The Breakfast Club - Trauma: The Adversary of Love: A conversation with Frederick Joseph

Episode Date: January 31, 2022

In the first episode of “In the Deep: Stories that Shape Us,” host Zach Stafford sits with author and activist Frederick Joseph to talk about the power of stories, both told and untold. As a young man growing up between the northeast and the South, Frederick isn’t a stranger to heartbreak, sharing how stigmas and traumas couldn’t define his life’s trajectory. And, despite these moments of deep sadness, he lives a life where he’s actively choosing love - which he calls the adversary to trauma. Frederick walks us through his journey, filled with the stories that defined his life - and others that he didn’t allow to shape the outcome of his personal and professional road to happiness and health. Learn more about your ad-choices at https://www.iheartpodcastnetwork.comSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Daphne Caruana Galizia was a Maltese investigative journalist who on October 16th 2017 was assassinated. Crooks Everywhere unearthed the plot to murder a one-woman Wikileaks. She exposed the culture of crime and corruption that were turning her beloved country into a mafia state. Listen to Crooks Everywhere on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, five-year-old Cuban boy Elian Gonzalez was found off the coast of Florida. And the question was, should the boy go back to his father in Cuba? Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home and he wanted to take his son with him. Or stay with his relatives in Miami? Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story

on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, I'm Marie. And I'm Sydney. And we're Mess. Well, not a mess, but on our podcast called Mess, we celebrate all things messy. But the gag is, not everything is a mess. Sometimes it's just living. Yeah, things like J-Lo on her third divorce. Living. Girls

trip to Miami. Mess. Breaking up with your girlfriend while on Instagram live. Living. It's kind of a mess. Yeah. Well, you get it. Got it? Live, love, mess. Listen to Mess with Sydney Washington and Marie Faustin on iHeartRadio app,

Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, what's up? This is Ramses Jha. And I go by the name Q Ward. And we'd like you to join us each week for our show, Civic Cipher. That's right. We discuss social issues, especially those that affect black and brown people, but in a way that informs and empowers all people. We discuss everything from

prejudice to politics to police violence, and we try to give you the tools to create positive change in your home, workplace, and social circle. We're going to learn how to become better allies to each other. So join us each Saturday for Civic Cipher on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, y'all. Niminy here. I'm the host of a brand new history podcast for kids and families called Historical Records. Executive produced by Questlove, The Story Pirates, and John Glickman, Historical Records brings history to life through hip-hop. Each episode is about a different inspiring figure from history. Like this one about Claudette Colvin, a 15-year-old girl in Alabama who refused to give up her seat on the city bus nine whole months before Rosa Parks did the same thing. Check it. Get the kids in your life excited about history by tuning in to Historical Records, because in order to make history, you have to make some noise. Listen to Historical Records

on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, my name is Kevis, and I was really scared to get tested for HIV, but I knew I had to do it. So I found out my status. And you know what? I also learned from a doctor that HIV is not a death sentence. There are medications available to treat HIV and options to prevent it. So my advice, if you haven't done so, get tested. Know your status. I'm glad I do. And press play on what's next. Learn more at knowmystatus.com.

Sometimes life can be complicated and messy. And in our society, made up of so many rules and expectations, being yourself can be seen as an act of rebellion or bravery. Hi, I'm Zach Stafford, and this is In The Deep, Stories That Shape Us. Join me as our guests, Black and Latinx men, unravel the complexities and struggles they face in a place that doesn't always see them, all of them, for who they really are. I sit down with the people, the athletes,

community, and thought leaders that have struggled with the traditional ideals of masculinity, religion, and family that society often imposes upon them. Each episode, we explore the fears that make up the Black and Latinx male psyche, understanding the effects of stigma and masculinity on self-identity. We'll talk about how these common themes of discrimination, culture, and economics factor into the struggle, and yet how these hardships aren't enough to stop these men on the road to health and healing. I want to start off our very first episode by talking about something I'm incredibly passionate about, stories. Stories we are told by family members, stories we tell ourselves to make sense of the world around us, and even the stories we tell ourselves to stay alive.

