revlatte - Tumblr blog

[revlatte]

To be a Negro in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time. – James Baldwin

For a week, I have been sitting with the weight of #GeorgeFloyd. Stunned. Disgusted. Speechless. But unfortunately, not surprised. This is the exact treatment that Blacks have been dealing with since we were stolen loot brought to a stolen land. 

These young people are not out here in the streets just for #GeorgeFloyd. That is the lie of the mainstream media. They are acting like this civil unrest is about only the death of George Floyd. They are finding Black and Brown protesters to talk about how they wish there was no violence. And let’s be clear, the violence is property damage. When our Black bodies were brutalized and are still being brutalized, no one was in arms about the violence to people and assaults on our humanity and dignity. But, property… 

My partner and I found ourselves in Baltimore City last night. We went with the intention of picking up a leather reclining chair for our new house. Quickly, after entering the City, we realized we were in the police state. Helicopters circled around. Immediately, we witnessed police on motorcycles. Streets were being shut down by large trucks and government vehicles. We had been moving all day. I wanted a crabcake. As we parked our car at the Harbor, my partner looked at me. “A crabcake and $20…” We were both aware of the heightened police presence and the fact that “this is how they get you.” Did we look suspicious to police?

No, we are not JUST out there for #GeorgeFloyd.

I am out there with these young people because I have been in the school-to-prison pipeline. I have been incarcerated because of white lies from a white woman named Amy. I am out there with these young people because I am compelled, by my faith, and convicted in my soul to show up. I am called to public ministry, prophetic witness, and public engagement. I must be with my people. 

I am out there to bring awareness not just for #GeorgeFloyd but also #JerryWilliams #BreonnaTaylor #TonyMcDade and all of the other lives that will be snuffed out by police and rendered to a hashtag. 

I am out there because teachers villanized and criminalized me in the Harford County Public Schools. White teachers, principals, and administrators. I am out there for the time that I was forced to learn in a closet. I am out there because white teachers continued to separate, denigrate, and criminalize me. 

I am out there for the day when the police were called on me at Bel Air Middle School for “assaulting” a classmate. My classmate, Lauren McDonald, had her books stripped (knocked out of her arms) by someone else. I was simply helping her pick them up. A white teacher said I assaulted her. She called the white principal. The white principal immediately suspended me then later called the police. Both Lauren and I said the white teacher lied (Lauren is white). This continued, the police were involved, and finally things were dropped after personal visits to the McDonald family. 

I am out there because I witnessed, last night, police shooting rubber bullets, pepper spray, and throwing smoke grenades into crowds of peaceful protesters. 

I am out there for a boy I went to school with named Robert Venable. He was tortured by white teachers, ridiculed by classmates, and killed by the overwhelming weight of white supremacy via suicide. 

I am out there because less than a month ago, thousands of white folks, with armed weapons, disobeyed stay-at-home orders, infecting countless, and they were met with no violence from police. They were allowed to protest. With guns. And anger. Their white anger was not criminalized. I witness Black kids on the streets with enraged fists and signs, after another senseless murder, be tear gased. 

I am out there for a classmate Mark who killed himself in high school just fed up with whiteness. I remember talking to him the day before his suicide. Being Black and quirky was too hard. It was too much to bear. I remember him talking about there being no reprieve and preparing for life like this. I felt him. Ans it was too hard. 

I am out there for the times that I watched my father be called Boy and talked down too in front of his family. 

I am out there for other family members who serve in white organizations and are talked too like they are inferior and less than human. 

I am out there for the white woman with a doctorate in social justice education who called me a Nigger on the job. 

I am out there because my parents’ neighbor was Mr. Larry, the Grand Marshall of the local klan. He was mean, vicious, allowed his dogs to bite Black kids, and was just hateful. The last time I played with a friend in my backyard, it was because Mr. Larry was having a cookout and bragged about how it’d be a perfect night to see things hanging from trees. 

I am out there because the Harford County Public School system, filled with bad white actors, treated me like a dangerous criminal. I had to be up at 5a every day to get to school for morning detention. My homeroom was the office. I was on a “behavior contract.” If I did not score enough points, I had to face consequences. I was on hallway restriction. So I literally could not walk in the hallways with other people. I had lunch detention. After school detention. In school suspension. Out of school suspension. Janitor duty. And Saturday Morning Assistance Program (Saturday detention). By the way, all of this was “pre-emptive” so when I did “get in trouble” they would start with deducting from my “time served.” This is why I am out in the streets. 

I am out there because a white woman beat on me for months in undergrad then lied. She lied on friends who she enticed into sex while drunk and high. When she sobered up, she, a white girl, called the police on my Black male friends saying they raped her. This was not true. When I asked her why she did it, she said… she was ashamed and didn’t know what to tell her mother. These men were brought to the police station, questioned. It was a mess. And she lied. About Black men gang raping her, because she was ashamed. 

I am out there for the white woman named Amy who lied about me to have me arrested. She put hands on me and my mother, on Mother’s Day. She was drunk and high. She ripped the literally shirt of my back. Blood coming from my arms. Permanently damaged my mother’s car doors. The police arrived and asked if we wanted to press charges. NO, my mother and I both responded. We don’t believe in police. Imagine the surprise when I was arrested for assaulting this white woman. This literally never happened. There were eye witnesses, police present, an OnStar tape. But I sat in jail. I was held without bond. No previous criminal record. This white woman named Amy then called the jail and said “I was a threat.” I was taken to solitary confinement and not given food or water for 5 days. That’s why I’m out on these streets. 

I am out there because this same white woman, Amy, (legit her name), filled fake charges against me and my brother after she was assaulted. She said, in no unclear terms, it was us. The eyewitness reports said it was two, tall, skinny, Black men… with dark skin. When they came to arrest us, we had video surveillance to show where we were, security footage, store security footage, witnesses…. It did not matter. They filled my brother’s home in West Baltimore to “capture” us. They refused to look at the evidence, though we literally had it pilled up in folders in the living room. There was over 15 officers at the house that day, including the Sergeant. The Sergeant promised us that if they found out this white woman, Amy, was lying (again), she would be held responsible. I sat in jail, for weeks, awaiting my release for crimes I literally did not commit. The white Amy was never held responsible. 

I am out there because I could not breathe while in jail because of lies from a white woman named Amy. They messed up my medication and would not listen to me. I sat there, with a “cardiac emergency,” and waited as the COs figured out what to do… the Goon squad came in. Paramedics had to be called to the jail. Though I was in severe cardiac emergency, they had to put over 30 pounds of chains all over and around me. I was shackled to the stretched while the paramedics continued to impress upon the jail the importance of me getting medical attention. At that moment, all I could think about was my Momma having to watch me die on jail footage. 

I am out there for the young man I witnessed, a young Black boy, beaten by a mob of Trump supporters in North Carolina. As he walked away, trying to escape the mob, he was arrested. Why in the world was he arrested? My partner and I went to inquire and provide context. The police and secret service had it wrong. We crossed the line, according to the officers. Before I knew it, they had thrust me on the ground so hard it knocked the wind out of me. I was no threat. I had no weapon. I was simply asking why they were arresting this man who was obviously the victim. We were held. They pounced on me. I remember thinking, it that moment, how difficult it was to breathe in that position. 

I am out there for the family of Jerry Williams who will never get justice from the city of Asheville and the Asheville Police Department. 

I am out there for my cousin who is now an Ancestor that was hunted like a dog, boxed in by an illegal police trap, and fled the guns of white supremacy leaping to his death. I am out there for Bronson. 

I am out there for the bodies that my family remembers seeing hanging on trees growing up in the South. 

I am out there for the lying white folks that say they are “allies” and “praying” and “holding this in their hearts” while actively assassinating the character and opportunities of Black and Brown people behind closed doors. I am out there for the white ministers “dismantling white supremacy” publicly and privately destroying the lives of Black and Brown people with toxic whisper campaigns. I am out there for my family who have died in wars they should not have been fighting to protect white freedom and property. 

I am out there because I can no longer stomach the injustice. A white woman, on probation for attempted murder, was high, and assaulted me. She, while on security footage and high, dragged me with her car while holding the collar of my hoodie. Though there were eye witnesses, security footage, and everything you could think of... she was found not guilty. That night, before she dragged me, she told me she would get off. She told me she would lie to the police and commissioners. She told me all she had to do was start crying and say she was afraid. Then she “acted it out” to show me how quickly she could cry, on the spot, to have my freedom revoked. She told me she knew she could do this to me in Baltimore City because a jury would never convict her, a white woman, of a crime against me, a Nigger. She is also the mother of two Black children and a Black grandchild. And, she was right. No justice served. And my face wears the memory of this as a permanent scar.

I am out there because enough is enough. 

I don’t care if they burn Wells Fargo. How dare someone talk about “property damage” and not realize the collateral consequences of oppression. Black people forced to live in the cities are not receiving bailouts. No, that’s corporations like Wells Fargo with the hundreds of millions they’ve been receiving. Wells Fargo in these communities is a reminder of what we’ll never be… 

I am out there because I cannot, with integrity, be a minister compelled to live the gospel… as Paul said, to be worthy of the gospel… and not be with my people. “Remember the poor…”

I am out there for all the Black women and queer folks who are murdered by police… whose stories and lives remain invisibilized and suppressed… even in their dying. 

