When reading the poet Jubi Arriola-Headley’s debut collection, original kink, I think of how I don’t flinch when my brothers yell. I get protective and feel vulnerable.
This collection is tough. And I mean this in a literal way and the way that aunties say it when they see you in a good suit. Yet still, there is humor in original kink in that flavor we have of sharp honesty sparking a laugh in the midst of trauma.
When speaking with Jubi, we hear the process of excavation and reflection required of a debut poetry collection. But also, it’s different. He hasn’t been writing all his life and tells me that he began writing at age 40 and poured himself into workshops and residencies and an MFA program. In particular, he shares what it’s like for a Black gay man to publish a collection containing the confrontation and undoing of privileges, the journey of mental health, expressions of outright confidence, and shades of surrender.
The author has a vibrancy when he voices the epiphanies he’s made of himself, his work, and his initial goals. Often, he acknowledges these bends in the path — these “kinks” — by saying, “Let me tell you a story.” There is practically no getting stuck in shame. There is just discovery after discovery. This debut collection confronts intersections and layers and patterns. We talk over a phone call as Jubi takes a walk, telling me that he finds it more natural to have a conversation this way. Like this, it’s easier to pretend that we’re shoulder to shoulder, as he walks outside in Florida and I sit in a spare room in an apartment in California.
Arielle Jones: What was a priority for you while assembling original kink as a collection, and why?
Jubi Arriola-Headley: My history as a poet is relatively recent. I am one of those people that needed to be told that they could write or be given permission to write — and not young. I am going to be 52 on my next birthday, and I went to college a long time ago. In college, I did creative writing and I enjoyed it, and there was a moment where I applied to be a part of a permission-only senior creative writing class that was then the capstone for English majors. I was not accepted. And, for some reason I took that to mean I shouldn’t write. I literally didn’t write for 20-odd years.
AJ: Oh wow.
JAH: Yeah! And then, about seven years ago, I woke up with this imperative to write a book about my father. and that's all I knew I needed to do. When I say imperative, I mean — this was like a drive, like breathing. I had to do this.
I first tried to write this book in prose, and it was not working. A poet I know suggested I take a poetry class, thinking maybe it would help me expand my language. And I fell in love. Probably those first few poems I wrote were absolute shit. But when my friend told me that, it encouraged me to keep going. And so I became obsessed with writing poetry. Took classes and went to retreats and residencies.
AJ: You dove all the way in!
JAH: Yes, because I knew I needed to do this. So, I say all this to say that this book was born because I woke up one day thinking I need to write a book about my father. Now, it turns out that the book is about more than that. It is about what I’ve been taught about masculinity and my need to unthink that. But I didn’t know that when I started.
What has always been the priority for me in writing this book was its topicality. I didn't think about how to organize the poems, for example, until I realized I had a set of poems that could be organized. I was driven to write the poems I wrote. They didn’t come out chronologically. They came out when they needed to. In some way, all of the poems in my book are about what I think I know about masculinity, how that has hurt me, and how — for whatever remains of my life — I’m trying to live a freer, gentler, more vulnerable, more joyous way. And so, that’s always sort of been my focus when writing this book.
How do I make what we know of masculinity? How do I create a roadmap for something that might be different? How do I gesture toward Black women and let them know that someone's willing (on my side, meaning cis-gender men) to do the work? That’s become a driving force behind this book. And that developed over time.
AJ: You can absolutely feel that. While I was reading, I felt a sense of ascension in your work.
JAH: Oh wow.
AJ: Yeah, absolutely! Particularly in the poems “Kink: A Primer” and “Infinite, or ‘Ya’ll do not want to meet my alter ego. Trust.’” there are these full veins of intentional ascension. Where or when do you feel the freest to express your joy?
JAH: I mean, how do I answer that? In the moment of creating the poetry. In the moment of trying to connect with other poets out there. I’ve heard this question about audience and it’s a very weird one for me as a poet. I can tell you who the “I” is of my poem, and I could tell you who I think the “I” of my poem is trying to speak to, but I don’t think about who will read my book. What I think about is, who am I trying to engage in conversation with? And that’s Black and queer folks very specifically. That is Black women very specifically and intentionally. That’s Black cis-gender men very intentionally. That’s Black people more broadly than that, very intentionally. That’s people of color who are queer.