I'm so passionate about storytelling, not just because of my background as a journalist, but because I always say that the one thing we all do besides eat and drink each day is tell each other stories. It's how we all communicate. But what we rarely talk about is how these stories shape our entire lives, maybe more than anything else, especially when it comes to understanding the good and the bad that happens to each of us. Today's guest, Frederick Joseph, is special because he teaches us how to take our own stories and swap trauma for love in a really beautiful and expansive way. He's a New York Times bestselling author, activist, and philanthropist who isn't a stranger

to heartbreak. And I think his own stories of love and loss are something we can all relate to, especially when some of his own stories weren't always the truth as he now knows it. But before we get to the heavier stuff, I want to hear from Frederick. Where did his story begin? Frederick, it's so great to have you today. And I'd love to begin our conversation for the listeners just to like locate who you are and where you come from. So tell us, where did you grow up? What was your family like? All those good details about your past. Yeah. So I grew up in Yonkers, New York. And for those who aren't familiar with Yonkers, all of us like to say, well, that's where like Mary J. Blige is from and that's where DMX is from. So Yonkers is interesting. And I, you know, frankly, I grew up in the projects, right? Raised by a single Black mother. And I had a ton of family in two

places, which also helped shape me in Philadelphia and in Columbia, South Carolina. So I spent, you know, weeks at a time in South Carolina every few months, and then just kind of zipping to Philly and things like that. So those all are just ingrained in my DNA, you could say. Yeah. And I had like the inverse of that. I grew up in Tennessee, but would go to the North, to like Baltimore, to Iowa, to Chicago, to see family. And you know, people don't like to think of us as Black men, as particularly mobile people in the world, that we have families all around. But it's a big part about being Black in America, because due to the Great Migration, our families are all over. What was it like for you to go back and forth between these two places that I know personally,

Blackness and masculinity animates itself very differently in these places sometimes? You know, I think that's an excellent way of putting it. The manifestations of patriarchy, quite frankly, are different in all places. So like in New York, you know, there's this culture of art, I would say. Men and boys, especially black men and black boys can practice art, but specific types of art. If you're going to be in music, it had to be hip hop or rap, or maybe like extremely, you know, for lack of a better term, like swagged out R&B or whatever, right? But then in the South, it was very sports and labor intensive i would go down to south carolina and that's actually where i learned to play football

you know just like yeah like i learned to play football in the south which is kind of like why i did so well in the north so i think that the way masculinity and then patriarchy kind of manifests in the south for me was just like why are you doing anything pertaining to music? Why do you care about anything pertaining to art? Why are you not more physical? Why are you not, you know, kind of like more aggressive? It was very, very interesting how that played out. You know, a word that would come up really easily for us to say is code switching. You know, code switching is a very academic word where we usually refer to that in like white versus black spaces. Like you go to your corporate job as a Black man and you act certain ways. You go back to your community, you act one way. But we never talk about an

intra-community, about how our masculinity is changing. Do you relate to that? Did you find yourself changing between Black communities? I was a surrogate for Elizabeth Warren's presidential campaign in 2020. And I would get sent to the South all the time to meet with Black people in various spaces, whether that was barbershops or hair salons or churches. There's these recordings, which my fiancee laughs at. She's like, oh, whenever you go to the South, you become a Baptist preacher whenever you're speaking publicly. And I'm just like, yeah, because I do code switch down there. Down there, I get very, I get very Jesus-fied. In the North, I'm like, oh, hey, at the restaurant, I'm like, hey, do you have any kale and grilled chicken?

Down there, I'm like, oh, you better, you know, you better, you better put some. You got greens. Yeah. But, you know, make sure them greens ain't got too much vinegar in them now. Yeah. I know exactly what you mean. Yes. So there's definitely this code switching within Blackness.

And I think that that speaks to the dynamism of the Black community, which is oftentimes erased through the white lens that is the media, the white lens that is entertainment and publishing and all these different spaces as if we're a monolith, but it's far from the truth. Much of what Frederick talks about reminds me of this idea I've heard before, that a stereotype is just a chapter in a book you haven't fully read. And as a Black man myself, I know the realities that come with so many stereotypes constantly thrust upon us. So I wanted to hear from Frederick.

