Hate the Sin, Love the Sinner... This and Other Hypocritical Bull----!

On May 9, 2009 one my best friends in the whole world suddenly died. In June he would have been 40 years old. He was diagnosed with HIV about four years ago and when he shared the news with me together we cried and prayed for a healthy, bright future for him. He was my big brother, my rock and my confidante. I told him things that I couldn't tell others. He was as nonjudgmental as a person could be. He’d calmly listen to you and then help you work out a solution. He also taught me a lot about life and people, seldom was he wrong, but he’d never preach to you or shove his opinions down your throat because he’d say ultimately you’re going to do what you want to do anyway. He was calm and patient and he treated his friends like gold. He was also extremely private.

A few months ago, when his health began to take a turn for the worse, his other close friends and I secretly began to call one another to discuss his health, progress and strategies to encourage him to get the medical attention that he needed. We did this in secret because he would tell each of us only bits and pieces of what was going on with him and besides that he would have killed us for discussing him behind his back. Well our little plan worked and he got the treatment he needed. When he was released from the hospital he was back to his old self. When I spoke to him on the phone he sounded vibrant and full of life that is until he went to fill his prescriptions.

He had medical insurance through his job but apparently it didn’t cover HIV medication. One prescription was $400 and the other $700. He only made about $25,000 a year, minus rent, car payment, and two wage garnishments he could not afford it. I immediately began researching national non profit agencies that were designed to help people like him get these critical medicines and forwarded the information to him. He called and was told he made too much money. Slowly, but surely, his health began to deteriorate once more.

It began with a persistent cough which he blamed on his allergies and other sinus problems. Then he would tell me he had follow up doctor’s appointments but wouldn’t tell me if he actually went or what the results were of the appointments. We friends began to call each another once more. The last time we all conferred with one another was the day that he passed away in his sleep… his best friend and roommate was preparing to take him to the emergency room.

I was devastated, we all were. Sometimes I still think that I can pick up the phone and call him. (We talked every Saturday morning for hours and sent each other text messages throughout the week.) I shared with my family and larger group of friends, some who knew him and others who didn’t, about his passing. There was an outpouring of love and support but I’ve also taken note of how people react when I say he had HIV. They make a little face or there is a pause in their conversation. It is judgment… about a man that in most cases they didn't even know.

What do they think they know about my friend? He was gay? He was promiscuous? He was a junkie? What? Or is it that they still consider HIV and AIDS a disease of filth… “Oh you must have been doing something nasty or wrong to contract it, so you got what you deserved.” He was a gay man, not a junkie and no more promiscuous than the average straight man his age. He contracted HIV the same way straight people do, by having SEX with someone who has it. HIV/AIDS doesn’t care if you’re straight or gay. If you have had unprotected sex in your lifetime you are at risk of contracting HIV/AIDS or an STD. Why? Well that’s because in some people it can take weeks, months or years to be detected in their blood stream and quite frankly alot of people don't get tested. Oh and before you start on how people shouldn’t be having unprotected sex with people they don’t know, shut up! If you have ever had sex with someone, anyone, without a condom in the last 35 years you may have been exposed to HIV/AIDS, period. It doesn’t matter that you’ve known your partner for 10 years or two weeks nor are now involved in a monogamous relationship or that you’ve turned your life over to Christ. There is a chance that you could have contracted the virus.

“But I know my partners and they’re all healthy.” Really… do you know what they did before they met you? Do you know everyone they’ve ever slept with? More importantly, do you know what they do when you are not around? Yeah, that’s what I thought. By the way, I know several people, straight and gay, with HIV and they look very healthy and if they never told you, you would never know they had the disease. So, looks can be deceiving.

(I used to work for the Family Health Council of Greater Pittsburgh in the mid 90’s and I remember talking to nurses at Alma Illery Health Clinic in Homewood and one said that she saw a pregnant 16 yr. old girl who’d contracted the HIV. She refused to tell the nurses and the health department who the father of her child was out of shame and fear but she did say he had multiple children in the community. I’m sure he didn’t look sick either or she wouldn’t have slept with him. )

You don’t choose to get this disease but your choices may lead to you contracting this disease. It doesn’t mean you are evil, dirty or deserving of this disease no more than a cancer patient deserves to have cancer. As my beloved, now deceased, friend would put it, “it is what it is.”

My friend’s sister asked his best friend/roommate if her brother was gay, without thinking he said yes. She paused… but then she said I really wish he would have felt comfortable sharing this information with me but my parents, if they knew, they would have cut him off. Needless to say, my friend also never told any of his family that he had contracted HIV or that he'd been ill in the last few months.

