A Black Queer Kid Sticks His Thumb Out In Virginia

AMERICA IS THE crucible, the forge, the hammer beating me out of shape. Or into a new shape. But the fire is all God. A fire that is untamable, that has been harnessed and misused but not conquered by the powers that be. God’s mercy is the force that kept breath in my body as I tried to dash my life against the rocks. It’s Resurrection. Moments like that snowy day in Virginia, when the world conspired to drag me by my hair, kicking and screaming, toward life.

My life has followed a trajectory of grace: the specific route God used to reach me that was built through a series of actions and events piling up and creating a spiritual momentum that I couldn’t avoid, duck, or hide from.

The truth is nothing went perfectly to get me from where I was on Feb. 12, 2010, to where I am today, sitting in a random coffee shop in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, putting my story down in words for you, a stranger.

I was picked up by an immigrant who barely spoke English. I knew enough Spanish to explain I was headed to the hospital. That I was sick. He barely understood me, but he knew I needed help. He took me to his home and woke up his wife so she could translate. I explained that I was an alcoholic looking to get to a hospital to get sober. That I was sorry I disturbed her. I remember her conveying my words and the look of sad realization in his eyes. He said something to her, and I gathered my things expecting to be put out. Who the hell wants to help a stranger with something this big? This scary. She said he wanted me to stay the night and he would take me to a hospital in the morning if I still wanted to go. I was so struck by this invitation that tears welled up in my eyes. I gratefully passed out on the couch.

I woke up, and God was still real. At this particular moment, God was a 5-year-old girl in a pink onesie with a plush bunny at her side, and God was staring me right in the eyes. I wasn’t sure where I was, but it all flooded back to me. Including the powerful feeling that my life had a new direction. Her father smiled at her as he walked in, and they served me breakfast. My hand shook so bad, I couldn’t get the eggs in my mouth. Who knows if I could hold it down. I was grateful for the gesture though. Being treated like a human when I had experienced so little of that in my life was utterly amazing.

After he finished breakfast—I couldn’t finish mine—he took me to a store and was kind enough to let me buy two tallboys to keep the demons from crawling up the walls. It is my sad duty to report that my last drink was two tallboys of Sparks, the energy drink/malt liquor. After I slammed them down greedily, he dropped me off at the hospital.

That’s America. That’s the America I know. A Black queer kid sticks his thumb out in Virginia, and an immigrant takes him into his home, introduces him to his family, and then drives him to the rest of his life. This is what I want to show you.

Copyright 2021. Reprinted with permission from Broadleaf Books.