Episodios

  • E8 First Person Charlottesville - Yogaville Survivor
    Oct 28 2025
    Charles: Before we get started, a quick content warning. The following story contains mentions of sexual abuse and suicide and could be difficult to listen to. Maxicelia: Welcome to First Person Cville, the podcast. I’m your host, Maxicelia Robinson. I’m also a co-host of ‘In My Humble Opinion’ from 101 Jamz. Back in 2015, Brianna Patten was struggling with an undiagnosed Bipolar 2 disorder. Brianna: So most people think of bipolar as rapid mood shifting, but bipolar two is you're depressed most of the time, and then kind of randomly maybe like once or twice a year, like a mania or psychosis would happen. and I was a sophomore in college. I wasn't really enjoying myself. I had switched my major like five times at that point, and attempted suicide. And at the end of that semester, I said I need to take a break from school because it's stressful, I don't know really what I'm doing here. So I worked at Yellowstone National Park for that summer. And while I was there, someone said, there's this place in Virginia, it's kind of weird, but I think you'd like it, it's called Yogaville. And I was like, “oh, I'll look into it.” Maxicelia: Yogaville is a spiritual community located in Buckingham County. It opened in the 1980s and was the brainchild of Swami Satchidananda — a guru who created a practice called “Integral Yoga.” (He was also famous for giving the opening address at Woodstock.) At Yogaville, practitioners can take workshops — or join weekend-long retreats — or be trained as Integral Yoga instructors — or even live and work in residence there. Brianna: And they had a program on their website that was $500 for a month. You learn about yoga philosophy and live a yogic lifestyle and live in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. And I said, I can do that for a month. And that's how I ended up there. Maxicelia: As your story goes, it was great you thought maybe you had found the answer to your mental health needs and maybe a new kind of lease on life so to speak. Brianna: Yeah, that first month was really amazing. I think the routine every day of structured, you wake up in the morning, you meditate, then you do a yoga class, you eat a healthy breakfast, maybe do some service, which could be cleaning or working in the kitchen or working on the farm that they had there. A lot of really smart, people and very friendly. So I was really enjoying myself and was feeling my mood improve. I was not really familiar with Hinduism at all. I had taken a lot of yoga classes and enjoyed the physical aspects, but at Yogaville I had learned a lot about the more complete version, and yoga classes is only one small aspect. And they say that doing the physical postures is to stretch you out so that you can prepare for meditation and kind of seek enlightenment is that. So I was really intrigued by that and had this whole new world opened up to me and was learning a lot. Maxicelia: Okay at any point during that one month time period, did things seem a little weird to you? Brianna: It felt very kind of old, like the carpet was still from the 70s. Swami Satchidananda actually died in 2002. So I never met Swami Satchitananda personally, but most of elders there knew him while he was there and talk about him like he's alive, his pictures everywhere, they have a wax figure of his body in his tomb there. So I was a little bit weirded out. But I had already paid so I figured, you know, it's just a month, I can do it. And I ended up liking it after only a few days there. I really enjoyed it. Maxicelia: When the month-long program was over, Brianna took a job in Death Valley, California. But it was…just way too hot. So she quit and moved back to Yogaville to start a more intense version of their training. Brianna says her parents were wary about her living at Yogaville, at first. Especially her mom — because Brianna shaved her head to make holding some yoga postures easier. Brianna: Yeah, she was really sad about that, And my dad was like, oh, I like your hair like that. And, but then after I came back and I was enjoying it more, and they saw that I was happy and enjoying myself, they obviously knew about my suicide attempt, and they were like, you know, if you're happy, and you seem like you're really healthy here and you have a lot of good connections, I think this is good for you. Maxicelia: So you get back, and shortly thereafter, it sounds like things change for the worst. Brianna: Yeah, I started hearing more about the negative aspects about Yogaville, how these, I guess more like the ashram politics of different swamis who were, I Guess, almost competing for authority. And it's just a tight-knit community. So everybody kind of knows each other and hearing about drama in that regard, but then also hearing things about how Swami Satchitananda, just, I heard rumors that he was taking advantage of some of his devotees sexually. Maxicelia: And ultimately ended up having an...
