The Cleaner.

He gets to work. He throws his oversized Target bag, overflowing with an array of cleaning items, at the edge of the seat. With the movement of the train, it nearly falls, but he catches it in time. He swiftly pulls out a bottle, beginning to spray, aroma of the spray, sweet and lemon-like, fills the car. 

His hands go to town, wiping the silver poles with his microfiber cloth. Polishing the blue seats. Wiping dust off the from zayed law offices, theater of the mind, and BackMarket ads.

Several passengers stare. A few crack smiles. 

The man continues. Spray. Wipe. Squeak. 

***

“Excuse me sir. Welcome to the CTA headquarters. Please take a seat. It has come to our attention that you have been obsessively cleaning the inside of our train cars.” 

“Who told you that?” Jeffrey asks. 

“We have footage.” 

There is a moment of silence.

“It’s not breaking any rules.” 

“You are correct…”

“No smoking. No eating or littering. No loud music or audio. No soliciting or gambling. Nowhere does it say no…”

“No cleaning, yes, we know.”

“Ok.” He stares, dumbfounded. “So why am I here?”

“You cannot clean the trains.” 

“Do you hear yourself?” Jeffrey's eyes get wide; he is genuinely puzzled.

“I’m cleaning the trains. If anything, you should be thanking me. Putting me on payroll at $43,000 a year!” 

Bob lets out a laugh. Their cleaners don’t make anywhere near $43 grand. The audacity. 

They stare at each other. Neither willing to budge.

Bob breaks the silence. 

“If you find your way back to our trains…” 

“Are you threatening me?!”

“Like I said…” 

Jeffrey gets up, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of the situation. He exits the building into a glaringly bright Chicago afternoon and heads straight for the train.

***

Alert. Alert. Attention. New CTA train policy. No smoking. No eating or littering. No loud music or audio. No soliciting or gambling. NO CLEANING.” 

***

“You’re back.” Bob’s frustration is visible… 

“Yes.”

“Have you seen our new policy?”

Silence. 

Three police officers make their way into the crowded government office. 

“Who are they?!” Jeffrey looks around, hands grabbing the handles of the chair he’s sitting in. 

“Police.” 

Stares. 

“So you’re going to arrest me?” Jeffrey says incredulously. 

“It’s policy.”

“You won’t stop me, you know that? You can’t stop me from cleaning. It’s in my blood.” Jeffrey places an emphasis on blood, the words bleeding out of his mouth. 

“Sir, we will have to arrest you if you can’t comply…”

“Then arrest me.”

As if they were waiting for his command, the cops move in and place handcuffs around Jeffrey’s wrists, tying the hands, the hands he uses to spray, to wipe, to clean, tight. 

“We’re taking you to Cook County jail. You can phone a relative to let them know where you are.”

Jeffrey has none. 

***

It’s 6am. 

Jeffrey sees the broom first. Its hair is speckled with dirt from the floor of the jail. He sees the hands next, old, calloused, but strong. Strong from wiping walls and cleaning crevices and sweeping floors. She comes into sight, carrying cleaning supplies on her shoulder. 

“Excuse me. Hi. I’ve made a bit of a mess here.”

She peers in, looking for the mess, yet unable to see past his body. 

“Would you mind handing me that rag and a bit of spray?” 

She pauses. Stares at him. Has never in her 16 years of wiping this jail clean, been asked by someone to get their hands on her cleaning supplies. 

She thinks about it. What’s the worst that could happen? She could really use a break. A few moments off her feet. 

“I’ll just need it back in a few.”

“Of course.” He smiles.

She hands him the rag. The spray. 

He gets to work. Spray. Wipe. Squeak. 

Olivia Dean is in NYC!! Sharing 8 of my favorite songs.

In honor of Olivia Dean coming to NYC for four days at MSG (starting on the 14th), sharing some of my favorite songs by her 💐 First up, we have…

Carmen.

Lots of songs are written about love. This one is not. @oliviadeano wrote this song about her grandmother Carmen, who migrated at 18 from Guyana to the UK. It’s an homage to our ancestors, the women who sacrificed so much and the ways we celebrate and honor them. 

I recently went back home to Chicago and got to see both of my grandmothers. In each of my visits, I am reminded… I come from these women; I am, because they are. 

