Thanks for being a subscriber to Let’s Not Be Trash. If you’re new here, we (Stanley Fritz, Evan J. Mastronardi, and Karina Maria ) write about patriarchy, politics, race, culture, music, and ruminations. The goal is to talk about important issues, in a way that is digestible and relatable. Because nobody wants to read a Ted Talk.

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Gents, the season ‘tis upon us. The one where the single men flock to the streets to show off their timb AF1 plumage for companionship like a mf dipset peacock.

But unlike our zoo brethren, we must contain ourselves. We must respect our fellow ladybirds. We must only show feathers WHEN prompted.

(Please, do not, in fact, whistle at her)

Yes, I am talking about Sundress Season. The famous slice of NY summer that has created many a meme—about NY’s (or insert your city where people actually walk) most beautiful women wearing one of fashion’s greatest creations.

Gentlemen, we have thoughts. And we have a distance between those thoughts and words and action. We must be distance champs. Embrace that distance. And then put a brita filter between that mf.

Because as many a therapist has said: thoughts are just thoughts. It is boys, especially the ones who ate the kit-kat bar in two full bites, who automatically combine those thoughts with actions. And as our Gospel (Paul, not the Wall) says: "When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.” Let us not be a child. We must retain our affection—even when the sundress and wind mix n’ mingle.

Women can have your admiration mentally. The God of Sundresses, Lord Dyckman, will understand and hears you. Women really do not need this admiration to take verbal form—and most certainly you are not entitled to the response of your preference.

Men, I implore you to understand: there is a difference between making conversation and making noise. Catcalling, along with being rude, is part of street harassment; it is the verbal misdemeanor parallel to a nuisance complaint. It does very little. It certainly does not separate you from the countless other men calling her: fineee, YO BeeeutiFUL (insert way to refer to human woman) in that D-REss; baddie, etc.

Therefore, you are basically just demonstrating you have little self-control and blurt out thoughts.

Now, I understand you may have heard some women enjoy unsolicited ‘compliments’ being yelled at them on the street. Yes, this is true. Some women also still listen to Tory Lanez, who shot Megan Thee Stallion. Some women voted for Cuomo for mayor, who assaulted 13 women. Some women think the non-spicy chicken sandwich from Popeyes is ooohh this is too spicy. Choices are made; preferences exist. That being said, the best way to operate to offend and cause discomfort for the fewest women, maybe a noble goal for all gentlemen, is to operate as if she didn’t wake up to have her body be a walking comment section.

‘BuT if sHE DoeSnt WanT ComMentS wHY DId shE drEss that waY.’

Because she can. Because it’s hot. Because she’s hot. Because she likes to feel sexy. Because maybe she expects the men who admire her to be adults about it who keep their admiration as thoughts and respectful glances. And IF they say anything, for it to be a quick, non-sexual, non-threatening compliment—and to keep it moving. Not leer, stalk, and/or bark.

Remember, the sundress isn’t speaking to you—not literally. If it does metaphorically, let’s meet that with a metaphoric response, a retained naughty thought. Keep the poetry going. Don’t interrupt it with a Funk Flex byem byemmmmmm of CHEEKS WILD THO.

Essentially Gents, the game is simple:

Remember, women are human.

They deserve humanity at every step of the way and every hour of the day. Just as we do. They are our equal, our beautiful equal.

The Sundress is not for your entertainment. But if you are entertained, be entertained — alone, this is a natural reaction. But if you learned to read to yourself as a boy in school, you can keep thoughts to yourself outside as a man in these streets.

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Thanks for being a subscriber to Let’s Not Be Trash. If you’re new here, we (Stanley Fritz, Evan J. Mastronardi, and Karina Maria ) write about patriarchy, politics, race, culture, music, and ruminations. The goal is to talk about important issues, in a way that is digestible and relatable. Because nobody wants to read a Ted Talk.

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I remember the call I had with the VP when the first big tech layoffs hit in 2023. It was sudden. Afterward, I felt like I was floating in this liminal space, this weird void. In the days after, I took time to process it all. Eventually, I decided to book a transformative trip to Peru that would change my life.

I’ve been thinking lately of the ego, my ego, and how it directs me towards what I need and the hunger that I have to achieve my desires. My journey into psychedelics was to help me heal from my past perceptions of myself — the bad experiences that were rooted in the search for something more. Often, I feel like we tend to misunderstand the “ego” and its importance in achievement and in our sense of self. I think I did as well, not that I had a big ego, but I felt that it might be blocking me from connecting somehow.

I spent a lot of time researching it and speaking with people about their experiences. Then I decided to do ayahuasca, referred to as the mother plant because of its healing, nurturing, and guiding nature. I was in a small town in the Sacred Valley called Ollantaytambo, where I did my ayahuasca ceremony with two funny, great shamans, one of whom was really into Hip Hop and was actually a rapper who performed and toured around Latin America, haha.

The experience is hard to describe. I remember being in what’s called a maloca, a traditional ancestral longhouse built by Indigenous peoples. That’s where the ceremony takes place. As I sat amazed by being in this space, I was thinking about what led me here. If you want to be successful, you need your ego, but here I was, trying to go through ego dissolution. As if that were the answer to my problems. I’m not the type of person who does things on a whim; I need to think things through meticulously. Maybe that was part of the problem; maybe what I needed was to understand being present in the moment.

The first night of the ceremony, I didn’t feel the effects. There was some blockage. The second night, they decided to give me more yes, it’s taken in a shot glass- go figure- and I knocked back what looked like mud water, with this earthy, awful taste, four times. Then the “purge” started, the cleansing process into the bucket they give you. This deep, bone-chilling feeling started to overtake my body, a sensation I’d never felt before or since. Slowly, I started to see things, the visions, and then I was like, ooh shit, this is crazy.

At some point, I was bugging out, again trying to control or make sense of what was happening, but that was impossible, like a rocket shot into outer space, I was gone. I was yelling in my decent Spanish and English, and the shamans were laughing because they were surprised at how good my Spanish had gotten. I had to breathe and really just go through it, flow, like they were telling me. That felt foreign — like, if I’m not in control, then who is? As men, we all feel this pull to be in control of many things, but that’s a kind of illusion, because the only thing we can truly control is our response and our effort, not anything else.

As I went through it and saw more visions, I felt the extreme range of human emotions: happiness, anger, confidence, lust. I saw blue and green lights and plant-like things everywhere, all around me, as if I’d been teleported into a different world. Then I saw people from the past relatives who’d transitioned- and others I’d never met before, ancestors, as if they were trying to tell me something. I felt this kinetic release from them to me. I felt this hunger to be great and to change things.

Then came the part people describe when they say you connect to the plant and let go: this overwhelming, euphoric sense of connectedness and love. My sense of self dissolved, like I’d merged into something larger. Surreal doesn’t quite cover it. After the time I spent there, I met some interesting people. I had planned to return shortly after the ceremony, but someone I met said, why not travel around Peru? So I changed my ticket and ended up traveling around the country for a month. What I took away from the experience was that although our ego may at times get in the way of many of our relationships, it is necessary and vital for us to thrive.

If we’re capable of taming our ego to help drive us toward our aims and goals, that’s important because a fragile ego, a fragile sense of self, won’t allow us to become who we’re supposed to be. The problem lies in being inflexible in our approach to this. I think many men these days are performing, not going deeper into the truth of who they are and what they actually want, because that requires a level of honesty and openness with themselves. I’ve caught myself doing exactly this. During my own job search, I’d sit across from an interviewer and stretch the truth about tools I hadn’t actually used and hands-on experience I didn’t really have, because in that moment, admitting the gap felt like too much exposure. It wasn’t really about the tools. It was about not wanting to be seen as anything less than finished, less than ready, when the truth was I was still figuring plenty of it out. That’s the performance most of us are running, in one form or another: projecting a finished version of ourselves because admitting the gap between the performance and the truth means admitting we don’t have it all figured out yet. That kind of honesty takes more than most of us are willing to risk.

When we’re not honest with ourselves, we get frustrated because we’re not getting what we need, and often there’s a level of incongruence that shows up in many areas of our lives, especially with women. A partner often notices the incongruence between the mask and the man before he does; intimacy has a way of surfacing what the rest of the world doesn’t see. In a relationship, the mask eventually wears off, one way or another.

I think if we’re grounded in our own truth, then what we want can meet us where we are. For me, that hunger for more is rooted in striving to be the best version of myself, outside of the social noise, expectations, or the narrow box in which I, or any of you, might be defined. When the ego is rooted in that, one doesn’t need to be constantly performing or trying to put someone down. I’d rather uplift people through words of affirmation, positivity and actions. Used well, the ego becomes fuel for a drive that comes from abundance instead of fear. Used poorly, it becomes a kind of scarcity, a need to take instead of build, and it costs you the people around you. We live in a culture that rewards the second version. It’s on us to choose the first.

Looking back now, I think about that call with the VP differently. At the time, it felt like the floor dropped out. These days I’d probably sit in that same void without rushing to fill it, trusting that the next chapter, whatever it is, doesn’t need to be controlled—just walked into.

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Over a year ago, I wrote this piece. And yet still here we are, in the same place; I am now 35-0 in years being straight during the gay agenda. We can be friends.

‘Visionary’ TV execs clearly need their vision checked.

Sex Education is my favorite show for many reasons—one of them is the friendship between two of its main characters.

The show centers around two childhood friends in high school: Eric (Ncuti Gatwa), who is Nigerian and family emigrated to the UK, and Otis (Asa Butterfield) who is white. Forget on TV—having a meaningful friendship with empathy, depth, and love, between men is straight up rare in life, let alone interracial and since childhood. And all this in context of a male loneliness epidemic.

And that’s why my friendship with Rudy is so meaningful to me.

Rudy is one of 10 friends I’ve known for 20+ years—and one of five I’ve known for 25+ years. Despite struggling with depression and loneliness in various forms as an only child, adolescent, and adult, the more I learn about this epidemic, and its consequences, the more blessed I feel.

And Eric, like Rudy, is also gay.

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And that’s one of the things that made Eric and Otis’s friendship so special to me; there were aspects of their relationship that reminded me of my childhood friendship with Rudy. But since Will & Grace debuted decades ago, the straight woman with a gay male friend dynamic has had countless representations. But a straight man and a gay man being friends? A regular, meaningful friendship with actualized characters? Outside of Sex Education, I’ve seen very few, and next to none in US television.

We’ve come so far in other areas? Why has this simple pairing been so elusive on TV?

You could say the reason straight man, gay man (SM/GM) friendships on TV are almost invisible on American TV, is yes, they are less common in real life, but that doesn’t stop meaningful stories. In fact, uncommon dynamics combined with other commonalities/relatable situations is half of the purpose of TV. Full House - single dad lots of friends, in one house; Suits, a middle aged lawyer is friends with, and employs, a 20 something rando who never finished law school. Odd Couple. Odd Couple Reboot. ALF. Shit, there’s several Netflix shows where mfs are friends with aliens.

Really? All that but we can’t be friends?

And in major cities like NY, DC, ATL, Miami, Austin, SF, LA, etc. SM/GM friends are gonna be a lot more common—and let’s face it, that’s where the large viewerships are.

I believe one of the real reasons this is so rare is the false narrative that a main, out gay male character means a ‘gay’ show. No matter who else is on it. So, the show’s gotta be ‘one or the other.’ E.g. ‘straight or gay.’

But that stereotype is the exact reason to make more shows with this dynamic. It can have plot lines involving gay characters and what they face, but at the end of the day, two friends are gonna talk about life, work, relationships, and cut ass just like anyone else.