But it starts — it’s steeped, I hope — in Blackness. Black women-ness. Black non-binary-ness. Black-transcending maleness. So, when I’m in the poetic moment trying to write my poems, that’s when I feel most ascended.
You know, I’m a pretty happy person. I didn’t have the hardest life. There are things, as a Black person, that I have to deal with every day, but there have been difficult moments our entire lives. Some folks have had it difficult way more than I have. But when I am trying to connect, talking about my poetry with other Black poets has been such a blessing and boon and a joy, so fulfilling. It’s weird how much I’m excited for these kinds of things!
AJ: While reading original kink, I felt this fluctuation/combination of joy and strife, and this attitude of “in spite of …” I’m glad we have these similar intersections, because sometimes when people hear “Don’t play with me,” they only have the one connotation of it — which is “stay back/leave me alone.” But then we know that if we hear an elder say, “Don’t play with me,” it can be a joke, and we hear that affection, right?
JAH: Exactly!
AJ: And so it’s like, that special line, that special language we get to exist in and play with. Based off of that, it makes me think of omens, and how technically they can represent good or ill to come. But a lot of times, people will read omens sometimes with us as an attitude, as something as purely just negative, right? So, what is an omen that you've given attention to?
JAH: Wow, that’s a deep question. Let me tell you a story.
I say that I woke up one day with an intention — or rather a need, a drive — to write a book about my father. My father died of colon cancer when I was 18 years old, and we did not have a close relationship. I am 100% certain that my coming out process as a Black queer man would have been different if I had had to come out while he was living. That is the 100% truth. I can’t prove it would have happened that way, but I believe it like I believe grass is green.
My father was a very specific man. He was the ladies’ man. He was the man that all his friends looked up to, and there was no room in his life for a Black queer child. So, I say all that to say, we didn't have a great relationship.
About three months after he died, he came to me in a dream. Now have you ever seen that painting, Edvard Munch, The Scream? My father, in the dream, came to me out of a black hole — an abyss — rising up. And his face looked hollowed out, screaming. He looked like that, and he was reaching for me. He was reaching for me in a gesture of terror. He needed me to help him, lift him up. What happened, however, was I felt terrified and woke myself up screaming.
This happened when I was about 20, and I had regretted it because I never had another dream about him until my 40s. Until my mid-40s, I don't remember a single dream about my father. And every so often that I remember that, I regret it. Then, I woke up with this drive to write these poems about my father and hyper-masculinity, and I wrote this book. Then it got published, and then I had my first dream in 20- or 25-odd years about my father.
It was oddest dream, because me and my father were at an HBCU campus — one that I never went to — and I was sitting on his lap as my fat-ass, grown-ass self. He was maybe 15 years older than me. We were joking and laughing, and he was hugging me, and we're talking to people on campus like this was the most normal thing in the world. Some grown-ass man sitting on his grown-ass father’s lap in the middle of the Blackity-Blackedness of this campus, just being in joy! I woke up so overjoyed, and I’ve had dreams about him since then. It’s like this book needed to happen.
You either believe that this is a ghost story, or you believe it’s a version of reparative therapy my mind needed to do to itself. That’s how my process has been. So the waking up with the drive to write the book was the omen. But also, that dream, 20-something years ago, was an omen. That was a bad omen, but the new dream was good. When I woke up from that dream, I just knew!
I mean, when you write a book, you have doubts. Like, is this book shit? Did I pull the trigger too soon? Should I have held on to the poems? Are there too many in there? Are there not enough in there? You ask yourself a thousand questions, especially as a debut poet. But when I woke up from that dream, I thought, “Whatever this book is, it’s enough.” There are ways in which it may not be. But at one, very fundamental, very important level, it is enough. Otherwise, I would have never felt that peaceful with my poetry or my father. So, that’s what I feel about omens.
AJ: Wow, thank you so much. I am in the midst of working on my own book, and it is those exact same doubts of, “All right, what do I have going on, what I think I have going on?” Or, “Does it need to wait? Does this need to be massaged more? Am I being impatient and rushing certain things?” So, I think that your message of just letting folks know, “Hey, it is enough,” will absolutely resonate.