What was that moment, that aha moment, that made him realize that Blackness wasn't a one-size-fits-all. I had the privilege of going to a performing arts elementary school in Yonkers. And, you know, I went to my first Broadway show when I was about eight years old. I saw Phantom of the Opera. I'll never forget. My grandmother and I went, and I had, to be quite frank, I don't even think I had ever been to Manhattan, let alone to a Broadway show. I see this play and I'm just like awestruck. I'm like, oh my God, like, what is this? Right? Because the world that I come from is just completely different. So what ends up taking place is I'm walking out and there was this other play happening at the exact same time.

It was Aida. And Aida at the time was, the star of Aida was Heather Headley. Phenomenley, phenomenal, phenomenal actress. And I had just came from seeing this like brilliant show, like starring a cast of full white people, whatever. But I'm like, there's a black show? Black people don't have shows like this, right? So that moment switched something in me because one, I didn't know that this world existed. And I didn't know that black people, if this world exists, were allowed to exist within that world that I didn't know existed. Right. So when I went home, it made me question all of the constructs of blackness that were imposed upon me everywhere I looked. Right. It was like, oh, black people have to

perform this or have to sing this or have to sing that or have to only get to do these certain things. I'm like, well, what about Heather Headley? What about Heather? Yeah. What about Heather? You know, hearing that story makes me better understand more than I did before why you have a book coming out called Patriarchy Blues, which explores issues of masculinity, patriarchy from both a personal and cultural standpoint. So why did you decide to put this book out now? And how are your own personal stories, like the one you shared before, influencing that book right now? So Patriarchy Blues is interesting because when I, my personality is very much that, like my grandmother kind of built in me this idea of as long as you have the ability to use your hands for good work, then use your hands for good work.

Right. And patriarchy blue specifically is like aimed at myself to a certain extent. Right. I think that a lot of people do the easy thing of like pointing the finger and wagging the finger at people and telling them how they're wrong. But it takes something really special to be vulnerable and courageous and calling yourself out about how you've been wrong, right? And I think that that's the actual work that people need to get to. So Patriarchy Blues is me saying like, hey, you know, I was molested by my babysitter from eight to 10 years old, and that put a chasm in my heart and actually made me develop this anger towards women. And that anger ended up evolving into becoming a womanizer in my heart and actually made me develop this anger towards women. And that anger ended up evolving into becoming a womanizer in my teens and in my twenties that juxtaposed with living in this heteronormative patriarchal society, right? I was just like, oh yeah,

like, oh, I'm doing the right thing. Not only am I justified in my pain, but I'm doing the right thing. Society is telling me that, but what does it look like to be in your 30s and actually say like, hey, I've spent the last decade plus unpacking and trying to be better than this, but I don't think that this is just my work. This is our work, right? Like this is our work as a community. I have to ask you, you know, as like a fellow, a person that has moved through the world pretty similarly in identity, where did you find this bravery to do that work? What I have is my story, right? I was like, if I have nothing else, I have my story, my story of pain, my story of joy, my story of agony, my story of desperation. And if I can, in my words, use my pen to be vulnerable, combined with my understanding of kind of how to market and tell stories from that lens, then I think that, you know, my theory of change is like people will grow.

What lives might that save if I'm willing to do that, right? What courage might that bring? came from, you know, when I was about 24, I found out that I have multiple sclerosis. And, you know, a lot of things changed at that moment where I didn't spend all of my late 20s drinking and partying. I spent a lot of my late 20s trying to develop the wisdom of a man in his 70s, right? Like if I was to look back on my life, if I was to leave this earth tomorrow, what do you want your legacy to be? And I want mine to be a legacy of progress and healing. This road to healing reminds me a lot about the power of truth. Often the stories that are told to us are just as important to the shaping of our lives as the stories we create

ourselves. I relate to this idea of truth and stories because like Frederick, I've had an uncle pass from complications due to HIV and was told it was cancer. I was curious how that shaped his story, his community work, and what his uncle represented in his life. Man, that is, that's a nuanced story. So to tell that, I have to first, you know, kind of talk about the matriarch of my family, who was my grandmother, Thelma Ford. She passed of breast cancer when I was 18. And it was her second bout with breast cancer. The first time she didn't tell anybody. The second time she said she had a cold until she couldn't leave the hospital, right? There's this aspect, I think, especially of

certain generations of Black people. She was from, once again, she was from South Carolina, came up to the North. She left the South because her first husband had been lynched by the Klan. That's the father of my uncle who actually died of HIV. So just for some context real quick, she grew up in this hard, hard way. Like she came up hard, right? is that it has to be as tough as steel or else it will be bent, broken, melted down, you know, and then turned into bullets that will probably be aimed at other black people. Right. So she was a lovely person who also didn't spend any time with the privilege that I have of navigating what it means to just be and not navigating what it just means to be. She, of course, didn't navigate other people's realities such as homosexuality.