“You transplanted a family tree. A part of it grew into me.”

“You’re stronger than I’ll ever be.” 

“But you reigned over a family tree. And I’ll carefully carry the seeds.” 

To grandma’s 💛

A Couple Minutes. 

Soulful. Moody. Brings you back to the nostalgic moments of reconnecting with an ex-lover. Whose presence, despite moving on, will always be with you. A cousin song to the Dress by Dijon. So much so that she made her own cover, which is just… go listen. 

“You’re the only one who knows that name. You’re the only one who does that face. I just wanna know if you’re okay.” 

“Although it’s over, I’ll always be there.” 

Touching Toes. 

The body knows. 

"Though I could do it myself, It's kinda nice to have some help.”

“Cause I feel love, like the real stuff. You don't know and then you know, that's how it goes.”

UFO

“I’m tryna fly a UFO, don’t really do this often.” 

This really is how life feels… I haven’t a clue what I’m doing!! But oh, the beauty when we find people … (we can crash into) and safely land around.  

What Am I Gonna Do On Sundays? 

I went through a breakup of sorts halfway through the summer and came across this song, an OD song I’ve heard plenty of times. But this time it hit different. What Am I Gonna Do On Sundays is about the ways we begin to etch people into our days, our life, our time. And the grief that comes, the emptiness we feel, when that is gone. 

“I thought you'd fight a little harder for me”

“Tired on the train this morning. Who am I gonna tell 'bout my day from hell?”

“Too bad, couldn't see what you had in front of you. I did what I had to do”

Cross My Mind. The Live at the Jazz Cafe version. 

“I love it when you cross my mind.” 

Just listen to the song. 

Baby Come Home. 

A softer sister to Beyoncé’s Virgo’s Groove. If Virgo’s Groove was written from the perspective of someone lusting for the lover, Baby Come Home was written from a place of emotional yearning. The sweet giddiness we feel awaiting someone’s presence. 

“I wanna fall into arms like lovers do.” 

“Baby come home, I got it bad for you. I’m not good alone, 3 in the afternoon.” 

“I made you a coffee, I don't know why

Thought I heard the doorbell a couple times

Running on restless, how silly I.”

“Boy you save me, on the daily. You are some supernatural high. Can’t say no. Oh how the day goes.” 

Be My Own Boyfriend.

Because why would I accept anything less than the love I pour into myself?

“I can’t do this anymore. I don’t wanna get involved. With all these men I’m so much better than.” 

“No one can love me the way I can. Catch me out in Paris on my ones. Stay out dancing til the dance is done. I got me I don’t need anyone.” 

“Lately I’ve been just what I need.” 

“I can do whatever, whenever the fuck I want.” 

I’ll let the lyrics speak for themselves. 

What feels right.

“Art is not a mirror held up to reality

but a hammer with which to shape it.”

― Bertolt Brecht

Thinking about what it means to not just mirror reality, but also build worlds through my photos. Could I use photos to show people a world that was possible and within reach? Worlds that I’d want to bring life into; colorful, full of nature, people, and life. A futurism of sorts. 

Also, I struggle at times, going back and forth on whether I should be using my photos for good, carrying on the tradition of Gordon Parks (‘The camera is my weapon of choice’) or Sebastiao Salgado. Using my lens to bring injustice to life.

Or whether I’m justified in using my camera as a selfish escape, a place away from the constant world of  war, ICE, won and lost elections, climate change, and the nonstop doom loop. 

Perhaps it can be both. 

Learning to let go of the pressure to shoot what I ought to. And shooting what feels right. 

What the Epstein files reveal to be so blatantly true about society.

“One has not only a legal, but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws.” ― Martin Luther King Jr., Letter from the Birmingham Jail

Trigger warning: this piece contains sensitive content related to violence and rape.

I’ve gone through a long, yet rapid, arc of politicization. Many things - growing up on the South Side of Chicago, being Black, traveling around the world to see the impacts and effects of climate change, neoliberalism, and white supremacy - have stoked my disgust for capitalism. That disgust, at times, has landed me in jail. (I have been arrested twice, for standing up for what I believe in.)