JAH: What I’m learning is, the most important thing is to trust your voice. You can’t let the publisher or the editor or professor tell you but so much about how something should be written. Yes, know when to listen. Also, know when to say, “Thank you for your advice, but it’s not right for me.” That’s a trick, that’s a skill, that’s a level of confidence that you have to achieve.
I think it’s vital to put out the most authentic work. It’s what I was trying to do. I want it to be good, but I also know what I think is real for me. There are certain, maybe, styles of poetry that I feel like a dozen people write, and then there are other styles of poetry that very few people write, but they’re still not right for me. I’ve got to write how I write. You’ll love it or not. The one thing that I have been able to let go of is wondering whether anyone will care about my book and especially how many.
AJ: Thinking about honing authenticity, I’d like to talk about the poem “Hot Comb.” I have my head shaved. My mother is terminally ill, so I’m in sympathy. I’ve had my head shaved for about 10 years now. But still, when I read “Hot Comb,” it had me ducking my head and holding my ear. Because, just like you spoke about in the poem, there's this nostalgia and also this rite of passage that accompanies those memories, for me.
JAH: Yeah, I have to be 100% transparent and tell you I had to be schooled into that position. I’m lucky that I have the Black women in my life that I have. I’ve had the verbal smack upside the head, and the physical equivalent of being smacked upside my head when I needed it. But that’s not how this poem happened.
I thought I was writing a poem about the oppression that the hot comb represents. So, I needed to identify the evil, and then be the hero and figure it out, if not save someone. I was sitting down with this with another Black man, the poet Douglas Kearney, who I was extremely pleased and blessed to be able to meet. When I told him that I wanted to write this, he said to me, “Oh, there is a strong tradition of Black women writing hot comb poems. Some of our major poets have done so, like Natasha Trethewey. I suggest you look those up. It will be interesting to see what you come up with.” And I thought, oh shit, no pressure. You just have to write at least a semi-decent poem like Natasha-damn-Trethewey. Great.
But I was stuck in this position of savior, of saving. It’s a very cis-gender male position. I think it's a position that we're socialized into, but one we can break out of. So I wrote this poem about the oppression of the hot comb, and I sent it to a friend, another poet named Brittany Rogers. You’ll hear her name. She said, “Yeah, the words were lovely, but this poem isn't how I experienced this. You're missing something that's really important among us women to this process. You’re missing the nostalgia. This is kind of a rite of passage, these women together in the kitchen sharing secrets, sharing laughter, sharing pain even. But this is a moment for us that you are sort of seeing from the outside, incorrectly.” And I was like, fuck.
You know, when people don't like your poems, that hurts a little, if you care at all what they think. When somebody says something and they’re 100% right, and your poem needs to fundamentally change, it’s like, damn. Damn, damn, damn. I want you to love my poem! But you’re 100% right. Then one day I woke up and I was like, oh my God. I heard her. I’d heard the words when she said them. But then it took me two weeks to process the words and what they meant. Then I wrote the poem you see in front of you, almost word for word. I sent it to her again and she said, “Oh my God, Jubi. Oh my God, oh my God,” like literally those words. And I started tearing up a little bit. It’s like, I got it. I can see people!
AJ: Ahh, that’s so beautiful!
JAH: So, I needed to be schooled toward that position. But the reason I mention this is, it was a very important moment in the book. I already knew I was writing a book at this point, but I really needed to acknowledge/reassess how I was treating masculinity. That was a turning point in that process in my head, where I thought — I’ve got to apply a different lens to so many moments. And it led me to go back and reevaluate a lot of the poems I had already written. Some of them got junked and some got rewritten. Others stayed exactly the same. But that moment, that occasion, really required me to rethink everything before, and it informed everything after.
“Hot Comb” is probably one of the three most important poems, to me, in the book. It’s my most obvious gesture toward Black women. To say, I can see you, and I can recognize that I can see you and can’t be you. I can’t fully appreciate who you have to be in this world. And I need you to know that we — that “we” that’s defined as Black manhood — some of us can see this. There’s hope. That’s a lot to put on a poem. But I’m not gonna lie, I put all that shit on that poem. I need Black women to know I can see them. And because I can see them, it’s possible that other people that look and live and walk through the world like me, can also see them.
