Poem: Mixed Emotions

I wrote this poem six years ago. The first time I read it, at the Late Night Series Hosted by Laurie Carlos at the Pillsbury House Theater, I was knocked over by the audience reaction. It was the third spoken word piece I had ever written, and it was the second time I had ever read in public. It gave me the confidence to move forward with my writing, it helped define my niche in the spoken word community, and it is still a crowd pleaser. I think my poetry has become more sophisticated since I wrote this...but it is still my all time favorite. You can hear it recorded if you check out my brother Rodrigo Sanchez-Chavarria's CD Desconocidos.

Mixed Emotions

Are you mixed? What are you? Where are you really from? Your Mama’s white huh? You speak Spanish like a Mexican, Nuyorican. White boy with a tan. What ARE you?

It’s too bad you can’t identify
What I clearly can’t deny
I’m a fine, sweet lovin’, smart ass, smart mouthed, smart boy
With more history in my veins than you can ever hope to comprehend

I am a Swede-a-Rican, Negro, Native, German, Dutch, English, Scottish, Norwegian, Spic.
Praire Nigga, Island Nigga, Nigga Nigga,Faggot
And the next person that asks me if Puerto Ricans got big dicks
I am going to take mine out and choke him with it

What am I? Martian Motherfucker! I reply.
Or sometimes I quantify: 2/8 black + 4/8 white + 1/8 Native + 1/8 Puerto Rican
You do the math
I am tired of calculating the motivations and objectification of my ancestral relationships

It doesn’t matter what I say
You’ll make up your mind anyway
I am the Nigga that makes you grab your purse
I am the Spic that you love to curse
I am the low down, caramel brown, miscegenation revelation of this world’s future
I am Nefertiti & Piri Thomas
I am Harriet Tubman & Sitting Bull
I am John Brown & Jesus Christ
If you don’t like it that’s just too damn bad
I have had it with playing Cirque du Soleil
Contorting my face and my race in order to placate your fears

I know the story that you’d like to hear about leaving the jungle and my very first spear
How my Mom rode a Zebra with a bone in her lip
Titties sagging to the ground with a kid on each hip
How I salsa-ed to school
That I can use an abacus
How I feed the chickens in the morning
Worked the fields late at night
How I attained my manhood from a wildebeest fight
You’d like to know how many languages I speak
That I feel homesick when I go to the zoo
Well this is the point that I tell you to back the fuck off
Get away from me or my first in your face is the last thing you’ll see

I am from right here born queer in the Great State of Minnesota
Me, Charles Schulz, and Charles Lindbergh
Schultz illustrated, Lindbergh aviated, and I’ve navigated
The convoluted mimicry of this multi-racial democracy
I’ve checked the boxes
Tried to conform
Finally said fuck it and blew up the norm
I rejected the questions
I refused to be placed in a box
Marked other ethnicity/race
I am an Afro-Euro-Boricua-Fag
I’m so multi-national I should have my own flag
My roots are three continents wide
And no one can make decide to choose one or the other
The history of my father or that of my mother

My brothers and sisters
We are here to stay
Your time for a say in it has long passed away
You should have thought about that before you screwed my Mom
Raped third world women from Santiago to Saigon
I am a product of your perfidy, colonization, and slavery
Now I’m pissed off and roaming free denying your attempts to colonize me
It’s fairly obvious and plain to see
That I am the person that you’d like to be
Tiger Woods?
He ain’t got nothing on me

I am not your boy-geisha tropical blend
Dark skinned Latin melanin friend
I am proud to be Puerto Rican, Black, Swedish, Anishinabe too
What face you see is up to you
I am a chameleon I get to be everything inside of me
No limitations
No expiration date
I get to be in the club
I don’t need a pass
I am enough
If you don’t like it, fuck it that’s tough

I’m a mixed race diva from my feet to my hair
You better get used to it
I ain’t going no where.

Advanced Praise for It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt!

Advanced praise for my first solo book of poetry, due out at the end of September from Summerfolk Press, It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt.. Look soon for the release of a webpage for the book!

"Brandon Lacy Campos is part tomahawk thrower and part philosopher, a fresh voice of queer rebellion, an outsider talking of revolution, avenging exploitation. The stinging lashes on a slave’s back, the mystical incantations of native medicine men, the curiosities of an innocent white child and the cultural bisection of a bilingual Latino—these are the things he sees, as these are the things he is. These poems are monuments to the victims of abuse, to the splendor of visionary queer consciousness—to true America."

Charlie Vázquez, fiction writer, blogger and host of the queer East Village reading series, PANIC!

Goodbye Slammers, Hello Rookies!

This morning, after a night spent in deep battle with my explosive colon, I woke up at 9:30, look at David, kissed him, and started to panic. This morning was the second and final draft for the Big Apple Softball League. I was supposed to get a softball glove last night on my way to chanting, but, due to marital strife, I was unable to do so.

So, this morning, not only did I have to be in Chelsea by 11am, I also had to get to City Sports (in the opposite direction of the park), get a glove, and then get to Chelsea.

We did it.

I walked up to an astro turf field on West 27th, that was slowly being filled by queers of multiple genders, wearing numbers stuck to their backs, and eyeballing each other as they warmed up with some ball throwing. I met a kid named Memo, and we managed to throw the ball to each other (well I threw it to him and he threw it to the fence about 100 feet behind me) exactly twice before the Comish (Reggie) called us all together.

All roughly 60 of us pooled together, huddling like the Daddy Emperor Penguins in March of the Penguins, cussing at NY One which had promised us a 60 degree day and we got 49 with -2000 wind chill.

Then the exercises started.

We chose positions on the field and begin a series of drills. Surrounding us were the managers from the teams looking to draft players. I felt like the fat kid with thick glasses and and an afro in gym class. I just knew I would be last picked.

first turn to field a ball came up and the woman hitting the ball hit it to short instead of 2nd base. I decided to be a superhero and ran across the field, jumped to grab the ball, missed, tucked, and rolled across the astro turf. Titi would have been pissed cuz I never did shit like that on the Slammers.

Then came batting, which is when the called for the pitchers. Now, I was the backup pitcher for the Slammers. Sometimes I was on fire and other times I was fired and pulled off the field. So, I was a bit nervous to get up and have to lip sync, I mean pitch, for my life. I stepped to the mound and low and behold, I pitched a strike. As a matter of fact out of roughly 15 pitches perhaps three or four were outside of the strike zone. Not only that, I was catching pop flys that were hit by the batters. Miracles do happen.

After about 2.5 hours, everyone had been put through their paces, and then came the selection process. One of the other pitchers was first pick. My little heart fell. Then, all of a sudden, the commissioner pointed at me and said "Come here." He informed me that I would be pitching for his team. And a guy standing next to him smiled and said, "I told him to pick you."

I was a first round draft pick. Selected before the other managers began meeting to dole out the remaining 58 players. I felt like I was walking on air! I felt so good I let loose with a TRIM SPA BABY! You like my body? (that's for you Slammers out there).

So there you have it. I tried out for the Big Apple Softball League. I wasn't picked last. And I will be back on the softball field this summer. Feeling a little bit like Sporty Spice (and lookin' like Scary Spice). Rock on! And thank you to my beloved man for standing in the freezing as cold with me, snapping pictures, and cheering me on.

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.

Poem: Carey

Another oldie but goody. I wrote this poem about six years after my Grandfather passed away. My Grandfather was an amazing human being. Words fail to describe exactly what he meant to me and my family. When someone like him passes, it is a light going out of this world. Thank God I believe in the world to come...so I know his light is not lost only shining in a different, better place.

I love you Grandpa.

Carey


I remember that day when Mom called and said
You didn’t make it
She told me that You held her hand and died
You asked her to fly with You and to bring me too

I would have found a way
Like Icarus I would have made wings of wax and feathers
Or of mud and leaves—anything that would have lifted me
With You on a flight to the sun
I wouldn’t have been afraid for my wings to melt
Because you were Grandpa Carey
And You would have carried me

You would have carried me like you did when you were alive
Tucked underneath your arm or huddled beneath one of your stories
You would have carried me like You did our family
That you supported until your lungs gave out from the asbestos
That you carried even with your laughter wheezing from you chest
Oxygen life lines in your nose
You swore that my chuckle was contagious
That as a baby I laughed so hard and deep that you had to laugh too
But it was You, always You that gave to me
You filled my mind and my stomach with your wit and buttermilk pancakes
Your gentle hugs and callused hands that smelled like roofing tar and sawdust
It was you that knew all my secrets
Would ask me, “How is Grandpa’s little girl?”
I would answer, “Grandpa, I’m a boy,” and You would smile
Maybe not understanding gay but understanding different
White man/native man caught between the rez and reality
And You loved me just the same

It’s been six years since You left us
72 months since I’ve heard your voice
More than 2000 days since You went home
This poem has been 52,560 hours in the writing because I still look for You
On holidays
I sit in my spot on the couch
And look for You in your chair at the end of the kitchen table
Where the floor slants downward the foundation settling into the dirt
Sometimes I hear You playing solitaire and You swore you never cheated
But You always won
Sometimes I play cribbage with your ghost, and I remind it of the one time I beat You
And as usual You pretend not to hear
Just like when we would watch Wheel of Fortune together
And You’d play deaf if I guessed the puzzle before you did

I pray to you sometimes when I think God is too busy to listen,
Because you were never too busy for me
And sometimes when I think I can’t make it
I can hear your rocking chair creaking
And the sound of Price is Right with no TV in sight
I remember the day that we watched the black televangelist on KDLH
You announced that someday that could be me
I shook my head, and you said that with faith I could anything
With faith I could move mountains
With faith I could make the blind see
With faith I could change the world
But faith hasn’t brought You back to me

Faith hasn’t brought back the only man I’ve ever loved unconditionally
And sometimes I get so angry that I never got to say goodbye
That I won’t go to Your grave because I’m afraid that the finality of stone nourished by your body
Will take away the faith I have left
I am trying to understand why He took You
When at times like today I need You
I need You because you are the only Father I have ever known
And while you art in Heaven, I’m here alone
“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”
And the courage to say goodbye
To the man who carried me
And who carries me still

Poem: Choke

I wrote this poem about three years ago. A friend of mine at the time was going through a period of significant loss. Her brother and cousin were murdered. Her birth mother died, and her niece was raped all within a year time period. I was living across the country from her at the time, and I watched from afar as she struggled. This I wrote for her.

