As an ally to women, but, more specifically, as prioritizing women of color, I absolutely agree with this critique and support the women making it.
AF3IRM Responds to SlutWalk: The Women’s Movement Is Not Monochromatic.
AF3IRM Responds to SlutWalk:
The Women’s Movement Is Not Monochromatic.
From the moment the first call for a SlutWalk in the US went out, the AF3IRM membership – transnational women who are im/migrants or whose families are im/migrants from Latin America, Asia, and Africa – has been analyzing and discussing this burgeoning movement to address the issue of sexual violence and continuing victimization of rape victims by police, the justice system and other agents of authority.
It is a testament to the compelling nature of SlutWalk’s call against women’s victimization that we hung fire for months, hammering out our position and analyzing why, while we applaud the effort of those who organize SlutWalk, we remain uneasy about responding to such a call.
We realize that we are the ones who compose the majority of sex trafficking victims in this country, who comprise the majority of those sold in the mail-order-bride system, who are the commodities offered in brothel houses ringing US military bases in and out of this country, who are the goods offered for sexual violation in prostitution. We who are and historically have been the “sluts” from whom traffickers, pimps, and other “authorities” of the global corporate sex trade realize $20 billion in earnings annually cannot, with a clear conscience, accept the term in reference to ourselves and our struggle against sexual violence and for women’s liberation.
We therefore feel it is our responsibility to address the organizers and participants of SlutWalk and remind them that Women’s Struggle Cannot and Should not Be Monochromatic.
Our Concerns
We call upon the SlutWalk steering committee to reassess language use and re-examine how it is, in a sense, offensive to our history, how it is neglectful of historical and cultural sensitivity and competency. Indolent ideology only further pushes transnational women, women of color, away from the current mainstream feminist narrative. It prevents us from establishing a broad front that can create a powerfully dynamic and long-lasting women’s movement. The ebb-and-surge of the women’s movement in the US is clear enough an indictment of such neglect of the historic particularities of the condition of transnational women and women of color.
Our collective transnational histories are comprised of 500 years of colonization. As women and descendants of women from Latin America, Asia, and Africa, we cannot truly “reclaim” the word “Slut”. It was never ours to begin with. This label is one forced upon us by colonizers, who transformed our women into commodities and for the entertainment of US soldiers occupying our countries for corporate America. There are many variations of the label “slut”: in Central America it was “little brown fucking machines (LBFMs)", in places in Asia like the Philippines, it was “little brown fucking machines powered by rice (LBFMPBRs)". These events continue to this day, and it would be a grievous dishonor to our cousins who continue to struggle against imperialism, globalization and occupation in our families’ countries of origin to accept a label coming from a white police officer in the city of Toronto, Canada.
There are two pervasive pejorative words used for women globally, and “slut,” puta (in Spanish, Tagalog), sharmoota (Arabic), Jendeh (Farsi), Ahbeh (Lebanese) - is one. This label has become integrated in our languages and cultures, and has followed us across oceans into our own communities here in the United States. It has followed the poisonous spread of feudalism and capitalism into the economies and ultimately cultures of the global South, building its own systems of power and exploitation of women’s bodies. It has followed us into migration and still plagues us in our communities here in the United States. Women are treated and dismissed as “sluts”, “putas”, etc., as a product of both the structurally racist and sexist US society, as well as transplanted cultures from our families’ countries of origin.
We invite you, organizers of SlutWalk, to study how many times im/migrant women of color have been coerced into sex by immigration personnel, by border patrols, by jailors. Surely that will suffice to underscore why even the idea of joining a SlutWalk is like a massive boulder on our chests, squeezing out our breath, killing us, in effect.
We invite you, SlutWalk organizers, to peruse the catalog of women offered to men by mail-order bride agencies. Surely that would suffice to underscore why joining a SlutWalk would be equal to accepting an identity conferred on our being by this sexist, exploitative society of violence.
We invite you, SlutWalk organizers, to walk the brothel houses and see how our women are treated truly as “sluts” – i.e., mindless flesh with orifices from which profit can be made. Surely that would suffice to underscore why every fiber in our mind and being scream in protest at the word.
AF3IRM rejects this label; AFIIRM refuses this identity; AF3IRM views it as an abomination. It has been used to exacerbate class-exploitation, race and gender discrimination. AF3IRM prefers to work to eradicate it from the common vocabulary, along with other five-letter, four-letter, words derogatory of the humanity of womankind. More, AF3IRM works to eradicate the material social conditions which have made these words possible and acceptable.
We are not sluts. We are women, whose struggles are very much layered, trying to end the pervasive view of women as objects and commodities for profit and entertainment.
AF3IRM hopes this will serve as a basis for a dialogue with the Slut Walk organizers, because to achieve the egalitarian society we all aspire for, we need, will need, and have always needed a movement of women of all colors.
Thank you and we await your response.
In order to reach AF3IRM, please feel free to contact its officers from various regions.
National – Jollene Levid, AF3IRM National Chairperson, chair@af3irm.org
New York/New Jersey – Leilani Montes, Coordinator, nynj@af3irm.org
Boston – Emelyn De La Pena, Coordinator, boston@af3irm.org
San Francisco/Bay Area– Katrina Socco, Lauren Funiestas, Co-Coordinators sfbayarea@af3irm.org
Los Angeles – Angela Bartolome, Coordinator, losangeles@af3irm.org
Irvine – Mona Lisa Navarro, Coordinator, Irvine@af3irm.org
Riverside – Gayle Palma, Coordinator, riverside@af3irm.org
San Diego – Olive Panes, Coordinator, sandiego@af3irm.org
Monday, September 26, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Really Gay Racism: Aunt Jamima and Mr. Wong's Dong Emporium (SAY WHAT BITCH?)
In the last month, there have been two events to which I have been invited via Facebook that have made my blood pressure go from normal to cardiac arrest in less than a nanosecond.
One event was called "Aunt Jemima Brunch," which was to be held at the Yotel. The second was "Mr. Wong's Dong Emporium," which was to be held at Vlada.
Please note that I am using past tense, and while I was not responsible for bringing down either of these events, I am extremely proud that I played a key part in raising such a motherfucking ruckus that both events posted apologies, said some noncommittal white people shit about not meaning to offend people, and changed the names of their events.
Let me give you some background before I really let ya'll have it about privilege white gay men in New York and their benign yet blatant racism.
(Cue flashback sequence here)
The first event came to my attention when I was perusing my invitations to various events. When I saw the invitation at first, with a photo of Aunt Jemima from the 50s (black woman in a head wrap)...I seriously didn't know what to think. I was at work, and I called a colleague over and asked if this was being ironic or should I be angry. I sincerely had a series of confused feelings. Then I proceeded to read the various wall posts related to the event. With each reading my temperature rose until I got to the bottom of the page where one of the four white gay male planners had posted a Youtube video clip of the ITALIAN-AMERICAN WOMAN IN BLACK FACE that originated the role of Aunt Jemima in Hollywood. There was no analysis. There was no irony. This was straight up racism, and the worst thing about it is that the hosts thought the shit was funny and were relating Aunt Jemima to childhood memories of pancakes and home cooking. Nevermind that by the time any of the hosts had ever tasted a drop of that nasty ass syrup the Negress in the Do-Rag had been exchanged for a vaguely British white woman walking and talking syrup bottle....the planners insisted that their naming of the event for Aunt Jemima was just a walk down memory lane.
If any of them had been in arms reach, I would be typing this from jail with a new boyfriend named Big Larry.
And the best part of the engagement with the organizers of the Aunt Jemima event was when one of the organizers posted a note saying that, and I quote, "I am from Canada and we don't have racism there." I almost shat daggers and threw one directly at his throat.
But, after I posted a respectful note on the wall of the brunch invite and also posted a note on my Facebook page, about 200 of my closest, bestest friends went ape shit on the page and within hours it was down.
And then, in a stroke of universal justice, Hurricane Irene hit and shut the whole damn thing down anyway. #BOOM
Now...my naive self thought that perhaps the Aunt Jemima Brunch was just one of those momentary blips of white gay male racism that bubble up from time to time. Generally, I feel, that there is usuall some good time/space in between when the stupidiy settles upon the brow of another benignly racist white gay man/men....but...in contradiction to that old bromide that lightening doesnt strike the same place twice....within a couple of weeks a bright WHITE bolt of stupid lightening struck again...and in the same neighborhood.
Not two or three nights past, a couple of friends of mine sounded the alarm and sent me messages about another party happening in my neighborhood. This time it was "Mr. Wong's Dong Emporium featuring Sum Hung Dancers and the Happy Endings Massage Parlor."
I can honestly say that I have never experienced so much racism in one invitation ever. EVER.
Now...I can honestly say that with the Aunt Jemima party, I was civil and never lost my temper. With the Mr. Wong's party I went King-Kong-Climb-A-Building-Ape-Shit. Yes I did. I called upon all the powers at my command...largely because I actually am acquainted with one of the promoters, and he lives in my neighborhood, and I happen to know that while he is not brown he is a member of another oppressed group...so my rage was amplified expontentially. And it was met, matched, and exceeded by the awesome powers of GAPIMNY (Gay Asian Pacific Island Men of New York). And, after flip tripping on the two benign white racists that were hosting the party, the name was changed post haste.
Ta da.
Now, let me say, I don't think and I do not attribute any overt malintent to any of the clueless human creatures that promoted these parties. I DO, however, attribute to them that they, at the very least, knew that these themes would be risque and raise some behind the hand giggles, like when all the white boys are together and someone makes an "off-color" nigger joke. But whatever the intent the impact on brown queer folks remains the same: it reconstructs, reconstitutes, and reifies the same systems of oppression in the straight world in our own white washed rainbow world.
And, lord have mercy, if I ever ever ever ever ever hear another white faggatron again say that they can't be racist because they are gay, I am going to stick my size 10 1/2 directly down their throat and then twist at the ankle. I. Am. Just. Saying.
Thank the Lord above that there are organizations such as the Audre Lorde Project that are out there reminding folks that brown queers exist and we aren't to be fucked with and Queers for Economic Justice that organizes broke, brown, and angry queer and trans folks. In fact, QEJ is going to throw a party to show these white gay benign racist how to party without the racism. Stay tuned in for QEJam: The Party without Oppression at Bartini coming to you soon in the next month or so.
Word to your anti-racist Mama.
One event was called "Aunt Jemima Brunch," which was to be held at the Yotel. The second was "Mr. Wong's Dong Emporium," which was to be held at Vlada.
Please note that I am using past tense, and while I was not responsible for bringing down either of these events, I am extremely proud that I played a key part in raising such a motherfucking ruckus that both events posted apologies, said some noncommittal white people shit about not meaning to offend people, and changed the names of their events.
Let me give you some background before I really let ya'll have it about privilege white gay men in New York and their benign yet blatant racism.
(Cue flashback sequence here)
The first event came to my attention when I was perusing my invitations to various events. When I saw the invitation at first, with a photo of Aunt Jemima from the 50s (black woman in a head wrap)...I seriously didn't know what to think. I was at work, and I called a colleague over and asked if this was being ironic or should I be angry. I sincerely had a series of confused feelings. Then I proceeded to read the various wall posts related to the event. With each reading my temperature rose until I got to the bottom of the page where one of the four white gay male planners had posted a Youtube video clip of the ITALIAN-AMERICAN WOMAN IN BLACK FACE that originated the role of Aunt Jemima in Hollywood. There was no analysis. There was no irony. This was straight up racism, and the worst thing about it is that the hosts thought the shit was funny and were relating Aunt Jemima to childhood memories of pancakes and home cooking. Nevermind that by the time any of the hosts had ever tasted a drop of that nasty ass syrup the Negress in the Do-Rag had been exchanged for a vaguely British white woman walking and talking syrup bottle....the planners insisted that their naming of the event for Aunt Jemima was just a walk down memory lane.
If any of them had been in arms reach, I would be typing this from jail with a new boyfriend named Big Larry.
And the best part of the engagement with the organizers of the Aunt Jemima event was when one of the organizers posted a note saying that, and I quote, "I am from Canada and we don't have racism there." I almost shat daggers and threw one directly at his throat.
