Musical Happenings

May 2
-Mark Stevens performed my Facility for piano and electronics at Oscar Larson Performing Arts Center. I recorded a talkback discussing the work, which you can watch here
-I sang a gorgeous program called Shifting Grounds with Ember Choral Arts, performed at Actor’s Chapel in Midtown. Watch the livestream here

May 4 - I sang in Mendelssohn’s Elijah at the First Presbyterian Church of New York City, and also had my hand in preparing the orchestral parts

May 15 - My music made its Canadian debut at the Arts and Letters Club of Toronto! My Meditation for Sphere of Influence for piano and electronics, as well as A Boy with Baleen for Teeth were put on by Piano Lunaire, performed so thoughtfully by Claire McCahan, Adam Sherkin, and Nathaniel Sullivan

June 1 - An excerpt from my feeld songs for choir and harp will be streamed at a gallery at 12 West 12th Street, as a part of Creatives Create! - highlighting LGBTQ+ stories and experiences. Presented by Art at First

June 27 - My music makes its UK debut with the world premiere of O Ignis Spiritus (written in 2016!) at Wigmore Hall, London, performed by The Fourth Choir

The Thing from All Sides

Along Flatbush Avenue Extension, there is a particularly hectic stretch of sidewalk that could make anybody’s cortisol rise. Last month I traversed it, passing the luxury apartments and the deafening street noise, taking insufferable gusts of wind into my body. The stimuli forced my eyes down towards several barren patches of dirt, where street trees should be. To my surprise, milkweed had taken root in the empty space. I had tried growing milkweed on my block for monarch butterflies a few years ago, but the seeds never took. 

I walk this stretch of sidewalk to see my doctor, and get bloodwork done every few months. The clinic is named after two trailblazers: the musician and AIDS activist Michael Callen, and self-proclaimed Black Lesbian Mother Warrior Poet, Audre Lorde. I feel my feet standing on their shoulders, every single day. It was Audre who said “There is no such thing as a single-issue struggle, because we do not live single-issue lives.”

After trying to grow those milkweed seeds, I learned monarch butterflies actually need much more than milkweed to thrive. While milkweed is fundamental, the butterflies rely on a living ecosystem filled with other plants that provide shelter and food—plants like Joe-Pye weed, butterfly weed, and other companion species that help sustain the larger habitat. Audre’s cautioning about “single-issue struggles” rings out forever in all directions—even into the soil.

Some butterflies migrate thousands of miles, crossing borders that were never drawn for them. Some flit between fruit wedges and tourists' shoulders, sustained by city park funding for their nurseries. Some, like my friend Wayland, remain shackled on display by the state.

I had bought that packet of milkweed seeds in Albany, at a gift shop inside the Capitol Building. I was lobbying with the New York Civil Liberties Union, getting co-sponsors for the GIRDS Bill. The bill aims to ensure more safety nets for incarcerated trans people, who statistically face higher rates of verbal abuse, sexual violence, and harassment while incarcerated.

I remember gathering in the Capitol Building’s reverberant stairwell, presenting the bill to the press. The last speaker was the Trans Justice Coordinator for Caribbean Equality Project, Tiffany Munroe. She took the mic: “First, I want to tell all of you that we must abolish prisons. Incarceration is dehumanizing—we don’t belong in cages. [The state’s] version of ‘protective custody’ is violence. Their version of ’protective custody’ is transphobia. Their version of ‘protective custody’ kills trans people. Trans people have always existed. We deserve to live.” 

The spaces between her words were filled with raucous applause. Tiffany not only addressed the conditions that spawned the GIRDS Bill—she also thoughtfully acknowledged the contradictions inherent in our presence there. This bill was designed by incarcerated trans people, and we all want incarcerated people to survive. Yet in the long run, we don’t want a “trans-affirming” prison system. In our brightest future, prisons don’t exist at all.

