Black Indigenous Chefs Are Reclaiming Identity Through Food — One Dish at a Time by Michael Harriot
Black Native food workers are passing down culinary traditions, restoring lost connections and feeding body and soul. Read on Substack
Crystal Wahpepah (Photo courtesy of Crystal Wahpepah)
The Indigenous food movement has seen a renaissance in North America, with restaurant openings, cookbook releases and community initiatives that announce the presence, expertise and heritage of Indigenous food workers. Amidst this moment, Black Native food workers have seen both the beauty and the harshness of living at the intersection of Blackness and Indigeneity, as the dominant settler colonial culture of the United States often tries to erase or flatten all parts of their identities.
But those attempts at erasure have also provided moments of reflection and insight, and a realization that the mission of Black Indigenous food workers is profoundly spiritual and political healing work. For Stephan Oak, a Black and Lakota forager and woodworker who lives in Detroit, the threads of connection that Black Indigenous people hold in their family stories that are “steeped in violence, but also steeped in love and resistance” are also guides that allow them to connect in the past, present, and future — a shared cosmology.
Crystal Wahpepah, who is Black and Kickapoo and the executive chef and owner of Wahpepah’s Kitchen in Oakland, Calif., says that often, through representation and education, Black Native people in the food industry come to a deeper peace about their identity and heritage. At Wahpepah’s Kitchen, over cornbread dishes from the Ute and Kickapoo people, wild rice from the Great Lakes tribes and bison from the Great Plains, people often find themselves.
“I meet so many people who are Black and Native but never felt connected to their Indigenous side, and when they meet me, they start talking about it, about culture, about those things that have been lost,” she says. Wahpepah is also opening a new restaurant, A Feather and a Fork, which is also the title of her upcoming cookbook.
That loss is something felt in both Black and Indigenous communities and can often feel pronounced because of family separation through residential schools, land expulsions, the trans-Atlantic slave trade and the domestic slave trade that broke up Black families across the country. “Because of colonial violence, there’s a fractured relationship to home or your connection to your ancestors,” says Oak. “The intent of the colonizer is to stop you from looking … to accept the identity of the conditions they’ve placed on you.”
Food is one of the ways Oak and others are reclaiming autonomy over their identities, especially as governments use food as a weapon by depriving communities of affordable, culturally relevant food. Oak points out that even amidst food deserts on reservations and urban Black communities, people find ways to be more self-sufficient and connect back to the land, which helps them reconnect with the essence of who they are. (snip-MORE; lots more but not too long)
Crystal Wahpepah’s wild rice salad with strawberries and pecans (Courtesy of Crystal Wahpepah)
July 30, 1492 The same month Christopher Columbus set sail from Spain for his “expedition of discovery to the Indies” [actually the Western Hemisphere], was the deadline for all “Jews and Jewesses of our kingdoms to depart and never to return . . .” lest they be executed. Under the influence of Fr. Tomas de Torquemada, the leader of the Spanish Inquisition, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella had ordered the expulsion of the entire Jewish community of 200,000 from Spain within four months. Spain’s Muslims, or Moors, were forced out as well within ten years. The edict of expulsion from Spain signed by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella All were forced to sell off their houses, businesses and possessions, were pressured to convert to Christianity, and to find a new country to live in. Those who left were known as Sephardim (Hebrew for Spain), settling in North Africa, Italy, and elsewhere in Europe and the Arab world. Most went to Portugal, were allowed to stay just six months, and then were enslaved under orders of King John. Those who made it to Turkey were welcomed by Sultan Bajazet who asked,“How can you call Ferdinand of Aragon a wise king, the same Ferdinand who impoverished his own land and enriched ours?”