Right. And there was just the propaganda of homosexuality, which she surface level was like, OK, surface level. This is what I know. This is what I understand. And this is what I don't want because she's equating homosexuality. I'd imagine with all the things that were the opposite of what a Black person needs to survive, right? So again, when you have in the 70s, 80s, 90s, these things that are

happening in the community from the epidemic of drugs, the epidemic of violence, so on and so forth, you get a major usage of heroin. So my uncle, he was a heroin user and ultimately passed by contracting HIV from a needle. But with the propaganda, HIV can't be contracted with a needle from drug use, right? Of course not, because HIV can only be contracted during that time. And even now, I'm not going to even just put on a time. Even now, problematically, the view is that HIV is solely contracted through same-sex acts. So ultimately, when he did have HIV, my grandmother refused to tell people that, right? And it wasn't just about homosexuality. It was about everything that came along with it, I'm sure, right? And it wasn't just about homosexuality. It was about everything

that came along with it, I'm sure, right? Like, oh, my uncle's name was Butch. This is Butch Jr. Butch Sr. was murdered by the Ku Klux Klan fighting back being a revolutionary in South Carolina in the 60s. There is no way that Butch Sr.'s son is anything but hard, anything but tough, anything but, you know, the only thing that could put him down is cancer because cancer, everybody understands that. So I was lied to and everybody was lied to

and I found out actually because I have three uncles. My uncle Butch died when I was a preteen. My uncle Randall died during COVID. He passed of complications with COVID. So my last uncle Mark, he and I were going upstate to collect his brother's things. And I said to him, I was like, you know, why is it that, you know, these things happen to our family? You know, COVID, cancer., you know, these things happen to our family? You know, COVID, cancer.

He's like, oh, who passed of cancer? I'm like, Butch, right? I'm like, Butch passed of cancer. And he's like, he didn't pass of cancer. He had HIV. Who told you that? Wow. Right?

So I'm dealing with having just lost an uncle a few days before, being in COVID. And now not only do I have a reckoning of this lie in my family, but now I have to reckon with homophobia in my family and unpacking it and just the devastating impact it had generationally on my family and how not navigating those waters built systemic, cultural, generational homophobia in my family that has led me in many instances to separate from members of my family to this day. I relate to this so, so much and that, you know, the stories our families tell to protect us from each other and from the world, really, that we have to sell these certain versions of truth

to better rationalize why something happened to someone or how they aren't in the world and why they aren't in the world. And what I really want to ask you about is like this idea of lying. You know, I carried with me for many years as a black gay guy that my family lied to me by not telling me that my uncle died from HIV. He was gay. And I had a lot of resentment. But lately, I don't because I understand why being in like a more rural Southern place, why they couldn't say that word. So do you in your own story, in your own family, is calling it a lie even useful to say? Because it sounds like they were just trying to survive in this world. I think that calling it a lie is useful because I believe in what I call radical accountability, right? But I'm also a restorative justice type

person, but you can't have restorative justice without radical accountability. Amen. Radical accountability doesn't have to be punitive, right? Radical accountability can simply be stepping towards healing for both victims and abusers at times, right? So we don't come from a people, you, me, Black people globally, brown people globally, we don't come from cultures before colonialism that were ingrained with such staunch homophobia or transphobia. History shows that, right? Actual research shows that it was capitalism and white patriarchal constructs that did this. That's not law to me, but you have to call it out. And the reality is, as a cishet Black man, what I also dealt with as a kid, which played in part, I think, into this lie was because I was molested, I was never the kid who was like, I really like girls. I think, into this lie was because I was molested, I was never the kid