It can prove that being in close proximity with a gay man doesn’t ‘make’ anyone gay—it just can add to someone’s close, meaningful group of friends.

Of course, I’m not going to say all this with out a suggestion and shameless self and Rudy promotion: continue ‘Psych’ with Rudy and I. Speaking of ‘Suits’ earlier—how we deadass got a Suits: LA before a ‘Psych: NY?!’

In addition to Sex Education, the other show that reminded me of my friendship with Rudy was Psych. Again, don’t many see childhood, meaningful interracial friendships with character depth on TV—as opposed to tokenized or superficial— that often. Psych was one of those rare occasions. Gus and Shawn would even say they loved each other. And, aside from J.D. and Turk on Scrubs, who were friends as adults, I almost never saw that either.

For those who aren’t familiar with the series: Shawn Spencer (James Roday) and Burton ‘Gus’ Guster (Dulé Hill) are best friends since childhood living in Santa Barbara, California. Shawn was raised by his police officer father to be extremely observant of his surroundings, to the point that he noticed things most adults didn’t. As an adult, Shawn is still figuring things out, while Gus has a full-time, big boy pharmaceutical job. Shawn starts using his observation skills to solve open cases, claiming to be psychic. He draws Gus into his shenanigans, who somehow (barely) balances this with his full time job and finding love, while keeping Shawn’s secret.

Now add New York to that formula.

Judging that mfs are untrustworthy because someobody got on off brand timbs and/or wild contour? Knowing it’s an undercover because his bum ass badge outline in his back pocket and mf wearing police academy Nike Boots? Evading opps on the 6 train to catch the culprit before he escapes to North Brother Island or gets lost in a rave on Randall’s? C’mon son. This shit writes itself.

There can even be references to public safety alternatives to police— ‘psychic’ methods aka using deductive reasoning and subsequent de-escalating or non lethal force, doing a better job than the NYPD.

We both act—Rudy is a legit triple threat, like Dule Hill (Gus)—he can dance, sing, and act. (I first learned of Rudy’s talents when he knew the boys and the girls dances before I knew who my dance partners was).

And, like Shawn, I ride a motorcycle and believe in inter-snack communication.

This is what the people want—we asked the people. Yes, Rudy has no idea about any of this. But it wouldn’t be true to the show for Shawn to not embarrass Gus.

We need each other. Men need each other. More demonstrations of different kinds of male friendships allow men to have more meaningful ones. These examples, and my own, represent that love and empathy can exist in between male friends, which is vital to our mental health and wellbeing in the long run. A large factor in the male loneliness epidemic study is lack of lasting male friendships post-college, which even worsens post marriage or divorce. And our friendships with each other will even allow us to be better men in relationships with our romantic partners. Because, along with going to therapy, fulfilling friendships allow us to reduce the amount of emotional labor imparted on those partners.

Whether or not a friend is gay, normalizing this pairing demonstrates how all kinds of masculinity can make for great friendships—allowing a man’s internal emotional spectrum to become less constricted and the external range of people with whom they can share meaningful friendships to become greater.

Frequently, we just are waiting to see an example of what we want normalized by someone else before we can normalize it in our own life. Media has that power. Media is always a contributor to societal acceptance. From the first interracial kiss to Mr. Roger’s sharing a pool with a Black man to Ellen coming out on her show and so many more—representation matters. But representation can also easily be tokenized and deemed complete, while a world of layers remain unexplored. We have a long way to go. As one of my favorite actors Idris Elba said in his incredible speech on diversity in TV in the UK - we need ‘empires of the mind,’ diversity of imagination.

True diversity is about there being no gatekeeping, no guardrails on love, friendship, and experience. In 2025, not having demonstrations of meaningful gay and straight male friendships on TV is a straight up embarrassment and shows we don’t have enough of the right people in the right (write) rooms. Hopefully the entertainment world can catch up to Rudy and I circa 1999.

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272 years ago, a small group of people sparked an idea within the colonies of the Americas. The idea was simple, but radical. Instead of serving as the cash cow for the colonial super-power, England. The 13 colonies, with their different populations, experiences, and political interests, should join forces to declare their independence. And in 1754, the architects of this idea brought it to Albany, New York, where they were quickly dismissed. Most people in the room believed this was just the silly dream of a few land speculators, and it would soon fade into the wind. But like most big ideas, it may seem crazy in the moment, but with enough time and persistence, it can eventually catch fire. And by the late 1700’s, a blaze was beginning to brew, and the delusional idea of an independent nation had picked up so much steam that it was on the precipice of becoming a reality.

However, before this fever dream could come to existence, there was a battle of ideas and a war that left thousands dead. All of this happened so that America could be born with a manifesto that stated that “All men were created equal and had the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

250 years have passed since this radical idea became a reality. And as the citizens and their leaders tried to find it’s footing, the world watched closely. At times, we almost failed, nearly imploding in 1812, and then again in the 1860’s. Despite the challenges, America eventually found its footing and is still here today. The first time I heard the story of America, it filled me with pride. I believed that we had done something that changed the entire world. This made me more curious about our story, and the more I learned, the harder it was to hold on to that childish admiration. Our history has not been a straight line of success; even a cursory search will show you how complicated our rise has been.

Despite this, the United States of America has been a beacon of hope. The ultimate example of what is possible when people have the freedom to chase their dreams and work for more. At least it was for my dad. Financially ruined after Hurricane George tore St Marten and Dominica apart, my father left the only land he ever knew, searching for opportunity. Traveling to the United States with the hopes of making it in the place he was told had “Streets paved with Gold.” Those crazy rumors were quickly debunked when he arrived, and for the first time in my father’s life, he went from being just Alington from the Fritz family to a Black Man. But not just a Black man, a Nigger. Unlike the country he came from, Blackness here was considered a red flag.

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When I was a kid, he would share stories of how he was treated while looking for work in Florida and then New York. How factories and stores that were once hiring would suddenly be at capacity when he showed up. And when he did find work, the bond he built with an Indian coworker named Rejindra, who, like him, wasn’t allowed to eat in the cafeteria. They would buy Haitian food from a woman selling it out of her apartment. He loved telling me the story of when he and Rejindra “Kicked a white man’s ass” for calling them “niggers,” and the triumph they felt when he was fired instead of them. His eyes would darken when he told me that one day, Rejindra just disappeared without a trace. Years later, my father found out that he had been deported and died penniless. He didn’t cry; this was just the reality for people like them.

No matter, he didn’t need to be liked; he just wanted the opportunity to work and make a life for himself. And he did. The man with a third-grade education and no legal status in this country found work, made friends, and planted roots here. Like many other Black people, he didn’t have a glamorous life, but it was enough. Despite his permanent residency, he never identified as an American. And how could he? With no legal status, he was comfortable navigating the grey; it was what he was most familiar with. For a long time, this was his way of life, and then he met my mother.

A Haitian woman who came to the States seeking work to support her family back home. They met at the immigration office, fell for each other fast, and then eventually had me.

My story is different from my parents’. Unlike them, I was born on American soil, which made me a citizen by birthright. This luck in geography ended up being the deciding factor of where I would live when my mother was eventually deported. Forced to return to Haiti, she and my father decided it was best if I stayed here, where at least I would have a chance at a good life. It’s been 30+ years since that decision, and the same country my parents looked to for opportunity and hope is rejecting people just like them. And by extension, me.

As we speak, the Trump administration is fighting in the courts to eliminate birthright citizenship. If they are successful, it would turn a right embedded in our constitution for over a hundred years into a blip in history, and create a path for him to continue banishing anyone he believes doesn’t belong here.

I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but it still hurts. Am I crazy for this? Because yes, this administration’s behavior is demoralizing, but it is not some wild detour from who we have been at our worst. We did this to the Cherokee in the 1700’s with the Trail of Tears, we targeted East Asian people with the “Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, and in between these two horrific policy decisions, it took one of the bloodiest wars in American history, to emancipate Black people from slavery, and after that a constitutional amendment had to be fought for in order to give us citizenship.

With the knowledge of all of this, can I really be surprised at what is taking place in my name? Not really, because the truth is, the “American Dream” has always been a delusional aspiration that this country has never lived up to. We have had spurts of good, but they seem to always be quashed by the latest fear of some Black or Brown takeover. America’s wealth was built on the backs of slaves and immigrants, our military power has come at the expense of destabilizing governments, and funding coups to place our preferred people into power. And through every iteration of this country, having dark skin has meant living a life in bondage or navigating the soil you were born on as a second-class citizen.

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But if all of this is true, what does that say about me? My parents may be strangers to this land, but I am from it. I am Black first, but no matter what some may believe, I am also American. This country belongs to me, too. Should I own its sins? Should I lower my tone in discussions about justice because of the harm we have caused worldwide?

Sometimes when the world feels small, and the outside noise becomes too overwhelming, I’ll feel the defeat begin to settle in. It’s almost comforting, because as much as I don’t want to believe this is all it will ever be, at least I tried really hard before I gave up. But just as that thought begins to take hold, I think of the hope my parents had when they arrived here, and I think about the people who have made a life in this country. I think about the endless potential we have to do right, and the people who choose love and justice, even when it seems only pain chooses them, and before I know it, the irrational hopefulness that exists in all American people pulls me from defeat’s door.

We have not always lived up to our ideals, and it may feel like those currently in power will always control who we are and what we can be. But if it’s radical of me to envision an America for everyone. One that doesn’t center money, or whiteness, or violence, so be it. Because this country has already taught me that radical ideas aren’t as delusional as they may seem at first. They just need time to manifest.

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Hi friends,

Six years ago when I created this newsletter, I was looking for a place where I could share my thoughts, with the hope that people would find me and feel connected. Since that fateful day, I have written hundreds of posts, found a writing community, made new friends and watched my newsletter grow in ways I never expected. Substack has been good for me, and I have been incredibly lucky to have readers like you who constantly support my work.

But there’s something interesting about this experience, being on Substack, and building this community has given me the courage to call myself a “Writer.” That may seem small to you, but earning that title is something that has always felt important to me. It’s right up there with getting a book deal, and marrying Whitley Gilbert. Now that the title feels like it fits, I want to continue to grow this platform, and see how far I can take this passion of mine. Which brings me to what’s next.

The best part of writing is hitting that moment when it feels like the words are coming out of you, and the essay is writing itself. The second best part about writing is engaging with the people who read your work.

I spend a lot of time writing these essays, and a lot of you spend a lot of time reading them, replying to them, arguing with them, and thinking alongside me. I want to create a little more space for that.

So if you become a paid subscriber, here’s what you’ll get:

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2. After the Essay
Paid subscribers will also get a monthly subscriber-only post I’m calling After the Essay — a behind-the-scenes companion to the writing. I’ll use it to talk about what didn’t make it into a piece, what I was really trying to say, what I’m still wrestling with, and sometimes what readers got completely wrong.

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You’ll also get access to the full Let’s Not Be Trash archive: six years of essays, political analysis, personal writing, cultural commentary, rants, observations, and all the other things I have felt compelled to inflict on the internet since starting this newsletter.

If you’re already a paid subscriber, thank you for your coins. You subscription pays for my Grammarly account, website domain, and the occasional coffee

If you’ve been reading for a while and haven’t made the leap yet, there’s no better time than now. If this newsletter has ever made you laugh, think, feel seen, or text a friend “you need to read this,” becoming a paid subscriber is one of the best ways to support the work and help me keep doing more of it.

I’d love to have you in the room.

