#quaker roots

🧹 A Bit of Housekeeping Before We Begin

Let’s start with a little housekeeping, shall we?

Before diving into the heart of this post, I want to take a moment to speak directly to the inevitable critics—the ones who wander in uninvited, full of opinions no one asked for, ready to tell this Gay Gentleman what he should and shouldn’t say about his own lived experience.

To be blunt: I’m tired. Tired of unsolicited nonsense from small-minded people who seem deeply threatened by thoughtfulness, tenderness, and truth.

And yes, I’m well aware that the internet has a surplus of trolls—many of them loudly overcompensating for shortcomings of both moral and, let’s say, biological proportions.

So in the spirit of efficiency (and the hope that they simply move along), I offer the following prebuttal to whatever weak rhetoric may be brewing in their shadowy corners of the web.

✨ A Note for the Critics (Before You Get Loud in My Mentions)

Let’s just get a few things out of the way before your pearls get clutched or your monocles fog up:

No, I don’t hate white people. I’m formally what most would call “White Bread American—100% of European ancestry, if you go back 100-405 years ago.. I simply reject the label of “White”—and yes, it’s just a label. I see it as toxic, fake and a fabricated construct of “Whiteness” that’s been used to oppress everyone—including pale people like me who refuse to weaponize their melanin.

Yes, I’m a gay man talking about sex, spirit, and social justice all in the same breath. If that makes you uncomfortable, good. Maybe it’s time someone did.

No, this isn’t reverse racism. Reverse racism is like reverse gravity. It’s not a thing. Look it up—preferably in something thicker than a tweet.

Yes, I talk about the Divine Spirit. Yes, I still love Jesus. And no, She doesn’t mind that I say “fuck” when the situation calls for it. My God has range.

No, my marriage isn’t broken because it’s open. It’s open because it’s secure. We trust each other, support each other, and still share the last slice of cake like good husbands do.

Yes, I refer to younger queer Black and brown men as ‘baby boy’ sometimes. Because for many of them, it’s the first time they’ve been cherished in a way that’s safe, respectful, and free of expectation. If that bothers you, unpack your baggage. Mine’s already been sorted and blessed.

No, I’m not grooming anyone—all of the men I’m referring to are above age 30. Consenting adults, that is all. I’m mentoring, listening, affirming, and occasionally canoodling. All with consent, clarity, and mutual care. If that threatens you, ask why.

Yes, I talk about my ancestors. No, I’m not clout-chasing the Mayflower.

First of all, I only discovered that connection in 2023.

Second? That and $11.45 will get me breakfast at the local Roy Rogers—and they’ll still throw in packets of Mayo and other condiments, even as I once again asked them not to.

I’m not flaunting a pedigree. I’m showing how history winds its way through our lives—sometimes sacred, sometimes redemptive.

Even when it shows up wrapped in lace cuffs and dripping with hypocrisy.

No, this post isn’t for everyone.

It wasn’t meant to be. It’s for my people. For the ones who see themselves in these words—or see someone they love. Or want to learn how.

And if that bothers you, take it up with my 14th-great-grandfather. He’s in no position to care.

And finally…

You don’t have to be here.

This is my space, and you are free to scroll, click away, or rage-comment into the void.

But know this: Your approval is neither requested, required, nor relevant. It is however welcome from allies and friends. If you feel compelled to argue, I invite you to first ask yourself: “Why?” Because I argue in good faith, with no agenda beyond sharing truth from my lived experience.

Well… one agenda item:

Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

Pet the cat. Her house. Her rules. She bunts and that claims ownership of everything here. I can't.

Now that the air is clear, the door is open. Come in, take your shoes off, and bring your whole self. There's cobbler on the stove and stories to tell. . 🕊️🐾

Opening: Plymouth Surprise Edition

It all started when I was between jobs, poking around for new opportunities. I found a posting with the Cherokee Nation in the DC area and remembered something my mom once mentioned—she thought my father might have had Cherokee ancestry.