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    17 m
  • First Person Cville | Yogaville Survivor-Briana Patten - Ep. 9 Audiogram
    1 m
  • Who Is Abigail Spanberger?
    12 m
  • E7 First Person Charlottesville - Pastor Michael Cheuk
    May 5 2025
    CL: Welcome to First Person Cville, the podcast. I'm your host, Charles Lewis. I’m also the co-host of In My Humble Opinion from 101 Jamz. Today we are joined by Pastor Michael Cheuck. He’s the author of an essay called, “In Charlottesville's Summer of Hate, a Chinese-American Pastor Found His Place in the Struggle for Civil Rights.” Pastor Cheuk and his family immigrated to Shreveport, Louisiana from Hong Kong in the early 1970s. He was in elementary school at the time, in a town where hardly anyone looked like him. MC: And that experience really shaped and formed my desire to really fit in, to assimilate. Having said that, though, the model was white America. I quickly picked up some of the assumptions of like what it means to be a “good American,” how one should speak, how one should act, how one should dress - in the context of Shreveport, right. And so I'll tell you one story. We lived in a neighborhood that was built right after World War Two. And it was a declining neighborhood. There were white folks, there were Black folks, you know, a handful, a couple of Asians, because my uncle and his family lived literally across the street, right. We were eating dinner and I heard a knock on the door. So I kind of made our way up to the front and kind of peeked out the window. And I saw this Black man. I didn't know who he was. And I looked a little bit further down and there was kind of a car and maybe the hood was up, you know. And I froze. All four of us just went quiet as a mouse. And we just did not respond. And then after a while, that person went across the street and knocked on the door and one of our Black neighbors opened the door. And a couple of minutes later, you know, they were trying to start his car. CL: Right, right. MC: And I came to the realization that, my goodness, I was probably... 10 or 12? I hadn't been in the States for that long. But there was this assumption that, “Oh, strange Black men are dangerous.” And somehow that message that was never explicitly told to us got embedded into my psyche. CL: So where do you think that that internalization came from? And what part do you think that experiences like that play into your understanding of race relations now? MC: That's a very good question. because and i have to confess, right it was a long time ago, so there wasn't like a moment. or… But I do believe that it was kind of like in the air that I breathed. I went to First Baptist Shreveport, and that is a church that was quite affluent. There were no Black people. And so I think part of it was my own insecurity. A part of it was, you know, like wanting to kind of attain that level of respectability. And I think on the flip side of that then is like, “Well, maybe I either should not really relate to or have an openness to kind of have a relationship to some of the kids who are Black in my own street.” And those are some of the things that I think culturally, looking back, I can see how my path kind of diverged. And I took the path of, “Let's try and assimilate myself into the white kind of standard.” CL: Fast forward to 2015 and Pastor Cheuk was living and working in Charlottesville. He got a call from another pastor in town who wanted to bridge the he saw gaps between religious congregations — gaps in diversity and inclusion that Pastor Cheuk had grown up with. MC: The Charlottesville Clergy Collective came together after the shooting at Mother Emanuel. Pastor Alvin Edwards, pastor of Mount Zion First African Baptist Church here in town — former mayor and school board chair — he asked himself the question, “If something like that, that happened at Mother Emanuel, were to happen at my church, what would I do and who would I call?” He started calling the pastors that he knew for a breakfast to come, and he asked that question. When he asked it, we looked around each other and then Alvin dropped the bomb, the mic, whatever, and said, “I would call none of you because I don't really know you. So: what do you think about us coming together regularly, monthly, to have conversations, to build relationships? So that at the very least we get to know one another and we learn to trust each other more. So that if and when, God forbid, something awful happens, we might have, we can support one another.” So that was in 2015, right? And then Trump got elected in 2016, and we began to like, “Oh, you know, there's just certain things that we need to do to be more public instead of just getting together for breakfast and talk.” And then we had the beginning of 2017. There was so much more activity and interest from other faith groups and other faith leaders saying, “Hey, this Unite the Right thing, right, or this KKK coming is not good. What are we going to do about it? What are you all thinking about doing?” CL: Now you stated in your writing that that initially um you were not going to respond to the Unite the Right rally. MC: Yeah...