But, after I posted a respectful note on the wall of the brunch invite and also posted a note on my Facebook page, about 200 of my closest, bestest friends went ape shit on the page and within hours it was down.
And then, in a stroke of universal justice, Hurricane Irene hit and shut the whole damn thing down anyway. #BOOM
Now...my naive self thought that perhaps the Aunt Jemima Brunch was just one of those momentary blips of white gay male racism that bubble up from time to time. Generally, I feel, that there is usuall some good time/space in between when the stupidiy settles upon the brow of another benignly racist white gay man/men....but...in contradiction to that old bromide that lightening doesnt strike the same place twice....within a couple of weeks a bright WHITE bolt of stupid lightening struck again...and in the same neighborhood.
Not two or three nights past, a couple of friends of mine sounded the alarm and sent me messages about another party happening in my neighborhood. This time it was "Mr. Wong's Dong Emporium featuring Sum Hung Dancers and the Happy Endings Massage Parlor."
I can honestly say that I have never experienced so much racism in one invitation ever. EVER.
Now...I can honestly say that with the Aunt Jemima party, I was civil and never lost my temper. With the Mr. Wong's party I went King-Kong-Climb-A-Building-Ape-Shit. Yes I did. I called upon all the powers at my command...largely because I actually am acquainted with one of the promoters, and he lives in my neighborhood, and I happen to know that while he is not brown he is a member of another oppressed group...so my rage was amplified expontentially. And it was met, matched, and exceeded by the awesome powers of GAPIMNY (Gay Asian Pacific Island Men of New York). And, after flip tripping on the two benign white racists that were hosting the party, the name was changed post haste.
Ta da.
Now, let me say, I don't think and I do not attribute any overt malintent to any of the clueless human creatures that promoted these parties. I DO, however, attribute to them that they, at the very least, knew that these themes would be risque and raise some behind the hand giggles, like when all the white boys are together and someone makes an "off-color" nigger joke. But whatever the intent the impact on brown queer folks remains the same: it reconstructs, reconstitutes, and reifies the same systems of oppression in the straight world in our own white washed rainbow world.
And, lord have mercy, if I ever ever ever ever ever hear another white faggatron again say that they can't be racist because they are gay, I am going to stick my size 10 1/2 directly down their throat and then twist at the ankle. I. Am. Just. Saying.
Thank the Lord above that there are organizations such as the Audre Lorde Project that are out there reminding folks that brown queers exist and we aren't to be fucked with and Queers for Economic Justice that organizes broke, brown, and angry queer and trans folks. In fact, QEJ is going to throw a party to show these white gay benign racist how to party without the racism. Stay tuned in for QEJam: The Party without Oppression at Bartini coming to you soon in the next month or so.
Word to your anti-racist Mama.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
"Does this look like AIDS?"
There are those moments in life when an individual opens up his mouth and something so far beyond ridiculous and inappropriate comes out that your first and immediate reaction is to start looking for hidden cameras. As the crazy continues you may even begin to wonder about your own insanity or eyeball your cocktail in an effort to figure out if perhaps you've been roofied and are about to pass out and wake up in a trailer park on the outskirts of Weehawken.
And sometimes when you have those moments you are given a harsh reality check of just how much work there is left to do in this world.
Last night, while at dinner with Keith and the fabulous Chad Pace aka Divine Grace, after a very short foray into Fashion Night Out 2011, we were enjoying delicious margaritas and burritos at Lime Jungle with their signature homemade salsas (try the mango habanero...it was out of this world), when a gay from New Jersey approached our table.
How did we know he was from Jersey, you might ask yourself, and the answer is that Jersey Gays give off a particular aura that is a combination of old PBR, corn chips, and cheap lube. Oh yeah, and we asked him.
The kid walks up to our table, startling us by his abrupt manifestation, and asks us politely if he might ask us a question. We say yes and the conversation followed:
New Jersey Gay: "Do you think this neighborhood has a higher rate of HIV infection than normal?"
Us: *blink* *blink* *blink* (in unison)
Me: "Well, ummm, I wouldn't know the answer to that question, but I am sure there are resources onine that map out HIV infection rates in a city area, why do you ask?"
New Jersey Gay: "Well let me ask you this...can you get HIV from you know getting a blow job."
Keith: *eyes widen*
Chad: *eyes narrowing*
Me: "Well, you can but the risk of infection is relatively low..."
New Jersey Gay cuts me off and asks, "But what about you know, giving one," and he then mimes giving a blow job."
Me: "Well, as I said the risk is low..."
New Jersey Gay interrupts again,"I have a picture of me with Brittney Spears....not sure if you guys would even care but a guy like me with a picture with someone like her...well...you know..."
At this point my This-Poor-Gay-Is-Higher-Than-A-Kite-Dar goes off. Chad and Keith start to talk at once.
Chad: "Have you ever heard of the Internet..."
New Jersey Gay (missing the sarcasm): "Yes..."
Chad: "You can get this information from the Internet...you might want to try it."
Keith: "What was your original question?"
New Jersey Gay: "Can you get HIV from a blow job?"
Me: "No, actually, you asked about HIV infection rates in this neighborhood."
Keith: "Why would you ask that? And why would you come up to us and ask that question?"
New Jersey Gay: "If I got AIDS, I would kill myself. I don't want to get tested."
At this point, I am trying to figure out how to best intervene in the conversation and figure out what this guy really needs in terms of immediate information. So I say: "I am HIV positive, and I live a really amazing life."
This statement seems to break through the young, confused, and tweaked man's head for a moment.
New Jersey Gay: "That's really brave of you to say that." Pity was oozing out of his face.
Me, slightly annoyed, "And it's really dumb to not get tested. You should call GMHC and get tested."
New Jersey Gay: "But I heard that if you are circumcized you can't get it. I'm cut. Are you cut?"
I was so shocked that I actually answered automatically, "Yes."
New Jersey Gay: "And you still got It?"
Then the drugs the guy was on must have kicked in good enough to truly short circuit any ability to think rationally, as he slaps his and on the table, shows us a finger nail with a white half moon on the nail and says:
"DOES THIS LOOK LIKE AIDS?"
Right then, Brandon the educator left the building, and Brandon the about to kick-his-ass took over. I said politely, but firmly, "You need to walk away now and go back to your table."
Keith was much less polite and much more forceful. I watched his body contract and compact. I call him the Puma as a term of endearment, but in that moment he seriously looked like he was going to go jungle cat and leap over the table and shred this kid. Keith told the kid to walk away, and though the kid mumbled something about not liking being told what to do. He said so while walking quickly back to his table. A moment later he goes to the bathroom and he returns shortly thereafter with his eyelids fluttering in a manner that says clearly that he is under the influence of some sort of narcotic.
When the conversation started, I really felt that it was a moment for education. The guys questions, though massively ill informed were legitimate. It was obvious that despite the tremendous amount of public education that has happened around HIV/AIDS prevention/transmission that somewhere somehow the public education campaign had failed this kid. From what we could tell from the outside, the kid (aka somewhere in his mid-20s early 30s) was white, probably middle to upper middle class and spoke as if he had received formal education. How he had such little knowledge about HIV transmission or could imagine that AIDS was something that you could identify vis a vis a fingernail abnormality was probably a combination of lack of education and the seemingly very efficacious illegal substances he was on, but the overall situation was so surreal that all three of us, afterwards, would have sworn it was a group hallucination if the kid hadn't still been visible to us less than 10 feet away.
In the end, despite the overall screwed up nature of the situation and the immediate internal emotional drama it stirred up for me as a person living with HIV, the real lesson was that HIV/AIDS prevention education has not reached as broadly or deeply as it should after 30 years of the pandemic. Abstinence only laws and Right wing religious education that short circuits real life saving education has an impact in places that are unexpected (aka not only the Deep South but just across the river in Jersey or in the rural Midwest and Southwest). And, there is a lot of work to do to stop the ignorance that lack of education around HIV and STIs breeds.
And if I ever see the New Jersey Gay on the street...he may get a free baptism in the Hudson.
And sometimes when you have those moments you are given a harsh reality check of just how much work there is left to do in this world.
Last night, while at dinner with Keith and the fabulous Chad Pace aka Divine Grace, after a very short foray into Fashion Night Out 2011, we were enjoying delicious margaritas and burritos at Lime Jungle with their signature homemade salsas (try the mango habanero...it was out of this world), when a gay from New Jersey approached our table.
How did we know he was from Jersey, you might ask yourself, and the answer is that Jersey Gays give off a particular aura that is a combination of old PBR, corn chips, and cheap lube. Oh yeah, and we asked him.
The kid walks up to our table, startling us by his abrupt manifestation, and asks us politely if he might ask us a question. We say yes and the conversation followed:
New Jersey Gay: "Do you think this neighborhood has a higher rate of HIV infection than normal?"
Us: *blink* *blink* *blink* (in unison)
Me: "Well, ummm, I wouldn't know the answer to that question, but I am sure there are resources onine that map out HIV infection rates in a city area, why do you ask?"
New Jersey Gay: "Well let me ask you this...can you get HIV from you know getting a blow job."
Keith: *eyes widen*
Chad: *eyes narrowing*
Me: "Well, you can but the risk of infection is relatively low..."
New Jersey Gay cuts me off and asks, "But what about you know, giving one," and he then mimes giving a blow job."
Me: "Well, as I said the risk is low..."
New Jersey Gay interrupts again,"I have a picture of me with Brittney Spears....not sure if you guys would even care but a guy like me with a picture with someone like her...well...you know..."
At this point my This-Poor-Gay-Is-Higher-Than-A-Kite-Dar goes off. Chad and Keith start to talk at once.
Chad: "Have you ever heard of the Internet..."
New Jersey Gay (missing the sarcasm): "Yes..."
Chad: "You can get this information from the Internet...you might want to try it."
Keith: "What was your original question?"
New Jersey Gay: "Can you get HIV from a blow job?"
Me: "No, actually, you asked about HIV infection rates in this neighborhood."
Keith: "Why would you ask that? And why would you come up to us and ask that question?"
New Jersey Gay: "If I got AIDS, I would kill myself. I don't want to get tested."
At this point, I am trying to figure out how to best intervene in the conversation and figure out what this guy really needs in terms of immediate information. So I say: "I am HIV positive, and I live a really amazing life."
This statement seems to break through the young, confused, and tweaked man's head for a moment.
New Jersey Gay: "That's really brave of you to say that." Pity was oozing out of his face.
Me, slightly annoyed, "And it's really dumb to not get tested. You should call GMHC and get tested."
New Jersey Gay: "But I heard that if you are circumcized you can't get it. I'm cut. Are you cut?"
I was so shocked that I actually answered automatically, "Yes."
New Jersey Gay: "And you still got It?"
Then the drugs the guy was on must have kicked in good enough to truly short circuit any ability to think rationally, as he slaps his and on the table, shows us a finger nail with a white half moon on the nail and says:
"DOES THIS LOOK LIKE AIDS?"
Right then, Brandon the educator left the building, and Brandon the about to kick-his-ass took over. I said politely, but firmly, "You need to walk away now and go back to your table."
Keith was much less polite and much more forceful. I watched his body contract and compact. I call him the Puma as a term of endearment, but in that moment he seriously looked like he was going to go jungle cat and leap over the table and shred this kid. Keith told the kid to walk away, and though the kid mumbled something about not liking being told what to do. He said so while walking quickly back to his table. A moment later he goes to the bathroom and he returns shortly thereafter with his eyelids fluttering in a manner that says clearly that he is under the influence of some sort of narcotic.
When the conversation started, I really felt that it was a moment for education. The guys questions, though massively ill informed were legitimate. It was obvious that despite the tremendous amount of public education that has happened around HIV/AIDS prevention/transmission that somewhere somehow the public education campaign had failed this kid. From what we could tell from the outside, the kid (aka somewhere in his mid-20s early 30s) was white, probably middle to upper middle class and spoke as if he had received formal education. How he had such little knowledge about HIV transmission or could imagine that AIDS was something that you could identify vis a vis a fingernail abnormality was probably a combination of lack of education and the seemingly very efficacious illegal substances he was on, but the overall situation was so surreal that all three of us, afterwards, would have sworn it was a group hallucination if the kid hadn't still been visible to us less than 10 feet away.
