all you gotta do is ask
I’m sitting on a bench in a small black box theatre, staring up at a tall black body in a white frock rocking a large red ring and a silver cuff bracelet I wish were part of my collection. James Jackson Jr. (the artist on stage who, four numbers into an hour-long set has already given me something to talk about) is doing a cover of a Lake Street Dive song I’ve never heard before. With his tenacious tenor, James croons So just ask / Baby just ask / I’ll do anything for you / All you gotta do is ask, and I feel a tear slide down my cheek. I know this song is about love in a romantic context, something I have a hard time with on a good day. But in this moment, the words are my higher power’s and James, the messenger, is delivering good news.
The now feels like proof-of-concept as I’m sitting with twenty or so black, queer, and sober people who have gathered in fellowship. We’re in Provincetown for The Blackyard Collective’s 4th annual retreat and I haven’t felt as comfortable in my skin since Beyonce dropped Cozy. The event, an offspring of the Ike and Tina Crystal Meth Anonymous (CMA) meeting I’ve attended online on-and-off again since getting sober, had already been a celebration of black, queer joy. From building a playlist with the folks in the van with everything from Aretha to Kim English, to reviewing the rules of Spades (Joker, Joker, Deuce Ace?... no Deuce Deuce… WAIT… where do they do THAT at?), this weekend had been filled with something I’d known I was missing but had no clue how to find. Effortless camaraderie! I had been asking for that since I first heard there were spaces where people choosing not to use drugs or alcohol to cope with life on life’s term gathered, and here it was. James was there to let me know.
Twice before this I’d made plans to join the group but, being new in recovery, the work of setting my life up so I could attend kept getting in my way. Whether the roadblock was real or imagined, it was there, and I let it dissuade me from booking a flight. Over the course of my first two years in recovery I moved into sober living, changed jobs a few times, went from wailing to wallowing and back again, began to experience the full gamut of emotions without my “go to” coping mechanisms to hand, and figured out what it means to take this one day, one step, and sometimes even one breath at a time. I didn’t even think to ask about payment options or travel plans, just assuming the trip was beyond my reach. Luckily, Michael C. just kept reaching out. So did I, and because I did, here I sit with three years sober, a ginger beer in hand, and a tear on my cheek.
I’m an ugly crier, but these weren’t ugly tears and I’m glad to be shedding them. Having a moment like this with my higher power is not something I know how to do. Before recovery, the only forces I knew were working in my life were music, Murphy’s law, and racism. I never felt like my solution could come from anywhere outside myself. Today, however, that solution has come from a Zoom CMA meeting, an email, a plane ticket, the Post Office Cabaret’s management, and James Jackson’s talent! I look over and the folks with me seem to be having their own conversations with source. The night is still young, and our post-performance plans are not set. Some folks are planning on game night, and someone has brought a version of Taboo developed “for the culture”. Still others are ready to rip and run through the cobbled streets, reclaiming their time and their nightlife! I’m not mad, nor am I sure which way I’ll go when the house lights come back up. But, while fully present for the show I have an inkling. I thank James, The Blackyard Collective, and The John Randall House for making all this possible as I take another sip with my right, and snap with my left. I’ll ask HP what to do next when the time comes!