I never got the chance to know him, and he died when I was just 20 years old. Nearly 40 years have passed since then and I’m the lone survivor of that family now. I have no kids and certainly won’t at this point.  But something about that moment made me wonder: “Is there a way to confirm it?”

That question sent me to Ancestry.com. Just to look. Just to see. Turns out he didn’t have Cherokee, but rather had ancestors who were largely from Germanic nations, but also Russian on his mom’s side—something I never knew. But that’s apparently where my high cheekbones, full head of hair and other features in me came from .

One quiet afternoon in 2023, I opened a genealogy site without much expectation—first to trace my own tree, then Tigre’s, and eventually my best friend’s. What began as casual curiosity turned into something remarkable.

Because what I discovered in the DNA of myself, my husband, and my best friend—three queer souls bound not by blood but by choice—was this:

American history lives in us.

And not just in fragments. I’m talking castles and colonies, old gods and new lands—a lineage stretching all the way back to the 14th century, weaving through places both close and far, familiar and sacred.

My bestie's roots? They reach deep into the soil of this continent, through the noblest families of nearly every First Nation along the East Coast. Their legacy is just as well documented as any British landed gentry—every name preserved, every bloodline honored.

🖼️ Title: She Who Stood Between Worlds Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

📝 Notes:

Believed to represent a Mohawk matriarch of the 17th century, this image honors a woman who served not only as a queen within her people, but also as a diplomat and cultural bridge during the earliest collisions between Indigenous nations and European settlers. Her influence reached from longhouse to colonial court, wielding power not through conquest—but through presence, poise, and unshakable purpose.

The Matriarch and the Reckoning

The Mohawk Queen in her lineage wasn't just royalty—She was a diplomat. A bridge between her people and the Dutch who founded New Amsterdam…And the English who renamed it New York.

Yes, that New York. The Big Apple.

She was fierce, historic, and deeply respected. And she is also the 14th great-grandmother of my dearest friend.

That same friend is now a matriarch herself—

Raising a beautiful blended family with a husband whose ancestors were once enslaved on Virginia plantations, mostly in the central part of the state. The same state where some of her direct ancestors owned different plantations, with different slaves—and the same evil mindset that sets her teeth on edge as much as it does mine.

The very system my ancestors fought against was found in her ancestry—And when I had to gently break the news of what the ancestral records revealed, it nearly broke her.

She wept and felt so utterly ashamed. I hugged her and then told her gently:

“My dear, even though none of my people held slaves, we all still benefitted from slavery. That legacy angers me—and it angered them too. But it’s a painful truth we don’t get to opt out of.

Those people lived and died long before our time,

and now? We’re left to walk through the wreckage and try to heal what we can.”

Then I reminded her of something just as true:

“Look at your family. You are living proof that love is the fiercest rejection of what they built.

You turned generational violence into a legacy of joy. And that, my dear… is beautiful beyond words.”

An unexpected treasure trove of Native American history is in her ancestral tree.

As I examined that rich and complex history of her Native American Ancestors, I saw they weren’t faceless names on a page. Some had drawings. Others, stories. And through those, I felt like I could see them—not as distant ancestors of my friends, but as real people. Whole, proud, dignified.

They weren’t forgotten. Not in this house. Not ever.

We’d met by pure chance 21 years ago at the same workplace and became instant soul siblings. Neither of us could’ve known that her Mohawk ancestors and my English ancestors—actual lords and ladies—would’ve crossed paths centuries ago.

🖼️ Title:

“Coming Back Home from Visiting My Best Friend’s Ancestors for a Nice Dinner , April 1640”

✍️ Caption:

An homage to a day in the life of the Howland family , early settlers in Plymouth Colony. Rendered in the style of early 17th-century colonial portraiture, this moment captures the family of John J. Howland II and Elizabeth Tilley around 1640, 20 years after their arrival on the Mayflower

At the center is Elizabeth, matriarch and quiet powerhouse. A woman whose resilience built the foundation for generations to come. Their daughter, Abigail Howland —my direct ancestor—is in the middle, inviting us to join their extended family.

