An Open Love Letter to My Community

Dear Friends, Family, and Loved Ones:

I received a hateful and spiteful letter in the U.S. mail the other day from an anonymous writer that reads my FB and blog and lives in St. Louis. I sat with the letter for several days. At first it made me angry, and then it made me feel ashamed, and now I hold it for what it is: a sad, hurt, angry, self-loathing attempt by someone to offload their own feelings of inadequacy on others. The only thing I truly have to say to you is that I hope you find the love, healing, grace, and peace that you seem to not have in your life in this moment. You deserve it.

The one point in the letter, though, that truly made my eyebrows raise was when I was accused of, and I am paraphrasing, loving my friends, boyfriend, community too much (or as anonymous said...when I am in love the whole word has to hear about)....acting as if you are all superstars, phenomenal, the best people ever. Please note I was not accused of putting down the friends, family, and loves of others only that I loved you all too much and too publicly and without the appropriate amount of humility and self-effacement.

Guilty.

Let's start off with something simple. Nico, I love you. But you already knew that. And you know why. You are French and stoic, so I won't embarrass you by listing why exactly you have captured my heart. I love you. Now get back to saving the world from itself.

But that's not all, I love so many other people: David, Kenyon, Rodrigo, Jennifer, Nubia, Chad, Jenna, JT, Umberto, Pookie, Tasha, RJ, Bebe, Amber, Jay, Collette, Susan, Rocki, and so on and so forth and on and on and on and on. Guess what? There is no lack of love to be given or accepted. I love you all, my community, my friends, many of my former boyfriends, some folks that are no longer on this earth. I love you. Thank you for all that you have given me and for the times you have allowed me to be of service to you in friendship.

To my family, my brothers and sisters, my Dad, my Mom, my step-Mom, my nieces and nephews, my godson, cousins, family of choice, family of origin, I love you. Thank you for holding me, raising me, growing with me, and giving me the gift of your love.

To my political family, especially Paula Austin, thank you for building with me, checking my ass when it needed to be checked and DOING IT WITH love and compassion (shout out to Irma and Lolan), and to those that have helped me understand what it means to be a feminist, a radical, a man, privileged as well as oppressed, and the responsibilities that come with access. Thank you. I will continue to fuck up and I know that you will hold me down and hold me correct when need be. Thank you.  I love you.

To the poets and writers of the world, I love you, keep sharing your stories and your truths....we all need them. To my ancestors: Black, White, Anishinaabe (LCO Band of Ojibwe where my Mother is an enrolled member as are all of my relatives of the last generation), and Puerto Rican...thank you....your work and breath made my life possible. I love you.

And to those that have offered up their less than loving critique, thank you for giving me a gift to see myself, my work, and my place in the world as distinct from how you live yours. I will continue to celebrate my life with love, my community with love, my work with love, my family with love, and even those that believe I am nothing more than the basest of their perceptions, I love you too.

Thank you to you all. One love.

Love,
Brandon

Starting Meds or HIV Sucks

Let's start this way: I have an amazing job with amazing people, especially my co-director Amber Hollibaugh and my Shelter Program Director Jay Toole. I've known them both for years and years before working with them and I love them both dearly.

Though I live with HIV, I am healthy. I am fed. My bills (except my student loans) are paid. I have an awesome roommate and a beautiful dog. My family loves the Hell out of me, and I have seven siblings that hold up their big brother always. I have friends/family/complicated definition folks in my life such as JT Mikulka, Bebe Zahara Benet, RJ Thompson, Roojie, Kamal Fizazi, Sam Matin, Di Sands, Jennifer Molina Balbuena de Hannon, Jason Ruiz, Coya Hope Artichoker, Anh Thu Pham, Betty Tisel and Sarah Farley, Susan Raffo and Rocki Simoes, Rigo and Nubia, my beautiful nieces and nephews, my godson Santiago aka Baby Rufus, Troll Baby and Rebs, Gracie, crazy ass and brilliant Ebony, my brother from another mother and father Carlitos Blanquitos, and so so so many others. I am so blessed and full up on love, and I KNOW that so many folks walking around this earth experience or believe that they have a love deficit. I don't. I NEVER have had. I have ALWAYS in every moment, in my deepest poverty, during the greatest violence, and in my fiercest hurt, and during my most self induced crazy, been held by so many with such compassion that if any one of them walked down to Hudson River park and commanded the River to split open, I wouldn't have been the least surprised. It would be nice though, if they do, if I could at least grab my good chancletas first.

We might be going to Jersey, but we don't have to LOOK like we live in Jersey.

My life changed this week. Only slightly. Only nominally. But it changed.  After ten years of being so very blessed.  After ten years of having my body, and all I've put it through, kick HIV's ass (I am one of those super rare and magical creatures called a nonprogressor......not a super nonprogressor...but a nonprogressor....there is an important distinction that I am about to talk about), my amazing doctor, Steve Dillon at Gotham Medical, recommended that I start HAART treatment.

Nonprogressors go years, in my case a decade, without needing HIV meds. Supernonprogressors never need them. My body just got a little tired. It fought so hard for so so so long. From 25 to 35 it fought a war that it will win but now it needs just a little help. Just a bit. 

PS Dr. Dillon and the practitioners are Gotham Medical, formerly the Chelsea Doctors.

Lets be real. For ten years my body kept my HIV viral loads at or near undetectable ON ITS OWN. My Tcells, are at "normie" levels. Near a thousand (and usually over....most normies aren't even that high).

And, to quote my girl, Lezbehonest....the news that I have to start HAART treatment kicked my motherfuckingass.

I ain't dying. So far from it. I ain't sick. So far from it. I get to start a new state of the art med (Complera) particularly designed for folks like me that have a natural resistance to HIV. The side effects are almost non existent besides some initial fatigue and headaches. I AM SO FUCKING BLESSED.

And today, I broke the fuck down.

My walk with HIV is MY walk. And if I stop to compare it to other folks journey, I have nothing to complain about. But my feelings are real. My experience is real. My sadness and hurt is REAL It's not cute. It's not easy. It's not a tragedy. It's not a crisis. But it is hard. It does hurt. And this transition and its incumbent feelings are all valid.

Thank you everyone who picked up the phone or sent a text today. I needed it. I needed you. I still need you. Thank you. I love you. And anyone else that walks this walk...know that it's gonna be alright but its gonna hurt when you take those first few steps...whether it's a week after your diagnosis or after a decade.

Imma love and live well. So will you.

Supporting Our Soldiers

Once upon a time I joined a list serve, founded by Code Pink, that was keeping folks abreast of anti-war organizing taking place around the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. Once the invasions took place and the wars in full swing, the focus of the list serve changed to combating the use of unmanned drones that have made some egregious errors costing many civilians their lives. The focus switch of the list serve happened and folks weren't asked to opt in.

For the most part, I never read anything on the list over the last several years. Until this morning when an email caught my eye that said that all soldiers are cowards, followed up by an angry U.S. resident of Afghan descent that, when facing folks pushing back against the statement that all soldiers are cowards, said, "Enough with making excuses for soldiers aka guns-for-hire. ENOUGH!"

That pushed me over the edge. Here is my verbatim response:

Message flagged
Tuesday, January 31, 2012 8:13 AM
Can someone let me know how to remove myself from this list? The straight up ignorance around the poverty draft and other intentionally socially engineered policies that create real situations where many young people of color and rural poor whites see or actually have only the military as an option to escape cyclical poverty, the drug war, or urban violence is really too much. And it smacks of some serious unexamined privilege. Let's talk about the root causes of why the overwhelming majority of recruits join the service. It has nothing to do with privateering and patriotism, it has to do with a paycheck and a way out of wherever they came from. Those aren't excuses those are the reality of this capitalist corporate state. How about this, Fatima, you go into the hoods and counties where these children are drafted and cut them a check, pay for their education, give then a home, and remove them from the violence and poverty of the places you find them in. Support their families as well. Until you can do that while also eradicating the systemic oppression that created their circumstances, you are just as much a part of the problem as they end up being.