Especially as we draw nearer to Pride Month, I dread the normative conversations around queer allyship, that insist on getting stuck on the topic of pronouns. Rather than focus on our relationships with trans people—or lack thereof—the dominant culture focuses on how we are labeled, and if (cis) people can acknowledge those labels. Our conversations can get easily co-opted by parameters like these. For me, pronouns feel like the flattened “Milkweed Solution” of gender justice. Yes, everyone has to start somewhere, and using the correct pronouns can be undoubtedly life-giving. But over time, the cis-centric struggle to say “they” becomes a willful dance on the very tip of the iceberg—just as planting milkweed can’t solve the crisis of species extinction, alone. It’s high time we advance into these more deeply entrenched societal puzzles with humble honesty, lest we keep uncomfortably dancing this over-simplified dance.

As a trans/gender non-conforming person, I feel that I am of the most natural parts of life on Earth. At an early age, nobody was teaching me my mannerisms, my expressions, or who I was. It just came out, and was subsequently punished from all sides. No matter how many campaigns swell to eradicate us, we reemerge on every continent at all points in history, as persistent as life itself. If only the monarchs could be so lucky. 

In my watching, listening, and learning from queer kin past and present, I reflect on what I am and what I am not—on what I’ve inherited, and what I will leave behind. The longer I do this, the harder it is to ignore how trans people are targeted by the same billionaires who target and fund the endless occupation and extraction of our planet. Both of their targets embody a different kind of richness—one rooted in the depth of life itself. 

If the livelihood we exemplify cannot be extracted, controlled, subdued, or incarcerated, then we pose a direct threat to the compliance and misery that capitalism demands. The more I attune myself to these perceptions, in spite of these fear-mongering times, I know that I am part of the Earth. As my gender actualizes and reactualizes, I feel more deeply that I am of the Earth—and the longer I live, the more I love her. 

After my doctor’s appointment, Wayland X Coleman called me from prison. We were preparing for an upcoming hearing of his. Wayland is a friend and collaborator who I met through my work with Voices 21C. He was sentenced to life without parole at 19, when I was just three years old. When he pleaded Not Guilty to a first-degree murder charge, the so-called justice system for Black people in this country did what it was built to do. He is now 47 years old, still incarcerated. 

In 2022 I archived most of Wayland’s writing, speaking, musical compositions, and artistic work. I organized a national letter-writing campaign in 2023 to advocate for his mental health and housing conditions in prison. (This letter campaign inspired my piece Facility, for piano and electronics). Wayland knows his rights and his oppressors with stunning tactfulness. He is one of the most clear-headed abolitionists I know.

If our intersecting struggles boil down to resisting criminalization and control, then the movement against policing and mass-incarceration offers unending clarity. Standing in stark contrast to the endless cycle of rainbow corporate logos and June pride collections, abolition shines brightly as an intersectional pedagogy based in proactive prevention—rather than reaction, consumption, and apathy.

Just as we plant seeds for species that are on the way, our gathering places can be designed for marginalized folks before we arrive. What makes up a developed habitat—combatting the monocultural fields of milkweed in our minds—as we dream freedom?

I offer my recent work with Wayland and other organizers as one example, sowing seeds that sprouted this month on May 8th.

***

Under last year's Mattis Decision, Wayland was granted his first parole hearing after nearly 28 years inside. I was thankful to help organize parole support, and to attend in person. Together with a group of abolitionists—lovingly named "Team Free Wayland"—we got to work planting seeds.

We held weekly parole prep meetings on Zoom, with Wayland joining by phone. We drafted letter-writing prompts for supporters, and reached out to as many of his friends, colleagues, and acquaintances as possible, asking them to attend the hearing and write letters of support. We organized carpools and secured a second location for people to watch the hearing via Zoom, scheduling time to share a meal and process the experience together afterward.

In the end, we secured 52 RSVP's for Wayland's parole hearing, maxing out the space available twice over. These RSVP numbers were record-setting for the Mattis Decision hearings. Even more letters of support were submitted from individuals and major organizations, offering support in forms of housing, meals, contract work, car rides, airline miles, financial assistance, and so much more. Our efforts sent a strong message to the Parole Board and correctional officers. You could see the effect it had in their eyes. 