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There was a time, surely before some of the people reading this may remember, where the joke among some communities was that Bill Clinton was America’s first Black President. To be fair, it was more of a tongue in cheek comment, than something people actually believed. But for a period, the former president held a stellar relationship with Black voters.

And with good reason, as president, he appointed multiple Black cabinet secretaries, and while some elected officials were trying to backtrack on affirmative action, Clinton pushed to strengthen and improve it, declaring in 1995 that it was “Good for America”. But the moment that shines brightest is the famous image of Clinton playing the saxophone on the Arsenio hall show.

That moment, as well as his ease with and around Black people, more than anything he did before becoming president, endeared him to Black people everywhere. That relationship grew stronger when he became president and presided over a strong economy that saw wages and home ownership opportunities for many Americans increase.

By most metrics, Clinton had a successful tenure as president, and because of that, the lesson’s Democrats took from him wasn’t just how to win an election, but how to govern. Under Clinton’s governing philosophy, you campaigned in prose, but in governance, you needed to be willing to shift right in order to keep the white more moderate voters happy. Even President Obama’s time in office was influenced by this philosophy. Through this approach, both men were able to accomplish amazing things as Commander in Chief. But for as much success Clinton had with his approach, everything wasn’t perfect. In fact, there were dire consequences for some communities.

After spending the first part of his administration fighting with congress, President Clinton worked with republicans to pass a “welfare reform” bill that gave states the power to dictate how poor people would receive benefits, making it hard or even impossible for some people to qualify. And then before the ink was dry, he worked with republicans to pass a crime bill that accelerated incarceration rates across the country. In both policy choices, the constituency that suffered the most were Clinton’s favorite base, Black people.

Clinton and Obama’s success seemed to have lulled the Democratic party into a simple idea; if they focus on charismatic leaders who could build a broad coalition, led by Black voters, while running on a platform that is high on hope, and charisma, but flexible on policy, they hold power.

That approach was successful with Clinton and even Obama, but the results have been inconsistent in every other lever of power they have fought to control. For one, very few people hold the star power of the former presidents. Secondly, while they both wowed voters with their charm, and oratory skills, they also ran on policy. Both pushed for fundamentally changing the country’s healthcare system, Clinton fell short, and Obama succeeded. But both were clear about a need for this shift. We can argue over whether this was the issue that needed the most attention, but it is clear where they stood.

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Since then, the only thing Democrats have been able to offer is that they are “not Donald Trump” and when given a chance to vote on significant policy that would positively impact Americans. They have been sabotaged by their own party members, or stifled by unelected actors. When voters on the left, or really anyone, has pushed back on the Democrats inability to deliver for working people, they have always stressed the necessity of reaching across the aisle, similar to the ways Clinton did.

This strategy served Democrats for a long time, but Clinton is no longer president, and while Democrats still have a strong hold on the Black vote, it is weakening, and as a result, so has their ability to win races at the State, local, and federal level. Today, more than any other time, Black voters are wondering out-loud, what benefit exists with voting Blue. This sense of questioning has created an opening to win the support of Black voters, and as this conversation gets louder, a new player, the Democratic Socialist of America (DSA) has entered the field. The group has been slowly building power all over the country, but nowhere is their influence felt more than in New York City.

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In fact, by the time you read this, New York City will be in the final hours of some of the most interesting primary elections in recent years. After surprising the establishment with his historic run for Mayor, Democratic Socialist, Zohran Mandani is putting his political power to work, endorsing a slate of candidates to replace long standing establishment Democrats And while many people are excited for the slate, there is real tension between Zohran, DSA and the Democratic establishment, who are not thrilled with attempts by the organization’s attempts to expand it’s electoral base. This tension has boiled over on social media, where criticism of DSA has reached new heights. In the 10-years since DSA has risen to power and notoriety in this city, they have consistently faced a handful of the same criticisms. Below are just a few.

1. DSA doesn’t care about governance, they just want seats.

2. DSA members are transplants who just moved to New York, and have no respect for the people who have done the work.

3. DSA’s policies are too radical and don’t reflect the electorate.

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But the loudest, and most consistent critique of DSA is that the organization is majority white, and does not care about Black/Brown people. In fact, some have argued that the organization lacks an understanding of Black people, and does not have a “Black Agenda” These arguments have begun to spill off of the mean streets of twitter and into real life, so it’s important to investigate the critique.

In a way it’s true. DSA is majority white, most of its top leaders are white, most of its rank and file members are white. And at least in New York, their biggest victories have come from securing support from non black voters at a high enough clip to make up for their usually middling Black support. The best example of this is Zohran Mandani’s victory over Andrew Cuomo for Mayor.

Does the DSA have a Black Voter Problem?

As someone who was born, raised and lived in NYC for my entire life, I can tell you that there were major obstacles in the way of Zohran building in-roads with Black voters. And some of those obstacles came from the Black Political Establishment, who were deeply entrenched with the Democratic party, and supported Andrew Cuomo for Mayor. But still, Democrats do not have a monopoly on all Black people or voters. And if DSA is truly interested in a multi-racial movement, they will need to work harder to recruit more Black people so that their base is reflective of values they stand for.

So yes, DSA has work to do, but to criticize them for “not having enough Black people,” or not having a “Black Platform,” when the Democratic Party nationally, and locally is absent of a platform for Black people, and can also have little to no Black people in their leadership spaces is the pot calling the kettle black. At this current moment, what makes the Democratic party a better option for Black Voters?

Black voters have consistently voted Democrat, and for far too many years, they have been rewarded with excuses, when promises were broken, or lectures in response to reasonable demands. The truth is, no one has delivered for Black voters, not in a substantial way. I would argue that outside of criminal justice, most of the political establishment has no idea what black communities/voters actually want/need.

And even if they did, Black people would not be centered in the demand for it, because most people in power are afraid that by loudly advocating for policies that center Black people, they will lose support from white working class voters. They’re not wrong, a recent study showed that white opposition to some welfare programs increased because of “racial resentment”. White supremacy isn’t something that can be addressed in one election cycle, so for many in the establishment, it has been easier to avoid issues that may rile up their white voters.

Do Democrats have a Black Agenda?

The ugly truth is, issues centered on Black people are usually dismissed as “Radical” or “divisive” and until we as a country deal with the plague that is white supremacy and Racial capitalism, this will continue to happen.

But here is where I give DSA more of a pass than I do the Democratic Party. DSA has consistently supported Universal healthcare and childcare, supportive housing, worker protections, and robust consumer protections that help regular people. While some Democrats have also supported these policies, the establishment has been slow to tag along, or in some cases out-right hostile to these policies. The work that Zohran Mandani is doing on deed theft will help Black home owners.

The efforts to shift the NYC property tax code, if done right, can help Black homeowners. Climate policies that shift to sustainable resources and attempt to undo some of the damage we have done to this earth, help Black people. DSA may not have a Black agenda, but the policies they fight for would have a significant net positive impact on Black people and communities.

And while Republicans are always the first to push-back against the type of policies listed above. Many in the Democratic party have been just as vocal, and enthusiastic in their efforts to undermine these policies. The same members of the establishment who accused DSA of not doing anything for Black people.

I am not trying to argue that every Democrat is useless, or in active opposition to impactful reforms. In New York, none of the progress that has been made over the last ten years would be possible without strong leadership in the State Legislature. Assembly Speaker, Carl Heastie, and Majority Leader, Andrea Stewart Cousins have worked with progressive groups to pass a laundry list of important reforms, including; bail reform, closing the LLC loop hole, the Climate Community Protection act, The Dream Act, Marijuana legalization, and the suite of housing bills that eventually passed in 2019.

But many of these reforms happened against the wishes of the most powerful democrats in the state. From their point of view, these policies broke away from the tried and true program of charisma, and concessions. The approach that won Bill Clinton so much success. By abandoning the Clinton way and voting for the bills listed above, many in the New York State legislature risked their reputation, and careers. What part of that serves the Black community?

So yes, the DSA has a lot of work to do, and I hope they put real time and energy into engaging with Black and Brown people in Black and Brown communities. I hope they do this in a way that is authentic, and creates a structure of shared power. But while they figure things out, Democrats do not have a stable foot to stand on. Instead of attacking DSA, and progressive groups, they need to ask themselves, “What do we stand for” and “What can we actually deliver for our supporters.” Until they answer these questions in a real way, they will continue to lean on the outdated politics of Clinton, until there’s no one left.

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Have you ever had a conversation with someone, and it was going so well, that you started to think that this was potentially more than just a casual experience? Well, that used to happen to me all of the time usually while talking to women. Whether it was the cashier at Food Town or a random woman who made eye contact as we were passing by each other. Maybe in a brief moment of kindness, she smiled. If I somehow got her beyond that initial interaction, and picked up a conversation I would get this feeling in the pit of my stomach, and suddenly I would think, "what if she wants the dick likes me?" No, seriously, why else would this attractive woman, with nothing but free time on her hands be spending so much time being polite to me, or paying attention to what I have to say?

Sometimes, when that thought entered my head, it would feel impossible to avoid it, and I would be powerless to whatever whims the Gods of criminally horny and delusional had for me. And while I negotiated these unhinged feelings and thoughts, the object of my affection would usually be sitting there, being all beautiful, participating in the conversation, asking follow-up questions, and seemingly being interested in what I had to say. These moments would serve as solid confirmation, becuase why would a woman voluntarily spend that much time with a man, specifically me?

A couple of years ago, I decided to have an internal conversation about this ideology. Because, while I had never approached, or made a move on a woman who I suspected with zero actual cause, wanted to have sex with me. I knew that sometimes, my behavior around them would change. Sometimes, after jumping to conclusions I would then map out our entire relationship in my head. We would go from awkward friends to passionate lovers in a matter of minutes. I would project this idea of romance without any participation from my current romantic fixation. Only to be left crushed and jaded when I found out that they were either uninterested, or already in a relationship.

After years of functioning like this, things came to a head when someone I was originally friends with, became my new fixation, and quickly rejected me once she realized what was happening. Her denial of my advances hurt like hell. She still wanted to be friends, and I wasn’t sure if I could revert to the way things used to be. Even if, the only thing that had changed was whatever was going on in my head. This was the moment I was forced to confront this way of thinking. Why did I do this? Where was it coming from?

I didn't have a response, at least not one that made sense. But asking it out loud and making it a thing that I had to deal with, helped to ground me in reality, because the fact of the matter was, just because a woman acknowledges you, and even shows interest in who you are, does not mean that she has any romantic or sexual interest in you. Someone thinking that you have a cool shirt, or tell funny jokes isn't a sign that they want you in their guts like you, and what you perceive isn’t always reality. Especially when you’re leaning on assumptions to ground your thinking. That realization was a helpful, but hard pill to swallow because next up I had to figure out where that feeling was coming from.

I must have talked to almost every female friend I had about this, and I'm not proud of the emotional labor they had to expend in order for me to figure things out, but I think this process allowed me to get to the root cause of my wild thinking. It's a little weird but stick with me.

My father, as I have written about extensively, was a playboy who didn't give too many heart-to-heart talks. That wasn’t really his style, plus there were very few things he held a deep passion for. Well… besides women. When it came to women, he always had a lot to say. Especially on the subjects of having sex with women, how to convince women to have sex with you, and what the amount of sexual partners you had accumulated said about you as a man. His philosophy was simple; “Women were raised to deny you sex, but they wanted it as bad as we did.” So it was a man’s job to look for the signs they inevitably gave.