Each of these experiences with the criminal justice system are revealing. That who get deemed criminals has less to do with the crime and more to do with…

Well, I’ll show you.

While young, as I watched the movies and news, filled with implicit tropes about Black people as violent, drug-dealing, gangsters, I watched in real time… during high school and college… as white men fit the true bill of violent, drug-dealing gangsters.

I heard stories (cause my Black ass would never be caught there) of the drugs, including ecstasy and cocaine, that circulated these spaces, both in high school and college. I watched as fraternity houses, the white ones especially, on campus acted as mini Epstein Islands in the making, where boys could act out violence against women’s bodies, with impunity.

But. It wasn’t just about race. It was also about class. The Black wealthy, too, could seem to get away with the same atrocities, of drug-dealing, of violence, of rape, that mainstream media pits on immigrants, on Black people, and on the poor in this country.

​The Epstein files reveal to me what is so blatantly true about society… that the rules and law of the land bend, twist, and turn… if you are white, wealthy, and powerful enough.

I recently watched the documentary "All About the Money," which follows Fergie Chambers, a political activist, philanthropist, and heir (though ostracized) to the Cox Family, a wealthy family from Massachusetts. Money is the least of his worries. Dismantling capitalism and pushing communist revolution appears to be his MO. However, throughout the film, it becomes clear that despite his political leanings, he is able to avoid any form of accountability for his actions, largely due to his wealth.

There are many other examples.

That robbery and theft is a serious and violent felony, with up to 25 years in prison …. But when employers or corporations like Wal-Mart, Uber, or McDonald’s get to do it, instead of jail, they get accolades and boosted profits.

That reckless and illegal dealings, led by rich WHITE men, during the 2008 Financial Crisis, could send our economy towards a Great Recession… yet instead of jail time, which seems to be in abundance for Black, brown and poor people (and I KNOW because during my first court hearing in Delaware where I was arrested for the first time for direct action, it was filled with nothing BUT Black and Brown people), they got bailed out.

That some get the label terrorist, for bombing, rape, and pillage… yet when that rape, pillage, burning, and bombing are done in the guise of democracy and freedom (well, really in the interests of the wealthy)… they are called heroes?

That Indigenous people are called savages when in reality, “European settlers killed 56 million indigenous people over about 100 years in South, Central, and North America.” (https://www.cnn.com/2019/02/01/world/european-colonization-climate-change-trnd)

That white women get to jump out of fear, clutching their purse and their pearls, when a Black man walks by. When it was white men, slave masters, who were the real psychopaths, beating, abusing, and raping Black women ad nauseam.

That white men like Scott Adams get to write books called How to Fail at Almost Anything and Still Win Big, by quipping about how LITTLE effort and work he put into his work (aka LAZY), while still continuing to climb the corporate ladder. (Only a white man could write a book, How to fail at almost everything and still win big. Jeffrey Epstein’s life, a college dropout who lied about his resume to get a job, follows a similar trajectory. How to do the worst and still get rewarded is the name of the game!!) ​

That DEI admissions is attacked, but legacy admissions isn’t?

What are the other contradictions you see in society? You won’t have to look far.

The rules of society are so obviously set up against most of us… to benefit the white, wealthy, and powerful.

So what is to be done about it?

…Is the question I’ve almost obsessively been thinking about since

Ah wrote this this am, sitting on my thoughts, will share more later this week.

A bigot and a "cookie-addict, aspiring photographer, lover girl" meet in an Uber in Park City, Utah.

On Utah, Uber drivers, the coastal elite, and the political makings of America.

From the cozy corner of the “coastal elite city” that I call home, Brooklyn, NY, I don’t often viscerally feel the political divisiveness that is pervasive throughout the country.

​I chose not to surround myself with racists, bigots, or white supremacists. (Any sane person would do the same.)

But in a state like Utah, things are up for grabs. Uber rides are like a box of chocolates; you never know who you’re gonna get. And my Uber drivers around Park City have been nothing short of fascinating.

​It has been a case study on the political diversity of America. I’ve had a front-row seat (or, really, a back seat, because I sit in the back of Ubers) on the inner workings of politics in this country while taking Ubers in and around Park City for the Sundance Film Festival in Utah.

​I’ve learned a few things on my Uber rides commuting back and forth between Park City and my Airbnb.

