Volunteer Positive: Changing Lives in Chiang Mai

For those of you that have had a chance to pick up a copy of my book, It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt (available in paperback or e-book), then you will have had a chance to see the amazing artwork of David Berube.

David is a working artist in New York that received his training from the Columbus College of Art and Design, and is a fantastic printmaking and illustrator. He also has a passion for international travel and has spent significant time traveling and creating art in Southeast Asia.

After returning from his latest trip through China, Cambodia, Laos, and Thailand, David reminded me of a program that had come to my attention a few months ago called Volunteer Positive. Volunteer Positive brings together HIV positive volunteers around the globe to work in communities impacted by HIV and AIDS. The program is designed to provide HIV positive and allied individuals with a chance to do meaningful international volunteer work.

The Volunteer Positive program states as its purpose:

Volunteer Positive seeks to create a world where people living with HIV can openly serve as international volunteers promoting a global culture of understanding and acceptance through person to person diplomacy.

Volunteer Positive seeks to fight stigma by highlighting the power and efficacy of the HIV affected community.

Volunteer Positive seeks to provide a strong and vibrant image of empowered and self-sustaining HIV long term survivors using their health, passion, and compassion to transform the lives of others.

Volunteer Positive seeks to work with other international volunteer sending organizations to expand awareness of the contributions of people living with HIV.

David will be traveling to Chiang Mai, Thailand where he will be working with a variety of projects including:

the most recognized and respected NGO's in the region. These include and HIV education groups run by Buddhist Monks, a program for HIV orphaned Thai children, LGBT advocacy groups, Arts organizations, refugees from neighboring Burma, HIV+ community support networks, primary and secondary schools, sex worker education facilities, 3rd gender communities, and public health facilities that serve those living with the virus. Each volunteer will be matched with a specific placement, and in addition will also participate in group service work as many different NGO's come together for the benefit of the community.

In addition, every volunteer will receive cultural training that highlights language, culture and current issues in HIV impacting the region. This is an amazing opportunity, but it doesn't come without a cost.

David has already raised 2/3rds of the roughly $4,000 in costs associated with the program, and he has about $1,000 left to go. He is relying on our community to support him in doing this work, which, in his own admission, is a big and transformational step in his own life and work. It is amazing, frightening, and exciting. Let's all help make sure that David can do this work, which is as important for him as it will be for the lives with which he will have a chance to interact.

You can make a personal contribution to David's trip and work through Paypal by sending a donation directly to his account at cutdart@yahoo.com. You can also mail him a check directly by check. And, to sweeten the pot, David will be sending artwork to those that are able to contribute to his trip.

Please consider supporting David and his Volunteer Positive trip...$20 may be a single meal out for you, but it would mean the world to him.

QEJ Condemns the Police Murder of Yvonne McNeal

QEJ Condemns The Killing of A New Providence Shelter Resident

Queers for Economic Justice is shocked and outraged at the police shooting of Yvonne McNeal, 57, a resident of the New Providence Women’s Shelter in midtown Manhattan on Sunday evening, October 1st, 2011. QEJ has been working with residents and staff of New Providence Women's Shelter since 2003, and Yvonne was someone whom had become a part of QEJ's extended family.

After an altercation inside the shelter that moved to the sidewalk outside of New Providence where the police shot Yvonne McNeal, killing her. Yvonne’s killing on Sunday underscores the reality that the police cannot be relied on to respond compassionately to low income LGBTQ people when it concerns issues of safety in our communities. At QEJ, we are asking again how many potentially dangerous situations every year have to end up in a police shooting? It cannot be accepted that calling the police can be deadly for low Income LGBTQ New Yorkers.

Even in aggravated situations, the police have a choice to use non-lethal deterrents. A 57 year old woman with a cane that is attempting to re-enter a building, should not be the target of lethal violence. Like Oscar Grant in Oakland, the police had a choice; they chose to kill instead of preserve life. When police targeted largely white Occupy Wall Street protesters, they used pepper spray. When faced with a vulnerable woman of color, they chose to use lethal force as their first option.

“I feel that as homeless people, we don’t have a justice system,” said Gykyira Rodriquez, a member of QEJ’s LGBTQ support group at the New Providence Women’s shelter.

QEJ works at the intersection of sexual orientation and gender identity to do organizing and advocacy around LGBTQ poverty, homelessness and economic survival.

Ms. Rodriguez, who is a QEJ volunteer and support group leader, echoed the sentiments of many shelter residents, including other active members of QEJ's support group community. QEJ has seen this repeated pattern of racism and disregard for human life when the police are dealing with issues of violence because we are poor, from communities of color and may also be lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender or perceived as such.

A report released last year by Queers for Economic Justice Welfare Warriors Collective in conjunction with the Graduate Center of the City University of New York found that calling or interacting with the police can be dangerous: 19 percent of 171 low income LGBTGNC survey responders in NYC had been physically assaulted in the past two years. Among those who were currently homeless, the number jumps to 24 percent. These numbers reflect broader national research that shows that LGBTQ individuals often find themselves victims of police violence when reaching out to the police for safety (NCAVP, 2008).

One QEJ study participant said, “I feel if you call the cops, the cops are going to think you are the criminal (when) they come.”

At QEJ, our hearts are broken at the senseless loss of Yvonne’s life. We are proud to remember Yvonne as she marched with us in the Gay Pride March this year. Earlier this summer, QEJ launched its Shelter Safety Campaign, directed by organizer Doyin Ola in partnership with Shelter Program Director Jay Toole. The violence inside and outside of the shelters, the threat from law enforcement and the wounding that comes from the prison industrial complex illustrates the absolute need for a project of this nature. The Shelter Safety Campaign will honor Yvonne by working to end the senseless and brutal violence bred by racism, poverty, transphobia and homophobia and aimed at the working poor, those in poverty, people of color, women, immigrants, mental health issues and the LGBTQ community.

For information on the Shelter Safety Campaign or the Shelter Organizing Project contact Doyin Ola, Shelter Safety Campaign Organizer, at "doyin at q4ej.org" or Jay Toole, Shelter Program Director, at "jay at q4ej.org".

For information on QEJ and our work, please direct yourself to our webpage: www.q4ej.org.