To denounce folks for taking what appears to be their only option to have a better life at the risk of their own lives, no matter how misguided the choice may have been, is an act of cowardice. Especially from behind a computer screen.

I am no fan of the military industrial complex. I do not believe in the United States' hegemonic neocolonialist policies. I despise the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq and the secret invasions that we stage all the time. But I also know that when my little brother and little sister joined the military it wasn't for some love of having to go to war against people that look like them. Neither did my Father or my Uncle or my Great-Uncle who fought in Korea and WWII. They joined because they felt it was the best option to get them to the place in life they wanted to be and whether from rural Minnesota or rural West Virginia, the options were limited. My great-great Uncle Lieutenant Colonel William Harrison Carey was a friend of Teddy Roosevelt's and rode with him during the colonization of Puerto Rico. Another relative of mine was with General Eisenhower in France and was the mapmaker that laid the literal plans and map of the D-Day invasion. Am I proud that one of my relatives participated in the colonization of Puerto Rico? No. Am I proud that another helped set the stage for the liberation of France and the fall of Hitler. Hell yes.

I support my family. My sister Shannon was named NCO Officer of the Year for the United States Army last year. My little brother has lost handfuls of friends to the war in Afghanistan and struggles with that on a regular basis. These are not mercenaries...these are my family. I may not support the military as an institution, but I support and love these human beings that have been my friends, allies, and loved me through some hard shit. I am proud of my family and the service they have given.

And anyone that calls them a coward to my face is likely to get my foot placed squarely in their ass. Check your fucking privilege...I am so done with arm chair activists hiding behind computer screens making broad declarations about shit they know nothing about.

Get up. Get out. And do the work necessary so that not a single one of our beloved family members and friends ever have to choose between poverty and violence and the risk of going to war in order to live a better life. Dismantle capitalism...erase racism....and abolish poverty....and then come talk to me about folks that join up. Until then. Shut the fuck up.

Creating Change 2012 First Entry

At this very moment, I am on an Amtrak train hurtling (or chugging---chooo choooooo) towards Baltimore for what would be my 14th Creating Change since 1998 if I hadn't missed a couple, but is instead my 11th. But still...DAYUM!

I will never forget my first Creating Change...picking up Erik Christensen in Coya Artichoker's car and driving from Minneapolis to Pittsburgh with a brief stop for a very expensive speeding ticket just before hitting P-Burgh.

How very much my life, organizing, and work has changed since 1998.

At the time I was still in college...a junior/senior at the University of Minnesota and wondering what the Hell I was going to do with my life.

Today, I am living in New York, working for Queers for Economic Justice, a published author, HIV positive, a sometimes hot mess, but loving, living, and dreaming big and in ways I never knew possible those 14 years ago.

I am always skeptical when I am heading to Creating Change, but this year it seems that most of my favorite people ever are going to be at the conference. I am re-plugged in to the conference in a different way, and I am filled with a ton of optimism. We shall see what we shall see.

This year I am faculty in both the Economic Justice Institute and the Sex Justice Institute as well as participating in two workshops, one on the future of sexual orientation and the other on reclaiming sexuality for people living with HIV and disabled folks. I get to work with folks like Amber Hollibaugh, Carlos Blanco, Sebastian Margaret, Kenyon Farrow and so many other transformative and amazing human beings.

My life is blessed.

I am definitely looking forward to this conference, reconnecting with so many of my beloved community/family members. 2012 is the year.

Stay Tuned.

Minneapolis to NYC: Thank You, Love You, Peace

Minnesota has my heart, but my heart has another lover, New York. To my heart I give home, to my lover I come. Home is forever, while my love waits ephemeral, though home be distant and lover close, it is home that has what the lover has but on loan. -BLC, NYC, 11.7.11

The beginning of last week was a shit show extraordinaire. I was in full flight from dealing with some heavy emotional stuff that had gone down over the previous two weeks. To sum it up, I officially ended a relationship with someone for whom I still care but it is not possible for us to be together. In the meantime there are other highly emotional (mostly good yet still complicated) situations going on (I am being WAY cryptic here...which is all for the best)...and all of that combined to make me flee and hide out in some rather unhealthy ways last weekend.

Luckily thanks to the support of an acquaintance, I was provided with the time, space, and solitude to pull myself, my thoughts, and my courage together. It was the best gift that I have gotten in a very long time.

Last Monday and Tuesday were rough. My emotions were on an internal Great America theme park adventure, the people around me were super loving, and I finally, with the love of community, pulled myself together. In fact, despite the ending of my relationship and the accompanying heartache that entailed, my life is good. I am employed. I have a home. I have a Mimzy. I have a powerful family of choice and of blood, and frankly I have a book that is doing really well. Since October 1, I have been in Atlanta to celebrate the wedding of Paulina and Ashe, in Albany to co-keynote the national queer people of color health conference, at Davidson College in North Carolina to do a reading and give a series of lectures in partnership with the amazing photographer Sophia Wallace, and I just returned home from Minneapolis where I not only got to spend time with my Betty and Sarah and family, but I got to hold my godson as he was baptized, share in the wedding vow renewal of Rodrigo Sanchez-Chavarria and Nubia Esparza, and I had a jam packed Minneapolis book launch party at the fantastic Cafe SouthSide!

To stand in front of an audience, with my godson present, my amazing step-mom Melanie, my nephew Jason Jr., the Scooby Gang, my high school art teacher Mrs. Mary Simon-Casati, high school friends, Facebook folks that I had yet to meet but am so glad I did, and with the powerful presence of other writers and performers particularly Harry Waters, Jr., Kevin Kaoz Moore, Kyle "Guante" Myhre, Teresa Ortiz and the aforementioned Rodrigo Sanchez-Chavarria, was to stand in front of a room full of blessings. And anytime I can look up and see the loving, gentle, and powerful face of Susan Raffo, co-director of Minnesota's LGBTQ foundation PFUND, it is a good and blessed day.

I am so thankful for the gift of community. I am grateful for those that show up again and again to share their love and to let me reflect back to them the light and love that they give to me. To be mirrors for each and to reflect back the light that each of us was given brighten the way for those around us, is what I believe we were all put on this planet to do.

Today, I landed back in New York, and as sad as I was to leave behind my friends and family back in Minneapolis, I was jumping up and down to get home to my people here. First it was a reunion with Mimzy...and I spent a good 15 minutes wrapping her up and holding her and burying my face in her fur while she tried desperately to lick all of the sweat she could from my head. It's her job. Don't judge. And then it was a quick shower and to the QEJ office where I was greeted with a shout and love by my co-conspirator and beloved Amber Hollibaugh, the elfin soft show of Naomi, the giggles of Gykyira and of course the sun-shaming smile of JT Mikulka.

There was sadness today. I don't want to downplay or undervalue the sadness that existed today as well. That isn't a story I want to share here, now. But I learned a long time ago that it is not an oxymoron or a conflict to hold great joy and great sadness in your belly at the same time. In fact, on a day to day basis, those two seemingly conflicting emotions often show up, together, to remind us that the sweet tastes sweet because we know bitter as well.

To all my friends and family, I wish you nothing but the greatest blessings. Thank you for being in the world and being a light that helps me see where I am going when I am most likely to bang around in the dark, bruising myself, and crashing into the folks that showed up to help me. Love to you all.

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.

Family=Love

Anyone that knows me and/or reads my blog or has been to one of my poetry readings in the last two years or is a Facebook friend knows about my Honey Bun Aunt Sis. Anyone that has stopped by this blog in the last week knows that last Tuesday, Aunt Sis left this world for the next one. She had bone cancer, which is incurable, but she fought it tooth and nail for two years. When the end came, she went in peace in her sleep. My Dad, though technically her nephew, was one of her sons...considered such by Honey Bun as well as her four biological children. He was listed as her son in the funeral program and it was my Daddy that was by her side most often for the last two years and even before that. I knew that when she died, he was going to have a hard time. Daddy tried to keep his game face on, especially with me, but I knew he was hurting, and he let it out in his own time, surrounded by people that loved her as much as he did.