Over a quarter of the hearing’s attendees knew Wayland through choral music. I have long seen choirs—20 to 60 people on average—as incredible sites for organizing potential. I daily ask myself: How can concert music transcend the concert's sake? How can music be used as a crowbar, that mobilizes its participants into liberation work? 

Wayland’s hearing stands as a powerful response to this question. If Wayland is the monarch butterfly, then the packed parole hearing wasn’t just milkweed, but a full habitat, with our preceding choral collaborations serving as the Bluestem grasses and Blazing Star that helped it thrive. The seeds were planted the moment these choral ensembles prioritized working with incarcerated people.

When Wayland’s hearing began, he was brought into the room handcuffed and shackled, escorted by two white officers in bulletproof vests. It was just after 10am, and the system’s desire to subdue was on full display. I looked closely at the officers, the Parole Board, and the building staff, and thought: “What is the story that they’re telling themselves?” “What do they think they’re doing—and how does that compare to what’s actually happening?” … “Do they see how their actions resonate with this country’s racist legacy, spanning more than four centuries?”

With the right eyes, every effort to portray Wayland as controlled only served as an indictment of the criminal justice system. America loves to forget, whether or not it actually has.

The Parole Board had two stated objectives for their questioning. 1. To confirm Wayland would be supported if released from prison. 2. To confirm he would not be “a threat to society”. Over the course of three hours, Wayland delivered a masterclass in clear-headed composure. The board’s questioning focused on the massive amount of disciplinary reports Wayland has acquired while incarcerated. As they singled out specific tickets, Wayland elaborated with a quiet and humble power.

2002: Several books on Black liberation, a photo of Malcolm X, and a drawing by Wayland of a Black woman carrying the Earth on her back, were all confiscated from his cell. He was written up for “possession of gang materials and contraband."

2012: Wayland removed a faulty battery from his aging tablet, using it only while plugged into the wall. A guard wrote him up for “destruction of property.”

2018: Wayland drew attention to the prison’s toxic drinking water. He founded the organization Deeper Than Water, a massive endeavor, and faced multilayered retaliation for his efforts.

2022: After prison guards assaulted another person inside, Wayland named the officer over the phone to one of us, calling for a public campaign about the incident. Right after the call, he was summoned by administration, asked to lock into his cell, and received a D-Report for “assaulting a correctional officer”, in retaliation for the call.

2023: Wayland’s housing situation became unbearable, and prison staff only made it worse. He called for a letter campaign to the Department of Corrections, and chose to enter solitary confinement in protest. He was written up multiple times a week with D-Reports in response, and guards eventually began threatening acts of violence, trying to get him to leave. We organized regular phone calls to the prison at this time, to make sure he wasn’t being mistreated. The calls worked.

Wayland and I have talked about this moment in 2023 many times. “As the threats got worse, I didn’t know if they were ever going to back down. Yet you were so determined, and I wasn’t going to pretend I knew better.” Wayland shared how he got through it: “I realized I couldn’t see the end of that fight in solitary. So I told myself: ‘This is your reality for the next 10 years: Solitary, and D-Reports. Ten years of this.’ That way, they couldn’t break my spirit. It was either I suffer in regular housing, or suffer through what it takes to change it.”

Out here in the so-called "free world," we’re taught to want Everything Now. Our attention spans are constantly under attack. When I think about Wayland’s commitment to struggle, I start to understand what real perseverance looks like. He stayed with his reality longer than most of us can imagine, let alone endure. Maybe that’s what scares people about freedom struggle—sometimes you have to leap, without knowing where you’ll land. Hindsight is your only prophet. Between a rock and hard place, you have to listen to your spirit, and stay the course no matter who tries to shake you. Incarcerated people know this better than most.

Listen to Wayland recite the poem “I Dream a World” by Langston Hughes

At one point in the hearing, a Parole Board member tried to pathologize Wayland. She asserted that he had a strange tendency to find trouble in crowds of people. She asked about his mental health as if it were a hobby: “How is mental health going, now?" "I see a clinician." "Weekly? Monthly?" "Monthly." “Hm, once a month?" A suspicious smile grew on her face like the Cheshire Cat, as if a Prison Clinician could ever be credited for Wayland’s immense resolve or lack thereof. In order for her line of questioning to make any sense at all, you had to pretend the systems meant to "help" incarcerated people actually work. If prisons did what we’re told they do, this country would have the healthiest societies in human history.