Choke

It takes her again
wraps stiff fingers around her throat
chokes her until the tears run
burning channels into her cheeks
reopening half healed runnels
coffin-nails have left on her face
she calls me gasping
why
too much
too many
why her
why him
why them
bang bang
they found him in a lake
they found her in a ditch
he was murdered
she was murdered
why
why
why
the violence overshadowed by
the mist that leaders her voice
sodden from her throat
she exhales between questions
I don’t have the answers she needs
the ones she deserves
can’t loosen the grip of too much time
cut short
wrapping around her throat
can’t breath enough for her
can feel the damp
as it pours out of my phone
fills my mouth
runs out of my eyes
mother-brother-aunt-cousin
two killed
unsolved crimes
two taken too early
all died
this year and last year
too few years between them
too little time for healing
while prayers and prairie dirt fill the holes
they left behind
we’ve sat up nights talking
trying to make sense
of senselessness
of grief
of acceptance with no understanding
while the reaper keeps on reaping
scything through native lives
her life
cutting
cold voice laughing
hollow
like lines dug in her face
hollow
echoing
empty
open wounds festering
fearing that she might use alcohol to sterilize
knowing its ability to cauterize
too far away
too far away
to fly to her
pry death away
breath for her when she can’t
pray for her when she can’t
promise her what I can’t
that it’s over
when my promises
are drowned out
by the laughing of the reaper

Poem: These Streets

I wote this poem a while back. Sometime early last year.

These Streets

I’ve been down these streets before
walked them so many times
my feet need no directions
know every sidewalk crack
houses
weeping flakes of paint like sunburned skin
vibrancy a long gone memory
these colors are barely surviving
but the patterns left behind tell stories
plainly
there for anyone that can read the street patois
the pig Latin of the ghetto
that gives young eyes the gift of x-ray vision
lets them see the roots beneath the sidewalk
through the sagging sheets hanging in the windows
beyond the rib cages of yard dogs
skin stretched tight
kinship found in hungry canine eyes

I’ve been down these streets before
walked down t hem so m any times
watched dreams cashed for rent money
watched rent money cashed for a dream high
watched the junky prophet proclaim prophecy
whispered in his ears by the monkey on his back
toothy, grinning, picking hopes like lice
lips smacking
the monkey savors each one, whispers and waves
as the street opens up
swallows them whole
I step over the chalk outline
the street grave marker
requiescat en pace
a memorial
until the next rain
or morning piss

I’ve been down these streets before
seen single mothers press bottles of Similac
into mouths screaming umbilical rage
at fathers that found peace in fists pounded into pregnant bellies
into the girl-next-door, high school sweethearts, white picket fences
that never lined these streets
lined fantasies in heads
nobody told us that white picket fences were meant to keep us out
loan denied
bad credit
pickets turned into red lines
by bodies hurled against them
fences made of white steel
reinforced
indivisible
liberally distributed
one nation
divided in two
all for some
and little for us

I’ve been down these streets before
cuz these streets pave my mind
a city built and peopled by our fears
the can’t dos, and the can nots
the not qualified enoughs
the you speak so eloquently
the relapses
the system tracking
the racial profiling
the unemployment
on these streets there ain’t no schools
only prisons
on these streets every home is broken
and no way to fix them
on these streets segregation has been perfected
it is illegal to sit with yourself
high treason
to ask yourself why
premeditated murder
to come up with your own answers
sedition
to better yourself
your only choices
drugs, jail or death
all available without a prescription

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-Minneapolis, MN
-2008

Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple

A week ago, I was on my way home from a conference in Los Angeles where I met with a cadre of professional and lay people interested in issues of net neutrality and media justice. In the room were everyone from an elder who was just learning how to use to the internet to Parul Desai--a fierce communications lawyer with Media Access in DC. A week later, I am sitting in David and my studio (mostly David's), preparing the final arrangement of my manuscript, It Ain't Truth if It Doesn't Hurt, in my new home city of New York, NY.

Getting here has been a journey.

The first time I declared that I was moving to New York was in 2002. I was looking for a job, and I had a a promising lead at the Gay, Lesbian, Straight Education Network (GLSEN). I thought the job was a slam dunk. It was coordinating the National Day of Silence (NDOS). NDOS was founded by Jessie Gilliam in 2006. I knew Jessie and coordinated a NDOS at Warren Wilson College in 2006. I was one of the first folks to organize a NDOS event. Makes sense that I would be a shoe in to coordinate the program. Well. It didn't happen. Thanks Christopher!

Then, in 2003/2004 I visited my friends RJ and Jeremy. And I declared once again that I was moving to NYC. Life and circumstance conspired against me in that instance as well (plus, well, Jeremy is crazy---love him...but he is nuts). Finally, last summer, the Liberty Tree Foundation was running out of money, I had to find a new job, I applied for five in NYC...and ended up getting one in the Bay. And then, after some interesting experiences (please note the editing right now...oh lord)...the work in the bay didn't work out...and my man said...pack your shit...and get thee to the City.

So here I is. I feel as if the Universe was letting me have a glimpse of my future life here, but it was also letting me know that I was going to be here on its time and not mine. Hell, I have been coming here on and off since 2000. I partied at Limelight. I partied at Roxy. I partied at Crash before it moved to Manhattan. I have watched West Harlem go from Dominican ghetto fabulous to gay. And I have been here enough to know that when white folks start making up the majority in Crown Heights that some shit has really broken off.

I am excited about the possibilities of New York. Now its time to make a strategy around taking advantage of the city. From the Minne-Apple to the Big Apple...it's time to put that shit in blender, make some apple sauce, and spread it all over my body.

It's All About Me Damn It!

I got this from one of my readers today. I thought it was hilarious. Thanks for passing it along my friend!

BETTER THAN YOU

This is an official
notice to decree that the
bearer of this item
is indeed better than you
in every respect of everything,
this includes intellect,
personality, social status,
number of loyal friends
and the ability to destroy
your life if they feel the need.
You have been privledged
to read this as you’ve spent
a prolonged amount of time
in the bearer’s presence.
you should now leave.

It is
all about
me
Damn You!

Damn

I am too annoyed to even blog. And that is saying some shit.

C-YA Oakland

I am going to miss a few things about Oakland, but, you know, the ride here has been hella-interesting. I made mistakes--quite a few. And I spent a lot of time dealing with the mistakes of others. A lot of time. Peace Oakland. Peace.

One Liner of the Week Award

So it has been a while since I have given out a One Liner of the Week Award, and this week we have a new recipient: Melissa Tangye.

I met Melissa years ago. I was in the midst of my own Great Depression. I basically was unemployed, drinking, and using my entire apartment as my bedroom. It was note cute.

Anyway, Coya brought her over, and she proceeded to teach me the Fart Dance. It kind of looked like George Jefferson's walk but done to a beat.

Anywho, I sent her a message today telling her that I was moving to New York, and she responded:

"You move more than a pair of titties in a jazzercise class hombre!"

And that is most definitely the One Liner of the Week.

It Ain't Sunny in L.A.

Today has been somewhat of a challenge. I got up this morning in a dead panic when I received a text message from David. I thought I had overslept and missed my flight to Los Angeles. On top of that, I had gone to the movies the night before, and I could not find my cash card, so I wasn't sure if I could get out of Oakland to L.A.

I did find my cash card. Which was some relief. Went to the atm. Got cash out for the cab to the airport, and the damn card broke in half.

I had just enough money to get to the airport. But no money for food. David to the rescue with his credit card. Thank god. I ended up sitting next to a beautiful little girl and her Grandma, and I coached the peanut through her first flight. In exchange she taught me a game called "Picachu," which to someone over the age of 12 would be called Rocks, Paper, Scissors.

I arrived in Cali and got a solo van to Occidental College. That was awesome. The conference has been awesome so far. Though I am in a room surrounded by a bunch of media/media techies....which is always interesting. And, frankly, I am scared that at this point I actually understand most of the conversations.

In the interest of not spilling too many personal details of my relationship (you, my faithful readers know that I would normally tell all....but David is a bit more squeamish...such a lady). Today is one of those days that is totally challenging me. And to show mad love to my partner...he has been great. And I am saying publicly that though you are pushing every one of my insecurity buttons today....I am behind you (well not behind you,....ooooooooo holding back on the inappropriate comment...barely holding on......whew)...but I hope you have a blast...in my own selfish interest I hope it is a relatively quick blast.....and I love you.