The family is bathed in light and warmth, their expressions lively and full of spirit. To the side, three glowering Puritans lurk, sour as a half-turned apple—ever judging, never dancing. Their God demanded punishment; the Howlands' faith celebrated presence, purpose, and grace.

This image honors not just ancestry, but the choice to live joyfully. Because as it turns out, my family didn’t come here to frown.

Art rendered by ChatGPT, 2025, in loving tribute to a life well-claimed.

Why? Because in 1620, my people boarded the Mayflower. They gave up privilege, land, and comfort in England to help found Plymouth.

Now, anyone with even a hint of American education knows that boat name: The Mayflower. It’s shorthand for Thanksgiving stories, buckled hats, and a mythology too thick with whitewashing to see clearly through.

But here’s the real twist: My ancestors weren’t Puritans. They were Quakers.

And that makes all the difference.

Where the Puritans judged harshly—especially themselves— The Quakers loved openly. Where the Puritans condemned, the Quakers welcomed. They didn’t wield religion as a weapon. They offered it like bread.

And knowing that? That I came from them—from people who led with conviction and compassion—meant everything.

Especially when I learned that Plymouth had fewer than 600 settlers in its earliest days. The odds that my ancestors knew hers, broke bread with them, maybe even saw one another as kin despite the vast cultural divide… are high.

And now? Thirteen generations later?

We found each other again. And just like back then—we break bread, we share stories, and we see each other as family.

That’s not coincidence. That’s homecoming.

What I found ended up reconfiguring everything I thought I knew—about my ancestry, my queerness, and the role I was born to play in this moment we’re all living through.

Part I: The Forgotten Matriarch and the Hidden Line

Growing up, our family history was held in fragments—scraps of stories, names that floated through holiday dinners, and a few yellowing photos tucked into family Bibles.

My maternal grandmother was our primary storyteller. She didn’t have the full picture, but she gave me just enough to trace things forward. What she didn’t know was that through her father’s line, I descend directly from a rather distinguished family—one of the few whose names appear in history books. A family I’d read about but never imagined any connection to—let alone a genetic one, spanning 14 generations from them to me.

One of the middle daughters, Abigail Howland, is my 13th great-grandmother. She set in motion a lineage of abolitionists, farmers, and beautifully stubborn souls who made it their mission to mind their own damn business and treat people right.

Her parents, John J. Howland II and Elizabeth Tilley, were passengers aboard the Mayflower in 1620. Elizabeth was just a teenager when she made the journey with her parents, while John came as a servant—but both would survive, fall in love, and build a legacy that helped shape the early fabric of this nation.

That line runs straight through me—where, in the biological sense, it ends. I never had children of my own. But I became a godfather. A mentor. A steady hand in the lives of the children of my friends, who I’ve loved and guided like nieces and nephews.

And until I went looking, all of this was nearly lost.

Part II: Old America, Real Roots

I am fiercely proud of this heritage.

Because it reflects a legacy that rejected Whiteness and all its manufactured cruelty—not just in theory, but in action. My people knew it was wrong. They stood against it, and some paid the Ultimate Price to defeat slavery and preserve our Democratic Republic.

That defiance lives in me.

I descend from some of the first European settlers of what became the United States—and not one of them was an enslaver. My ancestors were working-class, grounded, and real. They lived simply, worshipped humbly, and treated others with dignity. They didn’t believe in hierarchy; they believed in humanity.

Meanwhile, my husband Tigre’s family helped build Puerto Rico from its earliest Spanish-speaking settlements. My best friend? She descends from a Mohawk queen who married into one of the founding families of Plymouth—the very same settlement my ancestors helped establish.

All three of us are connected to America’s First Families. Some show up on maps. Others in ledgers. A few even have portraits in museums. But most? Just names in ancestral records now.

Names I now carry forward—with open eyes, open hands, and a spine made of ancestral steel.

I am fiercely proud of this heritage.