It also meant I needed to be ruthless in my attempts to romance women. He taught me how to "Look for any opening that could help you get laid" and that "If you're polite, women will reward you with sex." I thought I was smart enough to realize he was giving poor advice, but it wasn’t that simple. My dad is one of the best people I know, and after years of listening to him, and the opinions of my friends and other men around me, I grew to believe that finding, romancing, and sleeping with women was what gave me value. If I couldn’t do that, nothing else mattered. Soon enough, it was all I cared about.

I was so fixated on this idea that I became one of those guys who sought to be nice to women, with an ulterior motive. I held doors, I bought flowers, I listened intently during conversations, I laughed at their jokes, all for the purpose of being rewarded with sex, or some kind of physical intimacy.

When that wasn't the outcome, I would become bitter, complain about women "always wanting the bad guy" accuse people of "friend-zoning" me, or completely cut that woman off. That attitude became such a way of life for me, it was only natural to expect other people to be thinking and behaving the same way.

They weren't. Looking back now, I would guess that at least 150% of the women I suspected of wanting me, were just trying to be decent human beings. Maybe one of them thought I said something interesting, maybe they were killing time, or being nice to assure their safety. The reason isn’t really important, what’s important to know is that the assumptions I projected on to them were not valid.

But like most things, I would wager that a lot of men still think this way, and because many of us are only focused on dating women, and sex with women, we miss out on really getting to know most of the women who enter our lives, we lose out on opportunities for beautiful friendships, and the those who remain never move past being two dimensional projections, we can never fully see them for what they are.

There’s no fun in that, it adds nothing to their lives, and it takes so much from us, I didn’t want that to be my reality, and now I’m trying to figure out how to help others break that cycle. What will it take?

Congratulations, you made it to the end. But let’s keep the conversation going. Leave a comment answering one of these questions.

1. What’s the wildest thing you’ve ever convinced yourself was a sign that someone liked you?

2. Did anybody else grow up getting absolutely terrible dating advice from adults?

3. Be honest: have you ever built an entire relationship in your head before the other person even knew what was happening?

4. What’s a belief about dating or relationships that took you way too long to unlearn?

5. Have you ever realized you were projecting your own stuff onto somebody else? What happened?

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For as long as I can remember, I have loved the idea of love. Some could even argue that there were points in my life where I was obsessed with it. But how could I not be? Have you ever actually stopped to process what it means to “fall in love” with someone? I have. One day you wake up and look at another person, and in that moment you realize that your life shines brighter with them there, and your feelings for them are so deep that when they suffer any pain, or struggle even an ounce, It feels as if it has happened to you. That level of connection isn’t something that manifests spontaneously, it is a choice to care for someone as much if not more than yourself. And every day that this romance exists you must re-enroll them into your heart. That kind of dedication is the ultimate insanity. If God truly exists, the idea of love is her most beautiful and unhinged creation. Because in falling for someone, you are acknowledging that they are worthy of this great thing, even if it means losing yourself in the process.

I wanted so badly for someone to choose me, but not just choose me, fall deep for me, descend so far that they lose themselves in the ocean of feelings they have for me, and just before they fade into the abyss, I wanted to be the one to pull them up, because my love for them is so strong that we find each other in the place that no one else can reach. In my 20’s I wanted nothing more than to be loved like that, and I was ready to cast myself away in order to receive it. But to find love you must date and for a long time, dating was the thing that I was the worst at. At least it was until I wasn’t.

After years of consistent failure, of one sided love affairs and unrequited lovers, I had a breakthrough after college. 2010 was an exciting time. Out of nowhere women were suddenly laughing at my jokes, my romantic advances weren’t being rejected outright, and after going years with no real prospects, I had met someone who seemed to match the intensity in which I was hoping to give to my lover. This someone was named Cherrell.

Cherrell loved the color pink, intimate conversations, looking into the eyes of people she cared about, and finding her prince charming. We met at a writers workshop in lower Manhattan. She was moved by the way I weaved words together, I was moved by the way her hips swayed in her 7 jeans, and the sweet sing-song way she spoke to me. We went for a drink after class and after a few minutes it was clear that we were meant to be with each other.

One drink became two drinks, and from there we found ourselves in her apartment, and I think it’s safe to assume you know where things went from there. Dating Cherrell felt like trying to drink from a category five hurricane. Everything we felt and did was at the highest levels of intensity, and after two weeks we were discussing the names of our future children. After a month, we were making plans to move in together. But this love affair wouldn’t last long because as much as she may have liked me, Cherrell was a lover of falling in love. Which meant that she couldn’t resist the budding stages of it, but once those intense feelings passed, she would grow bored and move on, and that’s exactly what happened. Two months into our relationship she stopped answering my calls, stopped showing up to the writers workshop, and moved out of her apartment. I never saw her again.

At first I tried to deny reality, things had been going well, so I figured she would pop up after a couple of days. But when that didn’t happen, and the reality of being ghosted began to sink in, it sent me to a dark place. When you fall in love with someone that loves you back, it feels like you’re flying. When that love is not returned, or ripped away, it resembles tumbling down a mountain of jagged rocks.

Cherrell had left me with all of these feelings to process, feelings that I didn’t know I had, feelings that I didn’t want to face, I tried escaping with alcohol, but it didn’t help, I was too embarrassed to talk to my friends about what happened, and the more my heart ached, the more I withdrew. I would sit in my room reading poems she wrote to me, and religiously checking her twitter page to see if it would clue me in to what happened. I was so upset I stopped eating, I constantly felt like I was on the verge of tears, but they would never come. I felt utterly dejected. When I wasn’t searching for signs that she was thinking about me, I would listen to B.O.B’s “Ghost in the Machine” on repeat, that song still makes me emotional.

After three months of misery, I found myself getting angry, I had all of this pent up hurt and rage and nowhere to put it. I hated myself for having these feelings, and wanted so badly for someone to tell me it would be ok. I knew this would never happen, because I didn’t deserve it. I was the problem, so the next best thing was to disappear. I started going on long bike rides to be by myself . One day after traveling aimlessly through the city, I found myself in a neighborhood I didn’t recognize. To make things worse, I didn’t have any money to get on the subway. It was getting dark, and I was already fatigued from having been on the bike for most of the day. With no option in sight I pedaled for hours, but as difficult as that ride was, it forced me to be with myself longer than I had allowed since Cherrell’s disappearance. I realized during that pilgrimage home that while I enjoyed her company, I wasn’t in love with her, I was in love with the idea of feeling whole, and when I dug deeper I realized that there was nothing she or any woman could ever do to make me feel whole, because what I was looking for, I can’t get from another person, I have to find it in myself.

That long ride home was one of the many times in my life where I would realize that the problems I faced were rooted in a belief that I wasn’t enough. And until I learned to love myself, and believe that I was enough, I would constantly be chasing fulfillment in all of the wrong places. My story isn’t very different from other men, my vice has always been “love” it’s at the root of pleasing my people, what drives my need to be seen, and the fuel behind my efforts to always be producing, so that I can say with confidence that I am worthy. But I am not alone, there are millions of men and boys trying to fill a void that they don’t even know they have. Some of them do it with alcohol, others choose stronger drugs, and even more resort to anger, abuse, and cynicism. Maybe we should try to love ourselves with reckless abandon. That could be a start.

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I don’t think I am someone who cares deeply about his public image. Well, I should qualify that. I want to be perceived as someone who is a decent human being, I try to model the behaviors I would want from the world, and I follow most if not all of the basic social rules. I do this because I understand that there is a social contract that exists in the world that we live in, and while not all parts of that contract are mandated, every piece of it has consequences if you choose not to follow them.

For example, I don’t have to shower, wash my clothes, or put on deodorant. I could choose to navigate the world without following these social requirements, but I can tell you from experience; people who smell like they just ran a marathon while rubbing onions on their skin tend to have very small friend groups. In conclusion, yes, I do care about my public image, I care about it more than I would usually like to admit. It’s important to me because of what I have always felt it meant. As long as I was likable, did things that people thought highly of, made people feel comfortable, and had attributes or skills that people respected, I would not only continue to strive within society, I would be likeable, and if I was likeable, I would never be alone.

And for a long time this philosophy was true, for me at least. I built a reputation as the “nice guy” the “funny guy” the guy who always had the answer, and the more people believed these things to be true about me, the more I made it my personality. But there’s a problem that comes into play when you build up your identity based on things you can do and how people respond to it.

There will come a day when you won’t be the funny guy, when you don’t have the answers, or when your usual tricks don’t work. And when that happens, the pillars you built yourself on will come crashing down. I think we are in a world where men as a collective are going through this breaking point. The things we were once told made us men are now being described as abusive, toxic and harmful, and many of them are, but you must understand how shattering that must feel to us, when this is all we have ever known.

It can be challenging to understand the implications of this, which is why examples are important. Drake’s musical journey serves as a real-time case study of masculinity performed in public. The Toronto rapper has been at the top of hip hop for almost two decades, but two years ago, he had the kind of career setback that would have destroyed most people.

After going on a brief Hiatus, Hip Hop Mega-star, Drake released his first solo project since the battle heard around the world with Kendrick Lamar. Success can make you complacent, and I would argue that despite initially debuting as someone who broke the norms of Hip Hop masculinity by coming across as kind, vulnerable, and collaborative, the Toronto rapper regressed.

The vulnerability was replaced by bravado, cynicism replaced the lover boy, and bitterness became the norm. This also impacted the technical quality of his raps. The entendre and melodies we used to love were prioritized for Instagram caption one liners, and boiler plate lyrics disrespecting women. Despite the shift, Drake was still King, and then “Like That” dropped, and the battle between Kendrick Lamar changed it all. In a matter of weeks, Drake was being ridiculed for his behavior, compared to blue-pilled incels, and dismissed as irrelevant, it was a very public fall from grace. Whatever he released afterwards would have very high stakes as a result.

Ice-man, an 18-track album features Drake rapping at a level we haven’t seen in at least a decade. In it he takes shots at his enemies, calls out the people he believes to have betrayed him, and continues to fire at Kendrick Lamar, the man who handed him the most public and humiliating defeat of his rap career. For Drake Stans, this album feels like beautiful retribution, it’s their lord and Savior Drizzy rising from the ashes to show the haters that not only can he not be defeated, but the music industry needs him. And in songs like “Janice STFU” where he raps, “You boys got big off my name, that’s big enough We know how you OGs rockin’ already, my nigga, the jig is up” you believe him, because while other artist of this generation have had their moments, no one has ever dominated rap as long as he has.

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Thankfully, Ice man isn’t just pot-shots, and braggadocious raps layered in a brilliant wordplay, Drake talks about dealing with his father’s journey with Cancer, he talks about the heartbreak he felt when rapper, J-Cole backed out of the rivalry with Kendrick Lamar, he vents about perceived betrayals, and at the end of it, he tells us this transforms him into the Ice Man, the Drake we once knew is dead and gone.

Some of the content feels petulant, the expressions of betrayal don’t always land as valid, but this is his platform, and after listening to the entire world give commentary, he has a right to share his perspective. And if you’re listening, what the “IceMan” album should tell you about Drake is that the battle, and everything that came with it wasn’t just a blow to his ego, it hurt him on a personal level. He lost friends, people he thought were his supporters turned their backs on him, his entire worldview was challenged, and what we get in IceMan is someone putting the pieces back together.

Does all of it make sense? No, should he look in the mirror and take accountability for the way he brought some of this on himself? Absolutely. Will he do that? Only time will tell, but the journey to healing can’t happen if we’re not acknowledging that we lost something, and as a result something needs to change. He’s doing that with Ice Man. And no matter who the person is, no one can make it to the other side without community.

