The pseudoartisticpunk

The DARK COMPLEX-ion...

2007-05-21T13:57:00.001-04:00

Below is the uneditted version of an essay that I wrote for PULSE magazine. For the shorter, published version please visit www.gmad.org

The Dark Complex-ion: An inner monologue
A trip into one mahogany man's psyche.

We've been indoctrinated and convinced by the white racist standard of beauty
The overwhelming popularity of seeing, better off being, and looking white…
-MeShell NdegeOcello, “Soul On Ice”

You’ve felt it all of your life.

At first, you thought it was a crazy outlandish idea, one without merit. You didn’t understand how it could possibly be true in this wonderful world that you’d been born into- the land of milk and honey, peanut butter and jelly, milk and cookies. You stared back at it every morning in the mirror and couldn’t imagine that it would have the consequences that it apparently has. You wrote it off, convinced that if anyone knew that you had these suspicions, you would be ostracized, demonized, forever branded a pariah. All of this, and you were only 5 years old. Even in your underdeveloped adolescent mind, you knew that it was wrong. You knew in your heart of hearts that it went against human nature and understanding. You thought that surely people were more intelligent than that. But ever since that day, you have been proven wrong on so many levels and on too many occasions. The reality was that you felt you were being treated differently because you were dark-skinned. Only five years on the face of the earth, and you had already become aware of The Dark Complex.

You were not light enough to assuage white fear and too dark to “lighten the race” for black assimilation. Being treated differently by those of the Caucasian race seemed par for the course. Even with your childish reasoning you had already internalized that the difference between black people and white people contributed to the difference in treatment that was often bestowed upon you and your family in a “mixed” setting. Strangely enough, that seemed logical to you. But then The Dark Complex came along, and turned even that strange perspective on its head.

You see, The Dark Complex told you that you were going to be treated differently because you were dark—and this inequality in treatment would be administered by your OWN KIND; those who were often mistreated themselves simply because of the color of THEIR skin. However, the color chasm that exists between black skin and white skin was far greater than what existed between black and chocolate, chocolate and brown, brown and mahogany, mahogany and café au lait, café au lait and pecan, pecan and cinnamon, cinnamon and “light”, “light” and “red”; these were the finer points. And because there was an infinitesimally smaller chasm between these shades of the same color, it seemed all the more illogical to you. So you buried it in your subconscious. You thought of it as spurious fodder; ridiculous, even.

Then you went to kindergarten.

You noticed that in Ms. Kanner’s class- since the majority of pupils were of African descent- there was nothing screaming inherent racism from the blackboard. However, you DID notice that the teacher’s pet was a little closer to Ms. Kanner’s color, the hallway monitors always seemed to be a bit closer to pink than you were. The principal was obviously a product of a mixed union. The only “darkies” were the “lunch ladies”, who served you your nutrition during 5th period with a mix of nonchalance and scorn. You still thought nothing of it. But one day, you got into a war of words with another student. Those hours playing “the dozens” in the schoolyard- most of which started with the insult “You’re so black…”, or “Your mother’s so black…”- seemed designed to make you believe that black was something to be ashamed of, made fun of, ridiculed. The word “black” would sometimes be followed by “and ugly” (i.e., “You’re so black and ugly…”) , so much that it seemed the two could be used interchangeably. But you shrugged it off. You knew better.

Then you became a teenager, and your hormones- skewed as you were led to believe that they were- had you looking at others not as just schoolmates but as objects of affection. It was then that your Dark Complex theory found weight. The girls that you convinced yourself you HAD to be attracted to blinked past your cocoa epidermis and made a bee-line for the redbone brothers with the slighter features. The first time it happened, you couldn’t believe it. By the fifth time, you felt like you knew what the deal was. Just as you were becoming more aware of yourself as a sexual being, you realized that there would be times when your pool of paramours could be limited to those able who valued the hue of your skin before they got to your heart.