​For starters, the people are chatty.

Unlike the occasional Uber rides that I take in NYC, which are often silent, my conversations here were filled with boisterous back-and-forth banter. I spoke with a man from Ghana who had been living in Salt Lake City for 12 years. He encouraged me to visit Accra. Nice, friendly people, he said, who want nothing in exchange from you. Unlike the Nigerians. (His words, not mine. I know Nigerians, they are lovely people!)

I spoke with another man from Venezuela. After chatting back and forth about Hugo Chavez, about Cuba and Fidel Castro, and about the current “political situation” (of course, he celebrated the U.S. capture of Maduro… I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the U.S. was not there to help the Venezuelan people… but instead to steal oil…), as we turned the corner to my AirBnb, he closed the convo telling me that I was misinformed… and that I needed to go do my research. (How dare he…) Little did he know I had a PhD in Latin American history… acquired from YouTube, Eduardo Galeano books, and my own travels through Latin America. Hah.

But my most interesting conversation was with Frank, a 80-something year old white man from California. Being from California, I thought we’d be… aligned.

Another thing I’ve learned, is to be vague about what I do for work and what I’m working on with the documentary.

Because according to Republicans. I might be what you call a woke leftist. A domestic terrorist. Antifa. I think a cookie addict, aspiring photographer, lover girl is more accurate. But I digress.

And several of my Uber convo have turned awkward, silent or tense after I tell them I’m working on a documentary about Black and Brown climate activists fighting authoritarianism in the country.

With Frank, I began to fill in the pieces of his political beliefs as slivers of the conversation revealed who the man behind the wheel really was.

He told me he was from California. “Why’d you leave?” I asked.

“Things really started to change.” Hmm. Change?

“How so?” I asked.

​“Well, my sons had to go to three separate schools because California started integrating them. So we got out of there right after that.” Whoop. Noted.

We also started talking about Sundance. Trying to make conversation, I asked him, “Soooo, why do you think Sundance is leaving Park City?”

“Of course, politics.” He went on to say something about how the liberals were offended by the politics of the rest of the state.

Well, Frank, of course!! Why in the WORLD would anyone want to give their money to a state or to people who do not believe in their existence? (There were neo-Nazis walking Main Street, punching politicians.)

We also started talking about the snow. It’s been an unseasonally snowless winter in Utah. I brought my snowboard and was not able to hit the slopes in what I’ve heard is some of the most beautiful, powdery snow.

As we talk about the snow, I bit my tongue, going back and forth on whether I should follow up.

I did.

“Why do you think that is?”

Silence. He didn’t answer. And it could have been because he was partially deaf. He was 80ish. And much of our convo included him asking me to repeat what I said. Because he could not hear.

But this ALSO could have been the perfect time to NOT hear me. Because what could one say but climate change?

If you are still reading, I’ll be honest with you. I’ve never been this close and intimate with a bigot. I try to keep my distance.I had the urge to confront him. To be direct. To ask him with genuine curiosity in my voice, “So how does it feel to be a racist?” I waffled back and forth, weighed the pros and cons as one might play with fidget toys.

But after doing the math, I was in the middle of nowhere with this man, in his car, in his state. I thought I could take him on…in fact, I knew I could. But then I’d stand no chance against a gun. After all, it is Utah.

​As I neared my destination,  our conversation ended on an even more sour note, but a predictable one at that. “You know,” he said… “All the passengers from New York and California never tip.”

“Interesting,” I said. Well well well, I wonder why.

I went on to say something about how Europeans, I noticed, also don’t tip. Trying to quip back. It’s not a part of their culture. He chimed in, “Not just Europeans, the Australians, too.” Ok Frank.

​As I got out of the car, I struggled with a real moral dilemma… should I tip this man? As a Black person, my own guilt and shame often guide me to be overly generous, to overtip, even in shitty customer service situations. Would the same logic apply here? What would Jesus do?​ Ahhhh.

As I rushed to my destination, I looked at the Uber app.

Would you like to give Frank a tip?

I would love to lie to you. And tell you that in that moment, I clicked NO. I stood up for myself and for all the people Frank obviously had a strong disposition against.

But I tipped him $6. And went about my day. As Michelle Obama said, “When they go low, we go high.”