GEEEEEEEEZZZUSS! Self censorship today is REALLY taxing my strength. Baby...we are going to have to talk about my blog....this is my outlet....and I am going to have to bust through and share sometimes...I am...yes I am...

but not today.

Damn.

Pray for me ya'll.

Somethin's Cookin' In Hell's Kitchen

Whoever thought of the name Hell's Kitchen deserves a fucking award. Imaginative. Descriptive. I like it. And, I am moving there. Life and the universe have a way of pointing you in the direction you need to go. This time the universe dropped kicked my ass towards this particular destination.

I am both so excited I could just pee all over everything like our new house puppy Fausto and so scared that I could just pee all over everything like our new house puppy Fausto.

Moving to New York has been a dream for years. Living with David has been a dream for almost a year. Combining the two is enough to make my head spin around. And it is enough to make me wonder if the universe is playing a big fucking joke on me.

The closer I get to Wednesday the more I feel as if this is all some big ass joke, and that I am still on that mental health ward at University-Riverside and at any moment Nurse Buffy is going to pop in and tell me it is time to head to Occupational Therapy (I never understand that name...call the shit Coloring Class...cuz that's what it is).

I know that something big is in the works. I know I have a TON TON TON TON TON of personal shit to work on. Last night David and I tentatively agreed to some minor rule changes to make our relationship stronger.

I feel so fucking grown up. And I feel like a kid taking his first steps. The dichotomy and the oxymoron imagery is not lost on me.

My love told me today that he is feeling like..."let's get this show on the road already. This long distance thing has SUCKED."

I could not agree more.

The long distance thing has bred insecurities that may not have been there or may have been less intense, it has created a helluva a time getting into a groove that is long term and sustainable. It has created roadblocks in our various artistic endeavors, it has created situations where when we are together a chunk of our time is necessarily consumed by processing instead of just being able to relax and have non-lesbionic feminist process fun.

I am definitely looking forward to waking up next to him everyone morning and going bed next to him at night. I know that we will have our own lives and our time apart, but I want to know that when the sunrises and the sunsets he is there. That I go to sleep with the taste of him on my lips and the smell of him around me. So sweet. So home.

New York, New York

I am moving to New York.

Holy shit.

Days Like These

So there are days like these that are generally a mixed bag. All in all the day has gone well, I finally hooked up with a hottie from DC that had been trying to get at both David and I since before we got down here. He was sweet, cute, buff and had a huge penis.

A New Poem: Chief Joseph’s Song for Those That Cannot Change What Is

For Frank Inman: Heal. and for the LCO Band of Ojibwe, my great-grandma Susannah Johnson, and her mother Bim We We.


I shall fight no more forever
Lay down my bow and arrow
Set aside my shield
Take up my sorrow
Like a shawl
Drape it carefully
Around low slung shoulders
Use the last light of the setting sun
to clasp it to my breast

I shall fight no more forever
Spread my arms and embrace the rising tide
Use my body to shield
Those things most precious
until my last breath
is my grave marker
and the grass is churned into concrete
the North wind whispering
here fell the shadow of man

I shall fight no more forever
From where the sun now stands
no more dawns will I greet freely
no more the war path will I take
no more shall I know peace
that I lay aside too
only here now lives sorrow and sadness
coldness
our blankets are thread bare and hollow

I shall fight no more forever
Stealthily among the young
An ancientness has invaded
Like a cavalry rampaging
Slaughtering innocence
Herding what’s left
Into dusty reservations
The secret land where Death hides it kingdom

I shall fight no more forever
I surrender
There are those that will find new ways
Warriors to resist
But the song my children sing is hunger
Their Fathers are buried in forgotten places
Their Mothers dry bones thrust up from the tall grass
And I have only emptiness to feed them

I shall fight no more forever
Until one day
When the sun rises again
When songs of hunger
Are set to war drums
When fires are built
From broken treaties
When love turned bitter
Is honey sweetened again
When the judgment has passed
Then, then
Bend near to this place
Place your lips on the ground
And whisper my name

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-New York, NY
-8 March 2009

-The photo is courtesy of David Berube and was taken at the National Portrait Gallery, the Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC.

Happy International Women's Day

To all of my women identified friends and family, whether you were born female bodied or have embraced an identity that encompasses that of a woman, I wish you a year with greater strides towards gender freedom and gender liberation. The power to walk freely in this world, without shackles and weights attached to the body you demonstrate, is a gift freely given to those called men, but those called men also fail to feel the invisible restraints created as a counterbalance to the awesome oppressions we have visited and maintain on bio and genderqueer women. The impact of sexism and heterosexism is felt widely and broadly without regard to the genitalia found below your beltline. But overwhelmingly the violence and oppression that maintains the power structure of sexism is targetted at women and the genderqueer. On this International Women's Day, it is my wish that we all remember that our liberations are truly tied up together with one another and that each of us has a deep and abiding role to play in freeing ourselves and rejecting the power of privilege that maintains cycles of violence and continued oppression of the women in this world. Much love.

By the Grace of Phyllis Diller

So the last couple of days have been interesting. Once certain circumstances have changed, I will have much more specific commentary on some of what has gone down. But, instead, I am going to focus on Phyllis Diller.

The first time I became aware of Phyllis was when watching Scooby Doo as a child. Phyllis was a guest on one of the shows, and I remember that she had a dozen or so husbands, and I thought to myself, "One day that is gonna be me."

Well.....I may not go through twelve husbands, but I have definitely gone through about 12,000 boyfriends...but I finally found one that is going to be my husband. He knows it. I haven't asked him officially yet. But I will get around to it at some point.

I am still in DC and looking forward to learning more about the legislative process from the backside. I have come to know some things about myself, and I have come to know a lot about some other folks. And in the end, I am secure that who I am and where I am is a lot better place than some of the people I happen to know.

Mr. Lacy Campos goes to Washington

So, I am on the Bolt Bus on my way to Washington, DC. The world is full of wonders in that I am traveling at 60+ miles per hour and have free wireless internet on the bus. These new fangled inventions and technological progress never cease to amaze me. Hey glory.

I am actually on my way to Washington, DC to do a three week federal lobbying fellowship with Consumer's Union. I am deeply looking forward to this experience, as it will be both personally and professionally exciting. Public policy, in general, gives me a woody. The ability to not only craft it but the point of sale moment is what I thrive on. My recently released article framing DTV as a social justice issue is one example of how you take a particular policy viewpoint and then translate it into language and imagery that allows it to resonate with the population in general. Public Policy is meaningless if it can not be popularized and translated so that the young and the old can understand it with equal ease.

I also had the honor, last week, of talking about my article on the syndicated radio program, CounterSpin. Check out www.fair.org and click on CounterSpin to listen to a podcast of the broadcast.

I started this fellowship trip by flying into NYC. Between Mrs. Harris passing last week, work issues, and relationship issues, I needed to see and spend time with and make love to my partner. I did those things, and I felt at peace. There was no drama...even when I had to spend time alone with David's ex-boyfriend. Tildon the Wonder Dog broke into his creepy yet sweet doggie grin when I walked into the room. As a matter of fact, he wedged himself against me for most of the time I was there at night. And he definitely gave me the reproachful, "you are a bad Step-Dad," eyes when I wheeled my suitcase out today.

I love my partner. I am going to see him in four days, yet the weight of our separation and the short time spans together (this staccato visits) are both necessary and torturous. Necessary in that I get to breathe in the scent of him that drives me insane. There is something soft and visceral about his skin. I love it. It is torturous because as soon as I get centered with him again, we have to jet out. I know in the next few months that this will be resolved as I am moving in with him. But between now and then I must own the suckage with the grace.

British DTV Article

I was quoted in this article, and I didn't even know it ;-): http://www.ipsnews.net/news.asp?idnews=45837

It's Not About Ugly Betty: The DTV Transition and Why It Matters

On May 3, 1963 the North was stunned as it saw broadcast images of Birmingham Commissioner of Public Safety, Bull Connor,turning fire hoses, dogs, cattle prods, and billy clubs on peaceful black protesters that had organized a campaign targeting the local business community. The response was immediate and profound. The public outcry forced President Kennedy to send a negotiator to the city. By May 10 the campaign was ended, the Southern Christian Leadership Conference had won, and television was catapulted into the national arena as a tool for social change.

Over the next decade, images of violence from the Civil Rights movement and from the Vietnam War entered U.S. homes on the evening news. For the first time in U.S. history, people far removed from the realities of the South and urban black communities, people that could not find Vietnam on a map, found themselves staring at images of violence, death, destruction, segregation and apartheid. And the nation was moved. A national consciousness, begun by community organizers working in the streets and fields, was broadened and deepened by the family television set.

The right to information is a fundamental human right. More than 80% of American households still receive the majority of their news and the issues that impact them through their local television broadcasts. Anything that threatens easy and bountiful access to timely and accurate news and information has very real impacts on the lives of American people. The Digital Television Transition, ill conceived and corporate focused, is poised to strip millions of Americans of their ability to receive the information they need to make decisions about their lives.

