Pride

What is pride? I ask myself why I go to the gay pride parade almost every year.

Yes, I have seen the people dressed in various incarnations of animals and Spirit beings. Dogs, cats, bunnies, fairies, butterflies, pixies and in the wake of Jerry Falwell, Tinky Winky.

Yes, I have read the snappy statements on t-shirts and signs, ‘Imagine if the Bush’s had used a condom. Protect yourself.” “Save your drama for your momma” and “You are on the top of my to do list.”

I never realized how diverse the gay community was before I came to San Francisco. I know now. The bears, the dykes, the bisexuals, male to female and female to male transgender and androgynous gays.

And their various expressions, lesbians on motorcycles, leather daddies, leather mommas, ever so furry and big bellied bears and gays who practice S&M with their bells pierced through the skin of their arms. This year I see S&M on a whole new level-people hold a horse’s bit in their mouth while pushing their masters in carts. As the carts drive by the masters lightly flogs them with leather whips. There are gays in kilts, thongs, high heels, vintage clothing and big wigs and of course nothing at all. The guy who won the International Leather contest drives by in a fancy car that is followed by the winner of the Mr. International Leather Boy contest.

Yes, I have seen the politics of it all. Bush and Cheney in jail as part of gays for impeachment, parents of gays, straights who are allied for gay rights, international gay rights, domestic gay rights for marriage, gays against racism, sexism and homophobia, health benefits and the right to simply be.

Yes, I have seen the increasingly corporatization of pride through sponsorship by motorcycle companies, banks, clothing stores and any other corporation interested in making money off of the gay community. As the Altoids float came by with 6 hard bodied gay men dancing, everyone begins to yell. They had replicated the Altoids tin and filled it with bubbles and hard-bodied men are dancing while rubbing bubbles all over themselves. I thought to myself, “If only middle-America knew.”

They have people on the ground handing out bags of Altoids. I get a bag that fills the bottom of a kitchen trash bag. Way too much for any one person, this girl and I begin to throw huge handfuls of Altoids packs in the crowd to the left and the right until we figured people are going to start to get pissed at us. We are laughing and throwing Altoids everywhere and we hear someone say, “This is my lucky day.”

Yes, I have seen the religious gays-the Muslims, Christians, Jews and sects I was not familiar with inviting gays to come back to their faith. Catholics holding signs, “Catholic + gay is okay” and Unitarians urging that “You be you and change the church.” Bishops and priests go by waving. A gay rights religious leader from Nigeria waves his hands vigorously.

Yes, I have seen the health campaigns. Raising money for HIV/AIDS and Breast Cancer. Gays against meth, drug abuse and addiction. A man holds a sign, “Gay does not equal drugs.”

4 hours later, I am grateful for the diversity. I know that in some places there is not even a half hour parade or a parade at all. In some places in the world, too many people would die being who they are.

I stopped going to pride with the hopes of hooking up with someone long ago. I know that I am an edge walker. I live in a lot of vortexes and so I have become accustomed to being on the edge of multiple movements. I believe in free love and in justice towards self and other. I believe in Spirituality, but do not purely subscribe to religion. I believe in free expression, but am clean and sober. I believe in social change, but not charity and I believe in honoring culture, but do not subscribe to co-option. I believe in intimacy, but do not subscribe to co-dependency.

Living in that place, means stepping in to the gap and makes it difficult to hook up sometimes. However, I feel that I have learned to be fully present in one space at a time, while holding all of who I am. The gift is that I am at home anywhere. So, I head towards the stage for the reason that I go to pride.

I cut through a group of Latino boys dancing together and they swoom in on me, shaking what they got and calling me beautiful. I am embarrassed and kind of cover my head and run through. They are laughing and so am I. I should know better, it happens every time.

I head towards the stage, past the naked man dancing in a transparent wedding dress, the corporate man whose t-shirt barely covers his fishnets and black heels, the dyke with a Mohawk, and the lipstick lesbian with the t-shirt, “This is what a lesbian looks like.”

I get all the way to the front of a stage and stand next to the speakers. They have the words, “FAG” written out in silver sequins that wave in the wind. I am holding my heart, I am so excited, I can barely stand the deep base reverberating through my body. I bend over and start to dance. A man in a red shirt, grabs me and hugs me. He tells me, “You don’t know me, but I am your friend.” He is the sweetest thing.

