A Conversation with Kevin Myles

Kevin Myles serves as the Head of Outreach for Faith Communities and Communities of Color with the Recovery Café Network (RCN).  In his role, he engages with faith and community leaders across the country to partner in the work to create and sustain healing, recovery spaces. Based in Atlanta, Georgia, Kevin brings over 30 years of experience in civil rights, social justice, and policy reform, and has worked on the ground with local communities in 39 states across the U.S. 

A Reflection on Our Interconnected Struggles

As RCN reflects on our country’s rapidly changing landscape and what this means for our work, Kevin offers the following insight:

Have you ever considered the difference between lung, prostate, and esophageal cancer? In reality, they are all forms of the same disease, named for the specific part of the body they attack.

The same is true for our social ills. Racism, sexism, homophobia, anti-immigrant sentiment, Islamophobia, and antisemitism are all expressions of the same disease–just named for the community being attacked. That disease is white supremacy—rooted in the dangerous, almost religious belief that authority, competence, and freedom are innate to whiteness and maleness. As a result, any community perceived as “different” is also seen as defective—something to be corrected, policed, or controlled.

The greatest weakness in our response to these problems is that we have largely agreed to play by the rules of the game. By treating our social ills as separate issues, we dilute our collective power and even rob ourselves of the ability to fully understand—and dismantle–the systems that sustain them. 

Q&A with Kevin

We sat down with Kevin to explore how these insights inform his outreach work at RCN.

You describe social injustices as an interconnected struggle rather than isolated issues. How does this perspective shape your work with RCN, and what are some ways you’ve seen it play out in the communities you engage with?

We are engaged in the defense of the common good. Across the country, we see a struggle between two competing ideas: the common good versus rugged individualism. We stand firmly on the side of the common good, believing that everyone is entitled to a life of love, belonging, dignity, and well-being. That means those of us who share this belief must fight to ensure these rights are accessible to all.

For people experiencing trauma—whether from substance use, homelessness, prior incarceration, or any other experience that disconnects them from love, peace, belonging, and connection to greater good—it is in all our interests to keep the door open as wide as possible. When we do, we ensure that we can all enjoy the dignity and belonging that is all our birthright.

The social injustices we face individually can sometimes isolate us. We must be on guard to ensure they don’t, so we can remain committed to keeping the door open for the common good.

RCN is built on the idea that healing happens in community. What strategies have you found most effective in creating spaces where people feel safe, seen, and supported—whether in their personal recovery journeys or in bringing healing spaces to their own communities?

I thought the question was interestingly worded because people feel safe when they feel seen, and people who feel seen feel supported. It actually works in a more linear fashion. But of all these elements, the most important—the key to the strategy—is the ability to truly see people for who they are, where they are, and accept them as they are. That is, quite literally, the strategy.

It means understanding that whatever life experiences brought you to where you are now may be entirely different from mine. I don’t need to see my experiences reflected in you to recognize the same spirit of God that exists within me. I can see my spirit reflected in you without seeing my experiences reflected—and that’s okay.

If I’m willing to look deep enough—past the differences in our experiences—I can see the part of you that wants the opportunity to be known, to self-actualize, and to become the person you dreamt of being as a child. Just as I had childhood dreams, so did you. When I can see you in that way, it will make you feel safe. And when I accept you, no matter how different you may be, it will make you feel supported.

The key is to keep reminding ourselves that the pressures that pull us apart are illusory. We have to keep telling that story, over and over, to reinforce the truth: that whatever we don’t have in common is okay. Because there is something deeper that connects us all—the love-force, which Killian so often talks about. 

What keeps you motivated in this work? Can you share a moment or experience that reinforced the importance of outreach and bridge-building?

When I was a young NAACP president, most of the people in my branch were older members of one specific church community. At the time, we had someone a little older than me—he was in law school and had been volunteering his time to help with legal investigations for our branch. But he was part of the LGBTQ community, and many of the older members made him feel uncomfortable and unwelcome. It got to the point where he quit the branch, and the experience was traumatic for him.

When I became president, I didn’t know him well, but I knew his gifts. I knew he was talented, and I knew we were fighting on the same side. So I asked him to come back. Mind you, this was before President Obama and others made stronger efforts to reinforce anti-discrimination protections. But I will never forget how it felt when I was able to convince him to return. He became a phenomenal legal redress chairman, and we did great work investigating discrimination claims across the city.

But despite his dedication to protecting others, he was often discriminated against himself. If word got out that he was performing in drag shows, he would lose jobs—he had already been fired from previous ones for that very reason. He worked tirelessly to defend the rights of everyone else in the city, but his own rights weren’t protected.

That was a clarifying moment for me: I realized that unless all of our rights are protected, none of our rights are protected. If we say we want freedom, justice, and equality for everyone—except one group—then we have to accept that someone else might try to make an exception for us.From that moment 30 years ago, until now, I have never lost my sense of clarity: we are engaged in one struggle with many facets. But if I don’t stand up for you, I can’t expect anyone to stand up for me.