Although Congress passed legislation changing the digital television transition date from February 17th to June 12th, 491 stations are choosing to switch early. Combined with those stations that have already made the transition, there will be more than 700 television stations broadcasting in digital after February 17th. And yet, at least 21 million households are either completely unready or will have significant problems when the switch happens. Indeed, already, the DTV Assistance Centers created by the Media Action Grassroots Network (MAG-Net) in partnership with the Leadership Council on Civil Rights, have received hundreds of phone calls from families that are experiencing major difficulties, and some, after having followed the esoteric instructions for connecting the DTV converter boxes, are finding that they are still left with black screens despite their best effort and the promises of a smooth transition.

Fundamentally, the digital transition was ill conceived. From its inception it was focused on corporate media giants. Scarce resources were allocated for the transition, and poor outreach was done to ensure that those most impacted by the transition--people of color, low income communities, people with disabilities, and the elderly--were prepared for the switch. The federal coupon program ran out of funds more than two months before the switch. National retailers, looking to profit from the underfunded federally mandated switch, refused to carry the $40 converter boxes, creating an undue economic burden during a time of economic crisis. And local community organizations, already cash strapped and overworked, were left to pick up the pieces and develop solutions to problems created by Congress.

And, unfortunately, the public discussions about the switch have either been complaints with few solutions or have dismissed the switch as unimportant in the context of the current state of the U.S.A. From the left and the right, people have exclaimed that “TV is not a right!” And they are absolutely correct. TV is not a right. This transition is not about ensuring that folks get their Ugly Betty fix. This is about the fundamental human right to information and the the responsibility of the federal government to ensure that right is protected for the least as well as the privileged. And this right is directly tied to economic and racial justice.

When a transition occurs or a decision is made, and those impacted or left behind are people of color and working class people, it is clear that there are race and class implications to the decision. As we move forward with rebuilding our economy, those that have ready access to the most current information will be those that succeed in getting newly created jobs and finding new opportunities to support their families. When millions of low income people and people of color are locked out of the information system, they , too, are locked out of economic opportunities. As we continue with massive corporate consolidation, radio stations run remotely, and disappearing newspapers, television will continue to maintain its hegemonic place as the common green.

But it is not too late to close the gaps in this transition. There are solutions. MAG-Net is launching a national Socially Just and Responsible Transition campaign. The campaign is targeting electronics retailers with the aim of having the major national chains in multiple metropolitan and rural communities commit to providing a $40 converter box with analog pass through capability and closed captioning. Each retailer will receive a certification that they have taken the Socially Just and Responsible Pledge and will receive a designation indicting such.

Congress has included funds in the economic stimulus package geared at making sure that the coupon program is sufficiently funded. In addition, Congress must also provide significant funds to support the grassroots organizations across the country that are providing direct assistance to their communities to ensure that the 16.5% of Latinos that are currently unready in Phoenix and the 13% of the households in Albuquerque are prepared for June 12th.

Further, Congress should work with the FCC to create impact guidelines for future major shifts in communications policy. President Obama is committed to building a broad band infrastructure, the digital switch is opening analog spaces for public consumption, a battle is being waged over free speech rights on the internet with regards to content, “net neutrality,” and as new media and communications systems are developed new communications policies will be developed. The FCC and Congress should create guidelines focused on the racial and economic justice issues of major transitions. Questions should be asked, in advance, that will ensure that low income communities, people of color, immigrants, elders, and people with disabilities are not left scrambling to catch up. And resources should be allocated to ensure that government and community partnerships are able to make sure that America and not just corporate America is ready for these changes.

We now have the opportunity to rectify one of George Bush’s many mistakes. The work is happening on the ground, in San Antonio, Oakland, Seattle, Philadelphia, New York, Minneapolis, Kentucky, and elsewhere. Community organizations are stepping up to and doing work that they can ill afford to do. As we make our break with the corporate values of the Bush administration and re-center the value of the people in the national consciousness, we must act proactively, with vision, and use this transition to lay the ground work for future communications policy that works for the people instead of including the people as an afterthought. The air waves are a public trust. And the public should be able to trust that they will have their full use by June 12, 2009.

A Letter to the Harris Family and "Mona"

The world lost an amazing woman this week. She changed my life. Here is a link to Mrs. Harris' obituary. After the letter is a poem I wrote to remember Mrs. Harris.


Dear Harris Family:

For 17 years, you have welcomed me into your lives, and into your home. I have spent Thanksgivings, Christmases, and Easters with you. I have met Grandmas and Aunties, cousins and siblings. I can remember Marcus before Shelley, Shane before potty training, and Nicole when she started dating Erik....the first time.

I remember the first time I met Mrs. Harris. It was after the regional speech tournament. I had just won a medal for storytelling and Mrs. Harris gave me a ride home from South High School. I think I talked non-stop through the entire ride from S. Minneapolis to Camden. That poor woman.

Over the last almost 20 years, your family has become my family. If I didn’t show up for a holiday, I heard about it the next holiday...from the entire family (including new relatives that I hadn’t even met yet).

When I heard Mrs. Harris was sick, I wasn’t worried even a little bit. I had just lost my cousin to cancer. So I refused to believe that God would take away two people that I loved from the same disease. Plus, I thoroughly believed that nothing short of the second coming would move Mrs. Harris from here to Heaven. That woman was a force of nature. But, God had other plans for Mrs. Harris, and, as happens more often than I like, his plans and my plans weren’t the same. Good thing He is running things and not me. When I got the call from Noodle last weekend that Mrs. Harris was in hospice, I quite seriously was unbelieving and stunned. I had just spoken to her not too long previous to that. I had just spoken with Mr. Harris more recent than that. When Noodle called to tell me that Mrs. Harris had gone home to her King, I was walking down the street. And I felt like the world had gotten colder and darker. A great light was taken away from all of us on Monday.

I believe in God. I believe in his mercy, his love, and his justice. I don’t understand Him sometimes. And I don’t undestand this. Perhaps I am selfish. But I want to hear Mrs. Harris’s laugh again. I want to see her smile. I want her to hug me. She once came to visit me in the hospital. I had been with friends all evening, and I had not cried. But when the nurse said that she was there. When I saw her. When that beautiful spirit walked into my darkness, the glory of God was made manifest and for a moment, I had hope and the darkness was blasted away by the power of her spirit. She held me as I cried. She made me believe that I would be ok. Mrs. Harris knew all my secrets and she still loved me. She taught me that I didn’t have to hide anymore. That I was worthy of being loved. I never really got to tell her what that meant to me. She was the angel God sent to me that day. She never treated me any differently. Her heart and her home opened wider to me. And I thank God that Mrs. Harris allowed me to be a part of her life.

I wish I could be there with you all today. I wish I could hug Mr. Harris and thank him for 17 years of laughter. I wish I could hug Marcus and tell him thank you for the years of joking and welcome. I wish I could hug Shane and thank him for being a part of my family. Most of all I wish I could hug Noodle, my big sister, my friend, and give back some of the love and warmth that she has given to me since I was 14 years old.

I never once called Mrs. Harris by her first name. I was raised old school by my Mom. And the parents of friends are Mr. and Mrs. Period. But, I thought, this one time, Mrs. Harris wouldn’t mind.

Love,
Brandon


Mona

I remember her smile, can call it to memory
like her laughter
like her phone number
the only one
besides my lover’s
that I have memorized


I remember the angel
that walked in a mother’s clothing
in a minister’s robe
in a sister’s body
in a wife’s spirit
in a friend’s embrace
who cooked banquets
fed spirits
til they swelled
with blessings
til they filled
with hope

I remember the woman
who loved me
when I was too lost
too alone
too scared
too broken
too heart worn
too burdened
too wounded
to love myself

I remember the gift
that opened her home
and her heart
her family
and her life
to an awkward boy
who loved her daughter
who laughed too loudly
who stayed away too long
who left a voicemail
to say goodbye

I remember the teacher
who dedicated her life
and her body
her wisdom
and her strength
to tear down obstacles
to clear paths
to build roads and bridges
into brighter futures
for Northside children
that the world
tried to ignore
or throw away

I remember Mrs. Harris
the woman
the gift
the teacher
the bridge builder
the wife
the Grandma
the Sister
the Mother
the friend
the angel
that God called home too soon

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-Oakland, CA
-12 February 2009

Fuck It! We're Going Live: DTVforthePeople.blogspot.com

So you think the digital television transition is simply about better quality broadcasts and ensuring you get your "Ugly Betty" fix?

Think again.

It's about access to information and a fight for public space. Upwards of 80% of the American people say local TV news is their prime source of information to make decisions about their lives. And, at least in theory, the airwaves belong to the people.

With up to 20 million people, including seniors, low mobility, low income, people of color and rural communities unready for the transition, we must ensure a no cost digital transition in the interest of democracy and the common good, not corporate profits.

http://DTVforThePeople.blogspot.com is a media relations blog advocating for a just and socially responsible transition, brought to you by Media Action Grassroots Network.

Mrs. Mona Harris

Today, the world lost a beautiful spirit. Mrs. Mona Harris. She was there for me at times when my own Mother was unable to be there. I love you Mrs. Harris. I love you Mr. Harris. I love you Nicole. I love you all. Thank you for the gifts you gave to me Mrs. H. Thank you for the gifts you gave to us all.

You are at Peace now with your King. You believed in him and his mercy. You believed in his grace and his love. He has prepared a place for you at his table. There is no pain and no tears, no more suffering, and there you can watch over us all.

I love you.

Moving Right Along...