July 30, 1996 Four Ploughshares activists in Liverpool, England, were acquitted of all charges (illegal entry and criminal damage) on the basis of their having prevented a greater crime, after having extensively damaged an F-16 Hawk fighter jet to be sold to the Indonesian government for use in its genocidal occupation of East Timor. Seeds of Hope-East Timor Ploughshares: the action and the aftermath
Not necessarily in order of the day. For instance, just now, which is 8:30 PM Monday night, I am beginning to feel like the worst doggy mom in the world again. Ollie, dear little broken guy that he is, practically perfect in every way but for the fear he gained from his early abuse, has to be tranquilized before visiting the vet. Also muzzled right before the vet comes in the exam room, but. I Have To Slip My Little Doggy Mickeys! He gets one at night, one with breakfast on appointment day, and one an hour before the appointment, along with a couple of Solliquin, which are supplements with calming homeopathic calming substances. He loves those. Not so much the tranqs because he has no idea what’s happening to him or why. Tonight, though, he’s dealing with it better than a couple of weeks ago, which was his first time. He has to go in tomorrow for a follow-up heartworm test because we switched him from one flea protection to another that also protects from various other bugs that can bite him and cause him illness. At least he’s getting to where he doesn’t mind riding in the car as much as he used to! Of course, he’ll be tranquilized, so there’s that. There’s a kinda funny King Clarence YouTube about getting slipped mickeys; they do it like one of those TV lawyer ads. Pretty comical. Have not shown that to Ollie.
Moving on; a thing I like to do is buy the raw organic nuts and cashews off the ugly produce shelf; these are excellent products that are fine, but cheap because they need to be used quickly. Frequently, I’ll split a bag with the birds and squirrels; I’ll chop and freeze some for our use, and chop the rest to scatter outside. Earlier today, I decided to chop some cashews to take outside for birds and squirrels. The chopper is one of those “armstrong” choppers (photo below); you put your stuff in the cup, put the chopper over it, and start pumping the handle, which is on a spring. I remember a spokesperson ad for the “Slap Chop”, if anyone else does; my chopper is like that, but it’s a Zyliss. Not advertising. My chopper is 20 years old, the blades are beginning to dull, but I keep thinking that as long as I do things by hand instead of electricity, things in the world will be better. Well, today I get the chopper down, and the cup for the stuff, which is also the storage base of the chopper, has the ooky sticky feel that old plastics get when the PVCs or PFCs or whatever start leaching out. sigh. It wasn’t on the inside of the cup; only the outside, so I trashed the cup, and used a solid bowl to chop after I washed the chopper to make sure. Don’t want to mess up the birds’s systems with plastic chemicals!
When things like this happen, the words “planned obsolescence” always come into my mind. These days many, including myself, might say “enshittification,” though I think it’s reasonable that a 20 year old chopper cup might be worn out enough to leach. But still. Anyway, the words “planned obsolescence” always bring Jimmy Carter to mind. Why, you might ask?
Or maybe you didn’t, but here’s why. I was not of voting age when he was elected. His speaking accent annoyed me a great deal. I liked his ideas, definitely didn’t want Ford, was relieved when Carter won and wished him well, but that accent made my teeth hurt. So, of course, when the time for his initial SOTU arrived, what did my Speech & Forensics instructor instruct us, but to listen to that SOTU, and judge it using the very guidelines judges would use on us later in tournaments. We were to pay close attention to everything, but our work was to judge the speech without factual or political consideration, only his delivery skill.
Now, my recollection is he did fine; aside from his accent, which was not a judgeable item, he spoke of “planned obsolescence” a great deal. Enough that it became a bit redundant as to the speech itself, though not to his actual points. Of course, I had to mark that. However, that term stayed with me, and I learned from that, about designing and manufacturing, sales, consumerism, etc., etc. And that term comes to me when something fails after some use, and I think of Jimmy Carter, which reminds me to be all around nicer.
Speaking of this: do you think Jimmy Carter would use the term “enshittification” these days (not in an SOTU, of course!)? Let me know in the comments. I hope you enjoyed my Monday mind’s wanderings!
