It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt. Buy It Now!

Four years ago, I got an email from an old college friend by the name of Maureen McDole. Maureen, her husband, and a couple other folks had started a new, small press in Florida called Summerfolk, and Maureen wanted to know if I would be interested in submitting a poetry manuscript for consideration for publication.

Does a carriage horse shit in the street?

oOf course, I said yes. It took me about a year to get my act together to get a manuscript to the editors, and in the meantime I met the man I would eventually be with for the next three years. On meeting David, and seeing his art work, I asked him if he would consider a collaboration with me on the book. Twenty poems matched with 20 of his lino cut prints from his Face A Day series. He said yes. The publishers said yes. And so, the concept that would become the book, It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt, was born.

The last three years have been a wild ride of love, war, growth, change, hurt, loss, pain, and healing. Gabriel Garling with Summerfolk Press designed a fantastic book, but, the economic reality of the times is that the press, a labor of love, has been put on hold due to the recession. Unfortunately that meant that the good people at Summerfolk couldn't print our book.

Enter Sven Davisson at Rebel Satori Press.

About a year ago, I realized that I was well on my way to writing my first novel. By August of last year, I had a good 100 or so pages written. My friends Emanuel Xavier and Charlie Vazquez were both being published by the Queer Mojo imprint of Rebel Satori Press. I asked them if they would put in a good word with their publisher for me. He asked to see a sample of the novel and a synposis. I obliged. He obliged me by giving my a contract for my first novel, Eden Lost, which will be out later this Fall (YES BETTY TISEL I AM WORKING ON THE DANG REVISIONS!). In May, Sven descended from his mighty mountain eyrie in Maine to attend the book release party for Emanuel Xavier's latest project, Me No Hablo con Acento, and I had a chance to meet and hang out with Sven. I mentioned, in passing, that I had this completed manuscript that I was considering self-publishing. Sven gave me complete side eye and said, "No, no. Send it to me. If I like it, I will publish it."

Sven liked it. Sven published it. You can order it right now. Help a broke writer be less broke and do yourself a favor...get an amazing book with poetry and art that is, in my humble opinion, amazing. But don't just take my word for it. Take their words too:

"Brandon Lacy Campos is an important poet that doesn't cut corners and doesn't compromise. His work is vivid, jagged, and it takes up space in the most beautiful way. To invest time in getting familiar with his poetry is to invest in vitality. I hope this is just the first shout to announce the arrival of his chorus." -Bao Phi, author of Song I Sing.

"Brandon Lacy Campos is a word thief of the best and brightest kind, pilfering from “a corrupt system that must fall/If we’re ever to have liberty and justice for all.” These scathing, impassioned poems kick up stars dragged along asphalt—with outlandish sass, old-time funk, and a hot, ever-shimmying soul that could teach the stiffest otherness in anyone more than a few things about its most generous self." Ed Bok Lee, best selling author of Real Karaoke People.

"Brandon Lacy Campos is part tomahawk thrower and part philosopher, a fresh voice of queer rebellion, an outsider talking of revolution, avenging exploitation. The stinging lashes on a slave’s back, the mystical incantations of native medicine men, the curiosities of an innocent white child and the cultural bisection of a bilingual Latino—these are the things he sees, as these are the things he is. These poems are monuments to the victims of abuse, to the splendor of visionary queer consciousness—to true America." Charlie Vázquez, fiction writer, blogger and host of the queer East Village reading series, PANIC!, author of Contraband and co-editor of From Macho to Mariposa: New Gay Latino Fiction (get this book too! It includes an excerpt from Eden Lost).


You can buy your copy of It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt, today!

One Liner of the Week Award: Ebony Adams

I have a friend that is what, in the technical jargon, is classified as straight up country colored Kookers McGee. Look that up in the DSM-IV, and you will find a picture of Miss Ebony Adams formerly of Cheyenne, Wyoming (one of three and a half Negroes in the entire state) and currently of Los Angeles, California. Bourgie ass Brentwood to be exact.

I ain't mad at her, I am currently sitting up in her living room, drinking her wine, and cooking her food.

Ebony and I met through my Non-Romantic Life Partner Jason Ruiz who was, whilst finishing his PhD, a dissertation fellow at Macalester College where Professor Kookers McGee was teaching the children a thing or two. Upon meeting Ebony, I immediately developed a colored crush. She was brilliant and country and sweet and sassy and so much goodness wrapped up in a gorgeous little box that I had no choice but to love the Hell out of this girl.

She been there for me through some crazy ass shit I put myself through and kept right on loving my Kookers butt, and now, four and some years later, I am sitting in her house in LA doing the colored things I mentioned above.

Hey glory. Praise Him.

Yesterday, Ebony and her fab roommate Jen threw my first book party to celebrate the launch of It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt (which is now available for pre-order from my publisher and Amazon.com). Despite the fact that immediately after finishing a radio interview an walking into her living room and slicing my foot open down to the meaty meat on a sliver of glass, I still love her.

Eb prepared all kinds of goody snacks for the fiesta including a black bean dip that she lamented was flavorless.

Fast forward to this morning.

It was early as Hell, and Ebony had gotten up and made breakfast before she had to go to work. I walked in the kitchen to dish me up a plate, and I noticed that Ebony had the black bean dip out to put on the eggs and stuff.

All of a sudden I hear Ebony exclaim from the front room,

"Oh snap. These beans done sat around and got good all of a sudden."

I laughed so hard I almost fell face first into the hot ass cast iron skillet on the stove.

And that, mon cheries, is the One Liner of the Week.

And thank you to Ebony and Jen for hosting a fabulous book party. Love ya'll.

I Love Love

I am in love with love.

At least, I am in love with seeing and experiencing real and true and beautiful love.

Last night, I saw some love so real that it made me cry.

Miss Candise Ketcham married Mr. Griffing Partington. Yes ladies and gentleman, La Señora Crack Ass got hitched...in a beautiful ceremony on Malibu Lakes, California.

Once upon a time I thought Crackity and I would die as lecherous old lascivious roommates. I imagined us as crotchety octogenarians groping men a quarter of our age on the streets and shoving dollars in the orifices of strippers and well hung UPS deliverymen.

I haven't entirely given up on that dream but it may have to include a couple of husbands that we keep around for some of our baser needs...sponge baths...banana gumming....fetching the prescriptions that will keep us alive, unnaturally, well passed the age when we should have collapsed into piles of glitter and poppers.

One of those menfolk would be the sweet as pie and big old crybaby (just like me!) Griff Partington.

Watching these two folks get married last night, a perfect evening as the sun was setting in the mountains outside of Los Angeles, in the Agoura Hills, was downright magical.

I am willing to forgive the obscenely large wedding party which was pretty much equal in size to the 200 or so guests.

(sorry...I got distracted...the prettiest, buffest Gaysian in SoCal just sat down next to me at the hotel bar whilst I am writing this...please see my note above about why me and Crackity are soul mates).

Back to love. So. Yeah. Love.

Candise and Griff are so stupidly and happily in love it made me giddy to watch them blubber their way through their vows. Candise, being truly hard core, only got a little weepy and ended up comforting Griff as he basically broke down two seconds into the ceremony.

It was a gift to be able to share their special day with them and to see what love can create between two people.

Thank you Candise and Griff, Mr. and Mrs. Crackity, for letting me share your special day with you.

GOYA (Get Off Your Ass)

Cruising at 35,000 feet on a transcontinental flight from New York to Los Angeles, my iPhone off limits—which means Angry Birds is verboten—and looking at five hours in the air trapped next to a very loving yet noise filter-less French family, and I decided that I had better write to alleviate bordem, circumvent my ADHD, and prevent myself from committing an act of war against the people of France.

When one finds oneself questioning whether or not the Geneva Conventions apply when traveling 500 miles per hour, it is best to do something to redirect ones attention and aggression.