For questions or comments on this statement, please contact Amber Hollibaugh at "amber at q4ej.org" or via telephone at: (212) 564.3608

POETRY: Resuscitation by Any Means Necessary

This poem was inspired by the following people: Keith Stiles, David Berube, Kenyon Farrow, Ashe Helm-Hernandez, Paulina Helm-Hernandez, and all my nieces and nephews especially the children of Rodrigo Sanchez-Chavarria and Nubia Esparza.

Resuscitation by Any Means Necessary

I. The Wedding

They gave me life
with their “I do,”
filled the room with satyagraha
Soul Power
and soul food
filled the spirits of the congregation of the community
unity behind this most holy union
Africa and Mexico joined in beloved matrimony
a bond we will help them hold
as they have held us
loved us
gave us life
in that old deep Southern style
sweet like cornbread ought to be
sustenance that we can feel
joy that we have seen
like the prophet said, “If we can't love and resist at the same time, we probably won't survive”
they gave us survival

II. The Murder

He gave life
to Troy Davis
brought him back from the dead
just a few days after Georgia killed him
He said, “Black bodies and innocence are an oxymoron.”
We done passed the point of righteous indignation
this nation has a place for us: prison, the streets, a box in the ground
He holds us down, keeps us real, gives words to the rage we feel
when we lose another black brother
to white supremacy
watch another lynching
on cable tv
this one done with a needle instead of a rope
but don't get it twisted
September 2l, 2011 was a good old Jim Crow picnic
while we ate, they set another nigger to swingin'
so this minister of the people spoke out
He gave us back Troy's spirit
raised his voice to almighty God
and gave us the key to our own redemption


III. The First Responder

He gave me life
that night in Central Park
Bethesda watched over me
kept me close
in the darkness
wrapped her wings around me
held me
until He could arrive
His voice got to me first
from above, like an angel
He came for me
a single phone call
a ten digit 9-1-1
and He was there
must have ran
the 10 blocks and two avenues
to get to me
before the paranoia could take me
it wouldn't be the last time
He saved my life

IV. The Family

They give me life
remind me with giggles, Skype messages
video recorded Glee covers
why I fight the fights I fight
it's not just for me but to see
a day when babies don't have to be taught swordplay
in the cradle
and the hurdles we've leaped over
will be dismantled
shackles hacked off
so that the ones that call me Uncle
and Tia (Aunty)
can dance (and giggle)
until this life is over
never knowing police brutality
or the need to Occupy Wall Street
those precious little feet will walk in Heaven
on Earth
give birth to little revolutionaries
with no need for a revolution
but who will stand love watch
over us all

V. The Puma

He gives me life
in the Thunder Cat mornings
Panthero and Liono
greeting the dawn in each others arms
He sees me as I am
and as I may one day be
believes in me
like I could part the sea
if I put my mind to it
sees beyond the modern day leprosy
understands my reality
but wouldn't let HIV
keep his love from me
it's humbling
the way he holds me against the sky
I fly when I am with him
I live when I am with him
I live
He gives me life
they give me life
I live
I LIVE.

Crack...I mean...Katt Williams

The Lacys have some adventures in this world. Let me tell you. When God was handing out "Crazy Ass Life Experiences" juju at the beginning of time, some primordial Lacy took two hand fulls and then put some in a fanny pack for the road. And whenever two or more Lacys get together, there is bound to be a surprise cosmic event, a freak storm, or sighting of a celebrity making a crack purchase.

I swear to God.

Currently, I am in the Atlanta for the impending nuptials of one Paulina Hernandez, old school organizing buddy and partner in crime of mine who also happens to be one half of the fierce femme duo that runs Southerners on New Ground (SONG). I am staying with my fierce little sister Jasmine who moved to the ATL last year with another sister of mine who is off in Kuwait making out with camels and stuff. Last night, I went out with Jas and her crew of mega-fine Atlanta black women (with a couple of half-Koreans in the group to keep it kimchee spicy), to this bourgie black club called Opera, so called because it was, once upon a time, a gorgeous Opera house.

Now, sis and I got to the club around 12:30am, and we had to wait for the rest of her crew. There is a whole etiquette in the straight, hip, fierce black girl world of which I was unaware. For example, you never want to be seen waiting on the street. In fact, we tried to wait in the parking ramp, but the ATL police are REAL serious at night, and we were told to get back in the car or go down to the club. So, we moseyed down to the club but we stayed well back from the line and were actually behind a gyro truck and some scrub brush. The girls were done up to Jesus and I stood there giggling and observing that one side of the street was a club called FlipFlops and it was ALL white folks and directly across the street was us, the coloreds. Tell me that story again about how segregation is over.

While waiting for the folks that had reserved a couple of VIP lounges for this cadre of the fierce, a group of women rolled up about 15 deep along with two mountainous black dudes. Sis leans over to me and says, "There's Katt Williams."

I look around and I don't see him at first. Largely because he was shorter than all the girls around him. That man is a Negro Midget. He lived on the non-Technicolor side of the railroad tracks back in Munchkinland. I spotted him and gave him a shout out.

A minute later, this tall black dude with really ashy elbows comes up and asks me if it was, indeed, Katt Williams. Since we were standing all of 20 feet from the man, I said yes, and I nodded. Ashy Elbows makes a bee line for Katt, and I take that opportunity to snap a picture with my handy dandy iPhone camera, which I have posted here for your enjoyment.

Now, Kat was already lit up and feeling good. We could all see that from where I was standing. Then Ashy Elbows leans over and whispers, loud enough that we could hear, "Mr. Katt Williams, walk over here, I want to talk to you about something." He and Katt walk about ten feet away...I see the hand shuffle happen (if you have ever bought drugs on the street....you know what I am talking about), and then Kat took his entourage towards the club.

Next thing you know, Ashy Elbows pops up screaming at me, "I should give you $100, since you pointed Kat out to me...man he gave me $400 dollars! THANKS KAT! THAT MAN RIGHT THERE IS JESUS CHRIST! THANKS KATT! THAT'S THE MAN!"

Ashy Elbows was so cracked out I think he actually believed that Kat WAS Jesus Christ come back to Earth to score a hit.

The ladies and I had a giggle, said a quiet prayer that Cracky Ashy Elbows got home safely, and we went into the club.