This is not a work of fiction. It’s from my clinical notes, drawn from the quiet corners of a family learning how to listen, how to see, and how to love. What follows is Maya’s story—and ours too. It began with misunderstanding and grew into music. It was shaped by silence, and strengthened by learning how to hear what was never said out loud.
—
🧠 Main Characters
• Maya (17) – A brilliant, autistic teen who expresses herself through music but struggles with verbal communication and sensory overload. Her inner world is rich, but rarely understood.
• Daniel (45) – Her father, a pragmatic man who misinterpreted Maya’s behavior as defiance. He’s emotionally shut down but carries deep guilt.
• Leah (43) – Her mother, who tried to advocate for Maya but became isolated in the process. She’s exhausted, but still hopeful.
• Eli (15) – Maya’s younger brother, who felt invisible growing up. He’s witty, sarcastic, and secretly protective of Maya.
—
I. The Fracture
The house had grown quiet over the years—not the peaceful kind, but the kind that echoed with things unsaid. Leah sat at the kitchen table, her fingers wrapped around a chipped mug, staring at the steam like it held answers. Upstairs, Maya rocked gently in her chair, headphones on, fingers twitching over her keyboard. Her music was her voice now.
Eli moved through the house like a ghost. He didn’t slam doors or raise his voice. He just existed in the spaces between tension. And Daniel—he hadn’t been home in months. He lived alone now, in a small apartment filled with regrets and unopened letters.
Maya had always been different. Brilliant, but misunderstood. Her silence wasn’t emptiness—it was survival. Her meltdowns weren’t tantrums—they were overload. But Daniel never saw that. He saw defiance. He saw rebellion. And slowly, the family unraveled.
—
II. The Breaking Point
It happened at school. Maya, overwhelmed by noise and light and chaos, collapsed in the hallway. Hands over her ears, rocking, humming. Someone filmed it. Of course they did.
Eli found the video first. He didn’t speak. Just slid his phone across the table to Leah and walked out.
That night, Leah called Daniel.
“She was screaming,” she said. “And no one heard her.”
Daniel arrived the next morning. He stood in the doorway like a stranger. Eli didn’t look up. Maya didn’t come down. Leah didn’t cry. Not anymore.
“She doesn’t talk much,” Leah said. “But she plays.”
Daniel didn’t understand. Not yet.
—
III. The Song
Eli knocked on Maya’s door. “Can I record you?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, but she didn’t say no.
He sat on the floor, phone in hand, and watched as Maya’s fingers danced across the keys. The melody was aching, defiant, beautiful. It was everything she couldn’t say.
He uploaded it that night. The Quiet Between Us.
The video spread. Comments poured in. People who felt seen. People who understood.
Daniel watched it on repeat, tears streaking his face.
“I didn’t know she could feel like that,” he said.
“She always did,” Leah replied. “You just didn’t know how to listen.”
—
IV. The Shift
Daniel knocked on Maya’s door. She didn’t look up, but she didn’t turn away.
“I heard your song,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you sooner.”
Maya reached for her keyboard. Played a single note. Then another.
Daniel sat beside her, silent. Listening.
Leah watched from the hallway, hand over her heart.
Eli uploaded another video: The Quiet Between Us – Live.
They began to change. Slowly. Imperfectly.
Daniel stopped trying to fix. He started trying to understand.
Leah stopped carrying everything alone. She let herself be held.
Eli stopped disappearing. He became the bridge.
And Maya? She kept playing.
—
V. The Reconnection
They sat together in the living room. Maya played. Eli recorded. Leah smiled. Daniel closed his eyes and listened.
No one spoke. But everything was said.
They weren’t perfect. But they were real.
And in the quiet between them, they found something louder than words.
They found each other.
🎵 Epilogue: The Song That Speaks (Follows graphic)
—
🎵 Epilogue: The Song That Speaks
Maya’s music became a language for others.
Eli started a podcast for neurodivergent families.
Daniel and Leah spoke at workshops. Not as experts—but as learners.
Their story wasn’t about fixing.