In the end, despite the overall screwed up nature of the situation and the immediate internal emotional drama it stirred up for me as a person living with HIV, the real lesson was that HIV/AIDS prevention education has not reached as broadly or deeply as it should after 30 years of the pandemic. Abstinence only laws and Right wing religious education that short circuits real life saving education has an impact in places that are unexpected (aka not only the Deep South but just across the river in Jersey or in the rural Midwest and Southwest). And, there is a lot of work to do to stop the ignorance that lack of education around HIV and STIs breeds.
And if I ever see the New Jersey Gay on the street...he may get a free baptism in the Hudson.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt: A Great Big Thank You!
Sometimes miracles do happen. I haven't learned how to walk on water yet, but I'll be damned if I didn't finally have a book release party for my long awaited poetry collection: It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt. The collaboration with artist David Berube is stunning. The reviews so far have been amazing. It's my publisher's number one best selling volume right now. It has been selling out on Amazon.com. It's available online and in stores at Barnes and Noble. Ladies and gentleman...it's official...I am an author.
And I have all ya'll to thank for it.
From those of you that have put me on stages, encouraged me to write, sat through performances, workshopped my writing, loved me through my shit, brought me to your campuses, put me on your panels, invited me to speak at your conferences, fed me, fucked me, loved me, held me, hated me, walked away from me, walked towards me, published me, rejected me, infected me, gave birth to me, raised me, abused me, healed me, taught me, and brought me to this exact point in my life...this book was given to the world.
Thank you.
This last Wednesday, by the grace of God, I turned 34 years old. That same day, I had my book release party at Bartini Ultra-Lounge in Hell's Kitchen. Thank you to the owners Joe Puc and Ted Arenas for donating the space for the party. I hope the 60 odd folks I brought in during happy hour drank enough to make it worth while! I was surprised at my book party by the most effing amazing cake that I have ever seen or eaten. Master cake baker Huascar Aquino of H Cakes in New York made an exact replica of my book, completely edible, that was so real that no less than THREE people tried to open the damn thing before I could shout them down (Brandon Dean I am talking to you!).
Mr. Andrew Werner of Andrew Werner Photography was on hand to photo document the event and put his magic eye on things, and I am deeply appreciative of his support as well.
Old friends and very new friends showed up to cheer me on and buy copies of the book! The party was a fantastic success, and I left the party feel loved, supported, and mostly content to be at the place I am at in my life. It ain't perfect, but it is my truth, and it is a glorious truth even if sometimes it really does hurt.
Thank you again to my publisher Sven Davisson of Rebel Satori Press, Bathabile Mthombeni and riKu Matsuda for putting me on their radio shows to promote the book, and Ebony "Miss Celie" Adams for hosting my first book party in Los Angeles. Your book and your ducats gonna be to you soon gal.
And thank you all ya'll that continue to show me love and to support my work. I love you all.
(PS for regular updates on the book, performances and signings related to the book, and occassional bloggings about it....please check out www.itainttruthifitdoesnthurt.blogspot.com--it's barebones right now, but I am working on it).
Friday, September 2, 2011
TransMisogyny Isn't Cute: Rivers of Honey Community Responds
A little over a week ago, I received a phone call from a dear friend that also happens to be a tremendous performer, artist, and organizer. They'd asked to talk to me about a recent saddening change that had taken place with Rivers of Honey (ROH). ROH, which for eight of its 13 years of existence has explicitly been a performance venue for womyn of color and trans folks of color was now redefining itself to EXLUCDE trans women while still including trans men. In fact, the new mission of ROH described itself as a female bodied space for folks that were raised as girls. The active exclusion of transwomen from a women's space is nothing short of trans-misogyny, the oppressive policing of women's bodies and vagina-checking at its worst. It equates womanhood with genitalia and in expressly including transmen in the mission as welcome in women's space it ignores the sovereignity of transmen and boldly states that having a vulva, despite your choice of gender expression, is all that is necessary to make (or keep you from being) a woman.
As an ally to trans and gender non conforming folks of whatever ilk (and as someone that identiies as genderqueer), I will not tolerate transphobia, transmisogyny, gender policing, or genitalia checking. I support self-organized spaces but I do not accept active oppression in creating those spaces.
I have read the historical documents from Rivers of Honey. I have seen past posters and flyers that are explicitly trans inclusive, and I have read the responses from the current producers of Rivers of Honey, and I find their response to be lacking, surface, and smoke and mirrors to try and cover up their transmisogyny. I stand with and am a part of the Rivers of Honey Community, and I am happy to share with you the response of the Rivers of Honey Community to the mission change of Rivers of Honey.
COMMUNITY RESPONSE TO RIVERS OF HONEY
Rivers of Honey is a women-centered monthly cabaret at WOW Café Theatre in NYC. Since it began in 1998 Rivers has served as a major cultural institution, a launch pad for artists and producers whose work might never have been seen and celebrated in mainstream venues, and a vital, queer-centric POC community space.
In August 2011, a small and closed Rivers of Honey team stated the cabaret is now a "platform for womyn of color, defined as female-bodied individuals." Under this new policy trans women are no longer welcome to produce or perform. Trans men and other female-assigned gender non-conforming people are still welcome provided they identify with the "female-bodied" women's only space.
For the past 8 years of Rivers’ 13 year existence, trans women, trans men and gender non-conforming people have all been welcomed be a part Rivers of Honey. Until recently, language inclusive of all women and trans folks has appeared on Rivers of Honey fliers, the WOW website, and Facebook and MySpace pages. A Rivers of Honey mission statement that was collectively written and agreed upon in August 2009 states that: "Rivers of Honey is a monthly women's cabaret featuring queer and trans artists of color."
Questions about how these decisions were made, requests for clarification, and objections to the policy have been met with silencing, dismissal, and the refusal of further discussion.
Rivers of Honey is an important institution for our community. We love and value it deeply and therefore do not wish to see it replicate the trans misogyny and transphobia we struggle so fiercely against in our larger society.
WHY SHOULD I CARE?
1. The exclusion of trans women of color from the women's space of Rivers of Honey is an act of trans misogyny – a form of transphobia directed specifically against trans women. Such exclusion is part of a damaging pattern of discrimination that contributes to the already tremendous degrees of bigotry, harassment and violence that trans women of color face.
2. The current language is not truly inclusive of trans men and gender non-conforming people of color. Just as the current language implies that trans women are not truly women, it also implies that trans men and gender non-conforming people are, in the end, actually women despite their own self-identification. In both cases, people are being robbed of their agency to define their own identities.
WHAT WE WANT
We, queer and trans people of color, community members, past performers, producers and audience members want to see:
Rivers of Honey reject trans misogyny and include all women of color equally, whether they are cisgender women or trans women;
If trans men and gender non-conforming people of color continue to be welcomed as performers at Rivers of Honey, the language of Rivers of Honey should be changed to "a space for all women, trans men and gender non-conforming people of color";
Rivers of Honey return to its longstanding tradition of being an open, accountable, and collectively-run space where dialogue is encouraged, disagreement is allowed, and decisions are made in an open, transparent, and community-inclusive manner.
HOW TO GET INVOLVED
We ask our community members and allies to join us in voicing your opinions and concerns. We offer these ideas for participation:
DISTRIBUTE WIDELY .
Share this note with your communities, families, colleagues, and friends via email, Facebook, Twitter, personal blog, etc.
SIGN THIS LETTER .
Click here to be added to the list of signatories for this letter. Please include your name and organization as you would like it to be listed.
LET CURRENT PRODUCERS KNOW YOUR OPINION.
If you choose not to attend or perform at Rivers of Honey because of these changes, or if you attend or perform but disagree with or have questions about these changes, please voice your questions/concerns to the current producers at riversofhoney@gmail.com.
JOIN US ON FACEBOOK .
RSVP to this event https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=154348077984682. It will be updated to take place at the same time as each monthly Rivers of Honey until the policy of trans inclusion is reinstated. Updates about actions related to trans inclusion at Rivers will also be sent to folks who RSVP to the event.
In solidarity,
Rivers of Honey Community
As an ally to trans and gender non conforming folks of whatever ilk (and as someone that identiies as genderqueer), I will not tolerate transphobia, transmisogyny, gender policing, or genitalia checking. I support self-organized spaces but I do not accept active oppression in creating those spaces.
I have read the historical documents from Rivers of Honey. I have seen past posters and flyers that are explicitly trans inclusive, and I have read the responses from the current producers of Rivers of Honey, and I find their response to be lacking, surface, and smoke and mirrors to try and cover up their transmisogyny. I stand with and am a part of the Rivers of Honey Community, and I am happy to share with you the response of the Rivers of Honey Community to the mission change of Rivers of Honey.
COMMUNITY RESPONSE TO RIVERS OF HONEY
Rivers of Honey is a women-centered monthly cabaret at WOW Café Theatre in NYC. Since it began in 1998 Rivers has served as a major cultural institution, a launch pad for artists and producers whose work might never have been seen and celebrated in mainstream venues, and a vital, queer-centric POC community space.
In August 2011, a small and closed Rivers of Honey team stated the cabaret is now a "platform for womyn of color, defined as female-bodied individuals." Under this new policy trans women are no longer welcome to produce or perform. Trans men and other female-assigned gender non-conforming people are still welcome provided they identify with the "female-bodied" women's only space.
For the past 8 years of Rivers’ 13 year existence, trans women, trans men and gender non-conforming people have all been welcomed be a part Rivers of Honey. Until recently, language inclusive of all women and trans folks has appeared on Rivers of Honey fliers, the WOW website, and Facebook and MySpace pages. A Rivers of Honey mission statement that was collectively written and agreed upon in August 2009 states that: "Rivers of Honey is a monthly women's cabaret featuring queer and trans artists of color."
Questions about how these decisions were made, requests for clarification, and objections to the policy have been met with silencing, dismissal, and the refusal of further discussion.
Rivers of Honey is an important institution for our community. We love and value it deeply and therefore do not wish to see it replicate the trans misogyny and transphobia we struggle so fiercely against in our larger society.
WHY SHOULD I CARE?
1. The exclusion of trans women of color from the women's space of Rivers of Honey is an act of trans misogyny – a form of transphobia directed specifically against trans women. Such exclusion is part of a damaging pattern of discrimination that contributes to the already tremendous degrees of bigotry, harassment and violence that trans women of color face.
2. The current language is not truly inclusive of trans men and gender non-conforming people of color. Just as the current language implies that trans women are not truly women, it also implies that trans men and gender non-conforming people are, in the end, actually women despite their own self-identification. In both cases, people are being robbed of their agency to define their own identities.
WHAT WE WANT
We, queer and trans people of color, community members, past performers, producers and audience members want to see:
Rivers of Honey reject trans misogyny and include all women of color equally, whether they are cisgender women or trans women;
If trans men and gender non-conforming people of color continue to be welcomed as performers at Rivers of Honey, the language of Rivers of Honey should be changed to "a space for all women, trans men and gender non-conforming people of color";
Rivers of Honey return to its longstanding tradition of being an open, accountable, and collectively-run space where dialogue is encouraged, disagreement is allowed, and decisions are made in an open, transparent, and community-inclusive manner.
HOW TO GET INVOLVED
We ask our community members and allies to join us in voicing your opinions and concerns. We offer these ideas for participation:
DISTRIBUTE WIDELY .
Share this note with your communities, families, colleagues, and friends via email, Facebook, Twitter, personal blog, etc.
SIGN THIS LETTER .
Click here to be added to the list of signatories for this letter. Please include your name and organization as you would like it to be listed.
LET CURRENT PRODUCERS KNOW YOUR OPINION.
If you choose not to attend or perform at Rivers of Honey because of these changes, or if you attend or perform but disagree with or have questions about these changes, please voice your questions/concerns to the current producers at riversofhoney@gmail.com.
JOIN US ON FACEBOOK .
RSVP to this event https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=154348077984682. It will be updated to take place at the same time as each monthly Rivers of Honey until the policy of trans inclusion is reinstated. Updates about actions related to trans inclusion at Rivers will also be sent to folks who RSVP to the event.
In solidarity,
Rivers of Honey Community
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
On the Eve of Turning 34....
