Bay Davis
⤏ BAY DAVIS IN CONVERSATION WITH ALYESHA WISE
⤏ PHOTOS BY FABIEN GUERRERO | MAKE-UP BY JULIA FRANCO | SET DESIGN BY DARLENE M. ALVARADO
⤏ ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED DECEMBER 2019
Bay Davis is a gifted ass, beautiful ass, blooming ass, Afro Indigenous human from Los Angeles. I first heard of Bay when they were part of the Pomona Youth Slam Poetry team while I was coaching the Los Angeles team. I was like, “That’s a cool ass kid!” We officially met when Bay became part of the 2018 Da Poetry Lounge Adult Slam team that I coached. It was then that I learned that Bay was, and is, way more than a very popular person. They are a fire that lights a room, a blueprint for a flourishing future, and a voice that raises the hood (& therefore the world).
*NOTE FROM THE EDITORS 1/15/2021: A previous version of this feature contained mentions of Bay’s deadname and now outdated moniker. The piece you are about to read has been edited to remove all of these references. Please keep this in mind as you read through this piece which might reflect opinions she no longer holds.
ALYESHA: You don’t have to be here. Why be present today?
HOOD PROFET: Honestly, I don’t know how to house a lot of this shit that’s inside of me into the real world, you know? Or into this physical shit. So honestly, it’s really rare that I say no to things. Which is probably bad. I’m always just excited to share something outside of social media ‘cuz I don’t ever wanna be known as this fuckin’ social media personality. I feel like I do so many different jobs. And as a result of those jobs, and as a result of the work that I’ve already done, it just so happens that I gained a platform. So, I feel like interviews or actual physical paperback magazines all hold more weight than Instagram. ‘Cuz even this, we could have this conversation over the phone or online or whatever but it’s not the same. Like I’m in your home, you know what I mean? We’re actually here, and that connection, and that shared space is something that I honestly don’t get a lot.
A: That’s so wild. I don’t get that from you. I feel you as this person to be like, “I’m not fuckin’ with that.”
HP: That makes me happy though ‘cuz I’m really bad at boundaries. So if people think that I have them, that’s fucking amazing.
A: But I can still understand how social media can be interesting. So for those who try to put you in a certain box, who are you? To me you are a very visible person, a very unapologetic yet still trying to figure it out kinda person. To me you’re just so human.
“I don’t ever wanna be known as this fuckin’ social media personality.”
HP: I’m visible in all of my fuck ups, in all of my humanity, in all of my processes and transitions, in all the things. Even just in the work that I do, it’s hard for me to be like, “I do this.” Or like, “I’m a poet” or “I’m a teacher” or “I’m a tattoo artist.” But I know all of my work is rooted in some kind of healing. Which is also why I’m always so transparent about all my shit, you know?
A: That line between doin’ it for other people and doin’ it for yourself. Somebody in the audience may be able to relate, somebody is gonna heal from your work and that’s real. What does it mean to serve yourself? To, like, truly show up for yourself?
HP: Growing up I was always taught never to be self-serving. I remember my mom being like, “These gifts are restored upon you, you don’t use this for yourself, you don’t use it for personal gain, you don’t use it for monetary shit, you use it to serve other people.” So behind that came all this shame of being selfish for taking care of myself, you know? But I think, now I’ve been really trying to ground myself in my own shit before I do anything. Before I check the mail, before I get out of bed, before anything. Trying to make sure that I’m whatever I need to be, or wherever I need to be. Even in servicing other people, I’m doing a disservice when I’m not working at my full potential, you know? I have to take care of myself.
A: Do you consider yourself a feminist?
HP: Yeah, a hundred percent.
A: What does that mean for you? There are people who have different definitions of feminism especially when it comes to different backgrounds. A white woman is gonna have a totally different definition than a black woman who is gonna have a totally different definition than a queer black woman who is gonna have et cetera et cetera et cetera . . .
HP: I’ve always come at feminism from a very strong allyship place of like, “How am I holding space? How am I stepping aside? How am I whatever, whatever towards the liberation of females?” It’s been interesting now, because of my exploration of my gender and sexuality. I don’t know, I think I’m still figuring out where I am. ‘Cuz even the other day someone referred to me as a black femme. I don’t know where I fit on the spectrum.
A: And that’s okay, right?
HP: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know the work is still the same. I just don’t know from what point I’m at now, if that makes sense.
A: For sure. Who we’re around, our circle, they kinda shape who you are in some way. You come into it with who you are, but your circle also shapes you. Describe your circle.
HP: Shit, I don’t know. I’ve always belonged to so many different groups and communities. But I immediately thought of like four people. So my circle’s definitely really small, or at least my immediate circle, like my family circle. But I feel like I’ve become my circle. It’s just me now. I spend most of my time by myself. And not in a somber way. It just kind of happened. Yeah, so my circle is small. Also very tight-knit. Even though we don’t see each other, they’re literally texting me right now. I know that’s my family. Period. That I don’t question or doubt at all.
A: Do you prefer your circle small?