If we want a better Drake we have to be willing to listen to understand what’s underneath the protective shells. The same thing applies for all men. If we want better men, and by extension a better world, we have to hold space for them. That means being willing to hear what we’re going through, what scares us, what we have lost, and what we think of it. The process will be ugly, sometimes it will be infuriating, and it won’t be easy, but under the hard layer of ice is usually where the truth lies, and we can reach it with a little warmth.

I know this essay was messy, so let’s talk:

1. Have you listened to Ice Man, what did you think?

2. Am I giving Drake too much grace?

3. What parts of masculinity do you think are worth keeping?

4. Do men actually know who they are outside of performance?

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Sometimes I spend too much time on the internet, and on those days I can experience an overwhelming sense of sadness. There’s so much that needs to be addressed in society, and it feels like the people in power have all of the wrong ideas. One of my favorite tools for coping with this is curiosity. Instead of getting angry at things I can’t control, I try to engage with “simple” questions. For starters, have you ever taken a moment to investigate the activity of men on OnlyFans?

It's no secret at this point, thousands of women have, or are creating OnlyFans accounts to sell explicit content. It may not surprise you that the largest customer base is men. That aside, one of the most profitable sections for many of the women selling content are “Dick Ratings.”

It’s true, there are people on Only fans making a killing off of rating dicks. Here’s how it works. A criminally horny man will find an Only Fans model to project his sexual fantasies on to. After subscribing to her page, he has the option to purchase custom videos, or he can pay a small fee to send a picture of his erect penis to the content creator. She receives it, and then rates it based on whatever criteria she has created for this process. Some men want compliments, others want to be shamed.

But here’s the thing about this new economic stimulant, it’s become so popular that OF models who do not provide this service started getting spammed with unsolicited dick pictures. Leading some to now have in their bio’s “I DON’T DO DICK RATINGS.” Unfortunately, this doesn’t seem to have helped. Eventually Only fans made it so that subscribers would have to pay if they wanted to message their creators.

I first learned about this while at a party. One of the guests, we’ll call her Jen, was bragging about her thriving Only fans career. A bunch of us were interested in the topic and before long, there was a section of the room blocked off so that she could regale us with her experiences.

The dick rating confession wasn’t even the most surprising thing. Apparently most of the women using only fans rely on A.I to chat with their subscribers, some of them even use A.I. to generate their content. While there’s a lot to unpack there, someone else will have to do it, because what had most of us in a chokehold were the dick ratings. Because, why would a man pay a stranger to grade their downstairs area?

With heavy discomfort, and no clear answer in sight, most of us in the room resorted to joking on the men, or calling them creeps. Despite the easy target, Jen didn’t find this amusing at all. Instead she defended the men, arguing that there was nothing wrong with “wanting to feel special.” The room burst into laughter and chaos ensued, but what she said struck a nerve. Our current society does a lot to make the lives of women difficult and dangerous, and while it’s true that men generally benefit from the restrictive structures of patriarchy, we also suffer from it in big and small ways.

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While I’ll admit it’s a little funny, a lot of men struggle with anxiety over society’s expectation around how big or small they should be down below. For many, myself included at one time, the size of my junk was vitally important to who I was as a man, which meant I needed to have decent size, or be considered less than.

This obsession is so strong within the manosphere, that there are tools you can purchase online to “extend your length,” and if that doesn’t work, you can now look into surgery. But how do you know if you’re the right size? This isn’t something you can consult with your friends about, and even with romantic partners, there’s a level of vulnerability that is necessary to have this conversation. Vulnerability that men have been told is a threat to their masculinity. So with limited options, I can a hundred percent understand why someone would resort to Only fans.

They pay a small fee, and a beautiful woman tells them how wonderful they are and how “big it is.” To most people that may feel like someone looking to have their ego stroked, and maybe it is, but I think a lot of these men just want to be desired, they want to feel like they’re doing something right, they want to feel special. That might sound crazy to you, but I get it, because the biggest lesson men get from patriarchy is that we are not enough, and because of this, we shouldn’t like ourselves.

I spent an uncomfortable amount of years not liking the person looking back at me in the mirror. That self hatred influenced the way I showed up in the world, it also made me incredibly sad and lonely. I couldn’t express these things outwardly, so I over compensated with aggression, arrogance, and narcissism. Hell, if Onlyfans would have existed when I was 22, I probably would have spent a bunch of money looking for some affirmation as well. I’m in a better place today but that took years of work. The growing dick rating economy tells me that millions of men still need our help, so now we have a choice. We can keep laughing at them, or help them break the chains of their own prisons.

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When I was 12-years old I began a spiritual journey. My friends and family were confused because for much of my earlier years I used to hate going to church. I would spend Sunday mornings pouting while being forced to put on a suit and walk the two block distance to Ebeneezer Baptist Church on Wyoming street. Once I arrived, I would go out of my way to ask difficult questions to my Sunday school teacher, and then come up with excuses to leave service early. I was never successful. My antics became famous amongst those who knew me, so when the decision was made that my step sister and I would no longer need to attend church services, no one was expecting me to find my way back to religion on my own.

That “return to Christ” as my step-mother called it, was less about a desire for a closeness to God, it was driven by a deep curiosity. The God that I learned about in Sunday school, the one that my family talked about was the God I was told I should love, but everything I knew about him made me feel the opposite. From what I learned in their stories, this God had given us life, placed Adam and Eve in a Garden, put a plant there that they shouldn’t eat from, and then got mad at them when they ate it. Even at the tender age of 10-years old, I thought that was passive aggressive as fuck. The foundational story in the bible made me suspicious of the entity I was told to worship blindly, and things didn’t get any better from there.

When he wasn’t entrapping his own children, he was urging them to kill their own to prove their love, allowing the devil to bring suffering to his believers in the name of a wager, or drowning entire civilizations because they had angered him. I couldn’t understand how anyone could hear any of this and feel overwhelming love. I feared him, and what he would do if I didn’t worship him, and because his rage felt so arbitrary, I grew to resent him. That resentment was what drove me away from the church, and when I would press my Sunday school teacher, or the pastor, they would always promise that God “mellows out in the new testament” I didn’t believe them, but I wanted to see it for myself, so at 12, I decided I would read the book from cover to cover.

In some ways, my pastor and Sunday School teacher were right, God did mellow out, but that’s mostly because he wasn’t the main character in this book. Jesus was the protagonist of the New Testament, at least from my point of view, and what stuck out to me then, and what still stands out now, was the story of Jesus Christ. A man who was made in the mold of God like no other person before our time, but whose teachings felt so more compassionate, open and loving.

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The story of Jesus Christ was one that taught me that men could be tender, we could be loving, and that strong men could show up for others. In fact, strong men should show up for others, especially those who are considered weak, those who are outcasted by society, and those who have fallen short of their best-selves. And despite his role as “son of God” Jesus had a background that I could understand. I was born to immigrant parents who came to the United States for a better life. My mother was deported before I uttered my first words, and my father was working hard to make ends meet. And while I lived in that reality, I got to read Jesus’ story as a homeless refugee whos’ parents fought hard to find a home, and had to do so in a land that was not originally their own.

Jesus functioned under a Government that was at the best of times indifferent to his existence, and in the most extreme cases, outwardly hostile, despite these circumstances, Jesus’ message was crystal clear throughout his life. He instructed his followers to “Love the Lord, and love God with all of your heart, and love your neighbors as yourself.”

Surprisingly, reading the New Testament brought me closer to Jesus, but much further from organized religion. I would attempt to return to the church a couple of times, but I would never again give my full heart to Christianity. It isn’t something that I thought was possible, but here I am. I’m not perfect, but every day I attempt to walk the path of a man who loves his neighbors, stands up for the poor, and pushes back against systems that look to exploit people.

It’s not always easy, but it’s a path worth walking. Along this path, I have discovered that one of my biggest obstacles has been some of the same forces that Jesus challenged. The ultra-wealthy, powerful elected officials, and a willingness to be decisive with violence and destruction. This has felt especially challenging when the people we have trusted to run our government and represent us at the national stage seem to support values that go against Jesus’s teachings. They view the world as theirs alone, giving them the authority to inflict physical, financial and emotional violence whenever they deem it necessary. Their capacity for destruction and pettiness reminds me of God from the Old Testament.

I see the same fickleness, I see the quickness to rage, I see the indiscriminate destruction of entire civilizations, and I hear the weak justifications of it being “God’s will.” But is it? I don’t think It is God’s will that over 70,000 Palestinians have been killed by American funded Israeli forces, I don’t think that it is God’s will for our president to hop on social media and threaten “Wiping out an entire civilization.” It can’t be! And if it is God’s will, is that something we would like to support? If the best that God’s will can do is create mass death and suffering, what could he possibly offer in the afterlife? How could it be any better?

This wasn’t where I intended to go when I started this essay, but sometimes the words escape you before your mind can catch up, so where we are. We’re in a moment where people with immense power are using God and religion to justify atrocious things, more people than we can fathom are suffering, and the world feels more unstable than maybe any other time in our modern era, in times like this, I think the only viable solution is to ask yourself, “What would Jesus do.” If you’re not sure, I’ll be happy to tell you. Jesus would fight for the disenfranchised, Jesus would defy those in power, he would chastise the wealthy for hoarding their money, he would love his neighbor. Not because it would get him anything in return, or that it might change something, he would do that because it was the right thing to do. And sometimes, when it feels like we can’t change anything around us, what we can do is the right thing. Choose love.

Congratulations, you made it to the end! Don’t leave just yet, I would love to hear from you as well. Think about answering one of these questions in the comments, or adding your thoughts when you share this post.

1. Have you ever walked away from an institution but kept the values it taught you? What did that look like for you?

2. Do you think people in power genuinely act from faith, or do they use faith to justify what they already wanted to do?

3. What teachings or beliefs from childhood have stayed with you—and which ones did you have to unlearn?

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On October 7th, 2016, then-candidate Donald Trump faced the biggest challenge to his unorthadox run for President. While prepping for his debate with Hilary Clinton, his team was interrupted by breaking news related to him. The Washington Post released audio of the candidate speaking disparagingly of women while on the Access Hollywood show with host Billy Bush. In the audio, Trump bragged, saying, “ You know, I’m automatically attracted to beautiful women. I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab em by the pussy, you can do anything.” In a world not yet used to the depths the president could go, political outcry was instant and fierce, with some Republicans even rescinding their support of Trump.

At first, I found Trump’s campaign amusing. I liked to think of him as a living humiliation ritual for the Republican Party, but after he won the nomination, the energy from his base was so strong that I began to worry he had a real chance to win. When the Access Hollywood audio dropped, I felt relieved, because surely this would be the end of his short but fiery reign. I was wrong. Despite the backlash and calls for him to drop out, Trump refused, and in the debate that followed, he brought in several women who had accused the former president of harassment and assault. This wasn’t the first time he would break norms, but it was one of the biggest at the time, and despite everything wrong with the audio, he was able to continue his candidacy as if nothing had happened.

Less than a month later, Trump defeated Hilary Clinton to become the 45th President of the United States.

Many perceived this as the moment when Trump proved impervious to any damage or consequences for his character inconsistencies. And it’s true that in the ten years since then, Trump has said and done much worse, and has rarely suffered a lasting negative impact from his base or even the broader electorate. I have spent a lot of time trying to make sense of our current reality. At face value, Trump goes against everything we say this country stands for, but somehow, he’s still here, thriving. That thought experiment has sent me into dark places, but I have been lucky enough to find the light, and in that ray of clarity, some understanding. Here is what I learned.

