Anonymous Responses and Blogging: Stop the Shade

So, today I received a very vehement anonymous response to my recent blog posting Sex, Shirtless Pics, Desire, HIV and Leadership. It was an anonymous response, which I always find amusing, but I have a strict ethic around my blog that unless I find something to be overtly intentionally hurtful, I will post any response to my blog that is not spam. I have, even, in the past offered to allow folks that have had a significant reaction to my blogs to provide space for them, right here, where I would post any thoughtful response to something that I've written.

Now let me be clear about one thing. I always read and take to heart what folks say when offering friendly critique or offering up reflections on what they perceive about my work, myself, etc. My beloved Kamal Fizazi as often as necessary gives me hard and tight love when he observes I am walking down a road that will eventually lead to my own destructive behaviors.

Having said that, just because you offer me your opinion does not mean that I have to accept it or change my own.  Period.

My best friend RJ Thompson is a brilliant and caring man. He is also passionate about veganism for all kinds of good reasons. I have made an intentional choice about eating meat that is connected to celebrating my history, particularly as a person of African descent. My intentionality means that while I love and respect RJ's passion for veganism and his desire to see the world go more that way, I do not agree with his choice for my life and though he's shared his opinion, I continue to eat hamburgers.

I was accused of a simplistic and knee-jerk response in writing my blog. I quite beg to differ, I have developed, over a year, with ample evidence here on this blog, my ethic and ethos around why I am doing what I am doing with regards to my body and its public transformation. I gave a workshop at Creating Change in January called Sexy Positive Bodies, and I have been asked to re-create that workshop again this year, and I will be joined by an amazing comrade when doing that.

My response was not knee jerk. It just didn't give a real damn about altering why I do what I do when I have intentionally crafted my views around body, HIV, leadership, and desire.

No shade. No shame. But if I don't agree with you, it doesn't mean that your opinion is validated, it simply means that I do not agree with you. I support you, your opinion, thoughts and feelings. But I am living this life, and you aren't. It's that simple.

But the one thing that I don't do and have never done is make my remarks anonymously. It's cowardly, actually, and I feel that way distinctly. You don't have to agree. There is a reason why there is an anonymous option. I will always engage in forthright dialogue, and I have stood by statements that were hard and unpopular. But I do not have respect for those that attack from behind closed doors and do so with a level of laughable self-righteousness. This is a queer blog. Please come out.

Nigel Singer, an organizer in England and the father of the sweet Maya Singer Hobbs wrote in his comment on that same blog:

Brandon, I love this writing. In amongst other stuff I do work on leadership and a book that influences me is called A Failure of Nerve. The writer talks about 'self differentiated leaders', peope who know what they stand for and who are prepared to hold the line. He recognises that some people may be hurt by this clarity and he sees hurt as an inevitable consequence of living our lives. He is clear about not intentionally damaging others but that hurt happens.
He also says that a leader who holds to their truth and stands for it has huge impact and creates change - and some of this impact will be negative reaction - which goes with the territory.
I want to appreciate and enjoy you for your clarity around your expression of your identity.

I stand by who I am, and if, somehow, my doing so has caused hurt to someone else or triggered something from their lives, then I apologize for the hurt but not for my clarity. My intention is mine and it works for what I do and how I do it. Live your life the way you would. Its your freedom to do so. I take mine and do so with integrity. That's all I expect from others. 

Everyday Heroes: Natasha Johnson

Seven years ago, I came to New York City to visit my best friend RJ Thompson and his boyfriend at the time that we shall call Cray Cray. It was my first time in New York in years, and a number of my closest activist buddies from my days as a youth organizer had relocated to NYC. If you have ever been to New York, you know that this city is huge and depending on where you are located, it can take up to an hour and a half from one point in the city to another. So, when visiting on a limited time frame, it makes sense to try and arrange to see as many people as possible in one location at one time. RJ and Cray Cray knew that I had lots of people I loved that I would love to see so they threw me a party at their spot in West Harlem.

What if your friends threw you a party and none of your friends showed up (because they were all together at a house party in Brooklyn?). I almost friend divorced a few people that day (SAMER AND YK ARE YOU LISTENING!)

But never-the-less, the apartment was filled with awesome folks, none of whom I knew, but several of whom are now my friends and none closer or loved more dearly than Natasha Johnson.

Tasha walked in the door that night, and I was in love instantly. She was brilliant. Beautiful. Styling. Had a hot ass husband AND a fine ass girlfriend (the girlfriend wasn't there but I saw pictures later). I mean DAMN! You know you got magical pussy when you can hold down a black man as fine as John and a hot girl too.