I am excited. My brother of choice Rodrigo is on his way to Oakland. My friend Lorena is with him, and my partner will soon be in the skies on his way to me. I feel as if I have hit the jackpot today. Except for the bubble guts. Lord, my ass just exploded in the coffee shop. I was afraid that the force of the expulsion was going to shatter the porcelain.

Last night I had a jealousy moment. It came on suddenly. I was upset because my brother will most likely not be here this weekend. I had already packed away two glasses of wine, and a man that I personally think is very attractive started a dialogue with my partner on Facebook. It was innocent. My man assured me that any freaky dicky that happened with this particular person would only happen with me as part of the equation. But I was emotionally raw and St. Jealousia escaped her Hell bonds and ran amok.

But this time was different. I was still a minor asshole. But I was able to reign myself in without completely losing my mind. Unfortunately, David got the brunt of my drama, and he was dealing with drama of his own, and those wonder twin powers combined, form of Dramatron.

Today I have my hater blockers on. I sprayed on an extra helping of bitch begone. And I have No More Drama incense burning in my bedroom.

Now I am off to fetch Makeeba from her date with the oral surgeon. Poor girl is having all four impacted and infected wisdom teeth snatched up out of her face as I type. At least they are giving her some good ass drugs.

And me, I am praying that the ominous gurgling in my stomach does not turn into an anal reenactment of the scene from Aliens when the spawn erupts from Sigourney Weaver.

Kenyon Farrow's Speech on HIV/AIDS From Creating Change 2009 in Denver

Kenyon Farrow is an organizer, communications strategist and writer working on issues at the intersection of HIV/AIDS, prisons and homophobia. A current Policy Institute fellow with the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force, Farrow is working on a report about the HIV/AIDS epidemic in Black gay and bisexual men in the U.S. This is a copy if his speech from the 2009 Creating Change Conference.

PERSONAL NOTE: Kenyon Farrow is a friend of mine, an inspiration to me, and a great and powerful asset to our work and this movement. He also works at Queers for Economic Justice.

SPEECH

In 1991, nearly 18 years ago, I was 15 years old when my mother, who was working 13 hour days, 6 days a week in Cleveland, OH, sat me and my two sisters down in front of the television to watch history.

It was not unusual for her to do such a thing. For, we had been made to watch the Civil Rights Documentary "Eyes on The Prize" in its entirety. We also watched "How the West Was Lost," the documentary about White American expansion into the "Americas" and the genocide of First Nation peoples--to understand what we perhaps weren't learning in one of the worst school districts in the country.

But that night, in 1991, my mother--after right-wing Senators Jesse Helms and Arlen Spector tried to protect "American Families" from being able to view it public television--sat us in front of the television to watch Marlon Riggs' breakthrough film on black gay men, Tongues Untied.
Apple iTunes

The film, and the poetry of the men in the film, particularly Essex Hemphill, was for me the example of the possibility of a Black gay life, of an aesthetic, and of a radical, sex-positive, pro-feminist politic. They were, quite literally, the men of my own dreams.

Though they would both make more films, more books, they would both be dead of HIV-related causes by 1995, within one year of each other. And just short of the first anti-retrovirals to hit the market. And half of the people in this room don't even know of the two names that I speak.

Despite their examples as two of many who spent the late 80s and early 1990s literally writing us into the history of the planet while they were being dragged from the face of it, we have largely lost the layered, nuanced, and multi-issue nature of their brilliant work, which very clearly demonstrates the social conditions of Black working class queer life in the context of the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Theirs was not a politics of inclusion--but a politics of sexual liberation in a decidedly Black gay context.

These men, and many others who died from HIV or from violence, were not only cultural workers but were in fact movement-minded folk--starting and running organizations, writing and creating, and making political alliances with Black lesbian organizations, other radical third-world people of color artists and organizers.

Their work that gave the public health world, and the mainstream LGBT movement a body of work with which to fashion ideas around the context of HIV/AIDS among Black "men who have sex with men." But instead of looking to that work as insight and inspiration, we have built a public health, Black, and/or LGBT movement response to HIV/AIDS among Black MSM with the decidedly ignorant assumption that we don't know what's going on with Black "men who have sex with men" and that there is no Black queer leadership that currently exists or could not be further nurtured and developed.
STATISTICS

Despite major advances in treating the virus, the HIV/AIDS epidemic seems to be getting worse for people in our community. At the International AIDS Conference, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) stunned the international AIDS community by announcing that the richest nation on earth had over 56,000 new infections in 2006. This revision also included a back-calculation revealing that, for the 15 years from 1991-2006, infection rates were approximately 25-50 percent higher than the long-held 40,000 annual estimate.

Not only have we been undercounting the growth of the epidemic, men who have sex with men (MSM -- that public health category that includes gay and bisexual men, and transgender women) continue to bear the greatest increases in new infections. In 2006, 53 percent of all new infections were among MSM.

More stunning, it found the number of new infections of black MSM ages 13-29 to be the highest of all MSM groups. Even though CDC officials are typically conservative in its public statements, CDC scientists are stating publicly that black MSM are the only group in the U.S. with HIV rates similar to Sub-Saharan African nations, despite similar or lower rates of risky sex or substance abuse than white MSM.

Though transwomen are counted in the "MSM" category, some data has shown Black MTF transwomen have an HIV prevalence rate of 56%.

While black MSM certainly bear the brunt of the virus, gay and bisexual the virus disproportionately impacts men and transgender women of all races.
POLICY

There are many policy changes that we'd like to see, many of which are encompassed in the National AIDS Strategy, and those are likely to happen. So I am going to focus on what we in this room, as activists and organizers in the LGBT movement, need to do.
MOVEMENT

First and foremost, the time where we can pretend that there is no viable, credible or visible Black (or other POC) queer leadership is over. While we certainly need to be developing leaders, leadership per se, is not the problem. We have lost of leaders, but leaders with no base that they're accountable to. Because what little Black LGBT infrastructure that exists, is largely due to HIV/AIDS service delivery, we are able to reach lots of people in our organizations as "clients", but are rarely engaged as potential leaders, organizers or members of our organizations. We need the investment of both progressive philanthropy and LGBT funders to help build the capacity and infrastructure of organizations to move from strict service delivery to doing community organizing, leadership development, and base-building.

Lastly, as long as the White-led mainstream LGBT movement is invested in seeing itself as the only credible leadership or it's organizations the only ones doing "the real work" or having "real impact" we will continue to invisibilize the work that Black and other POC organizations are doing on the ground, in spite of real material obstacles. So every time the gay news media and organizations promote ideas of the gay community vs. the Black community, Black queers will continue to remain invisible, and assumes that Black queer people are not engaging in a battle against homophobia and transphobia in the Black community.

Phrases like the Advocate's recent "Gay is the New Black" which has surfaced in stickers and T-shirts in gayborhoods as well, is racist, dangerous, and ignores the reality despite having a Black president, Black people in America continue to suffer a vast array of health, and socio-economic disparities, even when you control for all other factors. Not only that, it also, once again, presumes that to be LGB or T is to be white and usually male.

Just yesterday at this conference, a major figure in the same-sex marriage movement told a young queer person of color that "there are some people in our community who are fit to lobby, and some who are fit to sing and dance."

These kinds of comments are simply disgusting, particularly since many people of color and transgender people in white gay male spaces are only allowed in to do as much. The sad thing is, for too many people of color in this movement, the line between being asked by white-led organizations to lobby, or to sing & dance, is far too thin.

I think a lot about Marlon Riggs, Essex Hemphill, Barbara Smith, Audre Lorde and many others, as artists and organizers and activists who have led the way for me to be able to stand here on this stage, and it seems sad to me that in my work as a writer and here with the Task Force & Queers for Economic Justice, with my comrades in the room and in various movements around the country-- having to make the arguments, they'd been making for decades.

And we can have all of our policy wish lists items and services around HIV met--but without movement building from the grassroots of people most vulnerable to serve as the place where real change happens. And so long as no cure is found we will not see an end to the epidemic and the disproportionate impact it has on people of African descent globally.

I would hope, that after the decades of efforts to make visible the work that Black LGBTQ people are engaged in directly or indirectly related to HIV/AIDS, not another person has to stand here, decades from now, having to justify or make visible that work, ever again. We are beyond the point of benign ignorance. The bodies in this room, and the graveyards many of us are carrying on our backs, tell a different story.

And so now, should we.

An Open Letter to Myself on the Possibility of Radical Love

An Open Letter to the Possibility of Radical Love

This weekend, I attended a polyamory/non-monogamy caucus at the 21st Annual Creating Change Conference in Denver, CO. I attended because, theoretically, I believe that a single human being can have multiple partners and multiple loves. I also believe that an individual can have a sexual connection with another human being, outsides the confines of his or her primary relationship, that do not take away from what is being built with a life partner. I am also a slut. I came out and was raised by a queer youth community, at the end of 1990s, that was politically and sexual radical, embracing polyamory, non-monogamy, and ethical sluttishness as celebrations and re-articulation of what it means to be sex positive.

I also, for the first time in my life, find myself in an open relationship. And all of the practiced rhetoric around sex positivity, all of my confessed beliefs around the possibility of multiple loves, and all of my talk about the beauty and raw sexual connection inside and outside of my relationship have come screaming up against the reality of my past. I grew up desperately abused. I grew up mentally hammered by parents that were working out their own hurts on their children. I survived sexual assault in college. I have a Father that could not be there for me, a Father that could have been there but instead beat me and then left, and a Father that could not survive the recession of the mid-80s and when things got difficult--abandoned our family. The three men that I called Father have all contributed, in their way, to a very real blockage in my ability to embrace the life that I know is right and true for me.

