Remembering Greg Tate, critical giant, author, Flyboy, and my teacher.
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The last dispatch from the alien/agent provocateur known asGreg Tatebeamed out from perhaps his most inconspicuous dwelling.
Tates abrupt loss is a seismic blow to the worlds of cultural criticism, music, and visual art.
I didnt know what to make of him at first.
This was just him.
Tates guidance through the diaspora reignited my sense ofcuriosity.
It felt immersive, like a crash course in critical theory that was subconsciously in motion.
Maybe he was playing with the possibility, propping that door open just so.)
I was trying to grasp everything.
I didnt know what a Black critic meant until our meeting, nor that I could actually be one.
Tates criticism could be scathingly pointed (like that Diddy jab).
Like,are you fucking kidding me?)
The Black Rock Coalition, co-founded by a group of pigeonholed Black musicians Vernon Reid, D.K.
Tate queered the way.
I held Tates work to my chestin the darkest moments of my life.
After a while, my parents had me admitted into a psychiatric hospital.
We were all so isolated.
I was drowning in uncertainty, but Blackness felt stable.
When the book came, I grasped it like a lifeline.
Greg will never know it, but even then, I reached for him.
Its easy to latch onto the way Tate spoke, wrote, and worked.
Greg Tate has created so many critics and held open such essential realms.
Its easy to reach for him, to want to be like him.
He didnt create worlds; he invited us into them with a sincere wit and infectious cool.
Those worlds are still standing, even if, now, theres one less seeker.