I am on my way to Los Angeles to celebrate the marriage of an old and amazingly dear friend Candise Ketcham. I met Candise my first day on campus at La Universidad de Puerto Rico-Rio Piedras back in August 1999. The first day on campus found all of the international exchange students herded together on a trolley bus. As the students gathered, they broke into several camps: the French Girls (we hated them), the Brits and Cali Gals (we loved them), the Midwestern Posse (exactly two of us: me and Bernie plus we claimed Kylah since she was living in Wyoming and no one knew what the Hell to do with that...plus it was right after the brutal slaying of a young white gay man in Laramie, so I thought it best to keep an eye on the girl from the same town), and an assortment of random Latin kids from the U.S.

I can't remember exactly how our powers combined to form the GOYA crew, but by the end of the first day, we had fairly clearly gelled together. I was the only boy that was consistently with the crew (the other boys were either really awkward or were native Spanish speakers from the U.S., so had easily slid right into making new, local friends). My roll in said group was cemented when the ladies discovered 1) that I was big old gay and didn't want to poke any of them, and 2) to their surprise and my own it turned out that I did, in fact, know a fair amount of Spanish....enough that I was the one that did all the translating, talking, and coordinating of our cross island adventures.

(In one instance, I made a deal with Bernie that if she bought the 10 books required for one of our classes that I would read them and tell her what they said, and we would study together. When we got our midterms back she got an A, and I got a C...I was like...WHAT THE HELL! I grabbed her paper....it was in English....the professor told her to write her paper in English. When I approached him to tell him that I was also a native English speaker he looked at me and said, “You're Puerto Rican...learn the language,” and walked away. Wasn't that a bitch!)

The GOYA crew, so named after the ubiquitous GOYA products found throughout Puerto Rico (and which we turned into an acronym which stood for GET OFF YOUR ASS), could be found together eating rice and beans for lunch and for dinner and for breakfast. We ate most of our meals together (la UP...pronounced YOU PEE...didn't have a meal plan)...and we only had meat about once per week, but with 20lb bags of rice, dozens of cans of GOYA beans and the rice cooker that I carried in my carry on bag from Minneapolis to San Juan, we were ready to go! Our weeks were fairly regular: Monday-Thursday, we had class...Thursday night I hit the gay bar with my queer island friends (and later boyfriend) that I met. Friday was beach day, Saturday was island adventure day, and Sunday was back to the beach. Not a bad way to spend a year of your life, eh?

(The person in the seat in front of me just shoved her seat backwards into my computer and almost knocked my ginger ale over onto the keyboard. There would have been murder a mile high in the sky if that had happened. Trust.)

Since the GOYA Crew officially disbanded in 2000, and we all went back to our respective campuses and lives and went about the business of growing up, some of us have seen each other in various configurations. One year Karly, who now lives with her British gal pal in England (she was our SoCal surfer chic dudette with the kooky Hawaiian middle name) did a road trip, scooped up Kylah in Montana and then drove to Denver to see me when I was staying there in 2001. And a couple of years ago, my beloved Candise aka Crack Ass aka Aunty Crackity picked me up from LAX during a brief trip, and we had dinner. Most of us have kept in some sort of touch over the years, but this trip is going to be extra amazing because one of the core GOYA Crew and my other most beloved of the group besides Crackity, Miss Keeley Pratt of Londontown, has flown in from Merry Olde Anglaterre for the wedding. Oh yes, the British Hussy is back and in full effect!

Keels and Candise kept me in stitches, and over the years, thanks to the Grace of God and Facebook, we have been able to keep tabs on each other, but tonight I will be in the presence of two of my favorite spirits, and I can barely stand the excitement...I may punch one of the Frenchies sitting next to me in excitement.

But wait! There's more!

There's also Ebony, Togba, Pradeepa, Manish, Stacey, Tay Tay, and perhaps even the deliciously sexy Mr. Kurt Gering (he used to teach at my high school...thank God he came a couple of years after I graduated or I would have been a star in my own After School Special). So many of my loved ones have up and moved to SoCal and of all the regions of the U.S., except the Pacific Northwest, it is the one area I travel to the least. And now, I get to see 'em all in one fell swoop!

I am missing my Puma something fierce at the moment, and by the time Tuesday comes around, I am going to be McKookers for Puma Puffs, but I am truly excited to see, spend time with, and love on some really amazing people in my life.

Get Off Your Ass!

If You Believe

I was born with an abundance of faith.

In a world, in a life, in a childhood, in a journey that would have destroyed, and rightfully so, the faith of some...the fact that I have survived, thrived, and been surrounded by the greatest gifts of love any man could receive and more than most will ever receive has proven the presence of God/Community/Love/Faith in my life.

I have always been afraid of calm. Stability has terrified me. Peace has been my kryptonite. Joy was for someone else. Happiness was temporary. Crisis was comofrtable. Pain was deserved. Misery was my comfort blanket.

No more. No more. No more.

I repeat.

No more.

Right now, I am sitting here, in my apartment on a Saturday afternoon. Lena Horne is playing. She is singing Stormy Weather and If You Believe.

"If you believe, within your heart, you'll know. No one can change the path that you must go."

I have walked a path. My sweet Lord Jesus, have I walked a path. The earliest paving stones were laid down for me. They twisted my feet and bowed my knees, and they had me walk bowlegged into my early adulthood...and it has taken a long as time to straighten them out. I still walk from side to side now and again. Sometimes I have a limp, and sometimes I trip over my own feet, but damn if I haven't taken Thor's Hammer to the street in front of me, shattered the crooked ways and grabbed the twisted path and shaken it until it lays straight...ish.

Hot damn Miss Lena could sing the panties off the Virgin Mary.

In the Litany of the Saints of the Common Man, Saint Lenam, Our Lady of Peace and Fierceness, has sometimes sung me through some ugly places.

Today she is singing me a different song.

"Believe what you feel, and know you are right because the time will come around when you'll say it's yours. Believe that you can go home. Believe you can float on air!"

Float? I am flying. I am flying. I am flying through this world, and I have been lifted up and hung on the wind by all ya'll. By the teachers that encouraged me all throughout out school, by my family--especially my Grandpa Carey and my Honey Bun, by a community of friends that stretches from Norway to Los Angeles---from Troll Baby who once told me that it was ok for me to be small (maybe no other words, short of I Love You, have meant more to me in my entire life)...to David Berube who taught me that I deserved to be loved....to Keith who has walked many of the paths I have walked and saw past the masks....to all of the amazing human beings that have been angels in my life. Angels, if you believe, walk amongst us each and every day.

And I want to single out Mr. Kamal Fizazi without whom I wouldn't be sitting here typing this. I love you my friend.

I am walking the right road for me now...and I will not wander from its path. The Universe reminds me each and every day that I am doing justice by myself...and when you do justice by yourself...you are a light for justice in the world.

I have much gratitude and this note is just to say thank you to you all for believing in me.

Ashe.

Healing Touch

Too many of my friends and loved ones know what it is to grow up in homes where violence is ever present. Too many of the people I care deeply about were physically, emotionally, and/or sexually abused by care givers who took too much and left deep scars in their lives and spirits.

I am a survivor.

I grew up, raised by my step-father, my Mom's second husband, who was, because of pain from his own childhood, an addict that used his hands and feet to beat out his rage into the body of my Mother and me. My earliest memories are of the day his mother died, a woman to whom I was very close, and the day when he beat my Mom unconscious in front of me outside of our home while my Mom was eight months pregnant with my little brother. Those memories are 30 years old, and they are still fresh in my mind. I can see the twilight, the concrete stairs leading down from our house to the street, I can see the screen door that I am looking through, and I can see my child hands gripping the mesh and crying as I watch my Mom lying, unconscious, below. I remember thinking that a car was going to park on her because she was laid out exactly in a parking space against the curb. I can not see my step-father in my memory, but he is present as a disturbance in the air as he rushed up into the house. I remember him yelling at me to go to my room, and I can even see the wood paneled walls of my bedroom.