who was like, I really like girls. I'm really into girls. That wasn't me. I was very inwardly focused or I just wanted to hang out with boys. I was afraid of girls. So there were like, in my family until I was probably 16, there were rumors, oh, he must be gay. So I think that they did everything in their power to quote unquote, make sure I wasn't gay. And then problematically and toxically, I counteracted that by being, you know, if heteronormativity exists on a spectrum of positive and toxic, I went as toxic as possible because that's typically equated with being like, you know, in our society as manly as possible. Right. So I went that direction. You're like, okay, he's a womanizer. No, he's good. Right. Like, so yeah. So that lie

actually built the castle of all of my pain and trauma and the traumas and pain that I inflicted on a ton of other people. I love that you're talking about, like, I love this kind of complicated conversation about misogyny, for instance, that, I love this kind of complicated conversation about misogyny, for instance, that, you know, due to the own pain and violence you felt in your own life, you overcompensate it by hurting other people. It's that thing, you know, Maya Angelou says, hurt people hurt people. And that's like the truest thing in the world, which makes me think a lot about, I think about that. And then this idea of radical accountability. And it makes me think about Lil Boosie and DaBaby and Lil Nas X. So let's use that as an example for folks. How does radical

accountability operate there? And how are you seeing people hurting people in that situation? Because that's what I see. Oh boy. I have psychoanalyzed these men so many times to myself or in my household. What happened to them in their lives that might have been similar to certain things that happened to me potentially that they did not have the privilege of overcoming or navigating, right? Or maybe nothing happened and they were just black men in the South and capitalism rewards toxic masculinity and misogyny. But with the three of them, I've been hurt. And I'm going to also add Dave Chappelle to that because I have been hurt by the things that I've seen from them as a fellow Black man because what they don't realize, especially in them saying

that they want to protect children and be pro-Black, is that what they're doing is actually anything but. They're actually harming children and they are further degrading the Black community, right? So it not only breaks my heart, but it is the complete contradiction of all the work that I'm trying to do. And then because of their platforms versus, let's say, my platform, it makes that work that much harder. Yeah. I'm going to be really honest with you, Zach. I wrote about Dave Chappelle years ago. So to see him doubling down,

I actually started crying. I was in the shower just tearing up because I looked up to him growing up. He was actually a hero of mine because I always said that he was punching up against white supremacy and classism in many ways. So then he started becoming more famous and more wealthy. He started punching laterally. And now he's just punching down at the most oppressed community in the world, black and brown trans people, and specifically black and brown trans women. So with that being said, the thing that hurt the most though, is that there were these moments of potential reclamation, as you said, or radical accountability where people have not said, hey, we want to cancel you, Dave. Literally, I have watched

trans activists, trans organizations say, hey, can we sit down and explain to you what you were doing? Because you're such a powerful voice and we know that you are such an intelligent, brilliant, brilliant person when it comes to storytelling, when it comes to getting in the hearts and minds of people. And you would be a monstrous, devastatingly powerful being to be on the right side of things. And Dave, instead of leaning into that,, wait, you don't have to do this. You don't have to make that decision at all. And that's what's so frustrating with like the Dave Chappelle's and the baby. But I want to bring it back to you because I think you have an example in your life right now where maybe people are doing the right thing. And that's with a cousin of yours, correct? Who is HIV positive. Talk to me about this person and kind of how his experience may be very different than what your uncle went through. So I actually have two cousins who are HIV positive

and their experiences are completely different as a matter of fact. So one of my cousins opened up to the family that she's HIV positive in the early 2000s. And there was still this moment of pure ignorance. But I think that at times what people don't realize is that a lot of Black people, all we have is our family. And I don't mean that hyperbolically. I mean, quite literally, for a lot of Black people, what we have is our family. And in that family,

you find hope. So in spite of all of the vitriol she was receiving for having HIV, she just kind of took it. Versus my cousin who is a bit younger than me. He is just a brilliant, brilliant young man. He's just like, you know what? You can't possibly love me in the ways in which I need to be loved. So I'm going to step away from all of you and only talk to those of you who can love me for me and like the things I'm going through. He's like, in spite of what happened for uncle, I am gay and I did get HIV practicing sex. He's like, and that's not your business, right? That is my business. You're either going to support me or you're not. And what that forced our family to do was this moment of radical