However, even through all of that, you still managed to love yourself all the way into young adulthood. You winced when one of the college applications you fill out requires that you affix a picture of yourself. The Dark Complex once again rears its ugly head as you question why they would need to know what you look like when your academic merit, extracurricular activities and scholastic aptitude tests should provide the admissions counselor with more than enough information upon which to judge your suitability for their school. You pause for a second and wonder if this is a ploy to conspiratorially keep sepia-toned blacks out of those hallowed halls. In any event, you find yourself accepted to this prestigious historically black college and are well into your second year when someone comments that you are somewhat “pretty” and would make an excellent candidate for a certain fraternity- if not for your dark skin. As you hadn’t wanted to pledge that particular organization anyway, you go on to join the fraternity of your choice and dismiss that earlier conversation as just ignorance and the further perpetuation of collegiate stereotypes that had described charter members of these fraternities; stereotypes which no longer applied in the “real world”. Today you still find it amazing that, for at least 80 years before your matriculation, those very stereotypes existed on black college campuses. Even more amazing is that almost 20 years after your graduation, those same stereotypes still seem to exist and don’t appear to be going anywhere anytime soon.

Fast forward to “real” adulthood, because this is where The Dark Complex gets REAL heavy. There you are, ready to take your rightfully earned place in Corporate America.
Because your college grades were above average and your references are stellar, you are lucky enough to have your resume circulated as widely as was possible back then- before the advent of careerbulder.com. You are somewhat taken aback when a human resources manager for a minority-owned business you interview with pulls you aside and apprises you of the company’s “plantation lullabies”. First and foremost, that it appears that only the “upper-echelon blacks” (a term she used to describe those whose ethnicity seemed blurred by a softer hair texture and brighter skin tone than your typical African American) got recommendations for promotions into the “good ole boys club”. You blink twice when she espouses that the only reason you got an interview is because your name isn’t decidedly black. Your eyebrows reach toward your forehead when she postulates that you will have to work twice as hard as your lighter-complected cohorts to gain the same respect. You are saddened both by the possibility that she may be right and the fact that she is black. You will later have a conversation with one of your contemporaries, who will secretly concede that his lighter skin may have assisted in his accelerated ascent of the corporate ladder. “Wow” is the only thing you will be able to manage to get out of your mouth.

But wait, there’s more…

"They said, if you was white, you'd be alright, If you was brown, stick around, But as you is black, oh brother, Get back, get back, get back."
-- "Black, Brown, and White," by Big Bill Broonzy.

Your love of literature leads you to books like Lawrence Otis Graham’s “Our Kind Of People”, Toni Morrison’s “The Bluest Eye”, and bell hooks' “Salvation” and you begin to realize just how systemic this Complex is among your kind of people. You read about the “divide and conquer” tactics of slave-master Willie Lynch as it pertains to the mental enslavement of blacks by separating us according to where on the color spectrum the tint of our skin falls. You come across psychological studies wherein little black girls are given two dolls- one white and one black- and when asked questions about the characteristics of each, seem to attribute the most negative ones to the black doll. Movies like Spike Lee’s “School Daze” and D.W Griffith’s “Birth of a Nation” reinforce in you how undesirable your shade of sepia can be not only for white folks but for YOUR folks as well.

Then you look at popular media as a whole, and The Complex is in full effect. You wonder if you should be glad that you were born a dark skinned man and not a dark skinned woman, because they seem to get it the worst. You cringe when you are “regaled” with stories where black men are told by their families-their BLACK families- “don’t bring home no dark-skinned woman”. You are incredulous when you hear of darker women being told not to wear red lipstick or to stay out of the sun so as not to appear even more undesirable to a potential suitor. You chuckle (slightly) at the idea that photographer Thierry Le Goues was thought to be so radical (and almost accused of being exploitative) in showcasing dark mahogany-painted nude skin punched up by using nothing but a white background. You not only chuckle but laugh out loud that innovative photographer/graphic artist Jean Paul Goode- simply by introducing the regal dark beauty of Grace Jones- was touted as being so ahead of his time (and he was); as though black skin didn’t exist and wasn’t beautiful before he focused his lens on the obvious.