It was about listening.
About loving each other—not in spite of difference,
but with it.
Because love isn’t always loud.
Sometimes, it’s quiet.
And sometimes, the quiet is where love begins.
This is more than a story. It’s a lived truth. Signed not with ink—but with the quiet strength of love, survival, and rediscovery.
July 24, 1974 The United States Supreme Court (U.S. v. Nixon) unanimously ordered President Richard Nixon to surrender tape recordings of White House conversations regarding the Watergate affair. Speaking for the Supreme Court in front of a packed and hushed courtroom, Chief Justice Warren E. Burger (a Nixon appointee) rejected President Nixon’s claims of executive privilege (virtually total confidentiality for the White House) because the need for fair administration of criminal justice must prevail. The White House feared review of the recordings by a U.S. district judge would reveal, among other crimes, impeachable offenses. Listen to the tapes online (It’s a YouTube playlist!)
July 24, 1983 Canadians and Americans spanned the international border at Thousand Islands Bridge, linking New York and Ontario, to protest nuclear weapons and border harassment of peace activists. Thousand Islands Bridge
July 24, 1983 Women tagged a U.S. warplane with anti-nuclear graffiti at Greenham Common, an air base in England. The Greenham Common Women’s Peace Camp had been set up just outside the perimeter of the base in 1981 to get U.S. Cruise missiles, some of which were deployed at the base, out of their country. Other tactics included disrupting construction work at the base, blockading the entrance, and cutting down parts of the fence. Read more about The Greenham Common Women’s Peace Camp
Very informative and heart felt. Aron Ra is well known for his thought approach to atheism and science, delivering it in a way that a normal person can understand. The things he says at the end and the pictures he shows makes clear that as he says this is not about protecting anyone but about enforcing bigotry. Hugs
Trailblazing Illinois Democrat reflects on political career and says party is ‘in a daze’ about how to combat Trump
Carol Moseley Braun speaks after Rahm Emanuel wins Chicago’s mayoral race in February 2011. Photograph: Nam Y Huh/AP
“Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton … ”
Carol Moseley Braun was riding a lift in the US Capitol building when she heard Dixie, the unofficial anthem of the slave-owning Confederacy during the civil war. “The sound was not very loud, yet it pierced my ears with the intensity of a dog whistle,” Moseley Braun writes in her new memoir, Trailblazer. “Indeed, that is what it was in a sense.”
The first African American woman in the Senate soon realised that “Dixie” was being sung by Jesse Helms, a Republican senator from North Carolina. He looked over his spectacles at Moseley Braun and grinned. Then he told a fellow senator in the lift: “I’m going to make her cry. I’m going to sing Dixie until she cries.”
But clearly, Moseley Braun notes, the senator had never tangled with a Black woman raised on the south side of Chicago. She told him calmly: “Senator Helms, your singing would make me cry even if you sang Rock of Ages.”
Moseley Braun was the sole African American in the Senate during her tenure between 1993 and 1999, taking on legislative initiatives that included advocating for farmers, civil rights and domestic violence survivors, and went on to run for president and serve as US ambassador to New Zealand.
In a wide-ranging interview with the Guardian from her home in Chicago, she recalls her history-making spell in office, argues that sexism is tougher to crack than racism and warns that the Democratic party is “walking around in a daze” as it struggles to combat Donald Trump.
As for that incident with Helms, she looks back now and says: “I had been accustomed to what we now call microaggressions, so I just thought he was being a jerk.”
Moseley Braun was born in the late 1940s in the post-war baby boom. Her birth certificate listed her as “white” due to her mother’s light complexion and the hospital’s racial segregation, a detail she later officially corrected. She survived domestic abuse from her father, who could be “a loving advocate one minute, and an absolute monster the next”, and has been guided by her religious faith.
In 1966, at the age of 19, she joined a civil rights protest led by Martin Luther King. She recalls by phone: “He was a powerful personality. You felt drawn into him because of who he was. I had no idea he was being made into a modern saint but I was happy to be there and be supportive.
