Example 1AC

History-making is beholden to a hegemonic knowledge production which perpetuates the concealing of the unimaginable suffering of, and resistance to the Middle Passage. This history attempts to write an epistemological stability onto the ocean. These attempts will ultimately fail because the Ocean is not stable, instead it represents a crosscurrent of race, nationality, sexuality and gender. The Ocean produces this counter-knowledge of fluidity and flux, Blackness and Queerness, and it is these crossings that make the Ocean an integral site of investigation for subjugated identities.

Tinsley assistant professor in the departments of English and African American studies at the University of Minnesota 2008 Omise'eke Natasha “Black Atlantic, Queer Atlantic Queer Imaginings of the Middle Passage” GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies project muse

And water, ocean water is the first thing in the unstable confluence of race, nationality, sexuality, and gender I want to imagine here. This wateriness is metaphor, and history too. The brown-skinned, fluid-bodied experiences now called blackness and queerness surfaced in intercontinental, maritime contacts hundreds of years ago: in the seventeenth century, in the Atlantic Ocean. You see, the black Atlantic has always been the queer Atlantic. What Paul Gilroy never told us is how queer relationships were forged on merchant and pirate ships, where Europeans [End Page 191] and Africans slept with fellow—and I mean same-sex—sailors. And, more powerfully and silently, how queer relationships emerged in the holds of slave ships that crossed between West Africa and the Caribbean archipelago. I began to learn this black Atlantic when I was studying relationships between women in Suriname and delved into the etymology of the word mati. This is the word Creole women use for their female lovers: figuratively mi mati is "my girl," but literally it means mate, as in shipmate—she who survived the Middle Passage with me. Sedimented layers of experience lodge in this small word. During the Middle Passage, as colonial chronicles, oral tradition, and anthropological studies tell us, captive African women created erotic bonds with other women in the sex-segregated holds, and captive African men created bonds with other men. In so doing, they resisted the commodification of their bought and sold bodies by feeling and feeling for their co-occupants on these ships.

I evoke this history now not to claim the slave ship as the origin of the black queer Atlantic. The ocean obscures all origins, and neither ship nor Atlantic can be a place of origin. Not of blackness, though perhaps Africans first became negros and negers during involuntary sea transport; not of queerness, though perhaps some Africans were first intimate with same-sex shipmates then. Instead, in relationship to blackness, queerness, and black queerness, the Atlantic is the site of what the anthropologist Kale Fajardo calls "crosscurrents."

Oceans and seas are important sites for differently situated people. Indignous Peoples, fisherpeople, seafarers, sailors, tourists, workers, and athletes. Oceans and seas are sites of inequality and exploitation—resource extraction, pollution, militarization, atomic testing, and genocide. At the same time, oceans and seas are sites of beauty and pleasure—solitude, sensuality, desire, and resistance. Oceanic and maritime realms are also spaces of transnational and diasporic communities, heterogeneous trajectories of globalizations, and other racial, gender, class, and sexual formations.1

Conceptualizing the complex possibilities and power dynamics of the maritime, Fajardo posits the necessity of thinking through transoceanic crosscurrents. These are theoretical and ethnographic borderlands at sea, where elements or currents of historical, conceptual, and embodied maritime experience come together to transform racialized, gendered, classed, and sexualized selves. The queer black Atlantic I discuss here navigates these crosscurrents as it brings together enslaved and African, brutality and desire, genocide and resistance. Here, fluidity is not an [End Page 192] easy metaphor for queer and racially hybrid identities but for concrete, painful, and liberatory experience. It is the kind of queer of color space that Roderick Ferguson calls for in Aberrations in Black, one that reflects the materiality of black queer experience while refusing its transparency.2

The Ocean is an archive of literary texts the can either reveal or conceal the unimaginable of the Middle Passage. Juxtaposing our reading of the ocean against the topic’s narrative of exploration and development is necessary to expose the narrow conceptions of facticity that continue to cover the history of the blackness and queerness of the Oceans. Therefore, we should complicate this understanding of the Earth’s Ocean through the lens of the Middle Passage and the erotic resistance that arose from its fluidity and flux.

