a dream returned: you shall bear fruit

"as you bear fruit in every good work and as you grow in the knowledge of God."

*TW: This piece includes topics around suicide, stalking, and abuse. 

I was scrolling on Substack, dragging my feet to finish this piece, when I came across a quote from

Corey Sweet

that said, “Fruit is not the focus. It’s the byproduct of a healthy system.” I’m thankful I stalled long enough to find that, because that quote perfectly captures my relationship to my most recent project, Bear Fruit.

This project means so much to me. It’s incredibly close to my heart, not just because it’s the first creative project I’ve worked on in a very long time, but because it explores a topic I care deeply about. It’s given me the chance to plant a seed alongside some of the most incredible men I know. A seed meant to challenge and dismantle the unhealthy systems that keep Black and Brown communities from truly growing.

At first, it felt like this project happened by accident, but after taking time to reflect, I realize it was born out of countless conversations and personal experiences that led me here. I never imagined myself directing, writing a treatment, or leading an impact campaign, but like many things that are divinely guided, this had been in motion long before I realized it. I was being led down a path of creation that God was already unfolding, and he would use me and the hands that have touched—and continue to touch—in this project as vessels.

What seemed to be scattered threads slowly started to weave themselves into something intentional.

Featured artist, Rugby LoSport, and Director of Photography, J R Alexander on the set of Bear Fruit 5/19/2024

I.  All About Love by bell hooks

I was moved by the introduction to bell hooks and found myself in a space where I was thinking deeply about love—what it means, how we talk about it, and how black and brown people engage with it. I was challenged to think deeper about my relationship to it and to identify what I need from it as a Black woman. That’s what sparked my desire to discuss love more regularly and intentionally.

As I reflected, one of the most pressing questions became: What do I, as a Black woman, need from Black men? And even more broadly, what do we, as Black women, need in general?And the answer that kept echoing back to me was: We need rest.

The truth of the matter is that we’re dying. Black and brown women (specifically Latinas)  are dying from stress, from neglect, and being under-cared for. I thought about the high mortality rates in childbirth, how often our mental health goes undetected or untreated, how conditions like endometriosis and PCOS, rooted in hormonal imbalances, are dismissed or overlooked, how 84% of trans women who have been murdered are black and brown and how as Black & Brown women, we are the world’s caretakers, yet no one seems to be caring for us.

When we’re in relationships with Black and Brown men—not always, but often—there’s a dynamic where our needs aren’t seen. Beyond financial provision, there’s a lack of emotional presence and partnership. That’s not to generalize, but it’s a reality I’ve experienced and witnessed repeatedly. And it made me reflect on how true collaboration requires mental and emotional maturity—not just doing things, but being present.

One evening, I got into a debate with a black man about something I felt didn’t concern him or any other man, Sexxy Redd & what she does with her coochie. What began as a grievance on his end developed into a conversation around what we as a community truly need to focus on. I noted how some black men seem to care more about what black women do, regarding our expression through how we present ourselves, our sexuality, etc., and make it a point to criticize us, rather than addressing our needs as a form of care, their healing, or creating systemic change. 

He followed with “What do you mean? Women don’t care about our mental health. Y’all tell us to shut the fuck up.” Defensive, I quickly shot back and noted how black & brown women not only care, but also deal with the brunt of the lack of healing and growth, along with black and brown children. I also followed with “Do you care about these issues yourself? What are you doing about the suicide rates of black men in our community?”¹ While he didn’t have an answer, I took this conversation back and posed those questions to myself. If I also truly cared about the mental health and healing of black and brown men, what exactly was I doing to combat the death of black and brown men at the hands of suicide?

Being a safe space for Black and Brown men is something I don’t take lightly—it’s an honor I hold close. Since I was young, I’ve had countless meaningful relationships with men and learned so much from them. Some of the most important relationships in my life have been with my male friends—brothers, homies, mentors, and family members.

I’ve often been the one girl in a group of guys—the tomboy. The listener offering advice. The hearer of wild stories, and the helper who can talk through difficult moments. Because of that, I’ve witnessed the layers: the complications of dating, the nuances of being in community, and the strength of chosen family. These experiences have shifted my tomboy persona into a more maternal one, understanding that, unintentionally, my presence offers a balm. 

For this reason, my belief in the beauty, power, and potential of Black and Brown men has only deepened. I carry moments and secrets they’ve trusted me with—glimpses into their struggles, joys, and quiet complexities. Those glimpses have taught me how delicate some of these things are.