Even some of the most popular musical artists seem to have fallen prey. You are constantly miffed at and put off by current black hip hop artists featuring mixed race and “other” models in their videos, leaving the darker-skinned and undeniably black models in the background- if they cast a black girl at all. You groove to Kanye West’s music and give him props. You tell everyone that will listen that he is smart, enterprising, and artistically prolific. Then you damn near eat your words when you read that he is quoted in Essence Magazine- a publication geared toward empowering black women- as saying:
“If it wasn’t for race mixing there’d be no video girls. Me and most of our friends like mutts a lot. Yeah, in the hood they call ‘em mutts”.

After making sure that you’ve read that correctly, you shake your head. It’s not that you begrudge Mr. West his preferences; he can choose to date whomever he wants. However, at what point does preference bleed over into prejudice? It is this trend toward unbalanced casting in the media and in the boardroom that leave our mahogany mamis literally in the dark. What do statements like West’s say about THEIR beauty? How are they to compete in the dating world, when the lighter complected women whose “blackness” is visually diluted are seen as the only suitable mates for the modern black heterosexual male?

You pontificate as to if Beyonce, in all of her glamour and with all of her talent, would be as successful as she has been if she were just a couple of shades darker. Then you become incensed that you should even have had to pose that question in the first place. You do a running list of today’s celebrated black beauties (Halle Berry, Kimora Lee, Amerie, Alicia Keys, Mya, Jada Pinkett Smith, Melissa Ford, Tyra Banks, etc.), and it appears that your question has been answered.

But what of the modern homosexual male? You realize that this hybrid vigor is not relegated to just the straight world. That’s right; for all of our supposed progressiveness, gays are not exempt! You never understood why you couldn’t PAY a darker skinned man to give you any attention, while lighter “pretty” boys clung to you like (for lack of a better term) white on rice.

At the height of the “new” internet dating craze, you searched profile after profile and were confounded by the number of mahogany brothers looking for “light-skin blacks and latinos only”. You came to realize that for all of our marginalization by the larger gay community, black gay men have also played The Dark Complex card; black men who exclusively date white men in an obtuse attempt to somehow deny their own blackness; dark men who ONLY date lightskinned men as if their own melanin will somehow dissipate and blend into their lover’s skin as their extremities are intertwined during their most intimate moments; and light skinned men who wouldn’t look twice at another light skinned man because they find dark skin more brute, sexual, hyper-masculinized; animal, even. This is not to say that it is always the case- most of the time people end up with the one that steals their heart, regardless of the melanized stain of his skin (you would like to believe). You begin to realize that your dark skin- however innocuous you may think it is- whether it is simply desired, absolutely abhorred or completely fetishized, will always be a point of contention for some

You find that even in the black gay “ball” scene, the polarization is even more palatable due to the infinitesimally divisive list of “categories”; so much so that it has been a long-held belief by some unnamed sources that the lighter-skinned kids reign in the “fem queen realness” category and that the category of “face” is almost always reserved for those closest to the European ideal. The browner children have been relegated to the non-beauty categories of “sex siren” or “butch queen realness”. In an attempt to address this, there has of late even been further division in the categories; “light and lovely” and “dark and lovely”- as if the two are so mutually exclusive as to not be able to be judged side by side. You wonder: will “lovely” ever just be “LOVELY”, regardless of shading? It brings you right back to where The Dark Complex first found you, at the intersection of beauty and blackness- which for some still cannot peacefully coexist.