Fortunately, God had other plans for me!! Because when I got home later that night and re-opened the Uber app… it proceeded to ask me again, “Would you like to give Frank a tip?” The original tip, because of the horrible cell service, did not go through.

​I clicked NO.

​Becauuuuse WHY in the WORLD would anyone want to give their money…

You know.

2024 in 12 songs.

Songs and tunes that got me through 2024. Listen to the playlist here!

Saving Up by Dom Dolla

“If you’re gonna be saving up, save your love for me.”

“All I need is for you to be mine.”

UFO by Olivia Dean

“I'm tryna fly a UFO. Don't really do this often. Plus I forgot all the controls. Me and my sexy problems.”

“No GPS no ETA, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I need somewhere to land, I might as well fall…”

Dominoes by Jungle

“Every day, so wonderful.”


Far by SZA

“How do I deal with rejection? I'm dealing with a lot of rejection right now. It makes me feel very small.”

7711 by Felix Ames

“For the first time in a while I wanna be alive.”

“Ain’t gone let life get the best of me. Ain’t gone let it break my heart, no no. Can’t let hate become a part of me.”

Bad Weather by Ama Lou

“Hurricanes can be the making of people.”

“And death will always happen. But we can't be born just to die.”


Birds of a Feather by Billie Eilish

“I said I'd never think I wasn't better alone, can't change the weather, might not be forever, but if it's forever, it's even better”

Take Me Where Your Heart Is by Q

“I’m so into you, but I don’t know where I’ve been. I just want you to, to take me where your heart is.”

Agora Hills by Doja Cat

“I wanna show you off.”

Diamond Boy by SZA

“I’m addicted that’s why I keep calling you.”

“Usually, I can't let down my guard , it's the way you say shit smooth that got you far with me.”

Ojitos Lindos by Bad Bunny

“Y solo mírame con esos ojito' lindo'“

“Pero tú me tiene' enredao”

“Aquí no existe el pecado, y equivocarse es bonito”

Liquor Store by Remi Wolf

“And now I’m waking up to a nightmare… and I keep thinking you’re running away.”

When did you first see your parents cry? 

And what does it say about you? 

I was 18 years old when I first saw either of my parents cry for the first time.

And I know this, because it was utterly strange, like seeing a dinosaur walk the streets of Brooklyn. My dad, hunched over with his headphones perched around his neck, tried to hide the tears falling down his face, as I moved my things out of boxes into my dorm room freshman year of college.

I didn’t, in fact, even see my mom cry. I heard it in the stories (and complaints) from my sister, who said that my mom had cried much of the drive back from Ithaca to Chicago, In the Lonely Hour by Sam Smith playing in the background. 

What was most shocking about my parents crying, was that they didn’t. For much of my life, I viewed my parents as stoic, strong, and unemotional. And because of this, I often asked my parents if they really loved me. To me, love was emotion. Love was crying, love was vulnerability, love was softness. And my parents gave little to none of that. 

Though they gave little of that, I’ve begun to see that love is more than passion and feeling and emotion. It is letting your daughters run a car wash business outside your barbershop. It’s taking your daughter alongside you on fishing trips. It’s putting your kids in gymnastics and ballet and tap dance and track and field. It’s driving 30 minutes downtown to pick you up when you missed your Metra train. It is, so to speak, “putting a roof over your head, food on the table, and clothes on your back.” 


So what about you? And your feelings and emotions? 

A therapy session inspired me to meditate on this question, of when I first saw my parents cry, because I’ve been digging and trying to figure out my own relationship, at 28, to my feelings and emotions and vulnerability.  

I was a very emotional and sensitive kid. The slightest of offenses sent me into a spiral of tears. I cried about everything! 

I’ll never forget in 3rd grade, my teacher had read through the list of students on the honor roll, and my name wasn't called. In the back of the corner, I sobbed. I was a failure, I thought. How was this possible, I was smart!! This must be a mistake. The tears came pouring even harder. It wasn’t until my teacher caught wind of my sobbing, and realized that she’d made a mistake, that I had made the honor roll, was in fact at the top of my class, that the tears began to dry.

I was a bonafide crybaby. And I was often chastised for it. “Don’t cry over spilled milk,” was an idiom often given to my sensitive, emotional, younger self.