Some children's minds bend around the memories and bury them. My mind has always done the opposite. I can reply each instance of fear and pain and trauma and rage like an old familiar VHS tape.

I have done much work to heal from that past, and while my spirit has come such a long way in its healing process, as has my mind, those memories also exist as very real trauma in the body. From ancient philosophy to modern medecine we have ample proof, science, reasoning and faith that tells us that the mind, body and spirit are interconnected in subtle ways. Any doctor will tell you that to heal from trauma, one has to rehabilitate all three.

Five weeks or so ago, I worked up the courage to ask a beautiful man from my gym out for coffee. It took me about a month and a whole lot of gumption to finally, haltingly, almost dropping my cell phone, if he would like to get coffee sometime. I almost fell off of the pec machine when he said yes and flashed me his diamond smile.

It wasn't long before he shared with me that he was a massage therapist with both a private practice as well as the staff massage therapist with Cirque du Soleil's new show Zarkana (GO AND SEE THE SHOW...IT IS AMAZING!). And it was during one of our very first conversations that Keith, that's his name...Keith Stiles, shared with me that he is a survivor of childhood emotional, physical, and sexual assault and violence. He also expressed to me, and later wrote a blog about, how his own experiences with childhood familial assault and violence informed his work as a massage therapist. For him, massage is a sacred practice and his practice a place of healing. In that place there is no room for the crossing of sexual boundaries neither on the part of the client nor that of the massage therapist. You can read his blog posting where he articulates clearly his point of view, and it is a point of view that should be shared widely. Massage is a healing art, it is a sacred art, and it should be held as such just as any Western medical practice is respected.

As Keith would label it, he and I have been "hanging out." I decided when I met him and found out what he did for a living that I would never ask him for a massage. In fact, only once, when I pulled a muscle in my back, did I even bring up the subject of him perhaps rubbing it for me, and by the time I saw him, it was done hurting, and I did not bring up the conversation again. My friend Dawn is a doctor, and I don't ask her to check me for hernias (plus, I grew up with her, so the thought of her telling me to turn my head and cough makes me giggle). So, I surely wasn't going to ask Keith to provide healing services to me.

Instead, a couple of weeks ago, I posted a note on my FB group guiding folks to Keith's blog about his practice, his experiences a child, and how he defines his healing space and the expectations of massage therapists and patients. I had recently been trusted enough and given the privilege of experiencing the stories of several friends of mine, some new and some old, that are all survivors of child sexual abuse (CSA). These six individuals, organized by the brilliant and stunning Amita Swadhin, working in partnership with Ping Chong and Company, put together a theater piece called Secret Survivors, and they graciously provided an interview for my blog some months ago before the show went up at the theater at El Museo del Barrio. For anyone that has survived any kind of physical abuse, sexual or otherwise, to trust someone else with your body, especially something as initimate as a massage, takes tremendous trust...a trust that some survivors are never able to give to a stranger. But because I know that trauma lives in our tissue, I decided that it was important to provide my community access to massage from someone that has also been to some of the places that they have been in their lives.

Then, a week ago, Keith asked me if I would be willing to write about the connection between his practice and being a survivor and publish it on my blog if he gave me a massage. I was extremely nervous, but I agreed. This afternoon, at 1pm, I was blessed by his hands.

Not to disclose any personal details, but he and I have seen each other in all of our "glory." But walking into his apartment today, I was a client and he was a service provider. From the beginning of the massage to the end, he took no liberties, he violated no boundaries, he assumed no privileges. When it came time for me to undress and get under the sheet, he left the room. Just as he would with any client, he arrange the sheet so that potentially vulnerable places were covered while he worked. His hands, his energy, and his spirit were about providing me with healing.

I have had several massages in my life. Every therapist has had to tell me to relax, to allow them to move my body, and to not tense up.

Today I fell asleep.

I was aware of his presence and his healing work, but I was betweeen wakefullness and sleeping, and I was able to allow him to move and arrange and do the work that he has been highly trained to do. When it was done, he thanked me as he would anyone else, and he left the room again, so I could get dressed.

He blessed me with healing and with respect, and he honored himself and the healing space he has created to do the work that he does.

Shortly thereafter I had to leave for a meeting with Bebe Zahara Benet, Will McNair, and DJ Baker. When I sat down, the first thing out of Will and DJ's mouth was that I looked young and relaxed and that I was glowing. One of them said that I looked like a child. I think, maybe, it's because that child that has lived with hurt for so long was touched with joy and love, gentleness and healing. I am so very grateful for the healing experience of StilesMassage, and I recommend his practice to anyone but especially to those that knew violence way too young.

When A Relationship Ends

Last week, I ended a three year relationship with my former partner David. It was a hard decision, and I spent several months thinking about it, talking about it with one of my best friends, and feeling my way to my truth.

When the answer came, it was clear, and it was sad, and it was right.

I didn't leave David because he cheated on me. He never hit me. He didn't treat me poorly. Like all couples, there were times that were rough and there were times that were happy. From sharing our small apartment with his ex-boyfriend Frank to losing my job due to the recession, we had gone through some deep things together.

Real deep.

He loved me through a couple of intense relapses where I went to really ugly places within myself, and he stood by me. I will never ever be able to repay that love debt. I was a crazy motherfucker that was hurting and struggling and self-destructing because I was struggling against some old and evil beliefs about myself, but with his love and support I made it through.

For the last six months, I have been on an extremely limited income, and he paid for most of our bills during that time (a couple of years ago our roles were reversed....financial hard times happen when folks are together...but you work it out).

So, when I was thinking about ending our relationship, it became a struggle between the debts that I felt I owed him and the debt I owed myself. Neither of us was perfect in this relationship, but it isn't for me to tell his tale. This is my part of the story, and so I can only say that in the end, I decided that I could repay the physical debts I had to David while also being true to the spiritual debt I had to myself.

A debt of happiness. A debt of joy. A debt of affection and care. A debt of cuddling and snuggling. A debt of healing sex and healing love. A debt of strength. A debt of safety. A debt of standing on my own two damn feet.

I came to the truth that I was staying in the relationship not because he and I were growing together, learning together, loving together but because we had fallen into a comfortable pattern of mutual support and often times paternalism. He was someone for me to rely on, and neither of us was getting that deep down joyous love, peace and sustanance that every single person deserves. We had become the best of friends but we weren't boyfriends in any way.

I wasn't always a good partner. I wasn't ever perfect. But I loved him the best way I could. I loved him when I couldn't love myself. He taught me what it was like to truly see someone and love them not despite their flaws but inclusive of them. I can't take away the hurt he is feeling right now. I would if I could. I would take away all the times when I wasn't good and when I caused him worry and pain. But I know that we DID grow together, we did learn from and teach each other, and we did love each other, imperfectly, but openly.

And with my own love and support of others like David, Mark and Jeff, Kamal, Megan, Eli, Pookie, Wifey, and nameless others, I am now the strongest, happiest, and most centered I have ever been. THAT work I did MYSELF. THAT WORK and THAT GROWTH I owe to NO ONE. THAT I owed to myself. And THAT work I will continue to do and live and love myself a little more every damn day.

I also have love for David. It is my sincere hope that we continue to be deep friends, artistic collaborators, and family. What this moment in life has taught me is that a break up is not something you do to someone else...it is something you do for yourself.

I am finding my joy. I wish nothing but joy, peace, and happiness to him. Thank you for the gifts you gave me.

Happiness is a Choice

It took me until my mid-30s to come to this realization, but a short time ago, I realized that happiness is a choice.

Now let me explain. I am not a hippy dippy dopey faux hippy confusing a good high with happiness. Nor am I on an industrial strength supply of lithium. What I have come to understand is that in any given day there will be highs and lows...you may be pissed off or sad...someone may hurt you or you may have done something not so smart that hurt yourself...but even in those places of hurt, sadness, pain, or confusion...you can choose joy.