Now she's home with Jesus. She was a woman of faith, and I know that her faith and love was rewarded. I've written before that I believe God sends angels to walk amongst us...unpresupposing folks that come into this sometimes hurtful, harmful, painful, crazy world to remind us that there is always love. That was my Honey Bun.

Last week, I was in rough shape. There was a three day gap between when I received the news and when I would be able to get to my family. I am still unemployed and David was scheduled to work out of town on Wednesday and Thursday. We needed the money, so I had to wait until he came back so that we could pack and leave. The reality of the living is that we need to keep working cuz the dead have no needs. I was soul weary and heart sick on our drive from NYC to Ronceverte, WV. I was anxious to get to my family, and my Daddy, as he always does when we are travelling to get together, was texting me about every 15 minutes to check on our progress. When we finally pulled up to the Holiday Inn Express in Lewisburg, I basically bolted from the car. My Dad came around the corner, and up the road came walking my great-aunt and uncle Lilly and Sherman and my cousin Buddy. Right then I knew what I needed. I needed my family.

Like my Aunt Sis, my family is crazy as Hell. As we walked from the car, I looked in the window of the hotel lobby and saw a room full of black folks. I knew they belonged to me and that I belonged to them. My sisters had arrived from Atlanta about 15 minutes before we got there, and I walked into a room of familiar as well as unknown faces. But even the faces I didn't recognize were clearly people to whom I was related. Aunt Barb, Aunt Bud, Aunt Sister Mary Jerome, my sisters, my cousin Wendell and all the others had the stamp of those hills on their face. And damn if they weren't all beautiful.

Over the course of the weekend I became re-acquainted with family I hadn't seen in years, met family I had never met, and met at least 100 people who weren't biologically related but were people that loved my Aunt Sis. The church was packed, the service was rockin' and even though there were tears and sadness, hearts broken and fences to be mended, at all tims and every step of the way there was someone telling a story to make folks laugh. The Lacy's are a folk built for joy. We are an entire family of story tellers and flame keepers. Eloquence is a family trait as is a wicked sense of humor. And we are beautiful, so so so beautiful from the octogenerians down to the infants, the Lacy's, as my sister says, have good genes. Genes or not...it was the laughter and the love, the soul food and the singing, the praise and the memories, the open doors, open homes and open hearts....the family...that made us so damn beautiful.

I am sad that my Aunty Sis has left us. I am sure there will be tears in my future, but I left those beautiful emerald hills with so much joy, and a committment to knowing those kin more deeply, and that is a gift that I know my Aunty Sis wanted all of us to walk away with.

Family equals love.

Loving and Letting Go

So, last summer my best friend, who happened to be a former boyfriend that I loved with all my heart, committed suicide. He had been in a sad place for a while, though, like most of us living through our own trials, what he saw as the things standing in his way, those things weighing on his spirit, were not as great as they felt to him. When he failed to achieve a goal he set out to do, the failure tore at him. He became a failure rather than having simply not had the resources, at the time, to do what he had set out to do. In the end, he could no longer see what everyone else could see: he was a beautiful and brilliant man that loved others and lifted others up in a way that I am not sure I am even capable of approximating. When Chris loved you, you knew what it was to have someone believe in you, totally, without compromise. He laughed at the silly and stupid masks we put on and, despite how good we thought we were at applying masks and cover up, he saw right on through it and loved what was underneath selflessly and absolutely. How could you not feel beautiful when someone loved you that way? With Chris loving me, slowly, I began to see past the face in the mirror...that distorted image of childhood trauma and low self-esteem...to that face that Chris saw. I caught glimpses of another Brandon...and when I couldn't see him...or believe in him...Chris believed enough for the both of us.

I know, though, that when I am in a place where it is hard to keep moving forward because everything feels heavy and hard, until I am able to find a vantage point that will truly let me put what I'm going through into perspective, all the love in the world isn't going to do it for me. What love does is give me strength to draw on to maybe take one more step. There were times when Chris was the love that got me through. Chris gave me the gift of allowing me to love him through hard times in the past. But last Summer, one night in July, my love wasn't enough. The last time I talked to him, the night before he died, he called me, and when I answered, he started crying and said, before hanging up the phone, that it was too hard for him to hear my voice. I know now that it wasn't Chris that called me that night. He may have dialed the number, but when I answered the phone, it was his mask that answered. It was the voice of what he perceived as his failures that shut down my beautiful Chris and plugged up his ears.

I didn't know that would be our last conversation. If I'd had even the tiniest moment of precognition, I would have kept him on the phone. I would have called him back, and if he didn't answer, I would have filled up his voicemail box with messages of love. And when the mailbox filled up, I would have texted him. I would have sent him silly pictures and inappropriate comments. I would have reminded him of all the awesome, stupid, happy, sad memories I have of our friendship. I would have filled up his inbox with anything and everything to try and shout down and crowd out those voices whispering ugly and hateful words into his spirit. And, if necessary, I would have called anyone within a 100 mile radius and had them drive to his house and held him until I could get to him myself. I would have rode Mimzy to Virginia if that is the only way that I'd had to get down there.

But, I didn't know that it was our last conversation, and less than twelve hours later, he was gone. When his boyfriend, who was staying with us that weekend, called to tell me, I didn't believe him at first. I actually thought that his boyfriend, also named Chris, must have misunderstood whatever message he'd gotten, but since he was obviously upset, I went into business mode, told him I would be back to the apartment shortly, and then hung up the phone. When I got back to the apartment, I sat, quietly, without saying much. I am not going at crying in front of other people, and Chris was in crisis, and if anything I am fucking amazing in crisis (so much so that I don't understand how to live outside of crisis mode...a fucked up way of being that keeps me in a cycle of self-sabotage...you always run back to what feels comfortable no matter how stupid it may be to do so). Though I may have had a calm face on the outside, in the inside, the whole time that I was trying to be present for Chris the Boyfriend, I was screaming inside. In fact, it got so bad that when tears started to come, I clamped down on them with a tremendous mental force because I knew that if I let the tears start that the screaming wouldn't just be inside, it would have be real. If I'd started screaming out what I was feeling, I am not sure when I would have been able to stop it. I was so sad and so angry. I wanted to go to Virginia and kick Chris' body until I could lift my leg anymore. I wanted to punch him in the face for being so fucking dumb and selfish. I wanted to take off of my belt and beat him until my arm cramped up for thinking that it was easier to pick up a gun than the phone. And once I had exhausted myself and rested, I wanted to find his parents and beat the shit out of them as well for not seeing how badly he was hurting and put his ass in a mental ward if that's what it would have taken. I wanted to find anyone that had ever hurt Chris and made him believe that those voices inside of him were telling the goddamn truth. Then I wanted to find God and kick the shit out of him too.

So, instead of doing all of that drama...I did what I do best. I stuffed all of my emotions deep deep deep down, labeled the box I put them in, and then tucked them into the deep freezer. Nothing like unresolved emotional issues ;-).

Fast forward to recently. Chris and I met in rehab. We both (him past tense struggled, me present tense struggle) with addiction. So, when I started going back to the fellowship of which we were both members, I spent most of my first meeting not thinking about my own shit...but remembering Chris. I remembered all of the love and encouragement he gave me when we were both starting out on this path together. And then came the survivor's guilt....but mostly...I just remembered him and let the memories run one into the other, which, would have been awesome, except one of my visions of Hell is breaking down crying, seemingly spontaneously, in front of 200 some odd folks in one room. I have a hard enough time crying by myself, at home, in the middle of the night, with the shades pulled and the lights off. Though the feelings aren't as overwhelming now, every time I walk into one of those rooms and sit down, Chris is right there and all of the sadness and love for him is right there too.