“When it got violent, they put the women and children close to Dr King in concentric circles and so I was close enough to touch him. I had no idea at the time it was going to be an extraordinary point in my life but it really was.”
Moseley Braun was the first in her family to graduate from college and one of few women and Black students in her law school class, where she met her future husband. In the 1970s she won a longshot election to the Illinois general assembly and became the first African American woman to serve as its assistant majority leader.
But when she planned a historic run for the Senate, Moseley Braun met widespread scepticism. “Have you lost all your mind? Why are you doing this? But it made sense to me at the time and I followed my guiding light. You do things that seem like the right thing to do and, if it make sense to you, you go for it.”
Moseley Braun’s campaign team included a young political consultant called David Axelrod, who would go on to be a chief strategist and senior adviser to Obama. She came from behind to win the Democratic primary, rattling the party establishment, then beat Republican Richard Williamson in the general election.
She was the first Black woman elected to the Senate and only the fourth Black senator in history. When Moseley Braun arrived for her first day at work in January 1993, there was a brutal reminder of how far the US still had to travel: a uniformed guard outside the US Capitol told her, “Ma’am, you can’t go any further,” and gestured towards a side-entrance for visitors.
At the time she did not feel that her trailblazing status conferred a special responsibility, however. “I wish I had. I didn’t. I was going to work. I was going to do what I do and then show up to vote on things and be part of the legislative process. I had been a legislator for a decade before in the state legislature so I didn’t at the time see it as being all that different from what I’d been doing before. I was looking forward to it and it turned out to be all that I expected and more.”
Carol Moseley-Braun watches the delayed launch of the space shuttle Discovery in Chicago in October 1998. Photograph: Michael S Green/AP
But it was not to last. Moseley Braun served only one term before being defeated by Peter Fitzgerald, a young Republican who was heir to a family banking fortune and an arch conservative on issues such as abortion rights. But that did not deter her from running in the Democratic primary election for president in 2004.
“It was terrible,” she recalls. “I couldn’t raise the money to begin with and so I was staying on people’s couches and in airports. It was a hard campaign and the fact it was so physically demanding was a function of the fact that I didn’t have the campaign organisation or the money to do a proper campaign for president.
“I was being derided by any commentator who was like, ‘Look, this girl has lost her mind,’ and so they kind of rolled me off and that made it hard to raise money, hard to get the acceptance in the political class. But I got past that. My ego was not so fragile that that it hurt my feelings to make me stop. I kept plugging away.”
Eventually Moseley Braun dropped out and endorsed Howard Dean four days before the opening contest, the Iowa caucuses. Again, she had been the only Black woman in the field, challenging long-held assumptions of what a commander-in-chief might look like.
“That had been part and parcel of my entire political career. People saying: ‘What are you doing here? Why are you here? Don’t run, you can’t possibly win because you’re not part of the show and the ways won’t open for you because you’re Black and because you’re a woman.’ I ran into that every step of the way in my political career.”
Since then, four Black women have followed in her footsteps to the Senate: Kamala Harris and Laphonza Butler of California, Angela Alsobrooks of Maryland and Lisa Blunt Rochester of Delaware.
Moseley Braun says: “I was happy of that because I was determined not to be the last of the Black women in the Senate. The first but not the last. That was a good thing, and so far the progress has been moving forward. But then we got Donald Trump and that trumped everything.”
Harris left the Senate to become the first woman of colour to serve as vice-president, then stepped in as Democrats’ presidential nominee after Joe Biden abandoned his bid for re-election.
Moseley Braun comments: “I thought she did as good a job as she could have. I supported her as much as I knew how to do and I’m sorry she got treated so badly and she lost like she did. You had a lot of sub rosa discussions of race and gender that she should have been prepared for but she wasn’t.”