Two Lonely Hearts (On the Subway)
It all comes to a head when you’re riding the train home from church one Sunday. Its one of those days when you feel like you look really good; you are sporting a fresh cut, a beautifully tailored suit and perhaps your most stylish shoes. All of that shine on the outside is radiating on the inside, as you look up from your New York Times directly into the eyes of a woman whose gaze you have felt perusing you for at least since you boarded. Just as the train pulls out of the Fulton Street Station, The Dark Complex sits right next to you. You are literally screaming inside when this beautiful black woman (a café au lait confection rocking shoulder-length jet black hair, light brown almond shaped eyes, voluptuous, with just enough pucker in her glossed lips)says “excuse me”. Pulling away from the Arts and Leisure section, you make direct eye contact with her.
“Yes?”
“I just gotta tell you. I usually don’t get into darker skinned men, but you are attractive for a dark skinned man. I just wanted to tell you that.”
You’re sitting there, half flattered but completely dumbfounded without a clue as to why. “Oh, uhm…Thank you” was all you could stammer.

Trying to return to your newspaper, something just doesn’t sit right with what you just heard. You can’t concentrate any longer, and you didn’t understand why you are getting incensed at the idea of this “compliment”. Then it hits you..

“Excuse me. I know that you meant that as a compliment and I appreciate the spirit in which it was given, but please don’t say that to another darker-skinned person again.”

Somewhat taken aback, she furrows her brow and her almond-shaped eyes drop to half moons.
“Huh?”
“I said ‘thank you’, but I don’t think you should repeat that to anybody else”.
A little exasperated, she murmurs, “Ooookay, never mind then. Sorry!”
“No I mean, I’m flattered by what you meant, but what you said isn’t complimentary at all”. Sensing her growing inner dialogue (which probably wasn’t complimentary at all at that point), you try to soothe the situation by making it more personal to her..

“I mean, if I said to you ‘I don’t usually like black girls, but you are cute- for a black girl’, how would YOU take that? It is almost like saying that black women ON AVERAGE aren’t attractive, but you’re the exception”
You watch as she processes what you’ve just said. Then her quizzical expression changes to one of embarrassment. “You know, I never thought about it like that” she says.
You exchange a couple of pleasantries with her until you reach your stop, leaving her with some brain candy

And all of that brings you to the present. To this day, you will continue to contend that skin color will always matter- even to those who preach that it shouldn’t. You look at the spouses of the leaders in the black community- your civil rights leaders, your preachers and deacons, your politicians, your musicians and revered actors- and wonder aloud if the fact that their betrothed are polar opposites of their skin tone is the luck of the draw or by design.

So perhaps The Dark Complex has gotten to you without you even realizing it.

You repeat to yourself what you have always said in conversations about black people and skin tone. Namely, that it is only after we thoroughly embrace the idea of beauty in all shades that we as a people may even have a chance. Until then, you’ll continue to watch as the lighter skinned women literally overshadow the darker-skinned women in videos, movies, commercials and reality show competitions. You’ll continue to try to take the backhanded compliments on your attractiveness in spite of your dark hue in stride. You’ll continue to question each person’s motives when you see a “mixed” couple. You’ll continue to give pause when the “majority community” in corporate America are astounded by your articulation and demeanor, as though your race and/or your skin color couldn’t possibly produce someone with an extensive vocabulary and grammatically correct subject/verb agreement. However, you’ll NEVER stop luxuriating in the beauty of your black skin. See, your blackness is fine; the blackness of your skin, the blackness of your mind. You love the skin you’re in. You love your people- Black, Brown, Puerto Rican and Haitian. You’re just getting tired of waiting for black people to realize that just as ebony chanteuse India Arie proclaims that “I am not my hair”, that we are not (just) our skin. What do you think would happen if all black people one day woke up and we were all the same shade of brown? Would darker skin remain demonized by some, denigrated by others, or celebrated by all? “

Is a homogenous dispersion of melanin (thereby making all of us indistinguishable) what it would take in order to eliminate my people’s plight with The Dark Complex?

You tell me…

Don't Miss Tim'm West and company this Pride Friday- August 4th!!!!

2006-08-01T15:03:00.000-04:00

The psuedoartistic punk will be in the house...

It will most likely change your LIFE...

