Featuring Amadia Shadow Rabbit
Multidisciplinary creatrix, Mixed Race Queer Femme Weirdo, born & raised in the South, currently living & creating in Oakland.
"I hold the radical imagination as the ultimate alchemical force in the universe- that which can liberate & transform whatever challenges or constraints we face. I often consider what it means to be humxn thru the transpersonal arts- acts of divine play, building timeless languages in mythos, & active dialogue with the unconscious, or "shadow work," that enable us to transcend our perceived limitations of identity & circumstance. These surreal explorations can unlock intergenerational, interspecies, even interdimensional consciousness & self-expression."
The below mix is a sonic interpretation of Amadia Shadow Rabbit's kaleidoscopic afrosurrealist hymn. It features blues and folk recordings from the deep south as well as songs from black prisoners. It also spans the gothic afrosurrealist diaspora, with artists from Sudan, South Africa, Cuba, Puerto Rico, Somalia, Senegal, Ethiopia, Congo, Ghana, and Kenya.
Southern Gothic AfroSurrealism
A stream of consciousness musing by Amadia Shadow Rabbit
“to be Black in the South is inherently surreal
to have been Black in the South is inherently surreal
to be Black in the South can be
is to be Black as in BlacknWhite as in BlacknRed as in BlacknWhitenRed as in BlacknBluenWhitenRedALLOVA
to grow up n see people
see lights see shadows
the grownups say aren’t there
is to hear whispers n howling n whimpers n hymns at the lake
((watch out for ticks n moccasins))
in the basement ((watch out for black widows/brown recluse))
on the wind ((watch out for those mosquitoes with the virus))
is phantom is chills
from eyes on the back of your neck n empty rooms
digging for worms n finding broken glass n bullet shells buried n the mud
playing in a tree thinking
“this is just like when mama was hiding from grandpa
until an angel told her it was safe to climb down”
family tree posters for school with empty branches
names scratched out
nightmares that r daymares
everywheremares anytimemares
sumthinsjustnotrightwuthappenedinthisoldhousemares
is someone in the neighborhood is poisoning house cats
they’re throwing up blood n foam
is hidenseek under the civil war memorial
a lumpnthethroat passing the small plaque under
the highway that marks the trail of tears
a frog with my grandma’s smile
a bat with my father’s eyes
it’s walking sidebyside yet always a veil apart from your white best friend
first love who points at the framed rebel flag in the restaurant
on your 5th grade field trip n says “take down that stupid flag!”
n turns to smile at you
you blush ((you remember this when you visit
Tennessee in your mid-20s n immediately pass a pick-up truck
with two giant rebel flags drilled by hand to the back))
you crawl out of the trundle bed her mom set up for you into hers
you stay up all night n share secret family horrors
((why your phone number is private
why no one comes on grandparents day))
the intimacy of pinky swears under covers
you can never tell anyone
her pale face n wide eyes tell you she won’t
she looks like she’s seen the old man in the wife-beater who stands next to your bed at night when you’re frozen in sleep paralysis
it’s the church school yard where the whole kindergarten class got possessed
chanted your name n captured you ((the only black girl))
standing in rows on either side of the wooden palace
one boy grabbing each arm
throwing you on your knees in front of “the princess”
((this never happened before or ever again)) its the church they say your great grandpa was a pastor of
he n your great grandma were the medicine man n medicine womxn
of their Alabama town
she nurtured with “healing hands” while he delivered messages to n
from the “other side”
people would come to their home to die
it’s the church
the catholic cathedral your adopted family grew up in
that your stepdad only goes to now maybe
once a year for special ceremonies where you’re tiny
under giant stained glass crucifix n surrounded by people in robes
chanting by rows of candle flames
hundreds of people synchronized
stand up now kneel now repeat these words now sweep
4 fingers across the chest left right down or something now eat
this cracker flesh drink this blood shhhh
now sit down listen
you don’t know these movements
don’t belong here
haven’t been baptized
stepdad rejects this now
except for the demons n stigmata n angels with burning swords
he just can’t shake them
you lie awake at night waiting for them to find you
until you beg to be baptized in the bathtub
it’s the church on the corner
every corner brick wood big small
some getting bigger n hipper every year with flashy casino-looking light signs out front
like the church Courtney had her lock in birthday party
where you n your three heathen friends play Bloody Mary in the bathrooms
light as a feather stiff as a board
try to hyperventilate until you have a vision
until Courtney tells the adults n you have to sit
in the center of the gymnasium where they can see you repent
for your pagan play
devil worship witchcraft
its the church Mom won’t step foot in because she has known
the monsters the preachers
pretty patrons with big pockets
the Sunday school teachers become
once Monday or midnight at the pub rolls around
she saw how everyone knew n stayed silent
she believes in God but says God doesn’t live there
every time they bury someone something somewhere n lie, the air gets thicker
a story/ presence now trapped in the atmosphere that will moan n slam doors
make toy cars move
drive your stepfather to throw you down the stairs n take the all phones off the hook
write prayers on the walls
a story/ presence now trapped in the atmosphere that will take you to the swamps in your nightmares n make you watch how they drowned
how their house burned down
great great grandpa walking the plantation yard at night with a hatchet
the little girl who wakes up your sister evert night n tells her
she’ll be safe if she sleeps in the closet
a story/ presence trapped in the atmosphere that is not leaving until it has a witness
to be Black in the South is to be denied
to hear to see to feel to know things you can’t prove or explain because the records have been erased
the air is so heavy so thick with dimensions living on top of each other until we face them with courage n create openings to exorcise n free them
dimensions black folk carry on our backs
behind our eyes in our ears in our blood
that shout n grip n take hold of us until they can be released
till a box of scrap fabric becomes a quilted epic tale
doll who already has a name appears from some hay n twine
till a banjo appears from an old box n some string n the fingers move in ways no hand has ever moved before
the boot wraps hard onto the patio planks
a song deep, eerie, enduring rises
I don’t know who you were but by damn you were here ”