I want to start by returning to something that we talked about in our first interview a couple of years ago, actually. We started that interview by talking about Farah Jasmine Griffin's idea of “not being willing to forget or wholly forgive America's historical transgressions,” but that in your practice, you're devoted to “helping this nation achieve itself.” How — if at all — has your thinking on that changed over time? Has that remained the core of your practice?

Definitely. I wouldn’t say my practice is devoted to helping America achieve this idealistic version of itself that has never existed, rather it is rooted in what I know to exist, through my experiences as a Black, queer-identifying woman living in the U.S. The way that I am working through and with my experiences in my art practice and the content or messages that I produce are always shifting.

Two years ago, I was reading Harlem Nocturne, which is where I got that quote by Farah Jasmine Griffin, and my sentiments around not being able to forget or wholly forgive the transgressions of America have only deepened. Meaning that my practice is fueled by the clear need for all Americans — Black, white, privileged, or oppressed — to deal with American history as a whole, rather than it solely being the business of the oppressed.

To jump back to another previous conversation, we held an artist talk with you a few months ago where you talked about your work in terms of “exposure, release, and protest.” Can you talk about what each of those three things mean for you?

Exposure is expressed in my work through the presence of Black queer-identifiying folks and the use of historical content.   For me, this exposure is shining a light on the fact that the education system does a disservice when we're teaching American history — coupled with the stereotypes and narratives that are constantly presented in media and gatekeeping institutions. Through working with Black folks — specifically Black Queer identifying folks — I am showing our visibility throughout history. Like Black American history, Black Queer American history has been silenced. Both are present: interacting and overlapping in the same spaces with each other.

I started working with this concept of exposure two years ago, when I was working closely with the 1965 Cambridge debate speech by James Baldwin. It's on the question of: Has the American Dream been achieved at the expense of the American Negro? And honestly, I've never let go of that interview, because he really breaks down how it's a matter of your perception of reality — or which reality you live in.

So when I create, I'm really working to expose my reality, in the hope that people will see — and choose to see — my individual reality, and some of the collective reality of other Black folks. I mean, in 2020, it seems like people would have seen, but that is still not the case.

Has your relationship to that debate changed over time? Because the question of debate is something that comes up in the video piece in the show. At the end of the piece, you talk about, “my life made death to debate.” Which, for me, as a viewer, points towards this sort of exhaustion with the fact that that is something that is reasonable to even be having a debate over.

That particular debate for me is the exposure. Because you can't tell whether it's 2021 or 1965. You can't tell. I mean, obviously, you know — social norms, the way people are dressed, whatever — but based on the content, you cannot tell the difference. So I hold tight to that debate, because it is both past and present.

Initially titled Strange Fruit, this current work started in 2017, when I was asked by a colleague, woman, and fellow artist, Evita Colon, to create a dance piece for her project called Speak to My Soul. And she wanted a piece to “Strange Fruit,” the Nina Simone version, which is a song that I've always loved. [Pause.] Well, love isn’t the right word, not loved. But I've always felt connected to.

So I created a piece of choreography for that, and then from there, in 2018, I collaborated with Jasmine Lynea, Desiree’ Lovett, and Nyasha George to create part of what you see in this exhibition. We created the actual film version, which was really an endeavor to pay homage to victims of lynchings. I was living in Philadelphia at the time, and the closest reported lynching to Philadelphia was that of Zachariah Walker in Coatesville, Pennsylvania on August 13, 1911. So the four of us went to Coatesville and we filmed the video there. We were unable to finish in one day, because, even though we were at a state park, someone came and threatened to call the police on us if we did not leave. It was an entirely unnecessary situation that resulted in us leaving, and finishing the film at Fairmount Park in Philadelphia. Both filming locations were on the land of the Lenape Nation.

Since the completion of that version, I started working on what I've been calling the remix, titled Now or Then: Strange Fruit. Artistically the remix includes a sound score that I created as well as layering in terms of video and print editing. Really, I just was disgusted with the first presidential debate. I was not surprised. I was not shocked. But I was truly disgusted. And the main thing that really resonated, that really stood out to me, is that there’s never been a presidential debate in my lifetime — let alone in the history of this country — where they haven't had a specific section for what to do with folks of African descent that live in this country. And it's really incredible. It's really incredible, when you think about it, that we have normalized there being a moment for our government to take aside and just address Black Americans — as if we are not all Americans.

So that is really what shifted the work. The question of humanity dissipates when the body is politicized rather than humanized. And I think that has just been on full display in 2020. From the pandemic, you are able to see the way that white supremacy is ingrained in multiple systems, but people are able to — if you choose to — see the difference between reform and abolition. That's what's been coming up for me: what is the language that's being used when we're dealing with these issues? Because there's just a lot of... [Pause.] Consuming, of Black life and Black death and Black culture. But there's not actual support for sustainability of and for Black folks. Instead there are debates.