Yes, the Lacys love to have some adventures.

An Open Letter to Halim: You Have All the Strength You Need

Dear Halim:

I received your email early this morning when I woke up, here, in Manhattan. I am not sure the time difference between Manhattan and Malaysia though I know that the two places are a Hell of a long way away from each other. In fact, right now, I am sure it is tomorrow in your part of the world, and the sun is just setting here, on the eastern edge of the United States.

First, I want to thank you for reaching out. Testing positive for HIV was the single loneliest and scariest moment of my life. I know what you mean when you say that there is all kinds of support in your area but you still feel alone, lonely, and as if you can't trust the folks providing support. I know that story very well. In fact, when I tested positive, for three years exactly three people in the entire world, besides my doctor and my boyfriend, knew about my HIV status: Jennifer, Russell, and Lonnie. In fact, my inability to deal with my HIV status led me to a dark place inside of myself. I stopped thinking of myself as worthy of being loved. I stopped believing that I deserved to be held and valued and supported. I no longer felt that I had the right to companionship, a relationship, or that I was good. I shut myself off from myself. I closed my spirit down and hid it away. I turned to drugs and sex and sex with drugs in order to feel, even for a moment, that I was indeed worthy, loved, desired. For a while it worked. For a while it kept me from myself and from the feelings that I had towards myself: the shame, the loathing, the disappointment, and the fear. It worked, until it stopped working.

And when it stopped working my life fell apart. The emptiness that I'd been holding inside had slowly and surely been growing, enlarging, and engulfing me quietly. It was hidden behind the drugs and behind the sex. And in one moment, in the Minneapolis Airport, when my guilt around my drug use and sex use had reached a point that it overwhelmed me, I called everyone in my cell phone and told them about my HIV status and the drugs. And then my mind broke just a little bit and I ran away inside of myself.

Despite the manner in which I told the people that love me about what I was going through, the fact that I told them saved my life. My shame and disappointment in myself had kept me away from the medecine that matters as much as any HAART treatment: the love of friends and family.

And they loved me through the times when I couldn't love myself. They held me accountable to the person that I wanted to be, and they stood in front of the mirror to keep the mirror from telling me lies about myself, lies that I had believed for too long. I made agreements with them that let me stay human but accountable. I could make mistakes. I could be less than perfect, but I had to be honest as best I could and when I couldn't be, I had to at least be honest about that. And, it worked. It worked. It hasn't always been easy, and there have been times I haven't been honest. Over a year ago, because of the situation and fear, I wasn't honest with someone when asked about my status, and it was heartbreaking to have to look at myself closely again and it was even harder work not taking on responsibility for his choices around sex while taking responsibility for mine. But, my friends loved me through that as well. And I wrote about it and talked about it openly and frankly in my blog and with the people I care about. And more healing came from that.

I know that I will continue to make mistakes and continue to be afraid from time to time, but the person that I am now is nothing like the person I was in 2005. What I know now is that sex is amazing (and I love having sex) but sex can be dangerous if it is used to try and fill a hole that can only be filled by learning to love yourself the right way. I learned that fear is terrifying but not facing my fears can lead me to places that can and will, eventually, take me out of this world. I learned that there will be times when people will reject me for my HIV status but that people who really love me never will. I learned that I deserve love and affection. I deserve to be desired. I deserve to have mind blowing sex. I derseve to live free from fear.

And guess what? So do you, my far far away brother.

I am not going to pretend that being queer and being positive is the same in New York as it is in Malaysia. I know next to nothing about what it means to be either of those things outside the borders of the United States. But I do know that even if you can start by telling one friend, if you can cry and start to let out the shame and fear, if you can step into one of those support group meetings even once, if you can turn the mirror around and refuse to listen to the lies it is ready to tell you, if you can be just a little bit brave, just for a little while, over time, you will find yourself full of joy. But you have to make that choice. Even if right now you don't believe the day will come when everything will be alright, you have to CHOOSE to fight and walk forward until that day is here. I promise you. I PROMISE YOU that it will come. You have to faith...in yourself...and, if you are a believer, in your God, but mostly you have to faith that you are loved and let those that love you help you through this time. Be smart. Be safe. Be brave. You have all the strength you need.

Love,
Brandon in Manhattan

Critique of the Call for a "SlutWalk" from transnational woman/women of color

As an ally to women, but, more specifically, as prioritizing women of color, I absolutely agree with this critique and support the women making it.

AF3IRM Responds to SlutWalk: The Women’s Movement Is Not Monochromatic.

AF3IRM Responds to SlutWalk:

The Women’s Movement Is Not Monochromatic.


From the moment the first call for a SlutWalk in the US went out, the AF3IRM membership – transnational women who are im/migrants or whose families are im/migrants from Latin America, Asia, and Africa – has been analyzing and discussing this burgeoning movement to address the issue of sexual violence and continuing victimization of rape victims by police, the justice system and other agents of authority.



It is a testament to the compelling nature of SlutWalk’s call against women’s victimization that we hung fire for months, hammering out our position and analyzing why, while we applaud the effort of those who organize SlutWalk, we remain uneasy about responding to such a call.



We realize that we are the ones who compose the majority of sex trafficking victims in this country, who comprise the majority of those sold in the mail-order-bride system, who are the commodities offered in brothel houses ringing US military bases in and out of this country, who are the goods offered for sexual violation in prostitution. We who are and historically have been the “sluts” from whom traffickers, pimps, and other “authorities” of the global corporate sex trade realize $20 billion in earnings annually cannot, with a clear conscience, accept the term in reference to ourselves and our struggle against sexual violence and for women’s liberation.



We therefore feel it is our responsibility to address the organizers and participants of SlutWalk and remind them that Women’s Struggle Cannot and Should not Be Monochromatic.



Our Concerns



We call upon the SlutWalk steering committee to reassess language use and re-examine how it is, in a sense, offensive to our history, how it is neglectful of historical and cultural sensitivity and competency. Indolent ideology only further pushes transnational women, women of color, away from the current mainstream feminist narrative. It prevents us from establishing a broad front that can create a powerfully dynamic and long-lasting women’s movement. The ebb-and-surge of the women’s movement in the US is clear enough an indictment of such neglect of the historic particularities of the condition of transnational women and women of color.