When people are struggling, and it feels like tough times are happening all around, it is human nature to gravitate towards those who seem strong. There is nothing wrong with strength, but our current collective understanding of what “real" strength looks like is how a Trump can exist. That understanding views strength through the prism of masculinity, a broken construct created to define manhood. Under masculinity, strength is defined by physical ability, dominance, selfishness, and consumption. And to accumulate the strength to move as you please, you must have power. That brings us to Trump. When Trump bragged about grabbing a woman “by the pussy” he wasn’t just talking flippantly; he was giving us a window into how he views power. In Trump’s mind, if you have the strength or are perceived to be powerful, you can do whatever you want, and no one can stop you.

After learning hard lessons, Trump has returned with a vengeance. The first thing he did was fill his administration with “yes men” and blind supporters. The kind of people with no actual expertise, but a deep desire to execute on whatever the president demands of them. Even if what he demands is morally repugnant or illegal. Earlier this year, the Department of Homeland Security, then led by Kristi Noem, deployed 2,000 ICE agents to the state of Minnesota to carry out an “immigration operation.” The deployment came shortly after Trump had made disparaging comments about Somali immigrants in the state, leading many to believe they were being targeted. Ice’s presence destabilized communities and caused more harm than good. Before the “operation” was completed, at least two people were killed after being shot by members of ICE, and the Trump administration refused to cooperate with local authorities.

This philosophy on power was exhibited again in Venezuela. After accusing President Maduro of trafficking drugs to the United States, the trump administration escalated even further. According to the New York Times, “U.S. military seized him and his wife in a swift and overwhelming strike on Caracas, the culmination of a campaign by President Trump and his aides to oust him from power.” This move was panned by many as illegal; despite these outcries, very little has been done to hold Trump accountable.

The interesting thing about this approach to power is that under the correct circumstances, it can seem overwhelming. For much of his second act, he has existed in such an environment. Despite some recent rumblings, the Republican Party has mostly followed him in lockstep, and his base is as ravenous in their support of him as ever. His natural opponent in the Democratic Party has rubber-stamped his appointments and spent more time going after progressives and critics of Israel’s destruction of Gaza. In the handful of moments where they have stood up, it has been through statements that do not threaten his power or attack the status quo. And with little to no opposition, he has been able to do as he pleases, while the rest of the world struggles to respond.

I know I’m not speaking for myself when I say it’s felt extremely disempowering to watch this cycle continue, and over the last few months, I have gone from actively speaking out against his administration to wondering if I should stop fighting for everyone else and get my own affairs in order. It’s a thought that scared me as soon as it formed: was I folding to his power like everyone else, or am I really this powerless?

But there is something else about this philosophy on power that is important to know. Those who believe they have carte blanche to move without repercussions are usually the least prepared when pushback occurs. And when one gets overly arrogant, it’s only a matter of time before they make a critical mistake. It seems that we are currently in that moment. After his actions in Venezuela, it seemed like Trump could do no wrong, so it was only a matter of time before he would aim for an even bigger target. We didn’t have to wait long. After what we will call some enthusiastic “encouragement” from Israel, Trump decided to take this approach to the Middle East. Ordering our military to begin bombing Iran in partnership with Israel. They believed that with a little pressure, they could force Iran to change its regime. Despite devastating destruction, Iran has continued to fight, and closed off the Strait of Hormuz, sending oil prices skyrocketing and destabalizing 20% of the world’s energy production.

Trump and co were not expecting them to do this, and it has sent them into a tailspin. Every day since the conflict began, the president has become more erratic, and our purpose for invading Iran becomes less clear. And finally, after a year and a half of getting everything he’s wanted, it looks like there is a limit to his power. But what should we take from this?

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What happens next with Iran and the Middle East is unclear, and I’m not a foreign policy expert, so I won’t pontificate on it. What I do understand is power: how to build it, wield it, and use it. Trump’s views on power are tied to the idea that certain people have the right to do and take what they want, and they should. People who think this way usually target those they believe are weaker than themselves.

\They do this because they aren’t actually as powerful as they project to be. And if more people had stood up when these type of people first started their reign of terror, the damage they caused could have been significantly reduced. Staying silent and choosing not to fight is a losing game. Because every time a Trump-like figure dominates a more vulnerable opponent, that facade slowly fades away until it is a fully realized entity with overwhelming strength, and when that moment comes, staying quiet, choosing to only care about ourselves, attempting to negotiate, pontificate, and appease will mean nothing, because we will be faced with our failures.

Congratulations, you made it to the end. What did you think of this post? Here are some helpful prompts to get you started:

1. Do you agree with how I define Trump’s view of Power and Strength?

2. Do you think our current views of Power/Strength are healthy?

3. Is there such a thing as healthy Power?

4. What do we need to do in order to find healthier versions of strength and leadership?

Thanks for being a subscriber to Let’s Not Be Trash. If you’re new here, we (mostly , Stanley Fritz and Karina Maria), write about patriarchy, politics, race, culture, music, and ruminations. The goal is to discuss important issues in a digestible and relatable way because nobody wants to read a TED Talk.

If you’re new, please consider subscribing. If you’re already on the list and have a few coins, consider upgrading to a paid subscriber. If you have commitment issues but want to contribute, you can buy me a coffee.

If you like my substack and want to discover other great writers, check out this directory from Marc Typo, The Cook-Out.

By Guest Contributor, Director, Álvaro Franco

I wanted to like “One Battle After Another”. I really did.

My life was changed when Paul Thomas Anderson released “There Will Be Blood” and “The Master”. In fact, “The Master” was the first film that I saw in native 65mm projected on the big screen, and it was at the Ziegfeld (R.I.P). And I thought that the idea of using only deleted scenes in most of the trailers advertising the film was so novel. But if someone says One Battle After Another is in the same league as the two earlier films, I can’t take them seriously.

The first 30-40 minutes of OBAA felt like a depiction of what a millionaire thinks Antifa does—or means—filled with crass stereotypes and over-sexualized scenarios.

Overall, it resembled an attempt to modernize (or sanitize?) a film that would have been made by Robert Downey Sr. in his heyday, and making it relevant to Gen Z but with nothing profound to say about race, class, or revolution. And the screenplay definitely needed another pass, which makes me question if the movie was fast-tracked into production.

Leo’s performance as Pat/Bob seemed to consist of seeing how hard he could crash out during key dramatic moments. Pat/Bob’s daughter Willa was poorly developed (was she meant to be a cypher for the audience?), and I didn’t learn a thing about her despite her rescue being the whole point of the story. In fact, here’s a game that I would offer to people who disagree with me on that point: tell me one memorable thing about Willa or her personality (and no, martial arts doesn’t count because it’s not a character trait).

As much as I enjoyed the performances of Benicio Del Toro and Sean Penn, the ultimate tragedy is seeing PTA’s least memorable film become his biggest hit, effectively proving that he had to dilute his brand to survive in today’s film ecosystem.

In an effort to please everyone, you end up selling yourself short.

Go watch “Bulworth” instead. Or better yet, read Assata Shakur’s autobiography.

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What did you think about the film? Share in the comments.

For another great piece by Substack creator on this film, read:

Black Girl Watching

One Fetish After Another: PTA Exploits Black Women and Averts Revolution

*Spoilers for the plot of One Battle After Another…

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10 months ago · 2957 likes · 11 comments · Brooke Obie

If you like my substack and want to find some offline reading, check out “Words For My Comrades, A Political History of Tupac Shakur” by Dean Van Nguyen. This book has got me in a choke hold, I can’t get enough of it!

Some people call me a dreamer, and even more call me delusional. These comments used to make me uncomfortable. I would try to bend my beliefs to fit into a framework that others could understand, but no matter how hard I tried, the real me would eventually begin to come out. It’s a lesson I have learned with painful regularity: no matter where you go, there you will be. And if who you are is inevitable, the best you can do is learn to love and accept that person. I have spent much of my 30s learning this “real me.” In that journey, I have been given the greatest gift a person can ask for: forgiveness and understanding.

I think many of us go through life feeling a deep desire to be loved unconditionally and understood. That desire can sometimes be the vehicle that drives us towards the person we will become, and if that is true, society must provide the fuel. So what happens when society tells you your vision of yourself is wrong? What do you do when society throws obstacles in your path that not only short-circuit your development, they take pieces of you? Society is beautiful; we need the community of people and shared agreements to survive in the long term, but as helpful and empowering as this can be, society can also be the poison pill that sends us down a spiral.

I have been thinking a lot about this recently, for two reasons. First, as I continue to do the work to heal my heart and love myself, I have discovered a newfound belief in a radical idea. That idea is that all boys begin with pure hearts. All little boys desire love and acceptance; all boys want to be held, feel, grow, and be surrounded by those who are important to them. If that is true, something must have happened between the day they were born into this world and transitioned into men. Whatever that “thing” was, it shifted their trajectory. I guess that’s why people think I’m delusional, I believe in the humanity of men. The second reason I have been thinking about this a lot more is because of a book I just completed.

“Words For My Comrades: A Political History of Tupac Shakur” is a newly released book by Dean Van Nguyen. The book expertly tells the political story of Tupac’s life and how the radicalization he grew up in impacted his music and, by extension, the world. But more than that, it walks you through two generations of justice, hurt, love, pain, and trauma, by not only telling his story, but the story of his mother. We get to see a clearer picture of who the man was. This makes perfect sense because you can’t truly understand Tupac if you don’t understand Afeni.

Before this book, I didn’t know nearly enough about her. Today, most people remember Afeni as Tupac’s mother, and while that is something to be proud of, her life and impact on this world go so much further than that. As a member of the Black Panther Party, a political prisoner, and one of the Panther 21. A group of Black Panthers who were arrested and accused of trying to bomb several locations in New York City. Afeni represented herself in a sham of a trial organized by the federal government. She did all of this while sitting in jail, fighting with guards to make sure she received the nutrients necessary to nurse her pregnant body.

Before PAC took a single breath in this world, he was in a cage built by oppressors, and the fight was always in his blood. And once he was born, the struggle didn’t change. During his first days in this world, she worried about his safety and didn’t initially list his name on the certificate. According to “Words from my Comrade’s,” she first listed his name as Lesane Parish Crooks for fear that the government would target him.

While Pac was described as a kind child, “full of joy,” the realities of life would soon begin to color his experiences. After years of working as an organizer/activist, Afeni suffered from the trauma of her experiences and fell into addiction while raising her son and his sister. Growing up, he would always try to keep a positive spin on his life, but the chaos and inconsistency he dealt with were challenging in more ways than one. There were times when he and his sister went without food, when his mother, because of her addiction, had strange and potentially dangerous people in the home, desperate to take care of his family, he faced a level of exposure to the underbelly of life that should never have happened. Without a consistent father figure in his life, Pac was forced to learn and “become a man” all at once. This, along with constant harassment from the police and inconsistent housing, led him and his family to move from New York to Baltimore and then, finally, to California.

We love Pac because of his beautiful poetry and sharp political analysis, but those skills were developed as he navigated the world as a Black boy; it’s not an experience for the weak. What we ended up with was a young man with endless potential and a bottomless pit of hurt and pain.

Despite the shadows that hung over him, PAC was a shining light that was tragically shot down before he saw his full potential. It is the story of every boy in the world. Like him, they are born with unlimited possibilities, wanting to be loved, full of joy, and trying to figure out their place in the world. But then life arrives with all of its challenges, and people chip away at the light. Sometimes purposefully and with malicious intent, but most of the time through sheer ignorance.