But why does this matter? 

My parents' relationship to their feelings influence how I’ve dealt with my own. At 28, I am a much tougher and hardened young woman. I learned that grieving over a breakup was silly. That depression was a character flaw, a sign of weakness, that the world would chew me up and spit me out if I didn’t toughen up. That silliness and humor were acceptable ways to mask or play down hurt and pain. That anger and screaming and yelling were valid emotions, but sorrow, grief, and sadness were not. 

Because of this, my relationship to my emotions is… fraught. I’m an expert at invalidating my own feelings. Disassociating from them. Pushing through them instead of sitting with them. Distracting myself from them by piling on more things, more work. It's seeing feelings as inconveniences and thus seeing other people's feelings as an inconvenience as well. I can analyze and assess my feelings far better than I can actually just feel them.

And this has come at a high cost in my life. 

At present 

Sometimes I sit, in sadness, of who I might be, what I might be capable of, in friendships, in relationships (ah the emotionally unavailable man + why I often am drawn to or find familiarity in that), in love, in my work, if I had at least more support, at a young age, with people who were able to validate my feelings and emotions. People who were able to hold the complexity of my feelings and emotions and healthily express theirs.

But I don’t sit there for too long (well ofc because I struggled with my feelings!! lol), because I also feel called into the challenge of learning, of growth, of developing healthy relationships to my feelings. (And in some ways I love writing because it allows me the space to sit with, process, and share my feelings in a safe way.)

I hope to someday be a parent; I dream of raising little humans. And I’ve learned a lot about what it means to be emotionally available, especially from the people in my life, from friends, to past relationships, to family members like my aunt, who created safe havens for me to share my emotions.

I want to create a space for my children to express their feelings. To tell them that feelings are natural, human, they are good. I want to walk alongside them and help them navigate the terrain of their feelings and emotions, not invalidate them. I want them to be healed humans navigating an already difficult earth, wearing their heart (and feelings) on their sleeves, so to speak. I wish of that for everyone, I think the world might be a better place.

So… when did you first see your parents cry? And what do you think that says about you? 

P.S.

To my parents, I love you all so much!!

I am incredibly strong and resilient because of you. And I dream of nothing more, than for you to find the crevices in this cracked world where you are able to soften, to be weak, to cry, and to have your feelings be seen, as well <3


Coward or courageous?

I’m gonna lay a provocative claim on the table for you. Most people are cowards. 

Are you a coward? You’ll probably say no. No Dejah, how dare you call me a coward! I’m a moral person. I do good things in the world. I’m a good person. 

I didn’t ask if you were a good person. I asked if you were a coward.

Coward. 

“Someone who is afraid of doing something dangerous or difficult, or who is too eager to avoid pain.” 

“a person who lacks the courage to do or endure dangerous or unpleasant things.” Oxford Languages

“one who shows disgraceful fear or timidity” Merriam-Webster

As Trump ascends to power as this country’s next President, and the threat of authoritarianism rises, I’ve been thinking a lot about sacrifice, cowardice, and courage. 

So let’s talk about it. 

I’ll start with myself because I too have been a coward! I am a coward (though becoming less of one)! I can think of many moments in my lifetime where I lacked the nerve to speak up or stand up for what was right. Once, as I waited on the train at the Brooklyn Bridge stop, transferring from the 4 to the 6 train, a white woman emerged from the crevices of the MTA subway system and began yelling at a migrant woman and her child, who were there walking around selling chocolate bars and chiclet. 

“I’m calling the police on you! This is illegal, you shouldn’t be out here!”

The woman yelled, as a crew of passerbyers, including myself, looked on in shock. She yelled and berated this woman and her child, as I did nothing. I stood there afraid, afraid to step in, afraid I might become the new target of this woman’s rage. I didn’t want that; I was nervous enough as it was, headed to a date for the first time! 

Before I could muster the spine to say anything, a Black woman standing on the platform stepped up and confronted the woman. “Get.the.fuck.out.of.this.woman and child’s face. She’s trying to feed her family… fuck you!” 

The crowd on the platform, witnessing the drama unfold, cheered. Our cheering masked the guilt and shame I’m sure many of us felt at our inability to find the spine this woman had, to stand up to the Karen on the platform. We were…cowards. 