I am out there, in the streets of Baltimore, because a white woman called the police and hospital security on me after a psychiatric crisis. They held me against my will, had the nurses drug me (sedate me… also against my will) and took me away while my father listened and was on the phone with the hospital advocate. That day, they threw my body into the back of that transport vehicle. Didn’t shut the door. Started driving off. I was cuffed. In the hospital. They finally stopped the vehicle when others  alerted them to the door being open. The older white officer, in response to my pleas for help, let me know: “Today, all the white officers who killed Freddie Gray got off.” My life was in the hands of this man. Who then later forced to me strip naked before entering the ward. Which I knew was against my rights. I am out there for their hatred. I am out there because I cannot rest any longer. We cannot continue being complicit in the system. 

It’s not just about the Police State, State Violence, the school-to-prison pipeline, or mass incarceration. It is about all of it. All. Of. It. 

We are out there because of all of the white people who have witnessed, who know, and still …. do…. nothing. These were the people on the perimeters of the lynch mobs. Shaking their heads. Going back to their churches. And continuing with business as usual.

These protests are about being completely fed up, exhausted, with the weight of white supremacy everywhere. Snuffing out our lives. We are out there because we could fill libraries with individual accounts with police officers, white teachers, white employers… white everything… that sees us as less than human and disposable. We are out in the streets and causing “riots” and “property damage” but over just one death but for the millions of bodies murdered in the name of this “Democracy.” For the genocide that is currently happening on this land. For the systemic and institutional injustice. We were “sick and tired” five decades ago… This cannot continue. 

And Black people have been so patient. We have sat with whites in conversations as beloveds… we have been in healing circles… we have held space for white fragility and growth… we have used non violent communication… we have done everything to make space for “well-meaning whites” to get involved and create “easier access points and entryways” to justice. We have tried not to overwhelm them and give them too much. We have listened to their confessions and been containers for their white tears. Dismantling white supremacy on their terms while holding on to all the unearned privilege, dollars, property… And heaven forbid if you are angry or irritated… No. Then you are problematic and… guess what? They’re ready to call the police. 

We are beyond the point of tired. 

And before you say, we’re “improper influences.” GUESS WHAT, WHITE SUPREMACIST AMERICA? YOU’RE THE MOTHER…. IMPROMPER INFLUENCE.

We are out there because we can’t sit with the injustice any longer. There will continue to be Black death because that is the goal of the State… to exploit us, use our labor, extract our dollars, get us addicted, throw us in jail, and render our lives insufferable. There will be death… and if we must die… now is the time for fighting back. I am ready for the fire this time.

If we must die, 

let it not be like hogs

Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,

While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,

Making their mock at our accursèd lot.

If we must die, 

O let us nobly die,

So that our precious blood may not be shedIn vain; 

then even the monsters we defy

Shall be constrained to honor us though dead

!O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe!

Though far outnumbered let us show us brave,

And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow!

What though before us lies the open grave?

Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,

Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!~ Claude McKay

[revlatte]

Please stop.

White people have been lying about me, on me... for my whole damn life. 

I was arrested and multiple times because of white lies and false accusations. 

I have been homeless and lost job because of white lies. 

White people are taught to use the police on Black people as a fear tactic. 

I am tired. 

The officer that killed #GeorgeFloyd looks like my former best-friend’s husband, Norm (short for Norman). Norm has his struggles and battles. And he struggles with alcohol dependency. One night, while angry and drunk, he called the cops on me because I was hanging out, at the invitation of his wife and neighbors. 

I am so tired. 

I am tired of being tired. 

I am tired of white lies, white guilt, white fragility, white everything. I am tired of whites using their skin privilege to murder us. 

And I’m tired of living in White America... of trying... of striving. I’m tired of whites expecting me to prove my existence and worth while they continue patterns upholding their matrix of power and privilege. I am tired of the gas lighting. I am so fucking tired. And this is the tool and tactic of the State... genocide. 

Fuck it all. I’m tired.

#StopKillingUs #StopKillingBlackPeople #GeorgeFloyd

[revlatte]

on survival sex

survival sex is exactly what it sounds like. using sex as a tool of survival. using the power of sex to transform your current situation of hopelessness. strategically using sex as a conduit of hope... and escape. using sex as a currency for liberation. survival sex is the process (and act) of engaging in sexual activity (often in exchange for money) to support one’s basic human needs, such as food, water, and clothing. 

some may be more comfortable with the terms prostitution, whore, street worker... i’m sure we can create a long list of names, deragatory labels, that we’ve used and been taught to discuss women engaged in survival sex. 

on the night of betrayal, 5 march 2019, I pleaded with my at-the-time girlfriend. she was high on cocaine. this was it. rock bottom. i couldn’t keep going back and forth with her. i needed to have a firm boundary. my no was final. no more drugs. no more excuses. no more relapses. no more lies. i’m done. 

she became violent. aggressive. and physically abusive. she is white. i am black. my only choice was to do nothing and let her beat on me. i knew that if i even raised my hand to defend myself, i could go to jail. (we can unpack that later). 

we stood in the hallway leading to the front door. she grabbed me and started nodding in and out. within a few matter of minutes, she would be in full ecstasy mode. i was talking to a zombie. a case, a shell of a human standing before me. no, i do not say that to be judgmental. i say that because i could see her spirit leave her body as the drugs hit her veins. we were in a moment of transition. 

before she was leaving the house, she asked me for money. of course, i was not giving her money. she asked for gas money. nope. food. nope. how was she going to get to westiminster? how was she going to eat? the crazy making part of this: it was all a part of the chaos. there was plenty of food. i paid for gas in her car the day earlier. 

what got me was what she said next. she looked at me and laughed in my face. she said i was nothing. she, at that moment, made sure to tell me that she would manipulate the police, cry on demand (then showed me), and told me that there would be no way a baltimore jury would convict her of anything. she was right. she had been manipulating the system for decades. i stood there, looking at a shell of the person i knew and loved. 

then, she told me i was pathetic. at least she could sell her pussy. she wasn’t stupid like me. i wasted time working for people and getting degrees. she could make thousands of dollars a month selling pussy. she had told me previously about exploits with men. she had a sugar daddy at one point that put her up, according to her, rarely wanted sex, and gave her everything she wanted. she worked at the clubs and bars. she sold herself on the street. she was everything she needed. 

now, i invite you to suspend any thoughts or judgments. and, let’s recognize these were the words of a woman who was actively high on cocaine, and likely, heroin. 

the pieces of this still remain in tact: this woman was intentionally making choices about her freedom, her body, and her sexuality at the intersections of complex trauma, the carceral system, and an addiction. survival sex is most often connected with deep, complex trauma, addiction, and the system of mass incarceration. it’s a vicious cycle. 

and, we must be able to see and hold women like my ex in our hearts. we must be able to have compassion to hold space for their choice-fullness because they are, most often, trying to survive. 

we must not shame or stigmatize women who are doing their best to survive. 

[revlatte]

on consistency

okay. i may not be the most consistent person you know. but at least i am upfront and honest about that. 

right now, i am shouldering the weight of not feeling adequate. i want to be honest and clear about that. rev hunt writes at least for two hours a day. everyday. in the last two years, i believe he has released three new books. definitely #lifegoals.

i think about jimmy’s discipline to his craft. and i think about adrienne maree brown. they’re focused. 

and, i am also realizing: they are in positions that are in alignment with their calling as writers. 

james baldwin tried to get a job and even be in the army for a hot minute. it was not for him. he realized he needed to step away from america, from whiteness, before he killed a white man. as he writes about being degraded all day then trying to sit down and eat... and having to deal with whiteness... so much so that he was full of murderous rage. yup. i get that, jimmy. 

then, there’s folks like rev hunt, who i admire. he’s a pastor. theologian. teacher. he is expected to produce greatness. i know i expect greatness from him. and, he does not have to worry about if his food stamp application will be approved, how much longer unemployment will last, what to do when your bank account hits zero, nada. there can be an intense level of focus and clarity because basic needs are met. 

basic needs and survival could produce really fertile ground for expansion and growth, for alignment. but, i think about the chaos and destabilization that provided for jimmy when he was in france and later jailed. yup. you’re right. all of these experiences, the chaos, the drama, of our lives creates amazing content for the stageplay of our lives. and, it’s hard. 

so, i am realizing the fact that i need to be more consistent. i show up fully when i can and when i am able. i am showing up in my process, to my process, the ways that I can at the intersection of basic survival needs. 

i remember jimmy writing about his novels. he said that, in many ways, he had to live the content first. 

cheers to living. 

[revlatte]

the road to recovery is long... and not linear...

“Hi, I’m L.A., and I’m an addict.” I’ll tell you what, those words are not likely to get you hired or new friends on most days. But there’s certainly a freedom in being able to quickly and succinctly name your shit and what you’re working with. Rev. Ezra T. Maize preached once and said: “I don’t have skeletons in my closet... I have bodies! They’re still alive.” And the church said: “Amen.” I’ve been in an out of 12 step for the last 11 years. I’ve been to CoDA, SLAA, SAA, NA, Nar-Anon, Al-Anon, Smart Recovery, Celebrate Recovery, you name it. Sometimes, I would go to meetings with friends from other fellowships just for the fellowship. Somehow, in these rooms of anonymous folks, I felt at home. 