You know what I'm saying? It's not about actual change. It's about, “What can we do for Black people while still sustaining capitalism?” When it comes down to it, these debates are just about what we need to do to keep capitalism intact, and still somehow service the Black people in this country whose needs are not met by capitalist structures.

I wanted to start by talking about this idea that you mentioned in your pre-interview questionnaire: Farah Jasmine Griffin's idea of being “not willing to forget or wholly forgive America’s historical transgressions,” but being devoted to “helping this nation 'achieve' itself.” Can you say more about how the idea of America “achieving itself” plays into your practice, whether as a dancer, poet, or choreographer?

This idea plays into all of my work. As a person, I'm observant of where I live and conscious of the fact that I am constantly navigating through white spaces. Because I've experienced prejudice and discrimination from a young age. This idea isn’t something that is new to me. I think that helping this nation achieve itself refers to letting Americans accepting our history and understanding that this is country is founded on and still run by racist systems.

This is an issue that I think of when creating — the fact that we don't accept our history. That people like to think of it as something that was so long ago, and nobody wants to talk about it. So when I make work, I'm making work to talk about things that people don't want to talk about. Maybe if we put it in a different light, if we put it in art, through dance, through poetry — in places where people don't expect to have the world in their face — then maybe that’ll open up someone's sense of thinking. America achieving itself means America achieving the American Dream. That can't happen the way that America’s set up right now, because the American Dream has to be for everyone. And it's not.

You work as a dancer, choreographer, and a poet. Do you feel like those are all mediums that allow you to work towards that same project? Or do you feel like each of those is doing something slightly different?

I feel like choreographing and writing definitely do that. Because I'm creating. I'm choosing the topics, I’m choosing the content, I'm consciously writing the work, consciously making the pieces, consciously picking the sound scores, I always think of the Nina Simone quote, that “An artist's duty, as far as I'm concerned, is to reflect the times.” That’s what I’m doing — I'm constantly expressing my reality and my experiences through choreographed movement and poetry — the medium doesn’t prohibit the work.

Dance-wise: I dance for other people as well as myself. I currently dance for Putty Dance Project and FlyGround. Dancing for Putty Dance Project and FlyGround is great, I'm learning a lot from other black women — Lauren Putty White and Lela Aisha Jones — who are making work that is social political, that's on some of the same issues that I'm trying to make work about. It’s really inspiring.

I also freelance for other independent choreographers, small showcases, and things like that. But not all of those works are about race, social change, or politics.

And what has it been like collaborating with primarily visual artists while here, rather than with dancers and poets?

It's been really great. I've been collaborating with Nyugen Smith, as well as Christian Berman and Marisa Adesman. Nyugen is a great director. He has a very clear vision, and it's easy for him to direct me — I have free range to do and move as I want, but within the context of what he's asking me to do. With Christian and Marissa, I choreographed a piece for their video project, as well as improvised based on what the scene entailed. I don't think that there's a huge difference between collaborating with visual artists and collaborating with performing artists. I think the difference would be in collaborating within someone's idea as opposed to collaborating and creating an idea.

And do you feel equally comfortable with both processes?

Yeah, for sure. I have only collaborated in terms of creating a piece with one other person — Rashidi Lewis — at a residency in Miami. We spent about a week at Dr. Michael Krop Senior High School, creating and setting work together. That was a really great experience.

Part of the residency program is doing group critiques and feedback as well. So, beyond collaboration, what has it been like getting feedback on your dance and poetry work from people who are sort of mostly outside of those spheres?

It's been amazing. People get trapped in their own art form a lot of times. And I think that it's really important to be influenced by other people's art forms, by the way that other people view things because at the end of the day you're not just making work for yourself, you're making it for others. I've definitely gotten some wonderful feedback from them about the writing, about digging deeper, and about how to add to my work. It's been really helpful.

And this is your second time in Wassaic, right?

Third, actually. My first time here was in 2015 — I showed a collaborative, piece with Esther Baker-Tarpaga and Heidi Wiren Bartlett. I was also here last summer performing my own work with two of my dancers — Mynesha Whyte and Brionna Williams — in a piece entitled “Faith.”

Can you talk a little bit about how those prior experiences here informed what you wanted to do in this residency specifically? Have you been trying to feed off of them, or have you been trying to do something entirely different?

Those were both really positive experiences that drew me to Wassaic. The main thing that made me want to come here was that I’d have time and space away to really focus on my work. To wholeheartedly be in it, to not be on anyone else’s schedule, to not have to worry about having to go to work the next day. Not to mention the scenery, too. It's nice to have a chance to be out of the city.