However, in recognizing my deep connection to Black and Brown men, I’m also mindful of my struggles in building romantic relationships, partnerships, or deeper emotional connections with them. Because of my unique position—being so closely connected to men in non-romantic ways—I’ve learned to anticipate how things can unfold.

I’ve witnessed and experienced the complications that arise. Questions around safety, autonomy, power dynamics, and the challenge of receiving provision that includes presence and emotional intelligence. These aren’t easy truths, but they’re real. As I hold space for these truths—and remind myself that it’s not my job to fix anyone but myself—I struggled to pinpoint the ways I was directly combating suicidality and other systemic issues that contribute to these dynamics in my community. Am I doing enough? Should I be doing more? What does that look like? How does one even begin to combat these significant issues? In my thinking, I came up with the first solution. 

Speak up. 

While working through these complexities, I chose to voice these issues with the men in my life in hopes that we can begin to imagine and build new ways of relating together. Ways that we first recognize and then slowly work towards breaking systemic relationship dynamics that have long hindered how we love each other. That has disrupted our ability to be raw and present with one another. 

In speaking up, I’ve realized that men feel these dynamics too. They’re carrying this weight oftentimes in silence and confusion. Still, in that recognition, I also felt the familiar weight of being a Black woman—laboring once again in ways that may go unseen, unheard, or unreciprocated. Still, I know I’ve been gifted a language to speak to men for a reason. If my honesty and care can challenge even one harmful belief, helping to make things softer, safer, and more possible for the next woman, child, and community member, then the work is worth it. 

I desire a (Western) world where Black and Brown men can live in loving ways—not only with each other, but also with the female and femme figures—not just coexisting or surviving without the tools to dismantle the deeper issues within our relationships.

From romance, to the complexities of our dynamics with parents—especially mothers—to the persistent pattern of abandoning one another in pursuit of “ease” or “understanding” with other races as a means of survival rather than love—these are the patterns I long to see us confront.

When we address these issues, we gain the tools to help each other navigate the complexity, hold one another accountable, and choose connection over avoidance. 

I’m okay with helping craft the path for the horse to water, especially if it means equipping Black and Brown men to lead one another there to drink.

These imaginations laid the foundation for the vision and perspective that guided my influence in this project. 

II. Who will cry for the little boy? 

*In the spirit of speaking up, the following experience is one I’m sharing publicly for the first time. It is of no benefit to me or those impacted to remain silent, so I’m sharing with the parties’ permission for the sake of healing and transparency. 

In early 2022, a toxic & cancerous friendship I had ended. 

My collection of “good” memories became tainted by the realization that the entire relationship was rooted in a trauma bond. What was presented to me as care was control, surveillance disguised as concern, and manipulation masked as love. Ultimately, all of it was overshadowed by the truth: this person uses their power and influence to manipulate, control, and harm.

Due to their occupation in [redacted city], this person holds a public persona of being a socially aware creative who values community care and mutual aid. At the same time, behind closed doors, they engage in behavior that I recognize as coercive and emotionally abusive. What complicates things further is the disconnect between how they present—empathetic, brave, and seemingly grounded in radical values—whilst the reality is someone unstable, manipulative, and consumed by paranoia. Someone who uses their influence to control and intimidate those closest to them.

This became especially clear at the end of our friendship, when I began setting boundaries and removing access, they spiraled. They became obsessed with the idea that I would publicly share my experience of their behavior, especially with a man they were interested in. Instead of reflecting on the harm they had caused, they fixated on the possibility that I had feelings for him and that my decision to walk away was rooted in jealousy. They were more concerned with protecting their image—especially in front of him—than taking accountability for the damage they’d done and their use of manipulation in relationships. The obsession continued through stalking—something I would later learn they had a long history of using as a tool for control and intimidation, similar to Baby Raindeer. 

Another wild contrast was that this person—a female/femme-presenting individual who sincerely desires to be seen by and valued by men, and is a “mental health advocate”—is also someone I’ve witnessed using abusive and coercive tactics to control, manipulate, and harass men—specifically Black and Brown men, thus actively contributing to the destruction of their mental health.

I was unaware of her treatment of black and brown men until sometime after our friendship ended. I was grieving the loss of my sister, moving from one place to another, and found discussing the details around this on a larger scale outside of my immediate circle annoying and exhausting, so instead I chose to move forward and focus on my healing. As I healed, I kept finding myself in situations where information surrounding this person and her behavior would come to me, unprompted. These constant encounters would ultimately reveal the truth and expose the harm resulting from her hands.

