𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑅𝑒𝑑 𝑉𝑒𝑙𝑣𝑒𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠

Disclaimer The following story is loosely based on true events.

When I say loosely, I mean like a sew-in two months past due—hanging on by a few baby hairs and a prayer.

Or like a group chat after the drama: still technically together, but mostly out of habit.

Names have been changed.
But some of this shit may have actually happened.

---

Scene 1: “Disrespectful”

I re-read the comment three times, just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

“Bonita, I think your tone is coming off as a little disrespectful. We’re just trying to keep things positive. 💛✨”

Disrespectful.

That’s the word she chose. Not confusing, not misaligned, not worth further discussion.
Disrespectful. Like I came in swinging.

I scroll up, just to check. All I did was ask:

“Can you clarify how decisions are being made now, if we’ve paused elections?”

That’s it. One sentence. No caps. No edge. No attitude. Just clarity.

And yet—here I am, being framed as the problem.

Because I asked for structure in a space built on vibes.

Because I challenged authority that didn’t want to be examined.

Because I spoke like an adult in a room that needed me to pretend confusion was collaboration.

I lean back from my laptop. My chest is hot, but I’m not panicked. Not this time. My mother’s voice doesn’t echo in my head. I don’t feel small. I feel… awake.

Because now I see it clearly:
They don’t think I’m disrespectful.
They think my clarity is disrespectful.

They’ve wrapped morality in language and it’s being used to cover structural mess.
They’ve turned “positive vibes” into a shield.
They’ve made honesty feel like an attack.

And here’s what cuts deep—they think this works.
They think a heart emoji after a boundary will soften the harm.

But not anymore. Not with me.

⸻

[Comment Reply Box: OPEN]

I type slowly. No caps. No heat.

“I want to name that asking for clarity isn’t an act of disrespect. If this space only welcomes questions that come with applause, then it’s not a community—it’s a campaign.”

Send.

I don’t wait to see who reacts.
I don’t watch for likes.

Because I didn’t write it to be agreed with.
I wrote it so my body would stop shaking.

And sure enough—it does.

⸻

Scene 2: “Unalone”

It’s 3:11 a.m. on a Friday and someone is singing alt rock like an anthem. Their mic is hot. Their wifi is worse. But you think we bout to call it a night? Nah.

There are twelve of us still on the Zoom call.
Some are singing along.
Some are half-asleep with cameras off.
Somebody’s grandma is snoring in the background.
And I’m sitting in the dark on mute, off camera, quietly crying into a bowl of Honeycomb cereal.

Because this?
This feels spiritual.

Four days ago, this was a joke. A “Quarantine Karaoke Marathon.” Just a goofy challenge someone tossed into the chat. Break the world record or just break our voices trying. Whatever.

But then people kept showing up.

We started tracking turns. Started a host donation spreadsheet. Started learning each other’s favorite artists.
I now know Aria Doyenne sings 𝙈𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 pretty much every time she’s logged on, but minus the rap of course. I used to sing it every now and then. But I’ve silently yielded the song to her.
I know Dr. Rayna owns a string of LED lights. But if we ever met in real life, I’d only be able to recognize her forehead because that’s all I’ve ever seen on camera.
I know Roxy sometimes moonlights as a comedian. Her innuendos and commentary are perfect fodder for the likes of 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙍𝙚𝙙 𝙎𝙝𝙤𝙚 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 or 𝙏𝙖𝙭𝙞 𝘾𝙖𝙗 𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨

And me? I haven’t felt this unalone since before September 2021.

We didn’t know what we were building. But we knew it was necessary.

The conversations between songs was everything.
We laughed between performances.
Offered encouragement. And listened more intently to anecdotes than any therapist charging by the hour.

Folks passed out mid-rotation, camera still on.
I remember one night Zoom froze and kicked us all out—and without even asking, everybody scrambled to log back in.

It was raggedy and beautiful and exactly what I needed.

Bonnie was already gone.

And even though no one here knew her, everything they liked in me came from missing her.

⸻

Someone just called my name.

I wipe my face.
Unmute.
Breathe.

“Bo-niiita,” Abby says with a soft chuckle, “you ready?”

I am.

And I’m not.

And maybe that’s what this whole thing is about—singing anyway. Even when your voice shakes. Even when the world’s on fire.

Because for four days and counting, this group has made it feel like maybe we could save each other.
Just by showing up.
Just by staying on the call.
Just by pressing play.