Our collective transnational histories are comprised of 500 years of colonization. As women and descendants of women from Latin America, Asia, and Africa, we cannot truly “reclaim” the word “Slut”. It was never ours to begin with. This label is one forced upon us by colonizers, who transformed our women into commodities and for the entertainment of US soldiers occupying our countries for corporate America. There are many variations of the label “slut”: in Central America it was “little brown fucking machines (LBFMs)", in places in Asia like the Philippines, it was “little brown fucking machines powered by rice (LBFMPBRs)". These events continue to this day, and it would be a grievous dishonor to our cousins who continue to struggle against imperialism, globalization and occupation in our families’ countries of origin to accept a label coming from a white police officer in the city of Toronto, Canada.



There are two pervasive pejorative words used for women globally, and “slut,” puta (in Spanish, Tagalog), sharmoota (Arabic), Jendeh (Farsi), Ahbeh (Lebanese) - is one. This label has become integrated in our languages and cultures, and has followed us across oceans into our own communities here in the United States. It has followed the poisonous spread of feudalism and capitalism into the economies and ultimately cultures of the global South, building its own systems of power and exploitation of women’s bodies. It has followed us into migration and still plagues us in our communities here in the United States. Women are treated and dismissed as “sluts”, “putas”, etc., as a product of both the structurally racist and sexist US society, as well as transplanted cultures from our families’ countries of origin.



We invite you, organizers of SlutWalk, to study how many times im/migrant women of color have been coerced into sex by immigration personnel, by border patrols, by jailors. Surely that will suffice to underscore why even the idea of joining a SlutWalk is like a massive boulder on our chests, squeezing out our breath, killing us, in effect.



We invite you, SlutWalk organizers, to peruse the catalog of women offered to men by mail-order bride agencies. Surely that would suffice to underscore why joining a SlutWalk would be equal to accepting an identity conferred on our being by this sexist, exploitative society of violence.



We invite you, SlutWalk organizers, to walk the brothel houses and see how our women are treated truly as “sluts” – i.e., mindless flesh with orifices from which profit can be made. Surely that would suffice to underscore why every fiber in our mind and being scream in protest at the word.



AF3IRM rejects this label; AFIIRM refuses this identity; AF3IRM views it as an abomination. It has been used to exacerbate class-exploitation, race and gender discrimination. AF3IRM prefers to work to eradicate it from the common vocabulary, along with other five-letter, four-letter, words derogatory of the humanity of womankind. More, AF3IRM works to eradicate the material social conditions which have made these words possible and acceptable.



We are not sluts. We are women, whose struggles are very much layered, trying to end the pervasive view of women as objects and commodities for profit and entertainment.

AF3IRM hopes this will serve as a basis for a dialogue with the Slut Walk organizers, because to achieve the egalitarian society we all aspire for, we need, will need, and have always needed a movement of women of all colors.

Thank you and we await your response.



In order to reach AF3IRM, please feel free to contact its officers from various regions.

National – Jollene Levid, AF3IRM National Chairperson, chair@af3irm.org

New York/New Jersey – Leilani Montes, Coordinator, nynj@af3irm.org

Boston – Emelyn De La Pena, Coordinator, boston@af3irm.org

San Francisco/Bay Area– Katrina Socco, Lauren Funiestas, Co-Coordinators sfbayarea@af3irm.org

Los Angeles – Angela Bartolome, Coordinator, losangeles@af3irm.org

Irvine – Mona Lisa Navarro, Coordinator, Irvine@af3irm.org

Riverside – Gayle Palma, Coordinator, riverside@af3irm.org

San Diego – Olive Panes, Coordinator, sandiego@af3irm.org

Really Gay Racism: Aunt Jamima and Mr. Wong's Dong Emporium (SAY WHAT BITCH?)

In the last month, there have been two events to which I have been invited via Facebook that have made my blood pressure go from normal to cardiac arrest in less than a nanosecond.

One event was called "Aunt Jemima Brunch," which was to be held at the Yotel. The second was "Mr. Wong's Dong Emporium," which was to be held at Vlada.

Please note that I am using past tense, and while I was not responsible for bringing down either of these events, I am extremely proud that I played a key part in raising such a motherfucking ruckus that both events posted apologies, said some noncommittal white people shit about not meaning to offend people, and changed the names of their events.

Let me give you some background before I really let ya'll have it about privilege white gay men in New York and their benign yet blatant racism.

(Cue flashback sequence here)

The first event came to my attention when I was perusing my invitations to various events. When I saw the invitation at first, with a photo of Aunt Jemima from the 50s (black woman in a head wrap)...I seriously didn't know what to think. I was at work, and I called a colleague over and asked if this was being ironic or should I be angry. I sincerely had a series of confused feelings. Then I proceeded to read the various wall posts related to the event. With each reading my temperature rose until I got to the bottom of the page where one of the four white gay male planners had posted a Youtube video clip of the ITALIAN-AMERICAN WOMAN IN BLACK FACE that originated the role of Aunt Jemima in Hollywood. There was no analysis. There was no irony. This was straight up racism, and the worst thing about it is that the hosts thought the shit was funny and were relating Aunt Jemima to childhood memories of pancakes and home cooking. Nevermind that by the time any of the hosts had ever tasted a drop of that nasty ass syrup the Negress in the Do-Rag had been exchanged for a vaguely British white woman walking and talking syrup bottle....the planners insisted that their naming of the event for Aunt Jemima was just a walk down memory lane.

If any of them had been in arms reach, I would be typing this from jail with a new boyfriend named Big Larry.

And the best part of the engagement with the organizers of the Aunt Jemima event was when one of the organizers posted a note saying that, and I quote, "I am from Canada and we don't have racism there." I almost shat daggers and threw one directly at his throat.

But, after I posted a respectful note on the wall of the brunch invite and also posted a note on my Facebook page, about 200 of my closest, bestest friends went ape shit on the page and within hours it was down.

And then, in a stroke of universal justice, Hurricane Irene hit and shut the whole damn thing down anyway. #BOOM

Now...my naive self thought that perhaps the Aunt Jemima Brunch was just one of those momentary blips of white gay male racism that bubble up from time to time. Generally, I feel, that there is usuall some good time/space in between when the stupidiy settles upon the brow of another benignly racist white gay man/men....but...in contradiction to that old bromide that lightening doesnt strike the same place twice....within a couple of weeks a bright WHITE bolt of stupid lightening struck again...and in the same neighborhood.