Also featuring: Baron, Hanifah Walidah,
& others TBA

Friday, August 4, 2006
Katina Parker & Tim'm host
Spoken Word
a FREE open mic event
10:00 p.m.
After the BlackOUT Arts Series
Pride In the City, NYC
TRIBECA Performing Arts Center
199 Chambers Street #110SC
New York, NY 10007
info@tribecapac.org
A,2,or 3 trains to Chambers St
Between Greenwich St and the West Side Highway...

Go in, Let have!

"Torn"- The LIFEBEAT Reggae Gold 2006 debacle...

2006-07-13T18:14:00.000-04:00

Read this

I need some frank discussion on what I should take away from the cancellation of the LIFEBEAT Reggae Gold 2006 concert that was slated for this coming weekend. I applaud all of the activism that went into making sure that the LIFEBEAT organization heard the battle-cry of innumerable SGL men and women across the country. It stands to reason that someone who spews hate and misinformation toward a group of individuals based solely on their sexual persuasion definitely should be called to task on it. I know that Beenie Man (and to a lesser extent a good segment of the reggae artist cognoscenti) has cast aspersions on the gay community with regard to promoting violence towards us- that’s despicable. And to that, I offer a hearty ‘Bravo!!!’

But... then I started to think about what the ramifications of this cancellation COULD be, and it just led me to more questions. When I first heard about the concert, I was put off by the organization’s selection of theme (reggae music, which has been historically anti-gay) and some of the artists (Beenie Man’s “Bad Man Chi Chi Man”- while catchy musically- espouses some of the most hate-filled, violence-oriented and homophobic lyrics I’ve ever heard in music, period.). My first instinct was the ‘WTF???’ reflex. Then I thought about what the larger picture MIGHT be. Could the reason the LIFEBEAT organization chose to do a reggae concert be to open up the dialogue on the issue of homophobia and in a grander scheme of things start Caribbean people to start really talking about the AIDS crisis at large? With what seems like “acceptable” gang-beatings and slayings of gay people specifically in Jamaica but inherent on all of the islands, maybe it is time for someone to start the wheels turning in the Caribbean psyche about the counter-production of homophobia as well as the need for AIDS awareness and activism.

Beenie Man, specifically, has sung (and still does sing on tour) lyrics that are deplorable. To be fair, he has issued a formal apology to those whom his lyrics have caused “stress…and outrage”- whether it is a half-assed apology or not is another issue. However, if someone as obviously IGNORANT as Beenie Man could put his money where is supposed mouth is and do something positive in the fight against AIDS, who are we to tell him he can’t? So what, he doesn’t ACCEPT the gay “lifestyle”. Not everybody does or will. However, not personally accepting homosexuality and taking action against a disease that affects us ALL are mutually exclusive. Take him to task (as has been done) for the hatemongering lyrics and the apparent inability he has to see the humanity in those with whom his lifestyle diverges. Demand RESPECT for our choice to be a part of the gay Diaspora without pandering for an acceptance from those that will in all likelihood never come. However, don’t be blinded by the same hypocrisy that you accuse him of- that being because he doesn’t agree with what you agree with he must therefore be essentially hushed. EDUCATE!!!

The bigger question (for me) is- what is he doing in the fight against Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome? What are we ALL doing about it? If AIDS is not- as we all know- a “gay” disease, at what point do we as gay people stop demanding homo-friendliness as the prerequisite for the right to fight for the abolishment of a condition that affects us ALL?

In essence, while this is indeed a victory against homophobia- hands down- is the sum total positive? If the purpose of the concert is to raise money for the war on this plague, why is the community in such an uproar over PHILOSOPHY? With HIV/AIDS funding and charitable concerts dwindling every day, are we shooting ourselves in the foot by hailing the cancellation of the concert a total “victory”-and thus the lost opportunity to gather much-needed funds for the cause? I don’t know. I’m torn in between the two…

A short letter to LOVE

2006-06-02T18:17:00.000-04:00

Dear Love,

I don't really want anything, and I know I could've just sent you an email with the usual "hi", "sup", "hope you're doing well", etc., but I decided to write instead. You know, these days nobody (me included) takes the time to sit down and WRITE a real letter, whatwith the technological necessity of email, text messaging, etc.