I bet Tasha's coochie sparkles and gives birth to leprechauns. (Note, Tasha is single...taste the rainbow ya'll. TASTE THE RAIBOW).

Sparkles.

Since 2004, Tasha and I have built a beautiful friendship. When I moved to New York in 2009, Tasha and her former partner Natalie (who I also love and adore)....were two of the first people that I made an explicit point to build more deeply with. And Tasha has become someone so very amazingly special to me. She is intentional. She is beautiful. She can weave a rainstorm into a pair of panties and three pieces of cat hair into a full length gown and make it look couture. She is a human rights lawyer that left us for a year to help stop sex trafficking in the South Pacific and Indian Ocean area. And she is kind. She is gentle. She is no bullshit. But all love.

For all of these reasons and so so so many more, Natasha is my Everyday Hero.

Love you boo.

That Girl's A Grade A Player

I saw a master at work tonight, and I was in awe.

Let me preach at you a minute for I have heard the true Word, and I must proselytize.

Tonight I met my best friend RJ at the Krispy Kreme at Penn Station. The Universe is a funny place where random things happen such as: I have a performance gig at Smith College, which was scheduled half a year ago...and...my best friend happens to be going to a conference in the same town over the same two days.

Now this might not sound so fantastic, except the town is Northampton, Massachusetts...not the largest or busiest of seaports in the world.

Anyway, so I meet RJ, our friend Ricardo, and their friend Tiffany at the train station. Our train was scheduled to depart at 6:43, but Amtrak decided to give Northwest Airlines a run for their title of Miss Delayed Travel, and we didn't leave NYC until almost 7:45. But, just to prove to NWA that Amtrak is indeed the Queen of Ridiculously Unexplainable Delays, we ended up stopping for another 30 or so minutes en route...once without explanation and another time to switch from an electric to a diesel engine.

But the magic happened about 45 minutes before we got to Springfield, MA. Tiffany, a young and rakish queer Puerto Rican gal, was talking about how her organization had basically put her pussy on lock because she tends to take Conference Whoring to new levels, and so they banned her from having her own hotel room. Not to be thwarted, Tiffany clicked her titties together, spun around in a circle, and turned into Joy the Super Player.

Joy gets up to go to the refreshment car and comes back with two bottles of vodka and a girl. Say what? Now the three boys were unsure if said hotty Long Island Italian/Puerto Rican girl was straight or not. But The Super Player, in less than five minutes, not only got the girl to fess up to having a special bib that she only wore for eating pussy but also Joy ended up laying down the law, via telephone, to this random girl on the train's stalker that called a couple of times while we were sitting together.

I was in fucking awe.

I mean for real. In less than 30 minutes, Tiffany cum Joy had met a girl, had a cocktail somewhere in rural Massachusetts, exchanged phone numbers, got a Queer Confession, and is probably right now laying face down in a Puerto Rican girl with legs in spread eagle v-formation.

Joy is my Goddess.

This trip has gotten off to a great start. I can't wait to hit the dyke bar tomorrow night after my show.

Lube it up ladies, my girl Joy got a tongue of steel (or callouses).

Patience is a Virtue I Never Got

I have decided to write a series of blogs on life's various virtues. I figured I would begin with the virtue of which I have none: Patience.

Other than having immense control over when I ejaculate, I have little other patience in my life. I am a firm believer that instant gratification should be faster than instant. There are times when waiting for a web page to load on my computer that I am possessed by an insane rage and desire to punch my fist through the screen, should it take longer than I believe is appropriate. (I once upon a time had a 2400 baud dial up modem...it is a wonder that I made it through high school without poppin' a vein in my skull).

It is more likely, in any given situation, that Perez Hilton and Will.i.am would give each other blow jobs than I am to be overly patient.

Actually...let me clarify...Perez would totally blow Will.i.am, and, in the right circumstances, I can be patient.

Take, for example, my current living situation. Yesterday, the "roommate" declared that he isn't moving out. When I made it clear that I was resentful and angry that not only was he breaking his word but also that since he hadn't paid full rent in, perhaps, years...I was particularly upset that I was being forced to pay to subsidize the living situation of a man that I loathe. I spoke calmly and clearly. I made it clear that there was a direct connection between my feelings of disgust for the man and the fact that he is not only comfortably but eagerly and consciously taking advantage of both David and I, lying to the state to get welfare benefits, and a destructive force in our home and in our lives (did I mention that he snuck and registered the dog that he and David got TOGETHER with the state...under his name...did I also mention that David has paid for the dogs food, care, and vet bills...oh yeah...except the $300+ vet bill from last month...which I paid).