So the question becomes, how do I stay true to myself? True to the beautiful slut and openly loving human being that I am and that has chosen to live a life that embraces the ways in which sensual and sexual pleasure can enhance ones life instead of being a secret shame force within it. 

To begin with, I have a ridiculously patient partner. He is older than I am, and he has had a decade more time to deal with his own issues in this particular area. He is careful to maintain his boundaries of terms of being able to exercise his right to have some fun now and again outside of our relationship, but he balances that with making sure that the fun he is having is not causing undue harm with us. We don’t always agree. There are very real limits that I draw in my play and in my flirting with other people that are not there for him. They are a grey area where neither of our approach is right or wrong. He puts me first and as long as that remains true, then those grey areas become less important to define. And this coming from the queen of rules, regulations, and clearly defined borders. There are and will be areas that will need definition in our relationship. Communication is one of our strong points, and it is something that we need to continue to work at. But, the truth remains that there is only so much he can do when it is clear that the real work is internal to me.

A strategy that I have chosen is to externalize my thoughts, feelings, and struggles as much as possible (while still respecting the intense need for privacy of my partner---something that I, obviously, do not share. My friends call me IRA: I Require Attention). I have found that when I am faced with feelings of jealousy, with feelings of insecurity, with feeling threatened, if I stop the moment and say out loud what it is that I am thinking and feeling. If I just put it out in the air, then I am able to look at it and let it go. The emotions can run their course and I come out the other side feeling fine. When the emotions arise, and I ride them. When I let them work their way into my psyche unchecked that is when knee jerk and deeply programmed self-protection behaviors kick in that served a very real purpose in literally keeping me alive and safe as a child but that now hinder my advancement as an adult.

There’s the kicker. The ability to recognize potential threats is intensely heightened in abuse survivors. It was once at the core of our ability to know when to exit a scene, (room, car, park, home) in order to reduce our chance of mental or physical harm. As an adult, that has translated for me into subconscious reactions designed to distance me from any and all individuals that would otherwise have the power to deeply wound me as my emotions and feelings for them grew. In the context of a deeply loving and supportive relationship, particularly one in which safety and feelings of support are freely given and nurtured, the threat of losing that is sometimes overwhelming and short circuits any and all attempts to cut off the deeply ingrained protectionist mechanisms of the past.

I am also going to therapy---what I can’t figure out how to fix on my own--I am unashamed to turn over to a professional. Also, zoloft helps ;-).

The one area where I need to give myself grace, and also ask for more grace from my partner, is that I am attempting to heal and reverse what amounts to roughly 28-31 years of abuse (self inflicted and otherwise). I am asking myself to unlearn and dissect almost three decades of behavior and feelings and ways of being. And I am foolish if I believe (and lately I have been trying to make myself believe) that after roughly eight months in a loving relationship, I should have or even could have moved any further along than I am and have with this process of healing and renewal.

Patience with oneself while at the same time pushing oneself ever forward and onward is the key to unlearning and letting go of those things that once served a purpose but now serve only to keep you from being loved and loving in return in the way that you so choose. In the way that I so choose: in a committed, deeply loving, beautiful open relationship with a partner that is lover and friend. I am doing this not for us, but for me. And by doing this for me, I make us stronger.

Creating Change

Creating Change this year, as every year, had its problems. Evan Wolfson, a “prominent” leader in the movement---particularly of the marriage “equality” movement told an activist that some queers are fit to lobby while others are only fit to sing and dance. Recalling historic representations of people of color (particularly African-Americans) that are hurtful, painful, racist, and white supremacist at their core. There were again no workshops on non-monogamy and polyamory. Some young people felt that the conference was reformist and not radical enough (I agree).

But, there were some also fairly stunning moments.

To begin with, the conference was opened and closed by the Two Spirit Collective--recognizing that this conference is held (wherever it is in the U.S.) on stolen native lands. Rea Carey, demonstrating phenomenal leadership, stood in front of the conference and acknowledged that by forgetting to name bisexual people in her state of the movement address, she contributed to making them invisible. It was an omission on her part caused by nervousness as she made her first major address as executive director of the Task Force, but she recognizes the impact and did what was necessary to heal it. Thank GOD that the leaders of the late 90s radical queer youth movement are now the ones taking the reigns of leadership of our national organizations.

The speeches by Kenyon Farrow and Bishop Yvette Flunder smashed through the room and made present and visible and powerful people of African descent as leaders in this movement. The performance by The Kinsey Six Dragapella group was entertaining, political, and brilliant---as was their call to support the cultural arm of the queer movement. An arm of which, as a spoken word artist, I am a part.

And then there were the people. A surprise appearance by friend and former youth agitator M’Bwende Anderson was a deeply amazing encounter. Her daughter Ella is stunning. Reconnecting and supporting my friend Debanuj Das Gupta through a spoken word performance with Asha Leong was also a deep moment of love and solidarity in the face of our fucked up immigration system. Hanging out with Asha and driving to the mountains followed by burgers at the campy Hamburger Mary’s was also pretty awesome. Asha and I grew up in the movement together--particularly in the Southern queer youth movement, and it was nice to reconnect with her...even if it was at Buffalo Bill’s grave site and resulted in me getting altitude sickness.

Of course seeing Russell Roybal, and Marta Alvarado, and Carlos Molina, and Scott Pegues, and dozens of other people that have played real roles in building who I am, was also pretty amazing. And, it was a warm reminder that I am well known, well regarded, and loved in this movement.

I was honored to hang out with an connect with some of the fierce younger folks from Fierce that are doing the damn thing and making change happen. I danced last night at a bar packed with beautiful brown and black queer folks. I even spent a moment on the street laughing with Coya.

My one regret was that my partner, lover, and friend David was not able to be with us. I get him in Oakland this coming week, but I wanted what Ryan Li and Sara had...someone to go back to the hotel room with....lay side by side...and talk about the day, discuss what we learned, debrief our experiences, and take those moments deeper and broader. It will happen, but he was missed at this conference this weekend.

Creating Change was a good experience this year. Not perfect by any means, but I know personally and trust the leadership of NGLTF. Russell Roybal and Rea Carey are old friends, mentors, and they get it. We grew up together in this movement, and for once I know that the movement is moving in the right direction.

We Are Not Forgotten

I was just quite literally moved to tears after listening to Kenyon Farrow and the Bishop Yvette Flunder at a plenary here at Creating Change 2009. The plenary was focused on HIV/AIDS. Both Kenyon and Bishop Flunder were tremendous speakers that had powerful words to share. I am going to write a full blog about what they said and how they moved me. But, right now, I am overwhelmed. But I will leave you with this: when speaking of black folks and the queer movement Bishop Flunder demanded:

"It took a long time to get from Martin to Barack. We will NOT leave anyone behind. We will take all the time we need. We will shout on it. We will pray on it. We will sing on it. Amen."

25 Random Things About Me

Here is a wee little about me that I posted in response to lists that other friend's posted on Facebook.

1. I saw a ghost for the first time ever.
2. The ghost stole my cell phone charger and hid it in the hall closet.
3. I was going to talk smack about the ghost, but I am afraid the ghost will steal my cell phone next.
4. My black family can trace their ancestry back almost 300 years. They kept good records on niggas in Southern West Virginia back in the day.
5. I am going to see my little brother Julius, next week, for the first time in 15 years.
6. I love my family.
7. I am building my own family for the first time and it is terrifying---for some reason loneliness is more comfortable than allowing myself to be loved fully.
8. I am truly in love for the first time, and I understand now that the movies are full of shit. Love is real work and worth all the effort.
9. I have come to understand that only when you are truly loved for all your goods and ills can you really then begin to exorcise your belief that you are unworthy of being loved.
10. I believe in God.
11. I believe that God has a plan.
12. I believe the plan is focused on my good.
13. I want to find the plan, roll it up, and hit God in the face with it.
14. I used to trust easily and blindly. I have come to discover that trusting for me as an act that I am, in some ways, not yet fully capable of doing---no matter how deserving the person is that should be trusted.
15. I believe in magic.
16. I can't save money to save my life. I misspend, overspend, and still eat ramen on occasion because of it.
17. I spend a lot of time being afraid and pretending that I am not.
18. For the first time ever I actually fantasize about the person that I call my boyfriend.
19. I believe that my brothers and sisters are some of the most beautiful and amazing individuals I have ever met.
20. I think anal sex should be an Olympic Sport.
21. I have dreams so powerful that I often believe that they are the thoughts of other people that sneak into my head and run around while I am sleeping. The Borg is out there.
22. I love my lips and I hate my back fat.
23. I struggle being in an open relationship, but I could never be honest and be in a closed one.
24. I am a kick ass cook.
25. I believe that I have been given the chance at a powerful life, in partnership with a beautiful man, in fellowship with tremendous friends, and with the support of an amazing family.

The World We Create

Moving through the world these days is a little bit like walking on a tight rope suspended above a caldera filled with a molten lake of lava and Hurricane Katrina coming straight at you. The world let out a joyous yell when Obama took the oath of office. Indeed, I was crying openly and unashamedly. The last week has been filled with glitz, glamour, confirmations, appointments, balls, interviews, First Family photos, and Americans finally proud to claim their citizenship—many of us for the first time.