Today, when I was having coffee with Mark, with whom I usually attend meetings, I told him about Chris and who Chris had been, how he'd died, and what he meant to me. I told him about Honey Bun and how amazing she is and that she is thinking about going to Heaven soon. He listened. He heard me. I kept from completely crying, but a few tears leaked out, but Mark gave me permission to cry, which is a gift that I appreciate though I sure as Hell wasn't about to break down in the middle of Chelsea on a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon with half the gays in the city rolling through to get a non-fat skim milk light mocha coconut banana dark roast espresso latte americano frappe-gay-cino.

But it did help me realize that I still had some things I needed to let myself work through where Chris is related. It helped me admit and own that I have grief that I need to let go so that it doesn't continue to be something I use any means necessary to escape from...and I realized that if I told him that Honey Bun maybe leaving soon, if I asked for support now, that maybe when it's her time...I can let myself feel what I need to feel and then let those feelings go so that they do not become another excuse to self-medicate and numb myself. Especially since once that old bird is dead and has the ability to pop in whenever the Hell she feels like it, I am afraid that she would show up, switch in hand, and whoop my ass if I self-medicated to deal with her passing. I can hear her now, "Dumb ass Negro...you know better...and since you want to act simple...I am going to simply whoop your little black butt until the dumb is all beaten off of it."

Aright, I have half a dozen or more friends coming over in three hours for Easter dinner, and I have a mess of greens sitting by the sink that aren't going to cook themselves, so I better have at it. It's Easter, and Easter is about family, so I thought I had to make sure that Chris, my family, was remembered today. Love you.

Fuck Cancer or Why Death is Stupid

PLEASE NOTE....THIS BLOG IS A PURE VENT/RANT. Proceed at your own risk.

Let's do a quick recap.

My cousin Jim died from leukemia in September 2008
My friend/mother of choice Mrs. Mona Harris died of colon cancer in 2009
My best friend Chris killed himself last summer
My beloved friend Tiffany died from a sudden heart attack at the ripe old age of maybe 43 last fall.
My Honey Bun (Aunt Sis) is dying from bone cancer and has been in and out of intensive care for the last month.

I am so fucking sick and tired of death and I have a special hatred of cancer. I get that death is a part of life. I understand and believe that this life is only part of our spiritual journey. I understand that everything, including myself, will die one day.

Fuck philosophy and all that esoteric go into the light bullshit. I want my friends and family in THIS life. Thank you very much. God has enough folks to entertain him and can hold off on collecting any more folks that I love for the next 50 years or so. Is that selfish? HELL YES!

I mean come on. Really come on. My Honey Bun has lived a full and beautiful life. That woman survived the segregated South and raised three beautiful children AND, when my Dad's Mama died at the age of 31 from leukemia, she and my great-granny raised my Dad. Until this bone cancer really started to affect her, Honey Bun was still cleaning houses to pay her bills. That woman has earned an easy retirement full of joy and the love of her grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and her great-nieces and nephews. She should be sitting on her front porch in Ronceverte, WV drinking little glasses of wine or mason jars of blackberry brandy and telling us all stories about her life, embarrassing stories about our parents, and reminding us of how much beauty there is in our history despite the legacy of slavery and Jim Crow.

That woman should get to die peacefully without pain at around the age of 115...and until then she should be physically fit and living her life on her own terms just the way she always has. Let her drop dead because her heart is so full of joy it can't handle it anymore and stops beating.

The same goes for Mrs. Harris, Chris, Tiffany, and Jim. Bring them back and let them have the love and joy that they deserved! BRING THEM BACK RIGHT NOW (but not as zombies...that wouldn't be right). Stupid fucking Lazarus got to come back to life, and he didn't do shit to earn that.

I am just tired of death and pissed off by it. None of these people have left this life or are leaving this life because it was their time. They are leaving it because some asshole corporation spent years dumping toxins into the atmosphere and water and their bodies couldn't resist it. Chris is the exception, but don't get me started on the stigma of mental health, HIV and addiction, his death was just as unnatural as all the others. And Tiffany was a black woman in America...enough said.

I am tired of folks sending me pat sayings and religious bullshit about folks having moved on to glory. Yes. I understand that. I know that they are all happy, and I know my Honey Bun is going to have the biggest damn mansion of all when she gets to Heaven, her traveling shoes are going to be Manolo Blahnik's and her robe is going to be made by Elie Tahari. Great. Lovely. She's earned it. But that doesn't do a damn thing for those of us left behind.

And, newsflash, DEATH IS PERSONAL!

ALL DEATH IS ABOUT EVERY PERSON WHOSE LIFE HAS BEEN TOUCHED BY THE ONE THAT HAS PASSED ON! EVERYONE IS ENTITLED TO THEIR PAIN AND GRIEF! NO ONE OWNS THE DEATH OF A LOVED ONE! NO ONE! NO ONE! NO ONE! NO ONE! NO ONE!

No one gets to negate my pain or sadness because his or her pain or sadness is greater. My mourning does not take away from, detract from, or lessen anyone else's.

I blame Nurse Jackie for this blog. That damn show is amazing, and the actors should all win Emmy's...and then they should hand them to me, so I can beat them all to death for making me cry. Those deaths would be justified. Just saying.

Anyway...there was no point to this blog entry besides venting some shit out. I feel much better now. Thank you.

Two Year Anniversary of Cousin Jim's Death

Two years ago today, my cousin and friend Jim Wakefield left his journey in this world for another one. He was 28 years old.

Jim was an amazing human being. He was a social justice organizer working with new immigrant communities in Chicago. He'd lived, worked, and taught in West Africa and Korea. He was funny, brilliant, and loving. He is the kind of person that this world craves.

Like all humans he had his faults. He smoked too much, and every time I would see him I would tell him that his teeth were as ashy as my feet (which is pretty damn bad). When he taught me how to ride a back when I was seven, we were at our Grandma's house, and he neglected to tell me how to stop. Thank God the garage stepped in and showed me how to stop the hard way. His ex-girlfriend stole a t-shirt that I'd left at my cousin's parent's home when I was visiting during college. She took it to France and brought it back to me with a cigarette hole in it (damn those French! It's Freedom Fries from now on), and since I would never have known Allie...I blame Jim for her Francophone ways. But other than those foibles, my cousin was pretty damn cool (though, like most of the straight men in my family...I always wanted him to consider something other than a raggedy ass pair of jeans an and old stained white-ish t-shirt as daily wear).

Today, I am remembering the awesome human being that Jim was. From the time when we were all too damn young and Jim's older brother danced around our grandparent's hunting trailer with nothing on but some tube socks and an attitude and danced around singing, "Babies are made when the man puts the penis into the vagina," to drunken antics we shared at my cousin Dawn Michelle's wedding when Dawn asked my Mom to go commando on my Aunt Joanne's drunk and lecherous boyfriend...Jim figures prominently in some of the best times of my life.

I love you, Jim. I miss you, Jim. Say hi Grandpa for me, and save me a spot, k? I'll see you one day (but not too soon, I hope...and if you know something more than I do...keep it to yourself. Cheeky bastard!).

POETRY: Honey Bun

I have a Great Aunt whose name is Edith Daughtery. Folks my age and older call her Aunt Sis. When Aunt Sis' grandson Ryan was born, she would call him Honey Bun, and so he started calling her Honey Bun in return. All of my younger brothers and sisters know Aunt Sis as Honey Bun.

This short woman with a giant's spirit still lives in the same house that is right next door to where the house she grew up in once stood. She still lives, in her mid-80s, by herself in Ronceverte, West Virginia. Ronceverte is the town where my family were slaves. My Dad travels from Charleston to Ronceverte to see her every other weekend, and this spitfire woman still works as a house cleaner, still runs the street like a fast teenage girl, and teaches the children's service at her church.

When I came out of the closet, she shrugged and said to tell her something that she didn't know.

