The worst lie is the one you tell yourself.

The best tasting wine can vary from day to day.

The tallest tower will always be beaten out by another.

The smallest flame of hope cannot be put out.

Resist. Be Resilient. Rise.



This morning I woke up. Alive.

My body aches because my heart breaks. Every muscle tensed for the last 24 hours. My legs don’t hold tonight because this marathon is unending. This unwaking coma with decorticate posturing brings fatigue never felt before. Sleeplessness leads to dreams no one wished to have, dreams that all too soon become reality, a reality that feels more like nightmare with no hope of morning.

She tells me, last night I dreamt I was hiding with my friend because I’m scared of being sent back.

She tells me, today is the first day that I haven’t worn hijab because I’m afraid of my peers.

She tells me, if Obamacare is repealed, I can’t afford the meds that prevent my cancer.

Last night I dreamt I was attacked. My body aches and my heart breaks. I woke up this morning. Alive. Queer. Last night I dreamt a murder. I was both the victim and the perpetrator. I woke up mourning because Matthew Shepard didn’t get to see the light of day. Because two guys thought him too queer for their liking. Because that fencepost in Wyoming could be a tree in Oklahoma or a light pole in Seattle. I woke up this morning with the similar nauseating tumultuous stomach I’ve lived with for far too many years.

She tells me, I’m afraid of what he supports. What do I do when racial slurs are sent my way? I don’t feel safe walking on this campus.

She tells me, my parents don’t speak English well. I want to go home and protect them.

She tells me, I was raped. It feels like it is happening again.

I woke up mourning. Alive. Queer. And White. Ashamed that I couldn’t think of a single name of a queer black victim of hate. Mourning my naïveté, mourning my white fragility. And so I wore black. Though I am privileged to remove this color, take off these covers whenever I want and walk around pasty white.

She tells me, I see you. I hear you. I love you.

She tells me, take care of yourself. You’re worth it.

She tells me, I’m sorry. Why do you buy into the expectations others have for your life?

I woke up today. Alive. Queer. White. Mourning. I woke up on a Wednesday. And so I painted my lips pink. Because on Wednesdays, we wear pink. Though another white man felt privileged enough to call me faggot for doing so. I woke up remembering that some people don’t think that I should exist.

She tells me, you don’t know people of color. You cannot speak for people of color. Go away white boy. She’s right.

She tells me, I don’t need or want allies. I need and want accomplices. She’s right.

She tells me, actually you’re wrong. Again, she’s right.

Black people sing songs because they understand what is wrong. Spiritual songs that express the longings of the soul.

Obsessed with the newest toys, white boys find their joys in knowing their money can save them. Thoughts of the soul compounded like daddy’s interest to escape from the reality that our purchases make us partakers of the systemic oppression of those not like us.

This will be my spiritual. One sans the Gospel though still built on hope, and justice, and love. While actively acknowledging my proximity to appropriation, I will sing. For Noonie Norwood and the other black queer people who’ve lost their lives simply for being them. I will shout. We are all human.

I woke up this morning. Alive. Queer. And White.

Some didn’t. For them, I mourn.

Civic Duty

I said duty. Ha.

In other news,

Flint Michigan still does not have clean water

Merrick Garland has yet to receive a vote of confirmation to the Supreme Court

I am still emotionally dead inside

In two days, peace will not come. Only more violence, discord, and disgust.

It’s a damn shame that humans divide themselves in such a way.



I spend all day fixing problems that I’m finding myself breaking shit when I get home.

You can’t breathe? Having chest pain?

I’m your guy. Let’s start a line and labs.

You want emotional support? Need anything but a cynic?

Call someone else. I  fuck that up all too often.

He was dying and you left. You left him with us so you could go sleep. You left him while we read his rights and offered our care. Sometimes I think they breathe easier than I do at night.

I look like a kindergartner, but I can handle my shit. I feel like a child, but I can’t seem to handle this heart.

An open letter to my WASPy family

Free speech is a constitutional right, fought for and protected even when said free speech does not align with your tightly held beliefs and ideals.

I grasp my mug of Folger’s tightly.

Assimilation is not what people should do in order to be considered citizens of our country. It is our very diversity that chokes out the stranglehold of the ugly alt right.

I choke back a tear.

The 7 layers of hell and 1,000 years of tribulation are convoluted fears. The Proverbs 31 wife doesn’t exist and if she did, she couldn’t be tamed because women are not meant to be so. And men can love men; Jesus said nothing about it, not that it would have mattered.

I say nothing about it.

Because it was unsafe and hostile. Because you couldn’t handle it. Because you might have had an aneurysm and I was on vacation. Because authenticity and boldness are too strange for you. I left it for you at that table until you’re able to understand and really hear me.

I’m here. I’m queer. Come dance with me.