Yet, today, Sprint cut 8,000 jobs. Home Depot cut 7,000 jobs. Caterpillar cut 20,000 jobs. A report was issued today saying that much of the damage done to the climate is irreversible (at least until the year 3000). We are still fighting two wars on two fronts. There is an uneasy cease fire in Gaza—perhaps only long enough for the Palestinians to bury their dead and their murdered. Unemployment is skyrocketing. Homeland U.S.A., a fucked up reality series about border enforcement, is actually going to hit the airwaves, and it will be another four months before I am happily living with my boyfriend. The world is fucked up right now.

The emotional, physical, psychic, and spiritual pressures on the world and the people living in the world are palpable. People everywhere seem to be scrambling as quickly as they can towards whatever short term end they see for themselves with no eye towards the future or care for those around them. Some individuals—from Blagojevich to local managers seem incapable of saying…I fucked up…sorry...and instead are doing whatever they can to protect their ego, and, sadly, they will soon find that it is only their ego that they have left. The world is poised at the edge of something beautiful or something terrible and at this particular moment in history it is a complete crapshoot. It could go either way, and it seems like crazy people are the ones tossing the dice.

Whew.

I have, lately, subjected myself to the crazy winds of the world that are threatened to blow us off our tightrope. The reality is that living in the world as it is requires acknowledging some of the world’s momentary realities. At the same time, I would be a shortsighted fool to not see that if I can abjure the winds and call rains on the lava lake that I will easily walk to the other side. In my own life I am blessed. I have a wonderful partner, I have a book being released this fall. I am working on a new play with the man I love. I am going to see my little brother and close friends in just over a week. I am going to see other close friends this coming weekend. The WORLD is fucked up but the many worlds in which we live and move and breathe and sing and dance and create and love and make love are actually still there, still intact, and full of the energy, peace, truth, and strength we need to make it through what seems like the approach of the Four Horsemen.

I challenge myself to deny the zeitgeist and to embrace the healing spirit that Obama represents (in some limited measure) and to fully embrace the healing spirit that my community embraces. This does not mean that there will not be personal or community struggle. This does not mean the path will be easy. It is my firm belief that peace is a process and not a destination. If you believe that once you reach peace that it is yours forever then you are not doing the work to maintain it. I welcome others to join me in creating love circles and peace dreams. I welcome you to stand with me in projecting into reality a new way of being that holds those accountable that need to be held accountable without sacrificing the peace and love and joy that is yours to have without question and with the responsibility of sharing those gifts with those around you: friend or stranger.

Right. Rev. Bishop Robinson's Invocation

Hey folks I received this as an email and decided to repost it here


As many of you know, the Right Rev. Gene Robinson, the openly Gay Episcopal Bishop of New Hampshire , gave the opening prayer at yesterday's Lincoln Memorial event. It was the first event in the inaugural festivities this year. HBO, which had paid for exclusive rights to the event chose not to broadcast Bishop Robinson's prayer. So if you watched there you wouldn't have caught it or even known that it occurred. NPR didn't air it either. There's no record of it in images placed on the sites of Getty Images, New York Times and the Washington Post.

It's a complete erasure of his ever having delivered the prayer.

Such is the continuing policy of silence and erasure we have to live with from people who should know better. We are used to this. If you know your queer history this has happened again and again. In fact this little list-serve is really about recovering the truth in our history and celebrating it.

So we're going to celebrate it by providing here the full text of Bishop Robinson's prayer. I suggest you forward this around so that everyone has a chance to enjoy it.

------------ --------- --------

Opening Inaugural Event

Lincoln Memorial, Washington , DC

January 18, 2009

Delivered by the Right Reverend V. Gene Robinson:

"Welcome to Washington ! The fun is about to begin, but first, please join me in pausing for a moment, to ask God's blessing upon our nation and our next president.

O God of our many understandings, we pray that you will…

Bless us with tears – for a world in which over a billion people exist on less than a dollar a day, where young women from many lands are beaten and raped for wanting an education, and thousands die daily from malnutrition, malaria, and AIDS.

Bless us with anger – at discrimination, at home and abroad, against refugees and immigrants, women, people of color, gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people.

Bless us with discomfort – at the easy, simplistic "answers" we've preferred to hear from our politicians, instead of the truth, about ourselves and the world, which we need to face if we are going to rise to the challenges of the future.

Bless us with patience – and the knowledge that none of what ails us will be "fixed" anytime soon, and the understanding that our new president is a human being, not a messiah.

Bless us with humility – open to understanding that our own needs must always be balanced with those of the world.

Bless us with freedom from mere tolerance – replacing it with a genuine respect and warm embrace of our differences, and an understanding that in our diversity, we are stronger.

Bless us with compassion and generosity – remembering that every religion's God judges us by the way we care for the most vulnerable in the human community, whether across town or across the world.

And God, we give you thanks for your child Barack, as he assumes the office of President of the United States .

Give him wisdom beyond his years, and inspire him with Lincoln 's reconciling leadership style, President Kennedy's ability to enlist our best efforts, and Dr. King's dream of a nation for ALL the people.

Give him a quiet heart, for our Ship of State needs a steady, calm captain in these times.

Give him stirring words, for we will need to be inspired and motivated to make the personal and common sacrifices necessary to facing the challenges ahead.

Make him color-blind, reminding him of his own words that under his leadership, there will be neither red nor blue states, but the United States .

Help him remember his own oppression as a minority, drawing on that experience of discrimination, that he might seek to change the lives of those who are still its victims.

Give him the strength to find family time and privacy, and help him remember that even though he is president, a father only gets one shot at his daughters' childhoods.

And please, God, keep him safe. We know we ask too much of our presidents, and we're asking FAR too much of this one. We know the risk he and his wife are taking for all of us, and we implore you, O good and great God, to keep him safe. Hold him in the palm of your hand – that he might do the work we have called him to do, that he might find joy in this impossible calling, and that in the end, he might lead us as a nation to a place of integrity, prosperity and peace.

AMEN."

Obama-Nation!

This morning, I sat surrounded by new friends--movement workers that are committed to creating powerful change in this world...and I had the privilege of being with those people as the 44th President of the United States was sworn into office. It is an understatement to say that I was caught up in the moment. Hope has a new face. May be strength and grace of God and the wisdom of the righteous be with Barack Hussein Obama as he moves us forward. You are the dream and the hope of the slave of which Maya so eloquently spoke. You are the fantasy of the Civil Rights movement. We are not yet free, but you mark a move towards freedom...even though you remained tethered to a capitalistic yoke. Let us lift you up as you work to lift us up. I am proud, this day, to be an American.

David Berube

I love you. I fell in love with you again today.

One Liner of the Week Award

So, this evening, my roommates and I were pouring some pop and getting ready to get back to watching David Bowie in the Labyrinth when we started talking about Makeeba, our roommate that just happens to be off snowboarding this weekend. One of my roommates mentioned that when Makeeba sings to her she gets scared. I said,

"Your inner child gets scared?"

My roommate replies,

"When Makeeba sings, my inner child gets aborted."

I almost died of wrongness. But good lord it was hilarious and it earned the One Liner of the Week Award.

Four Women: A New Poem

This poem is the second poem I have written while David and I have been at a museum. Each time we travel, we take trips to local museums. So far, we have taken in the Walker Art Museum, the Met, the Ft. Lauderdale Museum of Art, and the Walter Museum. Our next poetry book joint project will be us traveling to different museums around the world. David will create art inspired by the collections, and I will craft poetry from the experiences. I can't wait. We will be heading to Bali, Shanghai, and Bangkok this summer to kick it off.

This poem was inspired by three statues and a painting by Carlos Luna at the Ft. Lauderdale Museum.

Four Women

She sits in cherry wood
iron back telling wide hipped stories
of constant longings
each desire guided by the tilt of her head
the specific degrees of her sadness
caught in red grains
hand smoothed by a masterful artist

and this one bare chested dreaming
of flights over the sun
art deco fantasy
she bronzely smiles
tasting freedoms outside the turn of the century
striding above the restrictions of a cast iron world, she
steps lightly into a starry night

and she
she heaves illusions into incredulous faces
cross armed
she is a dancer at rest
she is elegance
her tango not for sale
downstairs she frowns
glassed away from the moon

and what brilliance this Cuban moon
shining in colores caribeños
fighting cocks and guajira breasts
amidst festivals of the dead
she lays blue haired on the backs of crocodiles
horizontal goddess of the exiled
hands tracing lines in water
writing stories with azure endings

-Brandon Lacy Campos
-January 16, 2009
-Oakland, CA

Working At It: A New Poem

I try
to be the man you need me to be
to be the lover you need me to be
to be the partner you need me to be
to be the friend you need me to be
to be the me you see in me

I try
to fight back
to beat down
to drown out
to push through
to let go
to rise above

I try
to honor you
to cherish you
to support you
to believe in you
to comfort you
to value you
to respect you

I try
but sometimes I fail
sometimes the night is darker than I believed
sometimes my head and heart don't agree
sometimes trying to make us better I make things worse
sometimes I am at a loss for words
but I try.

I try.

Falling in Love Has Summoned Up a Whole Host of Demons

My new article is up at BlackPower.com. This is the second part of my article: Living with HIV, Buffy the Vampire Slayer Style.