I love my Aunt Sis, and I wrote this poem for her.

Honey Bun

Sweet like honey
She is
Those hills
Are powerful
Green shoulders
Hunched and laughing
Streams course along her
Telling stories
'bout blackberry brandy
Brewed up out back
'long side the white lightning
Home
Remedies
Fried chicken and chittlin's
Collards green like those hills
Just out the backdoor
The stone wombs
That sheltered Her
That child of 1709
According to the Bill of Sale
African embryo
Artificially inseminated
Across the Middle Passage
Implanted in those Hills
born from a coal mine
And mountain granite
Gave birth to a black bird
Singin'
Sweet like fresh honey
We shall overcome
As she built a bonfire
To celebrate Brown v Board of Education
Said, "Don't know who burnt down the Negro school."
Hehehe she laughed
"But I do know they wasn't sending my children back."
Black bird said, "I am old and crazy as hell."
She'll not be with us much longer
Daughter of those hills has bone cancer
It doesn't matter cuz she's been to the mountain top
And took us with her
Honey Bun coating our tongues and spirits
With sweet strength
This Black Bird gon' sing a little bit longer
Stronger than those granite hills
Spill stories like rivers of honey
Sometimes bittersweet memories
Of mill slaves marched off to glory
Hallelujah
Sweet like honey
She is all we could dream to be
Strong like those hills
Those Greenbrier hills that gave birth
to a blackbird
sweet like honey
sing us home.

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-New York, NY
-September 11, 2010

One Liner of the Week Award: Shannon Lacy

Smart-assery, as I believe I have mentioned before, is an inherited trait in the Lacy family. Like storytelling and makin' shine, it is an ancient family tradition.

My little sisters are currently visiting me from Atlanta. Last night, we were chilling in their hotel room in Times Square, watching a random crime show, and I kicked off my flip-flops and stretched out on the bed.

The room went eerily silent.

My sisters then started laughing and asking me why my feet were so messed up and ashy.

Jasmine said, "Ewwww, you look like you been walking around in high heels."

Shannon said, "High heels hell, it looks like you been walking around in concrete bricks."

If she wasn't in the military, I woulda whooped her tail last night.

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

Please Come Back Dr. King

It's the day after my birthday party. Last night I was surrounded by some of the most beautiful and amazing people that I have ever had the pleasure to meet. That so many tremendous humans came together to celebrate my birthday was a sweet joy and a blessing. This morning I had to fight my own internal tapes that tell me that I don't deserve to be loved by so many beautiful people, but this morning those tapes don't win. Love wins. Thank you my family, my community, my people for loving me so gently and so beautifully last night.

I have been crying for the last five minutes. And not just crying but acting like I have been beaten for doing something wrong. You know the kind of crying where you can't catch your breath. You know what I am talking about.

But they are actually happy tears. Let me tell you a story.

This morning, a person that is family to me as if he were blood kin, posted on his Facebook wall, an excerpt from Dr. King's speech "I've Been to the Mountaintop." If you haven't heard this speech, and so many people have not heard it, you should listen to it now. This was the speech that Dr. King gave the night before he was assassinated. These were the final words he spoke in public:

Well I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it really doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. I don't mind. Like anybody I would like to live a long life. Longevity has it's place. But I'm not concerned with that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. I want you to know tonight that we as a people will get to the promised land. So I am happy tonight. I am not worried about anything. I am not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.

Maybe I am a big old softy...but listening to that speech in the doctor's own words maybe me choke up like an old black lady at a funeral.

Hey glory.

Yesterday was the 47th anniversary of Dr. King's "I Have a Dream" speech. Yesterday Glen Beck and Douchnozzle Extreme Sarah Palin held a rally...at the Lincoln Memorial....talking about taking back the Civil Rights Movement.

Fuck them. FUCK THEM. FUCK THEM IN THE FUCKING SKULL WITH A RUSTY RAZOR BLADE COVERED IN EBOLA!

So glad I got that out of my system.

I am actually angry. I am so angry I could spit random toiletries. The anger is directed solely at one target: myself. I am angry that I have succumbed to hatred. On the anniversary of Dr. King's most famous speech. I have betrayed his memory and legacy by bowing down to the emotion of the enemy. I have let hatred overcome my spirit, and I have reveled in it.

I am ashamed of myself. Dr. King deserves better. I deserve better.

I wish that I could love my enemy as I love myself. I wish that I could live the spirit of Dr. King.

Let me be clear. Dr. King was a human. He was a womanizer and was not faithful to the commitments he made to Mrs. Coretta Scott King. He was gay accepting but only to a point. He kept his mentor and friend and architect of the 1963 March on Washington Bayard Rustin on the sidelines and out of the limelight because of his sexual orientation. But not despite all that, but because of all that...because he was human and because being human he still inspired us to be more than we are and gave us the space to imagine ourselves as better than this world would have us be, I love Dr. Martin Luther King.

I remember.

In high school, I had an amazing history teacher by the name of Frederick Burton. In my senior year, his three year old daughter recited, from memory, Dr. King's "I Have a Dream" speech as part of a Black History Month celebration in Minneapolis. Mr. Burton blessed my entire school by having his daughter's rendition of the speech broadcast over the school's intercom system. In my mind and in my spirit I can still hear her little and powerful voice say, "Free at last...free at last...thank God Almighty...we are free at last."

I believed every word that little girl said.

The power and legacy of Dr. King is that he continues to inspire us 42 years after he was assassinated by the United States government. Now, more than at anytime when Dr. King was alive, we know the truth about him as a man. We know about his weaknesses and his foibles, and we, or at least I, love him even more for his humanity. And though Glen Beck and Sarah Palin tried to co-opt his dream yesterday...though they straight up lied about the coincidence of organizing a rally on that day while including Dr. King's fucked up, self-hating, stupid and ugly niece in the line up for the event....no one can take Dr. King from us. No one can take his dream from us.

Dr. King DID get to the mountaintop...and he DID see the promised land...and though that land may still be far off...and though many of us may not live to see our arrival...the arc of the universe does bend towards justice...and we will get there...we shall overcome...some day....very...very soon.

Brown Gay Man + Old White Woman= Love

Today's blog is a first for My Feet Only Walk Forward. It is a guest blog written by Susan Maricle.

I received a very warm and touching email from Susan Maricle in response to my blog "I Love Old White Women." I don't know if I have ever actually met Susan face to face, but she and I were both active participants on an electronic discussion group in Minneapolis called the Minneapolis Issues List. This electronic forum is quite literally the "it" place for local politics. Every single elected official from the city of Minneapolis or representing the city of Minneapolis in city, county, state, or federal office is either an active member of the list or has a staff person that is assigned to review and participate on the list on a daily basis. I became aware of this wonderful community member through that list, and we reconnected through the magic of Facebook.

Susan contacted me and asked me if I would be willing to post a guest blog that she wrote in response to/inspired by my homage to old white women. I was very happy to oblige. You can find more of Susan's writings at poultryandprose.com.

It takes a talented writer to establish a connection between two disparate people. Like a 32-year-old multiracial gay blogger and a 94-year-old white woman who died over 10 years ago.

But that’s exactly what Brandon Lacy Campos did with this post. Since then I’ve been thinking of my grandmother, Mary Pontell.

"Basically, I think around age 80, old white ladies magically transform in black women. It's true. They start to say shit that they would never have said thirty years before."

Grandma was black long before age 80. She and my Grandpa John lived in southwest Detroit, in a working-class neighborhood that bordered the Ford plant in Dearborn. Their neighbors were white eastern European immigrants and black families who had moved up from the south. The ladies called Grandma “Mayry.” The children called her “Miz Tate.”

Grandma was a blend of propriety and earthiness. Earthy enough to tell the neighbor ladies about some type of female operation she’d had -- I never knew exactly what -- and proper enough to be horrified when she discovered one of the “ladies” was a tranvestite.