What drives cowardice? What is the nature of fear and how it inhibits our ability to exert our power and agency? Why are people beholden to strong, invisible group dynamics that force people to cower? And why does it even matter that we’re cowards? 

From my own story, my cowardice was motivated by a deep fear of being harmed and attacked. By a deep fear of stepping out of line with the invisible weight of social pressures. To remain quiet. To keep the peace. Like Courage the Cowardly dog, I often sit wrestling in my own fearful and anxious inclinations, about what I ought to do. 

We are living in a fucking time. As the cost of living rises, the cost of goods, groceries and gas rise, the cost of rent rises in many cities across the country (as our wages remain stagnant), we just take it. 

In 2008, when the banks, under Obama, were bailed out while working people lost their homes and thus hard earned wealth, we took it. 

We have lived through disasters, whether it be COVID or hurricanes, or other extreme weather events, and we allow our government to do the bare minimum, while billionaires and corporations flourish. Like, thrive in the darkest of times for the majority of people on this Earth. 

As the climate crisis rages on, we allow Big Oil to continue oil & gas production, continue throttling us towards conditions on Earth that have never been seen before, that will become uninhabitable for human life. All while we assume we can continue to plan for children, plan for our careers, retirement plans, and plan for stability when the actions of the oil & gas industry lock us into collective suicide. 

In a time where bombs funded by our US taxpayer dollars obliterate entire communities in Palestine, we continue life, business as usual.

Life could be so incredibly beautiful. 

Money could be invested in art programs so more students can create and heal through painting, photography, and dance. Money could be used to build green social housing, bringing communities together and providing adequate housing for all. Money could be used to invest in and expand local regenerative food systems. Money could be used to pay people to do meaningful, dignified work, from beautifying streets (lord knows my block in Brooklyn, littered with shit, piss, and garbage could use it) to expanding access to solar panels to taking care of children and the elderly.

I’m not naive (I’m a Capricorn we’re are practical, logical), but some will say what I want of the world is a wishlist. A cute little dream, because “hunnn we live under capitalism and it isn’t going anywhere.” When, no, we live in a corporate welfare state where our government subsidizes the shit out of fossil fuels, private housing, big agriculture, private healthcare, etc. Capitalism as an economic model has not been here forever (in fact, capitalism arose after feudalism during the end of the eighteenth century as industrialization began in Great Britain), evolved during the 80s into neoliberalism, and can evolve into something else in the next 20 to 50 to 100 years. 

I know that a world is possible where every person is guaranteed a home, and every person is guaranteed adequate food. And every child born is guaranteed a future that is not plagued by war, climate disasters, or school shootings.

But we won’t get it in a society full of cowards. I’m afraid humanity has allowed itself to remain complicit in its own demise, and if we don’t change course, disaster awaits us. 

Cowardice will not help us face some of the most pressing issues in society today. Cowardice will not get us out of a society on the brink of collapse. Cowardice will not stop Trump's fascist and authoritarian regime.

History is full of brave communities and individuals who broke through their fear and stood to bring about a great change in society.

I think of the story of Henry Box Brown, an enslaved man in Virginia who found freedom at the age of 33 by shipping himself, by mail in a wooden crate, to abolitionists in Philadelphia. I think of Fidel Castro, who at 26 years old, let his first attempt at revolution on the Cuban elite in the Moncada Barracks, and then who later, after years in exile, at 33 years old, pulled up to the eastern shores of Cuban in 1956 and started what began the process to overthrow Fulgencio Batistsa, a US-backed dictator, and began the Cuban Revolution. I think of Palestinian journalist Bisan Owda, who has shared, through the devastation of war and genocide in Palestine, what’s happening on the ground. 

You might say, Dejah, I…….I’m not Fidel or Brown or Bisan. I can’t do that. 

But you don’t need to be. You just need to be a little more courageous. A little more disruptive. Have a bit more of a spine; and if all of us leaned into that, imagine what our world might look like? 

So. 

As the world collapses around us, as Trump’s authoritarian tendencies arise, and as the freedoms you have over your life slowly slip away… will you choose courage or cowardice? 