I dance longer and someone grabs my hand. I turn to look and it is an old gay man. His blue eyes brimming at me, he rubs my hand in sweet circles, loving me with his eyes. I can feel him and I squeeze his hand before letting him go. Suddenly, the people next to me move over to make room. I turn and find two black men coming thorugh. They are clad in black spandex underwear and faux fur leg warmers. One has fake eyelashes and his eye lids have black make up on them. He is wearing foundation, but his 5 o’clock shadow is showing a bit. His body is carved like a God. I hear someone say, “I saw you at the ballet performance last night.” I don’t realize that I am standing still, staring at him in awe until his eyes catch mine. He looks at me with soft brown eyes and says, “Am I beautiful?” I smile and say, “Yes.” He kisses the air next to me, left then right. I break my trance and begin to dance again.

The second black dancer looks at me and I wave to him. He swings his slender body towards me, so one of his butt cheeks is facing me. He is looking at me and I am not sure what to do. The only thing I can think to do is spank him and so I do. I find myself blushing and kind of covering my mouth and nose as I hit him lightly. I start laughing and wrap my arms around my body. He says, “Yes, naughty!” He kissed the air next to me-left then right and returns to posing next to the fence. He is a diva. I sware that I was a gay male diva in a past life, because sometimes I feel like that. Larger than life. A superstar in my own universe. Beautiful. I must have been a queen.

A new DJ begins to spin and I start dancing again. I see a white man with a tattoo on his stomach. Before I know it, I am reaching for it. He stops dancing, turns towards me and grabs my hand and puts it on his belly, pressing it flat. He begins to rock his body, so that his abs are washboard hard and I can see the picture move and feel a wave of abdominal muscles. I realized that I have touched more skin of strangers-intentionally or by accident-in that single day than I have all year.

I turn to find a young man with tattoos across his chest that look like angel wings. I see the beautiful writing across his belly. I ask him what is says and he says, “Goddless. I am atheist.” I thought about the irony, because he felt like an angel. I wondered what his Spirit came here to do. As he leaves, he kisses me on the cheek.

I turn and this asian man begins to dance with me, so that I am facing him and his partner comes along and begins dancing in the back of me and says, “We are just going to share you.” We are laughing and dancing -the three of us-when the lyrics boom, “Everybody’s freeeeeee to feel good.” I can feel something in me break free. We break from our threesome and we begin to jump up and down and dance. I see a man with long brown hair, I stop him and tell him he is beautiful. He smiles at me and tells me that I am beautiful.

I begin to tell all of these people that they are beautiful and I sware they are. They are just so beautiful to me. I have been watching this black butch dyke dancing next to me. We have exchanged a few smiles. I can feel energy and I want to dance with her, but I am too afraid to ask her. I realize that I would like to see her again. As outgoing as I can be, I am essentially shy. I wish she will ask me, but she is not going to and I know it is for me to do.

The next thing I know there is someone dancing behind me, grinding on me. I turn and am disappointed to find it is not her, but some short little gay Phillipino boy. I am kind of irritated, because there are rules of engagement. He should have tapped me on the shoulder or something and asked to dance. I turn and give him a sort of disapproving look and he smiles and waves at me. I can feel his sweetness and so I laugh and turn around. I am trying to push myself to ask her to dance and I can’t.

In that moment, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find a youngish black man asking me to dance. Wait, is it a man? He is dressed in black underwear and a blue t-shirt. I sneak a look and there is definitely something in them, but he feels like a girl. He is wearing a t-shirt and I quickly study his chest, but I cannot tell. I look in to his eyes. He has eye contacts that make his eyes brown with a blue edge to match his t-shirt. He is pretty and I am confused. I am thinking too much and I am barely dancing, so I decide that I don’t need to know.

He tells me that he doesn’t go out much. He had lost his wife a few years ago, so he is just emerging. He is a Scorpio. He tells me his rising is Cancer, so he thinks like a cancer and can understand me. I begin to reflect on the brief conversation that I had with the butch dyke where she told me that three of her friends had committed suicide in the past few years. It occurs to me that there is a sadness in this community. A sadness that is just below the surface. The price of so much oppression.

