Escaping Extraction

Not long ago, I was invited to a community playgroup hosted by the Inheritance Theater Project. A friend brought me in. Someone I care about. Someone who, I believe, had good intentions—maybe was just tired. I don’t think they meant to hurt me. But still, it hurt a little, but not as much as it did years ago, under different circumstances.

It was one of those “activation” events, where artists and theater folks show up in cities like Chicago saying they want to “gather stories.” They lay out butcher paper and candles, talk about centering the community, listening with intention, co-creating. But behind the soft language, what they’re really doing is collecting. Extracting.

I came into the room quietly. Didn’t tell anyone I’m a professional storyteller. I wanted to see what they were looking for. What stories they were trying to pull. I didn’t sign anything—no consent, no release—thankfully. Because it became clear that what they were after was not care. It was content.

They offered us cheap ass pan dulce cookies. Not even enough to count as a meal. And I—someone with no stable housing, someone constantly assumed to be starving—was the one who went to my van and brought back real food. Mango. Yogurt. Berries. I felt the need to really feed the room. Not the organizers. Me.

And then came the bags. Piles of artwork, testimonials, photos—laid out across the floor like a gallery. Supposed to look beautiful. Supposed to say “Look what we’ve created.” But to me, it looked like a pile of bodies. The kind of thing you see in memorial exhibits—what people left behind, what was taken from them. And I got sick. Literally. From the top of my head to the soles of my feet, I got chills. Like the flu. Like my body said: Something is wrong here.

I’ve felt that before. It’s a kind of knowing. Call it what you want—clairvoyant, empathic, sensory alert system. I’ve had it my whole life. And when it kicks in, it’s not metaphorical. It hurts.

At some point I stood up and said, “I don’t want to do this.” I don’t even remember exactly what I said after that. I wish I could see the footage. I wonder if they kept it. Or if they deleted it—burned the evidence that someone was wounded in the process.

What I do remember is what I was trying to say: that Chicagoans deserve narrative care. Not narrative extraction. That not everyone who comes into a room is ready to perform their pain. That we are not just stories to be plugged into grant reports.

Afterward, my friend and the ambassador of the space stayed with me. They sat with me. Talked. Listened. I don’t know if it was to comfort me or to do damage control, but they did stay. That’s more than I can say for the Inheritance Theater Project itself. I never heard from them. Not an apology. Not even a follow-up. They know how to reach me.

That silence—that’s what cuts the deepest.

And it’s not just them. This kind of harm lives everywhere. I worked on a project once with an organization called Trace. They were doing a series about gun violence. Asked me to pull stories about what people lose—besides the person. It was a heavy ask. And it triggered something in me. I didn’t realize how close those stories were to my own. They didn’t check in. Didn’t hold space. Didn’t care for the storyteller doing the labor. And when I couldn’t finish the project because of what it brought up? No credit for what I did do. No acknowledgment. Just: on to the next.

And that’s what I keep seeing—over and over. This pattern. People climbing ladders. Padding résumés. “I directed a community story series.” “I helped amplify marginalized voices.” “I did a project on trauma and healing.” But did you really heal anyone? Or did you just mine them?

You can feel it when it happens. When someone asks you to do something no one else can—or will—and you do it, no questions asked. Not for money. Just to be helpful. Just to be part of something. And in return? Nothing. No curiosity about who you are. No attempt to know you. Just a task. A transaction. I’ve done work trades that were full of warmth and relationship-building. That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the ones where you’re just a tool.

That’s the part people don’t get. I’m not angry because I didn’t get paid. I’m hurt because I wasn’t seen.

It happens to people like me all the time. Houseless. Brown. Loud. Too honest for comfort. We become the “crackheads” they ask for cheap labor—except it’s not cleaning a porch, it’s telling a story they can show off to funders.

And here’s the thing: I’m free. Like, really free. Not pretend-free. Not funded-free. I’m living a life I never thought I’d get to have. I was supposed to die in 2009. I tried to die in 2009. So every day I get to exist in my body, in the world, is a dream.

That dream is simple. I walk around the city. I ask strangers questions. I ask them to tell me about a time they felt cared for in this city. I ask eight questions. That’s it. I record their answers on my Remarkable tablet and carry them with me.

I don’t collect these stories for a show or a grant. I collect them because they matter. Because I want to build a fabric of stories. Not a metaphorical quilt. A real-world web. A society stitched together through care. Through the voices of the people who are usually ignored. The cringy ones. The too-much ones. The overlooked. The extracted-from.

I want to build a Narrative Care Network. A community of people who listen with intention, share with trust, and honor the stories they hold.

So if you’re supporting me on Patreon, thank you. You’re part of this already. But I want to invite you deeper. Let’s connect one-on-one. If you have a story to share, let’s talk. If you know someone who should be heard, send them to me. If you want to learn how to care for stories, not just collect them—come closer.

Because we’ve got enough extractors. Enough social climbers. Enough “community leaders” building careers off of our pain.

What we need is care.

Real care.

Let’s build that together.

Thanks.