accountability. Do you lose your cousin? Do you lose your nephew? Do you lose your son? Or do you love them enough to break the walls down of your ignorance? You have to choose. Did you ever truly love this person or was it all a facade within the constructs of what makes you comfortable? Yeah. Wow. Wow, wow, wow. Did you ever pose that to them? Did you ever say those words to them? So I said all those words. I literally like convened everybody at my house and I was like, this is it. And if he feels like he has to walk away, I'm walking away because what we don't want to do, like I very much preach from the book of accomplices and co-conspirators versus

allies, right? An ally is somebody who wants the world to be better. An accomplice and co-conspirator, they're in the trenches. So if I want the world to be better for the LGBTQ plus community, I got to make myself uncomfortable, right? And that for me means like, oh, hey, Darren, I'm sorry that this is happening. No, no, forget that. If Darren steps away, I'm stepping away. This Darren's not by himself. So that's exactly what happened. I want to talk to you about all this work you do to give back. And like something I read about recently was you sending a lot of kids, I think, to see Black Panther a few years ago. So tell me about that story.

And why is it that like love and joy at the end of the day seems to be your driving kind of motive here? I actually have the word love tattooed on my back. And that's a funny story. When my grandmother was passing, she told my cousins and I, all of us, what the one thing we needed to focus on was when she was going, when she was in hospice. And for me, it was love. And I'm like, what do you mean? She's like, you give a lot of love, but you'll really be able to love when you let people love you. And in all my pain, you're talking about being a black kid in the 80s, 90s, without a father, growing up in poverty, my family's decimated by the crack epidemic, decimated by the heroin epidemic. My mother had me at 18. I've been molested by my babysitter.

I've watched how life works in an over-policed neighborhood. I didn't have a lot of trust in being loved. And when I started receiving love, allowing myself to receive love, I'm like, oh, this changes everything. And what I want for people is for people who I don't even know to receive love, right? If a stranger can do something for you, it doesn't just have to be like, hey, if a kid lives in, you know, poverty, let's give them pencils and book bags and stuff to have the baseline fundamental things. If I can also say, I want you to enjoy your life, that could be a game changer, right? This person I didn't know at all wanted me to enjoy my life and loved me despite not even knowing me.

And that's kind of where all my philanthropy comes from, loving people radically, even if you don't know them, right? Just having a love for society and mankind, loving people enough to love themselves. How has that changed how you move through the world, having that radical love for just strangers? Do you see yourself walking down the street differently these days? You know, it's interesting because I think that like both things are juxtaposed, right? The radical love and the radical accountability, you know? So if you do something, for example, that's like oppressive, racist, homophobic, whatever it is, I'm going to hold you accountable. And it's through that accountability, like in my opinion, like, you know, where I grew up, you know, people just get punched in their face with some nonsense, right? Yes, exactly. Like, you know, where I grew up, you know, people just get punched in their face with some nonsense, right? Yes, exactly. So if I hold you accountable through like systems of being like, hey, like you did this wrong.

Here's the consequences for doing this wrong. Now, also, you're still here, right? You're still with us. And a lot of black people, a lot of people who are trans especially don't get the privilege of growth because they're not still here with us. So you still being here is even a privilege within our system. So now that you are still here, you've been held accountable. Now, how are you going to grow and what are you going to do with the rest of your time? So that period is where the radical love comes in. I can bonk you on your head with the accountability and then I can like hand you the olive branch of love and be like, you know, these two things combined will help you change the world. I love that. I love that. So before I let

you go, I want to see if you'd be up for giving, you know, the audience some advice. Cause I think our audience is very much people like us and people that like are in our community, but are definitely not having these conversations all the time, which is a big part of this. And something you said earlier about, you know, like trusting and letting other people love you is a big part of loving others. What advice do you have for folks listening on the best way for them to begin that trust fall for love? I would say that the advice is to unpack the realities of your trauma, right? I think that all of us living in these constructs, I don't really, I don't care what aspect of it you live in, right? Like whether it's ableism, capitalism, whatever ism it is, or obia, whatever it is, you are traumatized and trauma is the direct adversary of love. So as you are unpacking,

unlearning, thinking about the traumas that you not only have faced, but the traumas of just being in your body when you step out of your home or when you go on Instagram or when you go on Twitter or when you see the news, unpacking that and taking it out of your suitcase allows you to put love in that suitcase. You know what I'm saying? And that's been an important work for me. And that's why I tell everybody go to therapy because that's where you do a lot of that unpacking. Like, hey, take some of this out, right? Like in patriarchy, I said to my babysitter who loves me, I wrote her a letter and I told her I wrote, I'm writing this letter so that I can let my fiance in more. Right. I literally said that