Nearly every board member had asked Wayland: “How can we be certain that you will not commit harm, if released?"

Abolition tells us with a fierce honesty that we cannot be certain about when harm will arise. Harm is a naturally occurring factor in this life. What matters is how we try to prevent it, and how our solutions can inspire and encourage us to right our wrongs when harm occurs. Without this teaching, Wayland's supporters might have found themselves there conditionally. We didn’t just show up because we think he’s not guilty, or because we expect him to live up to debilitating standards of perfection if he’s released. We show up for him again and again because we know who he is, we don’t believe in incarceration as a strategy, and we recognize that any one of us could cause harm and be thrown away by this system.

***

In an abolitionist future, we will acknowledge that no one is disposable or imprisonable. The Earth will have taught us this. She reminds us that our bodies do not leave this place—the matter of our being is scattered, gathered, and remade in an endless rhythm. This life is one of many; the body does not transcend and cannot be banished. As such, we will have chosen not to banish one another.

Through trial and error, our new approaches to harm will have become so compelling, so deeply life-affirming, that punishment remains only as a historical warning—ritually spoken aloud and woven into the fabric of all we continue to overcome. With the same surge of life we once felt when embracing loved ones on their first day out of prison, we will run—arms open—into the accountability processes we have created for ourselves.

After the Parole Board’s questioning, five testimonies were given on Wayland's behalf, and every speaker knocked it out of the park. It was only after this point—what I imagine was over two hours—that the opposition was granted time to speak. A first-degree murder charge from the state, to which Wayland pleaded Not Guilty, had left the victim’s family essentially stuck in 1997, unable to move forward. Two prosecutors had brought this family in to re-live their pain, and direct that pain as a political pawn towards the Parole Board. This was the first time Wayland had been in the same room as this family since his initial trial, nearly 28 years ago.

With every comment the family made, entirely off-script, I saw a criminal justice system that had deprived them of healing, having dialogue, or receiving closure. Locking a suspect in a cage, even for decades, could not undo or rectify the harm that took place for this family, no matter who caused it. Yet every day, we are encouraged to believe the prison can do just that.

At one point, the victim's aunt turned to the packed crowd of Wayland's supporters. "What if it was your son?"

“Please direct your comments to the Parole Board.”

“I’ve just wanted him to say ‘I’m sorry this happened,’ that’s all.”

Wayland responded. “I hear your pain, I’ve always felt bad about what happened.”

An officer to the side of him whispers: “If you say one more thing, we will drag you right through that door.”

Does this system move towards life, or away from it?

***

“I want to see him in prison forever. My brother might not want that, but I sure do.” 

In pondering on what this hearing would be like, I wondered if I would feel disdain as the opposition framed Wayland as irredeemable. “Will I leave this hearing somehow believing in prisons? Will I be convinced that abolition isn’t actually viable?” With relief in my heart I felt no disdain, and neither did Wayland, his family, or his supporters.

We felt this family’s pain.

If it was “my son”, as the aunt had asked, the only thing I know for certain is that I would also be tasked with that pain—and this system doesn’t ask what any of us need to heal, just who we want to hurt.

Healing is no joyride; it's a glacial thaw in a world that craves Everything Now. And without abolition’s widespread guidance, people are running in droves toward nothing but the cheap joy of revenge. This moment calls on our species to undertake radically migratory journeys, towards healing the collective wounds that have festered for over five centuries.

As Alexis Pauline Gumbs says, “We have to heal as if our healing will heal us.”

After some final remarks, the hearing ended. Wayland was brought back out, turning to us slightly. He was legally forbidden to acknowledge us. We left the room row by row, back through security, and debriefed at the second location.

In our final prep meeting earlier that week, many of us spoke blessings to Wayland over the phone. One of us said "Wayland, remember that no matter who they say you are, we know who you are." 