Check it out, and if you like it, make a comment!

http://www.blackpower.com/lifestyle/falling-in-love-has-summoned-up-a-whole-new-host-of-demons/

People of Color Weather Forecast

This morning, my co-worker and I are up hella early at our retreat condos in Guernville, CA right on the Russian River. I got a Tweet this morning from my girl Amalia back home saying it is -20 degrees air temperature in Minnesota right now. Now, I don't think most folks that are not either from Antartica or Minnesota really understand what it means when the air is that cold. Add to that the windchill and the air temperature, currently, feels to be -33 degrees.

Carlo and I were talking about what a People of Color weather broadcast would sound like, here is the transcript...

"Listen here ya'll. It is -20 degrees outside today. If your ass is not pearly white. I mean nigh on albino. Keep your simple ass in the house. You ain't biologically designed for this shit. Go on outside if you have too, but know that the wind is waiting on your ass and is going to snatch off your skin down to the meaty bones. White folks, by all means, go outside and make you some snow angels, build you an ice fortress, cut a hole in the lake and go skinny dipping and shit. If you are Italian, Spanish, or Greek, please get you a piece of unlined printer paper...if you are darker than that, please refer to the instructions above. Thank you."

Mother Africa

I have been having an exchange on Facebook with a young queer man from Kenya. Today, I posted on my Facebook status that I know magic exists in the world. This young Kenyan wrote and said that he knows magic exists at least in Africa.

I responded that indeed it does and that when we, the lost children, were taken from our Mother's shore, when we were forced into terror and darkness, when we laid side by side in filth and fear, we carried her, our great Mother with us. When we walked again into the light, when that first nameless black person touched foot on this side of the Atlantic ocean, all of the power, the spirits, the magic, the Gods, and the ancestors of our African peoples emerged with us. Into this land, onto this land, with our blood and our labor and our great burden and tragedy we brought all of our powerful and magnificent history. We brought Songhai and the Lower Kingdom. We brought the great Arab empires of the North. We brought with us a legacy of science, math, philosophy, and literature. We brought with us a power and magic so powerful that Southern whites trembled at the thought of the Obeah woman. They sought out the cures of the Voodouin. They turned to us as healers, teachers, nurses. Even as they tried to beat the spirit out of us, strip our history from us, pull out our native tongues, and steal our drums they could not escape the power that is naturally and by birthright ours.

Our people have and continue to struggle. We are not perfect. There is no master race. But it is undeniable that this world, which once revered us, then reviled us, has been undeniable and markedly impacted by us in a way that no other people have ever done. OUr music, our language, our culture, our history, our ways of being and our ways of fighting can be found on every inhabited continent on this planet. From Asia to South America, liberation struggles base their fights on the fights fought by us. The modes of expression, particularly hip-hop, have taken this planet by storm...Aboriginal youth, Japanese teens, Dutch b-boys all draw on and embrace those things which we brought into this world.

African genocide is the ultimate Caine and Able sin. It is the original curse. It is kin slaying. We are one family. Our Mother is Africa. She watches her children no matter where the are in the world. A Mother never abandons her child.

The Nastiest Thing I Heard Today...

Makeeba, my crazy ass roommate, and I were watching Sex In the City. Steve lifts up his shirt revealing a rock hard abdomen marred only by an outie belly button. I expressed my discomfort with the outties. Makeeba says,

"I would suck on that little nob like an extra penis."

V-O-M-I-T-A-R.

One Liner of the Week Award

Oh my God. I just laughed so hard I farted. And the fart is as funky as this shit is funny. I was reading a comment on BlackPower.com where a woman named Bdsista says,

"Why doesn’t someone give Ann Coulter a beat down? I mean like invite her to a function and tear her ass up in the ladies room in the club?"

Thank you Bdsista. I don't advocate for violence against women, but if the womenfolk get together and take it to the ladies room...well...what happens in the ladies room ain't none of my bidness.

Once Upon A Time...

There was a little gay named Brandon. He fell in love. He realized that he was, in fact, loved in return. He accepted life on life's terms. And he lived happily ever after.

"What A Fucking Day"

The title of today's blog is a direct quote from my partner David. Thank you David.

The last couple of days have been interesting. I transitioned back into life in Oakland. It was great seeing my roommates again. I really do have an awesome house filled with fierce radical women of color. Not to mention that my physical house is ridiculously beautiful. Last night we had an impromptu potluck. I made homemade chicken soup. Makeeba made baked stuffed eggplant, and Lubia conjured up a fantastic shrimp and rice dish with sweet bell peppers.

Today we had a staff meeting, and basically, by the end, I wanted to log onto Idealist and start looking for a new job. David and I had to deal with some Ex-Factors last night which was, you know, fun. Basically, by the time I got home tonight, I put on my leftover soup, cracked a bottle of Two Buck Chuck, and started writing this blog. Hey Glory.

The universe and life is meant to be easy. That does not mean that there will not be bumps, bruises, and mishaps along the way, but in general, if you are in the place you are supposed to be and doing the things you are supposed to be doing then life tends to work out the way it is supposed to work out. Right now, my life feels very schizophrenic. The good times generally happen when I am far far from home. Which means, perhaps, that home is someplace else. On an upbeat note, I finally mailed my pre-manuscript to my editor in Florida at Summerfolk Press. It took almost a year, but it is in the mail.

Did I mention we had an earthquake yesterday too?

Life will go on. I will go on. And most likely, before not too long, I will move on to the life that I am understanding now that I am supposed to be living.

No More David in the City...

Leaving David is about as pleasurable as having my nuts stepped on by the Wicked Witch in steel toed stiletto heels. I was crying before I left the door, and then, like an idiot buzzed the buzzer and ran up the stairs---pretending to need to pee—so I could see him again for a moment. Of course, by ringing the buzzer at 4am, I sent Tildon (my step-dog) into a tizzy, and forced David to open his eyes for the first time since we were forced from the bed this morning by Super Shuttle—which required a 3:45am pick up time for my 7am flight. Ain’t that a bitch.

Poor David. This morning he was attempting to give me some wise 44 year old inspirational talk about being good to myself mentally and physically, loving myself, etc. etc. blah blah blah. Everything he had to say was lovely. Except, at that particular moment, I wanted to punch him in the teeth just a little bit. At that moment, I just wanted to hear that he was going to be possibly a fraction as miserable as I am projecting to be the first month of the first quarter until I see him again. I am no GoldmanSachs analyst, but the emotional forecast for the next few days, due to a temporary separation of assets, is looking poor. The long-term dividends will pay off warmly, but the short-term losses are tough to bear. And Mr. Berube’s public statement that I should find a hot fuck buddy and get some good boom boom almost caused a hostile take over this morning. I mean. Of course I will find a hot fuck buddy should I desire it. But, my true love needs to work on his timing. No stand up comedian is he.

Now, I am in the Super Shuttle. Some stupid Asian couple behind me apparently doesn’t understand that at 4:26am no one wants to hear them chatter with one another. As a matter of fact, they both may earn a punch to the teeth before we get to La Guardia. I have already radioed ahead to Makeeba, one of my darling roommates, to have the $2 buck chuck ready. After only three hours of sleep, my eyes are on fire. And the Asians just keep flipping their lips. They are about to get a free round trip ticket on Foot-In-The-Ass Airlines.

I love you David. But you know that. I will be fine and dandy tomorrow. But today, I get to be a little bit on the miserable side having to leave my partner 3000 miles behind. You’re teeth are safe for now ;-). See you in Denver. I love you more than egg noodles and roasted duck from Mee Noodle Shop. You are my home.

Friday, Saturday, Cryday

So, I have been doing my damndest to not thing about Sunday morning. RIght now I am feeling a little bit overwhelmed trying to articulate how I feel when I am physically with David. David is a constant presence in my life whether or not we are manifestly with one another. But, when we are together something begins sounding inside me. Have you ever had the joy of being in a small town, early in the morning, when an old church bell rings. The sound is so beautiful. You know it is metal being hammered, but it sounds like a crystal humming. something pure, clean, and joyous. David and I have our problems. We fight now and again as do any couple....many of our interactions are multiplied and intensified because we don't live in close proximity so we end up processing at a hyper speed when we are. But the essentialness of our relationship remains undiminished and, indeed, strengthens and reinforces the basic goodness in each of us, so that, when we are not together, I do not feel less or incomplete but I feel a reduced potential. Together, our potential to be better, live better, love better, move through the world better is exponentially increased. When David is nearby, I am fearless about things that have long scared the hell out of me.

I have made a commitment to being as present in the moment as possible. Sunday is not right now. Sunday may never actually come. I was reading something on Science.com that said if a Planet-ending meteor were to hit the earth we wouldn't know about its presence, unless we were very lucky, until moments before it hit and ended life on Earth. My luck would be that the meteor would hit while I was 30,000 feet above the Earth. While everyone else would die without pain instantly, my ass would have the torture of flying too and fro until the plane ran out of gas and then we would crash and die cussing out God. I digress. I still have roughly 48 hours with David. I am going to see tons of great friends tonight. I am going to get to see David in his extra cute short shorts that he wears to the gym. I will most likely have some great sex between now and Sunday (maybe even with David...I joke...I joke...teeeheee), but the fact remains that leaving him is becoming something akin to proving the existence of God. I believe it can be done, but one day, I will acknowledge, that it can't...and on that day...my home will be wherever life carries both of us.

Thank You!

Thank you to the almost 3,000 people that visited my blog from March 2008-December 2008. Keep reading and Happy New Year to you!