I thought I met “the one” about a year ago. I was convinced it was the one I was gonna spend the rest of my life wife. You know, typical Pisces shit. But, I still had not processed, dealt with, and spent time inside of my shit. Shortly after beginning, things started to go off the rails. I was responsible. I could not arrive in full partnership because I had not begun the process of falling radically in love with me and addressing my trauma. 

So I did. And I began running. And writing. And tending to myself. I began to feel confident again. I began even more intensive therapy.... an accountability group.... meetings... you name it. Then, I seized the moment for a once in a lifetime opportunity: winter in Prague!

Though my trip was cut short my the worldwide pandemic of the novel coronavirus, I left that place transformed. And eagerly waiting to return. 

When I got back to the States (likely having contracted Covid-19 abroad... that’s another blog about the strange infection I had while in Prague), I had a renewed focus, vision, and purpose. All of the experiences of my life could be wrapped up in a way that made sense through my current doctoral studies. I was healing, real-time. I was in authentic, right-relationship with Source, Creation, Ancestors, myself, family, and my dear Beloved. I was becoming. 

In this process of becoming and healing, I had to make another round of amends. Now, this is always one of the things that is a bit odd to me in 12 step. Yes, making amends are of the utmost importance. And, it still centers around the addict. What if the relationship has been harmed beyond repair? Sure, there’s a clause about not making direct amends if it will cause further harm. Got that. Is there a better way we can go about on this project of healing?

I am not sure. So, I keep showing up. 

Last night, I had an opportunity to be present on a Zoom call with modern day abolitionists looking to get our Black Mommas and caregivers free from cages. On this call was a young person who I’ve known for the last decade. I remember the first time she walked into my campaign office. Another comrade in the struggle, who has mostly known me during times of shadow and deep moon time. And a new comrade.  I was surrounded in the love and light of my Black sisters from Team Sankofa... they flanked me. I am so grateful.I belonged. People could see me showing up in my gifts and it was appreciated. And they loved on me. And I contributed something for the liberation of my people. It was a good night. 

This morning was the longest morning I have slept in awhile. I awakened to the sound of my beloved stirring. It is quite unusual that she is awake before me. Leo, the family dog, is laying at our feet. Ren (Serenity) is coming up next to me, wanting and expecting to be rubbed. It’s a beautiful morning at home. And I am grateful for another day’s journey. 

I rolled over to scroll my phone and received a message from a long term kindred. It took me to the shadows. When I read, what I received was: I am toxic. I am not welcome. I hurt people. The sight of me was triggering. Please do not contact again. Me, engaging in any way with them or their family, is triggering and painful.... Of course, that is a paraphrase. And I took an exhale. And centered. And immediately offered gratitude for both of our paths and healing. 

Then I brought it to the screen to write, bless, and release. 

I am not sure where they are on their journey or what their healing will look like as it unfolds. I come only in love, light, and peace. And I do not have to come at all. 

Part of this healing journey has taught me that I must bless and release. There are folks who will continue walking with me, there are folks who will never walk with me again, and there are those that will be new companions on this journey. I am grateful for all. 

As we engage on this healing, all of us, I must also sit with those whom I’ve hurt. And that’s hard. Because some of them will never forgive me and no matter what I do, to them, I’ll always be a monster unworthy of grace and incapable of change. I get that. That’s on them moreso than it is on me. And I have to release that every time it comes up, move through the grief that brings, mourn the loss of the relationship, and stay grounded in my healing. 

Sitting with the comment that the sight of me, on my Instagram, was triggering to someone else. 

And healing is not linear. Theirs or mine. 

And life goes on. 

And we keep coming back. 

Today, I am going to show up for myself. I am going to ground in my practices. I am going to love on my partner. I am going to be well. 

I am grateful for the comments I received because they will help me stay grounded in my work and commitments to healing and self-transformation... liberation. 

With gratitude, love, and light---

[revlatte]

In response

If you recall, I just returned from Prague. They IMMEDIATELY acted as soon as the first case was confirmed. We went on to lock, immediately. Travel restrictions, travel bans, and restaurants closings. As a nation, they have less than 5000 confirmed cases and less than 100 deaths. This is a place that is not far from Italy; my friends would travel there on the weekends/vikend. Darja, my dear friend, owns a business in Prague. When the government issued the "shelter-in-place" order, her business immediately had to close. It's now almost been a month. People are not out on the streets. No businesses are open. People are at home. Not consuming. The issue in the United States is not just that people will not stay home. We are addicted to consuming. We are out because of our need to consume. Do folks really need to go to the store for more groceries? Really? We NEED these things? We NEED a coffee from Dunkin right now? All across the world, other nations are paying attention to the fact that asymptomatic people are spreading the virus. AS people are beginning to arrive in hospitals and emergency rooms. And, WHO is beginning to report an increasing amount of young people testing positive (as recently as today). The reason I mention this: these people who are asymptomatic are working, in our communities, and honestly: could be us. Our need to consume is what is damaging here. Folks are working, asymptomatic, and pass us our coffee at Dunkin. And surprise, we're now exposed and neither party knows. But we absolutely "needed" that coffee... it's an essential business, right? Sigh. Americans. When I was in Prague, my friend woke me up v. early in the morning and told me I needed to get a ticket and leave the country, as soon as possible. We had arrangements for what would happen if they could not get me to the airport, if I couldn't leave from Prague or Portugal, etc. After we confirmed my ticket, she received a call from the distributor: Italian factories were closing due to Covid-19. They knew then, over a month ago, that the virus lives on objects for over 45 days (citing WHO). Again, our issue is the sin of gluttony, consumption. We are importing from all over the world, still, and exporting. The virus is being spread in our products. Because we cannot stop consuming. The United States is truly unimaginable at this point. I was safer abroad than I am on the continent on which I was born. I am beside myself. During times of national disasters, the presidents show a united front, past and present. 45 will not call. This is a mess. And, I am grateful for the gift of stillness.

[revlatte]

This is a fucking mess...

Like almost all Americans, I am at home, in quarantine. Unlike most Americans, I had just come from being under watch and care from an infection I received while in Prague. I left Europe as urgently as possible and was blessed to get back to the United States. However, I had come off of about 3 weeks of varied/lowered social engagement. But I am grateful that at least I had that time. 

Here we are approaching the fourth week of isolation and I am exhausted. Nights are running into days, days into nights. It’s hard to keep track of what day it is and when is coming next.

Planning has always helped alleviate my anxiety. Some folks could say that planning is useless, okay. Having a plan, a set of plans (I use PACE planning), keeps me grounded and looking forward. For me, it is a resiliency practice. That to say, all of my plans have been FUBAR. 

Back on the drawing board: Settling Home. Certifications and Degrees. Rooting in community. 

Home. Well, that’s interesting. How does one look for home in the midst of a pandemic? The rental market is becoming increasingly expensive. It’s disgusting. I don’t know how people do it. The places that were $1000/mo 10 years ago have now doubled. The places that are affordable now are much smaller and in “bad sections of town.” If one could buy, that’s the best option. But how can you buy when you don’t and haven’t had stable income? It’s a Catch-22 that quickly becomes overwhelming. But this is the year a search and quest for home will be resolved.

Certs and Degrees + Rooting in Community. I’ve been in recovery almost 12 years. Like most folks who struggle, I’ve been in and out. I’ve been in the program, out of the program, and have tried a variety of different things and approaches. I wish there was just recovery from trauma and abuse... Perhaps this is something I will collaborate with others to produce. In the interim, I am seeking training to become a Certified Peer Recovery Specialist at both the local/state and national level. Also, I’m planning to take the necessary coursework to become a Certified Associate Counselor - Alcohol and Drugs. These certifications will be immediately useful working with women and other folks who are struggling on a daily basis. It is my hope that I can partner with folks working in recovery centers and be an on-call, on-the-streets, boots-on-the-ground Recovery Chaplain. 

But, we still must deal with the issues of mass incarceration and the opioid crisis. As mentioned many times before, mass incarceration is a public health crisis. Opioid use, abuse, and overdoses are a public health crisis. Our response to trauma: public health crisis. As I am growing in my understanding of the ways trauma impacts the brain, it is clear trauma, mixed with mental health diagnosis, and the disease of addiction create a soup that leads to survival sex/sex work and mass incarceration, for many women who are impacted by the system. It is my calling to frame this as a public health issue and begin working to decarcerate, decriminalize, and liberate while creating space for healing, recovery, and transformation. It is possible. I am a witness. 

But hell, if I’m not angry. 

I am angry that we are in this situation and confined in our homes. 

I am angry about the ways global capitalism exploits the most vulnerable. 

I am angry about governments around the world lying, covering up disease, and putting us all at risk. 

I’m angry at entitled, privileged, white men. 

I’m angry at 45. 

I am angry at the people who refuse to wake up and would rather be dead on their feet. 

I am angry at those who are not angry. 

How can we sit, idly, and watch this all unfold? 45 continues to fire people at his will and abuse the office of President. His actions have put out entire nation at risk. I am being flooded with images and stories of people who have transitioned. 

At the end of Spike Lee’s “School Daze,” there is an infamous scene of Laurence Fishburne yellng “Wake Up!!!” throughout the imaginary HBCU campus. Yes! We need to WAKE UP!

We need to WAKE UP to the realities that our government elected leaders and officials have, embarrassingly, failed us. Unless we take action, more will become sick and die. 

We need to WAKE UP and take control of our government back. It was hijacked and we have been stunned and stilled. It is time to WAKE UP and call out the evils that exist on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and beyond. 