A Vision for a Revolutionary Retreat Center for Organizers, Artists and Healers

I’m a dreamer. I have a lot I want to do in my lifetime. (Ya know, grow a mass youth movement, win the Green New Deal, run a government agency implementing the GND, travel to every continent, get better at tennis. You know, all the things.) And maybe you, too, have dreams?

For me, those dreams are punctuated with a lot of fear. What if I fail? What if I can’t do it? What will people think? 

Years of dreaming and scheming, of health & wellness projects with friends, of summer internships on urban farms, of organizing in a youth climate movement, have brought me to a place where I’m ready to move through my own fears, and make those dreams a reality.

So sharing a bit of my dream with you.

THE VISION

Key Words: Community, Collective, Organizing & Movement Building, Art, Spiritual Ecology, Healing & Wellness, Art 

Imagine it’s the year 2028. The camera pans into a retreat center, collective & community right outside of Chicago or in Upstate New York. It’s a one stop shop for movement builders, creatives, healers and artists to do work to build towards a revolutionary future, where people and the planet can thrive. 

You have organizers meeting and planning campaigns and strategies to take over the US government through running a national campaign to defund the military and fund the Green New Deal. You have artists (dancers, painters, photographers) coming together to plan exhibitions in 6 cities across the country, telling the story of the climate crisis through their mediums (e.g., paintings, film, photography, etc.) You have healers brainstorming ways to use yoga, somatics, and therapy to address needs of young people coming up in society plagued with disasters, from pandemics to violence to climate disasters. You have urban farmers on site growing an abundance of produce, that our community chefs turn into nourishing meals, to serve the entire community. 

And behind the scenes of all of this, there’s a wellness center where people in the community can get massages & facials, a meditation and yoga studio, a pool in summer for people to take a break and have fun, tennis courts, basketball courts, and soccer fields where folks can get active, a cafe and smoothie shop where folks talk and plot and brainstorm and create. (Oh, and the architecture & design of the place is biophilic in nature, and runs on 100% renewable energy.) 

A place to retreat. A place to create. A place to reimagine. A community teeming with people, all committed to building towards a cultural, political, and societal revolution, creating a future where people and the planet can thrive. 

WHERE YOU FIT IN

I’m currently in a BIPOC Youth Justice & Healing Fellowship (ByJAH), and am getting support to build out Phase I of this vision, which is what I want to pitch you on. (If you want to get a sense of the entire vision, see the PHASES section below!) 

You are someone who I’ve seen be deeply committed to your craft, and following passion. Whether you’re an organizer, an artist, an earthworker (e.g., urban farmer, cook, etc.), I don’t think I can build this powerful collective & retreat community without you.

In June of 2023, I’m planning to host a day-long retreat with friends I think may want to have a hand in turning this vision into reality. The retreat goals are:

  • Foster deep community and connection amongst young people

  • Create container for folks to deepen within their own self, healing, mindful practices

  • Create space to vision and image the future, through the lens of climate & individuals (e.g., organizer, dancer, artist, healer, etc.) 

  • Make ask folks join core team to help vision how to make this reality 

So will you join me? 

Before you say yes, a few questions for you to think about:

  • Do you feel called to create and build intentional community? Do you want to connect with other people? 

  • Do you believe in social justice? In using your medium (art, organizing, healing, etc.) to transform people and society?

If you said yes to any of these things, I encourage you to join me in NYC in the spring/summer! 

Also. The hope isn’t that you particularly want to take responsibility for implementing this vision. 

Mostly, I want to 1.) Pick your brain and really understand what you (as an artist, organizer, earthworker, or healer) best need so that you have the time, support and capacity to really hone your craft and 2.) Begin to identify people who do want to help implement this vision. 3.) Bring some really cool people I know together, and see what comes out of that!

So again, if interested and excited to help envision, sign up form here to get more info on the April retreat. 

PHASES 

  • Phase 1: Launch with a retreat in summer/fall 2023 (2023)

  • Phase 2: Launch core team, meet for 2-3 retreats over course of a year (2023-2024)

  • Phase 3: Launch implementation team (2024)

  • Phase 4: Break ground, build retreat center (2024 - 2028)

  • Phase 5: Open retreat center to the public (2027 - 2028)