As I think about the presence and energy we brought to that hearing room, my lungs fill with air. It’s as if my blood cells stretch wide, taking in all of the extra oxygen; I feel alive as a member of a communal network, determined to help get as many people out of these cages as possible. It’s the same rush I feel when I see a native bee sleeping in flowers that I guerrilla gardened, or a queen thrashing down the sidewalk in the village, blurting out a messy “HEY THERE BELOVED!”

Life recognizes life.

The milkweed still stands in the empty tree bed, uninvited. A monarch, just off the wind from somewhere, may find it.

Somewhere, an incarcerated person gets their day in court after nearly three decades, yearning for the cocoon of reentry. Somewhere, a patch of land waits for seeds of a whole other caliber—seeds we haven’t yet dared to plant with such honesty.

Whether it’s land defenders sabotaging a pipeline, trans people who insist on living in public, or the mere existence of a historically Black neighborhood, police and prisons remain an omnipresent threat to anyone who insists on being alive. Yet as billionaires set the planet ablaze, a waterfall of trans people are murdered every year, and community resources are slashed to fund more and more policing, the police are also, conveniently, nowhere to be found.

Abolition allows us to see oppression from all sides. It illuminates the paths towards a safer future that are truly viable. It renders us able to live and leap as honestly as the future demands, and steer clear from the slew of reformist pursuits that have historically failed us. In a world addicted to death-making and revenge, abolition is the most genuine source of joy that I know.

***

On the train back home from Boston, I noted the different plant species rushing by on the side of the tracks. Native ground cover, huge swaths of land overtaken by invasive phragmites. Hundreds of unmanaged, flimsy White Birch trees crowding out disturbed forest ecosystems. I saw each as a family, affected by our refusal to dream. Whispering, waiting for what our hearts are telling us to do, right now.

Today’s Minor 9th

Facility was inspired by the national letter writing campaign I organized for Wayland in 2023. This minor 9th occurs on the fourth beat of Measure 87: the Bb3 in the right hand, and the A2 in the left hand.

You can read the program note, hear me speak about the work, and listen to the piece here. This system of music begins at 4:30 in the recording.

Small Interventions

-Schuyler Bailar (@pinkmantaray) made a cheat-sheet of trans terminology a couple years ago, and I have passed it along to choirs, town councils, and friends who I know could use it. Save it, and plant this seed with me.

-Dr. Sebastian Barr posted this handy guide for cisgender folks to obtain testosterone and estrogen for trans people who use them. One of my roommates formatted it as a foldable Zine. It’s great for the local little library—spread information, not panic!

-As we wait for the Parole Board’s decision on Wayland, simply reply to this email if you’d like to be added to his listserv of supporters. He also has a GoFundMe for essentials, as he continues to survive prison.

-Learning Abolition:
Here’s my reading list, and a link to One Million Experiments by Critical Resistance. This work is already being carried out everywhere by people who are tired. All we have to do is show up humbly, as we are, open to being changed. If the organizations we encounter are willing to work with that, then we’ve found the right ones.

Lighting a Candle 🕯️ 

These times are like a toddler testing their boundaries.

They talk a big game, saying that they’ll break all the rules, trying to figure out what will wring us all dry.

I have drawn immense strength from a prayer, “Earth Teach Me Quiet,” that comes from the oldest residents of present-day Utah and Colorado, the Ute People. It was set to music by Ēriks Ešenvalds in 2013. Each line contains a universe.

“Earth, teach me quiet—as the grasses are still with light.
Earth, teach me suffering—as old stones suffer with memory.
Earth, teach me humility—as blossoms are humble with beginning.
Earth, teach me caring—as mothers nurture their young.
Earth, teach me courage—as the tree that stands alone.
Earth, teach me limitation—as the ant that crawls on the ground.
Earth, teach me freedom—as the eagle that soars in the sky.
Earth, teach me acceptance—as the leaves that die each fall.
Earth, teach me renewal—as the seed that rises in the spring.
Earth, teach me to forget myself—as the melting snow forgets its life.
Earth, teach me kindness—as dry fields weep with rain.”

***
🕯️ George Floyd, murdered by the state five years ago on May 25th, 2020. You set abolition in motion for millions of people, myself included. You never should have had to.