Reddy moves us toward critical ethnic studies, an interdisciplinary examination that:

“deepens its comparative and intersectional work in a contemporary capitalist context characterized by a gendered transnationalization of previously national capitalist economic, institutional, and social practices” (19).

Rather than focus solely on the nation, Reddy calls scholars to think of the ways in which a transnational framing might offer us a more critical recounting of state-based violence. This move to the transnational is seen throughout the text, but comes up explicitly in the fourth chapter, “Moving beyond a Freedom with Violence: The Politics of Gay Marriage in the Era of Racial Transformation”. This chapter takes an incisive look at California’s 2008 Proposition 8. By employing a queer of color framework, Reddy argues that gay marriage in general and Prop 8 in particular are transnational projects that establish the state as a powerful apparatus with devastating normalizing controls. Looking at the “transnationality of Californian society”, Freedom with Violence’s fourth chapter argues:

“understanding the passage of the proposition as a moment within a transnational chain of events might actually afford the sexual progressive the possibilities of liberating the question of sexuality from its regulation by the nation-state, opening other horizons of political and collective agency that until now did not exist as normative social possibility” (217).

But these social possibilities come with consequences. One major offering I glean from this text is its constant interrogation with the state’s practice of legality through an engagement with history, haunting, and memory. I’m especially drawn to Reddy’s reminder that scholarly analysis must always be situated within its historical context. As Reddy historicizes his project within the contemporary politics of neoliberalism, specifically neoliberalism’s linkage of freedom, the pursuit of citizen rights, and state-based violence, he conveys a renewed practice of representing and remembering the past. Focusing on commemoration, Reddy asks us to complicate the legacies of Loving v Virginia, the legal battle that many gay marriage advocates cited as the precedent and example of which to proceed in LGBTQ civil rights. Rather that continue with “like race” analogies that both detach the nuance of race and sexuality and collude with linear progress narratives, Reddy insists that our memories of Loving must keep at the core a moral commitment to remember society’s victims. If, as Reddy suggests, history has both a redemptive and explanatory force (203) then commemorations are not simply tools of past memory, but, I would argue, are also acts of a present and active witnessing.