When; Monday nite 12/15 7:30pm ET

Where: https://youtube.com/live/qQPXbdivw8Y?feature=share

Who gets 10%: https://barcc.org Boston Area Rape Crisis Center. When you give to BARCC, you support free and comprehensive services for survivors. http://paypal.me/vancevancevance or https://venmo.com/vancevancevance or VanceFunder P.O. Box 17, Arlington, MA 02476

*PRIVATE COACHING AVAILABLE - Contact me for songwriting, performance, and voice coaching.

***CUSTOM SONGS - Expensive, but sure, you want one about you or your family or something.

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AN HOUR TO GO,

The 13 miles to Mass General Brigham, totally at the whim of Waze’s Siri person who took me through Somerville, Medford, and seemingly Nova Scotia. Morning traffic is out of my control so I followed her route.

Man this is old, that kid with no control, just following directions ne’er rocking the boat, doing what I’m told.

That’s what you learn to do when the higher ups - adults, doctors, whomever - hold life and death over you, your being or not being, be it the ones that hold the belt when you get home from school for some grievance lost to time or your scans fueling opinion whether to cut into your face and neck for “rogue cells” when radiation and chemo were - or were not - enough.

Man this is old. These survivalist ways I deal with impending me.

Me sitting in the chair being Vance. Trying to be social and familiar with the nurse without being sexist. Me trying to be funny with the doc when I said, “I thought this was only an option at the beginning of treatment when you had a pocket full of knives and a twitch begging to cut away”.

Me apologizing up and down to him for such characterization when he did not laugh, but followed straight-facedly with “I *never* want to do surgery if I don’t have to and I’m *certain* I didn’t have a twitch.”

Me using the biggest words I know that might have impress them with my armchair expertise

Me emphasizing athlete me feeling good enough to run 3 miles every other day.

Me trying to seem as intelligent and non-black sounding as possible.

Me with the language code shifting double down trying not to be Black at all.

Me then trying to be comedically Black as possible to show my mastery of my dualist existence in a world that has taught me to protect myself by rolling over showing all of my belly, somehow weighing my greater chance of survival by being gutted rather than that my spine be broken.

Me trying not to break down in tears at my probable reprieve when his cursory look at bumps and protrusions leads him to proclaim “I don’t see any need for clean-out surgery but I’ll still have to run its possibility past the team”.

Me running later in newly bought Hokas listening to Mystikal and Joni Mitchell back to back.

Vulgar, compelling, anti-woman, then a dulcet, genius woman who once backstage thought I was very funny when I wouldn’t hug her because I was “covered in Negro sweat”.

“That sweat is protective, Ms. Mitchell,” I’d say to her today.