Because it reflects a legacy that rejected Whiteness and all its manufactured cruelty—not just in theory, but in action. My people knew it was wrong. They stood against it, and some paid the Ultimate Price to defeat slavery and preserve our Democratic Republic.

This is NOT AI generated, but rather a REAL Photo of one of my Ancestors.

Pictured is Samuel Galbreath (Maternal 3rd Great Grandfather, center front) with his friends, taken on the morning after completing their US Army basic training at Camp Curtin, Harrisburg PA was completed in 1861. He was killed in action on 20 Dec 1861 at Dranesville, Fairfax, Virginia, USA. Gallant men going to fight against Slavery, putting their very lives at grave risk.

That defiance lives in me, as I come from the mightiest ancestors imaginable.

I descend from some of the first European settlers of what became the United States—and not one of them was an enslaver. My ancestors were working-class, grounded, and real. They lived simply, worshipped humbly, and treated others with dignity. They didn’t believe in hierarchy; they believed in humanity.

Meanwhile, my husband Tigre’s family helped build Puerto Rico from its earliest Spanish-speaking settlements. My best friend? She descends from a Mohawk queen who married into one of the founding families of Plymouth—the very same settlement my ancestors helped establish.

All three of us are connected to America’s First Families. Some show up on maps. Others in ledgers. A few even have portraits in museums. But most? Just names in ancestral records now.

Names I now carry forward—with open eyes, open hands, and a spine made of ancestral steel.

I am fiercely proud of this heritage.

Because it reflects a legacy that rejected Whiteness and all its manufactured cruelty—not just in theory, but in action. My people knew it was wrong. They stood against it and some paid the Ultimate Price to defeat Slavery and preserve our Democratic Republic. And that defiance lives in me.

NOTE: AI rendered images include typographical errors in text as a sort of "Watermark" to signal to the viewer it's not rendered by any person. The bottom line was supposed to read "These labels were never mine to carry."

Why I Reject the Label of “Whiteness”

Let’s talk about Whiteness—that label I’ve never accepted and never claimed.

“White” was never a word that felt like it fit.

I’m taupe with a hint of pink, thank you very much. I don’t blend into a white wall. And white clothes? They actually make me look surprisingly tan— an inheritance from my maternal grandfather, a Croatian-Hungarian immigrant whose family came to the U.S. just before he was born in the early 1900s.

And according to the standards set for categorizing Immigrants of that time? He wasn’t considered “White.” He was labeled Slavic—a classification that, while not enslaved or colonized like others, still marked him as inferior. Not quite white. Not quite welcome. Not quite worthy.

The same was true for my Scots-Irish ancestors, who’d arrived decades earlier. They weren’t “White” either—listed as Celtic or some other variation, and treated with equal suspicion by the ruling Anglo elite. They were free, yes—but not full. Not in society’s eyes.

Let that sink in.

The U.S. government—just a century ago—maintained official racial classifications that assigned social value to a person based on ancestry. These were applied to everyone who came through places like Ellis Island in New York and Philadelphia PA, the two main ports where all of my ancestors first touched the soil of North America. It was measured, charted, codified—as if human worth could be graphed like rainfall.

These charts existed. I’ve seen them. And though I’ve tried in vain to locate them again, their legacy lives on in the architecture of American systems—legal, social, and cultural. My ancestors—now casually grouped under “White”—were once explicitly excluded from that label.

So when I say I reject Whiteness as a concept, it's not out of rebellion. It's out of historical accuracy . It was never mine to claim.

📎 Notes & Citations for the above referenced history:

🔎 Curious about these racial classifications? You're not imagining things. Scholars like David Roediger (Working Toward Whiteness) and Matthew Frye Jacobson (Whiteness of a Different Color) offer deep dives into how groups like Slavs, Italians, Jews, Irish, and Greeks were once considered racially distinct from "White Anglo-Saxon" Americans—often tracked in census data and treated as second-class immigrants.