Hot diggity damn, I feel like I was celebrating my 21st birthday just last year. The venerable and now passed on director of the advising program where I was working as a student, Dr. Guillermo Rojas, took me out with the other staff for drinks and, silly viejo, doubted that I could drink a blow job shot with my hands behind my back.
Straight men are so silly sometimes. Sleep well Profe Rojas!
Back then I was a twinky homo living in Minneapolis, finishing up undergrad, and dreaming of one day marrying a strapping man with an ass and penis that would make the Greeks cry, writing books, changing the world, taking care of my friends and family, and living a life to make my Mama and them proud (and all the while eating well and looking good doing it).
I'll be Hot Diggity Damned if I ain't well on my way.
The last 13 years have brought all kinds of ups and downs, changes, dramas, hurts, mistakes, BIG mistakes, BIGGER mistakes, friendships, friends lost, friends and family died and moved on, loves, break ups, lessons learned and lessons re-learned, tons of laughter, tons of healing, some wounding and wound taking, and some life shattering events on a personal and global scale.
I turned 21 in 1998. It was at the height of the 90s prosperity. Clinton was still in the White House. The interwebs was making 21 year olds into overnight billionaires, poor people were poor but richer than poor folks had ever been before, cars were getting bigger, the economy was getting bigger, and I was growing up amongst prosperity and in a cohort of radical queer organizers that helped me believe anything at all was possible.
In the meantime we've had two and a half wars, eight years of GW Bush, the first black president, a recessions almost as big as the Great Depression, an oil crisis, an integrity crisis, and one hell of a collective identity crisis.
But through it all, I have been blessed to know and grow and love and be loved by so many amazing people. And tomorrow I celebrate my 34th birthday and the release of my first book, written with my former partner and friend David Berube (it includes 20 of his prints): It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt.
Life brings many blessings and many lessons. It's brought me amazing family, amazing friends, and amazing loved ones new and old (am happy to have a new blessing in the body of Keith in my life as well).
Thanks to you all that have helped make this journey possible. I love you!
It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt
It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't HurtIt Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt
Straight men are so silly sometimes. Sleep well Profe Rojas!
Back then I was a twinky homo living in Minneapolis, finishing up undergrad, and dreaming of one day marrying a strapping man with an ass and penis that would make the Greeks cry, writing books, changing the world, taking care of my friends and family, and living a life to make my Mama and them proud (and all the while eating well and looking good doing it).
I'll be Hot Diggity Damned if I ain't well on my way.
The last 13 years have brought all kinds of ups and downs, changes, dramas, hurts, mistakes, BIG mistakes, BIGGER mistakes, friendships, friends lost, friends and family died and moved on, loves, break ups, lessons learned and lessons re-learned, tons of laughter, tons of healing, some wounding and wound taking, and some life shattering events on a personal and global scale.
I turned 21 in 1998. It was at the height of the 90s prosperity. Clinton was still in the White House. The interwebs was making 21 year olds into overnight billionaires, poor people were poor but richer than poor folks had ever been before, cars were getting bigger, the economy was getting bigger, and I was growing up amongst prosperity and in a cohort of radical queer organizers that helped me believe anything at all was possible.
In the meantime we've had two and a half wars, eight years of GW Bush, the first black president, a recessions almost as big as the Great Depression, an oil crisis, an integrity crisis, and one hell of a collective identity crisis.
But through it all, I have been blessed to know and grow and love and be loved by so many amazing people. And tomorrow I celebrate my 34th birthday and the release of my first book, written with my former partner and friend David Berube (it includes 20 of his prints): It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt.
Life brings many blessings and many lessons. It's brought me amazing family, amazing friends, and amazing loved ones new and old (am happy to have a new blessing in the body of Keith in my life as well).
Thanks to you all that have helped make this journey possible. I love you!
It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt
It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't HurtIt Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt
Friday, August 26, 2011
A Prayer to St. Fornicacia
Our Lady of Fornication
Who art in the Bathhouse
Bottom be thy Name
Intercede on our behalf
and let us overcum temptation
In the name of Bubble Butts
and our well hung savior.
Amen.
Who art in the Bathhouse
Bottom be thy Name
Intercede on our behalf
and let us overcum temptation
In the name of Bubble Butts
and our well hung savior.
Amen.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Pee On Him
Now and again, I am viscerally reminded of the fact that yes, indeed, I am an animal with built in biological impulses that sometimes create random and often times hilarious urges.
I was at the gym this morning with Keith, as we are wont to do in the a.m. Now, for those of you that haven't seen Keith, he is a stunning specimen of the male figure. Walking around in public with him is an exercise in patience and self-control...in two ways. There is the patience and self-control around not mounting him in public and putting on a live sex show...if you'd seen his butt you'd understand what I am talking about. And there is the self-control of not sticking my foot through the throats of some of the gays that practice their x-ray vision when looking at him.
I have to remind myself what my Aunt Lilly told my sister Jasmine at Honey Bun's funeral, "Girl...don't nobody want a man that nobody else wants."
But back to biology.
There are two gentleman at our gym that, according to various online sources, practice the world's oldest profession. They have a friend that we call, "Hooker's Friend." We have all kinds of names for folks at the gym: Vintage Gay, Porn Booty, Onesie, and Shark Eyes to name a few. Now Hooker's Friend LOVES Keith. I mean goes out of his way to say hello and goodbye to him, and today he was standing behind Keith staring a hole in the back of Keith's head.
I thought it was hilarious at first. And then I found myself wanted to do something to stake my claim to Keith. It was more than just a thought...it was a deep seated impulse. I resisted the impulse and it went away, but a moment later, when we were done with our exercise in that area, we got up to walk away, and after walking about ten steps, I realized that I had, without any thought, interposed myself between Keith and Hooker Friend and I had literally swollen up and was walking like a stiff legged cat protecting its mate and territory.
I almost choked trying not to laugh at myself.
I realized that I absolutely had gone to a primal place. I wasn't jealous at all by situation. I wasn't feeling intimidated by the other person. I didn't feel inadequate or off balance. And I wasn't attracted to the other man at all. Those things (minus the last) usually lead me to some really not fun jealousy feelings. This was something else. This was my instincts telling me to "protect my mate from a potential predatory rival." I consiered peeing on him for a second (he's not into that).
Score one for natural selection.
In the end, it was a hilarious reminder that, in fact, humans are animals with instincts...and when those instincts come out in a gay showdown at Gold's gym....it is better than Christmas.
I was at the gym this morning with Keith, as we are wont to do in the a.m. Now, for those of you that haven't seen Keith, he is a stunning specimen of the male figure. Walking around in public with him is an exercise in patience and self-control...in two ways. There is the patience and self-control around not mounting him in public and putting on a live sex show...if you'd seen his butt you'd understand what I am talking about. And there is the self-control of not sticking my foot through the throats of some of the gays that practice their x-ray vision when looking at him.
I have to remind myself what my Aunt Lilly told my sister Jasmine at Honey Bun's funeral, "Girl...don't nobody want a man that nobody else wants."
But back to biology.
There are two gentleman at our gym that, according to various online sources, practice the world's oldest profession. They have a friend that we call, "Hooker's Friend." We have all kinds of names for folks at the gym: Vintage Gay, Porn Booty, Onesie, and Shark Eyes to name a few. Now Hooker's Friend LOVES Keith. I mean goes out of his way to say hello and goodbye to him, and today he was standing behind Keith staring a hole in the back of Keith's head.
I thought it was hilarious at first. And then I found myself wanted to do something to stake my claim to Keith. It was more than just a thought...it was a deep seated impulse. I resisted the impulse and it went away, but a moment later, when we were done with our exercise in that area, we got up to walk away, and after walking about ten steps, I realized that I had, without any thought, interposed myself between Keith and Hooker Friend and I had literally swollen up and was walking like a stiff legged cat protecting its mate and territory.
I almost choked trying not to laugh at myself.
I realized that I absolutely had gone to a primal place. I wasn't jealous at all by situation. I wasn't feeling intimidated by the other person. I didn't feel inadequate or off balance. And I wasn't attracted to the other man at all. Those things (minus the last) usually lead me to some really not fun jealousy feelings. This was something else. This was my instincts telling me to "protect my mate from a potential predatory rival." I consiered peeing on him for a second (he's not into that).
Score one for natural selection.
In the end, it was a hilarious reminder that, in fact, humans are animals with instincts...and when those instincts come out in a gay showdown at Gold's gym....it is better than Christmas.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Biceps and Brains
So, for any of you that have the burden of being one of my Facebook friends, you will know that since Easter, I have been busting my ass in the gym. Since that Holiest of Christian Days (right after the First Shopping Day of Christmas), I have spent somewhere around 15-20 hours a week at the gym.
I wrote a blog all about why. It's called Body Beautiful. Check it out.
But the bottom line is that around Easter, I decided to go right on ahead and get the body that I have always wanted...not because someone somewhere told me that I should have it, but because I have done my work around my body issues, acknowledged my body dysmorphia, and decided that the only person that could make me happy with my body is me.
For the first damn time when I look in the mirror, with the exception of my dragon claw toes, from my ass to my pecs, biceps to lats, I love what I see. I did the work, and fuck you in the back of your throat with a razor blade covered jackhammer if you think I am not about to enjoy every damn minute of it.
It's still a work in progress, but when I was walking down the street wearing an already too tight button down short sleeve rainbow striped shirt that I have to leave half way unbuttoned lest my titties burst out of the front like Lindsay Lohan busting out of rehab...it began to rain...and once that shirt was plastered to my body, I swear at least three homos ran head first into sign posts on 9th Ave.
I win!
Now, I have and will continue to fuck and get plowed by men that have less than the Chelsea boy ideal of a body. In fact, not to put my bidness to far out there, since achieving my current body state, I have. Why? BECAUSE I UNDERSTAND AND FIND SEXINESS GOES BENEATH THE SKIN (and sometimes gets pounded into select parts of my skin...with permission).
But what I have come across and will not tolerate are slack jawed bitter biznatches that gots something to say about the work I have done based on their own dissatisfaction or snarky crossed eye faggoty snarkiness. I do not play that. I have never played that. I shan't start now. Thank you.
The other day, I was taking a spinning class at the Upper West Side YMCA and an older gay gentleman in the class made a comment about my biceps being bigger than my brains. Now, in fact, I wasnt' really offended. I was caught off guard, mostly, since thoe comments have never been directed at me before. Since then, in jest(ish), other folks have also made commentary about the connection between my body and my intelligence (the broader your chest the dumber you MUST be) or made assumptions, even in jest, about my value around other folks' bodies.
Let me go right on ahead and say to the peoples of America that the work I have done and will continue to do on my body, body image, body dysmorphoia, body policing, body type valuation, and living in an HIV positive body will continue based on my thoughts, feelings and analysis. Your verbal poison, bitterness, jealousy or your need to lash out because you have been devalued, disregarded, or denigrated by fucked up human beings that DO place a particular value on OTHER people's bodies rather than focusing on their own physical journey...is not appropriate. Keep it to yourself, or you will be told about yourself. Publicly. Without mercy.
I restrained myself on the good gentleman at the YMCA, and, much to his credit, he, a few moments later, came to me and apologized for his comment. I didn't need his apology, though I accepted it, but it was awesome to watch his process as he realized that maybe he had made a jest that possibly had an impact that was more about him than about its target.
If only we could all be so self aware. Lord knows I am not always. And this particular new self awareness around what it means to live in a different body type is a very interesting experience to be having.
Though let's be real...the benefits way outweigh the moments of having to deal with other people's ugly.
Love yourself. Love the body you walk in. And if you don't love it, do the work you need to do to love it, whatever that means for you. Until then, leave everyone else the Hell alone.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Movie Review: Gun Hill Road
Every five or six years a movie comes along that has the potential to radically alter the popular dialogue around a particular issue or topic. The film generally tells a story from a new, distinct perspective, provides a stark, harsh, gentle, funny, and human point of view about a situation or situations that are broadly relevant but largely ignored or only talked about behind closed doors. The "what goes on in this house, stays in this house," silences that so many of us know too well.
Once every five or six years a movie comes along that I wish every single person on the planet could be compelled to watch.