It wasn’t the first such encounter for Grandma, a short, buxom restaurant waitress and a snazzy dresser. She liked the night life. One evening at the Electric Cafe she wore a dress with a pink velvet jeweled bodice. In the ladies’ room she ran into a woman known around the neighborhood as Dirty Gertie. Gertie admired the dress, with both hands. Grandma pushed the woman away. But I sensed on some level she was pleased.

"Whether you are talking about my Grandma or Betty White, elder white women seem to transcend race, class, and sexuality. They metamorphose into these semi-crotchety hilarious beings that even when they aren't trying to be funny, end up cracking me up."

In the 1980s I visited Grandma so I could record some of her stories on audiocassette. She was living in suburban Lincoln Park, in her eighties, widowed, and hard of hearing. One night I searched for a TV program I could tolerate at an excessive decibel level, settling on The Tonight Show. Grandma watched Johnny interview the guest, an African American woman. She asked me, “Is that Donna Summer?”

An eightysome-year-old woman recognizing a past-her-prime disco singer. The idea amazes me still today. Grandma was that type of person. This type of person.

"They have this confidence and conviction about them that says, basically, I don't give a fuck."

Grandma entered a nursing home for a brief period late in the 1990s, having congestive heart failure and dementia. Some days she knew me, some days she didn’t. Perhaps the dementia made her forget she considered herself a timid person. She stood up to women who tried to bully her into vacating their favorite table. She barked “WHO IS IT!?” at a man who entered her room one evening, the Byzantine Catholic priest who came to pray with her. The day she was discharged, with home hospice plans put in place, all of the staff came to say goodbye. Among the well-wishers, an African American personal care attendant.

Set up comfortably at home, Grandma was at peace, her mind clear, her spirit ready. She slipped away within two weeks.

It was hard to be sad. There were too many stories that made me smile. Including the latest, “And that colored guy kissed me twice!”

I still have Grandma’s stories on audiocassette, but I haven’t thought about them for a long time. Then I read Brandon’s blog. Thank you, love.

The Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry Winner: Saymoukda Duangphouxay Vongsay

In April, My Feet Only Walk Forward announced the first annual Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry. I started this award to honor my Grandfather Alfred Charles Carey. Grandpa Carey was a tremendous human being. He was a working class mixed race man of Irish and Ojibwe descent. His Mother, Suzanna, was born on La Courte Oreilles Reservation in Wisconsin, and my grandfather worked his whole life as a roofer. He was a scion of one of the original families of Duluth, MN, and he was the gentlest soul I have ever met. I love and honor my grandfather. He was, in many respects, the ideal male figure in my life, and I miss him dearly.

When I announced the award I wrote:

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.

Since then, I shared with my family that I had announced this award and my amazing grandmother, Dorithy Carey, gave her blessing to it.

It is with much pride that I announce that the winner of the first Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry is Saymoukda Duangphouxay Vongsay.

Saymoukda called Mooks by her friends is a Lao American writer, essayist, playwright, and spoken word poet who has toured and performed extensively nationally and internationally. Playwright and co-founder of The Unit Collective - as well as reigning female member of Imperial DJ Science Crew.

And, on a personal note, I know Mooks from the amazing spoken word community in Minneapolis. For years her poetry has spoken to me, and I am very happy that she is the first Carey Prize winner.

The winning poem, "When Everything Was Everything," is powerful, raw, fierce, and embodies the Carey Prize. Congratulations to Mooks and thank you for submitting your work.

You can read more of Mooks' work at her blog Refugenius.
I would also like to give a special shout out honorable mention to Christy NaMaee Eriksen. Her poem, "You Bring Out the Korean Adoptee In Me," was a VERY VERY VERY VERY close contender for the prize. If I were a rich man, I would provide her a $150 stipend as well.

Tomorrow, I will publish Ms. Eriksen's poem, and here is the winning poem of the first annual Carey Prize (please note the authors retain all rights to these poems and they are reproduced here with their permission).

WHEN EVERYTHING WAS EVERYTHING

1. Food stamps in my pockets. Two dollars worth of Now n Laters. Green saliva, couldn't swallow quick enough. Standing nervous. Red light on Dale Street. Crossed the bridge over Hwy 94. Trekking back to St. Albans. Candy wrappers clenched tight. Waved good-bye to Tiger Jack.
2. Every Friday Bhet opens the screen door and announces, "Pahw mah la, pahw mah la!!" All afternoon we've waited. In my father's tan Izuzu truck we drove to Hudson. Mom buys lottery tickets for her, bags of Funyuns and a giant slurpie for us. Bhet likes the blue ones -- they stain his tongue so good, makes a point to show me every time. On the way home, mom spends imaginary millions in out-loud daydreams. Blue-lipped smiling, Bhet tells me we are like kings in Dad's gold chariot. I agreed.
3. Bowl cuts. Red-handle scissors.
4. Holding my Korean blanket, rolled under my arms. Dad carried trash bags, everything we owned, slung over his shoulders. Tiny feet tired from walking, twelve blocks to our new home. Stopping every other he asks, "Ee la, nyang die yoo baw?" Every time, looking up, forcing smile, "Doiy, ee pahw."
5. 692 North St., St. Paul. 250 Oxford Str. North, St. Paul. 308 North St. Albans, St. Paul. 3634 15th Ave. South, Mpls. 1090 York Ave., St. Paul. 130 Bates Ave., St. Paul
6. "Mah nee, ee Thoun," Bhet says. I follow him to his first grade classroom, passing cubbies, water color family portraits, and a picture of Jesus the Christ. He lifts up the lid of his school desk, no. 2 pencils with bite marks, color crayons, and two small boxes of Sunmaid raisins. He hands me one and smiles, showing teeth.
7. I interrupted my class when I walked in, returned from an ESL session. Mr. Smith made everyone read out loud, stopping when they want to. No one ever reads more than three sentences from The Cay. They giggled and snickered on my turn. That day, I read two chapters without stopping to breathe. The snickering, ridiculing, and ESL sessions stopped after that.
8. The art of haggling with the Hmong grandmothers at the Farmers Market is not for the meek minded.
9. I killed my father's lawn one summer with my blue plastic pool. Fresh out the bag Disney underwear and bare chested, grass blades speckled my feet and ankles, I watched as the grinning crocodile begins to swim, hidden sometimes by the sun's reflection, until water spills tiny waterfalls over the brim.
10. Hand-me-down jeans, ripped, and dirtied at the knee. Working in cucumber fields. Picking only the ones as big as my 5 year old hands.
11. Grocery store. Pharmacy. Welfare office. Parent-teacher conferences. All are unmaneuverable without your double tongue, looking up to your right, up to your left, at adult mouths moving and adult ears, waiting, listening to everything lost in an 8 year old’s interpretation.
12. Carrying a roll of toilet paper in a wrinkled over-used plastic bag, I jumped into my father’s Izuzu. Seldom visible at 3 A.M., the moon can’t hear Father singing. During the hour drive to a Christmas wreath-making factory, suspended between awake and weary. Mother cups my face with her sap-dried hands, dirt under her nails, plants kisses before unrolling 6, 8, 10 sheets to blow the dust out of her nose. Her hand rakes my hair and neck leaving dried flakes of sap, the smell of pine, the residual optimism she still has.
13. I went to Head Start preschool. Bhet went to Saint Mark's Catholic school.
14. Be the first to line up in front of the food truck before its back door slide up, thundering over the murmurings. Everyone wonders if they’ll get a bag of frozen chicken this time. Or angel food cake, two days passed the expiration date. I exchange all of my cheeses for boxes of rice with anyone who doesn’t look like me.
15. Mrs. Jaquelin traded cassette tapes with mom every week. Roy Ayers, Sade, and Dolly Parton for Thai singers I only knew by face.


When Everything Was Everything *Notes*
2. Pahw mah la, pahw mah la!! (Dad is here! Dad is here!)
4. Ee la, nyang die yoo baw? (Babygirl, are you okay to walk?); Doiy, ee pahw. (Yes sir, Daddy.)
6. Mah nee, ee Thoun. (Come here, Thoun.)