Tinsley assistant professor in the departments of English and African American studies at the University of Minnesota 2008 Omise'eke Natasha “Black Atlantic, Queer Atlantic Queer Imaginings of the Middle Passage” GLQ: A Journal of Lesbian and Gay Studies project muse

If the black queer Atlantic brings together such long-flowing history, why is black queer studies situated as a dazzlingly new "discovery" in academia—a hybrid, mermaidlike imagination that has yet to find its land legs? In the last five years, black queer and queer of color critiques have navigated innovative directions in African diaspora studies as scholars like Ferguson and E. Patrick Johnson push the discipline to map intersections between racialized and sexualized bodies. Unfortunately, Eurocentric queer theorists and heterocentric race theorists have engaged their discourses of resistant black queerness as a new fashion—a glitzy, postmodern invention borrowed and adapted from Euro-American queer theory. In contrast, as interventions like the New-York Historical Society's exhibit Slavery in New York demonstrate, the Middle Passage and slave experience continue to be evoked as authentic originary sites of African diaspora identities and discourses.3 This stark split between the "newest" and "oldest" sites of blackness reflects larger political trends that polarize queer versus diasporic and immigrant issues by moralizing and domesticating sexuality as an undermining of tradition, on the one hand, while racializing and publicizing global southern diasporas as threats to the integrity of a nation of (fictively) European immigrants, on the other. My discussion here proposes to intervene in this polarization by bridging imaginations of the "choice" of black queerness and the forced migration of the Middle Passage. What would it mean for both queer and African diaspora studies to take seriously the possibility that, as forcefully as the Atlantic and Caribbean flow together, so too do the turbulent fluidities of blackness and queerness? What new geography—or as Fajardo proposes, oceanography—of sexual, gendered, transnational, and racial identities might emerge through reading for black queer history and theory in the traumatic dislocation of the Middle Passage?4

In what follows, I explore such queer black Atlantic oceanographies by comparing two narrative spaces. One is a site where an imagination of this Atlantic struggles to emerge: in academic theorizing, specifically in water metaphors of African diaspora and queer theory. The second is a site where such imaginations emerge through struggle: in Caribbean creative writing, specifically in Ana Maurine Lara's tale of queer migration in Erzulie's Skirt (2006) and Dionne Brand's reflections on the Middle Passage in A Map to the Door of No Return (2001). I turn to these literary texts as a queer, unconventional, and imaginative archive of the black Atlantic.5 And the literary texts turn to ocean waters themselves as [End Page 193] an archive, an ever-present, ever-reformulating record of the unimaginable. Lara and Brand plumb the archival ocean materially, as space that churns with physical remnants, dis(re)membered bodies of the Middle Passage, and they plumb it metaphorically, as opaque space to convey the drowned, disremembered, ebbing and flowing histories of violence and healing in the African diaspora. "Water overflows with memory," writes M. Jacqui Alexander, delving into the Middle Passage in Pedagogies of Crossing. "Emotional memory. Bodily memory. Sacred memory."6 Developing a black feminist epistemology to uncover submerged histories—particularly those stories of Africans' forced ocean crossings that traditional historiography cannot validate—Alexander eloquently argues that searchers must explore outside narrow conceptions of the "factual" to get there. Such explorations would involve muddying divisions between documented and intuited, material and metaphoric, past and present so that "who is remembered—and how—is continually being transformed through a web of interpretive systems . . . collapsing, ultimately, the demarcation of the prescriptive past, present, and future of linear time."7 While Alexander searches out such crossings in Afro-Atlantic ceremony, Lara and Brand explore similarly fluid embodied-imaginary, historical-contemporary spaces through the literal and figurative passages of their historical fictions. The subaltern can speak in submarine space, but it is hard to hear her or his underwater voice, whispering (as Brand writes) a thousand secrets that at once wash closer and remain opaque, resisting closure.