We need to WAKE UP to the lies, deceit, and campaigns of mis-information that are being used to intentionally deceived and mis-lead the public. 

This government, these leaders, are so far out of touch. They do not care about you or me. Wake the actual fuck up. 

When I was in Prague, so many people told me about their involvement with the Velvet Revolution. Some folks just offered clothes and taught languages. Some were revolutionary underground pastoral renegades working with addictions (yup... Tomas Halik reference). Some provided space and food. The task before them was monumental but they were WOKE and ANGRY and unwilling to settle for more of the same. They took action and transitioned power peacefully. 

This idiot who occupies the Oval has committed treason, is responsible for the deaths of thousands, has betrayed the United States (treason), and has certainly committed high crimes and misdemeanors. Though the Democrats impeached, their case and appeal to Americans was not as strong as it should have been. So much information could have (should have!) been included. This man is pure evil and not fit to be President. 

But why are we just sitting here? Why do we let this continue? Why do we feel powerless? Where are the revolutionaries who will say “NO MORE” and then TAKE ACTION? 

No. I do not support BS, for a variety of reasons and I do not want to use my space to discuss another opportunistic, mediocre white man. I also do not support Uncle Joe. None of the leadership is inspirational. I do not, for the life of me, understand why my radical homies, organizers, and activist friends are supporting this bull shit and non-sense. C’mon y’all.... this isn’t the only way. 

We’re in a fucking mess. I don’t know what this will look like on the other side. But I believe there is another side. Which is why I plan. 

Until then, I am hoping that one day, I’ll wake up... 

[revlatte]

Queerentine Tales Part I

It’s 10:49 am on a Wednesday morning and I am still sitting on the bed, in my house clothes, determining what’s next. I look up and to my right. My partner is about 18 feet away, slowly and deliberately relaxing into the morning. Freshening herself and preparing herself for the day ahead, she takes a deep breath and exhales. This is the new normal during Queerntine 2020. We’ve been in seclusion since my return from Prague two weeks ago. We are prepared for the reality that this may be life as we know if for the next several months. Several weeks ago, I departed from this place to go on a journey that I expected would be life-changing. And that it was! The journey began with a departure on a red-eye from JFK. Hours later, I arrived in Paris. From Paris, I took a train across Europe through Germany until I had reached my destination of Prague. I had never before traveled internationally and I certainly had not traveled this far by myself. It was challenging and exhilarating. I spent a lot of time with myself. And something magical happened as I was spending more time with myself... I began to fall in love... with me! I heard the crunchy hippy dippy people talk about this but never thought it was possible until, in fact, it did. I began to enjoy my own company. Going on dates. And just being with myself. 

During this time, I learned a lot about what I want, the life that I would like to craft, and how I would like to be and show up in the world. Needless to say, that can no longer happen within the confines of life here in the United States. But how does one live in this liminal space and time between countries, during a pandemic, and with virtually no income. Yup. It sucks. 

Well, one must begin with an immense amount of focus and planning. There are a million ways to be distracted right now. But, one has to remain focused. Next, I’m gonna spend some time vision casting to see how this future truly may be possible. I am feeling called to life, community building and community involvement, and the restoration of my soul... In Prague and beyond. I know the deep level of healing that is necessary cannot come from a place that has oppressed my ancestors for generations. It’s simply not happening for me. 

For the majority of my life, I have been told I am a great writer. People enjoy reading what I have to say, most of the time. :) So, during this time, I am going to settle down, review my writings, and get some (edited) thoughts together so that I can write, create, and be. 

Cheers to #becoming and #unbecoming during Covid-19!

[revlatte]

Can I Be Me?

It goes without saying that almost everyone that knows me is aware of my love and devotion to Nippy, Whitney Elizabeth Houston. It was a national tragedy when she transitioned from this life 8 years ago. Devastating. 

Since her passing, there have been several documentaries about her life and the struggles she faced with sexuality, belonging, and just being herself. Sidenote: My belief is that Clive Davis collaborated with Nick Gordon to intentionally murder. She had recently signed the largest music contract to date for $100 million and ten years. Almost destitute, Clive Davis advanced her quite a bit of this money, only for her still to be in financial trouble at the end of her life. It was very clear to Davis (and the world) that “The Voice” was gone. Instead of the effortless long notes and melodies to which the world was accustom, we received broke, short, notes pregnant with despair and suffering. For Davis, the predatory music producer, there would certainly be no return on his investment. Tours and music deals had been canceled. What a flop?

I believe it was at this time that Davis began to have conversations about how to reconcile this issue. For Davis and Arista, Whitney was worth far more dead than alive. Alive, she was an embarrassment and liability. 

Nick Gordon stood to benefit from the fall of N. Once she was gone, Bobbi Kristina (Whitney’s daughter) would inherit the money. As N’s long term “adopted” son, Nick had become very close with both N and Bobbi Kris. Sure ‘nough, after Nippy died, Bobbi Kris and her Aunt (damn her, too!) took control of Nippy’s limited assets. 

A few short years later, Bobbi Kris died in the same way... head down, in a hot tub. Common denominator: Nick Gordon. 

And just a few years after Bobbi Kris’ untimely and suspicious death, Nick Gordon died in the *same* way as Bobbi Kris and Nippy. But, ya know, Clive Davis and the music industry had nothing to do with the elimination of Whitney and her daughter from the face of the planet. Just hours before his death, Nick Gordon was consumed with the death of his late “fiance”/ wife, tweeting about the circumstances around her death.

Nevertheless, Whitney could not escape from the shadow of her past. She had a very colorful period (if not demise) during her long-term relationship with R&B’s Bad Boy, Bobby Brown. It was a disaster from the start. Whitney and Bobby’s collective drug use, spending, child neglect, and acting out was painful to watch. They were toxic, codependent, and just... terrible. I do wonder what friends stepped in, assisted, attempted to break the cycles and illuminate the destruction. 

Friendship can make the difference between life and death, success and failure, pain and sorrow or joy and liberation. Friendship. Being known. Being seen. Being loved unconditionally. Being enough. 

As many Nippy friends recall, CeCe Winans sang “Count on Me” with Nippy on the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack. It’s the last song that plays, after a year of watching these four Black women, on their New Year’s Eve together. As many know, Nippy and CeCe were long term friends. In fact, N made sure that CeCe and BeBe were professionalizing their performances, had the appropriate outfits, and supported them emotionally, financially, and spiritually. CeCe has done all but to distance herself from Whitney. In fact, I recently attended a concert where she did not acknowledge, in her autobiographical comments from the stage, anything about the friendship with Nippy or how she supported them. Instead, “safe” and “more appropriate” reference points were offered to the packed, almost exclusively Black, audience. 

And where was CeCe during Whitney’s downfall? Why couldn’t we offer the same level of support, compassion, and understanding to Whitney that we offer the countless white women who flood our screens with their housewife and reality TV shenanigans? Whitney, once America’s Sweetheart, was demonized and vilified in our press and collective conscious. I can only imagine how this must have felt. 

Through it all, Whitney denied herself time and time again to be of service (and profit) to others. One documentarian excavated, from Nippy’s life, one of her favorite refrains, “Can I Be Me?” Nippy just wanted to be “normal” and live a life that focused on family and joy. But everywhere she went, she found herself. She could not escape the mistakes, pain, or tragedy of her past. She was always gazed upon through the lens of failure and judgment; or at least that is how it seems from my vantage point. 

Without doubt, Whitney experienced trauma and abuse. Whitney made mistakes. Whitney, like many Americans, struggled with addiction, self-worth, and mental health. And guess what, she made mistakes and bad decisions along the way. 

But, she “found her own strength” and began to rebuild herself. Though she was not the best actor, indisputably, she put her all into this career and vocation. She found excitement and joy with having meaning and purpose again. She was connected and surrounded by a community of people who loved her, kept her well, were gracious, compassionate, understanding, and loved her unconditionally. That sense of purpose, meaning, and respect was life changing for Nippy. After many years of struggle and heart break, a musical career that was near its end, she was beginning to find her way, home, again. 

And just like that, she slipped through the cracks. Just when she started to live life on her own, for her fulfillment of joy and liberation. 

But when she died, the news outlets and headlines flooded with Whitney’s past, drug use, relationship scandals, and negativity. I was sickened to my core. My stomach turned over. Even in death, there was still a need to vilify her living. Yet, this occurred while simultaneously taking pauses from our national news cycle to honor her accomplishments and living. It’s a particular type of dark schizophrenia that, unfortunately, we have all become used too. 

And oh, don’t I know it too well. 

Let me be clear: I have made mistakes (even recently!). I had made bad decisions. My poor decision making has harmed myself and others. At times, I have been ambivalent about life and endeavored to self-assassinate (an attempt at humor). In these moments of feeling low, not being able to manage my mental health, and feeling disconnected, I could not see a way out of the desperation of despair that consumed my spirit. I struggled with my addiction, acting out, and codependency. I was a mess. A whole ass, fucking mess. 

Then one day, I hit a bottom, finally, and looked at myself. Puffy eyed, tears streaming down my face, I stumbled to get off the cold floor as my friend helped pick me up. I was so caught in despair and hopeless that I punched a whole into the bedroom wall by the closet. Then, we walked to the bathroom to clean up. I just wanted everything I could not have. As I started into the mirror, I saw the person looking back at me in a new way. “ENOUGH!” I yelled. “STOP!” I screamed. This. Is. Bottom. No more of this. No more living like this. No more chaos. No more fuckery. No more drama. 