Sound like a contradiction? Nah...stick with me here.

Today, I had a moment with a fucked up racist Russian bank teller at my bank. I have been going to this same credit union branch since I moved to NYC. Before today, I never had a problem. Sometimes my checks are written out to my legal name, William Brandon Lacy, and sometimes the checks are made out to Brandon Lacy Campos. My ID says William Brandon Lacy on it, but in the past, the fact that my ID has Brandon Lacy on it, as long as the check was written to William Lacy, William B. Lacy, William Brandon Lacy, Brandon Lacy or Brandon Lacy Campos...the good tellers have realized that golly gee two of the three names on the check were the same, so gosh...there isn't anything shady going on.

Enter Sister Mary Gulag of Bitchskaya, Siberia. The women looked at me, looked at the check, and said..."this isn't you."

I said, politely, "Excuse me m'am, but do you not see the names Brandon Lacy on the idea and the check."

"Yes, but there is no Campos."

So I reply, "M'am...I have two last names...one just happens to not be on my ID. But, as you can see, Brandon and Lacy are on the check and ID."

"Yes but this isn't you."

And she gave me a look that basically made me want to punch a hole through the Plexi-glass and scoop her eye out of her socket.

And then came the coup de grace when she said, "You can mail it to your bank and see if THEY will deposit it."

Only by the Grace of God did that woman not get a free trip back across the Ural Mountains on Foot in the Ass Airlines.

So I said, "I will be back with the check re-written."

And she gave me a smile that basically said, "Sure nigger. Next!"

That's when I made a choice.

You see up until that point in my day, my day had gone so super well. I'd spent the night at Keith's spot. I walked home, and we had a great workout at the gym. Well, by great I mean that I did some cardio before sprinting to the office to get a report into the Drug Policy Alliance. I'd made plans to meet back up with Keith to finish my workout that afternoon, and I had already decided that I was going to treat myself to my favorite dish at Pam's Real Thai on 49th Street (the crispy pork with basil will change your life).

I actually love going into the office, because I get to work hand in hand with amazing interns, the brilliant and sexy Amber Hollibaugh and Jay Toole...and every day is a day closer to July 19th when my poetry collection It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt comes out.

So as I was walking out of the bank back to the office to get Amber to re-write my check, and I was contemplating if my Chuck Norris skills were tight enough that I could kick through the Plexiglass to exact my ninja revenge on said Wicked Witch of Far East, I realized that I had just given this Creature of Darkness way too much power over me.

So I chose happiness.

The minute I put on my headphones and put on "Happiness" by Alexis Jordan...I found myself back in that joy spot. Can't no body take away that place of joy except me. I have mad skills and many years of emptying my joy tank, but I have been working too damn hard to fill it to let ANYONE empty it. If what you are bringing me is your hurt and trying to make me feel what you are feeling, if you bring me your anger and try to raise mine, if you bring me your pain and try to make me feel it, if you bring me your sadness and try to make me cry, do not be offended when I say to you, "Find your joy."

I found mine, and I am keeping it.

Theater Review: Jomama Jones Does It Again

Last Tuesday night, I was sitting at Symphony Space in an audience with a couple hundred people waiting for the precious and beautiful Jomama Jones to take the stage.

I was sitting in the audience with Mr. Keith Stiles of StilesMassage and Cirque du Soleil fame after having been surprised at the door by running into Baraka de Soleil, my good friend Ben's ex and another Minnesota ex-pat living in the Big Apple (the Minne-Apple rocks!).

I'd spent a good part of the previous day and dinner beforehand praising Jomama Jones and the Sweet Peaches. How could I not? When Mr. Kenyon Farrow took me to see Jomama's show Radiate, I was in love with Jomama before she sang her first note. And the Sweet Peaches were so juicy and delicious that I wanted to run up on stage and take a bite!

I'm just saying.

Now if you have never seen Jomama Jones perform...think of Miss Lena Horne come back to life. She is TRUE elegance.

And her music is a magical music ride of funk, jazz, soul, punk and all the beautiful blackness at the root of so many of the musical traditions we consume in the English speaking world.

Once again, when Jomama took the stage, I was transfixed. Keith put his arm around my shoulder, and for the next hour and a half we laughed and stomped our feet and called out a couple of amens as Jomama OWNED THAT DAMN STAGE! With her collaborator Bobby Halvorson on stage with her, the sultry and sassy vocal gifts of the Sweet Peaches backing Jomama up, and some of the beautiful lyrics of Miss Sharon Bridgforth....the Rapture could have come right then and there, and I would have happily gone on to Heaven knowing that I had just heard true art made into beautiful musicality.

Seeing Jomama's beautiful sparkling, playful, teasing, loving eyes, and once again having Jomama's storytelling and truthtelling and spiritlifting swirling into my life was such a gorgeous blessing. Let me be real for a minute...if you have the dollars and some sense....bring this damn concert to your town and let Jomama wow audiences anywhere on the planet that folks have ears to listen. Jomama Jones and the Sweet Peaches aren't just artists...they heal with music.

The Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry Deadline Extended to AUGUST 15, 2011

THE DEADLINE HAS BEEN EXTENDED TO AUGUST 15, 2011!

The 2011 Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry

Dear Friends:

I am happy to announce the call for submissions for the second year of the Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry.

The Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry will be awarded to a poet that demonstrates the power of spoken word to address issues of class, sexuality and race in a way that transcends rhetoric and creates movement.

The winner will receive $300, and the winning poem will be published at My Feet Only Walk Forward (www.myfeetonlywalkforward.blogspot.com). Two honorable mentions will also be named.

The winner of the 2010 Carey Prize was Saymoukda Vongsay, who has also generously volunteered to make a donation in support of this year's prize.

I welcome other donations in support of the prize. If donations come in that exceed the prize total, I will increase the prize amount. There are very very very few prizes that support the work of spoken word artists, and I hope you will consider making a contribution. Donations can be made at the address provided below. Please make checks payable to David Berube (this is so that ya'll don't think I am trying to keep the moola for myself!).

About the Prize:

Alfred C. Carey was a hard working man from Northern Minnesota. He worked in construction, specifically roofing, while raising a family of 8, including three children not biologically his own. He represented a series of beautiful and sometimes hard contradictions in race, class, and history. He also, without a vocabulary around race and sexuality, accepted all of his children and grandchildren for who they were without judgment. This award is named in the honor of my grandfather who died in 1997.

Rules:

You may submit up to three poems no longer than a combined total of six pages double spaced.

You may also submit audio recordings in CD format. The recordings should not exceed 9 minutes in length.

Along with your submission please include a cover page that states your: Name, Address, Telephone Number, Email Address, Website Address, and a brief biography of no more than 6 sentences.

ALL SUBMISSIONS MUST BE POSTMARKED BY AUGUST 15, 2011. WINNERS WILL BE ANNOUNCED AUGUST 31, 2011.

Authors retain all copyright to their works, and if you would like samples returned, please include a self-addressed stamped envelope.

Make submissions to:

Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry
c/o Brandon Lacy Campos
462 W. 52nd Street #3N
New York, NY 10019

Equality Sucks!

From 2002 until 2007, I had the privilege of being a member of the Visions Collective. The Visions Collective was an intentionally intersectional group of artists, academics, and organizers that spanned broad racial, gender, sexuality, and age demographics. The genesis of the group was a discussion series held by the now defunct Freire Center in Minneapolis, which brought a group of folks together to discuss a number of topics, one of which was Israel/Palestine. The second intifada was in full swing, and a question was raised about suicide bombing attacks as legitimate acts of resistance versus acts of terror. The room was divided but the majority consensus was that when there is such a terrific and terrible imbalance of power between two peoples and when one people holds enormous and overwhelming military might that suicide bombing can be and has been used as a legitimate revolutionary war tactic.

