PICTURE THE CAREFREE SWAGGER of a teenage white boy, shirtless and smooth, swinging himself into a pristine tree-lined body of water from a rope as if there were no history, no context, no world. Instead, simply the body and the self it manages, flying gracefully with no net, nothing to carry that body to safety but its own faith that nothing will squash it down. My dear friend Ronaldo Wilson, a beautiful, brilliant queer black man whom I met at the Cave Canem Retreat for African American Poets almost twenty years ago, might call this state of swagger and swing with no history “neutral innocence.”