But I am patient. You see...in this situation...one where an individual is most blatantly and clearly committing an injustice, is blissfully ok with his behavior, and is unwilling to see how it is fundamentally wrong...it can only turn out one way. And my sweet love David, in order to help remind us of this fact, did something wonderful yesterday. David put up, all over the house, great little cards that I got from my best friend RJ. Each card has a picture of a lotus blossom and the words "Nam-myoho-renge-kyo," on it. That means, "I commit myself to the cosmic law of cause and effect as expressed through sound." Today, the roommate came in and asked me what the cards where and what they meant. I was MORE than happy to translate for him.

You see I believe in karma. Science believes in karma. There is a scientific law that says for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction (Newton's Third Law). It is the rule that guides everything in our universe. In terms of human actions: what one puts out one gets back.

I am sure that this situation is one where I am fulfilling a cosmic debt that I owe. But, acting with integrity and (key word) patience, I know that everything will work out not only right but also justly in the end. I feel sorry and pity for the man that knowingly and willingly, without regard for anyone else, commits unjust acts against others while claiming to desire friendship. I have a deep sadness that my partner is being torn apart by this other persons behavior and by the fact that for perhaps the first time, he will be unable to remain friends with someone he once loved...especially after 10 years with that person. But I know, in the end, it will be as the good book says..."Ye shall reap what ye sow."

And he has sown a shit storm in a land mine covered in Agent Orange and napalm. Pay back is a bitch. I have the patience to wait for that.

I Want to Punch Perez Hilton In The Face Too!

Every day you have to take the good with the ugly. Sometimes there is a dash of the down right ridiculous in the mix that makes you step back, have a shot of something to blind your sperm, and start again.

Today was one of those days. I am going to alternate the good, the ugly, and the ridiculous.

Let's start with the good.

This afternoon I was communicating with an acquaintance of mine, Sñr. Noris Chavarria, when he told me that he had just been looking at my blog. Now, I just met Noris week before last at the Sol Awards Gala at the Battery Park Cafe. I was impressed that he had come across my blog, so I asked him where he had encountered it. He told me that he had come across it on another blog, MiApogeo.com. Curious, I tuned my browser to MiApogeo.com, which is an amazing pan-Latino news source on the web, only to find a listing of the top seven LGBT Latin@ bloggers to watch. I was listed as #2 right after my friend and compay Andrés Duque. I almost shit myself in surprise. I was listed with other blogosphere luminaries as Charlie Vázquez of Spittles the Clown fame, and Gloria Nieto, who I met when I was barely 21 years old and had fallen in dire love with Lonnie Tapia, one of Gloria's protégés in New Mexico.

That was definitely a highlight of the day. But, hand in hand with a taste of glory comes a little reality to keep you grounded.

This weekend past, I received my benefits package from Bard College. Now, one of my regular bitching moments is about David and the fact that he hasn't had health care since leeching was a popular practice. In order to add David to my health care plan,we had to sign a statement assuring Blue Cross Blue Shield that we are, indeed, domestic partners. It was necessary for us to take said form to a notary public and sign it in front of said notary. We can't get married but we have to jump through hoops and rope cattle to get a decent dental plan. Anywho, during our first trip to Chase this morning to do our due diligence, I had forgotten my ID, and so it was a no go. Mission aborted. Fall back, regroup and plan a new route of attack.

Basically, we decided to come back after nap time.

So, after David had lapsed into unconsciousness after a particularly grueling hell day at the gym, we ventured back to Chase. I had my ID, we signed the form, said “I do,” and badda bing badda boom...we were an official couple in the eyes of God and Empire Blue Cross Blue Shield. Amen.

David was so tickled that he loosened his death grip on the debit card and suggested we amplify my summer wardrobe beyond the two pair of shorts I had that I purchased two summers ago. We swung through Daffy's, which owes me new retinas from the assault on my eyes from the ultraviolet and ultra ugly clothing they had on the rack. We decided to try our luck at Old Slavy, excuse me, Old Navy instead. Now, we had carried our precious declaration of domestic partnership form in a manila envelope, which also held extra copies of a document I had created for a work meeting last evening. I was holding the envelope, wondering why I was carrying around said extra documents, when I suggested to David that we just chuck the thing. He said that he would carry it as he didn't want to waste paper. I poo-pooed him and dropped the envelope in a trash receptacle at the NQRW stop at 57th and 7th.

We got to 14th Street and Union Square when we realized that our notarized love declaration was inside the abandoned envelope.

Talk about STOOOOOPID.

We hopped the train, retrieved the document, and decided that God didn't want me to have new shorts if he was willing to let me do something as dumbass as all that business.