Gun Hill Road is one of those movies.
The story is simple. Set in the South Bronx, A father (Esai Morales) returns from prison after suffering sexual violence while an inmate to find his family much changed since he left. His wife (Judy Reyes), in his absence, found comfort with another man, and his son, Michael, is in the process of becoming Vanessa (Harmony Santana), the women Michael was born to be.
What ensues is a raw look at what it means to walk in brown skin, poor skin, incarcerated skin, sexually violated skin, gender non-comforming skin, transitioning skin, transcultural skin, machista skin, mother's skin, father's skin, urban skin and all connected through a tapestry of blood and street kinship, families of choice and families of survival and running throughout the whole thing a literal and spiritual poetry that gives life.
This movie was sometimes funny, sometimes sensual, sometimes deep, and sometimes light but it was never for a moment disconnected or artificial not even when Vanessa goes for her first silicon injection.
Esai Morales gives the performance of a lifetime, and I would not be surprised if this doesn't earn him an Oscar nomination. Judy Reyes, most often known as the witty and sassy Dominicana from Scrubs proves that she is a soulful actress whose talent and range runs deep. And newcomer Harmony Santana, a trans woman who quite literally was beginning her own physical transition during the filming of this movie is reminiscent of Gabriel Sidibe....a brilliant newcomer that ties the entire story together.
Rashaad Ernesto Green, I had a chance to hear you speak at the Angelika on August 5th. Congratulations on a brilliant piece of work. Keep it humble my friend, but be proud of what you have accomplished.
And for the rest of you, get your ass out and see this movie. Now.
Once every five or six years a movie comes along that I wish every single person on the planet could be compelled to watch.
Gun Hill Road is one of those movies.
The story is simple. Set in the South Bronx, A father (Esai Morales) returns from prison after suffering sexual violence while an inmate to find his family much changed since he left. His wife (Judy Reyes), in his absence, found comfort with another man, and his son, Michael, is in the process of becoming Vanessa (Harmony Santana), the women Michael was born to be.
What ensues is a raw look at what it means to walk in brown skin, poor skin, incarcerated skin, sexually violated skin, gender non-comforming skin, transitioning skin, transcultural skin, machista skin, mother's skin, father's skin, urban skin and all connected through a tapestry of blood and street kinship, families of choice and families of survival and running throughout the whole thing a literal and spiritual poetry that gives life.
This movie was sometimes funny, sometimes sensual, sometimes deep, and sometimes light but it was never for a moment disconnected or artificial not even when Vanessa goes for her first silicon injection.
Esai Morales gives the performance of a lifetime, and I would not be surprised if this doesn't earn him an Oscar nomination. Judy Reyes, most often known as the witty and sassy Dominicana from Scrubs proves that she is a soulful actress whose talent and range runs deep. And newcomer Harmony Santana, a trans woman who quite literally was beginning her own physical transition during the filming of this movie is reminiscent of Gabriel Sidibe....a brilliant newcomer that ties the entire story together.
Rashaad Ernesto Green, I had a chance to hear you speak at the Angelika on August 5th. Congratulations on a brilliant piece of work. Keep it humble my friend, but be proud of what you have accomplished.
And for the rest of you, get your ass out and see this movie. Now.
Friday, July 29, 2011
It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt. Buy It Now!
Four years ago, I got an email from an old college friend by the name of Maureen McDole. Maureen, her husband, and a couple other folks had started a new, small press in Florida called Summerfolk, and Maureen wanted to know if I would be interested in submitting a poetry manuscript for consideration for publication.
Does a carriage horse shit in the street?
oOf course, I said yes. It took me about a year to get my act together to get a manuscript to the editors, and in the meantime I met the man I would eventually be with for the next three years. On meeting David, and seeing his art work, I asked him if he would consider a collaboration with me on the book. Twenty poems matched with 20 of his lino cut prints from his Face A Day series. He said yes. The publishers said yes. And so, the concept that would become the book, It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt, was born.
The last three years have been a wild ride of love, war, growth, change, hurt, loss, pain, and healing. Gabriel Garling with Summerfolk Press designed a fantastic book, but, the economic reality of the times is that the press, a labor of love, has been put on hold due to the recession. Unfortunately that meant that the good people at Summerfolk couldn't print our book.
Enter Sven Davisson at Rebel Satori Press.
About a year ago, I realized that I was well on my way to writing my first novel. By August of last year, I had a good 100 or so pages written. My friends Emanuel Xavier and Charlie Vazquez were both being published by the Queer Mojo imprint of Rebel Satori Press. I asked them if they would put in a good word with their publisher for me. He asked to see a sample of the novel and a synposis. I obliged. He obliged me by giving my a contract for my first novel, Eden Lost, which will be out later this Fall (YES BETTY TISEL I AM WORKING ON THE DANG REVISIONS!). In May, Sven descended from his mighty mountain eyrie in Maine to attend the book release party for Emanuel Xavier's latest project, Me No Hablo con Acento, and I had a chance to meet and hang out with Sven. I mentioned, in passing, that I had this completed manuscript that I was considering self-publishing. Sven gave me complete side eye and said, "No, no. Send it to me. If I like it, I will publish it."
Sven liked it. Sven published it. You can order it right now. Help a broke writer be less broke and do yourself a favor...get an amazing book with poetry and art that is, in my humble opinion, amazing. But don't just take my word for it. Take their words too:
"Brandon Lacy Campos is an important poet that doesn't cut corners and doesn't compromise. His work is vivid, jagged, and it takes up space in the most beautiful way. To invest time in getting familiar with his poetry is to invest in vitality. I hope this is just the first shout to announce the arrival of his chorus." -Bao Phi, author of Song I Sing.
"Brandon Lacy Campos is a word thief of the best and brightest kind, pilfering from “a corrupt system that must fall/If we’re ever to have liberty and justice for all.” These scathing, impassioned poems kick up stars dragged along asphalt—with outlandish sass, old-time funk, and a hot, ever-shimmying soul that could teach the stiffest otherness in anyone more than a few things about its most generous self." Ed Bok Lee, best selling author of Real Karaoke People.
"Brandon Lacy Campos is part tomahawk thrower and part philosopher, a fresh voice of queer rebellion, an outsider talking of revolution, avenging exploitation. The stinging lashes on a slave’s back, the mystical incantations of native medicine men, the curiosities of an innocent white child and the cultural bisection of a bilingual Latino—these are the things he sees, as these are the things he is. These poems are monuments to the victims of abuse, to the splendor of visionary queer consciousness—to true America." Charlie Vázquez, fiction writer, blogger and host of the queer East Village reading series, PANIC!, author of Contraband and co-editor of From Macho to Mariposa: New Gay Latino Fiction (get this book too! It includes an excerpt from Eden Lost).
You can buy your copy of It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt, today!
Monday, July 25, 2011
One Liner of the Week Award: Ebony Adams
I have a friend that is what, in the technical jargon, is classified as straight up country colored Kookers McGee. Look that up in the DSM-IV, and you will find a picture of Miss Ebony Adams formerly of Cheyenne, Wyoming (one of three and a half Negroes in the entire state) and currently of Los Angeles, California. Bourgie ass Brentwood to be exact.
I ain't mad at her, I am currently sitting up in her living room, drinking her wine, and cooking her food.
Ebony and I met through my Non-Romantic Life Partner Jason Ruiz who was, whilst finishing his PhD, a dissertation fellow at Macalester College where Professor Kookers McGee was teaching the children a thing or two. Upon meeting Ebony, I immediately developed a colored crush. She was brilliant and country and sweet and sassy and so much goodness wrapped up in a gorgeous little box that I had no choice but to love the Hell out of this girl.
She been there for me through some crazy ass shit I put myself through and kept right on loving my Kookers butt, and now, four and some years later, I am sitting in her house in LA doing the colored things I mentioned above.
Hey glory. Praise Him.
Yesterday, Ebony and her fab roommate Jen threw my first book party to celebrate the launch of It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt (which is now available for pre-order from my publisher and Amazon.com). Despite the fact that immediately after finishing a radio interview an walking into her living room and slicing my foot open down to the meaty meat on a sliver of glass, I still love her.
Eb prepared all kinds of goody snacks for the fiesta including a black bean dip that she lamented was flavorless.
Fast forward to this morning.
It was early as Hell, and Ebony had gotten up and made breakfast before she had to go to work. I walked in the kitchen to dish me up a plate, and I noticed that Ebony had the black bean dip out to put on the eggs and stuff.
All of a sudden I hear Ebony exclaim from the front room,
"Oh snap. These beans done sat around and got good all of a sudden."
I laughed so hard I almost fell face first into the hot ass cast iron skillet on the stove.
And that, mon cheries, is the One Liner of the Week.
And thank you to Ebony and Jen for hosting a fabulous book party. Love ya'll.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
I Love Love
I am in love with love.
At least, I am in love with seeing and experiencing real and true and beautiful love.
Last night, I saw some love so real that it made me cry.
Miss Candise Ketcham married Mr. Griffing Partington. Yes ladies and gentleman, La Señora Crack Ass got hitched...in a beautiful ceremony on Malibu Lakes, California.
Once upon a time I thought Crackity and I would die as lecherous old lascivious roommates. I imagined us as crotchety octogenarians groping men a quarter of our age on the streets and shoving dollars in the orifices of strippers and well hung UPS deliverymen.
I haven't entirely given up on that dream but it may have to include a couple of husbands that we keep around for some of our baser needs...sponge baths...banana gumming....fetching the prescriptions that will keep us alive, unnaturally, well passed the age when we should have collapsed into piles of glitter and poppers.
One of those menfolk would be the sweet as pie and big old crybaby (just like me!) Griff Partington.
Watching these two folks get married last night, a perfect evening as the sun was setting in the mountains outside of Los Angeles, in the Agoura Hills, was downright magical.
I am willing to forgive the obscenely large wedding party which was pretty much equal in size to the 200 or so guests.
(sorry...I got distracted...the prettiest, buffest Gaysian in SoCal just sat down next to me at the hotel bar whilst I am writing this...please see my note above about why me and Crackity are soul mates).
Back to love. So. Yeah. Love.
Candise and Griff are so stupidly and happily in love it made me giddy to watch them blubber their way through their vows. Candise, being truly hard core, only got a little weepy and ended up comforting Griff as he basically broke down two seconds into the ceremony.
It was a gift to be able to share their special day with them and to see what love can create between two people.
Thank you Candise and Griff, Mr. and Mrs. Crackity, for letting me share your special day with you.
Friday, July 22, 2011
GOYA (Get Off Your Ass)
Cruising at 35,000 feet on a transcontinental flight from New York to Los Angeles, my iPhone off limits—which means Angry Birds is verboten—and looking at five hours in the air trapped next to a very loving yet noise filter-less French family, and I decided that I had better write to alleviate bordem, circumvent my ADHD, and prevent myself from committing an act of war against the people of France.
When one finds oneself questioning whether or not the Geneva Conventions apply when traveling 500 miles per hour, it is best to do something to redirect ones attention and aggression.
I am on my way to Los Angeles to celebrate the marriage of an old and amazingly dear friend Candise Ketcham. I met Candise my first day on campus at La Universidad de Puerto Rico-Rio Piedras back in August 1999. The first day on campus found all of the international exchange students herded together on a trolley bus. As the students gathered, they broke into several camps: the French Girls (we hated them), the Brits and Cali Gals (we loved them), the Midwestern Posse (exactly two of us: me and Bernie plus we claimed Kylah since she was living in Wyoming and no one knew what the Hell to do with that...plus it was right after the brutal slaying of a young white gay man in Laramie, so I thought it best to keep an eye on the girl from the same town), and an assortment of random Latin kids from the U.S.
I can't remember exactly how our powers combined to form the GOYA crew, but by the end of the first day, we had fairly clearly gelled together. I was the only boy that was consistently with the crew (the other boys were either really awkward or were native Spanish speakers from the U.S., so had easily slid right into making new, local friends). My roll in said group was cemented when the ladies discovered 1) that I was big old gay and didn't want to poke any of them, and 2) to their surprise and my own it turned out that I did, in fact, know a fair amount of Spanish....enough that I was the one that did all the translating, talking, and coordinating of our cross island adventures.