The three of us begin to dance together-the butch dyke and the he/she with blue/brown eyes. Now, I feel stressed out, because I decide that I would actually like to go on a date with both of them. How am I supposed to handle this?
In that moment, he goes to find his friend and I find my courage and ask the butch dyke if she is single. She says, “I am.” I say, “Can I have your number?” I cannot believe I am saying this. I am being very brave and am shocked. She says, “Yes. Can I have yours?” I agree and run around frantically looking for a pen. No one has a pen and they all give me that sad look, because they know I am a pen away from a hook up. Finally, I find someone with a pen and we exchange information.

As much as I loved being stretched-and I do get stretched every time I go to pride-it comes with growing pains. I hit those places of conditioning, the places where I am conservative, where I hold back. Places that are dying to be set free and that still remain tight.

…and still, even with all the fun, the moment-the reason, I have come to pride has not happened. Then, suddenly, the DJ spins the song, “World Hold on.” Everybody begins to dance really hard. The lyrics fly through the audience like a wave, “Open up your heart, how do you feel? “ I look around and everyone is singing the lyrics. “Stop messing with your future…your’e going to have to answer to the children of the sky…” Then he loops the lyrics, “Children of the sky, children of the sky.” He kicks the music up an octave and the vibration gets higher and we are all singing, “World hold on.” A 1,000 people singing, “World hold on” together in unison.

He raises the music an octave and the vibration gets higher and higher until I find myself jumping up and down screaming in joy! I turn around and everyone else is jumping up and down screaming as well. The song morphs in to the next one and the moment has passed. I bend over laughing so hard, I can barely stand. I am blissed out and I know that there is no other place I’d rather be on the planet then right there and right then.

It is that exact moment that I come to pride for. The moment where we are all free –to be the multiple expressions of God-that we are. The moment where we are free to be exactly how God made us. The moment where we are free to be exactly who we are and how we are. The moment where we are free in our expression. The moment of utopia-where we are free and we are free together.

Re: Quenched

His master asked him, 'How do you know you are on the path of enlightenment?" My teacher responded, "Everyone is telling me their problems." The Master nodded in agreement.

So, I had no expectations when I veered in to a corner store to quench my thirst. Intimidated by all of the products in Arabic and the stare of women whose heads were wrapped in a bee cone of white clothe, I veered through the aisle of foods that I have not come to know, to find refrigerators full of options to quench my thirst. I bring my choice to the front of the register.

The wait was beginning to feel lengthy. A woman comes up from the back of the store. I greet her, "Asa lama lakum." She responds, "wa alaikum asalaam." She puts her hand on my shoulder and pats it. There is something about being touched by a stranger, that let's me know how distant I am from people in this land. I am brought back to a soft place in myself that I often can only access when I travel. A place where we need each other and we can have each other. I ask her, "How are you?" She looks at me and says, "I am so, so. How are you?" I say, "Why so, so?" She groans, "Ah!" and holds her head. I ask her in a soft voice, "Awww, what is it?" She looks at me. Her skin is the color of browned white toast. Her eyes are wide with life. Yet, there is a film covering them, dimming the brightness as if she just saw a little bit too much.

She responds, "I am so sensitive. I am rrreally effected by people's problems. So many problems!" She puts her hand over her chest. I said, "You just have to let it all go." I start to wave my hands in front of me in circles and say, "Just let it all go." She starts to mirror me, "Yes, let it all go, but how?" I said, "I used to feel bad for people with problems, but now I have compassion, but I don't feel bad, because maybe they need it to take the next step of their path." She said, "True."

I ask her, "What is your sign?" She tells me, "I do not know." I ask her, "What month are you born?" She says, "I do not know. Back home, we do not keep track of such things." I ask her, "Where is back home?" She responds, "Yemin." I said, "So you are sensitive." She said, "Yes. My father wanted me to marry this man and though I knew it was a total mistake, he begged me and told me that he believe it is the will of Allah. He drives a limosine and now he doesn't because it has broken down or now he cannot work, because of this or that. I called his wife, because as you know they are allowed to have more than one wife and I told her, 'what can you do, accept it or go crazy!'

Then, an older woman in her 60s who works at my store, her son is asking her every week for $20 or $50. I told her you are helping him have a problem." I ask her, "What is the problem?" She said, "He is on drugs. Even last month, he paid no rent" I ask her, "How old is he?" She says, "He is in his 40's. He came in yesterday, he looks a rent. His eyes and his face. I picked up a mirror and told him, look at yourself. He said that he wants help."