For the lefty Jews in the room this triggered a deep and irrational reaction tied to political Zionism as practiced in Israel (which is distinct and different from the original aims of the Zionist movement). The outcome was that we realized that there were no spaces where we, who all identified as somewhere on the spectrum from progressive to radical, could come together to discuss and learn how to navigate what we termed "the places that stick." On the Left the issue of Israel/Palestine is perhaps the single most divisive issue because of the history of the Holocaust and the rhetoric of the Israeli government. But the fact remains that as allies to each other on the Left, we needed to develop a space to conscientiously and purposefully jump into those "places that stick," and figure out how to justly engage with one another in those hard places.

For five years, the Visions Collective met roughly monthly. Our only goal was to be intentional with one another and to talk about those hard places. We were not an organizing collective, we published no papers, and we had no agenda other than to build with one another over food and friendship. The collective was comprised of some amazing folks: Sara Leedom, Coya White Hat Artichoker, Juliana Hu Pegues, Ricardo Levins Morales, Nikki Kubista, Jeff Nygaard, Lisa Albrecht, and me.

I will never forget the day when Ricardo said:

When asking for equality, we must ask the question, "Equal to what?"

What a tremendously simple and overwhelmingly profound statement. It made me think, for the first, time, about it means to ask for equality whether that be racial equality, gender equality, or, the hot button issue of the day, marriage equality. At its foundation, in the United States, asking for equality really means to ask to be equal to and have the same opportunites as white, straight, wealthy men: aka the right to oppress others, the right to make enormous wealth on the backs of others, the right to degrade the environment for profit, the right to colonize and control the developing world, the right to amass private property, and the right to participate full as oppressors in the most heinous and oppressive neoliberal systems at the center of how the world operates.

No thank you.

Let's look, for a moment, at the institution of marriage. We are asking to be equal participants in an institution that was designed to subjugate women, perpetuate clan based power structures and preserve wealth within a kinship network with the specific caveat that the wealth, property and power be controlled by men. We are asking to be equal to a system that promotes and elevates one type of family structure, hold it up as sacred, and provide it with overwhelming benefits that are not accessible by either individuals that choose to live their lives singly, are forced to do so my circumstance, or choose to construct families and relationships on models that blow up the one person/one person binary paradigm.

No thank you.

Don't get me wrong. I absolutely beleive that any two people that wish to join together in marriage should receive the benefits that are available to a "straight couple." But I want to be clear in articulating what it is we are ACTUALLY asking to participate in and what it actually means to prop up the institution of marriage (plus, we all know just how wonderfully marriage actually works...).

The word equality is disgusting. I'd rather be called a nigger than be called equal.

I learned from Ricardo and the other folks in the Vision's Collective that what we REALLY want and what we REALLY should ask for is marriage justice, racial justice, relationship liberation, economic justice. The difference is very simple: justice and liberation require that each individual be supported, loved, upheld, and valued as a whole and perfect instrument with personal autonomy, sovereignity and integrity while also REQUIRING that personal power and privilege be balanced against not only ones immediate community needs and requirements but also against global needs and requirements. Economic justice means that everyone on the planet has food, water, clothing, shelter, education, and recreation before anyone else gets to have EXTRA food, EXTRA water, EXTRA clthing, EXTRA shelter, so on and so far. And by extra I mean more than the abundance needed to live your life well, wholly, and fully. No one should starve so that someone else can eat, but we should all eat what we need and not beyond excess because we believe we have a right to it based on our privilege.

Justice and liberation also require that we deconstruct misguided oppressive notions of what is or is not a valid union between peoples; if everyone involved is a consenting, informed, supported, and liberated adult freely choosing to participate in whatever type of relationship configuration, as long as it is loving and sustaining that relationship structure should enjoy all the rights and privileges of any other relationship structure that enjoys government sanction. Justice helps us understand that my liberation supports your liberation and blows up the notion that if somehow I should earn my freedom you will lose yours...we all get to be free. How sweet is that?

Equality sucks. I want no part of it.

Justice and liberation...now that I am down with.

The Kick Ass Parents Award: Susan Raffo & Rocki Simoes AND M'Bwende Anderson & Jaime Grant

I had a fucked up childhood.

Let's just be real about that.

My Mom did the best she could being a survivor of some not so great parenting moments from her childhood...but she spent a good deal of my young life being severely beaten by men, and there was a good chunk of time were I was beaten right along with her. My Dad and my Mom divorced while I was very young, and while both of my parents are amazing and have walked their own paths, we didn't get to walk much of it together.

So, when I come across parents that are raising their children in some of the most transformative and brilliant ways, and when I have first hand had the chance to meet and learn from their brilliant and gifted children or from the stories that I have read about the ways in which these little people see the world, my entire being is filled with love and hope and appreciation for the parents and the children.

So I decided that I would start an occasional award to recognize parents that are raising their chidren intentionally, using a model of parenting that instills a sense of self worth and social justice in their children. There are a number of parents that I expect to recognize, but I am starting off with two sets of parents that make my heart smile.

The Kick Ass Parents: Susan Raffo and Rocki Simoes

It's hard to believe that I have known Susan and Rocki for 14 years. Yep, you read that correctly, 14 years. I met Susan when we were students at the University of Minnesota in 1997. Since then, Susan has been my colleague, boss, collaborator, co-conspirator, emotional support, mentor, and family. I met Rocki shortly after meeting Susan, and Rocki has been all the things Susan has been (including being the boss of me when I had the honor to serve on the Host Home Program advisory board), and Rocki is family as well. About a decade ago, Rocki knocked up Susan with some sperm from a gentleman I like to call the Lesbians Baby Daddy of South Minneapolis (Yay Capper!), and nine months later along came Luca "Peluca Head" Raffo-Simoes.

Susan and Rocki were the first folks to model for me what it looks like to raise a child with a level of intentionality that recognized this child as a little person while teaching her to move through the world consciously and conscious of power, privilege, and the impacts of oppression.

I will never forget the first time I was with the family and Luca interrupted the conversation in order to ask us to explain what we were talking about as she didn't understand what was going on. Susan and Rocki have always given Luca permission to interrupt adult conversation when she is present if she doesn't understand the content, and with love Susan and Rocki both have modeled how to explain adult conversation appropriately but directly and without condenscension.

Oh how I love this family. I have been to about half of Luca's birthday parties, we have grass fights in the Summer, and she even sat in on a workshop I gave this last spring at a queer youth conference. Thank you Rocki and Susan for bringing Luca into the world, and thank you for giving her the tools to live her life with love, conviction, and intentionality. You can't protect her from all the things that will go bump in her life, but she has all the tools she'll need to get over them and without so many of the childhood wounds that I know many of us of a different generation have.


The Kick Ass Parents Award: Jaime Grant and M'Bwende Anderson

It is no conincidence, I think, that the two families that came to mind immediately when I thought of this award were two queer families. The second family is also led by two people that I worship from afar: Jaime and M'Bwende.

I met both Jaime and M'Bwende 11 or 12 years ago when we were working in the youth movement. I was a youth organizer as was M'Bwende and Jaime was an adult ally. Both M'Bwende and Jaime met each other and I met them through the National Youth Advocacy Coalition (rest in peace NYAC). From the gate, I loved both of these human beings. I loved Jaime for her fierce brilliance, consummate nerdiness, and lovely sensuality and sexuality all wrapped up in one person. I wanted to be M'bwende. They were beautiful, intentional, confident, and powerful...the type of person of African descent that every black person in this country should have in their young life....and damn sexy too! Both of them, like Susan and Rocki, work in the justice movement, raise their families using intentionality and direct honesty, and they talk about the struggles and the beauty openly. It's inspirational.