(In one instance, I made a deal with Bernie that if she bought the 10 books required for one of our classes that I would read them and tell her what they said, and we would study together. When we got our midterms back she got an A, and I got a C...I was like...WHAT THE HELL! I grabbed her paper....it was in English....the professor told her to write her paper in English. When I approached him to tell him that I was also a native English speaker he looked at me and said, “You're Puerto Rican...learn the language,” and walked away. Wasn't that a bitch!)
The GOYA crew, so named after the ubiquitous GOYA products found throughout Puerto Rico (and which we turned into an acronym which stood for GET OFF YOUR ASS), could be found together eating rice and beans for lunch and for dinner and for breakfast. We ate most of our meals together (la UP...pronounced YOU PEE...didn't have a meal plan)...and we only had meat about once per week, but with 20lb bags of rice, dozens of cans of GOYA beans and the rice cooker that I carried in my carry on bag from Minneapolis to San Juan, we were ready to go! Our weeks were fairly regular: Monday-Thursday, we had class...Thursday night I hit the gay bar with my queer island friends (and later boyfriend) that I met. Friday was beach day, Saturday was island adventure day, and Sunday was back to the beach. Not a bad way to spend a year of your life, eh?
(The person in the seat in front of me just shoved her seat backwards into my computer and almost knocked my ginger ale over onto the keyboard. There would have been murder a mile high in the sky if that had happened. Trust.)
Since the GOYA Crew officially disbanded in 2000, and we all went back to our respective campuses and lives and went about the business of growing up, some of us have seen each other in various configurations. One year Karly, who now lives with her British gal pal in England (she was our SoCal surfer chic dudette with the kooky Hawaiian middle name) did a road trip, scooped up Kylah in Montana and then drove to Denver to see me when I was staying there in 2001. And a couple of years ago, my beloved Candise aka Crack Ass aka Aunty Crackity picked me up from LAX during a brief trip, and we had dinner. Most of us have kept in some sort of touch over the years, but this trip is going to be extra amazing because one of the core GOYA Crew and my other most beloved of the group besides Crackity, Miss Keeley Pratt of Londontown, has flown in from Merry Olde Anglaterre for the wedding. Oh yes, the British Hussy is back and in full effect!
Keels and Candise kept me in stitches, and over the years, thanks to the Grace of God and Facebook, we have been able to keep tabs on each other, but tonight I will be in the presence of two of my favorite spirits, and I can barely stand the excitement...I may punch one of the Frenchies sitting next to me in excitement.
But wait! There's more!
There's also Ebony, Togba, Pradeepa, Manish, Stacey, Tay Tay, and perhaps even the deliciously sexy Mr. Kurt Gering (he used to teach at my high school...thank God he came a couple of years after I graduated or I would have been a star in my own After School Special). So many of my loved ones have up and moved to SoCal and of all the regions of the U.S., except the Pacific Northwest, it is the one area I travel to the least. And now, I get to see 'em all in one fell swoop!
I am missing my Puma something fierce at the moment, and by the time Tuesday comes around, I am going to be McKookers for Puma Puffs, but I am truly excited to see, spend time with, and love on some really amazing people in my life.
Get Off Your Ass!
When one finds oneself questioning whether or not the Geneva Conventions apply when traveling 500 miles per hour, it is best to do something to redirect ones attention and aggression.
I am on my way to Los Angeles to celebrate the marriage of an old and amazingly dear friend Candise Ketcham. I met Candise my first day on campus at La Universidad de Puerto Rico-Rio Piedras back in August 1999. The first day on campus found all of the international exchange students herded together on a trolley bus. As the students gathered, they broke into several camps: the French Girls (we hated them), the Brits and Cali Gals (we loved them), the Midwestern Posse (exactly two of us: me and Bernie plus we claimed Kylah since she was living in Wyoming and no one knew what the Hell to do with that...plus it was right after the brutal slaying of a young white gay man in Laramie, so I thought it best to keep an eye on the girl from the same town), and an assortment of random Latin kids from the U.S.
I can't remember exactly how our powers combined to form the GOYA crew, but by the end of the first day, we had fairly clearly gelled together. I was the only boy that was consistently with the crew (the other boys were either really awkward or were native Spanish speakers from the U.S., so had easily slid right into making new, local friends). My roll in said group was cemented when the ladies discovered 1) that I was big old gay and didn't want to poke any of them, and 2) to their surprise and my own it turned out that I did, in fact, know a fair amount of Spanish....enough that I was the one that did all the translating, talking, and coordinating of our cross island adventures.
(In one instance, I made a deal with Bernie that if she bought the 10 books required for one of our classes that I would read them and tell her what they said, and we would study together. When we got our midterms back she got an A, and I got a C...I was like...WHAT THE HELL! I grabbed her paper....it was in English....the professor told her to write her paper in English. When I approached him to tell him that I was also a native English speaker he looked at me and said, “You're Puerto Rican...learn the language,” and walked away. Wasn't that a bitch!)
The GOYA crew, so named after the ubiquitous GOYA products found throughout Puerto Rico (and which we turned into an acronym which stood for GET OFF YOUR ASS), could be found together eating rice and beans for lunch and for dinner and for breakfast. We ate most of our meals together (la UP...pronounced YOU PEE...didn't have a meal plan)...and we only had meat about once per week, but with 20lb bags of rice, dozens of cans of GOYA beans and the rice cooker that I carried in my carry on bag from Minneapolis to San Juan, we were ready to go! Our weeks were fairly regular: Monday-Thursday, we had class...Thursday night I hit the gay bar with my queer island friends (and later boyfriend) that I met. Friday was beach day, Saturday was island adventure day, and Sunday was back to the beach. Not a bad way to spend a year of your life, eh?
(The person in the seat in front of me just shoved her seat backwards into my computer and almost knocked my ginger ale over onto the keyboard. There would have been murder a mile high in the sky if that had happened. Trust.)
Since the GOYA Crew officially disbanded in 2000, and we all went back to our respective campuses and lives and went about the business of growing up, some of us have seen each other in various configurations. One year Karly, who now lives with her British gal pal in England (she was our SoCal surfer chic dudette with the kooky Hawaiian middle name) did a road trip, scooped up Kylah in Montana and then drove to Denver to see me when I was staying there in 2001. And a couple of years ago, my beloved Candise aka Crack Ass aka Aunty Crackity picked me up from LAX during a brief trip, and we had dinner. Most of us have kept in some sort of touch over the years, but this trip is going to be extra amazing because one of the core GOYA Crew and my other most beloved of the group besides Crackity, Miss Keeley Pratt of Londontown, has flown in from Merry Olde Anglaterre for the wedding. Oh yes, the British Hussy is back and in full effect!
Keels and Candise kept me in stitches, and over the years, thanks to the Grace of God and Facebook, we have been able to keep tabs on each other, but tonight I will be in the presence of two of my favorite spirits, and I can barely stand the excitement...I may punch one of the Frenchies sitting next to me in excitement.
But wait! There's more!
There's also Ebony, Togba, Pradeepa, Manish, Stacey, Tay Tay, and perhaps even the deliciously sexy Mr. Kurt Gering (he used to teach at my high school...thank God he came a couple of years after I graduated or I would have been a star in my own After School Special). So many of my loved ones have up and moved to SoCal and of all the regions of the U.S., except the Pacific Northwest, it is the one area I travel to the least. And now, I get to see 'em all in one fell swoop!
I am missing my Puma something fierce at the moment, and by the time Tuesday comes around, I am going to be McKookers for Puma Puffs, but I am truly excited to see, spend time with, and love on some really amazing people in my life.
Get Off Your Ass!
Saturday, July 9, 2011
If You Believe
I was born with an abundance of faith.
In a world, in a life, in a childhood, in a journey that would have destroyed, and rightfully so, the faith of some...the fact that I have survived, thrived, and been surrounded by the greatest gifts of love any man could receive and more than most will ever receive has proven the presence of God/Community/Love/Faith in my life.
I have always been afraid of calm. Stability has terrified me. Peace has been my kryptonite. Joy was for someone else. Happiness was temporary. Crisis was comofrtable. Pain was deserved. Misery was my comfort blanket.
No more. No more. No more.
I repeat.
No more.
Right now, I am sitting here, in my apartment on a Saturday afternoon. Lena Horne is playing. She is singing Stormy Weather and If You Believe.
"If you believe, within your heart, you'll know. No one can change the path that you must go."
I have walked a path. My sweet Lord Jesus, have I walked a path. The earliest paving stones were laid down for me. They twisted my feet and bowed my knees, and they had me walk bowlegged into my early adulthood...and it has taken a long as time to straighten them out. I still walk from side to side now and again. Sometimes I have a limp, and sometimes I trip over my own feet, but damn if I haven't taken Thor's Hammer to the street in front of me, shattered the crooked ways and grabbed the twisted path and shaken it until it lays straight...ish.
Hot damn Miss Lena could sing the panties off the Virgin Mary.
In the Litany of the Saints of the Common Man, Saint Lenam, Our Lady of Peace and Fierceness, has sometimes sung me through some ugly places.
Today she is singing me a different song.
"Believe what you feel, and know you are right because the time will come around when you'll say it's yours. Believe that you can go home. Believe you can float on air!"
Float? I am flying. I am flying. I am flying through this world, and I have been lifted up and hung on the wind by all ya'll. By the teachers that encouraged me all throughout out school, by my family--especially my Grandpa Carey and my Honey Bun, by a community of friends that stretches from Norway to Los Angeles---from Troll Baby who once told me that it was ok for me to be small (maybe no other words, short of I Love You, have meant more to me in my entire life)...to David Berube who taught me that I deserved to be loved....to Keith who has walked many of the paths I have walked and saw past the masks....to all of the amazing human beings that have been angels in my life. Angels, if you believe, walk amongst us each and every day.
And I want to single out Mr. Kamal Fizazi without whom I wouldn't be sitting here typing this. I love you my friend.
I am walking the right road for me now...and I will not wander from its path. The Universe reminds me each and every day that I am doing justice by myself...and when you do justice by yourself...you are a light for justice in the world.
I have much gratitude and this note is just to say thank you to you all for believing in me.
Ashe.
In a world, in a life, in a childhood, in a journey that would have destroyed, and rightfully so, the faith of some...the fact that I have survived, thrived, and been surrounded by the greatest gifts of love any man could receive and more than most will ever receive has proven the presence of God/Community/Love/Faith in my life.
I have always been afraid of calm. Stability has terrified me. Peace has been my kryptonite. Joy was for someone else. Happiness was temporary. Crisis was comofrtable. Pain was deserved. Misery was my comfort blanket.
No more. No more. No more.
I repeat.
No more.
Right now, I am sitting here, in my apartment on a Saturday afternoon. Lena Horne is playing. She is singing Stormy Weather and If You Believe.
"If you believe, within your heart, you'll know. No one can change the path that you must go."
I have walked a path. My sweet Lord Jesus, have I walked a path. The earliest paving stones were laid down for me. They twisted my feet and bowed my knees, and they had me walk bowlegged into my early adulthood...and it has taken a long as time to straighten them out. I still walk from side to side now and again. Sometimes I have a limp, and sometimes I trip over my own feet, but damn if I haven't taken Thor's Hammer to the street in front of me, shattered the crooked ways and grabbed the twisted path and shaken it until it lays straight...ish.
Hot damn Miss Lena could sing the panties off the Virgin Mary.
In the Litany of the Saints of the Common Man, Saint Lenam, Our Lady of Peace and Fierceness, has sometimes sung me through some ugly places.
Today she is singing me a different song.
"Believe what you feel, and know you are right because the time will come around when you'll say it's yours. Believe that you can go home. Believe you can float on air!"
Float? I am flying. I am flying. I am flying through this world, and I have been lifted up and hung on the wind by all ya'll. By the teachers that encouraged me all throughout out school, by my family--especially my Grandpa Carey and my Honey Bun, by a community of friends that stretches from Norway to Los Angeles---from Troll Baby who once told me that it was ok for me to be small (maybe no other words, short of I Love You, have meant more to me in my entire life)...to David Berube who taught me that I deserved to be loved....to Keith who has walked many of the paths I have walked and saw past the masks....to all of the amazing human beings that have been angels in my life. Angels, if you believe, walk amongst us each and every day.