One instance of this was an unexpected reconnection with someone I had known since high school and considered a good friend. He and my ex-friend were formerly “married,” and due to her allegations of abuse on his part, I ended my friendship with him without hesitation. The allegations were common knowledge, and through her sharing this with mutual friends, colleagues, and anyone who would listen, he faced public backlash and was, in many ways, “cancelled.” Due to this, we naturally didn’t speak for years. One day, I saw that he watched an Instagram story of mine, which was random because we didn’t follow each other at the time, but I took it as a chance to reach out. I messaged him and shared that I owed him an apology. That I finally understood what he’d been going through to an extent. Although initially hesitant, he made time and space to hear me out. In that conversation, I was able to apologize and share my experience, to which he felt a sense of relief and gratitude that someone had finally believed him. That opportunity was not only my opportunity to make atonement for dismissing him, but also to hear his whole experience in depth.  

Towards the end of that conversation, I better understood how they ended up together in the first place. From the beginning, intimidation and manipulation were used, and he ultimately caved. While I didn’t have a direct relation to being forced into a relationship with this person, this dynamic mirrored the experience of another friend of mine who was also a black man. 

The man in question was the one whom my former friend believed I had secret feelings for. Despite the messy ending of that friendship, he and I remained in contact, but I kept a distance and didn’t speak about the details of our falling out to avoid coming off as malicious or spiteful. In conversations where we’d catch up, he would ask what happened between us, and I would prompt him to speak to her because I wanted her to share the truth. Of course, that never happened. 

Eventually, we caught up over drinks, and I shared my entire experience from start to finish. I even had screenshots of conversations, burner pages, time stamps, and such to corroborate my claims. I could show him the depth and extent of the surveillance I was experiencing. After sharing this with him, I saw him visibly shift in demeanor, taking in all the information and processing. He looked at me with disappointment and visible hurt and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” 

I wasn’t quite sure what he meant at first, but he soon revealed that he had been experiencing the same behavior from that former friend. He shared how she would stalk him, call his girlfriend non-stop from blocked numbers, and manipulate him with empty promises—saying she’d stop if he just did xyz. He showed me emails and threats, and told stories of how she tried to sabotage his reputation by discouraging others from working with him, only to turn around and offer him paid opportunities on her projects. It became clear that this was an attempt to force him into a romantic relationship with her.

Towards the end of my friendship with her, she told me they were together, which I brought up to him, and he immediately clarified they were never in a relationship. That moment confirmed what we had both started to realize: she had a calculated plan all along. It also explained why she had avoided sharing the real reasons our friendship ended.

We kept talking, comparing stories, and processing the manipulation’s depth. The harassment went on for months, and honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still trying to find ways to make contact even now.

A screenshot from one of many interactions with a burner account used by my former friend to stalk me, her ex, and others. I found the account after noticing two back-to-back likes on a post from an unfamiliar profile. Something nudged me to look closer. In their likes, I found tweets of mine—including two that referenced them directly—as well as tweets from their ex-husband, as far back as the time of their breakup in 2020 and as recent as January 2022. This account wasn’t just used to watch me, but to surveil multiple people. They also tweeted things that raised serious concerns, which I won’t name here. The account has since been deactivated.. to my knowledge.

After reflecting on everything we shared, one thing kept echoing: the feeling of powerlessness. My friend spoke openly about his desire to defend himself—even retaliate—but didn’t feel like he could. In both his case and her ex’s, the idea of a woman harassing a man was quickly dismissed. If either of them reacted publicly, they risked being labeled “too emotional,” or worse, being seen as violent.

The pattern of engaging with men in whom she had a romantic interest became pronounced. I started remembering other scenarios where she reframed the story to make herself the victim and rallied people around her to isolate or punish the person she had targeted. And it wasn’t just men. This behavior extended to anyone who challenged her narrative or failed to meet her expectations.

I was forced to think deeply about how we deal with Black and Brown men’s mental health. The former friend is vocal about her mental health struggles, but often gets a pass. I believe part of that has to do with her being a mixed woman who is part white, which is essential to note because the world is far more willing to empathize with white people's pain than it is with the pain of Black and Brown folks, especially men. She has continued to have incidents involving manipulation—even physical abuse—and yet no one has publicly stepped up to hold her accountable. So it raises the question: are we complicit in the harm being done to Black and Brown men?

That experience forced me to reexamine so much—how we understand gender, talk about power, and what real accountability and care look like. It deepened my understanding of mental health—of the burdens people carry silently, and how often we misread where harm is coming from and who’s hurting. It has also brought into perspective that while there’s a level of empathy to have with folks who are working through mental health struggles, compassion and accountability can co-exist in the same place. 