Trump exploited the “manosphere” of podcasters and influencers and won 55% of men in 2024, up from 50% of men in 2020, according to Pew Research. Moseley Braun believes that, while the country has made strides on race, including the election of Obama as its first Black president in 2008, it still lags on gender.
“I got into trouble for saying this but it’s true: sexism is a harder thing to change than racism. I had travelled fairly extensively and most of the world is accustomed to brown people being in positions of power. But not here in the United States. We haven’t gotten there yet and so that’s something we’ve got to keep working on.”
Does she expect to see a female president in her lifetime? “I certainly hope so. I told my little grandniece that she could be president if she wanted to. She looked at me like I lost my mind. ‘But Auntie Carol, all the presidents are boys.’”
Still, Trump has not been slow to weaponise race over the past decade, launching his foray into politics with a mix of false conspiracy theories about Obama’s birthplace and promises to build a border wall and drive out criminal illegal immigrants.
Moseley Braun recalls: “It was racial, cultural, ethnic, et cetera, backlash. He made a big deal out of the immigration issue, which was racism itself and people are still being mistreated on that score.
“They’ve been arresting people for no good reason, just because they look Hispanic. The sad thing about it is that they get to pick and choose who they want to mess with and then they do. It’s too destructive of people’s lives in very negative ways.”
Yet her fellow Democrats have still not found an effective way to counter Trump, she argues. “The Democratic party doesn’t know what to do. It’s walking around in a daze. The sad thing about it is that we do need a more focused and more specific response to lawlessness.”
Five years after the police murder of George Floyd and death of Congressman John Lewis, there are fears that many of the gains of the civil rights movement are being reversed.
Over the past six months Trump has issued executive orders that aim to restrict or eliminate diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) initiatives. He baselessly blamed DEI for undermining air safety after an army helicopter pilot was involved in a deadly midair collision with a commercial airliner. Meanwhile, Washington DC dismantled Black Lives Matter Plaza in response to pressure from Republicans in Congress.
None of it surprises Moseley Braun. “It should have been expected. He basically ran on a platform of: ‘I’m going to be take it back to the 1800s. Enough of this pandering and coddling of Black people.’”
But she has seen enough to take the long view of history. “This is normal. The pendulum swings both ways. We have to put up with that fact and recognise that this is the normal reaction to the progress we’ve made. There’s bound to be some backsliding.
More than 30 years have passed since Moseley Braun, wearing a peach business suit and clutching her Bible, was sworn into the Senate by the vice-president, Dan Quayle. Despite what can seem like baby steps forward and giant leaps back, she has faith that Americans will resist authoritarianism.
“I’m very optimistic, because people value democracy,” he says. “If they get back to the values undergirding our democracy, we’ll be fine. I hope that people don’t lose heart and don’t get so discouraged with what this guy’s doing.
“If they haven’t gotten there already, the people in the heartland will soon recognise this is a blatant power grab that’s all about him and making a fortune for himself and his family and has nothing to do with the common good. That’s what public life is supposed to be about. It’s public service.”
If asked to pick one Lady Gaga song to encapsulate who she is and what she stands for, you’d be hard pressed to come up with a better choice than “Born This Way.” Released in 2011, the song is a vibrant, full-body dance anthem that calls on listeners to celebrate who they are. “God makes no mistakes,” she sings in the refrain. “I’m on the right track, baby / I was born this way.” The song was immediately embraced upon release, particularly by the LGBTQ+ community.
As it turns out, this wasn’t the first time a song by that name made that kind of impact. In 1977, Motown Records released the disco anthem “I Was Born This Way,” an upbeat tune featuring a largely unknown Black gospel singer who responds to critics with a refrain that was a head-turner for its time: “I’m happy. I’m carefree. And I’m gay. I was born this way.”
In 2021, Gaga directed people’s attention to that song, saying it was the inspiration for her own hit. And in the new documentary I Was Born This Way, which premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival in June, directors Daniel Junge and Sam Pollard shine a light on its creation and its singer, Carl Bean, an extraordinary individual who spent his life serving his LGBTQ+ community.