And I want to single out Mr. Kamal Fizazi without whom I wouldn't be sitting here typing this. I love you my friend.
I am walking the right road for me now...and I will not wander from its path. The Universe reminds me each and every day that I am doing justice by myself...and when you do justice by yourself...you are a light for justice in the world.
I have much gratitude and this note is just to say thank you to you all for believing in me.
Ashe.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Healing Touch
Too many of my friends and loved ones know what it is to grow up in homes where violence is ever present. Too many of the people I care deeply about were physically, emotionally, and/or sexually abused by care givers who took too much and left deep scars in their lives and spirits.
I am a survivor.
I grew up, raised by my step-father, my Mom's second husband, who was, because of pain from his own childhood, an addict that used his hands and feet to beat out his rage into the body of my Mother and me. My earliest memories are of the day his mother died, a woman to whom I was very close, and the day when he beat my Mom unconscious in front of me outside of our home while my Mom was eight months pregnant with my little brother. Those memories are 30 years old, and they are still fresh in my mind. I can see the twilight, the concrete stairs leading down from our house to the street, I can see the screen door that I am looking through, and I can see my child hands gripping the mesh and crying as I watch my Mom lying, unconscious, below. I remember thinking that a car was going to park on her because she was laid out exactly in a parking space against the curb. I can not see my step-father in my memory, but he is present as a disturbance in the air as he rushed up into the house. I remember him yelling at me to go to my room, and I can even see the wood paneled walls of my bedroom.
Some children's minds bend around the memories and bury them. My mind has always done the opposite. I can reply each instance of fear and pain and trauma and rage like an old familiar VHS tape.
I have done much work to heal from that past, and while my spirit has come such a long way in its healing process, as has my mind, those memories also exist as very real trauma in the body. From ancient philosophy to modern medecine we have ample proof, science, reasoning and faith that tells us that the mind, body and spirit are interconnected in subtle ways. Any doctor will tell you that to heal from trauma, one has to rehabilitate all three.
Five weeks or so ago, I worked up the courage to ask a beautiful man from my gym out for coffee. It took me about a month and a whole lot of gumption to finally, haltingly, almost dropping my cell phone, if he would like to get coffee sometime. I almost fell off of the pec machine when he said yes and flashed me his diamond smile.
It wasn't long before he shared with me that he was a massage therapist with both a private practice as well as the staff massage therapist with Cirque du Soleil's new show Zarkana (GO AND SEE THE SHOW...IT IS AMAZING!). And it was during one of our very first conversations that Keith, that's his name...Keith Stiles, shared with me that he is a survivor of childhood emotional, physical, and sexual assault and violence. He also expressed to me, and later wrote a blog about, how his own experiences with childhood familial assault and violence informed his work as a massage therapist. For him, massage is a sacred practice and his practice a place of healing. In that place there is no room for the crossing of sexual boundaries neither on the part of the client nor that of the massage therapist. You can read his blog posting where he articulates clearly his point of view, and it is a point of view that should be shared widely. Massage is a healing art, it is a sacred art, and it should be held as such just as any Western medical practice is respected.
As Keith would label it, he and I have been "hanging out." I decided when I met him and found out what he did for a living that I would never ask him for a massage. In fact, only once, when I pulled a muscle in my back, did I even bring up the subject of him perhaps rubbing it for me, and by the time I saw him, it was done hurting, and I did not bring up the conversation again. My friend Dawn is a doctor, and I don't ask her to check me for hernias (plus, I grew up with her, so the thought of her telling me to turn my head and cough makes me giggle). So, I surely wasn't going to ask Keith to provide healing services to me.
Instead, a couple of weeks ago, I posted a note on my FB group guiding folks to Keith's blog about his practice, his experiences a child, and how he defines his healing space and the expectations of massage therapists and patients. I had recently been trusted enough and given the privilege of experiencing the stories of several friends of mine, some new and some old, that are all survivors of child sexual abuse (CSA). These six individuals, organized by the brilliant and stunning Amita Swadhin, working in partnership with Ping Chong and Company, put together a theater piece called Secret Survivors, and they graciously provided an interview for my blog some months ago before the show went up at the theater at El Museo del Barrio. For anyone that has survived any kind of physical abuse, sexual or otherwise, to trust someone else with your body, especially something as initimate as a massage, takes tremendous trust...a trust that some survivors are never able to give to a stranger. But because I know that trauma lives in our tissue, I decided that it was important to provide my community access to massage from someone that has also been to some of the places that they have been in their lives.
Then, a week ago, Keith asked me if I would be willing to write about the connection between his practice and being a survivor and publish it on my blog if he gave me a massage. I was extremely nervous, but I agreed. This afternoon, at 1pm, I was blessed by his hands.
Not to disclose any personal details, but he and I have seen each other in all of our "glory." But walking into his apartment today, I was a client and he was a service provider. From the beginning of the massage to the end, he took no liberties, he violated no boundaries, he assumed no privileges. When it came time for me to undress and get under the sheet, he left the room. Just as he would with any client, he arrange the sheet so that potentially vulnerable places were covered while he worked. His hands, his energy, and his spirit were about providing me with healing.
I have had several massages in my life. Every therapist has had to tell me to relax, to allow them to move my body, and to not tense up.
Today I fell asleep.
I was aware of his presence and his healing work, but I was betweeen wakefullness and sleeping, and I was able to allow him to move and arrange and do the work that he has been highly trained to do. When it was done, he thanked me as he would anyone else, and he left the room again, so I could get dressed.
He blessed me with healing and with respect, and he honored himself and the healing space he has created to do the work that he does.
Shortly thereafter I had to leave for a meeting with Bebe Zahara Benet, Will McNair, and DJ Baker. When I sat down, the first thing out of Will and DJ's mouth was that I looked young and relaxed and that I was glowing. One of them said that I looked like a child. I think, maybe, it's because that child that has lived with hurt for so long was touched with joy and love, gentleness and healing. I am so very grateful for the healing experience of StilesMassage, and I recommend his practice to anyone but especially to those that knew violence way too young.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
When A Relationship Ends
Last week, I ended a three year relationship with my former partner David. It was a hard decision, and I spent several months thinking about it, talking about it with one of my best friends, and feeling my way to my truth.
When the answer came, it was clear, and it was sad, and it was right.
I didn't leave David because he cheated on me. He never hit me. He didn't treat me poorly. Like all couples, there were times that were rough and there were times that were happy. From sharing our small apartment with his ex-boyfriend Frank to losing my job due to the recession, we had gone through some deep things together.
Real deep.
He loved me through a couple of intense relapses where I went to really ugly places within myself, and he stood by me. I will never ever be able to repay that love debt. I was a crazy motherfucker that was hurting and struggling and self-destructing because I was struggling against some old and evil beliefs about myself, but with his love and support I made it through.
For the last six months, I have been on an extremely limited income, and he paid for most of our bills during that time (a couple of years ago our roles were reversed....financial hard times happen when folks are together...but you work it out).
So, when I was thinking about ending our relationship, it became a struggle between the debts that I felt I owed him and the debt I owed myself. Neither of us was perfect in this relationship, but it isn't for me to tell his tale. This is my part of the story, and so I can only say that in the end, I decided that I could repay the physical debts I had to David while also being true to the spiritual debt I had to myself.
A debt of happiness. A debt of joy. A debt of affection and care. A debt of cuddling and snuggling. A debt of healing sex and healing love. A debt of strength. A debt of safety. A debt of standing on my own two damn feet.
I came to the truth that I was staying in the relationship not because he and I were growing together, learning together, loving together but because we had fallen into a comfortable pattern of mutual support and often times paternalism. He was someone for me to rely on, and neither of us was getting that deep down joyous love, peace and sustanance that every single person deserves. We had become the best of friends but we weren't boyfriends in any way.
I wasn't always a good partner. I wasn't ever perfect. But I loved him the best way I could. I loved him when I couldn't love myself. He taught me what it was like to truly see someone and love them not despite their flaws but inclusive of them. I can't take away the hurt he is feeling right now. I would if I could. I would take away all the times when I wasn't good and when I caused him worry and pain. But I know that we DID grow together, we did learn from and teach each other, and we did love each other, imperfectly, but openly.
And with my own love and support of others like David, Mark and Jeff, Kamal, Megan, Eli, Pookie, Wifey, and nameless others, I am now the strongest, happiest, and most centered I have ever been. THAT work I did MYSELF. THAT WORK and THAT GROWTH I owe to NO ONE. THAT I owed to myself. And THAT work I will continue to do and live and love myself a little more every damn day.
I also have love for David. It is my sincere hope that we continue to be deep friends, artistic collaborators, and family. What this moment in life has taught me is that a break up is not something you do to someone else...it is something you do for yourself.
I am finding my joy. I wish nothing but joy, peace, and happiness to him. Thank you for the gifts you gave me.
When the answer came, it was clear, and it was sad, and it was right.
I didn't leave David because he cheated on me. He never hit me. He didn't treat me poorly. Like all couples, there were times that were rough and there were times that were happy. From sharing our small apartment with his ex-boyfriend Frank to losing my job due to the recession, we had gone through some deep things together.
Real deep.
He loved me through a couple of intense relapses where I went to really ugly places within myself, and he stood by me. I will never ever be able to repay that love debt. I was a crazy motherfucker that was hurting and struggling and self-destructing because I was struggling against some old and evil beliefs about myself, but with his love and support I made it through.
For the last six months, I have been on an extremely limited income, and he paid for most of our bills during that time (a couple of years ago our roles were reversed....financial hard times happen when folks are together...but you work it out).
So, when I was thinking about ending our relationship, it became a struggle between the debts that I felt I owed him and the debt I owed myself. Neither of us was perfect in this relationship, but it isn't for me to tell his tale. This is my part of the story, and so I can only say that in the end, I decided that I could repay the physical debts I had to David while also being true to the spiritual debt I had to myself.
A debt of happiness. A debt of joy. A debt of affection and care. A debt of cuddling and snuggling. A debt of healing sex and healing love. A debt of strength. A debt of safety. A debt of standing on my own two damn feet.
I came to the truth that I was staying in the relationship not because he and I were growing together, learning together, loving together but because we had fallen into a comfortable pattern of mutual support and often times paternalism. He was someone for me to rely on, and neither of us was getting that deep down joyous love, peace and sustanance that every single person deserves. We had become the best of friends but we weren't boyfriends in any way.
I wasn't always a good partner. I wasn't ever perfect. But I loved him the best way I could. I loved him when I couldn't love myself. He taught me what it was like to truly see someone and love them not despite their flaws but inclusive of them. I can't take away the hurt he is feeling right now. I would if I could. I would take away all the times when I wasn't good and when I caused him worry and pain. But I know that we DID grow together, we did learn from and teach each other, and we did love each other, imperfectly, but openly.
And with my own love and support of others like David, Mark and Jeff, Kamal, Megan, Eli, Pookie, Wifey, and nameless others, I am now the strongest, happiest, and most centered I have ever been. THAT work I did MYSELF. THAT WORK and THAT GROWTH I owe to NO ONE. THAT I owed to myself. And THAT work I will continue to do and live and love myself a little more every damn day.
I also have love for David. It is my sincere hope that we continue to be deep friends, artistic collaborators, and family. What this moment in life has taught me is that a break up is not something you do to someone else...it is something you do for yourself.
I am finding my joy. I wish nothing but joy, peace, and happiness to him. Thank you for the gifts you gave me.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Happiness is a Choice
It took me until my mid-30s to come to this realization, but a short time ago, I realized that happiness is a choice.
Now let me explain. I am not a hippy dippy dopey faux hippy confusing a good high with happiness. Nor am I on an industrial strength supply of lithium. What I have come to understand is that in any given day there will be highs and lows...you may be pissed off or sad...someone may hurt you or you may have done something not so smart that hurt yourself...but even in those places of hurt, sadness, pain, or confusion...you can choose joy.
Sound like a contradiction? Nah...stick with me here.