The lyrics and melodies of Nippy lifted me, as usual, from a place of hopelessness and despair to a renewed sense of hope and eventually peace. It’s been several months and at least three seasons since that day. Each day gets a bit easier, though, healing is not linear. 

As I attempt to stabilize my life and build new patterns of being in the world, I am called to consider the questions for the liberation of my soul:

- Is this decision/action life nourishing?

- How does X increase my wellness?

- How is/are these Ys in alignment?

I’ve developed new patterns, routines, and supports to facilitate in my recovery. And, I feel new, loved, revived. 

All of this as I am still navigating the complex web of trauma and lived experience. So much trauma. It is overwhelming to consider at once. The last 8 years have been a learning experience of understanding and coping with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD), which is different and nuanced than PTSD. How can I be me when I’m trapped in trauma cycles?

The last several months have been devoted to uncovering, recognizing, and transforming these cycles. However, it is hard to stabilize if you do not have a physical home... It is difficult to find peace when you cannot do the basics of supporting yourself because you cannot find gainful and meaningful employment (that, in and of itself is embarrassing, humiliating, and defeating)... It’s hard to live in the shadow of  failed businesses that were supposed to provide means for collective economics and liberation. And sometimes, it’s just hard to get out of bed. 

But most of all, it’s difficult to be in recovery, start a new life, and be a transformed soul on the path of healing, wellness, and recovery when people only see you through your past, trauma, chaos, fuckery, drama, and pain. Completing simple tasks, like adjusting resumes, performing job searches, trying to find community, and authentically connecting require so much emotional labor that it’s overwhelming. And instead, I do nothing, relive former trauma, and am reminded of how far outside the web of mutuality and interconnectedness I feel. I can see and watch the people I formerly knew, shared meals with... folks that stayed in my home... folks that I considered family... build and find joy, anew. I observe networks forming, shaping, and shifting and me being there to watch from the outside. Or the folks that you affiliate with all going on and planning trips together, engaged on group chats, hanging out and you just never being enough to be included. It fucking sucks. I can only imagine what Nippy must have felt. Can I Be Me?

How do we share with people who have written us off, who have sent us messages that end with “wishing you all the best” but don’t contact me again, to the people who said we’ll never be different... that I am healing. And recovering. And getting well. And not to judge me for my past, mistakes, fuckups, and chaos? To allow me to show them that I am better? How do we create spaciousness for both brokenness and healing simultaneously?

Here I am... again. Wondering, wishing, waiting. As my folks approach retirement, I realizing that enough is enough. It is time for me to settle down, do the same thing, get in a career, align with vocational calling, and build a future for me and my family. BUT, how does one do this when the networks of people with whom I was formerly connected just see me as deviant? A monster? Not enough? Too emotional? Too much? When you know that before you even touch the knob of the door, it will never be opened and there ware no windows that will open either. In many ways (incarceration, housing instability, lack of depth within social network, financial instability, failed relationships, closed doors to job opportunities), I am constantly being reminded that I am an outsider, unwelcome, not enough, under valued, not respected, and no... I cannot be me. 

Whitney, as we enter the season where we remember your life and transition, I am grateful for you. I see you, fully. You and I are made from the same dust and will return to the dust from which we were made. 

Here’s to hoping that someday, we’ll all be free.

[revlatte]

Gma Shuffles 1

In the room next to me, I hear my grandmother as happy and content as she can be. She’s sweeping the carpet. Humming under her breath and looking at the window through the crack in the curtain that’s been gently letting light in. She and my mother arrived late yesterday. 

 It is now officially less than two weeks before I embark on a journey on becoming and unbecoming. My heart is full of love, light, peace, and stability. Also, there’s a never ending task list of things to be accomplished before I take flight. Somehow, I know and believe it will all be done. I am actively working to replace anxiety and fear with gratitude and curiosity. I am not exactly sure about the circumstances that have me arriving at this moment but I am grateful. 

 My grandmother is the second oldest daughter of five children. Her eldest sister and the oldest child was her best friend, my great Aunt Flora Edna Blue. Aunt Flora was Gma’s road dog and ride or die. Both sisters lost husbands and relied on each other for companionship, spirituality, and the basics of life. Aunt Flora moved into the house that my grandparents sold before building their new home on an adjoining lot. We always grew up as a very close family. 

 Right now, I know my grandmother is getting into items that she should not be. She’s bored. Her mind is wandering. She wants to have purpose. I am, like many others around her, locked into my computer screen as it consumes me and I attempt to confess my soul to the priest who never responds. She’s humming. Moving about. Shuffling. It’s the shuffle of mischievousness. They saw she’s in severe kidney failure and attempting to make sense of the world around her with a brain that’s afflicted with dementia. She’s buried children and husband, friends and family. She’s tired and will often share that she’s ready to go on Home to Glory. 

 For now, she just shuffles about. 

 Sharing space with her and looking at her makes me think about my Final Days. Who will want me to hold on? It seems like she’s holding on for my mother who is not read to let go. That transition will shift the family dynamic in a way that even I am not comfortable or prepared for but I know it is coming. Yet, we must live. Each day after the other. (G is shuffling about ahead of me. She has made the hanger with the paper in between a dustpan. I am actually shocked at how much stuff she got off the floor from sweeping on carpet. Maybe we really are the ones who have it all wrong…). 

 Right now, I am blessed to have an amazing family. My family is open, expansive, and nonconventional. We’ve shown up for each other in ways that seem to completely perplex others. There is freedom and liberation in choosing those who will walk with you in this journey and knowing that you can trust the integrity of their souls. That means a lot. We continue to choose each other, day after day, even in the midst of our mess and chaos. And one storm after the other, we help each other get to the other side. In between the storm, we can celebrate bright and sweet days. Family. My people. This land. 

 My people. As I get older, I am so incredibly grateful for the folks that I can call my people and those that call me by name. I am grateful that my brain, heart, and soul will be filled with special moments like hearing my grandmother shuffle in the room next to me. She’s a Cancer and I am a Pisces. We share quiet space together well. We both appreciate the separate-togetherness. I am grateful that though she has dementia she can see me, truly see me. And I am grateful that I know how well she is being cared for in this long transition to Home. It is my hope and prayer that my family will love me in this way when it is my time to say farewell. 

 Until then… time for some more Grandma Shuffles.

[revlatte]

11 Jan 2020

Bear, Delaware

3:33 pm

They say if you want to be a writer, you should write everyday. Unfortunately, for them perhaps, there are very few things I do everyday. The only thing I consistently do everyday is be me, authentically. “L.A. McCrae. All day, every day.”

Within the next few hours, I will depart on what feels like the beginning of the rest of the year. My partner and I are staying in Alexandria, VA this week because: 1. I have my intensive for my doctoral program 2. She is preaching on Sunday and 3. We want to maximize the time we are spending together before I leave for Europe. This departure, this travel, feels qualitatively different. I am leaving to loose myself, unbecome what I’ve been, discover myself, and become anew. So let the journey begin... 

I have spent exactly 0 minutes enjoying and exploring Alexandria, VA. This is where we will drop our anchors for the week. On the way to Alexandria, we have to make a few stops. Bel Air, to gather a few items and tidy up. It’s been awhile since I have spent time there. That is bittersweet. I love Pop dearly and love being able to nest a little bit, relax, and feel at home. The time we spend together is always to be cherished. After wrapping up in the 21015, we have to stop by to see the wife. It is increasingly difficult to spend time with her because I am now, more or less, living in Delaware. She cannot drive long distances and we just have to make time for each other in person. I will be leaving the car with her, in her car, and making wright on a wrong from many years ago. It feels good to be transitioning and shifting into alignment in all aspects of my life. 

I’d be amazing if we could see my brother while we’re in town. I haven’t seen him in almost a week and, well, that just doesn’t seem right. Though we share no birth parents, he is, nonetheless, my family. 

Finally, after we’re done our Maryland erranding, we can head to the place we’ll call home for the next week. And then, we can exhale. 

It is real and very new, this being able to exhale, breathe, and relax into the moment fully. Now, there is not a threat of arrests and police activity. I can trust in myself and my new found strength, resilience, discernment, and solidness. The person who has showed up as a walking partner on this part of the journey holds my soul tenderly and tight. As a Pisces, we get each other in the deep and profound ways that others cannot imagine. I can rest in the solid footing that we in sync. All seems to be well with my soul. I am so grateful for the peaceful waters that carry me through each day. 

This journey has not been easy. I’ve been traveling this journey we call life with a crew of partners, friends, family, spirit guides, ancestors, and friends on the journey. As I embark on this next leg of the journey, the European tour, I feel fortified. I am in authentic right alignment with Joy, Christin, Ralikh, the parents and most importantly, myself.  This trip is most about self-discovery and healing. It will provide an opportunity for some much needed space, reflection, growth, writing, unbecoming, and becoming. My folks are holding me down in person and from across the waters. No longer must I watch the TV with wistful eyes imaging the life before me was my own. I am making it mine. Minute by minute, step by step, and knowing that all is unfolding perfectly, in every moment, in my highest interest. 

Cheers for this departure and the journey ahead. This time next year, I will be full of amazing adventures, stories, and learning. I leave here now, with deep gratitude and humility in my heart, eager to continue this process of healing. 