I have a someone at VONA whom I still consider a friend, and we were doing an exercise. Part of that exercise was, we were supposed to stare into each other’s eyes and talk about that experience. But what came out of that was, we started talking about my relationship with my husband. I'm lucky, I have a wonderful husband. And I had written a poem about him in my workshop, the one that ended up being changed, but it ended up being “Cómo Amar a Tu Suegra (How to Love your Mother-in-Law).” And so, she (the friend) was commenting on that poem, and how my relationship sounded, and she said, “It wasn't clear before now that Black men were capable of that type of love, and I'm not sure if Black cis-gender heterosexual men are capable of that type of love.” And I have never been wounded so deeply.
AJ: Right, right.
JAH: That’s probably an exaggeration. But in my adult life, I can’t think of very many statements not intended to wound me, but that so unintentionally cut me to the core. It broke my heart that she’d be walking through the world thinking that. But then I realized, I have lots of Black women in my life who, for various reasons, aren’t involved very much with Black men who probably have a version of that thought. And I think, oh my God, what can I do about this?
Nothing, really. I can write some poems. The best I can do is work on me and see if I can figure out how to be a better me and make meanings out of my poems that maybe will address this. So, that’s where all that came from.
AJ: Thank you. Again, you can feel the undercurrent of ascension and this willingness to ascend that goes throughout the book. Is there a ritual lived or observed, like hot combs, that you are currently writing about or would like to write about?
JAH: I dance toward it. I mean, part of the truth of the title of this book is that I am kinky in my lived sexual life, and so there may be a day coming where I write more toward that. Obviously, kink has a more expansive meaning in the book. Kink as just that, sexual kinkiness. Kink as, the kink in Black folks’ hair. Kink as, a kink in the system. Kink as in, broke. So, I play off all the different ways that kink is a thing that we think about.
But I do think I want to write more towards, sort of, the sexual exploration. I feel like a lot of the book was undoing what people think masculinity should be, and by maybe figuring out a replacement for that. I don't know if it's a ritual, but that's kind of my answer today. Sexual exploration. Although I don’t know when that’s going to happen and I don’t think that’s a ritual, exactly.
AJ: What else are your poems writing toward now?
JAH: Right now, my poems are writing towards violence. A lot. Even with the tenderness and vulnerability, I think that’s something that’s pervasive in original kink. I’m writing now about how we can only expect so much patience from Black folks before, eventually, we arm ourselves and rebel. I don't think I’ve said it literally that way, but that's what's driving a lot of my poetry at the moment.
I mean, we have been waiting a year, lobbied a year, labored a year, protested a year — for a verdict in a case [the murder of George Floyd] where literally all the evidence was seen by everybody in the world who has a smartphone. And people act like — certain people — act like that was a great achievement. No, it wasn’t. Because if it had not been as obvious, I doubt we’d have had that verdict. And literally we had to keep so much pressure on for a year that literally that some of us are physically exhausted. We didn’t get to breathe this out before Daunte Wright was murdered. And we didn’t get to process Daunte Wright before Ma’Khia Bryant was a name in my head.
AJ: Same day, right? Same day as the Derek Chauvin verdict.
JAH: Same day. So, we have all these names that are becoming martyrs. Will I ever not know the name Philando Castile? Will I ever not know Eric Garner? Will I ever not know Sandra Bland? I feel a need to write poems that are speaking more toward the way we’re going to have to go.
I don’t see how capitalism can continue in its current form. Racism exists. Racism at this moment seems to be a function of capitalism. Capitalism is not possible without racism. And keeping us down is the goal of capitalism, is the goal of whoever can get the richest the fastest, the most. So I feel like something’s got to break soon. And either we’re going to be wiped out as a people or we’re going to get past it, and I don’t know which. But that’s where my poems are.
AJ: I feel like there is a need for more of that. You’ve mentioned that while you do love that you’ve gotten to dive into writing after having such a gap, you also mentioned that sometimes words aren’t enough.