Today, I had a moment with a fucked up racist Russian bank teller at my bank. I have been going to this same credit union branch since I moved to NYC. Before today, I never had a problem. Sometimes my checks are written out to my legal name, William Brandon Lacy, and sometimes the checks are made out to Brandon Lacy Campos. My ID says William Brandon Lacy on it, but in the past, the fact that my ID has Brandon Lacy on it, as long as the check was written to William Lacy, William B. Lacy, William Brandon Lacy, Brandon Lacy or Brandon Lacy Campos...the good tellers have realized that golly gee two of the three names on the check were the same, so gosh...there isn't anything shady going on.
Enter Sister Mary Gulag of Bitchskaya, Siberia. The women looked at me, looked at the check, and said..."this isn't you."
I said, politely, "Excuse me m'am, but do you not see the names Brandon Lacy on the idea and the check."
"Yes, but there is no Campos."
So I reply, "M'am...I have two last names...one just happens to not be on my ID. But, as you can see, Brandon and Lacy are on the check and ID."
"Yes but this isn't you."
And she gave me a look that basically made me want to punch a hole through the Plexi-glass and scoop her eye out of her socket.
And then came the coup de grace when she said, "You can mail it to your bank and see if THEY will deposit it."
Only by the Grace of God did that woman not get a free trip back across the Ural Mountains on Foot in the Ass Airlines.
So I said, "I will be back with the check re-written."
And she gave me a smile that basically said, "Sure nigger. Next!"
That's when I made a choice.
You see up until that point in my day, my day had gone so super well. I'd spent the night at Keith's spot. I walked home, and we had a great workout at the gym. Well, by great I mean that I did some cardio before sprinting to the office to get a report into the Drug Policy Alliance. I'd made plans to meet back up with Keith to finish my workout that afternoon, and I had already decided that I was going to treat myself to my favorite dish at Pam's Real Thai on 49th Street (the crispy pork with basil will change your life).
I actually love going into the office, because I get to work hand in hand with amazing interns, the brilliant and sexy Amber Hollibaugh and Jay Toole...and every day is a day closer to July 19th when my poetry collection It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt comes out.
So as I was walking out of the bank back to the office to get Amber to re-write my check, and I was contemplating if my Chuck Norris skills were tight enough that I could kick through the Plexiglass to exact my ninja revenge on said Wicked Witch of Far East, I realized that I had just given this Creature of Darkness way too much power over me.
So I chose happiness.
The minute I put on my headphones and put on "Happiness" by Alexis Jordan...I found myself back in that joy spot. Can't no body take away that place of joy except me. I have mad skills and many years of emptying my joy tank, but I have been working too damn hard to fill it to let ANYONE empty it. If what you are bringing me is your hurt and trying to make me feel what you are feeling, if you bring me your anger and try to raise mine, if you bring me your pain and try to make me feel it, if you bring me your sadness and try to make me cry, do not be offended when I say to you, "Find your joy."
I found mine, and I am keeping it.
Now let me explain. I am not a hippy dippy dopey faux hippy confusing a good high with happiness. Nor am I on an industrial strength supply of lithium. What I have come to understand is that in any given day there will be highs and lows...you may be pissed off or sad...someone may hurt you or you may have done something not so smart that hurt yourself...but even in those places of hurt, sadness, pain, or confusion...you can choose joy.
Sound like a contradiction? Nah...stick with me here.
Today, I had a moment with a fucked up racist Russian bank teller at my bank. I have been going to this same credit union branch since I moved to NYC. Before today, I never had a problem. Sometimes my checks are written out to my legal name, William Brandon Lacy, and sometimes the checks are made out to Brandon Lacy Campos. My ID says William Brandon Lacy on it, but in the past, the fact that my ID has Brandon Lacy on it, as long as the check was written to William Lacy, William B. Lacy, William Brandon Lacy, Brandon Lacy or Brandon Lacy Campos...the good tellers have realized that golly gee two of the three names on the check were the same, so gosh...there isn't anything shady going on.
Enter Sister Mary Gulag of Bitchskaya, Siberia. The women looked at me, looked at the check, and said..."this isn't you."
I said, politely, "Excuse me m'am, but do you not see the names Brandon Lacy on the idea and the check."
"Yes, but there is no Campos."
So I reply, "M'am...I have two last names...one just happens to not be on my ID. But, as you can see, Brandon and Lacy are on the check and ID."
"Yes but this isn't you."
And she gave me a look that basically made me want to punch a hole through the Plexi-glass and scoop her eye out of her socket.
And then came the coup de grace when she said, "You can mail it to your bank and see if THEY will deposit it."
Only by the Grace of God did that woman not get a free trip back across the Ural Mountains on Foot in the Ass Airlines.
So I said, "I will be back with the check re-written."
And she gave me a smile that basically said, "Sure nigger. Next!"
That's when I made a choice.
You see up until that point in my day, my day had gone so super well. I'd spent the night at Keith's spot. I walked home, and we had a great workout at the gym. Well, by great I mean that I did some cardio before sprinting to the office to get a report into the Drug Policy Alliance. I'd made plans to meet back up with Keith to finish my workout that afternoon, and I had already decided that I was going to treat myself to my favorite dish at Pam's Real Thai on 49th Street (the crispy pork with basil will change your life).
I actually love going into the office, because I get to work hand in hand with amazing interns, the brilliant and sexy Amber Hollibaugh and Jay Toole...and every day is a day closer to July 19th when my poetry collection It Ain't Truth If It Doesn't Hurt comes out.
So as I was walking out of the bank back to the office to get Amber to re-write my check, and I was contemplating if my Chuck Norris skills were tight enough that I could kick through the Plexiglass to exact my ninja revenge on said Wicked Witch of Far East, I realized that I had just given this Creature of Darkness way too much power over me.
So I chose happiness.
The minute I put on my headphones and put on "Happiness" by Alexis Jordan...I found myself back in that joy spot. Can't no body take away that place of joy except me. I have mad skills and many years of emptying my joy tank, but I have been working too damn hard to fill it to let ANYONE empty it. If what you are bringing me is your hurt and trying to make me feel what you are feeling, if you bring me your anger and try to raise mine, if you bring me your pain and try to make me feel it, if you bring me your sadness and try to make me cry, do not be offended when I say to you, "Find your joy."
I found mine, and I am keeping it.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Theater Review: Jomama Jones Does It Again
Last Tuesday night, I was sitting at Symphony Space in an audience with a couple hundred people waiting for the precious and beautiful Jomama Jones to take the stage.
I was sitting in the audience with Mr. Keith Stiles of StilesMassage and Cirque du Soleil fame after having been surprised at the door by running into Baraka de Soleil, my good friend Ben's ex and another Minnesota ex-pat living in the Big Apple (the Minne-Apple rocks!).
I'd spent a good part of the previous day and dinner beforehand praising Jomama Jones and the Sweet Peaches. How could I not? When Mr. Kenyon Farrow took me to see Jomama's show Radiate, I was in love with Jomama before she sang her first note. And the Sweet Peaches were so juicy and delicious that I wanted to run up on stage and take a bite!
I'm just saying.
Now if you have never seen Jomama Jones perform...think of Miss Lena Horne come back to life. She is TRUE elegance.
And her music is a magical music ride of funk, jazz, soul, punk and all the beautiful blackness at the root of so many of the musical traditions we consume in the English speaking world.
Once again, when Jomama took the stage, I was transfixed. Keith put his arm around my shoulder, and for the next hour and a half we laughed and stomped our feet and called out a couple of amens as Jomama OWNED THAT DAMN STAGE! With her collaborator Bobby Halvorson on stage with her, the sultry and sassy vocal gifts of the Sweet Peaches backing Jomama up, and some of the beautiful lyrics of Miss Sharon Bridgforth....the Rapture could have come right then and there, and I would have happily gone on to Heaven knowing that I had just heard true art made into beautiful musicality.
Seeing Jomama's beautiful sparkling, playful, teasing, loving eyes, and once again having Jomama's storytelling and truthtelling and spiritlifting swirling into my life was such a gorgeous blessing. Let me be real for a minute...if you have the dollars and some sense....bring this damn concert to your town and let Jomama wow audiences anywhere on the planet that folks have ears to listen. Jomama Jones and the Sweet Peaches aren't just artists...they heal with music.
The Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry Deadline Extended to AUGUST 15, 2011
THE DEADLINE HAS BEEN EXTENDED TO AUGUST 15, 2011!
The 2011 Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry
Dear Friends:
I am happy to announce the call for submissions for the second year of the Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry.
The Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry will be awarded to a poet that demonstrates the power of spoken word to address issues of class, sexuality and race in a way that transcends rhetoric and creates movement.
The winner will receive $300, and the winning poem will be published at My Feet Only Walk Forward (www.myfeetonlywalkforward.blogspot.com). Two honorable mentions will also be named.
The winner of the 2010 Carey Prize was Saymoukda Vongsay, who has also generously volunteered to make a donation in support of this year's prize.
I welcome other donations in support of the prize. If donations come in that exceed the prize total, I will increase the prize amount. There are very very very few prizes that support the work of spoken word artists, and I hope you will consider making a contribution. Donations can be made at the address provided below. Please make checks payable to David Berube (this is so that ya'll don't think I am trying to keep the moola for myself!).
About the Prize:
Alfred C. Carey was a hard working man from Northern Minnesota. He worked in construction, specifically roofing, while raising a family of 8, including three children not biologically his own. He represented a series of beautiful and sometimes hard contradictions in race, class, and history. He also, without a vocabulary around race and sexuality, accepted all of his children and grandchildren for who they were without judgment. This award is named in the honor of my grandfather who died in 1997.
Rules:
You may submit up to three poems no longer than a combined total of six pages double spaced.
You may also submit audio recordings in CD format. The recordings should not exceed 9 minutes in length.
Along with your submission please include a cover page that states your: Name, Address, Telephone Number, Email Address, Website Address, and a brief biography of no more than 6 sentences.
ALL SUBMISSIONS MUST BE POSTMARKED BY AUGUST 15, 2011. WINNERS WILL BE ANNOUNCED AUGUST 31, 2011.
Authors retain all copyright to their works, and if you would like samples returned, please include a self-addressed stamped envelope.
Make submissions to:
Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry
c/o Brandon Lacy Campos
462 W. 52nd Street #3N
New York, NY 10019
The 2011 Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry
Dear Friends:
I am happy to announce the call for submissions for the second year of the Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry.
The Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry will be awarded to a poet that demonstrates the power of spoken word to address issues of class, sexuality and race in a way that transcends rhetoric and creates movement.
The winner will receive $300, and the winning poem will be published at My Feet Only Walk Forward (www.myfeetonlywalkforward.blogspot.com). Two honorable mentions will also be named.
The winner of the 2010 Carey Prize was Saymoukda Vongsay, who has also generously volunteered to make a donation in support of this year's prize.
I welcome other donations in support of the prize. If donations come in that exceed the prize total, I will increase the prize amount. There are very very very few prizes that support the work of spoken word artists, and I hope you will consider making a contribution. Donations can be made at the address provided below. Please make checks payable to David Berube (this is so that ya'll don't think I am trying to keep the moola for myself!).
About the Prize:
Alfred C. Carey was a hard working man from Northern Minnesota. He worked in construction, specifically roofing, while raising a family of 8, including three children not biologically his own. He represented a series of beautiful and sometimes hard contradictions in race, class, and history. He also, without a vocabulary around race and sexuality, accepted all of his children and grandchildren for who they were without judgment. This award is named in the honor of my grandfather who died in 1997.
Rules:
You may submit up to three poems no longer than a combined total of six pages double spaced.
You may also submit audio recordings in CD format. The recordings should not exceed 9 minutes in length.
Along with your submission please include a cover page that states your: Name, Address, Telephone Number, Email Address, Website Address, and a brief biography of no more than 6 sentences.
ALL SUBMISSIONS MUST BE POSTMARKED BY AUGUST 15, 2011. WINNERS WILL BE ANNOUNCED AUGUST 31, 2011.
Authors retain all copyright to their works, and if you would like samples returned, please include a self-addressed stamped envelope.
Make submissions to:
Alfred C. Carey Prize in Spoken Word Poetry
c/o Brandon Lacy Campos
462 W. 52nd Street #3N
New York, NY 10019
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