She said, "People tell me all of their problems and look at me and what I am doing to you." I tell her, "It is okay. I am not sure if it is my face or what, but people tell me all of their problems." She said, "Total strangers?! They come up to you and just.." she pretends to throw up. I said, "Yes." She said, "Me too!"

I had just come from a place that had handed me a pamphlet that included resources for drug detoxing. I gave her the pamphlet. She said, "It is good to know things. Thank you so much." She said, "Why are you here?" I told her that I was performing outreach. She said, "Look at you!" She said, "You are very beautiful. You are very present" I did feel present. It ws one of those days that I could hold the person without taking it in me. I could just show up and reflect her. I said, "You know you must have it to see it in another. If you see beauty in me, it is because you are beautiful. You know that is how it works right?" She comes from behind the counter and hugs me. She said, "Please, let me give you some nectarines." I said, "Thank you very much." She said, "I pick them myself."

She says, "What is your name?" I realize that I don't know her name, but I know her Spirit.
I told her that I had some traditional clothes from the Muslim community in Tanzania and I wanted to bring them to her. She said, "How did you like living with Muslims?" I told her, "It was very nice." She said, "I would be happy to have them. When you bring them by, I will make you lunch." I said, "Okay and you can tell me your story." She hands me a paper that she had laminated. I skim it and find out that it is to mark when she became a citizen. It is her story of running from her home, literally barefoot and pregnant to avoid a war. Her story of being brought to California by her father. It is the story of being the single mother of three boys. The story of purchasing a store that the whole family runs. She says, "I have seen so much."

It is time to go. She says, "It is nice, being a nice person, isn't it?" I said, "Yes, but some days. " She said, "Yes, I know, but overall it is nice." I said, "Yes, it is." She said, "Look at your face." She blows me a kiss and I feel embarrassed. I tell her, "It is very nice to meet you." I said, "People tell me their problems, but then I realize..." She interjects, "That it is God." I said, "Yes." She said, "I feel lighter. Just like you said in the beginning. I let it go." I smiled. She said, "It is verrry nice to have met you." I said, "I will call you soon." I leave the store and realize that my thirst has been quenched.

Ancestral Memory

They always come. Just at that moment. Just when the world is about to end, they show up with light, a glowing globe that reminds me of possibility. They have words for me. The hold my face, raising a teaspoon to my lips and serve me words, kissing the excess as it runs down the side of my mouth.

They always come. In that desperate moment. That hard moment where I forget myself. That isolated moment where home cannot be found. That moment where memory goes down the drain to some collection of sewage of lost dreams and disenfranchisement with life. It is hard to believe that I don’t believe the tangible manifestations of my blessings. They come and I worry that I won’t come again. They come and I worry that it was meant for other. They come and I still question. Yes, I was hurt that bad.

We all were. I come from inter-generational, historical disbelief at the places that soul wounds can take people. Deep dark places with no light of humanity. I ask myself when I could not give myself permission to be all of who I was. I seek the origin of the fragmentation.

I call on my ancestors. For this story, the story of self-destruction and sabotage. This perspective. This perspective of all that is wrong with me crowding my mind like fans crowding a baseball stadium. This story and perspective seems long. A long winding road that seems beginningless and feels –in this moment-that there is no end in sight.

I call on my ancestors. They always come. I find myself watching them gather under a tree. Two women hold each other. The crowd is packed tight to learn the lesson of his lynching-don’t exist outside of the master’s control. They raise him up, tying the rope to him. Two women hold each other. Maybe it is more, but really only one is hanging on to the rest. One is watching the love of her life being raised up for who he is tucked under the premise of betrayal. He never touched that white woman. It didn’t matter. He could have and that was enough.

The wind was cruel that day. It swung him back and forth. Back and forth, spreading blood from this excised penis in a little circle on the ground. Maybe the blood emerged from the split in his belly where the placed it. The wind painted particular leaves, blades of grass, particles of dirt with evidence of his former life. The wind was cruel that day.

His eyes bulged in her direction. She covers her eyes. They all lower their eyes in surrender. It was easier to blame the wind. Yes, they could have power in the invisible realms. In the non-tangible realms. They could avoid the smile on his white face and the burn could be swallowed, tucked away somewhere unreachable. Somewhere just beyond the turning point of retribution, so that they could live.