Thanks for witnessing and listening.

Travel Log:

W1: Delaware, Maryland, Pennsylvania

W2: Delaware, Maryland, D.C., Virginia

[revlatte]

Salvation

So Jesus left you lonely Feels like nothing's really holy (holy holy holy) No one no one hears your calling Falling and everything is falling (Falling falling Falling)

~ Bailen

Sometimes, all of the roads look the same when you’re unsure about your final destination. 

Today, I embarked on a #DateNight with myself to the City of Brotherly Love, Philadelphia. To say I was anxious is an understatement. As I get older, it becomes increasingly overwhelming to navigate new terrain on my own. And, in the last 24 hours before the show, a friend respectfully bowed out. This was not about a friend, a girlfriend, an ex, a lover... This concert is about me experiencing true joy and healing, and self-love, as acts of radical self care. 

This morning was another melancholy morning. I laid there. Listening to my Pop rumble around and rouse to call my Ma for her birthday. Then I thought about N’s birthday and Krystal K’s bday. How am I surrounded by all of the Sags in my inner circle. I love-hate, hate-love y’all. 

I turned back over in the bed, overwhelmed by all of my mother’s possessions seemingly coming in on me. It’s hard to find joy in a hoarder house. It’s much easy to shift to an attitude of gratefulness when I think about the safety and security of having a stable place to call home. Yet and still, there was a weight on my chest, an albatross around my soul. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. Exhale. 

My cousin called. Each time she calls it is a reminder that I have solid plans for an amazing return trip to Paris. The Ancestors knew exactly what I needed in that moment: tenderness. We chatted and that buoyed my spirits. Pop needed me to drop his medicine in his eyes. Low key, I think the diabetes is going to eventually make him blind. He hates the drops. His vision is off and his understanding of color is distorted. That’s a very different blog for a very different day.

I managed to get myself up after my father left for a funeral. He was wearing Black on Black. I just couldn’t muster the strength to go to another funeral this year. Exhale. Uche is gone. Exhale. None of us will make it out of here alive. Exhale. 

Sigh. 

Okay, let me call my Ma and make some coffee. “But first, coffee,” right? HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YA!, in my best Stevie Wonder voice. My mother sounded so happy and full of joy. I am glad that during this time of deep grief and sorrow, we could pause to find the joy in celebrating another one of her returns. Thank you, Jesus, for giving me another year with my Momma. 

Exhale. I made the damn coffee too weak. Time to brew another pot. Fuck! That one is too weak, too. Fuck it, I need my coffee. 

I sat down at the computer, sipping my coffee and talking to the legal wife on FaceTime. Thank Goddess for FaceTime. Knocked out some computer work. Reaffirmed my commitments. Shared my gratitude. Re-grounded in my truth. Checked in with myself about boundaries. Exhale. Everything will be okay. It always has been and it always will be. The point at which it stops being okay, my consciousness will have shifted from this plane. Allow yourself to experience Joy, McCrae. (Seriously, no pun intended). 

It “Hit” me... today is the day! I get to see Bailen! Go to Giovanni’s Room. Enjoy a delicious meal. Be in a new-old, old-new city once again. Experience the fullness, the ethos of the season. “It’s just me,” as Jilly from Philly sang. And that’s okay. And exciting. This will be a brief pre-cursor for my trip to Paris. 

Admittedly, the Moon was guiding me... as they always do. I felt guided by my Ancestors. The stars are aligning. No matter what, this is going to be a beautiful and wonderful night. Today, this evening, in this moment; I am so glad to be alive and full of life. 

After navigating various bridges (I HATE driving over bridges), I was able to circle the block a few times and find parking. Before going to Giovanni’s Room, I wanted to enjoy a delicious latte. After all, I am the revlatte. 

Park. Pay for Parking. Get my shit together. Scarf/hat combo, jacket, bookbag. I have to submit an assignment for my doctoral program before enjoying the concert. AND, if I decide to drink, the best decision is to park and ride. Have liquor before beer because beer will be so much easier to drink in a concert setting. AND, I am not trying to be THAT altered in a different city, seeing this band for the first time. I clearly made that mistake with Jill Scott. 

And... here we go. One foot in front of the other, friend. I navigate my way back to Giovanni’s Room and was stopped by traffic once, in front of the Alexander Inn. It was beautiful to see the people, in their natural habit, full of the season’s spirit, and allow the red glow from the signs to gently caress my face. I am held tight by all my people. 

Advancing on, I found a cute spot to grab a drink. AND, it’s Happy Hour! Yes, pass me all the things at Mixto! When I walked in, there was a striking young gentleman. I thought he was flirting. Which was confusing. I was also pleasantly surprised to see all of these queer women couples. Interracial couples. Couples of all types and sizes. Every time I am here I have the same feeling and experience. I completely understand why my brother has lived here so many times. Sheesh! Could I find my tribe here?

Settling into the bar, I did a time check. GREAT FUCKING JOB, MCCRAE! You have plenty of time to relax, have some snacks, enjoy two drinks, leave some holiday cheer and browse books at Giovanni’s Room. 

Next on this date night... Giovanni’s Room. Then, Johnny Brenda’s for a concert I’ve been waiting for since I was captivated by them on Good Morning America... BAILEN. 

Yes, Jesus has left me lonely. And wrapped in the melodies of these siblings, I know that I’m not falling alone. I am looking forward to feeling alive in their lyrics and my heart being strangely warmed by their music. 

Salvation. 

[revlatte]

“Nevermind, I’ll be okay”

A few months ago, I could not make it out of the bed. I was broken. FUBAR - Truly fucked up beyond all recognition. I didn’t know myself anymore. 

In the midst of a darkness that overwhelmed every aspect of my being, my people, my soul fam, showed up. Kat was a first responder who just came without knowing what was going on. She sat there and held me while I cried. She put me to bed. She listened. She was kind and compassionate. 

Later that day, Christine came by and helped me eat. Make lists. And function. Throughout the day, I had phone calls from folks who loved me unconditionally and visits from people who walked with me on the journey of darkness before. At that very moment, I felt like there was literally nothing to live for. 

Immediately, I texted my therapist. She said three simple words that changed the course of my life forever: “I got you.” And in that moment, I knew I had the exact strength and support that I needed to move from darkness to light. From brokenness to healing. Back on the road to me. 

Over the course of the next few months, I would find myself again. One day while scrolling Instagram, I came across the lines from a poet whom I now love. One of her books was entitled, “Nevermind, I’ll be okay.” I was drawn in and purchased all of her books. Then, I began to gather my thoughts, my poetry (new and old) and created a book of poetry: Black Coffee. Right before it was to be released, I was shocked with yet another arrest. What in the actual fuck?

Enough fuckery and non-sense. Enough of the chaos and bullshit. I was so fucking over it. It was time to get my life on track. I couldn’t say back on track because was it ever not headed on a pathway towards destruction? Fuck. This. Shit. I was over me. 

So, I began more intensive therapy. I began to be radically fucking honest. I named the exact nature of my wrongdoing. I asked for forgiveness and made amends. I began a journey towards true healing, recovery, growth, restoration, and transformation. 

In these months, I created goals and invited accountability partners. I created structure and routine and invited others to participate. My morning routine was set. It included spiritual grounding, physical fitness, a healthy and balanced meal (often a smoothie or avocado toast), and checking in with a group of resilient as fuck women known as my “Standing Rocks.” Throughout the day, I had a cloud of witnesses, both present on this plane and those ascendant, who held me down. After work, I sought opportunities to connect that brought me joy. And when I got off track (because of course I did/do), I centered down and re-connected. 

Today, I woke up heavy because I had to enter the courthouse on North Avenue yet again. I did not ask anyone to go with me. But I knew I was covered. When I awakened, I immediately went to check on Pop and drop his solution into his eyes. Then, I slowly began to get myself together and centered down. I checked in with my Rocks, my soul fam, and my therapist. “I got this” I whispered to myself. 

Though the clock was ticking, I breathed in and out. I breathed in peace and exhaled joy. I picked up my outfit, loaded the car, and showered. The Universe provided me an opportunity to connect voice-to-voice with my Beloved Kit Kat. It’s always good to know she’s walking with me on this journey. Though it was n overcast and rainy morning, I found opportunities to express gratitude and joy. The melodies of Bailen soared through my Buick LaCrosse and into my soul. 

When I walked into court, I made eye contact with the State’s Attorney, approached, and centered down again. Throughout the morning, I had the confidence of my therapist, my Rocks, and soul fam a finger tip away. 

Nervously, I searched the crowded, packed Courtroom 5 for a seat. Ah ha! There’s a tiny space next to a gentleman on the third row. “Excuse me, may I sit next to you?” He did not speak English. I did my best to convey my desires in Spanish and he smiled. That simple kindness melted my soul. I quickly slipped into the seat next to him and thumbed through my books for school while pulling out my syllabus. “Okay, McCrae. Which book do you want to focus on for your presentation? Which books do you want to write about?” My choices:

1. Transformational Leadership by Bugg. Definitely do NOT want to present on this book.

2. Transforming Communities  by Rani Jha. Interesting and short read. I’ll start with this one. 

3. Faith Rooted Organizing  by Salvatierra and Heltzer. Shoulder shrug. Oh, the Christians. 

4. The Politics of Jesus by Hendricks. Nah, I’m good. I can write about this one. 

5. Mobilizing Hope by Taylor. Not what I expected but... sure, I can present on this one. 

Main point: I have to read all of these first. So, let’s begin with Sandhya Rani Jha’s book. 