Not two or three nights past, a couple of friends of mine sounded the alarm and sent me messages about another party happening in my neighborhood. This time it was "Mr. Wong's Dong Emporium featuring Sum Hung Dancers and the Happy Endings Massage Parlor."

I can honestly say that I have never experienced so much racism in one invitation ever. EVER.

Now...I can honestly say that with the Aunt Jemima party, I was civil and never lost my temper. With the Mr. Wong's party I went King-Kong-Climb-A-Building-Ape-Shit. Yes I did. I called upon all the powers at my command...largely because I actually am acquainted with one of the promoters, and he lives in my neighborhood, and I happen to know that while he is not brown he is a member of another oppressed group...so my rage was amplified expontentially. And it was met, matched, and exceeded by the awesome powers of GAPIMNY (Gay Asian Pacific Island Men of New York). And, after flip tripping on the two benign white racists that were hosting the party, the name was changed post haste.

Ta da.

Now, let me say, I don't think and I do not attribute any overt malintent to any of the clueless human creatures that promoted these parties. I DO, however, attribute to them that they, at the very least, knew that these themes would be risque and raise some behind the hand giggles, like when all the white boys are together and someone makes an "off-color" nigger joke. But whatever the intent the impact on brown queer folks remains the same: it reconstructs, reconstitutes, and reifies the same systems of oppression in the straight world in our own white washed rainbow world.

And, lord have mercy, if I ever ever ever ever ever hear another white faggatron again say that they can't be racist because they are gay, I am going to stick my size 10 1/2 directly down their throat and then twist at the ankle. I. Am. Just. Saying.

Thank the Lord above that there are organizations such as the Audre Lorde Project that are out there reminding folks that brown queers exist and we aren't to be fucked with and Queers for Economic Justice that organizes broke, brown, and angry queer and trans folks. In fact, QEJ is going to throw a party to show these white gay benign racist how to party without the racism. Stay tuned in for QEJam: The Party without Oppression at Bartini coming to you soon in the next month or so.

Word to your anti-racist Mama.

"Does this look like AIDS?"

There are those moments in life when an individual opens up his mouth and something so far beyond ridiculous and inappropriate comes out that your first and immediate reaction is to start looking for hidden cameras. As the crazy continues you may even begin to wonder about your own insanity or eyeball your cocktail in an effort to figure out if perhaps you've been roofied and are about to pass out and wake up in a trailer park on the outskirts of Weehawken.

And sometimes when you have those moments you are given a harsh reality check of just how much work there is left to do in this world.

Last night, while at dinner with Keith and the fabulous Chad Pace aka Divine Grace, after a very short foray into Fashion Night Out 2011, we were enjoying delicious margaritas and burritos at Lime Jungle with their signature homemade salsas (try the mango habanero...it was out of this world), when a gay from New Jersey approached our table.

How did we know he was from Jersey, you might ask yourself, and the answer is that Jersey Gays give off a particular aura that is a combination of old PBR, corn chips, and cheap lube. Oh yeah, and we asked him.

The kid walks up to our table, startling us by his abrupt manifestation, and asks us politely if he might ask us a question. We say yes and the conversation followed:

New Jersey Gay: "Do you think this neighborhood has a higher rate of HIV infection than normal?"

Us: *blink* *blink* *blink* (in unison)

Me: "Well, ummm, I wouldn't know the answer to that question, but I am sure there are resources onine that map out HIV infection rates in a city area, why do you ask?"

New Jersey Gay: "Well let me ask you this...can you get HIV from you know getting a blow job."

Keith: *eyes widen*

Chad: *eyes narrowing*

Me: "Well, you can but the risk of infection is relatively low..."

New Jersey Gay cuts me off and asks, "But what about you know, giving one," and he then mimes giving a blow job."

Me: "Well, as I said the risk is low..."

New Jersey Gay interrupts again,"I have a picture of me with Brittney Spears....not sure if you guys would even care but a guy like me with a picture with someone like her...well...you know..."

At this point my This-Poor-Gay-Is-Higher-Than-A-Kite-Dar goes off. Chad and Keith start to talk at once.

Chad: "Have you ever heard of the Internet..."

New Jersey Gay (missing the sarcasm): "Yes..."

Chad: "You can get this information from the Internet...you might want to try it."

Keith: "What was your original question?"

New Jersey Gay: "Can you get HIV from a blow job?"

Me: "No, actually, you asked about HIV infection rates in this neighborhood."

Keith: "Why would you ask that? And why would you come up to us and ask that question?"

New Jersey Gay: "If I got AIDS, I would kill myself. I don't want to get tested."

At this point, I am trying to figure out how to best intervene in the conversation and figure out what this guy really needs in terms of immediate information. So I say: "I am HIV positive, and I live a really amazing life."

This statement seems to break through the young, confused, and tweaked man's head for a moment.

New Jersey Gay: "That's really brave of you to say that." Pity was oozing out of his face.

Me, slightly annoyed, "And it's really dumb to not get tested. You should call GMHC and get tested."

New Jersey Gay: "But I heard that if you are circumcized you can't get it. I'm cut. Are you cut?"

I was so shocked that I actually answered automatically, "Yes."

New Jersey Gay: "And you still got It?"

Then the drugs the guy was on must have kicked in good enough to truly short circuit any ability to think rationally, as he slaps his and on the table, shows us a finger nail with a white half moon on the nail and says:

"DOES THIS LOOK LIKE AIDS?"

Right then, Brandon the educator left the building, and Brandon the about to kick-his-ass took over. I said politely, but firmly, "You need to walk away now and go back to your table."

Keith was much less polite and much more forceful. I watched his body contract and compact. I call him the Puma as a term of endearment, but in that moment he seriously looked like he was going to go jungle cat and leap over the table and shred this kid. Keith told the kid to walk away, and though the kid mumbled something about not liking being told what to do. He said so while walking quickly back to his table. A moment later he goes to the bathroom and he returns shortly thereafter with his eyelids fluttering in a manner that says clearly that he is under the influence of some sort of narcotic.