I wanted to take a minute to tell you that I MISS YOU. It seems like we hang out with each other in spurts, and then, for some unexplained reason, we end up on opposite sides of the fence. Now, when we spend time together it is the greatest. I always have a good time and vow to do everything I can to keep you around. My mood elevates, my belief in my abilities are never stronger, and I am sooooo productive. You encourage me without having to say a word. You make life sooo easy and bearable. You know me inside and out, even though sometimes I try to hide myself around you.

Of course, the other side of the coin is that when you're not around I feel smaller, moodier, less able. I feel disgusted at myself for once again allowing you to slip through my fingers and at the same time feel helpless to prevent you from doing so. I try to figure out where we parted ways so that if you come back around to play, I can steer clear of our point of departure. I don't understand everything about you, but I'm willing to try. I don't always see you pulling away from me, and sometimes by the time I do you are out the door.

I know everybody wants to be your friend; everybody wants you to be a part of their life and it seems as though you spread yourself thin at times, trying to be everything to everybody all the time. That kind of schizophrenia would drive me crazy. But that's one of the things that so amazing about you; you seem to be so fluid (and elusive) at the same time. You can breeze into anyone's life at any minute, make a grand entrance and instantly become a friend of the family, someone they feel like they've known forever. I wish I had that kind of finesse.

Anyway, I wanted to let you know that if you ever decide to come back and hang out- even for a little while- I will definitely be here. I will clear my schedule and we can just sit and talk; or we can go to brunch on Sunday and pass around sections of The New York Times just like we used to do. We can walk through the arboretum and take digital memories of the day or go to the lighting of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. Remember how much fun that used to be? Remember how we used to laugh at people scrambling for chocolates and balloons on Valentine's Day (though I suspect that secretly we both would have liked to have been the recipients of those chocolates)? Remember how we used to commemorate our union every year? It always seemed strange to me that we couldn't make it past the third year. My friends always say that you are good for me- they see me smile more, they feel my positivity more, they like when you come around.

Its often said that you know someone for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. I'm hoping that I know you for at least two of the three. Drop by when and if you get a chance, it'll be good to see you again.

Your boy,
chad g.

Epiphany...NOBODY has EVERYTHING...

2006-05-25T18:13:00.001-04:00

This will also be one of those "what is the meaning of life?" posts that I've been known to write.

As I was thinking about what I was going to get a friend of mine for his impending birthday, I was faced with the age-old question: what do you get for someone who has EVERYTHING? That made me think about what exactly is meant by "having EVERYTHING". And who seems to have everything in our society? Celebrities.

We revere celebrities. We adore them for what they have; they appear to have everything they (we) could possibly want. They live lavish lifestyles and cavort with the world's most visible, influential (and sometimes notorious)people. Their wealth eclipses the average person's lifetime earnings exponentially. They appear to have EVERYTHING. As a result, it appears that they have a lot of things just handed to them on a silver platter; free clothes from designers that we shell out our hard-earned ducats for, swag bags from awards shows that would make the average person feel like its Christmas in April, the ability to incite complete worship and mayhem simply by stepping into a restaurant. But look deeper. Do they REALLY have EVERYTHING? Are their lives REALLY that much different from ours, because they don't have to deal with some of the obstacles that we do? In other words, if we cut them- do they not bleed? My initial thought is that they do, indeed.

Shaq, who is 7 foot 1 (check), wears a size 17 shoe, has millions in the bank and scores of adoring fans- has a little dick (I don't know that personally- I'm taking Karrine "superhead" Steffans' word for it!)