The judge appeared and I was flooded with feelings. “McCrae, I got you. You are safe. Nothing can harm you, even death. Fear not. Your people are with you. Your Ancestors are watching. It must remain well with your soul.” This TV-ready judge commanded the room and the show began. 

Case after case was called. Noelle prosequi, jail time, what would the verdict be for my case? Trying to figure out an outcome for a future event and attaching any feeling to it creates anxiety. Full. Fucking. Stop. I’m not playing that game with you, self. Read your damn book. 

After awhile, a young Black woman approached me on behalf of the State. They wanted to see if I could pull off some additional evidence from my phone. I certainly did not want to lose my phone again to the State. I was then also advised they were holding the case for my brother to appear, who I had not been able to reach. In the moment outside of the courtroom, on the bench, this woman and I (whom I presume to be in her early 40s), connected. I shared with her a bit of my story, my syllabus, and the books. She took down some information and I felt truly seen, validated, and affirmed. No matter the outcome, I was going to be okay. 

Eventually, the case was called and I was able to go home for the day. I breathed deeply and felt the presence of all my people with me. I checked in, called the wife, and arrived at my brother’s house. There, I made some libations, sipped, and settled into therapy. I was clear. I was grounded. I was growing, and healing, and transforming. 

En route to my brother’s, the wife asked me about my relationship with someone. I shared that I am no longer projecting my expectations on them and am providing them the grace and spaciousness for them to show up at their capacity level and trusting their ability to show up consistently in the ways they can. I expressed that I do not believe in disposable relationships and people and as much as this person sometimes disappoints me, they are a reflection of me, and I forgive them as I am forgiven. We all fuck up and make mistakes, we have pasts littered with trauma and fuckery. I don’t have skeletons in my closets but live ass bodies! This person is worthy of my unconditional love, radical acceptance, and family-making because I (and you) are worthy of the same. This provides an opportunity for greater growth, healing, compassion, love, and understanding. And for this lesson, I am grateful. 

Though a challenging day, I am immensely grateful for the gifts it provided to stretch my legs a bit and see how fucking much I have grown. Instead of catastrophizing, I had a plan in place. I communicated how I was feeling and released. I had the folks and relationships in place that would support my wellness and magic, not my illness, dis-ease, and madness. I (finally) released all attachment to anything folks thought about me, their narratives and stories, their head trash and trauma related to me, and allowed myself to be new in each moment. I gave myself love, compassion, peace, understanding, and light. I intentionally cultivated joy and moved at my own pace. 

Today is a red letter day in that I know healing and recovery, true transformation, are possible and happening now. And I bless and release all those who disposed of me, walked way, thought this was not possible, and just... yeah, all the things. Their doubt initially created deep hopelessness and despair but I realize it was the exact springboard I needed to be the best version of me; a me that has never existed. So I thank you. All of you. And wish you all the best on your journey, on your long walks, with your soul fam. Thank you for blessing me in the pain so that I could experience the joy of healing. 

And yes, I have a testimony and today it is: “Nevermind, I’ll be okay.”Ase!

[revlatte]

Melancholy Mornings

It’s like that sometimes. You just wake up, after a great night’s sleep, with a weight on your heart. If you’re anything like me, you lay there in the bed. Your body may send signals that it’s time to get up and get motivated (like having an urge to pee) but you resist them (by clenching your legs together). And, you just lay there. 

Eventually, you realize you have too, at the very least, go to pee. So you do. Then, you wander back to the soft bed and try to find comfort among soft pillows that hold you tight, night after night. Alone. In silence. There with yourself. And sometimes, you’re intolerable. 

Ah ha! Maybe a fresh cup of hot, Black coffee will buoy the spirit. So you saunter into the kitchen. Overwhelmed and relieved. Your favorite coffee is there, already ground. Fumble around for the filter. Pour out (way too much) ground coffee. Guestimate how much water you need. Pour water into lil’ machine. Sit down and wait. 

Starring into space in search of yourself. You, just simply, exist. Breathe. In and out. It’s ok. Everything is ok. This too shall pass. Or, at least that’s what you have to tell yourself to make it through this moment. 

What’s eating you? The fact that you think you’re an intellectual imposter? No, that’s not it. Your grandmother’s impending death? The hoarder house that is supposed to be a sanctuary but is full of traumatic memories? The time of year that draws out depression? The ex you thought was the one who is likely to be saying those words to someone else? The former lover who named their child after the name the two of you chose almost a decade and a half ago? Doing all you can to be well, get your body right, and still feeling the weight bear down on top of you? Confronting the harm that you’ve caused others? Who. The. Fuck. Knows. 

But in this moment, just fucking breathe. That’s all that’s required. 

Then, the coffee is ready. 

You slowly rise from your chair, barely dressed, and pour yourself some Black coffee. Fuck. It’s too hot and too bitter. Where did you put the sugar? Opening and closing kitchen cabinets, you find the sugar in the wrong place. Take it down, and slowly pour two spoonfuls into your coffee. The weight of the world is being transferred to the spoon and you hope the sweetness will bring sunshine to your soul. 

Now, you’re ready to drink the sweetened coffee that is just like your Uncle took his: Hot, Black, and Rough around the edges. 

You are content with enjoying an entire day in this funk; this special kind of blue. 

The phone rings. Damn it. Didn’t (insert name of closest friend) know that you were depressed? Didn’t they know you thought no one gave a fuck you existed? Didn’t they know you felt isolated? Abandoned? Rejected? Guilty? Why the fuck would the universe have them call and check on you? That certainly doesn’t fit your (completely wrong and fucked up) narrative that you’re alone, isolated, forgotten, abandoned. 

Yeah, it was a melancholy morning. And today, I had the strength to know I am okay and it will pass. Soon, this time of the year will be over and I can move into 2020 as a new creature. Not everyday will be sunshine and roses. Not everyday will be easier. 

I am reminded of the mornings when I just thought my life would come to an end. I didn’t have the strength to go on. And I am so grateful there were literally people who didn’t want me to die and kept me alive; they encouraged my soul. 

As I moved from melancholy to joy and gratitude, I began to focus on the blessings that I have now. No, I am not where I want to be in my life but I am on my way! I have no clue how I’m going to get to Paris, but I know I am going. I know it is important for my soul to leave this land, the land of my ancestors who were stolen and brought to this stolen land. I must leave the country of my birth to experience the world; to break the chains of trauma and find myself again. It all feels unreal but very certain. The biggest uncertainty is whether or not I will return. 

When I cross the seas that hold the memories of my ancestors’ wails, I will encounter opportunities and memories for which my soul has been longing. I will be held tight and tenderly by my Beloveds, old and new. I will have a place called home in a land that is supposed to be foreign. I will have the spaciousness to be me in a world that does not condemn my existence on sight. I will make it through more melancholy mornings, with Black coffee by my side. 

I am grateful for melancholy mornings because they are a test to my strength and resilience. These times teach me about myself and remind me to be slow, compassionate, and appreciate the journey. 

Today, I talked to a few friends who are struggling. Friend, soul fam: This is only temporary. Take deep breaths and focus on the basics. You are not your past. You are not the mistakes or down right fuckery that you’ve been engaged with. Someone believes in you (ah hem... I am one of them!). You are not “too much.” You can make choices to move from self-sabotage to self-love and from chaos to stability. Let the dark nights of the soul pass and welcome joy into your life. You are love. You are magic. 

Just remember: Keep moving forward... even through melancholy mornings. 

Let’s get well y’all.    

[revlatte]

One Day At a Time

It was absolutely silent. Dazed. I looked up, not lifting my head, barely able to breathe. Warm blood was rushing from my head, down my face, and on to the cold concrete beneath me. All I could see ahead of me were red taillights. I laid there. Still. Unable to move. I was dragged by a woman who was high on cocaine (and who knows what else), in the streets of Baltimore City. My life was at an all-time low. This had to be rock bottom. 

Leading up to this fateful night, just a few days shy of my birthday, I had endured some of the most painful experiences of my life. In yesteryears, I survived attempts at self-assassination (my Black humor here…), being stabbed by an irate ex, losing my home (at least twice), homelessness for a few weeks, being raped and molested throughout childhood, traumatic brain injuries from previous accidents and violence of former lovers, losing my business, and being wrongfully accused then incarcerated twice. Less than two months prior to my body lying on the streets of Baltimore City, my beloved Uncle passed away. We shared a bond, not just as water signs, but I was blessed to be able to give my kidney to him, which extended his life by 13 years. I felt his passing in my body before my mother called to let me know. I did not just lose an Uncle but one of the best friend’s anyone could ever ask for. It was devastating. 

I am not quite sure how I was holding it together; or if I even was. I was merely existing. My therapist says I was navigating the complexities of complex trauma. Whatever it was, I was sick. And my sickness was becoming a contagion. I knew I was not well but I had no clue how dis-eased I was. 

6 weeks after this incident, I met someone who literally change the course of my life, forever. And two months after our very brief dance, they disappeared (metaphorically) into the daze and haze, the same vapors, that I looked into while I lay on the streets of Baltimore City. It was almost as if they were an apparition. In that moment of a final transition of our relatedness, I realized I had to finally get my shit together. Enough was enough. I was fed up with me. 