They turn slowly. Slowly the balls of the feet turn, twisting grass and dirt underneath them like a skid mark. It cannot be too fast, because it will be a threat. Some of the men nod to him, to their teacher, their lesson planner, biting their tongue, their mental, emotional, physical and spiritual tongue. They return to the fields. They take her to the planks of wood that come together to form a resting place. She is laid there as they comfort her with words. They hold her face, raise a teaspoon to her lips and serve her words, kissing the excess as it runs down the side of her mouth.

They always come. And then I know in this moment why I struggle to be all of who I am, exactly as I am. Their stories are in my DNA, running through my blood-in me, as me. And then I know in this moment why I must feel it all, let it run through my body, through my feet, coloring the leaves until it forms a river to the center of the earth and it can be transformed in to the possibility of a new ancestral memory manifested through me and my choices. And in that moment, I know why I must continue to fight to show up, be present and live.

They always come, helping me to come home to myself.

Happy Feet

Thud. Scream. Hard feet running across the floor.

I open my eyes. I have woken in to a nightmare. My exhaustion begs me to deny it.

Thud. Scream. Slam.

I know the dimensions of their apartment as he throws her against every wall. I can no longer deny it.

I force myself awake and go down to the manager's office. I tell the manager that there is a domestic violence dispute above my apartment. We walk upstairs and we listen through the door. We can hear her crying. She tells me she will take care of it.

Silence. Sweet silence.

I run in to some of my neighbors. Turns out the landlord has confronted the wrong couple. They were wondering who reported them for domestic violence. I apologize telling them that there has been some sort of miscommunication.

Thud. Scream. Hard feet running across the floor.

There has been some sort of miscommunication. Her screams terrorize me and I am wide awake at 3:30 in the morning. He is torturing her. The police will get here too late. I know I must knock on their door. I put on my hooded sweater, so I can look bigger than I am. I think about grabbing a knife in case I need to defend myself. I decide it is a bad idea. I laugh to myself, "With my luck, I will trip and fall on it."

I leave my apartment. I feel my body shaking as I begin to walk up the stairs. The carpet is blood red with these strange flowers printed all over it. The flowers are twisted as if they grow under water. Thoughts are fleeting through my mind and I cannot hold on to a single one. What if he hurts me? What is on the other side of that door? What am I going to say?

I am standing in front of the door of apartment numer 10. 10 is the number of completion and I wondered what was complete and whole in this situation. My arm raises itself and knocks the door, despite my fear. I tell myself, he cannot see you afraid Kisha. I whisper a prayer, "Bless my tongue, bless my words God." I feel my spine straighten and I am in my full power. I knock again.

I hear steps of hesitant feet slowly walking towards the door. His steps become steady as bare feet touch wood. He opens the door and her whimpers reach my ears like the smell of microwaved popcorn in a small office. I quickly glance over him. Shirtless, his slender brown body is dressed in grey sweats. I lock eyes with him, despite his long black hair covering half of his face. His face shows no more than 25 years on the planet and his cheek bones and lips tell the story of Philipino ancestry. We stare at each other in silence for a moment. I tell him a whole story with my eyes. I tell him about the possibility of retribution for his actions. I tell him about my anger. I tell him about how wrong he is. I tell him that the story is coming to a close.

My mouth opens and words emerge. I say, "I want you to know that I hear what is happening. I am very concerned and if it doesn't stop, I am going to call the police and have you arrested." He does not flinch and says a very mellow and small, "Okay." I nod my head and he closes the door. I go back to my apartment. Silence. Sweet silence.

Thud. Slam. Crash.

Two days later, our pact is broken through the turning over of furniture. Her feet dig hard as she runs from one side of the apartment to another, like a caged animal. I run upstairs and he runs past me. I yell at him, "You gonna have to work that out man. Last chance." He does not respond, but continues to run down the stairs and out the door. I hesitate and knock on the door. Small feet full of fear walk toward the door. She opens the door and I greet her with compassionate eyes. My eyes tell her a story. I tell her the story of safety. I tell her the story of visibility in her pain. I tell her the story of the possibility of love without betrayal.