Jaime and M'Bwende have two children: Reilly and Ella. I haven't had the privilege of meeting Reilly, and I've only seen Ella a couple times as a baby. But the stories that Jaime shares about these amazing children often times makes me die laughing and fly with the fierceness of their being. Reilly is an anti-racist avenger, stomping down on oppression and has an analysis of the way the world works and how it should work that took me until sometime during college to even begin to have. I am failry certain Ella is going to form a feminist collective that will one day rule the world.

How I love this family and the people that lead it. How I love that Ella and Reilly are moving through the world already. How I deeply appreciate, as a multi-racial person that grew up in a black/white home, how this black/white home is a model for multi-racial families. Thank you and love to you both.



I am super happy to highlight these four amazing people....Rocki, Susan, M'Bwende, Jaime...you are all KICK ASS PARENTS!

Same Gender Marriage: My Analysis

Yesterday I posted my first guest blog at My Feet Only Walk Forward, and I am mightily glad that I did. Some of you loved it, some of you hated it, some of you agreed with it but didn't like the style in which it was presented. I will make this comment that the person who wrote it is brilliant and has a right to their rage, anger, and disappointment with the topic of marriage. That person also has a right to use profanity, and I believe did so in a hilarious way. But the reality remains that so many of those with money or those that make decisions about the priorities of the movement for LGBTTSGNCSGL/Queer justice have pushed, cajoled or plainly forced those of us with a broader and more substantial agenda for change into their cubbyholes. It is not cool at all and displays the underlying power, privilege and oppression present within the queer community.

Today, an article appeared on the Huffington Post stating that Obama has had a reconciliation with the "gay" movement largely because of the myriad of ways he really has been an ally to queer folks and has used both legislative and executive avenues to push forward various issues important to various segments of the queer and trans community. The article would have been fantastic if had stated that and stopped there. But oh NO...the first couple of paragraphs were right on and then the rest of the damn article was about marriage. And that right there is the problem. Let me restate.

THE REST OF THE ARTICLE WAS ABOUT MARRIAGE.

The article clearly reflected its sources. Ask most folks at the HRC, The Task Force, Freedom to Marry, and Equality Matters and you would end up with a priority list with marriage at or near the top. Ask the Stonewall Democrats and the Log Cabin Republicans, and you'd probably get the same thing.

Now trot your ass down to 24th and 7th and ask FIERCE (Queer youth of color organization), Audre Lorde Project(LGBTSTGNC people of color organization), Sylvia River Law Project (trans criminal justice organization), or Queers for Economic Justice, and marriage won't even hit the top ten. Ask Unid@s and it might be in the top five but it won't be number one.

Let's examine why....it's pretty simple. The first batch of organizations largely represent middle or upple middle class white heternormative individuals with tons of privilege and a narrow view of what a "gay" issue is.

The second batch of organizations works with working class, poor, vulernable and homeless populations that are largely people of color and include a huge number of immigrants.

So the math is pretty simple, those with the most need and are facing the most urgent issues that relate to life and death, food, clothing and shelter are those with the least means to force recognition of that need onto the national stage. Those privileged individuals that fund the national organizations have the means and do prioritize their narrow desire and do so without regard and often times concern other than a general recognition of queer and trans folks of color and working class queer and trans folks.

Thus marriage assumes a level of focus and importance way beyond its actual potential impact and ability to change lives broadly.

And I get even more angry because it forces an internal division between my politics and the impact on my friends. My politics are clear: marriage is not a priority nor should it receive the resources it receives. My reality is clear: many of my friends are in loving committed monogamous relationships, many with children, and would benefit from the economic and immigration rights that come with marriage. My friends Susan and Rocki would never have had the stress of worrying about Rocki's green card. My friend Karly and her partner Laura are currently living in England, where Laura holds citizenship, because Laura's visa expired and though they are married she can not petition for citizenship as a straight couple would be able to do. For them, marriage would be life changing...life changing but not life saving. Though it sucks beyond suckage, and I want them to be here in the United States, neither of them worry about food, clothing, shelter, access to HIV and other medications, addiction treatment, or any of the other broader and more impactful issues within the queer and trans community that can and often do mean life or death.

That's what we are talking about here people: quality of life versus life or death. I want all of my friends that wish to celebrate their love for one another and have it recognized by the state to have that right without reservation. I also live with HIV and I want a cure. I want their to not be a waiting list for ADAP insurance for positive individuals. I want their to be housing for people living with AIDS and hospice care for those for whom the medications no longer work and they are transitioning out of this life. I want any young person that runs away or is kicked out of their home because of being queer or trans to know, with certainity, that they can walk down the street to the nearest youth service organization and there will be supportive housing available to them free of charge. I want any addict anywhere (and at least 25% of queer folks suffer from some form of addiction) to have instant access to rehabilitation services in a queer affirmative environment by simply asking for it.

Since 1996, somewhere around $1 billion has been spent on the marriage fight. $1 billion dollars could have made any one of those other issues right up in that last paragraph a reality or have gotten us so much closer to making them realities.

Next month I will be in Los Angeles at the wedding of a dear friend of mine who is marrying a beautiful man. I will be there with joy for them, but I won't lie, there will be some part of me that is bitter that they can get married wherever they want in the world and have it recognized by the world. I don't have that right. But, I am personally willing to sacrifice that right for now, for myself, in order to heal much deeper and broader and life threatening wounds in our community.

And there is also a part of me that wants to end marriage for everyone entirely. I currently have a partner and am seeing another wonderful man. Even with a win for marriage, my relationship structure choice will not be validated nor will folks that are single be included in the awarding of the economic privileges that go along with heterosexual style marriage.

I am not in opposition to marriage and I understand why many find it to be so important, it is the place it holds and the resources it has appropriated in this fight that make me so very upset. But I am also a realist when I have to be. We are winning this marriage fight despite the laws on the books federally and in so many states. The courts are siding with queer folks. Popular opinion has swung in favor of allowing same gender marriage.

I will continue to critique marriage loudly and openly. I will continue to support fights AGAINST amendments like the proposed constitutional amendment in Minnesota limiting marriage to one man and one woman---those are direct attacks on us and should be resisted rigorously---I wrote the largest single charitable contribution check that I have ever written to a single organization last year...the organization was formed specifically to unseat Senators in New York that voted down a marriage law last year...and I believe that politicians with fucked up positions should pay for their votes with their seats. But I won't be writing a check to any organization that has as part of its agenda active advocacy and organizing FOR marriage in the absence of a attack on marriage rights. Let the courts keep the legislatures in check...that's why we have a system of checks and balances.

But, also, I am so tired of the fight in general, and I know, eventually, that we are going to win, so I would like us to get to victory...like right now...so we can move on to the issues and concerns that are truly going to radically change the lives of millions of queer folks in this country. I too am Beyond Marriage.

Jomama Jones: Endless Summer Live

I love my friend Kenyon Farrow for so many reasons, but one of the gifts he has given me is introduce me to a tremendous human being by the name of Daniel Alexander Jones and his alter ego Jomama Jones.

Last January, on a night so cold I thought my left nostril was permanently frozen shut, I got a call from Kenyon saying that he had an extra ticket to see Jomama Jones' play Radiate. What he didn't tell me is that it was a rock opera soul diva funkadelic glam extravaganza with Jomama Jones who, when I walked in, I thought was Miss Lena Horne come back from the dead.

Radiate blew my mind.

Even more amazing was that I ran into my friend from Minneapolis, now a professor at Hampshire College, Djola Branner sitting in the lobby. Djola revealed to me that Daniel was once a part of the Minneapolis theater community, and we have tons of friends in common.

Well when I found out that Jomama was back with a summer concert, I almost lost my mind.

And when you hear this beautiful performer take the stage backed up by the Sweet Peaches, you are going to love her as much as I do.

The show is running Tuesday June 21 and Wednesday June 22, four show times, and you can buy tickets here. I will see ya'll there.

And for those of you NOT in New York City...you betta call somebody you know and book Jomama in your hometown.