A year ago, I reflected: “It’s the journey that counts…sometimes we have to completely lose ourselves to come back home.” Asé. But why was I still stuck in the same tapes and patterns? Why was I continually coming back to the same lesson? And here I am again, realizing that I am landing back at home, with my people, on the land of my birth. But still, there was much to learn and more growing to do. 

The only thing that had to change was everything. And I had to do it for me this time. 

I’ve been settling into new routines, crafting a new life, expressing gratitude, and loving the person who I am becoming. Recently, I reviewed a post on my IG feed. It spoke to my soul, as per usual. 

“You are a miraculous being with unlimited potential.” 

As someone who struggled with deep co-dependency and attachment shit, this one is always the most difficult for me to feel. How can I be a miraculous being? I’ve too often felt discarded, thrown away, disposable. If I was so miraculous, how and why would people so willingly walk away? Being stuck in this tape and narrative has historically created self-destructive patterns. Day  by day, I am getting stronger and coming into authentic right alignment with my damn self. I feel the magic and know, in my heart of hearts, I am a fucking badass who creates opportunity cloaked in light and love. 

“It is time to move past the circumstances that defined what you think you deserve.” 

It took me damn near my whole life to really feel this. In the midst of great loss and transition, I experience(d) rapid growth, healing, and transformation. I am still in the process of healing and will be until it is time for my spirit to sunset from this plane. I am blessed beyond belief every day that my life did not end there on the streets of Baltimore and that I am not still in a jail cell, wrongly accused. 

And part of the healing is owning my part in the (self) destruction and chaos in my life. It is taking responsibility and making amends where possible. That to say, I was a whole-ass, fucking mess. When I look back at the person I was, I am not always proud. I was wrong. Period. I take full responsibility for my actions and my un-wellness, my sickness, my dis-ease. I was tsunami, tornado, and hurricane all wrapped together, on a path to destruction. But in the center of that, there I was…vulnerable and in deep pain. Sometimes, just sometimes, if you got close enough, you could feel the stillness and calm… but the storm was often on the horizon. 

Yes. I am miraculous. I do have unlimited potential. And, I am healing and growing. Shifting and changing. Transforming. Taking responsibility. Being tender with myself. Loving myself. 

“Experiences do not determine your worth; they unlock your capacity to create more.” 

Ay yo. This shit right here… This has been one of the biggest lessons that I have learned. My past was not the brightest at times. But I lived through it, even the self-created non-sense, fuckery, and chaos. It was often hard for me to get up in the morning and face a new day because I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt about what I had done, past tense. I felt judged and limited on what I could do based on people’s perceptions of my past. Folks were meeting me, learning of who I was, the broken, sick, dis-eased person, and treating me (I felt) like a lepor; disposable, ostracized, pariah. Accordingly, I did not believe I deserved anything more than long suffering. 

And let me be clear, again. I take full responsibility for my trauma patterns, my sickness, my un-wellness, my dis-ease, bad decision making, and all the self-sabotage and chaos/fuckery spirals that impacted other folks. If I could make amends to folks individually, I would. Please do know, hear, and receive: I am so very sorry and I hope you can feel my sincerity. I am, finally, on a path to wellness and deep recovery. I will not ask for your forgiveness but hope you will bless me into the light. In the words of the native people in Hawaii: I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. 

But as I have begun to create life anew, I am now aware that I am worthy… of all the things. And I am creating and co-creating a life full of love, grace, compassion, excitement, and joy. It is possible because all things are possible! Can I get an Amen?! 

I know that my current situation is not my final destination and that I am on a road, a Long Walk Home, a journey, and an Illuminated Path, striving ever forwards towards authentic right alignment. 

Love who you are, use what you know, and pursue what you want. You are worthy of having ALL. 

All I can say is, YES. And I am boldly, radically, unapologetically pursuing that Path, that Way. 

Thank you for so-journeying. 

Thank you for listening. 

P.S. As a Black, queer, masculine of center, two-spirited individual who grew up in a Southern, Christian household, it is difficult to share, publicly, such intimate details of my life. However, I know that my life depends on it. And, I receive messages from others that have found inspiration in these words. Though I am no Kay Redfield Jamison, I am the becoming the best L.A. McCrae I can be… the person I was created and called to be. If you’ve found something here that inspired you or gave you cause for pause and reflection, drop a line and let me know. Love and light, y’all. ~ L.A.

[revlatte]

I miss you. And I know our worlds may never cross again. What was between us remains sacred. Forever, you'll have space in my heart and occupy my soul.

the revlatte

[revlatte]

Trump 2020

I’m sitting in Catalyst Coffee Company Downtown Greeneville, Tennessee. This place is all of the things I love most about a small town coffee shop. Overstuffed leather club chairs, great colors, perfectly soft music. I’m sitting in the corner in the “additional seating” side looking out on to Main Street. From this corner, I see the Capitol Movie Theatre on one corner, First Tennessee Bank on the other corner, and the Greene County Court House diagonal from my seat of observation. Here, I sit and think about all of my ancestors and family that have walked down these streets, sat in this spot, and pondered life. I can almost see my Pop and Ma walking to the movie theatre from Home Street. This is the place of my ancestors; this is home. 

It is with pride that we will be attending the Greeneville High School Homecoming football game this evening. My cousin Jordan plays on the Varsity football team. He’s a junior and I could not be more proud of the young man he is becoming. I’m blessed to be able to support him and cheer him on from the sidelines. This is something I always wanted but my family was states away from Maryland in East Tennessee. It is imperative that we show up in ways that we want people to show up for us. He is the next generation of this family and I love him more than he knows, I always have. 

My little cousin Isaiah wanted a Greeneville High School hoodie. I’ve been searching for one since he mentioned this at the game. I understand and empathize with his desire to “cover up” with a hoodie. It’s a protective garment. In this case, it also connects us with our deep and rich history here in Greeneville. For the last several weeks, my mother and I have been searching for the perfect hoodie for our beloved. 

This week, I had the opportunity to go into a new Greeneville store. They custom made hoodies for me, my cousin, and my Uncle! They had the original “Greene Devil” local, distressed (my favorite). Also, they put my uncles number, “89″ on one sleeve. The other sleeve had a large “Arnett,” our family name. This. Was. Perfect. 

Late morning, I went to the shop to pick up the custom hoodies. We’re preparing for the Big Game and family coming into town. My Uncle and cousin are coming from Knoxville and my Ma is coming across the mountains from Nashville. It will be a joyous time. My goal: get the goods! While in the store, I talked with the women and they were as friendly as they can be. The owner, a classmate of my cousin, says “We print anything on shirts.” She grabbed a red shirt that said “Trump 2020″ and “At least he has balls” on the back. I was confused. Dumbfounded. What message was she sending? Was this place safe? What was I supposed to think?

I made awkward conversation about how I attended the Trump Rally at Lenoir-Rhyne University and was arrested. At a loss for words, I spoke about how moved I was by the worship service (which I was). It was an unnerving moment. This is the type of white hostility that my father and his dark skinned encountered with whites, on this street. This is the story of my ancestors on this land, Downtown Greeneville. What was I to do?

The woman was as sweet as Apple Pie on a hot summer afternoon. She seemed genuine and sincere. Was she the type of white woman that my Pop and Uncles warned me about? Were these the types of white people that called you “Nigger” to your face then invited you to play cards? See, calling you Nigger was about making sure you knew your place. The place for my mother and father on this street was segregated to the balcony of the Capitol Theatre; certainly NOT walking and shopping freely; co-mingling with whites. 

Well, our conversation continued and I shared I owned a brewery. The woman knew my family; the Arnetts, Raders, Blues, etc. She said Greeneville needs a brewery Downtown and she knows my family would help. She even went on to share how she would assist us with making shirts and gear, swag. Then, she gave me a serious discount on a rush, custom print order to surprise my Ma. I was confused. This woman, as sweet as pie, went on to say her sister and mother own property and they would love to do whatever they could to help me find my property and way to open a brewery. One of the locations is right Downtown. But still, I was confused. 

My father once warned me of the men who would grab their belt buckles and put their three fingers down in the waist band. This was an indication that they were members of the KKK - Ku Klux Klan. Was this a warning sign? Was I in danger?

What was the point of showing me the Trump shirt? Is this the America of Trump? Will she vote for him in 2020? How and why would she share this in the wake of #metoo and Professor Ford? Is she one of the “college educated white women” that voted for Trump? What is she thinking of me? Am I just another nigger?

The point is... who knows? The America of Trump leads to these suspicious, passive aggressiveness, hostility, and division. That’s not the America I want to live in. I want to live in a place, build businesses in a place, rejoice with family in a place, where we can see each other’s souls. Not everyone in my family shares my political or spiritual beliefs but I love them. We are blood. Similarly, this woman and I share the blood of Christ. Regardless of her spiritual or socio-political beliefs, she’s a fellow woman, business owner, and Christian. I love her in spite of herself and her faults because I see myself in her. Even if she’s a racist who voted for Trump; I cannot take away that she really was as sweet as pie, has lived on this land with my family, and treated me with dignity and respect. There’s a way forward, toward, without hatred, suspicion, or hostility. That’s the way I am choosing. 

So, thank you for showing me that shirt. I appreciate you. I see you. I love you. And yes, whatever the stories of your heart are, I believe you. 

#Love2020