Nkisi

We are nearly halfway through our time in San Francisco, and perhaps, my immediate reaction upon return to this queer holy land would have been more interesting. But that thought is gone now, those reflections long since drowned in the familiar oddity and rambunctious novelty of the Castro. Films have been underwhelming, I'm sad to report. Nothing particularly profound. Perhaps my expectations for post-pandemic cinema were too high, perhaps the good stuff is yet to come. The substance of this experience has come from the living, breathing beast that the Castro district is. Its peoples, its institutions, its issues, its love, its sex. These have informed my trip thus far, and my reflections now begin to run deep and wide.

There's a Nkisi in an antique shop at the Castro. It hadn't caught my eye at first, kind of littered in with the rest of the relics and knick-knacks that nearly reached the sailing in cases and shelves. I knew there was nothing in there I'd be able to afford, or much care to buy, but I went in to escape the sun, having just walked half an hour back from Haight. Perhaps I was still sweating from my walk, maybe the store was simply hotter than the street, but I felt heat radiating from the air and from my own body. I sweat hard, I turned to escape this furnace of a room when I saw it. A wooden figure, adorned with a feather headdress, standing on the shelf with a spear above its head. Hundreds of nails jutted from all parts of the figure's dark wooden body except its head, forearms, hands, and stomach, where a small worn mirror resides. They were put there ritually, each hammered in to awaken the spirit to do the bidding of the person driving them in. I spent a considerable amount of time studying traditional African religion and recognized that this wasn’t simply a Nkisi, but perhaps the most powerful class of the ancient figures. This was a Nkondi. They are hunter spirits; they seek out wrongdoers, thieves, and enemies of its user. They are considered to be the most powerful, most aggressive of the MkisiNkisi.

The figure was on my mind a lot this whole trip, for a variety of reasons. I have felt uneasy since seeing it. I find it indicative of a larger cultural issue very much so present in predominantly white queer spaces. Blackness and black culture rests at the center of much of queer culture, unnoticed. The most expensive item in the shop, longest to sit on the shelf collecting dust, unacknowledged, and unappreciated, used and yet considered foreign in a place it did not ask to be. Blackness permeates the queer culture in all its aspects and so often informs its trends. However, it is black queers that seem to have little place in the Castro; unfortunately still living the legacy of discriminatory housing practices. Here, the exclusion of black people from queer spaces seems common, despite black femmes being the most vulnerable and often the first pushed to step up for everyone's sake in the face of adversity. I find discomfort sitting with the idea that the Castro is some kind of queer haven while excluding, intentionally or as a result of long-lived historical pressures, the most vulnerable members of our community. It is, despite its revolutionary reputation, a white-centered space reaping the benefits of the cultural labor of black queers. This isn't to say black people are responsible for all queer culture, instead, I mean to say a place so rich in queer culture simply cannot exist without its black influence, and with the exception of what Framelines brings to the Castro, I don't see much representation of black folk.

Pride is coming this weekend, and the presence of a particularly aggressive African spirit did not exactly ease my anxieties. A critical mass of queer people is beautiful, but I fear it makes a pretty large target. With Christian, white, nationalist violence on the rise, I can't help but be concerned. I probably have nothing to worry about, but I plan to stay alert and diligent, and it's my hope that everyone enjoys the festivities unburdened by worry.