HP: I don’t know, honestly. Remember when we were slamming? I was housing with like ten people. When I was there I was like, “This is my fucking family, forever.”
A: I remember.
HP: Yeah, those were my fuckin’ folks. And now, obviously, not so much. However it flows, it kind of just is. I know everyone that’s in my life is strategically placed. And I feel like everyone has a really specific role, but I’ve never intentionally looked for somebody.
A: What does safety mean to you?
HP: I’m not sure. I feel like I see safety in so many different ways. But, I have so many triggers that I don’t even know what safe space is exactly. Like, I know it when I feel it. I know when I feel safe. I know when I feel like I’m in a space that I could get free in. I know when I feel housed or loved or supported, not judged, you know.
A: I see it all over social media, how, despite what you’re going through, people will still say, “Oh my gosh, you’re so strong. You’re so amazing, I wanna be like you.” Does that happen to you a lot?
HP: Yeah.
A: Do you ever feel like you have to perform? And I’m using that with very loose quotes for people.
HP: It depends on the space, but yeah. Which is also why my circle’s so small. People have all these specific expectations for me which is really hard because I feel like my whole life has been trying to unlearn expectations. Expectations of being a man, or being straight, or being Black, or being Afro Indigenous, being from South Central, being the first son. But I think for so long the idea of performing was about acting as someone else. Now I’m performing, and I’m performing so you know this is who I am. So you know undoubtedly that I’m existing and I’m existing for myself.
A: I’ve performed for myself before, just to, like, convince my body to feel somethin’ different.
HP: Wow, same.
A: You look fucking amazing, but we live in a world full of fucking ignorance, but I don’t wanna speak for you. How do you deal with people who are gonna challenge you on your identity and your transformation?
HP: I always forget that my transitions are also something that other people are processing. But I worked so hard for so many years performing as somebody that I’m not. To the point where I thought I was gonna die somebody else, I thought I was gonna die.
A: For sure, I get genuinely sad at how people are so ignorant about motherfuckers who ain’t straight. Can I ask you a tough question? You can pass if you want.
HP: Yes.
“For so long the idea of performing was about acting as someone else. Now I’m performing so you know this is who I am. So you know undoubtedly that I’m existing and I’m existing for myself.”
A: What keeps you here? I’ve seen things you’ve written, I hear things you say. And me, being that inner auntie, I see things and I’m like, that’s real. I can’t just take that lightly. But I don’t know what to say.
HP: After Vic passed, I think was the first time that I didn’t know anymore. It was the first time that I really had no direction or didn’t feel like I had any purpose. I don’t want my existence to be this constant trauma and constant survival, but I also don’t want my existence to be the person who just has this story to tell, you know? I don’t want my life to keep being these moments to fucking share and reflect on.
A: And that seems like what the people want, a lot.
HP: Yeah. So now I’ve been trying to dive more into just my basic necessities: spiritually, physicality. Reground and reroot into myself. And then later come back into the healing work. I think I’m still just trying to figure out who the fuck I am. I’m figuring out how to live for me. I wanna love something. I wanna love something so much that I wanna live for it, and I want that thing to be me. I need that rooting to be in myself because I know everything else outside of me is forever changing in ways that I can’t control. But I know I can control myself, so if my life is rooted in myself, then it’s stable and it works.
A: Hell yeah, I fucks with that. How important is havin’ fun?
HP: It’s everything, I think a part of my safety and my freedom are spaces that I can laugh in or smile in. I was talking about performing earlier, before coming into all my transitions and shit. One of the things that I was taught, about how to be a man, was not to smile and not to laugh. I think sometimes, a lot of times I’m in spaces where I don’t feel comfortable enough to smile or laugh or be joyful ‘cuz I don’t feel safe, you know? I don’t feel safe enough to be vulnerable so I prioritize the spaces that I can be that in.
A: Say it’s 2039, 2040. What’s your legacy?
HP: I really wanna build something. I don’t know where to start. If it’s a fuckin’ book, or a workshop pamphlet, or something, I just wanna build things. I wanna build more than just one thing, I wanna build things that sustain after my life. I want things that will still be here when I’m not. I wanna build some kind of building where there’s fuckin’ just like services and space. Like, bitch, if I could have a fuckin’ building. If I could have something that offered resources to folks, or something that’s self-sustained, that’s the ultimate in my head. Something that’s just gonna be a constant. I wanna build a system. I wanna build something that’s anti-system, but is a system, that will sustain the same way their systems have sustained, you know?
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⤏ ALYESHA WISE (SHE/HER) IS A PUBLISHED POET, TEACHING ARTIST & TEDX SPEAKER FROM CAMDEN, N.J. CURRENTLY RESIDING IN LA, SHE IS THE CO-FOUNDER OF SPOKEN LITERATURE ART MOVEMENT — AN ORGANIZATION PROVIDING POETRY EDUCATION AND EXTENSIVE PROGRAMMING FOR POETS — AND A TEACHING ARTIST FOR STREET POETS, INC., — AN ORGANIZATION SERVING JUVENILE INJUSTICE-INVOLVED YOUTH WITH MENTORSHIP AND ARTS PROGRAMMING.