I want to take a moment to publicly thank Kendall Clawson, Sam Adams, Bob Speltz, Judge Kemp, Robert Goman, LeAnn Locher, Anne Viola-Krause, Tim Healea, Paul Fukui, Glenn Goodfellow, Neola Young, Nash Jones, Karen Petersen, Stacey Rice, Susan Kocen, Noah Wood, Dede Willis, Heather Nichelle, Ali Williams, Mary Emily O’Hara, Brian Charles Johnson, and all the other countless, caring, compassionate people who have bravely stepped up over the years to found, fund, build, sustain and, several times, fight to save the vital community resource that Q Center was designed to be.

Despite smoke and mirrors from my record label at the time, when I came to Q Center in 2010 I had nothing. Less than nothing, actually. I was traumatized by violence, was recently in recovery from a 16 year addiction to crack and alcohol which had left me ravaged physically and emotionally, had been freshly divorced while simultaneously being chewed up and spit out by the music industry, and I was living in a stranger’s converted garage. I was completely broke, starving, freezing at night, and, frankly, wanted to die.

One afternoon I found myself at Q Center and for the first time (maybe ever), I felt safe. I belonged. No one cared that I was broken. No one was scared of my need. In fact, they didn’t even see me as those things. They only cared that I was alive and that I was there — because that’s what family does.

Kendall invited me to come back the next day, so I did. When I got there, I told her I wanted to cancel my tour midway through, fire my team, turn my album into a fundraiser for the center, and keep showing up as long as I could be of use — and that’s what happened. I felt useful for the first time in years, and I stayed for the next 5 years.

While many of us have gone on to become successful after our time at Q Center, the truth is that none of us had much of anything back then — but we always had each other; And the people who did have resources gave everything they had to build a home for our community.

We fought for each other. We loved each other. We protected each other. And, most importantly, we created the first safe space many of us had ever experienced. We did all of this together, brick by brick, dollar by dollar, as a community, using our blood, sweat, intentions, and tears as the mortar.

When I literally had no food in my fridge and was too “famous” and ashamed to ask for help, Kendall fed me. I know she also had very little back then, but her care and concern for me and for all of our communities was always front and center. There were many days where the only food I ate was what was leftover at the end of the night after Q Center events, and I know I was not the only queer or trans person having their basic needs met within those walls, because I was often the one wrapping up to-go meals for other hungry queer and trans people.

Q Center saved my life, and it has saved countless others. This Portland Pride weekend, I’m using several copies of The Oregonian as a potty pad for my dog, and I’m celebrating Kendall and all of the people who made this big, gay, community magic possible to begin with — from founding board members and donors, to volunteers and program participants, to staff and community partners along the way.

I SEE YOU.
🌈❤️

Now that marriage is won in Oregon, I am really excited for the LGBTQ community (and our allies) to get back to the still very pressing work of making schools safer, ending workplace discrimination, bringing cultural competency to systems which oppress us, building bridges with communities of faith who oppose us, pushing trans rights to the forefront of our agenda, and making sure our growing senior population is honored and celebrated, having paved the way for all of these modern victories so many years ago.

Celebrate tonight, friends — because tomorrow the work continues.

To find the LGBTQ Community Center nearest you to get involved and support this community, click HERE. In Oregon, click HERE to connect with Q Center.

(Photo: The Oregonian)

Recently I have witnessed a great deal of conflict within Portland’s local queer community online, in the press, and in real life. Much of this seems to come about as a result of heated debates around social issues, sex, politics, art, and the complicated inner-workings of the LGBT community in PDX (and everywhere). I believe there is much to be learned from conflict, but the way some of this has been playing out lately in the public sphere has felt mean spirited and has been difficult to watch at times.

It is my belief that we were all born inherently kind and connected to one another. Each of us was handed our own set of circumstances at birth, which are sometimes pre-destined long before birth, but most babies are not born angry. As kind queer babies are growing up, we sometimes find ourselves mistreated, abandoned, and ridiculed for being different. We are held down by layer upon layer of systemic oppression buried centuries deep in a culture that has its head shoved so far up its own ass it cannot see the part it plays in the cycle of abuse. This is painful and infuriating.

So what do we do with the fury we carry from having this history? How do we reconcile these justified feelings of outrage? Many of us might not feel powerful enough to take on our families, bosses or governments at the root of our feeling oppressed, so we aim lower and end up putting our pain on one another. Instead of queer people banding together to fight external oppression, we end up oppressing ourselves through infighting. It’s a tale as old as time, but all that cutting our friends amounts to in the end is a divided community, and a divided community is not a strong one.

We are still in the midst of a culture war, friends. While many changes have been made in our favor, we cannot forget that we still live in a country that treats queer people like second-class citizens, and in a state that actively perpetuates this discrimination. I fear sometimes Read the rest of this entry »