III. Sowing Seeds. Bearing Fruit

One day, I got a phone call from one of my closest friends/little brother, Rugby LoSport, or Rugby for short. Although he’s a royal pain in my ass, he’s one of my favorite people and a talented artist. I know everyone and their mom are rappers these days, but this dude is the real deal. I’m talking about old-school 90s hip hop.² I constantly get caught in his freestyles about absolutely anything, but that skill alone is truly a rarity in today’s hip-hop world. He is also one of the funniest people I know, and I’m convinced that he and I need to start a podcast. I’m sure it’d be something like Cam’Ron & Ma$e’s podcast, It Is What It Is.

Similar to other times like before, he sent me one of his many verses on a song, but this one stopped me and made me call him back immediately after. I was moved because while I know my brother and some of the things he goes through, this was one of his rawest verses I had ever heard. It was layered and intense, and for the first time, he was pulling back the layers and allowing people to see parts of him that they don’t see, and it was inspiring, beautiful even to see a young black man being bold and vulnerable on a track. 

He answered my call, and I remember telling him two things: first, that Funeral Ant Bell, my brother, high school classmate, a recent Harvard grad with a Master’s in Creative Writing, should be featured on this track, and funny enough, he was already set to be the third verse on the song.³ That alignment was too elite. The second was that I was so moved and inspired that I felt compelled to write. I didn’t know where to start, but I knew I had to write down my vision for this song in my head. 

I started with the notes of what I saw in my head, then a music video treatment, and by the time I pitched the idea to the artist, Kadeem, I had a full-fledged impact campaign to accompany the music video idea. I knew that while the music video would be impactful, there’s more that we could and should do with a topic around black and brown men’s mental health awareness, and it didn’t feel right to cut that conversation short. Nothing like this had ever been done in [redacted city], so I knew the impact would be felt.⁴ 

During my pitch, I shared with Kadeem that I wanted the hands to touch this project to be exclusive to brown and black men. This was especially important to me because too many times I’ve seen these topics end up in the hands of a third party that can’t handle the nuances of these stories, and I didn’t want that to happen with this. I also knew that this would bring exposure to the beautiful work of black and brown men and their talent, including the Director. Kadeem resonated with me and agreed to my terms and vision for his song. 

As we began, Kadeem brought on J R Alexaner, a talented visual artist and friend I’d been connected to for several years, as Director of Photography.⁵ I was most familiar with his commercial work for the brand Bodega, where he contributed so much of his expertise and creativity to the company. A true gem and visual mastermind whose talent deserves so much recognition. I knew without a doubt that if this were in his hands, it would be beautifully shot. I’d meet with the two regularly and help plan the details. I also mentioned that since I’d be in town for when they shoot, I’d be down to help. Amid the conversation, Kadeem suggested, “Why don’t you just direct it? You wrote it. You’re building the impact campaign. You might as well direct it.” 

I froze up and was a bit nervous because although this was something I’ve done in the past, this dream had surely passed its time, right? Besides, directing this was never something I initially planned to do. I didn’t think it was my lane. I thought about it for a second and realized he was right. It was hard to accept because it had been so long since I directed something, and I almost let imposter syndrome stop me.

But somehow—maybe out of delusion or courage—I said yes. Something in me just went, “Yeah, sure. I’ll direct it.” And I’m so glad I did.

From the beginning, we imagined everything with intention. From the scenes to the equipment to the visual references, we discussed vignettes and leaned on “Euphoria” as a visual anchor. I pulled in references from specific films and moments, like that scene from the movie where Daniel Kaluuya shoots the members of The Cool Kids. J R and I just knew what we wanted, and it was so dope to have someone see the things I was imagining in my brain and take it up three notches. 

Even our location was spot on. We discussed our thoughts, and Kadeem mentioned that he knew the perfect place. When we got to the space, J R and I looked at each other and said “yoooooooo” because we both could see what was in our brains in real time. It was the perfect alignment. It was one of those magical moments when everything clicks. You put the vision out there, and it starts to take shape. It was growing, evolving, becoming something real.

The day of the shoot was beautiful. One of my favorite parts was having my friend Anthony’s dad in the video. It was initially supposed to be his mom, but his dad came instead, which honestly worked out even better for what we were trying to say.

Another beautiful moment was filming a scene with Rugby and the actress, Troi, who is his love interest. I was directing the scene as an argument, and my direction wasn’t getting the results I hoped for. The guys on set were watching, and one said to me, “I think it’s not coming across because a man wouldn’t really react that way; he might pull her in by her waist first, causing the reaction you’re looking for.” Initially, I was a bit put off, but he was right, and I encouraged the note. A few others jumped in to help with the scene, and ultimately helped explain to Rugby what I couldn’t in order to get the shot. Had I stepped into my ego in that moment, that would have not only compromised that scene, but also take away the sense of pride and ownership that was distributed in that room.