When the conversation started, I really felt that it was a moment for education. The guys questions, though massively ill informed were legitimate. It was obvious that despite the tremendous amount of public education that has happened around HIV/AIDS prevention/transmission that somewhere somehow the public education campaign had failed this kid. From what we could tell from the outside, the kid (aka somewhere in his mid-20s early 30s) was white, probably middle to upper middle class and spoke as if he had received formal education. How he had such little knowledge about HIV transmission or could imagine that AIDS was something that you could identify vis a vis a fingernail abnormality was probably a combination of lack of education and the seemingly very efficacious illegal substances he was on, but the overall situation was so surreal that all three of us, afterwards, would have sworn it was a group hallucination if the kid hadn't still been visible to us less than 10 feet away.

In the end, despite the overall screwed up nature of the situation and the immediate internal emotional drama it stirred up for me as a person living with HIV, the real lesson was that HIV/AIDS prevention education has not reached as broadly or deeply as it should after 30 years of the pandemic. Abstinence only laws and Right wing religious education that short circuits real life saving education has an impact in places that are unexpected (aka not only the Deep South but just across the river in Jersey or in the rural Midwest and Southwest). And, there is a lot of work to do to stop the ignorance that lack of education around HIV and STIs breeds.

And if I ever see the New Jersey Gay on the street...he may get a free baptism in the Hudson.

It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt: A Great Big Thank You!

Sometimes miracles do happen. I haven't learned how to walk on water yet, but I'll be damned if I didn't finally have a book release party for my long awaited poetry collection: It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt. The collaboration with artist David Berube is stunning. The reviews so far have been amazing. It's my publisher's number one best selling volume right now. It has been selling out on Amazon.com. It's available online and in stores at Barnes and Noble. Ladies and gentleman...it's official...I am an author.

And I have all ya'll to thank for it.

From those of you that have put me on stages, encouraged me to write, sat through performances, workshopped my writing, loved me through my shit, brought me to your campuses, put me on your panels, invited me to speak at your conferences, fed me, fucked me, loved me, held me, hated me, walked away from me, walked towards me, published me, rejected me, infected me, gave birth to me, raised me, abused me, healed me, taught me, and brought me to this exact point in my life...this book was given to the world.

Thank you.

This last Wednesday, by the grace of God, I turned 34 years old. That same day, I had my book release party at Bartini Ultra-Lounge in Hell's Kitchen. Thank you to the owners Joe Puc and Ted Arenas for donating the space for the party. I hope the 60 odd folks I brought in during happy hour drank enough to make it worth while! I was surprised at my book party by the most effing amazing cake that I have ever seen or eaten. Master cake baker Huascar Aquino of H Cakes in New York made an exact replica of my book, completely edible, that was so real that no less than THREE people tried to open the damn thing before I could shout them down (Brandon Dean I am talking to you!).

Mr. Andrew Werner of Andrew Werner Photography was on hand to photo document the event and put his magic eye on things, and I am deeply appreciative of his support as well.

Old friends and very new friends showed up to cheer me on and buy copies of the book! The party was a fantastic success, and I left the party feel loved, supported, and mostly content to be at the place I am at in my life. It ain't perfect, but it is my truth, and it is a glorious truth even if sometimes it really does hurt.

Thank you again to my publisher Sven Davisson of Rebel Satori Press, Bathabile Mthombeni and riKu Matsuda for putting me on their radio shows to promote the book, and Ebony "Miss Celie" Adams for hosting my first book party in Los Angeles. Your book and your ducats gonna be to you soon gal.

And thank you all ya'll that continue to show me love and to support my work. I love you all.

(PS for regular updates on the book, performances and signings related to the book, and occassional bloggings about it....please check out www.itainttruthifitdoesnthurt.blogspot.com--it's barebones right now, but I am working on it).

TransMisogyny Isn't Cute: Rivers of Honey Community Responds

A little over a week ago, I received a phone call from a dear friend that also happens to be a tremendous performer, artist, and organizer. They'd asked to talk to me about a recent saddening change that had taken place with Rivers of Honey (ROH). ROH, which for eight of its 13 years of existence has explicitly been a performance venue for womyn of color and trans folks of color was now redefining itself to EXLUCDE trans women while still including trans men. In fact, the new mission of ROH described itself as a female bodied space for folks that were raised as girls. The active exclusion of transwomen from a women's space is nothing short of trans-misogyny, the oppressive policing of women's bodies and vagina-checking at its worst. It equates womanhood with genitalia and in expressly including transmen in the mission as welcome in women's space it ignores the sovereignity of transmen and boldly states that having a vulva, despite your choice of gender expression, is all that is necessary to make (or keep you from being) a woman.

As an ally to trans and gender non conforming folks of whatever ilk (and as someone that identiies as genderqueer), I will not tolerate transphobia, transmisogyny, gender policing, or genitalia checking. I support self-organized spaces but I do not accept active oppression in creating those spaces.

I have read the historical documents from Rivers of Honey. I have seen past posters and flyers that are explicitly trans inclusive, and I have read the responses from the current producers of Rivers of Honey, and I find their response to be lacking, surface, and smoke and mirrors to try and cover up their transmisogyny. I stand with and am a part of the Rivers of Honey Community, and I am happy to share with you the response of the Rivers of Honey Community to the mission change of Rivers of Honey.


COMMUNITY RESPONSE TO RIVERS OF HONEY

Rivers of Honey is a women-centered monthly cabaret at WOW Café Theatre in NYC. Since it began in 1998 Rivers has served as a major cultural institution, a launch pad for artists and producers whose work might never have been seen and celebrated in mainstream venues, and a vital, queer-centric POC community space.

In August 2011, a small and closed Rivers of Honey team stated the cabaret is now a "platform for womyn of color, defined as female-bodied individuals." Under this new policy trans women are no longer welcome to produce or perform. Trans men and other female-assigned gender non-conforming people are still welcome provided they identify with the "female-bodied" women's only space.

For the past 8 years of Rivers’ 13 year existence, trans women, trans men and gender non-conforming people have all been welcomed be a part Rivers of Honey. Until recently, language inclusive of all women and trans folks has appeared on Rivers of Honey fliers, the WOW website, and Facebook and MySpace pages. A Rivers of Honey mission statement that was collectively written and agreed upon in August 2009 states that: "Rivers of Honey is a monthly women's cabaret featuring queer and trans artists of color."