🧠 Explore More: • Jacobson via Harvard Press: https://www.hup.harvard.edu/catalog.php?isbn=9780674004726 • Roediger via Basic Books: https://www.basicbooks.com/titles/david-r-roediger/working-toward-whiteness/9780465090205 • PBS – Race: The Power of an Illusion: https://www.pbs.org/race

✨ If you're new to this history, I encourage you to explore it. Because when you understand how Whiteness was invented, you begin to see how powerful it is to live outside of it.

Or, in my case—walk away from it entirely. That's why I reject “Whiteness.”

🖼️ Title: Rejecting The Filing Cabinet of Whiteness Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

✍️ Artist's Note:

This image serves as a metaphor for the artificial construction of racial identity in the U.S.—a musty filing cabinet long forgotten, yet still shaping lives. Its partially opened drawers and aged metal texture evoke the bureaucratic roots of Whiteness: invented, archived, and selectively applied. Damp, outdated, and impersonal—just like the concept itself.

What was once weaponized classification is now just… paperwork, rusting in history’s shadows.

Because it rejected my people until the 1950s—within living memory of my mom and grandparents.

Skin tone aside, the whole concept has always felt… Gross. Inaccurate. Empty. Like something damp and musty, pulled from a filing cabinet no one's dared open for 70 years or more.

And yet, somehow, it still lives—just rebranded. Today it’s not on paper, but it’s baked into algorithms. The sorting and valuation continues… only now it’s done by code instead of clipboard.

How they sorted my ancestors and created a “mixed race” person in me—who is now labeled White, and hates it for being so incredibly stupid.

This country didn’t just label my people—it engineered us. Invented categories, assigned values, and handed out privileges like ration cards. They took culture, kinship, and story... and turned them into census boxes and boarding passes to power.

And yet here I am, product of that system—and holy hell, have I got things to say about it.

It wasn’t just that my Slavic and Scots-Irish ancestors were seen as “less than”—they weren’t even always called White.

Slavs and Celts in the early 1900s were often seen as racialized subgroups. Their names didn’t appear under “White” in official Immigration tables. They were tracked by national origin—Slavic, Celtic, Italian and so on—and ranked socially and politically as partial Americans. Not with literal fractions like the Three-Fifths Compromise applied to enslaved Africans, but with functionally dehumanizing math all the same.

So, when I say “Whiteness felt gross and inaccurate,” I’m not being poetic. I’m being precise.

Roughly a third of my ancestors weren’t considered “White” until long after they and their children fought, worked, and bled for this country. And by the time the government decided to grant them Whiteness? They were already Americans in every way that mattered.

So, I choose them. The rebels. The outliers. The ones who said no when everyone else said yes. The allies who stood their ground—and stood with others. Not the Whiteness that once rejected them.

For the record and to be clear: no—I’m not “White.”  I’m a descendant of the almost-but-not-quite.

That infamous 3/5 formula? It may have legally applied only to enslaved Africans, but it culturally applied to at least two sets of my great-grandparents—and to over a third of my family tree.

They came from almost every corner of Europe, bearing names that were once too foreign, too swarthy, too Scottish, Irish, Hungarian or Croatian—Celtic or Slavic—to be accepted.

And while I may now carry the label “White” on forms and drop-down menus, I reject it every chance I get.

🖼️ An homage to the Patriarch--"Pap-Pap", as the grandkids dubbed him years after this moment.

An AI-rendered homage to my maternal grandfather, based on a real photograph of him during World War II—likely around age 33. This is how I pictured him growing up, shaped by the stories of those who loved him. I was named after him, and now, later in life, I bear more than a passing resemblance.

He never made it to 60, but lived a life that most men of his generation would have envied—graceful, magnetic, and full of quiet strength.

You might see a “White man” here.

But just 100 years ago, he and his family weren’t viewed that way. They were Other—Slavic, to be exact. Too foreign. Too Catholic. Too different.

He and my grandmother were both beautiful people—inside and out—and the world only caught up to that truth far too late.

Call me Ecru. Call me Taupe. Call me Light Tan with a splash of Croatian Olive like my Grandfather's in old color photos.

But don’t call me “White.” Not when that term was forced onto people who never asked for it, never needed it, and never wanted what came with it.