She is a small skinny white woman with long blond hair. She is shaking and her eyes are wide with disbelief. She is pale and her mouth is small with thin lips that tremble. I have seen her blue eyes before. Where? I search my mind. I realize that her eyes look just like the penguin in 'Happy Feet'. I look in them and I find innocence. Unlike the film, where the penguin finds redemption through his feet, the only footsteps that I had heard for her were ones of punishment. I search for words. I tell her, "I am sorry that this is happening to you." She says, "It wasn't like this before." It turns out that they had been dating for more than a year and all was well until she left her apartment and began living with him. That is when the isolation started.

He began to keep the keys so that she could not leave the apartment when he was not there. He started keeping her from getting a job and she began living in her pajamas. Her Lupus agitated under all of the stress, translated to her hair falling out in chunks. That is when she began to rationalize the situation. She tells me, "I ask him to go to therapy and he gets even angrier. I try to explain to him that this situation is not good for me." She has no place to go and is not sure what to do. It turns out both their names are on the lease and his own momma had thrown him out of the house while they were dating.

I listen patiently. I must build trust and take it slow. Let her get it out. Let her tell the story, so she can find her power in it. I must hold the space just long enough, but not too long. If I hold it too long, it will confirm that she is powerless to change the circumstance. If I open the door too quick, it will be traumatizing and she will run back in to the cage, because it is what she knows. Yes, I must open the blinds slowly, allowing her eyes to adjust.

She thinks it is her fault. I remember that. I tell her about surviving domestic violence. I tell her about thinking the good outweighs the bad, but that it doesn't. She covers her mouth, "I don't want him to go to jail." I tell her about the mixed bag of abuse. I tell her that she is compassionate and that the best thing she can do for him is to alllow him to have the consequences of his choices. It is how she can help him. I can't make him wrong or she will run. She says, "He doesn't hit me, he just pushes me." I tell her that in a healthy relationship, people don't push each other. No one has a right to push anyone. She looks stunned, lost in the myriad of complexities of abuse.

I remember. I hated him and I loved him. I wanted him and I wanted the abuse to stop. As many tiimes that I returned, I never liked it. I never wanted it. I wanted the good times that were in between. I wanted out from the guilt that he placed on me every time I tried to get out. I never wanted to be disloyal. In that hall of mirrors, it never occurred to me that I was the one being violated. She says, "He does sexual things to me." She covers her mouth and her body shakes. She says, "I think it turns him on." I feel sick to my stomach. I say, "So he does more than just push you. He violates you. Sweetie, you don't deserve that." She lowers her head and sobs uncontrollably.

I breathe. She snaps back, "I don't know what to do." She is 22 and alone. I say, "Are you ready to leave?" I tell her that leaving can be a process sometimes. It took me four years to get out. It took me four years to hit bottom. She says that she is, but I feel that she is not quite there. She is ready in the moment-when the pain is dense. It is okay, I can walk with her. I can be an ally in supporting her to stay alive while she walks through it. I default to my domestic violence training. She is not ready to go to a shelter. I ask her not to fight in the bathroom or kitchen, too much porcelaine and sharp instruments available to snuff out a life.

I ask her if she wants me to sit with her and the landlord to figure out if she can get him off the lease. She needed time to think about it. I give her my number. Too much is whirling in her head. I keep it simple. He left her with the key to the apartment building and apartment. I tell her, "Your job is to not let him in tonight. That is all you got to do and think about engaging the landlady to help you. There are people here to support you." She nods her head. She swares she will not let him in. "I have had enough", she says.

I wait all weekend and no phone call. I come home on Sunday and I see that a note is taped on top of the box of number ten. I tell myself to mind my own business, but I don't. I carefully open the note. It is the key to the front door. The note reads, "Baby, I hope you are feeling better. I am at the mall." I tape it back and smile. I remember. I go in to my apartment. The foot steps are light and happy. Light and happy like people under a tapestry in a rain storm. Temporary relief from a burning sun. She has happy feet as she walks a familiar trail to a dead end. I smile and think to myself, "Yes, I remember."