A house of our own: drag balls spark a movement to create safe spaces for queer youth of color. (Intelligence Making Change).: An article from: City Limits

Fuck Gay Marriage: A Guest Blog

I received an email today from an old and dear friend from back home in Minnesota that is a brilliant political strategist and deeply committed to the community. This friend asked me if I would post this blog on their behalf anonymously. Anonymously because of the position and space they hold within the movement. Because I share many of the critiques of the marriage movement and what it has meant to our community and who it excludes and the resources it has sucked away from many more important issues and the way it has defined and excluded broader conversations and work for real social change in the LGBT Movement, I have agreed to post this blog anonymously.

Get ready.

Fuck Gay Marriage
by Anonymous

Fuck marriage.

That's right, I said it.

Fuck marriage.

To be more specific, fuck all of you who are going to spend the next fucking year fucking yabbering on and on and on about how important it is that you and your partner of a couple gazillion years be able to get a fucking little piece of paper so you can get access to all the privileges given to straight people who get married.

Don't get me wrong, I'm going to fight like fucking hell against the fucking amendment. I can guarantee all you fucking model same sex couple, with your 2.5 bottle-bred babies and your cozy fucking rambler with the fucking organic garden in the back that I am at some point going to go batshit crazy after you have explained for the fucking 100th time how you need to be able to see the fucking “love of your life” in the hospital or be able to co-sign the mortage.

Yes indeedy, I am about to spend the next fucking year defending your fucking marriage while I sit at home eating a fucking Lean Cuisine and talking to my fucking cat, by myself.

Fuck it all, let's start having singles only events against the fucking amendment so we can sit around and just fucking bitch about you all in the vain hope that we aren't tempted to slash the fucking tires on your fucking Hybrid Mini-van.

Everyday Heroes: Victor Cole

So I was supposed to post my newest award: The Awesome Parents Award...but that is going to require a little more set up, and I am feeling extremely lazy today

But there is someone that I have been meaning to love on publicly for some time. His name is Victor Cole, and he is my Everyday Hero.

Let me tell you why.

I met Victor aka Titi five years ago, in the fall of 2006. I was dating a man that played on the gay softball league, and I went with him to a fundraiser at The Saloon in Minneapolis. There I met a number of his friends that played on a team called the Slammers.

These fools were crazy as Hell. I fell in love with them instantly.

Over the next few months I got to know the BNO Crew (Boys Night Out crew), and I began hanging out with them. When the Spring came around, Titi invited me to join the team. I had never played softball in my life, in fact, I was terrified of organized sports (except for volleyball, which I'd grown up playing, and soccer, which I played on the weekends in the summers as an adult). But to play on an actual league brought forth all kinds of childhood terrors.

Joining the team changed my life completely. It changed it for all of the reasons that research says that organized sports are great. But also, I gained a community of queer men (and one fantastic woman), largely queer men of color, that acted like a family (including some dysfunction but what family doesn't have that?). While Ramon was the heart of the family, Titi was the head (with a big old heart to boot).

Let me tell you, I have gone through some things in the last few years. Read this blog and most of it has been written about here. I have been in my own stuff and lost some friends because of it. But Victor, always giving good love and sometimes giving tough love, would find me in my dark places and reflect back to me the love and light that is constantly around me. He has a gift of seeing people as they are and maybe even as they are meant to be. I believe there are times when your community steps in to love you when you can't quite love yourself, and Victor Cole has loved me more than once and held me up when I was stumbling and not able to love myself the way I deserve.

Victor is brilliant. He is an educator. He is a proud Hawaiian that loves his people as he loves his community. He lives the aloha spirit and has carried it with him wherever he has lived. I've heard stories from so many folks that know and love this man. He isn't just a hero to me.

I love him. It's pretty simple. He's offered his love freely, and it has been received with an appreciation that I don't think I will ever adequately be able to communicate.

Thank you, Titi. You are one of my most loved Everyday Heroes.

PS Please don't punch me in the face for posting this blog about you. Thanks in advance.

Pull My Trigger(s)

Last night I wrote a blog when I was highly triggered...I deleted it this morning.

I received lots of awesome feedback, constructive criticism, and sassy love. I appreciate all of it. Some of you sent me some deliciously inappropriate pictures with offers of salacious deliciousness....I'll get back to you ;-).

I deleted the post for two specific reasons: 1) Some folks were confusing my emotional response with the person that triggered the response--which was my fault...said person was the focus of my rage but not the cause of it, and 2) one of you good people wrote, with much love, and said the fact is that I really do not know what happened to said person and that I might just be confusing gay boy rudeness with my own personal soft spots, which is true enough that I realized that I could have been highly unfair in how I posed my blog last night, so here I go with a broader and more appropriate response.

The best part of being a real live human being is that you get to have other real live human beings give you some perspective when you are unable to have it for yourself.

First let me explain what I mean by triggers. Triggers are those moments, experiences, and situations that sometimes can be avoided because you are conscious of their impact on you and what they bring up from your personal and historical past. Sometimes you find out, the hard way, when they summon up a Hell storm of emotions that ransack your body and take your mind and spirit hostage for a time. For addicts, triggers can often send folks into a relapse with a lightening quickness. But the bottom line is that once one is triggered the best possible scenario is to get to a safe place or let someone you know and love that may be with you in a place that has suddenly become unsafe that you have been triggered and then find a way to ride out the emotions. For me, most often, this means that I run to my laptop and start typing a blog or I go to the gym, as I did this morning, and work my body through the emotions. Some people take a shower, other folks journal or sing or take a walk but it is important for anyone that has never experienced severe physical, emotional or sexual trauma that a person that has been triggered is not going to be in a necessarily rational state of mind for a period of time (sometimes the triggered moment begins and ends in seconds...sometimes it last for hours or a day).

It is also important to know, and listen closely here, that the situation, person or thing that acted as a trigger is not ACTUALLY the problem. Take last night, for example. While I had every right to be annoyed and upset that I was stood up without any communication, the only fact that I had was that I had been stood up without any communication. Any response directed towards that person should have been limited to, at most, "I am pissed off/annoyed that you weren't where we agreed you'd be when we agreed you'd be there." That's it. That's the most that I would have done with any friend that didn't show up, it's what I would have done for any colleague or business appointment if said person didn't show up. But there are two situations when I am now aware that I need to be prepared to find safety and quickly when a person does show up: if a parental figure/authority figure that I respect particularly if it is a black man or someone to whom I have disclosed my HIV status and in whom I have some sort of interest.

I have the parental figure thing on lock....but it wasn't until my 30th birthday when two friends of mine, both of whom happened to be black men and both of whom were/are people to whom I looked up weren't able to be at my birthday party that I discovered I had a deep and unexamined issue. I fired off a couple of self-depricating and passive aggressive text messages to them that did not respect what they were doing and where they were. One person is still a good friend, another was so offended that he disengaged with me. It wasn't until my friend Victor, who knew all of us, brought it to my attention that what he observed and thought was significant was that I only got upset when the two black men that were my friends didn't show up that I had such a deep response, which he actually shared with those two folks. And as soon as Victor (aka Titi) shared his observation with me, I knew it was truth. It made total sense. My birth father was in the military and was unable to be around when I was growing up and then we had a couple of experiences in our relationship where he was unable to be around even though he was in the country. The man who raised me that was extremely physically abusive but for all intents and purposes was the father with whom I bonded emotionally. When I was a child, he was constantly failing to show up and follow through leaving me feeling abandoned and "less than". I was disappointed that Larry and Ramon couldn't be at my party but all the feelings past that were really my deeper core feelings of being abandoned by black men that I love. Both Larry and Ramon were working and working hard and really couldn't be present. But all I got from them not being present was: unworthy, less than, unloved. Our filters can be such mindfucks. I had no idea that was what was going on until after I had been triggered and acted out.