So, no thanks. I didn’t order this identity. Please send it back to hell where it came from—thankyouverymuch.

Oh, and about that italicized phrase? I don’t watch much in the way of passive viewing, but when I do, it’s BritBox—and their shows are where I picked it  up from. Those 4 words strung together as one? Another way of saying “We’re done here, you can show yourself out.”

“What Whiteness Feels Like to Me”

Whiteness—at least as I've known it—feels like this:

Sitting on a hard, metal folding chair at a cookout where no one dances. The sky is gray, the air is damp and heavy— hot, humid, and lifeless . No breeze, no fans, just the smell of overcooked meat and the stagnant weight of silence. Where love isn't really in the air and certainly didn't go into the cooking of what happens for food around here.

Muzak pouring over stolen rhythm like paint over stained glass—stripping it of soul, spirit, and swing. An instrumental version of something once beautiful, now boiled soft. Volume too loud for conversation. Convenient, really—because the hosts don't want to talk. I've always asked the questions they fear most. Gently, but pointedly. And their answers? Sometimes they shocked me more than I ever want to admit. I still carry some of those silences.

Empty beer cans stuffed with cigarette butts balanced on every flat surface. A sun-warmed tray of egg salad and deviled eggs that's begun to turn. They get drunk. The jokes get cruel. Laughter rings out from mouths twisted with spite— vulgarity parading as wit. And I sit there, again, remembered why this has never been my culture.

That sad little vignette? Real memories from my childhood and teenage years, as rendered by AI taking these words and making them art. That's about how warm and welcomed I felt because they weren't my people.

It is a nearly perfect snapshot of most family gatherings with my stepfather’s so-called “Redneck” relatives—their word, not mine. How they felt and how they looked, generalized in one image.

And yes, they were every bit as stereotypical as you're probably imagining. Only worse. So much worse. In ways that still haunt me—ghosts in tube socks and trucker hats, trailing the scent of domestic beer and casual bigotry.

They’re mostly just specters now—faded memories from a part of my life I didn’t choose, and thank the Divine, no longer have to revisit. I left that table long ago.

I survived those occasions by arriving armed with thick novels—usually Stephen King— a silent signal that said: "You are not my people. I am here against my will. Kindly leave me the hell alone."

But these days? Put me at a Black or Brown queer cookout— honey , I'm home. In the corner, peach cobbler in hand, sweet tea on deck, watching joy unfold like a Sunday service with no sermon—just spirit.

And not a single deviled egg floating in beet juice infused vinegar nearby. Bless.

Part III: The Invention of Whiteness (and Why I Rejected It)

From a young age, I knew better. I knew that skin tone was, for the most part, irrelevant—a superficial variation, now proven to be just a tiny tweak in one tiny strand of DNA. So small, in fact, that scientists call it biologically unremarkable.

And yet... look at what the world built on it.

I didn’t need science to prove it—my experiences did. I remember reading the most quoted parts of Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech on a poster in my friend Willie’s house. We were six. He was dark-skinned and had a smile that lit up the room. That kid could make me laugh so hard I couldn’t breathe. That day, those words made perfect sense. They still do.

“White” was never a real identity. It was a mask. A wedge. A tool. Created by the powerful to divide the working classes at all income levels. To keep Black, brown, and pale folks too suspicious of each other to rise up and take back what was stolen from all of us.

Ai rendered visualization of the following text:

So, here's what I know: My people aren't “White”…and I'm not, either. I'm Alabaster or Tan perhaps, but not White.

My people are the ones who stood in fields, in pews, in kitchens and sanctuaries—and said, “We're not doing this anymore.”

They're the Quakers who walked side by side with those labeled “Colored” and called them equals. The same folks who showed up to mark with them for civil rights, as steady allies and full-throated supporters. Working together on a shared cause, a work we're still doing even now. They are my ancestors and I stand in their place, and on their shoulders today.