Thank you again, and congratulations.

Jason Mattison, Jr. Murdered in Baltimore

I am sitting at my computer, drying tofu and waiting for a college friend to come over, so we can have dinner, drink wine, and enjoy each other's company. Up until I opened my Facebook a moment ago and saw an article posted by my friend and fellow blogger Andres Duque, I took every single moment of my day supremely for granted.

Today Jason Mattison, Jr. reminded me to pay attention and to be grateful. Yesterday it was George Steven Lopez Mercado. Both of the lessons came at the cost of these youth's lives.

What the fuck is wrong with motherfuckers in this world?

I mean come on. Jason was raped, stabbed in the throat and face, gagged with a pillow and shoved in a closet in his Aunt's house. He was murdered by a friend of the family known to be a violent criminal and yet somehow they let him in the house and left him alone with this boy? WHAT THE FUCK! I might love the hell out of a good friend or relative that snaps and does violent harm to someone, but you can bet from that day forward that person will NEVER be alone in a room with anyone that is precious to me...especially a child.

And what really pisses me off, once again, is that since this was a black child that was murdered in Baltimore in a poor neighborhood, there will be no massive Matthew Shepherd outcry. There will not be massive candle light vigils around the country. There will be no massive legislative intervention by the HRC or NGLTF or any other national advocacy group. I am so tired of the fact that OUR children, our beautiful brown and black children, are continuously sacrificed and pass out of this world without a tremendous roar by every breathing loving person that understands that every single human being is precious. FUCK YOUR RELIGION if it tells you that a gay child should not complain when he or she is killed. FUCK YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD if people get off by harassing and slamming queer kids just trying to grow up. FUCK YOUR SCHOOL if it does not immediately boot anyone that thinks its ok to bully or shame someone because of their perceived sexual orientation or perceived gender identity.

THIS IS NOT JUST A QUEER PEOPLE OF COLOR TRAGEDY. THIS IS A TRAGEDY.

I want to see white straight male Republican capitalists that own overseas assets crying on TV about this child's murder. I want WHITE LED LGBT ORGANIZATIONS to organize the marches and vigils and remembrances of this baby. I WANT A GODDAMN NATIONAL ACT TO ELIMINATE POVERTY in this country called the JASON MATTISON JR and GEORGE STEVEN LOPEZ MERCADO ANTI-POVERTY AND WELFARE RIGHTS ACT that also includes a provision that provides for Puerto Rico to become a free and independent nation with a guaranteed annual no strings attached AID package of 100 billion dollars a year for every year that Puerto Rico has been a U.S. Colony, which is 110 years and counting.

Remember Jason Mattison, Jr and his family in your thoughts and prayers. And once you are done praying, call someone and tell them about his murder, then call your neighbors, your schools, your legislators, your ministers, your police force, and anyone else that needs to be called and told that our youth are inherently sacred, valued, loved, cherished and no one has any right or reason to dim or put out their light.

Risk and Death

One year ago today, I lost my cousin to leukemia. In less than three months, my little sister will be shipped back to Iraq for her fourth tour of duty. Last spring, I lost a friend and mentor, Mona Harris, to cancer. My little brother recently returned from Afghanistan, and with that war showing no signs of ending, it is almost a surety that he will also be sent back into harms way.

I am sick and tired of death and the risk of death.

At the age of 32, I should rarely have to think of death. If I do, it should come in the form of elders that have lived long and fulfilled lives, individuals that die surrounded by the people that love them knowing that they are loved.

How fucking naive is that statement.

Unfortunately, I know that because I am not white and most of the people around me are not white, they will die younger than they should. I know because I have had one family member die from cancer that now it is more likely that others will also pass along.

And then there is war.

When a country enters into a war it enters into a compact with death. It promises to the Reaper the certainty of soul collection in order to achieve some goal. Some wars are fought because they must be fought. Though the impetus for the United States to enter the Second World War had little to do with justice and everything to do with empire, entering World War II was just. Hitler was an evil man with evil ambitions that caused great and destructive harm.

No war since then that has been fought by the United States has been right or just, they have simply been the United States trying to protect or enforce a particular corporatized political ideology or protect our own selfish and self-destructive political and economic interests.

The rest of the world and the families that sacrifice their children on the altar of false patriotism be damned.

The death of my cousin and Mrs. Harris and the risk of death of my little brother and sister are connected.

We spend BILLIONS of dollars each month on the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Forget Korea, forget Vietnam, forget the silent invasions of Grenada, Panama, Somalia and the first Gulf War. Just calculate the amount of money that we have spent in the last six years in Afghanistan and Iraq. Now imagine if even ten percent of that money had been spent on cancer research and treatment.

My cousin almost survived leukemia.

He had an experimental bone marrow transplant, and for months the doctors at the University of Illinois-Chicago were calling him the miracle guy. Except the cancer came back and took him down quickly.

Afterwards they examined the data and thought perhaps they had done the transplant to soon, too quickly, they hadn't given his own immune system enough time to resist the cancerous blood cells. What if they had been granted a billion dollars to do their research? One billion dollars is LESS than we spend on war in one month. YET imagine what it would mean to research labs across the country. A year ago, perhaps the researchers would have known what they WILL know five years from now. If only they had the staff, equipment, lab space, and materials to move forward. If ONLY Bush hadn't restricted stem cell research during his eight years in office. If only we cared more about preserving life than we did about preserving the bottom line of corporations and shareholder profits.

If only.

But we don't. Instead, I am sitting here nearly a year after my cousin's death. I am remembering that I couldn't afford to fly from California to Minnesota to be with my family. To this day the guilt of that sits in my stomach. I saw my Aunt in June for the first time since my cousins death. All I could think of was that I was my cousin's closest family member outside of his Mom, Dad, and two brothers. I WAS the cousin that made sure to see him when he was in the hospital. I was the cousin that his wife loved. I was the cousin that went to see him when he got back from Korea. I was his friend.

And there is a good chance that if we spent more on life than on death that he would still be alive today, and I would still get to see him at family reunions and on holidays. I would have gotten to be at his wedding, and I would, perhaps, be with him right now.

Instead I am wondering how his nephew, the son of his twin brother, will ever know how amazing his uncle was. Instead, I wonder if my Aunty Susie, a woman that treated me like one of her own children, a woman that I love and look up to, a woman that understood me when I didn't really understand myself...I wonder if she will ever be the same aunty that I have known and loved my entire life.

And all because of a stupid disease that we could cure, except that we are too busy spending our money on war. And I am too busy worrying if I am going to lose my brother and sister too soon as well.

Poop Stopping Lasagna

I can't admit to having come up with the name for the lasagna myself. The award for that goes to my sister Meta. But, whatever its name, this completely vegetarian lasagna is damn delicious. If you are on Weight Watchers, forget it...a single piece of this is about 492 points.

Keep your treadmill handy folks. This lasagna is a once a year sort of deal.

Spinach and Mushroom Lasagna

1lb lasagna noodles
2lbs mozzarella cheese
1lb Colby jack cheese
1lb natural cheddar cheese
1lb ricotta cheese made with skim milk
2 jars of your favorite spaghetti sauce (I used Spicy Tomato Basil from Paul Newman)
1 package button mushrooms
5-6 cups fresh spinach
1/2 cup fresh basil
1/3 cup fresh oregano
3 cloves garlic
1/3 cup red onion
2 small jalapenos
1 cup red wine

First things first. Dice up the garlic, oregano, basil, red onion and jalapenos. Thinly slice the button mushrooms. Wash and dice the spinach. Place it all in a large pot and pour the sauce into the pan. Add some water to the sauce jars in order to get all of the sauce out of the jar. Pour it into the sauce pan. Next, pour in the red wine. With a large spoon stir the sauce together. Turn it on a medium heat and let it simmer. Stir regularly to keep the contents from sticking to the bottom of the pan. Let the sauce simmer for an hour then set aside.