Questions about how these decisions were made, requests for clarification, and objections to the policy have been met with silencing, dismissal, and the refusal of further discussion.

Rivers of Honey is an important institution for our community. We love and value it deeply and therefore do not wish to see it replicate the trans misogyny and transphobia we struggle so fiercely against in our larger society.

WHY SHOULD I CARE?

1. The exclusion of trans women of color from the women's space of Rivers of Honey is an act of trans misogyny – a form of transphobia directed specifically against trans women. Such exclusion is part of a damaging pattern of discrimination that contributes to the already tremendous degrees of bigotry, harassment and violence that trans women of color face.

2. The current language is not truly inclusive of trans men and gender non-conforming people of color. Just as the current language implies that trans women are not truly women, it also implies that trans men and gender non-conforming people are, in the end, actually women despite their own self-identification. In both cases, people are being robbed of their agency to define their own identities.

WHAT WE WANT

We, queer and trans people of color, community members, past performers, producers and audience members want to see:

Rivers of Honey reject trans misogyny and include all women of color equally, whether they are cisgender women or trans women;

If trans men and gender non-conforming people of color continue to be welcomed as performers at Rivers of Honey, the language of Rivers of Honey should be changed to "a space for all women, trans men and gender non-conforming people of color";

Rivers of Honey return to its longstanding tradition of being an open, accountable, and collectively-run space where dialogue is encouraged, disagreement is allowed, and decisions are made in an open, transparent, and community-inclusive manner.

HOW TO GET INVOLVED

We ask our community members and allies to join us in voicing your opinions and concerns. We offer these ideas for participation:

DISTRIBUTE WIDELY .
Share this note with your communities, families, colleagues, and friends via email, Facebook, Twitter, personal blog, etc.

SIGN THIS LETTER .
Click here to be added to the list of signatories for this letter. Please include your name and organization as you would like it to be listed.

LET CURRENT PRODUCERS KNOW YOUR OPINION.
If you choose not to attend or perform at Rivers of Honey because of these changes, or if you attend or perform but disagree with or have questions about these changes, please voice your questions/concerns to the current producers at riversofhoney@gmail.com.

JOIN US ON FACEBOOK .
RSVP to this event https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=154348077984682. It will be updated to take place at the same time as each monthly Rivers of Honey until the policy of trans inclusion is reinstated. Updates about actions related to trans inclusion at Rivers will also be sent to folks who RSVP to the event.

In solidarity,

Rivers of Honey Community

On the Eve of Turning 34....

Hot diggity damn, I feel like I was celebrating my 21st birthday just last year. The venerable and now passed on director of the advising program where I was working as a student, Dr. Guillermo Rojas, took me out with the other staff for drinks and, silly viejo, doubted that I could drink a blow job shot with my hands behind my back.

Straight men are so silly sometimes. Sleep well Profe Rojas!

Back then I was a twinky homo living in Minneapolis, finishing up undergrad, and dreaming of one day marrying a strapping man with an ass and penis that would make the Greeks cry, writing books, changing the world, taking care of my friends and family, and living a life to make my Mama and them proud (and all the while eating well and looking good doing it).

I'll be Hot Diggity Damned if I ain't well on my way.

The last 13 years have brought all kinds of ups and downs, changes, dramas, hurts, mistakes, BIG mistakes, BIGGER mistakes, friendships, friends lost, friends and family died and moved on, loves, break ups, lessons learned and lessons re-learned, tons of laughter, tons of healing, some wounding and wound taking, and some life shattering events on a personal and global scale.

I turned 21 in 1998. It was at the height of the 90s prosperity. Clinton was still in the White House. The interwebs was making 21 year olds into overnight billionaires, poor people were poor but richer than poor folks had ever been before, cars were getting bigger, the economy was getting bigger, and I was growing up amongst prosperity and in a cohort of radical queer organizers that helped me believe anything at all was possible.

In the meantime we've had two and a half wars, eight years of GW Bush, the first black president, a recessions almost as big as the Great Depression, an oil crisis, an integrity crisis, and one hell of a collective identity crisis.

But through it all, I have been blessed to know and grow and love and be loved by so many amazing people. And tomorrow I celebrate my 34th birthday and the release of my first book, written with my former partner and friend David Berube (it includes 20 of his prints): It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt.

Life brings many blessings and many lessons. It's brought me amazing family, amazing friends, and amazing loved ones new and old (am happy to have a new blessing in the body of Keith in my life as well).

Thanks to you all that have helped make this journey possible. I love you!
It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't HurtIt Ain't Truth If It Doesn't HurtIt Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt

A Prayer to St. Fornicacia

Our Lady of Fornication
Who art in the Bathhouse
Bottom be thy Name

Intercede on our behalf
and let us overcum temptation

In the name of Bubble Butts
and our well hung savior.

Amen.

Pee On Him

Now and again, I am viscerally reminded of the fact that yes, indeed, I am an animal with built in biological impulses that sometimes create random and often times hilarious urges.

I was at the gym this morning with Keith, as we are wont to do in the a.m. Now, for those of you that haven't seen Keith, he is a stunning specimen of the male figure. Walking around in public with him is an exercise in patience and self-control...in two ways. There is the patience and self-control around not mounting him in public and putting on a live sex show...if you'd seen his butt you'd understand what I am talking about. And there is the self-control of not sticking my foot through the throats of some of the gays that practice their x-ray vision when looking at him.

I have to remind myself what my Aunt Lilly told my sister Jasmine at Honey Bun's funeral, "Girl...don't nobody want a man that nobody else wants."

But back to biology.

There are two gentleman at our gym that, according to various online sources, practice the world's oldest profession. They have a friend that we call, "Hooker's Friend." We have all kinds of names for folks at the gym: Vintage Gay, Porn Booty, Onesie, and Shark Eyes to name a few. Now Hooker's Friend LOVES Keith. I mean goes out of his way to say hello and goodbye to him, and today he was standing behind Keith staring a hole in the back of Keith's head.