Last night I discovered a second trigger when the gent didn't show up. Instead of it just being that something came up, or he was just being rude, it became about feeling unwanted, undesirable, and untouchable because of my HIV status. My response and my reaction last night was not actually about him, it was about me and my own issues that I am aware exist, and I work on them daily, but last night was a new situation for me. I have had men share with my honestly that they can't get past the HIV status and so choose not to engage with me, which I respect. And in those moments, I might feel sad or a bit of those deeper feelings, I know how to manage them appropriately. Last night, I was taken off guard, and so my feelings were able to rise up and punch through and put me into a tailspin before I could give myself the space to process them appropriately. Instead of it being that the dude didn't show, it was: untouchable, undesirable, other. I repeat...our filters are mindfucks.

And anyone that knows me knows that if I get to that emotional state the Devil Himself stays the fuck out of my way. I am my Mama's son sometimes...and that woman is crazy as Hell (love you Mama). And now that I have 200lbs of muscle on this here body...I start to feeling like Bruce Banner up in this piece. "You wouldn't like me if I'm angry." HULK SMASH!

Last night was a rough but necessary lesson for me to take in. It wasn't at all about this other person (who I did hear from, finally, today...I am still annoyed). It was also a moment for me to process openly, particularly since not everyone has to deal with such intense triggers in their life, but everyone knows someone that does.

And lord have mercy I am glad that I had the sense not to name names or I would be eatin' crow like a mo'fo today.

I.R.A.

No, this blog post is not about the Irish Republican Army (though I support their right to armed resistance!)...this post is actually about the other I.R.A., I Require Attention, also know as Attention Deficit Childhood Disorder (ADCD)...it could also be called HANS--HIV Attention Need Syndrome.

Once the AMA (American Medical Association) or APA (American Psychiatric Association) makes a decision and it is listed in the DSM IV, I will let you know. (I kinda just wanted to see how many acronyms I could fit into the first few sentences in this blog).

But back to the topic at hand. In college, my good friend Kjersten dubbed me an IRA. Anyone that has ever met me knows that I am a bit of a clown, and while I have my quiet moments, I am generally the one trying to get folks talking, laughing, or somehow engaged. I try to be cognizant (at least at this point in my life) of how much space I am taking up (unless I've had a couple of G&Ts then all bets are off)...but the fact remains that I thrive on the attention of others. I am an extroverts extrovert and I start to go a little crazy if I am isolated from folks for too long.

In fact, one of my personal character defects is that I equate a lack of attention with a lack of love, which is super selfish. I have a ton of amazing love from so many people, and folks have their own damn lives. It doesn't mean that they love me less if they haven't had the time to see me lately, but in my own head/mind/spirit, if someone I care about hasn't checked in for a while or hasn't made an effort to get together, there is an arbitrary alarm clock inside of me that starts to sound an alarm...it wakes up my abandoment issues and next thing you know I am sending passive aggressive notes on Facebook.

Oy vey.

But I have noticed that there is a new twist to the game lately. In the past, part of my showmanship was to keep people laughing and keep them from looking too closely. I didn't want them to notice that I was hurting, using, unhappy or whatever it was that I wanted to keep people from seeing. Trust me on this my friends....isolation tips people off...if you want to hide whatever crazy you are going through....do it by making folks laugh and being a clown...they will never ask questions, think you are fun, and never really get to know you. Ahhhhh safety in public anonymity.

(Or to use one of my favorite metaphors of my own devising: the pitchers mound is the loneliest place in a softball game. You are right there for all to see but absolutely alone when it comes to letting that ball go. Once you let it go, other folks can help you get to your goals, but YOU have to first get that ball to a place where it can be of use....you got to get it across home plate....and then your teammates can step in.)

Sorry....tangent.


Lately I have noticed that my need for attention has multipled exponentially. Part of it, I think is simply loving the looks that this new fangled body of mine engenders. That part of it is fine. I appreciate the appreciation. But, I have noticed that now I spend half my workout trying to see if other people are looking. That, right there, is an issue.

Part of this is that living with HIV and having some some rejection(s) and hiding inside myself, staying away from the gym for long periods, and using all of my clowning and performance skills to keep people at a distance kept my inner child attention starved. It's sort of like dying of thirst while in the middle of the ocean...there was plenty of water but it wasn't the kind that could sustain life.

As I have worked very hard lately to keep my addiction in check, as I have begun writing and living much more openly about HIV, and as I have been working on my physical goals as well as my professional goals, I am becoming more comfortable with myself and who I am. As I am becoming more comfortable my attention starved inner child that has been hiding for so so so many years wants to be seen.

And I mean really seen. But instead of just wanting to be present and loved for all of who he is, my inner child is starting to throw temperantrums and demanding that everyone and all eyes look towards him.

I am about to give him an ass whooping.

Growing up poor, overweight, brown, queer, and then testing positive have left redonkulous scars...but just like the easy scars I get on my skin, they start to fade over time...and the new skin that emerges is pink and vulnerable for a time...it needs care and nurturing...and it doesn't want to be hurt again. That is exactly what Billy (that's my childhood name and what my family calls me)....wants to be protected, loved, and seen.

Now the work is to give him and myself the attention we all merit as human beings without it becoming pathological, overbearing, egotistical, or harmful.

Sometimes I just hate introspection...it usually means I got a whole bunch more work to do.

Guess what. I do.

Rest in Peace Grandma Huxtable

Folks the world over, from 1984-1992, tuned in on, I believe, Thursday nights to watch The Cosby Show. For the first six years of the show, I am fairly certain that I didn't miss an episode. The anniversary episode where my favorites. In fact, in season two, the entire clan gets together to lip synch a song to Grandpa and Grandpa Huxtable: Ray Charles' Night Time.

When that episode aired I laughed so hard I literally fell off the ottoman in our family room. I was living on Agnes Street in Kansas City, MO. When Rudy took the stage, I seriously had never seen anything so damn hilarious in my entire life. Of course, I was only eight at the time, but still, that shiz was hilarious. Though I was fairly young, I can see myself in my head absolutely clearly. That is how much of an impact that The Cosby Show had on my young life.

For those very formative years of my life, from age seven to 14, the Cosby Show was a staple of my ocular consumption. The positive and non-gangsta-glorification depiction of a successful black family was, at a time of the emergence and mass consumption of West Coast gangster rap and all of its accompanying media spawn, a welcome depiction of a different type of black experience. I wanted to be a part of the Huxtable family. I wanted to bash Too Short in the head (and, as Murphy's Law would have it...a few years back...my little sister ended up dating Too Short for a time...sigh Sigh SIGH!).

Today, I heard the sad news that Clarice Taylor aka Anna Huxtable, the woman that played Bill Cosby's mother, passed away from heart failure at the age of 93. This brilliant woman had a career that took her from Broadway to Sesame Street. She was a familiar, graceful and brilliant figure in the lives of black Americans from the 60s until her death. Her contributions to the education of young black children have been invaluable. At 93, she has lived a full life surrounded by success and love, but her loss is a generational loss. She will be dearly missed.

Thank you Miss Clarice for giving of yourself and loving your community enough to defy stereotypes. You have passed on but you achieved immortality before you left. Much love to you Mrs. Huxtable. Sleep well.

One Liner of the Week Award: Will McNair

I have a new friend that I absolutely adore. His name is Will McNair. He and I met working on a project with the fabulous Bebe Zahara Benet. When Will first walked in he looked all quite and homosexual. Once that fool got warmed up, I felt like I was on Def Comedy Jam getting Punk'd.

A couple of weeks back, Mr. McNair had himself a birthday. On the night of his actual birthday, we went out for a little spin around Chelsea. We stopped in first at G Lounge where Will was able to indulge his artistic appreciation for go go boys and crisp dollar bills.

While sitting and debating the merits of thongs versus jock straps as traditional gay go go regalia and discussing dating possibilities for Will he said,

"I am educated. I got money. I am a white woman of color."

I about shit a roll of nickels.

And that, ladies and termites, is the One Liner of the Week.