While the noodles are cooking cut up your cheese. Cut the cheese from the blocks in medium thick square strips. Set them aside.

In another pot cook your lasagna noodles. Cook them until they are just short of al dente. Make sure to add a little olive oil to the water to help the noodles keep from sticking. When the noodles are done cooking, run them under cold water and set them aside.

Now it's time to assemble the lasagna. First heat your oven to 375 degrees. Next in a large, long baking pan, lay down a layer of noodles no more than two noodles thick across the bottom of the pan. Next, pour a layer of sauce across the noodles. We will be doing three layers of sauce, so make sure the noodles are covered but not drowned. Next, lay down a layer of cheese, alternate the various types of cheese. On top of the hard cheese, smooth a layer of ricotta cheese.

Repeat the step with the next layer.

Finally, the last layer should end with a layer of hard cheese but without the ricotta.

Place the pan in the oven and cook for 45 minutes to an hour. If you'd like for the last minute or so turn on the broiler and brown the cheese on top.

Remove from the oven and prepare for a saucy cheesy explosion.

I posted this recipe here as it costs too much to make for it to qualify for The Fairy Chef recipe roster. The cheese will set you back about $25. The total cost to make this meatless lasagna is about $35. I also have a meat version that will blow your damn mind, but it costs almost $50 to make and uses three types of meat: spicy Italian sausage, Italian sausage and ground beef. If you want to make that version, add a step. Brown the meat before you make the sauce and add it into the sauce.

This recipe will EASILY feed six people to capacity.

The Real Meaning of Birthday

In the 3rd grade, I remember a friend of mine, her name was Kim. Every holiday, Kim would park herself in a corner and stare longingly over her shoulder at the rest of the class as we exchanged Valentine's Day gifts, shared birthday cake and cupcakes during a classmate's birthday, opened Christmas treats, and shared Halloween candy. Kim was a Jehovah's Witness and therefore not allowed to celebrate personal or religious holidays with the rest of the class.

One day, Mrs. Rimmer (my favorite teacher...and one hell of a name)...watched Kim's sad face...and finally walked over to her, slammed a piece of cake down on her desk and said, "You don't have to sing the songs, or play the games, or exchange gifts. But you ARE going to eat this piece of chocolate cake!"

Kim's eyes turned as big and round as the cupcakes floating around the room. And with gusto she tore into that cake as if Mrs. Rimmer had just appeared in a burning bush and started issuing commandments.

Nikki Rimmer, once her back was to Kim, broke out into a big smile. She saw me see her smile and she smiled even wider. Winking.

I personally loved Kim because she would warn me on Friday if her Mom and the rest of the Witnesses were planning on marching down our block on Saturday. I would warn my Mom, and I would sit in the living room and wave to Kim as she walked passed with her parents. While my Mom pretended that we weren't at home.

As a kid, I learned that holidays were times for you to get your hands on as much loot as possible (whether the haul be presents or candy). BUT, since I grew up dead broke...I learned that loot was in short supply, so I had better content myself with the love, attention, and adoration of my friends and family.

By the time I was 18, I was throwing my own birthday parties, paying for all the food, and using it as a time for me to bring together the people I love to celebrate them and honor their presence in my life. For the majority of my adult life, I have asked folks to give to a worthy cause instead of buying me presents. Some people still choose to buy me gifts, and I know that for those people it is important to them to honor me with something meaningful. This year, I got a box of GOYA Sazon con Azafran in the mail from my friend Crackity. For us, that was more than just a package of MSG and seasonings...it was a physical reminder of our time living together in Puerto Rico, cooking almost every meal together, wandering around the island, and sharing sex and love war wounds during our time together. Birthdays are a time to celebrate the people you love. And, in doing so, they celebrate you back.

This year was my best birthday ever. There were no wild parties or overly drunken nights. Saturday I cooked and David baked a cake. I was with people I had me that night, met that spring, or met 12 years ago in college in Minnesota. We ate, drank wine, played games, and by 1am folks were gone, I was vomiting a little bit, and then I went to bed happy as a clam. Last night, my actual birthday, I was blessed to have a friend, Nea aka Bebe Benet, from home with me. We met up with my friend yk, Tasha and David joined us, and we were traumatized by the touring performance that included our friend Asha from Atlanta. Afterwards, a new friend, Stacy, joined us for dinner. We ate delicious tapas, laughed our asses off, had a glass of wine, and by 11pm, I was at home and in bed. I spent half of yesterday respondoing to dozens of birthday wishes on Facebook. And I felt loved, celebrated, cared for, honored, and appreciated. And I felt that I had been able to show that some love back to the people I care about that were able to spend part of my birthday with me.

I am lucky. My family has always known and demonstrated that holidays are not about the gifts. It is about the time spent with people you love...nurishing them with good food...and soaking up the love and care to help keep and hold you through the next year of your life.

Thank you to everyone that shared my birthday, this year, with me.

A Different Kind of Hero

This article appears in the September issue of Zona Rosa Magazine (New York's only magazine dedicated to the lives of gay and bi Latino men), available now online at www.gaylandia.net, and will be available in print early next week.

A Different Kind of Hero

Two years ago, as the nation began to shake off eight years of regressive dictatorship from Pennsylvania Avenue, we began hearing quite a bit about heroes. John McCain was a war hero because he survived torturous conditions in the Hanoi Hilton. Hilary Clinton was a hero because she not only had taken off her petticoats and burned her bra but also had climbed the corporate and public ladder of success until she was within reach of shattering that ultimate electoral glass ceiling. By the end of the election, Barack Obama had become a hero to the poor, black folks, and a broad coalition of people who wanted only to feel hope and see a face that looked more like home.

Our national and personal dialogue is filled with heroes: from pilots landing a plane safely in the Hudson River to cops gunned down in the line of duty. Almost all of those that are bestowed with the honorific of hero are those that through circumstance, birth, political anointment or military appointment are thrust into the spotlight and crowned with laurel leaves. In truth, many who are called heroes are, indeed, heroes. Others, I suggest, are not. A police officer with a record of brutality who loses his life in a gunfight, is not a hero. A soldier that beats his wife, yet manages to survive a war, is not a hero. A Republican Senator from Arizona that chooses to stay with his comrades instead of being released from a terrible Vietnamese prison and then chooses to live a life where he actively participates in the oppression of women, queer people, and people of color for political gain is not a hero.

In the end, heroes are defined narrowly, conventionally, and too often are white, straight, men who have served in wars in which they have simply had the luck of surviving. History is full of those heroes.

As communities of color, we have been given little space for our own heroes. And those are largely the ones that have been too great to ignore or have been co-opted for the purposes of communal pacification by a power structure built on racism and economic slavery and inequality. Black people are given a street in major cities named for Martin Luther King Jr. Latin@s are given, in some places, a school named for Cesar Chavez. And with those we are meant to be contented.

I am far from content.

History is full of heroes that are unsung, ignored, or hidden. It is time to call their names and carry their spirits with us as we move forward. From Sylvia Rivera, a transgender Latina that took off a shoe and started a world-wide revolution, to Bayard Rustin, an openly gay black man that was the architect of the 1963 March on Washington and taught Martin Luther King, Jr. the principles of nonviolent resistance, our communities are full of heroes.

For many of us, our heroes are our mothers that worked two jobs to feed us and responded to our coming out with a simple, “te quiero mijo.” Our heroes are the street outreach workers and drop in center volunteers that are working to make sure that there is never another Gwen Araujo lost. From FIERCE in New York to ALLGO in Texas, there are out, proud, queer Latin@ that are working tirelessly and too often thanklessly to make sure that our lives are celebrated, supported, and cherished. We are all surrounded by family, friends, and loved ones that have made a difference in our lives. These are heroes. It’s time to speak their names.

-W. Brandon Lacy Campos