We headed home, and I finished up my work day. It was then that I was told the second best news of the day:

This weekend, Perez Hilton was punched dead in his eye by Will.I.Am and his bodyguard for talking smack about the latest Black Eyed Peas CD.

From deep inside me welled up a great feeling of diabolical joy....from my toes to my cockles to my cock, I was rigid with delight. I was immediately filled with a joyous jealousy...joyous that he had gotten his fat ass ugly bitchtastic face smacked...jealous because I wanted to smack the hell out of him too.

A girl can dream. But...the joy could only last for a short time.

My best friend and I have been like two ships passing in the night or two trains on a Metro rail line in DC. I haven't decided which one yet.

I had plans tonight to meet RJ at five til seven at Sokka Gokkai International in the village for gongyo (chanting). RJ and I have been trying to see each other, without success, for several weeks now. RJ and Noel have been dealing with some difficult family stuff lately, so I left home early, stopped at the Trader Joe's Wine Shop and picked up a gift bottle of wine for RJ. I arrived at SGI five minutes earlier than I was expected. 6:55 came and went. At 6:57 I sent RJ a text asking him where he was. At 7:05 I went upstairs, late, for the service. I sat in the back, so I could scan the crowd and keep an eye on the door in case he came in. The service ended, and I left. I sent RJ a text saying that I hoped he was OK, but I was on my way home.

He finally responded, once I was on the train, saying that he had been at gongyo. I told him that I had waited for 15 minutes for him before going in, and he let me know that he had gone in early and had been chanting. DOH! I didn't see him inside, and we missed each other...again. I am going to go and sit outside of his damn house and wait for him to come out because, at this point, this is ridiculous.

Anywho. I came home, made a delectable din din, poured a glass of wine, and wrote this blog.

I still want to punch Perez Hilton in the face.

PS I forgot to mention that there was a hot Latino Daddy at the gym today that had an ass I would have happily pounded so hard he would have had to order a new assring when I was finished with him...that is until, in the locker room, I saw him checking out David's ass...and when he saw me see him checking out David's most definitely eye candy worthy ass...Mr. Hot Latin Daddy lost his damn mind and rolled his eyes at me. Cabron puto hijo de una maldita chingada!

I would still fuck him, but I would have to beat his ass afterwards. Some gays have no damn common sense.

Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo

This evening, I entered a brightly lit, ornate redstone building covered in scaffolding on East 15th on the border of the Village and Chelsea. I met my best friend, RJ, there--after a hasty cab ride as I thought I was going to be late--to attend evening chant. RJ had recently started attending prayer services at this Buddhist Society, and I, a Christian pan-theist, gladly joined him.

It was nothing like I expected.

To begin with, the chanting had started early. We entered a room filled with a Bennetton spread of nationalities literally humming with the Nichiren Buddhist chant Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo (for those that love them some Tina Turner and have seen What's Love Got to Do With It a half million times as I have will recognize this as the chant she was taught). The chanting and the room were alive with energy. The sound jumped directly into my chest, and before my butt hit the seat I was chanting along with the crowd.

As I looked around, I noticed young and old, Asian, Latino, Jewish, Black, and White filling the room (thanks to Tina Turner the largest groups were black folks and a pan-Asian hodgepodge--and true to form most of the black folks arrived late as hell including the Afro-Latin@s). The service was simple, except the five minutes of the liturgy which sounded like a Buddhist monk on meth, and largely consisted (except for that five minutes) of chanting Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo which means I commit myself to the cosmic law of cause and effect and to the ultimate universal truth expressed through sound. Damn that little old Japanese/Sanskrit phrase packs a lot of punch.

I fell into the easy rythym of the chant. About half way through, RJ looked up and said, "call me." Which is a code word for HOT MAN. I paused in my chanting to appreciate the Latin thick 'em that was moving out to take a call. Yes, the Buddha is good. Hey glory.

About 15 minutes into the service, I found myself chanting and rocking back and forth to the vibration of the sound. And then I experienced a strange and awesome sensation. I felt as if a cool fire was emanating from my skin...like...if they had killed the lights...my little brown ass would have been all a glow. It was a cool feeling. And then the little Japanese women next to me, who arrived late I might add, started chanting out of rythym and threw off my feng shui...and I lost my glowing feeling. But for a minute I felt like Bruce Leroy...whose the master? I am!

I have always believed in God. It's been both a blessing and a curse. He and I have not always gotten along, but I've always believed in him. This was an entirely different way of experiencing him. And one that I will be repeating. I am no hero for opening myself to the experience, but I am proud that I was enable to enhance my faith journey...even if it was a little bit Barry Gordy style.