For the purposes of this essay, I’m going to let my guard down. At least a little. It’s not some full-on confession or complete demographic profile. I will avoid doing this for two reasons. The first is a protective and defensive measure. With AI and whatever other third-party malevolence scraping internet content, I’m not going to feed it my full personal profile. Second, if you want to understand what personal perspective I’m coming from, simply read my reviews, essays, and social media comments. It should paint a pretty accurate picture of who I am and/or who I choose to show you. We each decide who or what to show other people in a variety of contexts (at work, with family, on social media, etc.). These are a series of different masques or personae. While there is lots of chatter about people expressing “their authentic selves,” I espouse a counter-argument. We wear different masks to different people in different situations. Even an “authentic self” is a piece of manufactured artifice. To make a bold generic statement: All authenticity is contrived. But the immediate follow-up question is: Contrived for what purpose?

Now to create a demographic portrait of myself. I consider and/or classify myself as a: cis-gendered, white heterosexual male of WASP derivation. (Anglo-Saxon meaning: German with Czech, Polish, and possibly French ethic backgrounds. And Protestant, at least of the Lutheran variety. I was raised Lutheran, but am current “none of your damn business.” And the ethnic background seems ridiculous, considering when my ancestors arrived in America they came from Pomerania, which was either Prussian, Russian, or Polish, depending what year the mapmaker was making the map. I also had relatives from the Alsace region. “Alsace is part of Germany!” “Alsace is part of France!” “Germany!” “France!” “Duck Season!” “Rabbit Season!” “DUCK SEASON!!!” BANG!!!)

Like I said before, I put little faith in demographic categories. But that statement has to be qualified, because I need to check my privilege. (At least before some self-righteous troll tells me to check my privilege.) These aforementioned categories have given me advantages I was never consciously aware of, at least when I was younger. In terms of geography and class, I have lived all my life in the upper Midwest (Wisconsin and Minnesota). I’ve also lived in that delightfully amorphous socioeconomic category known as “the middle class.” I had an Optimus Prime Transformer growing, but not the G.I. Joe Aircraft Carrier to put it in more relatable pop culture terms.

Even though these categories bespeak a kind of census data neutrality, they also reflect the taxonomic poverty of census data. One can be slotted into Category A or Category B or whatever, but does that reflect the idiosyncrasies, traumas, tastes, perversions and kinks of the individual. (Yes I said “perversions and kinks,” we all have them, despite our best efforts to contain, conceal, or erase them. No kink-shaming here … at least if those kinks are legal and consensual.)

Speaking of kinks … despite my painfully vanilla demographic profile, my personal tastes embrace my aforementioned ecumenical promiscuity. Case in point: My three favorite novels of all time are, in no particular order: Our Lady of the Flowers, by Jean Genet; Maldoror and Poems, by Lautréamont; and Against Nature, by Joris-Karl Huysmans. My favorite plays include: Angels in America, by Tony Kushner; Streetcar Named Desire, by Tennessee Williams; and Glengarry Glen Ross, by David Mamet. I admire the criticism of Susan Sontag, Harold Bloom, Camille Paglia, and Elizabeth Hardwick.

Likes are easy. Here are some anti-favorites: American Beauty by Sam Mendes (overrated, trite); Dances with Wolves by Kevin Costner (admirably revisionist, albeit a bloated, self-important slog); “Hey Jude” by the Beatles and “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel (I like both, but both are overlong and repetitious); The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, by Robert Heinlein (boring, bleak, and painful); Christopher Hitchens (wrong in Iraq, wrong on women comedians, saved by the occasional acid-tongued zinger) … if you want to read a controversial atheist badass, read the Marquis de Sade.

Not a fan of organized religion, especially its conservative mutation, but enjoy religious (Bach, among others), and also enjoy reading and learning about the history of religion. One of my favorite authors – Evelyn Waugh – was a religious conservative. I also enjoy the works of Graham Greene.

I could go on, but I’ll leave it at that.

Does my background make my opinions legitimate, especially on the two poets I’m examining here. Both are LGBT poets of color and both are disabled. I am not any of these things. Saying I can’t explore, critique, and celebrate these poets because I’m not XYZ demographic category bespeaks an implicit prejudice. One that comes across as superficial and ignorant.

Akin to saying white people can’t sing the blues (unless it’s Bruce Willis in the 1990s, when he shouldn’t sing the blues) or only black people can write about black history. It depends whose writing about black history and their intentions, sources, and assertions. (Furthermore, to complicate the black history example, one should be remiss against seeing black history as monolithic and singular. This presupposes essentialist, racist, and colonialist exploitative narrative assumptions. Black history – however one assumes its boundaries and biases – is multifaceted, global, and unfinished.)

Again, my critical opinions call for a metaphorical “big tent” and a radical inclusiveness. Gatekeeping can become a toxic exclusionary behavior. Although, to contradict my last statement, we need robust moderation in Internet comments sections to keep out loathsome hatemongers. Free speech is not an unlimited right. But to contradict myself again, free speech that only embraces the ideas I agree with is boring and useless.

I don’t know. Just be civil. Why is this so hard these days?

One last thing. As a coda to this section, I also have severe food allergies. You won’t see my dining at Red Lobster any time soon. Because I have these detrimental food allergies, I’m barred from eating certain things. (Unlike, say, being forbidden to eat such-and-such food for either religious or ideological reasons.) Since I can’t eat certain things, I relish eating everything else. Or at least wanting to try different things. I’m always open to eating an ethnic cuisine I’ve never encountered before. I’m currently spoiled due to where I live. I’m within walking distance of a Vietnamese restaurant, an Asian supermarket, at least two Middle Eastern restaurants, and a Middle Eastern market. Further down the road, there’s a vegetarian Indian market / restaurant and a Famous Dave’s. A veritable multi-ethnic meat Mecca. To adapt the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies’s lyrics, “We live in the Polish Middle Eastern Vietnamese section of town.” This might be too DEI to people. Or too “woke.” Yeah, whatever, go fuck yourself.

That is why I’m reviewing these two books by LGBT poets of color who are disabled. Firstly, to celebrate their uniqueness and talent. Second, to throw a big middle finger to all the racist idiots out there. Racism is simply stupidity with a new coat of paint.