Junge and Pollard’s film starts with the story of Bean’s childhood in Baltimore. And many of the main moments are unforgiving: His mother abandons him at birth because she doesn’t feel ready to have a child; his uncle sexually assaults him for years; Bean attempts to kill himself as a teenager after his previously loving adoptive father hits him for being gay.
Bean, who died in 2021 at age 77, faced hardships in his life, many of which the film explores. But none of the horrors of Bean’s life land with the kind of bleakness one might expect. It’s not that the documentarians pull their punches, either. It’s Bean — there’s a persistent lightness to his spirit, the quiet joyfulness of someone who by some miracle is able to see a broader perspective. Those qualities so suffuse the story of his life that no darkness can overcome them.
And that faith sustained him when he moved first to New York City, where he would sing with Harlem’s Christian Tabernacle Choir, and then when he moved to Los Angeles and started writing his own songs. In New York, he worked at Macy’s and became lifelong friends with Cissy Houston, Estelle Brown, and Dionne Warwick; in Los Angeles, he signed a record deal but then discovered they only saw him as a gospel singer. And then, out of nowhere, Motown Records reached out.
The song “I Was Born This Way” has its own interesting history, which Junge and Pollard track. It was originally written years earlier by Bunny Jones, a New York City beautician who was friends with Stevie Wonder and later became a promoter. She wrote the song for one of her acts, a gay performer. But it wasn’t until two years later, when Motown reworked the song for disco and gave it to Bean to sing (with his friend Estelle Brown on backup), that it took off.
“There was such a feeling of freedom and relief and release when you danced to that song,” Minority AIDS Project program director Mike Jones says in the documentary. “All of the things we were trying to say throughout our lives to many of our friends and family that we could not say were in that song.”
While the collapse of disco would see the song fade from people’s memories, the film reveals the ways it continued to quietly live on. Musician and record producer Questlove talks about how often it has been sampled in other work over the decades. Among other places, you can hear it on Debbie Gibson’s “One Step Ahead,” Deee-Lite’s “Good Beat (Turn Up the Radio Mix),” and Rick Wade’s “Free.” The song, he says, “is the music equivalent of the Giving Tree.”
Meanwhile, Bean faced an unexpected fork in the road. Motown offered him the chance to do another big song. But “I Was Born This Way” had changed his perspective on the meaning and purpose of his life. “I had found my niche,” he said. “I knew my gig was to be a change agent in our society.”
And the film recounts how that choice led him down a path he could not have expected. Seeing how little was being offered to people of color when the AIDS pandemic erupted in the early ’80s, Bean started making visits on his own, traveling from person to person he learned about on Los Angeles city buses. Eventually he founded the Minority AIDS Foundation, which provided a hotline for information and to arrange visits.
When he learned from social workers that he would gain greater access to those who were sick if he became clergy, he also got ordained. Unexpectedly, some of those he visited asked for an Easter service. He provided it, not realizing it would be such a positive experience that they would aske him to lead to more services. Eventually, he started his own church, Unity Fellowship, an African American Christian community specifically for LGBTQ+ people.
Bean’s decades of generosity would eventually cost him. In his later years, he found himself unable to move his lower body. “All of those years of racism, of homophobia, all of that death and dying, it had an effect on my mind, my spirit, my being,” he said. “My body shut down.” The revelation is stunning — there’s been no sign over the course of the film that he has been suffering or overwhelmed with grief.
It’s a telling reminder of the sacrifices and generosity of so many queer people like Bean, whose stories are not well known. It’s also a testament to their irrepressible joy: At the end of the film, asked whether he has any last words for the camera, Bean offers a simple thought that pours directly out of the work of his life, including his famous song. “Find the place in you that allows you to love yourself and others,” he says. “It begins with love and ends with love.”
Then, as the film crew starts to pack up, he starts laughing warmly. There’s no reason. He just has so much to give.
Scottie's Playtime 