JAH: Exactly.
AJ: So, you wanted to get more involved or find something more actionable to express what you’re experiencing right now — what we’re experiencing.
JAH: I believe that two things can be true at once. Absolutely. Poetry can spark change in the world. But poetry is not enough. It is a way to speak truth to power. Poetry is a million things. And one of those things can be to speaking truth to power. But it is also not putting a lot of food on a lot of tables. And it’s also not standing in front of police stations, protesting. It’s also not making laws change. It’s not abolishing police.
I can write a poem about abolishing policing, but at a certain point I’ve got to hit the pavement with the other folks who believe we really want police abolished — which, interestingly enough, is not a place I necessarily was this time two years ago. I had to come to that place. I had a profound misunderstanding of the origin of policing. And the functioning of policing. But also, the outcomes of policing. So, I have come to that place because it doesn't seem like there is any other reasonable place to be.
So yeah, I feel like poetry is not enough, in some ways. And I’ve got to do more, whether that's donating, whether that's mentoring other poets, whether that’s engaging other types of groups that want to accomplish things other than writing poetry. Yes, absolutely. But this was born of poetry. Poetry has wanted/inspired in me to be a more participatory citizen, and I don’t mean of the United States.
AJ: Right, right.
JAH: I mean, of whomever I consider to be a part of my shared humanity, which are some of us. There are clearly people who want me dead. Okay, we don’t have anything to talk about. We’re not on the same sides. I am not the person who is going to sit down and try to bridge. I need to protect me and mine. I care about Black folks. I care about queer folks. I care about trans folks. I care about disabled folks. I care about folks in poverty. This is who I’m going to be working with, and on behalf of. Y’all go do your thing and we’ll see how it turns out. Maybe somebody else will bridge. I’m not trying to bridge shit. I don’t mean to say it that asshole-ishly.
AJ: No, no. That’s where it is. It brings me to the poem “We.” I really love how you’ve varied the structures of your poems throughout this collection. You have fill-in-the-blank, you have short question and answers. So, it literally makes the reader engaged directly with the poems. So, I am wondering, how did you hope the reader gets involved with “We,” the poem? I couldn't help thinking of Gwendolyn Brooks’ “We Real Cool” because it has the same kind of quality of this cascade of snapshots.
JAH: Yes! And that poem, if you read the PEN interview, you know that it was probably my first meaningful poetry experience. I was privileged enough that when I was in college, Gwendolyn Brooks was still alive, so the Black Student Union got my college to pay for her to come visit and give a reading. We got to hear Gwendolyn Brooks in person. Now mind you, we have a Black Student Union, and we like to do things like put up poetry meetings ourselves, because that’s who we were at ages 18, 19, 20, 21. One of the students had done a reading of “We Real Cool” that I thought was pretty cool. And it was like, ‘We real cool. We left school. … We jazz June. We die soon.’
And it was like that. But when Gwendolyn Brooks showed up and read it, it was such a radically different experience. I mean, her reading — I can’t approximate it. I think I’m a good reader, but it was like she imbued those people with such sass and personality and swagger.
AJ: Yes!
JAH: And I was like, oh my God, I don't know anything about poetry! So yes, absolutely, that specific poem, and that specific moment, informed me.
Now that said, it was an opportunity to do some, I guess, collaging — some soldering, if you thought about it like metal being soldered together. In my MFA program at the University of Miami, we read a book by Jen Benka, who happens to now be the president of the Academy of American Poets. She wrote a book called, A Box of Longing with Fifty Drawers. The point of this book is literally fifty poems, and each of them is an exploration of the first fifty words of the Constitution.
AJ: Oh!
JAH: And if you remember, the Constitution starts with the word “we,” and she did her version of “We,” which is what it is. But, I thought, who is “we?” Then I thought, who is the “we” that Gwendolyn Brooks was talking about? Who is the “we” that I’m experiencing today?
I don’t know why the abecedarian format works for me, but that's what came to me. I was like, I need to define who and what “we” is, and I’m going to do it as a list. So it’s like, this melding of abecedarian poem, and list poem, a very tightly constrained abecedarian/list poem. I hadn’t read it for probably the first five months of the book being out, but I finally read it recently and I finally think I’ve achieved a reading I’m comfortable with. I literally try to achieve some of that explosiveness.