I also had the honor of including one of my mentors in the shoot. Someone who's been in my corner since I was 19, when I first started doing creative work in [redacted city]. A lot of people call him Lee or Square, a muralist, a youth advocate, and an innovative force in the town.⁶ He’s been like a North Star for me—guiding me, even from afar, always cheering me on.

Having him on set, playing the moderator for our group therapy scene, made sense. He helped shape many of us in that room throughout our lives, and had a personal connection to a few of us individually. It was important to me that those moments didn’t feel fake. I didn’t want them just sitting around pretending. I wanted it to be real. I wrote a list of questions for the group to go through together, and everyone actually talked and answered those questions in real time. While they talked, J R did his thing and filmed it all. He had a clear vision for the kind of b-roll he wanted and the types of vignettes he would capture. He was so intentional, and we just created for hours.

Although it ran longer than expected, it was worth every second. The shoot and time spent in that space were beautiful and a privilege. What struck me the most was how powerful it was to create a space where Black men could be. In one corner, you had JR doing his thing, which was totally in his element. In another, someone was drawing. In another, someone was making beats. It was this beautiful, bizarre mix of creative energy—Black and Brown men just vibing, playing, being silly, talking about wrestling, or reminiscing about albums from their childhood. No one was trying to be macho. No one was posturing. They were just being themselves. They were safe. 

BTS of the cast and crew on the set of Bear Fruit, 5/19/2024

Bear Fruit has taught me the value of creating space, seeing people, and giving black & brown men, who were once boys, the chance to imagine again. That with each imagination, there’s an opportunity to actualize a different reality that will bloom into an ecosystem of change. I’m not naive about what we’re up against in society, and I don’t assume that I can do it alone, but I do know the value of chipping away at something one swing at a time. Those swings look like different people, radical philosophies on love, and actions that disrupt the conditioning that contribute to the harm in my community.

I desire to leave seeds of love for all people, especially people who look like me, in hopes that the fruit they bear will produce more of the same. That, alongside these seeds, we can build new systems—healthier ones—where that fruit can thrive and new seeds can grow. And if that means I have to get out of my head, out of my way, then who am I to stop what God has already begun? Who are you to deny yourself the chance to be the vessel you were called to be?

To the Black and Brown men: this labor of love, Bear Fruit, is for you. The world may not offer you much, but this is a seed, birthed in love. It might be no more than a mustard seed, but I hope you plant it. And from it, may good fruit spring forth, so your days and the generations that come from you are abundant in all things, especially love. I hope all the dreams that the world told you were too big, unreal, and impossible return to you. That you have the courage to dream again, and that there are healthier systems in place where all of your dreams can come true.

Without further ado, I present to you, Bear Fruit.

1. Suicide rates for Black and Brown men are rapidly increasing. For Black men, the rate went up 11% in 2021 to 14.6 per 100,000. Latino men are also seeing increases. These trends—especially among young Black and Brown men—show there are serious gaps in mental health care for our communities. And for trans men, the risk is even higher: studies show trans men die by suicide at rates 3 to 4 times higher than cisgender men. This isn’t just a statistic; it’s a call to build mental health support that truly understands and supports all of us. (Sources: CDC 2023 data brief, cdc.gov, Minority Health, and trans health research)

2. Rugby Lo Sport is a Roxbury-based rapper whose music captures the layered realities of street life, resilience, and self-determination. His On The Radar Freestyle is a powerful example of his lyrical skill and raw authenticity.

3. Funeral Ant Bell is a powerful, creative voice whose work bridges music and activism. A June 2025 Rolling Stone article spotlighted his collaboration on Public Enemy’s protest track March Madness while he was a student at Harvard, highlighting his role in shaping music that speaks to justice and resistance.

4. Kadeem is a multifaceted artist whose work spans music and community organizing. In addition to his solo music career (itskadeem.com), he’s been leading a Hip-Hop-centered nonprofit program this summer. Working on this project alongside him has been great because he’s been able to understand and actualize the art and non-profit sides of this project. I’m excited to see more of what he does with combining these two worlds.

5. J R Alexander is a visionary visual artist whose work spans mixed media, photography, and digital collage, exploring themes of identity, memory, and cultural expression. His portfolio showcases striking, layered imagery that invites reflection and emotional connection. See more at jraframes.com.

6. I call him Lee, though some know him by a different name. If you want to keep up with his work, you can find him here. He’s amazing.