After his body was released from the coroner in New Jersey his family quickly had a funeral. We were told about the funeral on Friday and the funeral was Monday. Though his sister didn’t think her parents knew about his sexuality, we all know they did. At nearly 40 yrs. old your son has never brought a girl home or talked about being in a relationship… come on! They’re older but not dumb. Our group of friends began wondering if the family had a speedy funeral so that most of his friends, which includes me, couldn’t attend the funeral. We suspect they didn’t want a certain element to attend but alas we’ll never know. What we do know is that our friend deserves respect in death as he did in life.

"Judge not lest ye be judged."

"Let he who is without sin cast the first stone."

"Hate the sin but love the sinner" now that’s just bullshit! Why hate?

Dedicated to:
Rayfield Johnson, Jr.
“The Lord will make a way.”
June 1969 - May 2009

Read his obituary at: http://www4.vindy.com/content/records/tributes/294489040750190.php

40 Acres and a Mule!

I have always done everything right... I was never a straight A student but I was definitely an above average, good student. Honor Roll and Merit Roll were regular occurrences for me as well as a slew of other awards. I attended a school and later classes specifically for “gifted” students where I was told I was part of the best and the brightest, the elite. I graduated college in four years, a rarity at most colleges and universities, and later I attended graduate school obtaining my MFA… I did everything right, which is why I am so confounded by my current set of circumstances.

I am broke.

I have been living Los Angeles for nearly 8 months and during this time I have sent out scores of resumes (well over 200) and have only had 7 interviews, only one resulted in an actual job (and it’s part time). I have redone my resume several times; tailoring it specifically to each employer’s needs and experimented with various cover letters. I have accounts on hotjobs.com, monster.com and careerbuilder.com and I even get the fabled United Talent Agency (UTA) job list. Daily, I peruse craigslist.org, mandy.com, entertainmentcareers.com and I have applied for jobs in every industry I have ever worked in from auto insurance to film/TV production. I have applied to job openings for receptionists, cashiers, assistants, grant writers, program directors, arts instructors, voice talent, tape loggers and mailroom assistants almost all to no avail.

I am exhausted.

A few weeks ago I attended a film/television industry career fair and networking event sponsored by the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences (the people that bring you the Emmys™). The presenter told us that he’d placed an ad for a job opening on the UTA job list and in one week had received 400 resumes. That was for one job! That got me to thinking… my resume is floating out there with hundreds, possibly thousands of other resumes, for each position that I applied for. With those odds how am I ever going to stand out? Tell me, would you read 400 cover letters and resumes? No… maybe the first, 15-20 but definitely not 400! (Note: When I posted job openings in Cleveland I was lucky if I got 15 responses… total.)

What the hell am I gonna do?

“It’s all in who you know,” that’s what everyone tells you out here but what if everyone you know is in one way or another in the same position as you, a paycheck away from complete financial ruin. The financially savvy live off of their savings, or worse yet credit cards, to make ends meet (because most of the entry level positions in the film/television industry don’t pay well). While others of us rely on the help of family and friends in the form of monetary gifts and interest free loans. Still others are lucky enough to have all of the above. But, what happens when all of your options have run out? No savings, no credit cards and no friends and family able to help out. You become me.

Oh God…

I have been working since I was 13 years old. I’ve had summer jobs, afterschool jobs, part time jobs and multiple jobs at once. I have worked over time, weekends and holidays. I have always, for the most part, been able to take care of myself and now I can’t.

I work as a “Traveling Specialist” for an arts organization, traveling to various schools teaching dance. My job cut my hours for the summer. I was down to working 2 days a week. I was making less than half of what I previously made and that was barely enough to pay my rent, car note and cell phone bill. Now my rent is late and due, the finance company is threatening to repossess my car (because I am more than two months behind) and my cell phone bill is due in a week. You can’t imagine the thoughts that run and have ran through my mind… how can I turn a quick buck without completely demeaning myself?

Last week I applied for food stamps.

The first time I stepped into the welfare office it was surprisingly not crowded. It was the day before the 4th of July. I handed my purse to the security guard and walked through the metal detector, of course I beeped but they waived me through. I walked into a large room with lots of teller style windows. I had no idea where to go and there were no clear directions posted anywhere. One of two security guards stationed at a booth in the front of the room directed me to the correct window and cheerfully observed that I obviously hadn’t been there before.