I have written a lot about how society has let men/boys down, and I don’t mean to be a broken record, but it has to be said. We are setting our boys up to be prisoners in their minds until society sentences them to death. That prison is the Man box, a metaphysical structure created by unhealthy ideas of what men should be. This box makes a parameter for what is “Masculine” and what is weak, and then eeks out punishment to those who do not stay in that box. The executioners of that punishment are the people in their lives. Their friends, family, neighbors, supporters, and sometimes rivals. But more often than not, it comes from the people we love. If we want to break this prison for others, we must first break it ourselves. So here is the truth for you all to know.

Boys and Men, just like Girls and women, deserve to be hugged, and told they are important, they deserve to be able to cry, they deserve to feel, and they should be allowed to be unsure. Society tells us that men who desire these things, who show vulnerability, who signal they are gentle, are not worth existing, so we learn to turn those parts of ourselves off. No one likes what this turns us into, but for some reason, the most celebrated version of masculinity is the manifestation of the monsters we become from this outside pressure. PAC was n artist, he wanted to write poetry and talk about love, but his surroundings forced him to harden up quickly, trust sparingly, and turn to vices to cope. With Pac, we got someone who loved artistry and people, but would sometimes give in to his worst vices, lashing out at others and resorting to violence to feel powerful.

But under that act, there was a lot of pain that couldn’t be processed. After entering the rap game, being known for his high-top fade, trauma from a violent encounter with the police led him to develop alopecia and start losing his hair. His iconic baddie was discovered through the pain he couldn’t communicate. He said as much as he could in his music, but even that had limits, so we only saw pieces of a man who was slowly spiraling, if only we had more empathy for him and others.

The man box tells us that men should be physically dominating, “lead at all costs,” be aggressive, sex crazed, physically indestructible, and only focused on making money. It tells us that if you cannot produce, you are worth nothing; it tells us that we do not have feelings, that to acknowledge anything besides anger is a weakness. The Man box does not make space for artistry, it does not accept or encourage insecurity, and it attacks vulnerability, but if we want our little boys to grow up into men we can be proud of, we must make space for all of this. But it doesn’t end there, if the Man box is the prison, Capitalism is the Warden.

Under the system of capitalism, everyone is told that the pursuit of financial gain at all costs is the ultimate goal, and under this, we have little space for compassion, community, or kindness. In a capitalistic system, you are only as good as your ability to hold resources or horde them, so every relationship is condensed to transactional ones. To make things worse, if you are unable to make the kind of money to excel in this system, you have no value. So what happens to a boy who sees no financial opportunity? In many cases, he becomes someone who doesn’t value himself or values the pursuit of currency over everything else. And if there is no self-love as a grounding, how can they possibly care about anything else?

Under capitalism, the United States Government has leaned further and further towards the interests of the ultra-wealthy, and because of that, we have seen a critical spike in suffering across the board. With that suffering comes a devolving of society, and a resentment that spurs hate. That hate was enough to elect a white supremacist into office, and his hate, one that stems from a childhood full of more pain than we could ever know, is driving us to a place this country may never recover from. But like PAC, and like me, and like so many others, this hateful man known as our “President’ started off as a little boy, and life happened to him in ways that made him who he is today.

PAC is gone, Trump has chosen his path, and millions of little boys are trying to figure things out. The world won’t change overnight, but we get to start the process today. Choose kindness, hug your sons, hold space for dreams, and work towards being a little different than you were the day before. It won’t change everything, but it could give hope to one lost little boy, which will be enough.

Congrats, you made it to the end. What did you think? Share your thoughts in the comments!

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On my 21st birthday, I sat in a dark dorm at SUNY Old Westbury. Just outside, the walls trembled with anticipation from my fellow suitemates. It was a Thursday night, and everyone was either headed to a party or actively partying in the hallways. Soon enough, I too would be a part of this cacophony of youthful exuberance and alcohol. But before any of that took place, I wanted a moment to revel in what I had accomplished. Because, friend, Black Boys of a certain age must all answer a question that only we know of; but somehow, anyone can answer. I contested with that as I sipped from my personal bottle of henny, this was my moment to toast an audacious survival.

Here’s the thing, for much of my youth, I was acutely aware of the silent question that would eventually need to be answered. That question was, could I make it to my 21st birthday, or would I be dead, erased from reality, blown away by senseless gun violence? And if for some reason I did survive to see that age, could I do it without ever stepping foot in a jail or prison? For a time, neither one of these things felt impossible, in fact, death or incarceration felt inevitable, whether I accepted this fate or not. As a result, I at times felt like I was being pulled towards a conclusion littered with bullets or that found me inside of a cage.

This was a soft pressure I felt pounding at the center of my chest everyday, it was a destiny that I didn’t want but probably deserved. Was this all I was worth? It seemed like it. Sadly, for far too many people around me, it was in fact inevitable, two of my childhood friends were murdered in cold blood. One of them was killed after spending years in and out of jails and prisons, he had a young son, and his entire life ahead of him. If God exists and she chooses who lives and dies by the quality of the person, I am confused as to why she chose to take Eric and Jah’meer, while I’m still here. I do not wish to be dead, but I knew them both, they were the best this world had to offer, they had so much potential, yet they couldn’t escape a destiny that I suddenly was prepared to defeat.

I think about them a lot, because there is no practical reason that their fate was not also mine. Before I hit my -teen years, I knew what it felt like to stare down the barrel of a gun, I also knew what it felt like to force someone else to do the same. I knew what hatred was, I felt it at times for my parents who would vacillate between abuse, and indifference, or the officers who were assigned to protect my community, but spent their time terrorizing people to add color to their days.

Before I was old enough to get a part-time job, I knew what it felt like to have an anger burning so deeply in my belly that it threatened to engulf everything and everyone around me. That flame made me feel like a man, it was my protective shell, it made me a ticking time-bomb. Despite having all of the intangibles for a brief but glorious conclusion, I made it to 21, and I celebrated that day by myself with a bottle of white Hennessey. I was in college, on the verge of graduating, no children in sight, no reason to fear for my life, and no prospects for prison. I had made it. But had I? The survivors guilt would randomly hit me, my chest would constrict, and my breathe would deepen, what gave me the right to live when so many others didn’t? I struggled with that feeling for much of my adult life.

And then I turned 40, and the boy who struggled with these feelings, while relishing every time he cheated destiny is a man reflecting on everything he has been. 40 feels strange, it feels like a normal next step in aging, and a milestone all at once. I don’t know that I was ever supposed to reach this point, but I am here, there is no destiny that I have to run away from, what’s left is an open path with unlimited possibilities. So much of my younger days was dictated by a desire to break cycles, cheat death, and contradict expectations, those pressures don’t seem to exist anymore, and suddenly my life feels like its just beginning, and shifting into a new phase all at once. I get to choose my path, and I’m only restricted by how much I’m willing to hold myself back. I can’t wait to let loose!

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My very first hero was my dad; I think he still is. His story is like many immigrants', yet distinct. After hurricane George, with only a few dollars left in his pockets and not many career prospects in Dominica, my father dropped everything (and everyone) to travel to the United States of America for a new life.

There are not many instances in my lifetime that I can say he has hesitated out of fear. If he wanted something, he went after it, no matter the costs. More often than not, what he wanted was the affection of a beautiful woman, and once he came to the states, there was an endless supply to romance. Did I mention that my father is a womanizer?

Maybe I should be kinder, it’s not that simple. If I could describe his vice with more empathy, I would say that he is a hopeless romantic, with a boundless capacity for love. A love that has always focused on the opposite sex, and as much as one woman might capture his heart, it was only a matter of time before he was descending into an affair with a new lover. My father would tell you that he was “Too Nice,” that he struggled to say “good bye.” So the last flame would not be doused, she would instead believe that she was my fathers one and only, and await his return with open arms.

To his credit, he would come back, but usually with the scent of another woman on his collar, and sweet lies falling from between his lips. The end was usually not far after this. When I was young, I didn’t quite understand what my he was up to, and why there seemed to be a revolving door of romantic partners. What I did know was that I wanted to be just like him. And to the younger version of myself, my father could do no wrong. Unfortunately, like many of these women, I too would find my love and admiration for him repaid with empty promises, and disappointment.

I spent countless days hoping that he would choose me, and as much as my father loves me, he couldn’t help but be who he was. This pain caused a natural shift. After spending my younger year trying to be just like him, the second half of my life has been dominated by a desperate sprint to escape his shadow. I don’t know when, or how, but at some point I made the decision to do everything possible not to replicate the places in his life I believed there to be failure. There was only one problem with this plan. What I soon learned was that the harder I ran away from him, the closer I got to his legacy. And before I knew it, we were standing face to face, I had failed in my efforts to leave it behind me. With nowhere else to go, the only thing left to do was accept the truth.

I’m not sure when or if this moment ever happened for my father, but at some point in my life I was told I was not enough. And after it was told to me, it was exhibited enough times that it went from being background noise to gospel. And from hostile gospel I learned to accept a lie as truth. That acceptance created a vast emptiness inside of me. I didn’t know at first, but I felt it, the feeling of being a burden, of fearing that those around you would toss you aside, knowing that the world would not skip a beat without you walking the earth.

I think my father struggles with this as well, and I believe he’s spent 80 years on this earth trying to fill that void with an endless stream of women. He charmed them, loved them, fucked them, made promises he couldn’t keep and then broke them. But who could blame him? This was all he ever knew. I think in those small moments, he meant everything he said to every woman, and each and everyone was special in his eyes, but what he was looking for, he could never find in the softness of their kisses, or the heat they built under the sheets. So, instead of breaking the cycle, he continued the chase, hoping to find himself in the process.

Intellectually, I understand that no amount of romantic partners can ever make me feel like a man, my vice of choice is love, but through admiration. I accumulated love and support by making my self small and large at the same time, it’s my super power.

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I make people laugh, I become the problem solver, the smartest person in the room, the leader, the fixer. I make people feel comfortable, I help them feel seen, and let them know they are cared for. I do all of this for the sake of affection, and as the love would grow, I would shrink myself. Put my needs to the side, become even more agreeable, ignore my boundaries, and make excuses, all for the hope of never losing the love I had so expertly accumulated. But here’s the thing about those measures I took, they didn’t work. I still lost love, I failed, I couldn’t be all of the things and erase myself at the same time, and when I fell short of the paper castles I had built, I would feel like nothing.

It was in those moments of solitude that my fathers legacy would catch me, and I would once again be forced to see how much of him still existed within me. If I wanted things to be different, I had to break the cycle. So I did.

Breaking the cycle wasn’t easy, it takes committing to doing something different, and then showing up everyday to make sure that commitment sticks. I started therapy, I purposely slowed down, I forced myself to get used to discomfort, because what felt good hadn’t served me. I committed to being a work in progress, I still am. But what all of this effort rewarded me with was the clarity that I am in fact enough, I need no special talent, relationship, or accomplishment to matter, I just do. The work is never done though, so I constantly have to remind myself of this, and there are moments where I fall into bad habits, but I’m much quicker to catch myself, and I’m better off for it.

There are times when I am reminded of who I used to be, and what I still struggle with everyday. What may surprise you is that those gentle reminders usually happen when I’m interacting with other men. I see it in their smiles, in their anger at society, in their loud determination to not look “weak.” So many boys and men are hurting, even more are crying out for help, but they’re doing it in a language that most of society does not speak. I have felt their pain, and speak their language, so I can see it, but my eyes alone are not enough.