Go Back to Africa

It was a particular non-descript day. I had decided to go get some breakfast at a local restuarant in Oakland. I had decided it was a perfect day to nap in the sun. I wanted to go get a book on chakra healing in Berkeley before I went on a quest to find a place to nap. I approached the bus stop. I notice two black women and three kids sharing a bench. They were sharing a bag of chips and fussing at each other as kids do. "Momma, he won't give me any more chips!" the little girl said to one of the women. She snaps, "Share those chips, Jamal." For the first time, I notice that she is wearing a bus driver uniform. She says to me, "I love that color on you." I was wearing a lime green. I thanked her and asked how they were doing. The little girl looks up at me with sprinkles of chips all over her face. I smile at her and say, "Wipe your face baby." She wipes her face and then looks at me. I nod.

As the bus approaches, we all begin to move towards the curb, where I notice an elderly white woman standing. She is almost clutching the post as we come close to her and she gets on the bus as the current bus driver emerges to swap places with the black woman. She sits in the front seat next to the window. The little kids continue to fight over the chips and I laugh at the little girl's brother who is obviously getting joy at tormenting the poor child. His eyes lock mine and I give him a half smile while I shake my finger at him. He laughs a mischievious laugh. He stops teasing her and gives her the bag of chips. He looks at her You can tell he loves her though as he asks her to sit next to him. He is loving. The second black woman approaches the front of the bus and he says, "Auntie, sit here with me!" She ignores him and sits up front next to the white woman. Mistaking them as sisters, I begin to wonder if they are together. My mind drifts and I find myself staring out the window.

All of the sudden there is a comotion in the front of the bus. The black woman jumps out of her seat with her fists clenched. "You need to learn some respect." The elderly white woman says, "I have always been good to black people. My son..." Her voice trails off. I hear the black woman say, "I don't give a damn about what your son has done, you have been having an attitude with us since you the bus stop. You are a damn racist." The white woman is speaking and I cannot hear her until she yells, "You can go back to Africa if you want to."

Stunned, I said, "Oh hell no, she did not even go there." I think of the irony of this event happening as we roll through Berkeley. Berkeley, the alleged haven for radicals and liberals. They call it the Berkeley nation for a reason. Every time, I go to Berkeley, I step in to a time lapse. There is always some long haired beautiful being walking down the street with some kind of book written by some philosopher or activist who was working to change the system. There is always somebody who took just a little bit too much acid back in the day and never quite came back. There is always some privileged white youth who choose to be homeless littering the streets with their signs requesting pot and sometimes food too. There is always somebody eating some sort of organic politically correct food out of a recycled bag. There is always somebody with too many tattoos, earings and layers of mismatched second hand clothing exploring the existential aspect of our mundane existence.

Yet, I have often wondered about free love. I have often wondered about the radical inclusiveness that Berkeley liberals and liberals in general work to practice. There always seemed to be a repression that comes with political correctness. I think they have a lot of unexpressed feelings and thoughts that get pushed in to corners and emerge in funny ways. I like to walk through Berkeley and one day, I walked in front of this person's property. Someone had trampled their garden. They had posted a sign, "We have you on camera. When you come back, we have a gun waiting to greet you." Berkeley? The home of non-violence and homeopathic medicine?

I snap back to the moment. It is etched in my mind. The black woman standing in a warrior pose with ther fist clenched, rocking from side to side like a boxer, preparing to strike her foe. The elderly white woman scrunched in the corner staring straight ahead rooted in her privilege. There is nothing apologetic about her. The bus is silent and I look around and people are mortified. Their liberal bubbles bursting. The black woman screams, "You need to show some respect!" The energy is escalating. I know that I will intervene if the black woman moves to strike her. As much as I understand and feel her, we just cannot strike 70 year old women. We just can't. I see her. I understand that she is a product of her time and her consciousness is limited. She probably doesn't even see herself as racist. Having that understanding does not mean that those comments hurt any less, so I understood the black woman as well.

As we approached the tipping point, a young white woman who is sitting across from me tells the elderly white woman to leave the bus. The bus driver asks her, "Is she wrong?" The young white woman says, "Yes. There is another bus behind us, you need to get off the bus." The bus driver pulls over the bus and tells her to get off the bus. The elderly white woman huffs and says, "Fine. I am going to tell your supervisor." The bus driver says, "Go ahead and tell him how you are racist too."