The woman at the window gave me a form to fill out then hit me with a barrage of questions:
“Have you ever applied for food stamps before?” She said.
“No,” I replied.
“Never?”
“No.”
“Do you have any kids?”
“No.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“No… my job cut my hours for the summer and I am just trying to make ends meet.”
“Oh… well the entire interview process is going to take 3-4 hours.”
“What?”

I still had a job to go to and that day was First Aid/CPR Training, I couldn’t miss it.

“Uhhh… I have to go to work,” I said.
“What?” She said.
“I have to go to work.”
“But I already put you in the system.”
“Yeah, but I gotta go to work.”

She sucked her teeth and started talking to another woman behind the window. She got up from her stool. I didn’t know whether to leave or stay. She gathered a bunch of papers.

“Here, you need to fill these out.”
“Well, can I bring them back on Monday?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Wow… she couldn’t just say that earlier, what was with the extra “attitude?” I skulked out of the office hoping no one I knew saw me.

It took over an hour fill out all of the paperwork that she gave me and I told myself that I would get there bright and early on Monday. The office opened at 8AM. I was parking my car by 8:40AM and there was already a long line in front of the building, it was like a disco but there was no music. Once I made it inside the lines were ridiculous at every window. People avoided making eye contact with one another while cautiously surveying the scene.

You had mothers with children, the elderly, the homeless, the disabled and the young able bodied but broke like me. There was also every race, nationality, ethnicity and sexual orientation represented in that room. Whoa, I thought, this is truly America and I was also reminded of a comment a peer made in graduate school that my people get free money from the government… I think it was supposed to be a joke but I didn’t laugh. .

I turned in my paperwork at on of the windows and waited for my name to be called over the speaker. I was afraid I was going to miss it. The low murmur of conversation from all of those people made it difficult to hear and one man was talking loudly to a person on the other side of the windows about how his check didn’t come and he almost starved over the weekend and went into diabetic shock! (He also carried a plastic bag filled with various medications.)

When my name was called I had to find someone to direct me where to go next. He pointed to a room across the hall. It was filled with more “teller” windows but this time there were chairs in front of them. I sat in front of my assigned window waiting for someone to appear. Behind me a black man complained that he was tired of being disrespected. He declared that he deserved good customer service not the run around and that he was a man. When I finally gathered up the courage to turn and look at him a white man was standing beside him trying to soothe him by getting him to focus on getting his benefits not his respect.

Damn…

Finally a woman appeared and introduced herself as my temporary caseworker. She was pleasant. I think she could tell I was nervous. We filled out more paperwork and reviewed what I’d already turned in. She asked me for income, rental, and utility verification. I hadn’t been told to bring anything when I initially called or came to the office. I just happened to have a few check stubs because I thought they’d be helpful. By the way, she wasn’t at all surprised that I wasn’t told what to bring in. So she gave me a postage paid envelope and a list of what I needed to send back to her. She said I didn’t need to come back unless I wanted to. I smiled, thanked her and told her I was definitely mailing my verification paperwork in.

It took me a week to complete the verification paperwork not because I couldn’t get the verifications she requested but because I kept hoping that I didn’t have to go through with the entire process. I am ashamed that I have to apply for government assistance even though I have been helping to pay for this assistance as a taxpayer for 22 years. I mean, why should I feel ashamed, right? I am no “welfare queen” eager to live off of the system, content not to work. But now, I am a part of those “bad” statistics… one of the many women of color on welfare… often blamed for over burdening the system.

I sent off my verification paperwork on Monday.

A closed mouth don’t get fed.

PS. Last week I was given back some of the hours my job had taken from me… they placed me at another school but it’s still not enough and a little too late. However, I am very thankful for this boost in income. I also have a “lead” on a better job for which I am also thankful. Wish me luck!

Black Like Me... and Leon

I was going to write about love and sex, two of my favorite topics but, instead I am going to write about Leon Walter Tillage. When I saw his book lying on a table with other donated books for my teens (whom I teach dance to) I instantly knew that no one was going to pick the book up but me. The book entitled, “Leon’s Story,” is the coming of age story of Leon Walter Tillage who grew up in the rural segregated South but that’s not the reason why I knew no one would dare pick up his book. It was the cover, his picture, a black and white photograph of a smiling young black boy no more than 11 years old with coffee colored skin much like my own. You see, we are conditioned as black people to reject images of ourselves, anything that shows our blackness or some would say African ancestry and Leon is BLACK (definitely of African descent).