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With the help of people in my life, I was able to pinpoint the moment I started to believe the lie that I wasn’t enough. I am doing the work to never go back to that version of myself, countless of other men are also doing that work as well. But we need your help. There is another set of men and boys who are fighting in the wild on their own, we can’t expect things to be different if we don’t find ways to reach them. Because for every man that figures it out, and finds another path, there are ten who are like my father, solidified in their hurt, and sharing that pain out freely.

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What Bad Bunny did during the Halftime show, will go down as a testament to love, resilience, poetry, music, and movement. It also was just a mf party that would move you regardless if you moved toward it.

It’s hard to be angry at a song you know is catchy, to not move to a joyous melody, to actively dislike something that tastes delicious, to refuse a romantic gesture from someone you’re attracted to, to actively hate someone who invites you to join in love.

One of these things has got to give. When actually faced with these alternatives, many people’s visceral anger and hate, especially millennials and younger, doesn’t have a strong enough foundation against the immediate and lifelong benefits of love and joy. They give way to fun. Hate…just gets old. It atrophies. Love is, and has always been, a more active muscle.

This is why so many (old) people want to keep education and exposure far from reach for future generations. To keep traditions of ignorance and closemindedness alive. As they have for seasonless generation upon generation. But it’s too late. The metropolises and the internet have spoken. Fun wins out…if it’s up to the youth.

Now, our systems are not up to the youth—but the old guard is going to expire, and that’s why they’re flailing and grasping at straws.

Telling any young person to avoid the objectively cooler party had a great success rate since never. Elvis, Sinatra, the Beatles, Nirvana, all of Hip-Hop, which is now also a Billion dollar industry. L after L after L after L.

But still they try.

‘Pariguayo’ is a slang term in Spanish that originates from the US occupation of the Dominican Republic during the 1960s. It can mean an inept person, but its original purpose essentially meant ‘party-watcher.’ During the occupation, many American soldiers would go to local parties and just stand there while the people of the Dominican Republic danced meregue, batchata, salsa, etc, and enjoyed mf life. As is the history of so much of Latina America, the Carribean, and Africa — to dance and sing regardless of the injustice in the outside world.

Eventually, this dynamic, as it always does, will exist here, too.

Eventually, as time goes on it’s no longer The Republicans v. The Democrats

The Left v. Right.

Zionists v. Anti-Zionists.

No. It’s the right side of history v. the wrong side.

The side that didn’t want Sammy playing with Frank, and the Rat Pack became world renown. That thought Cuban Desi Arnaz playing and dancing on TV with a white woman was too ‘racy’ decades before Modern Family would become a household favorite. Who didn’t want Aaron to break Ruth’s record, nor Jackie to even step on the field—and now Shohei Ohtani shares the face of baseball with Aaron Judge.

The people were against Loving and for Virginia, and now have accepted the umpteenth conservative ‘hero’ in an interracial marriage. The current grandparents who threw rocks at Ruby Bridges on her way to school and clutch pearls at trans and immigrant ‘threats’ to child safety now. Who didn’t want a Jew in Levittown, Black people in Rosedale, a Palestinian at the DNC, or a Muslim for Mayor of New York City.

Some will always remain. Hating from afar. Looking on from their own talcolm-powder dry, swag deficient side of town.

But they dwindle in number. A wack party is a wack party. People leave. A good time just looks too appealing. And good-time seekers acquiesce to the fact that it comes with different complexions. And, for many, though not all, through exposure, that acquiescence turns ignorance to tolerance—and tolerance to empathy.

The rest just remain to watch and grow old in their crusty, stale animus.

La Gozadera against the Geriatric.

The Party v. The Pariguayos.

And the party undefeated.

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There are few things more American than the desire to be first, to stand above all others and receive all that comes with being the original, the victor, the main attraction. This idea, whether we realize it or not, is one of the driving forces of American Identity. Because as Americans, nothing, and no one can matter more than we do. And even when something, or someone does become relevant, it is only because we have chosen to acknowledge it through our very American lens.

The stories we tell about our history, about each other, and about the world are painted through this perspective, and we have done it for so long that when someone pushes back against this reality, we can become defiant, sometimes even hostile. Because how on God’s green earth could anything ever exist, or any story be told without it centering us? And if such stories are told, why should they matter?

The ways in which we view ourselves and the world are so strong that many of us fail to realize just how skewed our perception of reality is, that what we think is the truth might be a variation of it, but not quite what is actually happening on the ground. That the story does not always have to center our identity. To not be mentioned does not always mean to be erased, it could just be someone else’s turn to play the main character. But America has always viewed itself as greater than everything and everyone else, so what happens when that supremacy begins to face real challenges? I have been thinking about this very American self centeredness a lot recently, especially after the Grammy Awards this past weekend.

The spectacle it presents yearly is also intimately American. Where else could you find a celebration of wealth, aesthetics, and artistry, during a time when so many have so little, and our president is spending his days sharting during press conferences, and erasing Black history? But who cares? The Grammys are on, and Kendrick Lamar just won his 25th award, the most of any rapper. I watched his victory speech on twitter while trying to ignore the reports of Ice targeting Haitians in Ohio. Thankfully, Kendrick’s victory wasn’t the only one that caught my attention.

Earlier that evening, country singer, Shaboozey took home a Grammy for best country duo/group performance. While accepting this award, the first generation American thanked his immigrant mother for all she had done to raise him, and dedicated the award to “all children of immigrants” saying that “Immigrants built this country. Literally.” Shaboozey’s remarks were met with a warm response at the event, but on social media, things weren’t as warm. On Threads and Twitter, some Black users, and many many chat bots created for the sole purpose of stirring up online outrage responded to his statement by saying that “Black Americans” built America.

Those corrections led to a days long debate on social media that devolved from debating the merits of Shaboozey’s comments, to some users opining about whether Black people from other parts of the world, could truly call themselves Black. The evolution of this discussion speaks to the ridiculousness of the discussion to begin with. Shaboozey’s comments were meant to show solidarity with undocumented people, not minimize the contributions of Black Americans.

That debate was led by a small coalition of Black Americans and bots who identify as American Descendants of Slaves (ADOS) or “Foundational Black Americans (FBA).” These groups concentrate solely on the interests of Black Americans. Their advocacy has been vital to further mainstreaming the issue of Reparations for descendants of enslaved people. But they do so while arguing that only Black Americans should receive them. While I don’t agree with this thesis, there is an argument to be made for assuring that American Descendants of Slaves are prioritized if the reparations battle in the United States is ever won. This can happen without disparaging Black Immigrants, or first generation Black Americans. Unfortunately, from the outside looking in, it seems that the FBA and ADOS movements are comfortable being openly hostile to non American Black people, and have even gone as far as advocating for policies that would harm those communities.

Does that mean that anyone who identifies as ADOS, or a Foundational Black American is a conservative carrying the water for the Trump administration? No. There are real people upset with the current state of the world in these groups. They are responding with the broken tools this society has given them. We may not agree with everything they have to say, but our liberation is tied together, even if everyone involved can’t see this clearly. Can Black Americans have an experience in the United States that might be different from Black and brown people born in other countries?

Does that matter to those in Power? Absolutely not. The Trump administration, and all other agents of white supremacy have no care or interest in the many shades of Black that exist in the world, they do not waste time questioning the racial identity of someone from Mexico, Trinidad, Uganda, or North Carolina. Their stated mission is to put a stop to a world that has changed so much, they feel as if they are no longer at the center of it.

They are achieving this mission by going after undocumented people, erasing Black history, demonizing people in the LGBTQ community, and destroying every single lever of Democracy possible. Do we have time for silly quarrels when democracy is collapsing? No. So here’s the truth: immigrants did build this country, so did enslaved Black people. Two truths can exist at once, and here’s another one, there is no main character for America, at least not for the version that lives up to its ideals. And if we want to see that version, we must be willing to break free from the shackles of selfishness, and realize that we are all in this together.

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There is irony and contradiction all around us. The chaos of our daily lives makes it hard to bear witness, but believe it or not, there are all sorts of interesting ways these moments show up. For example, I believe that Drake is a shallow man-child who peaked ten years ago and has an unhealthy anger towards women. But when “Nokia” comes on, I proudly hit my two-step and throw my ass in an enthusiastic circle. Sure, Drizzy is a little problematic, but the man makes slaps.

I have decided to ignore my hypocrisy because, honestly, who cares about my musical interests and the ways in which I undermine my own stated values? In the larger scheme of things, my preferences and contradictions are not compelling enough for mass appeal; as a result, we can leave it to my friends and family to unpack my shortcomings. At least they have an incentive to do so.

But have no fear, this essay isn’t about me; we have much more interesting characters we can focus our attention on. Take, for example, the leaders of this country. Donald Trump and his cabal of advisors swear to all the gods that may exist that they are Christians. Despite suspicions from a growing number of people, they insist, with Adderall powder on their noses and Coca-Cola steam oozing from their pores, that they believe with all their heart in the teachings of Jesus Christ.

It is this belief that drives their governing approach. One that has deprioritized human safety when making decisions at the Environmental Protection Agency, attacked Somalians and described them as “Filthy” and “disgusting,” all while launching a campaign to deport as many of them as possible. This same “Christ-like” approach has led to the Trump administration demonizing people murdered by ICE, calling Renee Good and Alex Pretti terrorists, literally moments after their deaths. I wonder what parts of the bible they’re getting this gospel from?

The Jesus that I am familiar with was born a refugee. His family had no documentation to prove they belonged in Bethlehem, his father didn’t have a job, and they were not considered a “well-respected family.” These circumstances are why, at his birth, he had another title besides the “Son of God”; he was also homeless.

The manager where Mary gave birth to Jesus did not belong to her or her husband; it was the only shelter they could go to, and they would eventually have to leave. And while as a child Jesus had a home, he spent much of his adult years without traditional or stable housing. Despite these circumstances, this houseless refugee, born to a poor family and who lived with no wealth to call his own, built a gospel that would far outlive him. That gospel was deeply suspicious of the rich. This suspicion sometimes led to unforgettable crash-outs, like the time he used a chord to drive merchants and salesmen out of a temple during passover, saying, “Take these things hence; make not my Father’s house a house of merchandise.”

It was these actions, and others, that led to his eventual crucifixion. We glamorize the story of Christ dying on the cross for our sins and rising from the dead. If this story were told for modern times, there might not be a body left because he could have died from an American-funded bomb dropped on him in Gaza. Or maybe he would freeze to death in the streets of New York, because despite the city’s incredible wealth, we have yet to solve our ever-growing issue of homelessness. Maybe we would lose track of his body after he was kidnapped by Ice for not having papers, and then announced dead from “mysterious causes?”

In every one of these scenarios in which Jesus would be killed, the leaders of this country, and those who support their vision, would find no fault in the cruelty of his death. Maybe Jesus would be called a “terrorist” the way so many have accused Renee Good, Alex Pretti, and Keith Porter of being. Maybe they would cheer him passing the way some did after Jordan Neely was choked to death on the subway? Maybe he would be another nameless body found in a landfill, cremated or buried with no fanfare. No matter how his crucifixion took place, I am confident that when it was all said and done, our leaders and their supporters would clutch their Bibles, sing a hymn, and tell the rest of us that “Jesus is the way.” Isn’t life interesting?

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Congratulations, and thank you for making it to the end. But don’t leave right away. Keep the conversation going by leaving a comment. Here are some helpful prompts:

1. Do you see the irony in our leadership?

2. Do you think I have the wrong idea of Jesus?

3. Is there anything I missed, or something you would have added?

4. Do you think my writing is trash, and you think I’m a godless communist? If so, click here.