They’re the Black and Brown queer men who message me now with admiration in their eyes and softness in their voices. Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

And they're the baby boys no one hugged long enough . The queer kids who left church just to survive. The ones who didn't know love could come in a form that sees all of them —and stays.

Part IV: Why I'm Writing This Now

I've spent the last six weeks watching the Divine rearrange the furniture of my soul.

I've stepped into a new season—one of Gay/Queer mentorship and sacred flirtation—mostly through spaces like the DaddyHunt App. There, to my quiet astonishment, young caramel and chocolate-skinned men began reaching out.

Not just with desire. But with curiosity. With reverence. With hope.

And in time, I realized: They weren’t just looking for a hookup. They were looking for a place to land. For someone to say: “You are enough, baby boy.”

That’s when it hit me. This wasn’t just connection. It was ministry.

It was dinner and deep conversation. If the chemistry was right, it might be followed by naked canoodling—then dessert. Not just flesh meeting flesh, but two queer souls opening to one another in the way only we know how to: with bodies entwined, yes— but spirits, too.

A listening ear. A tender word. A safe lap to rest a tired head.

And the Divine made one thing clear:

“You are the vessel. I will work through you.”

Even if it’s just one night of comfort. One meal. One message. One moment where a hurting soul feels seen. The Divine Spirit—how I see God—will work through me and love on these men in the way they need, organically and naturally. In the right time, and in the most reverential manner possible.

This work has rewired me. It’s reawakened parts of myself that were waiting for this kind of calling—and I will not apologize for it.

I don't care who scoffs. This is sacred. And those who don't get it can kindly fuck in the direction of off , thank you very much.

🖼️ Title: "A Dream They Dared Not Speak, Now Spoken Freely" Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025

✍️ Caption:

In an imagined Washington D.C. where 1910 embraced what history tried to erase, this portrait captures a moment of dignity and possibility. A gracious host introduces two young men at a gathering not unlike a cotillion—except this one honors queer love, cultural pride, and the quiet work of legacy.

Here, elders arrange introductions with purpose, offering blessing rather than judgment. The house is grand, the air warm with music and conversation, and every glance carries layers of meaning.

This is the world the ancestors hoped for—even if they never saw it. This is the dream they whispered. And finally, it is being lived.

Part V: The Legacy I Choose

I may wear jeans and untucked button-downs instead of robes. I may say Baby Boy and Papa instead of Beloved and Blessed. But make no mistake: this is pastoral work.

I didn’t build a church. I am the church.

The sanctuary lives in me. It walks beside me in the grocery store, the train platform, the bedroom, the chat thread. And it reminds me that I may be called upon to offer grace anywhere.

Sometimes that's buying someone a hot meal. Sometimes it's holding a hurting man in my arms and letting him weep out the grief on my shoulder, as I tell him It's Ok, I got you. So does the Divine, who works through me. They hold us close now. Just rest, it will be OK Sometimes it's simply saying, “You matter.”

And always, I hear the whisper of my Quaker ancestors:

🖼️ Title:

“The Church I Carry”

✍️ Caption:

Rendered by ChatGPT, 2025 An imagined oil painting that captures the quiet sacredness of chosen purpose. Here, a modern-day spiritual guide stands in still reflection—not behind a pulpit, but beneath open skies. No steeple. No altar. Just the presence of grace, walking with him through the ordinary and the divine.

This is not a church made of stone and doctrine. This is a church made of presence. Of listening. Of witness. Of love.

Because he didn’t build a sanctuary. He became one.

"Be still. Be kind. Be a witness."

Closing Blessing

I’m not here to shout over anyone. I’m just here to speak the truth as I’ve lived it.

If you’ve read this far, maybe you’re one of the ones I was meant to reach. If not? That’s okay, too. I’ll keep writing anyway.

Because silence was never going to save us. And storytelling always did.

Peace be with you. Walk in loving grace. See the face of the Divine in every person who crosses your path. And remember: we are all distant cousins, members of the same family— the Human Race.

All other labels? Can—and should—be rejected without hesitation.

This is how I see the world. And it’s how I choose to live.