avery r. young: High Noon Sunday
A few weeks ago, I had the honor of sharing space with interdisciplinary artist, performer, writer, activist, and dear friend avery r. young. We spoke several days after the start of the largest global civil rights uprising in recorded history; sparked by the lynchings of Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, Tony McDade, and countless other Black people, at the hands of the police. At the time of our conversation, avery was working on a play about the 1968 uprisings following the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr, re-imaging protest songs, and writing blues music and poetry.
After I shared his finished portrait, I asked avery if he would be kind enough to share a poem with me, perhaps something he had written recently to present alongside his portrait. To my great honor and surprise, he wrote a new poem for the occasion.
Here’s bit of our conversation from Wednesday, June 3rd, 2020.
avery: This is really surreal because I really have not been out of my house for that last week. I haven’t walked, I haven’t wanted to see all this bullshit that’s popped off. So from my back porch and my front door, everything looks normal. I haven’t been out front yet. Everything looks normal. Everything looks quiet. Last night everything looked normal but it sounds like: “police sirens, helicopters, gunshots, police walkie talking to each other. It was cray. It was a lot of craziness.
I’m writing. I’m in my alternative space of work. That’s about it. I have food and water, so I’m not stressed about that. You know. It is what it is.
In December I had a residency at Ragdale and I wrote about the King riots. I wrote about a family navigating through the riots. The riot is imploding in this house. The house is full of various perspectives that are just playing out right now. The daughter is the protestor, shit unfortunately happens to her. The father is a looter and shit don’t happen to him. You have this mother who is left to clean that mess that they both kind of make. And choose herself first. So it’s really layered and complicated in that sense. I wrote it but I was hoping I would get a fellowship to do some research to make store names and so forth. But now it’s all mute. Madison and Pulaski Street as of a few days ago is all fucked up again. It was crazy because there are spots on Madison that were burdened don’t since 1968.
Irina: How does this feel to you compared to ‘68?
avery: I don’t know because I wasn't alive. You basically had a mayor that allowed Black folks to burn themselves alive. At one point you tell the fire truck from going in, he blocked off the shit, and the order was “shoot to kill arsenics and maim the looters”... that was the order. So you have 1968 police … which I don’t think is necessarily any goddamn different than 2020 police. You don’t have a mayor that says “y’all can go kill motherfuckers.” What they say is to gang affiliates that they can kill each other. Y’all are gonna kick off a gang war and you allow people to fuck shit up, but you beat and jail peaceful protestors.
Some of the project is rearranging protest songs and writing new protests songs.
Irina: What’s one that you’re working on now?
avery: I wrote one that’s about “these new neighborhoods, oh they want me up outta here. I tell you these new neighborhood gonna run me up out of here.” It’s about white gentrification. I was gonna write a song about “you beat the protestor and you’re gonna let the looter loot.” That’s on the list too, the title of that is “Nephew Damon.” Which is basically me writing about Damon … (laughs) It’s talking about him being beat protesting and the looter … I may change the title to “A Tale of Two Damons” and put two Damons and the song is about this one protesting and this other one who’s looting.
Irina: What time is it on the clock of the world?
avery: In my best James Baldwin “High Noon Sunday.” He’s talking about America and religion in this quote and he says that the most segregated time in America is high noon Sunday. Religion and Christianity is supposed to be this huge connector but in this country Black and white folks go to separate churches, Asians and Brown folks go to separate churches. Churches that seem to have a diverse congregation are usually mega churches, but you know, those are mostly led by white men. So you know, it’s not to say anything, but that’s what I’m thinking. Just to reflect how divided this country is at this moment.
Irina: What do you think this moment has to teach us?
avery: It’s taught me not to live in such an alternative reality. The community that I’m a part of, for the most part, I don’t know motherfuckers who are susceptible to this shit. I’m in a community full of rebel rousers. You know? The people in my community are hearts. As creatives a lot of us feel, a lot of us are not the Tin Man, we’re not looking for the Wizard of Oz -- we’re looking for a heart; we may be looking for courage, we may damn well be looking for a brain. A lot of us creators ain’t looking for a home; we not lost. Home is in a lot of different places, we’re used to being secluded to make art. When you’re hypersensitive as a creative, I’m always concerned about the heart in that sense.
I checked out on this bullshit a long time ago. Corona is really different because I’m learning that I don’t like my house to be everywhere for me. I like my house to be my refuge... where I turn off. I’m not liking having to be in the place where I’m turned off... having to be on. I’m learning to be more significant and more intentional in my work. I’m not sure what everyone else is learning or has to learn. Because I’m not sure if everybody wants to learn something. People just want shit to be fixed. They just want shit fixed. I don’t need a lesson. I don’t… I did …. I mean … we all have to learn new ways of eating. New ways of existing. Cuz I don’t think Carona is going anywhere, we’re going to have to learn how to live in it as opposed to keeping ourselves from it.
The world has to navigate in COVID as opposed to being shut off from it. We would not have this level of anxiety. Motherfuckers have been in the house for three fucking months. I don’t recall a time in my life when I had to be in the house for three fucking months.
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This conversation was lovingly edited by my dear friend, writer, and cultural organizer Rivka Yeker. You can check out their work at @hooliganmagazine.