As I created the poem, I had to create moments of rupture in that list. One of those moments of rupture is the repetition of the word “murder.” I leaned hard on that because, you know, I am a Black man in these United States. Another one was literally that moment where I say “race, I mean, rape, I mean, rage” because I went back and forth originally when I wrote that poem with these different words. I wrote “race” then went, no, no, no. That’s too expected. “Rape?” No, no. That’s not enough, or something. “Rage” maybe is what I should use. Then I thought, maybe I should just use all three. And then I thought two things: I don’t know enough “Z” words that make sense. But also, I need this poem to end.
Ever since the inauguration earlier this year, I’ve felt self-important about that poem. Because I thought when I wrote this poem, I need this to remain unfinished. I need to gesture toward there being possibility at the end of this poem. So, I feel like that moment in Amanda Gorman’s inaugural poem when she says, “a nation that isn’t broken but simply unfinished.” And I thought, that’s what I was trying to accomplish in this poem. It served my purposes to keep it open at the end. But sometimes, that’s how things happen in poems.
AJ: Of course! I hope this doesn’t feel too personal, but it makes me just think of the kink scene, where a lot of it is built off of, “Okay, how can — whatever the outcome is, like joy, subspace, whatever — how can we find that out of these constraints?” And it could be literal constraints, or just constraints of the scene or the situation.
JAH: Yes.
AJ: And yet, from there, a lot of people might say — people who are outside of the kink world — “Well, I don't understand. If it's all about consent and all these rules and all these boundaries, then where is the surprise, where’s the fun?” But that's where it becomes even more surprising and even more fun. Because it's like, wow, I know what rules you have to operate under to get whatever this end result is.
JAH: Exactly! That is such a wonderful insight! I think it’s something poetry and kink very broadly share.
AJ: Yeah!
JAH: People act as if constraints can’t be liberating. Constraints can absolutely be liberating. And they can force creativity in a hundred ways.
AJ: Exactly!
JAH: How do I do these things in a way, then, that makes them my own? That I put my own stamp or stink on them? That’s a wonderful place to be. But also, when you create a consensual space, whether that’s in a poem or in kink, you’re saying that within this box — universe of possibilities — you may think it’s small, but it’s really huge.
I am making a line that says, “You will come out of this unharmed.” We won't do the things that don’t meet what you want to do. But beyond that, you can do so much! The creative part is, how do I still take you past where you thought you were comfortable? And rock your world, blow your mind, get you off, within these parameters that you thought were small.
AJ: Mmm-hmm.
JAH: This only works once you’ve set some basic parameters. The exchange speaks to, “I recognize that you decide how you walk through the world. Now you want to go down a road with me that you don't usually go down. We're going to go down that road, and at any moment you want to stop going down that road, we can and will. But if you trust me, it might change you.” It’s wonderful, if and when it’s right.
AJ: Yes, exactly. That’s the only way it works. Is there anything else as a poet you’d like to share?
JAH: What I’m doing is putting myself out there. I’m here for the communication and the encouragement and the work. I can’t speak for what other poets are here to do, but that’s what this poetry collection is for.
Jubi Arriola-Headley (he/him or they/them) is a Blacqueer poet, storyteller, and first-generation United Statesian who lives with his husband in South Florida and whose work explores themes of masculinity, vulnerability, rage, tenderness, and joy. He’s a 2018 PEN America Emerging Voices Fellow, holds an MFA from the University of Miami, and his poems have been published with Ambit, Beloit Poetry Journal, Literary Hub, Nimrod, Southern Humanities Review, The Nervous Breakdown, and elsewhere. Jubi’s debut collection of poems, original kink, is available now from Sibling Rivalry Press.
Arielle K. Jones (she/her and they/them) is a Black and queer writer from California’s Central Valley and earned her MFA from California State University, Fresno. She is a Tin House Summer Workshop alumna and Best of the Net finalist, with pieces in The Rumpus, Alternating Current, Blood Tree Lit, and elsewhere. Her work tends to portray intimacy and underrepresented identities through taboos and fairytales.