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    13 m
  • First Person Cville | Michael Cheuk - Ep. 7 Audiogram
    1 m
  • E6 First Person Charlottesville - Marian Dixon
    Nov 22 2023
    Charles Lewis: Welcome to First Person Cville, the podcast. I'm Charles Lewis, your host, and also the co-host of In My Humble Opinion, from 101.3 FM. Marian Dixon was born in Charlottesville. At 80 years old, her wisdom and insights are an inspiration—even if her experiences haven’t always been uplifting. See, Marian knows about intense grief. Marian Dixon: Everybody has their own way of grieving. Some people can get over it faster than others and some of it takes a long time to do. It affects you both mentally and physically. It really does. Charles Lewis: When Marian was just 19 years old, her infant daughter Varinia suddenly died. Marian Dixon: It was just a shock, you know, to play with your baby, nurse her, and then go back to get her up and she's gone. I hadn't cried through our daughter's death. I hadn't cried through making arrangements, the funeral, the burial, none of it. I had not cried. I went from them telling me she was gone into this -- the best I can explain it -- it was like I was in this room inside of a room, and it was like I could see everything going on around me and what everybody was doing, but I was not a part of that. I was just in limbo. I was just there. I wasn't hurting anybody. I just wasn't functioning. I had been going through what they classified massive depression for a while it had been, I guess, a couple of months. And I was standing at the window in my glass box, my invisible glass box, looking out the window. And our oldest daughter, she came into the house and I was standing and she grabbed me by my dress. And she told me, “Mama, [daughter’s name?] is gone, but you still have us.” That was all she said. Which was really shocking to hear a six year old say that. And when she when she said that it was though someone just really hit me in my stomach and I start screaming and crying and I cried and cried. I don't know how long I cried A couple of hours. About two or 3 hours, I don't know. But I cried and cried and I could hear my mama say, “Just leave her alone. Let her get it out. Let her get it out.” And a couple of days after that, I was back to myself. Charles Lewis: So what do you believe is the lesson in all of it? You know, especially when you think about I'm going through grief and depression to that to that level. Like, do you feel like there was a lesson to learn? Marian Dixon: Not necessarily a lesson, but it's just something some time we have to go through. And it does make us stronger on the other side once you get through it. And it's been a lot of things that, as far as my family is concerned and the deaths in my family that I had to go through, but I was better equipped to accept them after going through what I did in the past. It makes it easier for you to deal with other things, especially if something else happens. That fear was there for a while, quite some time. And not realize that we don't have no control over how long a person lives or anything like that. Two years later, we had our middle son. And it was sort of like, we all spoiled him. We were thinking something was going to happen to him. So, we spoiled him. All of us did, is, you know, every time he went to sleep or anything like that is this is sisters and his brothers was looking at him to make sure he was all right, you know. But after that, after, you know, the fear left in that extra fear that was in the back of your mind and left after he began to grow and be with the rest of them. Charles Lewis: Baby Varinia’s death wasn’t the only time that Marian would wrestle with grief. She’s also buried two of adult daughters—and her husband of 60 years. Marian admits that, even though she’s a woman of strong faith, she used to be angry with God. Marian Dixon: I had to humble myself and ask for forgiveness. It was years later when our youngest daughter at that particular time died and I was angry with God. I mean, Rinia was a baby, you can kind of accept that that she was younger. But when your children grow up, you expect them to bury you, not you bury them. We've had to bury two of our daughters as they've been grown. I was more able to with Barbara, I guess, the way she was, she had just started pastoring and all and I really get angry, you know, and I didn't realize it at first. And I had to ask God's forgiveness. Who am that who he created to get mad with him? And then with my, our oldest daughter when she passed, I was more ready to accept it because of the fact she was a pastor, too. I was more able to accept the death of my husband after 60 some years. Yes, I miss him. You know someone about half your life and we were teens when we got married. But I just thank God for the experiences that I have been through. And still might have to go through. Because tomorrow's not promised to you. Next second isn’t. But I thank God for where he already brought me through and where he's taking me. Charles Lewis: One of the reasons the story is so pertinent is that clinical ...