I watched my children, class of teenagers, run eagerly to the table of donated books to make their selections then gleefully choose several books. After they were done I was invited to make my own selections and I did, there was one by H.G. Wells, another one called, “A Fungus among Us,” and still another about African American women. When I saw Leon at first glance I gave it a pass. I thought it was about a child living in rural Africa and I wasn’t interested. I considered myself pretty well informed on the subject and it held no interest for me and, to be quite honest, I thought it was going to be about how (insert bad fake African accent here) he was so poor but happy and how men came to his village to build an irrigation ditch and a school, etc… you know, the typical portrait of a child growing up in rural Africa.

As I was walking away with my selections, my supervisor invited me to take more books that were left over and so I took more books… one about a child growing up in Nazi Germany and a couple more about a young black girl and her mother and finally…, “Leon’s Story.” I picked it up out of guilt and shame because as much as I mentally mocked what I thought this book was about the real reason I didn’t want to pick up this book was because I didn’t want to read the story of the little black boy who so very much looked like me. See, I can dance around the issue all I want but the truth of the matter is that at first glance I saw nothing beautiful in Leon’s photograph. I thought it was average and lacked anything remarkable. Instantly, I felt ashamed because I was passing this book by for the same reason the children were because he is so… BLACK.

Now my friends and other people who know me will probably find my statements shocking because not only do I have an African name (Swahili, to be exact) and practice a traditional African (Yoruba) belief system but I also study traditional African dance. I don’t hide from the sun, I revel in it and can be often overheard saying, “the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice…” I mean, I am supposed to be the poster child of a healthy African (black) identity but, I am not. I am a product of this society and our culture just like everyone else and my psyche, like yours, has taken a beating.

Growing up dark skinned in America is rough, a hard knock life. Thankfully, I came into the world in the 70’s after we discovered “Black is Beautiful” but, even that had taken a back seat in our consciousness when I was growing up. In the 80’s my skin color was the topic of many conversations and the source of many insults from BLACK FOLKS. A male cousin told me I was too dark to be a cheerleader and another time when I and some other cousins were playing in my aunt’s makeup I was told I looked pretty because the makeup made me “not look so dark.” Neighborhood kids made comments about me playing in the sun, “‘cause I would get too black.” Boys would say “ugh… she’s too black,” then secretly want me to be their girlfriend. And when someone wanted to insult you they merely had to call you black or African. The only way for a dark skinned child, female or male, to escape this cruelty was to have “good hair” (long, straight, wavy or curly hair) or “pretty eyes” (blue, green, gray or hazel would do just fine). I used to stare in the sun, risking blindness, so that when someone walking past saw my eyes they appeared to be hazel.

Our objects of beauty and affection were anyone who was light skinned preferably with “good hair” and “pretty eyes.” It didn’t matter if they were cute or not they had met the basic requirement for beauty if they had any of the aforementioned physical characteristics. Seriously, I have seen some butt ugly folks be called attractive because they were merely light skinned and whatnot. If you were fortunate enough to be dark skinned and thought of as attractive people “qualified” your beauty by saying, “she’s cute to be so black.”

Now, amongst whites I fared no better. My first real interaction with whites came when I was in junior high and before that I mainly experienced them through TV (where girls nee children like me were nearly absent). In junior high I felt invisible to whites so I did my best to impress them. I talked about heavy metal and rock (which I really did love) and chatted them up about anything else I could think of but I still remained largely ignored. I was caught between a rock and hard place so, I developed a pretty healthy case of self loathing. The only way I could think of getting some love from my people was to date (and hopefully marry) a light skinned guy or Puerto Rican (white guys weren’t really “in” in my neighborhood) and boy, did I love some light skinned men though seldom did they love me back.

I carried this love throughout my 20’s as my own black consciousness evolved (separate from the one I’d inherited from two Afro centric revolutionary parents). It had become second nature so much so that I hardly noticed that I almost always chose light skinned men to adore. When my best friend pointed this fact out to me it became my shame and I felt almost powerless to reverse this often undeserved attraction. Then in earnest I began dating and I dated decent looking and some down right handsome brown and black skinned men, though I did and do still find myself drawn to a few light skinned brothers. I tend to believe it is my inner child still seeking validation from my race.

I read “Leon’s Story” and it was wonderful. I felt that the ancestors were talking through him to me, telling me that I cannot forget the cruelty our people endured to live and survive in this country and… how beautiful we are as a people. Now, when I look at Leon’s smiling photograph I am reminded of myself. He kind of looks like my father at this age smiling in a school photo, except with more innocence. I look at Leon now and see exquisite beauty, hope and joy in his photo and I’m ashamed that it has taken so long for me to find my own. I embrace him as I embrace myself and I know that I will never ever feel ashamed again.

4/2/08, 1:03am