The bus pulls off. The black woman bursts in to tears. I was shocked. I was surprised, because of her appearance. She had her hair braided and pulled to the back with her white shirt tucked in to her jeans. A gold necklace complimented small gold earrings. She looked like she came from a whole bunch of hardness and I guess I did not expect that someone or really anything could touch her. I tell her, "Don't take it on, it is not yours." The young white woman echoes and pats her on the shoulder and says, "I am sorry. You should not have to take that. It is not yours, don't take it on." She tells the bus driver, "You know what she said to me? She said you fat black bitch, you can go back to Africa if you want to." She cannot stop crying. The elderly white woman had found the string and this black woman was becoming undone.

The bus pulls over and it is my stop. I pat her on her shoulder and tell her, "I am sorry that that happened. I hope you feel better." I felt the irony of being someone who does go back to Africa and loves it. Yet, I understood the underpinnings and historic context of the elderly white women's comment. Some wounds are old and ancestral. Raw just under the surface, if there has been any healing at all. I didn't know what else to say to the black woman. Is there anything else to say? How quickly we fall from our ideals. How quickly the unexpressed conversations emerge continuing to etch the legacies of those that came before. Some of the paths of our ancestors were meant to be followed and others were meant to be re-imagined and re-created in ways that mirror our humanity.

Re: What is the way of the empath?

This is how it works. I created this blog back in January and it is now May. Now, I am ready to blog for hours, maybe even days! I am ready to download it all from my Spirit. This is how it works being open to the flow and not forcing it. So, here I go. So what is the way of the empath?

I don't believe there is one way to anything. I believe that feelings-by their nature-flow. Yet for me-being a primarily feeling based person, I have come to know myself and how my feelings manifest. People say that I have a calming presence. I never thought of myself as a healer. I try not to. It is a trap, because I know that healing comes through me. I am a vessel. People call me a bright light. I ask who brings light to the light bringer? My flame feels so low sometimes that it is about to go out. Yet, even in those times-sometimes especially in those times-people tell me that I bless them. I have come to believe that the way of the empath is all of it. It is the light and the shadow. My Godmother used to tell me, "The brighter the light, the bigger the shadow." So, what is the way of the empath? I realized some time ago that I have a set of rules that I live by.

The way of the empath is:

Compassion: To me compassion means that I see myself in every situation. It is not denial of my feelings. It is owning my feelings and finding myself in the behavior. It is owning my part in it-in all of it-from environmental destruction to the miscommunication with my friend. Compassion is not passivity. I do not confuse empathy with sympathy and I do not confuse kindness for weakness.

Feeling and Intuition: I cherish my gift of intuitive feeling as a gift from my ancestors and Spirit. I do not confuse my ability with ego. I feel and I feel some more. I trust my feelings. I have found that the majority of my pain comes from when I do not listen to my feelings. Sometimes the external circumstances and my feelings conflict. It can be counter intutitive to follow my heart when all circumstances tell you to follow the condition. Following the path of the heart takes much courage

Service: I believe that empaths are organic unifiers. As we can feel everything and everyone, we are able to create links and bridges between people and perspectives. Where others find disconnects, we discover common threads. We help people unify within themselves and between each other. We serve oneness.

Sustainability: I include myself in the definition of my service work. I ensure that I give to myself as I give to others. I give to others in ways that supports my own replenishment. I know I cannot give from a half empty place and that my work is ultimately sustainable when I serve in a way that is sustainable to myself.

Courageous Love: I ask what would love do now? I search for the highest good in the situation. I know that every situation requires a different response. Sometimes love requires allowing others to walk their path without you. Sometimes love is letting go. Sometimes love is don't call here anymore. Love is looking at it with a cold eye. It is seeing life on life's terms and loving it, because of how it is, not how you want it to be.

Spirit: I know that I am guided and held by Spirit. I know that spirituality is the foundation upon which I live, work and breathe. I know that I call forth the people that need my energy as I call forth beneficial energies that are required for my growth and development.

The way of the empath is a special path. I had not thought of it as a path until last year. I was thumbing through one of those huge birthday books-you know the ones that are like a 1,000 pages and are so large they damn themselves to be coffee table books until they are given away as they take up too much space? I looked up my birthday-30 June and 1971 and it said, "Way of the Empath." I heard a bell. Yes, that is me. I knew it then, but I never thought it would bloom in to a practice. I never thought that it could be my work in the world. I guess you cannot run from who you are. It expresses itself-constructively or destructively-but it always expresses itself. Empaths always express themselves. Thank you for allowing me to express myself to you.