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    9 m
  • First Person Cville | Marian Dixon - Ep. 6 Audiogram
    1 m
  • E5 First Person Charlottesville - Marley Nichelle
    Jul 2 2023
    Charles Lewis: Welcome to First Person Cville, the podcast. I'm Charles Lewis, your host, and also the co-host of In My Humble Opinion, from 101.3 FM. One night—while visiting a friend in New York City—photographer Marley Nichelle had a weird dream. Marley Nichelle: In the dream it was this woman telling me that I was a messenger. She said, You got to send out the message. And I was like, What message? Like? What is she talking about? CL: The next morning, Marley didn’t have much to do. So they started going through their harddrive, organizing old photos. Marley Nichelle: And as I was going through all my photos, I was like, while I. I really got some nice portraits of a lot of Black people like we are not opposed, like and that's when it hit me. I said, that's it. And I realized my whole career I have been creating work that surrounds things that are not oppressive. And that's the message. CL: Marley decided to put together a photo essay to capture that message—in Marley’s own words, they wanted to “create a narrative of liberation and healing for communities of blackness by showing them power through language and visual arts.” And they called the series: “No, We Are Not Oppressed.” Charles Lewis: How have you used your camera to self liberate as well as liberate others? Marley Nichelle: Through the stories I tell. As artists, it's our job to evoke emotions. I had to be taught that and not be afraid to. You know, tap to my emotions and how I'm feeling, because honestly, that is what helps me create the world. Liberating work is not just for people, it's for me too. And I feel like every artist should have a way to where they take their pain and trauma, their negatives, their bads, their pain, and make it something beautiful. It’s so important for me when I navigate through my emotions and my healing is like, how do I take these things and put it into art? And a lot of times when I have conversations with people just in Charlottesville, I hear, like I say, hearing people's stories is so heartbreaking and I'm so compassionate because I don't want people feeling that way. Like I don't want Black people here to feel like they can't thrive or they can't succeed because it's so oppressing. And it's like oppression is a mindset for real. It's really a mindset. Llike, when I realized that, I was like, okay, I feel like the easiest way to help people is through art. And I hate that my work only pertains, like a lot of people do tell me like, you only do work for Black people. I your work is just around like, so run around Black people only like why don't you, you know, have it diverse? And I'd be like, because this is a real life reality of my life. Like this is how I was raised, this is how I grew up. This is all I know. HBCU life, all of those things, like just being around blackness is all I know. I don't want to change that because I benefited from that. Like, I can go anywhere and know that I belong, especially with a camera, you know, and I want to just show other Black people, that too. And you can go anywhere and belong. And I get to tell those stories behind my lens, and that's why I create those liberating stories. And that to me is, is empowering because it's like, yes, figure it out. Charles Lewis: Now when you have you would people considered oppression In Charlottesville. How has it been different than what oppression may look like in the Gullah Geechee community? Marley Nichelle: You know, this is why I always encourage people to leave away from home, because you get to see a different perspective of oppression. And when you live in Gullah culture, we really are self-sufficient culture like, land is important to us. Surviving is like we don't depend on anybody. You know. To provide for us. We just do we have a do it ourselves mentality. And so being raised like that and coming here, like a lot of times I would look at Black people and be like, Well, why don't you just do it yourself? And some people will get offended by, you know, like, and I wasn't I, I wasn't meaning it in like a just like a negative way. I was really trying to say, like, you can do it yourself. You know? And I realized a lot of people around here don't hear that a lot. It's really a big thing and coming here. Seeing people being gentrified, like displaced and living in the standard that they live in and stuff in Charlottesville was really triggering for me because I'd never seen a thing like that. And so I had to be there here seeing like, okay, Black people here, they're losing their land here to just like they're losing their land in the Gullah Geechee corridor. But I also see how we continue to stick together, you know, because we look at it from a cultural perspective. We want to keep the culture going. My Gullah community raised me to be and to show Black people, No, we're not oppressed. Like we can do this if we want to. There's power within ourselves. So I feel like we have similar issues from a ...
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    12 m