I thought it was hilarious at first. And then I found myself wanted to do something to stake my claim to Keith. It was more than just a thought...it was a deep seated impulse. I resisted the impulse and it went away, but a moment later, when we were done with our exercise in that area, we got up to walk away, and after walking about ten steps, I realized that I had, without any thought, interposed myself between Keith and Hooker Friend and I had literally swollen up and was walking like a stiff legged cat protecting its mate and territory.

I almost choked trying not to laugh at myself.

I realized that I absolutely had gone to a primal place. I wasn't jealous at all by situation. I wasn't feeling intimidated by the other person. I didn't feel inadequate or off balance. And I wasn't attracted to the other man at all. Those things (minus the last) usually lead me to some really not fun jealousy feelings. This was something else. This was my instincts telling me to "protect my mate from a potential predatory rival." I consiered peeing on him for a second (he's not into that).

Score one for natural selection.

In the end, it was a hilarious reminder that, in fact, humans are animals with instincts...and when those instincts come out in a gay showdown at Gold's gym....it is better than Christmas.

Biceps and Brains

So, for any of you that have the burden of being one of my Facebook friends, you will know that since Easter, I have been busting my ass in the gym. Since that Holiest of Christian Days (right after the First Shopping Day of Christmas), I have spent somewhere around 15-20 hours a week at the gym.

I wrote a blog all about why. It's called Body Beautiful. Check it out.

But the bottom line is that around Easter, I decided to go right on ahead and get the body that I have always wanted...not because someone somewhere told me that I should have it, but because I have done my work around my body issues, acknowledged my body dysmorphia, and decided that the only person that could make me happy with my body is me.

For the first damn time when I look in the mirror, with the exception of my dragon claw toes, from my ass to my pecs, biceps to lats, I love what I see. I did the work, and fuck you in the back of your throat with a razor blade covered jackhammer if you think I am not about to enjoy every damn minute of it.

It's still a work in progress, but when I was walking down the street wearing an already too tight button down short sleeve rainbow striped shirt that I have to leave half way unbuttoned lest my titties burst out of the front like Lindsay Lohan busting out of rehab...it began to rain...and once that shirt was plastered to my body, I swear at least three homos ran head first into sign posts on 9th Ave.

I win!

Now, I have and will continue to fuck and get plowed by men that have less than the Chelsea boy ideal of a body. In fact, not to put my bidness to far out there, since achieving my current body state, I have. Why? BECAUSE I UNDERSTAND AND FIND SEXINESS GOES BENEATH THE SKIN (and sometimes gets pounded into select parts of my skin...with permission).

But what I have come across and will not tolerate are slack jawed bitter biznatches that gots something to say about the work I have done based on their own dissatisfaction or snarky crossed eye faggoty snarkiness. I do not play that. I have never played that. I shan't start now. Thank you.

The other day, I was taking a spinning class at the Upper West Side YMCA and an older gay gentleman in the class made a comment about my biceps being bigger than my brains. Now, in fact, I wasnt' really offended. I was caught off guard, mostly, since thoe comments have never been directed at me before. Since then, in jest(ish), other folks have also made commentary about the connection between my body and my intelligence (the broader your chest the dumber you MUST be) or made assumptions, even in jest, about my value around other folks' bodies.

Let me go right on ahead and say to the peoples of America that the work I have done and will continue to do on my body, body image, body dysmorphoia, body policing, body type valuation, and living in an HIV positive body will continue based on my thoughts, feelings and analysis. Your verbal poison, bitterness, jealousy or your need to lash out because you have been devalued, disregarded, or denigrated by fucked up human beings that DO place a particular value on OTHER people's bodies rather than focusing on their own physical journey...is not appropriate. Keep it to yourself, or you will be told about yourself. Publicly. Without mercy.

I restrained myself on the good gentleman at the YMCA, and, much to his credit, he, a few moments later, came to me and apologized for his comment. I didn't need his apology, though I accepted it, but it was awesome to watch his process as he realized that maybe he had made a jest that possibly had an impact that was more about him than about its target.

If only we could all be so self aware. Lord knows I am not always. And this particular new self awareness around what it means to live in a different body type is a very interesting experience to be having.

Though let's be real...the benefits way outweigh the moments of having to deal with other people's ugly.

Love yourself. Love the body you walk in. And if you don't love it, do the work you need to do to love it, whatever that means for you. Until then, leave everyone else the Hell alone.

Movie Review: Gun Hill Road

Every five or six years a movie comes along that has the potential to radically alter the popular dialogue around a particular issue or topic. The film generally tells a story from a new, distinct perspective, provides a stark, harsh, gentle, funny, and human point of view about a situation or situations that are broadly relevant but largely ignored or only talked about behind closed doors. The "what goes on in this house, stays in this house," silences that so many of us know too well.

Once every five or six years a movie comes along that I wish every single person on the planet could be compelled to watch.

Gun Hill Road is one of those movies.

The story is simple. Set in the South Bronx, A father (Esai Morales) returns from prison after suffering sexual violence while an inmate to find his family much changed since he left. His wife (Judy Reyes), in his absence, found comfort with another man, and his son, Michael, is in the process of becoming Vanessa (Harmony Santana), the women Michael was born to be.

What ensues is a raw look at what it means to walk in brown skin, poor skin, incarcerated skin, sexually violated skin, gender non-comforming skin, transitioning skin, transcultural skin, machista skin, mother's skin, father's skin, urban skin and all connected through a tapestry of blood and street kinship, families of choice and families of survival and running throughout the whole thing a literal and spiritual poetry that gives life.

This movie was sometimes funny, sometimes sensual, sometimes deep, and sometimes light but it was never for a moment disconnected or artificial not even when Vanessa goes for her first silicon injection.

Esai Morales gives the performance of a lifetime, and I would not be surprised if this doesn't earn him an Oscar nomination. Judy Reyes, most often known as the witty and sassy Dominicana from Scrubs proves that she is a soulful actress whose talent and range runs deep. And newcomer Harmony Santana, a trans woman who quite literally was beginning her own physical transition during the filming of this movie is reminiscent of Gabriel Sidibe....a brilliant newcomer that ties the entire story together.

Rashaad Ernesto Green, I had a chance to hear you speak at the Angelika on August 5th. Congratulations on a brilliant piece of work. Keep it humble my friend, but be proud of what you have accomplished.

And for the rest of you, get your ass out and see this movie. Now.

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.