Darnell’s Son


I met him on a sunny morning. My flesh was cold. I had lost mi padre–Brandon Lacy Campos–and was in no position to consider the loving kindness of another BlaQueer Soul, but he came in the mourning. I was frail and frantically writing to live so that I might catch a glimpse of the morning sun in my time of despair. I was young,  wounded,  rageful, recently poz and recently radicalized. You see, the assault on my t cells led to awakening of a love that surpassed all understsnding but I did not yet know how to harness it for healing. It fed me, this love, like a fire warming a one room house in the end of a boston winter. I sat as I regained feelings in my cheeks, my lips,  my tongue and rocked with the newfound pounding of my heart–I was not dead–so I wrote,  to prove it wnd share the good news. I first wrote about race, then white supremacy,  then infedility, interracial lusts and lists, religion, H I V, me, blacks, coloniality, allyhood vs solidarity,  assaultive speech, bodily autonomy, liberatory fucking, sexual assault,  violence,  compoundedness, prisons…and Gaza. Then he found me. Noted my truths and intellectual prowess regarding blackness, palestine, solidarity and critical love ethics. The lifting of my minf translated to a freeing of my spirit. I wrote, I spoke, I cried, I cuddled, I failed, I soared…publicly,  because I had learned that a public growth is a public lesson. Darnell’s continual,  unrelenting love lulled me into a radical, critical love ethic centered in liberatory humanism. For the first time, I had a mentor,  a father,  a provider of love who I had never met…let a lone proved myself allied to. When I did meet him,  I came into his presentation in a cold sweat, having gotten lost in new york. I paced outside the door for 10 minutes afraid to enter, thinking, knowing “this is blackness and love unleashes in all its rugged complexities.” I shook, I stuttered and I walked in—in the front of the room–wearing diamon earings, a purple snap back, a tight black shirt, red skinny jeans (painted on) and purple high tops. The white folks were startled and unnerved–all senior Phds and professorial types. And Darnell, of course, thrust me into the spotlight where I slayed,  with his encouragement and applause. ..later getting requests from these bougie white folks to sit in on my classes at whatever PWI I taught at–I was unemployed and had only graduated with a BA months before. He hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek and I knew his soul was where I had long since desired to reside. He was exhibiting reparatory rays, divine and dipped in freedom. I needed to do that, and more. In a way, he rebirthed my since of purposeful longing and loving strategies.  Thank you pa–through you I fuck gender,  love blackness, free queerness and live for us. Ase pops.

darnell moorephoto-1-3.jpg

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