This notion of eroticism is an expansion of the conceptualization of subjectivity via an investigation of the interrelation among the political, the sensual and the spiritual. It’s coherence is only approached through its assemblage of differences. This erotic subjectivity provides a lens to evaluate our investigation which challenges apolitical and passionless interpretations of epistemological foundations. The story we tell is always already intertwined with the unsymbolizable scream of the Middle Passage – the question is how do we respond.

Gill Assistant Professor of African and African Diaspora Studies @ UT-Austin 2012 Lyndon K. “Situating Black, Situating Queer: Black Queer Diaspora Studies and the Art of Embodied Listening” Transforming Anthropology 20.1 EBSCO

The interrelation among the political, the sensual the spiritual is central to my elaboration of what I (among others11) have termed “erotic subjectivity.” However, my usage of “erotic subjectivity” is as a decidedly epistemological proposition. I am curious to explore the potential of reading Fields’ particularly placed subjectivity as a challenge to apolitical, passionless, and secular interpretations of how we come to know what we know about subjectivity itself. I propose this interlinked political-sensual-spiritual (erotic) subjectivity not necessarily in an effort to replace one type of “universal” subjectivity with another, but rather to expand the conceptualization of subjectivity so that it perhaps comes to resemble diaspora—its coherence only intelligible through an assemblage of differences.

As an interpretive frame, erotic subjectivity is indebted to Caribbean-American lesbian feminist Audre Lorde’s framing of the erotic in her 1978 speech “Uses of the Erotic: the Erotic as Power.”12 In it, Lorde insists that:

The dichotomy between the spiritual and the political is … false, resulting from an incomplete attention to our erotic knowledge. For the bridge which connects them is formed by the erotic—sensual—those physical, emotional, and psychic expressions of what is deepest and strongest and richest within each of us, being shared: the passion of love in its deepest meanings. [Lorde 1984(1978)]

Following from this reconceptualization and encouraged by Lorde’s gesture toward reading the erotic through sensuality (even in its broadest sense as revelry in the senses) to a wider range of interpretive possibilities, I propose that the meaning of the erotic can be stretched. Informed by Lorde, my articulation of the erotic expands beyond being mere euphemism for sexual desire and reaches simultaneously toward a political attentiveness and a spiritual consciousness. This tripartite political-sensual-spiritual awareness makes possible and desirable a more broadly and deeply conceived articulation of love. And it is this love that so often provides much of the motivation for political action, sensual intimacy and spiritual hunger—together constitutive elements of an erotic subjecthood.

Erotic subjectivity is at once an interpretive perspective and a mode of consciousness; it is both a way of reading and a way of being in the world. This analytic frame encourages a recognition of the fact that systems of colonial (as well as neocolonial/ imperial) domination depend in part upon a tripartite strategy of coercion based upon a politics of ontological racial difference, a hierarchy of spiritual rectitude, and a Victorian sense of (sexual) respectability—erotic subjugation, if you will. Erotic subjectivity is tasked with providing a postcolonial theoretical response to this mechanism of subjugation. This expanded political-sensual-spiritual perspective on the production of hierarchies of difference—the very alterity used to justify exploitation from the top down—begins to shed light on the incompleteness of official post-colonial movements (and their long range postcolonial ideological projects) in the Caribbean region, which largely continue to imagine the political, sensual and spiritual as mutually exclusive realms of concern. The inability to think the political/ sensual/spiritual together threatens to obscure even the clearest of postcolonial visions. This particular attentiveness to—in their most abstract rendering— power hierarchies (the political), sensory intimacy (the sensual), and sacred metaphysics (the spiritual) is central to the theoretical infrastructure of the larger book manuscript from which this analysis comes, so I cannot hope to fully elaborate it here.13 However, perhaps the best way to approach a fleshier understanding of erotic subjectivity may be through Jacquelyn Fields’ own sense of herself and her community.