too. I'm like this because you don't own me. So I'm releasing you of this space that you think that you occupy. I am not confined. You are not confined. We are not confined to this moment in time because I'm building other moments, but I can't build those moments unless I make room for them. Oh, I love that. I'm going to take that with me forever. I think that was like a, an aha. Thank you for that. And you know, a lot of what you're saying right there and what makes that possible is due to another thing you said is that we are all still here in your life and you can make a lot of choices moving forward. So Frederick, thank you so much for being here today. This has been an incredible, incredible pleasure. You are just brilliant. I knew it was going to be brilliant and it was brilliant. So thank you for showing up for this.

Zach, I really appreciate you taking the time and making the space. This has been phenomenal. And this is, this has just been something for me going into the holiday season over the next few months that I'm just going to, it's going to make my heart full. So thank you. Our lives are a collection of stories, some that we tell often, some that we are still learning, and others that stay hidden for good reason. But as Frederick shows us, we are the narrator of our lives. And no matter what chapter you are on today, you still have the power to control the unwritten.

All right. Until next time, remember to breathe, stay hydrated, and I'm positive we can all live a healthier and happier life. This has been In the Deep, Stories That Shape Us. Find this episode and others on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. Don't forget to share, rate, and review if you enjoyed this conversation. This show is produced by Yvonne Sheehan and mastered by James Foster. Our show researcher

is Jordan Raggio, and our writer is Yvette Lopez. A special shout out to our guest, Frederick Joseph. I'm your host, Zach Stafford. Hi, my name is Ramon, and I was really scared to get tested for HIV, but I knew I had to do it. So I found out my status. And you know what? I also learned from a doctor that HIV is not a death sentence. There are medications available to treat HIV and options to prevent it. So my advice, if you haven't done so, get tested. Know your status and press play on what's next.

Learn more at knowmystatus.com. Hey, what's up? This is Ramses Jha. And I go by the name Q Ward. And we'd like you to join us each week for our show Civic Cipher. That's right. We discuss social issues, especially those that affect black and brown people, but in a way that informs and empowers all people. We discuss everything from prejudice to politics to police violence, and we try to give you the tools to create positive change in your home, workplace, and social circle. We're going to learn how to become better allies to each other. So join us each Saturday for Civic Cipher on the iHeartRadio

app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. and corruption that were turning her beloved country into a mafia state. Listen to Crooks everywhere on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. On Thanksgiving Day, 1999, five-year-old Cuban boy Elian Gonzalez was found off the coast of Florida. And the question was, should the boy go back to his father in Cuba? Mr. Gonzalez wanted to go home, and he wanted to take his son with him. Or stay with his relatives in Miami? Imagine that your mother died trying to get you to freedom. Listen to Chess Peace, the Elian Gonzalez story on the iHeartRadio app,

Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hi, I'm Marie. And I'm Sydney. And we're Mess. Well, not a mess, but on our podcast called Mess, we celebrate all things messy.

But the gag is not everything is a mess. Sometimes it's just living. Yeah, things like J-Lo on her third divorce. Living. Girls trip to Miami. Mess. Breaking up with your girlfriend while on Instagram Live. Living.

It's kind of mess. Yeah. Well, you get it. Got it? Live, love of mess. Yeah. Well, you get it. Got it? Live, love, mess. Listen to Mess with Sidney Washington and Marie Faustin on iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, y'all. Niminy here.

I'm the host of a brand new history podcast for kids and families called Historical Records. Executive produced by Questlove, The Story Pirates, and John called Historical Records. Executive produced by Questlove, The Story Pirates, and John Glickman, Historical Records brings history to life through hip-hop. Each episode is about a different, inspiring figure from history, like this one about Claudette Colvin, a 15-year-old girl in Alabama who refused to give up her seat on the city bus nine whole months before Rosa Parks did the same thing. Check it. I wouldn't give up my seat Nine months before Rosa It was called a moment Get the kids in your life excited about history

by tuning in to Historical Records. Because in order to make history, you have to make some noise. Listen to Historical Records on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.