Pamela Anderson- she who has the starring role in many a heterosexual male's masturbatory marathons (and perhaps in a couple of homo's dreams as well!)- has a very serious, if not lethal, form of hepatitis

Stevie Wonder- creator of some of history's most creatively musical songs- will never be able to see the beauty of purple in his lifetime.

Magic Johnson.

I'm sure even the "chairman of the board", Oprah Winfrey- who has more money than GOD and is probably the only person on the face of the earth that could singlehandedly solve the Cuban missile crisis, bring peace to the middle east, find a cure for the common cold, and get to the bottom of who exactly killed Tupac,Biggie, JFK and Jimmy Hoffa (all while encouraging you to live your best life)-has some perceived void in her all-expansive life. Who knows.

Some of my most beautiful, stunning, striking and genetically gifted friends have also been saddled with the most extreme cases of low self-esteem and self-loathing (whether they acknowledge it or not is another story).

It seems that many times we concentrate on what we DON'T have instead of what has been made available to us. We measure our success against those who appear to have much more than we do. Life, for some of us, is a scorecard of obtaining things that we lack (materially, spiritually, etc.) in a desperate attempt to have it "all". So...who REALLY has it all? I guess it depends on what you define as ALL? Is good health, loving family and friends having it all if you live in the projects- or in Iraq? Or is having millions in the bank but having to endure the disdain of all those around you something you can live with? Is there a middle ground?

I don't think I have the answer to the question for everyone. I was thinking the other day that if I had everything I could possibly ever want materially and have the unquestionable devotion of the love of my life as well as the guarantee that I would enjoy the health of an 18-year old for the next 80 years- would I STILL not feel complete?

I think the answer lies not in having it all, but in achieving HAPPINESS. Happiness, regardless of what your bank account, prognosis, or mother-in-law says, is the feeling that none of these things can limit or affect your peace of mind. PASSION drives us as human beings as well. Everyone will tell you that if you find something that you are passionate about in life (and would do it even if you weren't getting paid), that you are on the path to HAPPINESS. They would also go on to say that helping others has an indescribable happiness all its own. I would also add that STRUGGLE is another aspect of having it all- because if you never had to work for anything, how would you develop a true PASSION for achieving it? How would you appreciate it? Its only through surpassing OBSTACLES that we truly know our strengths. Into everyone's life a little shade must fall. It lets you know you're alive, human, mortal. Obstacles define your character, the lack of which prevents your character from fully forming. Imagine having every one of your wants fulfilled. How would you move forward, knowing that no matter what you did you would be satiated? What kind of person would you be? It has been said that “What defines us…is how well we rise after falling”. But what if you didn't have to struggle for anything? Trust fund babies and members of royal families must face this question sooner or later.

So, instead of asking ourselves what do we have to do to have it ALL, maybe the question should be: what will it take to experience true HAPPINESS?

I met a BEAUTIFUL woman named Shelly at a barbeque this past holiday weekend. We started talking about, of all things, what is "having everything", and what that means. Its funny how these things happen. Shelly said something that I think sums it up: "you know, having it all is actually just waking up every morning- THAT'S happiness."

Thank you Shelly...

I hold these truths to be self-evident...

2006-05-23T18:11:00.000-04:00

Oprah ends each edition of her 'O Magazine' with the last-page article entitled "What I know for Sure". Reading the last issue, it made me think about what I know for sure (or what I THINK I know for sure).

So Far, I have learned that:

1- I believe in LOVE. I just haven’t really experienced it yet.

2- Power and Beauty are the constructs around which everything is based.

3- Bullshit, no matter how pretty it’s packaged, no matter how many polysyllabic words surround it, no matter how many people tout it as dogma, no matter how it has withstood the test of time, is still- at its core- BULLSHIT!

4- Sooner or later, everyone-EVERYONE- will disappoint you at some point and on some level. And there will come a time when you will also disappoint yourself

5- YOU have the power to dictate the way you are going to be treated.

6- If you surround yourself with people unlike yourself who have their own talents, aspirations, and vision, YOU grow more.

7- Skin color will ALWAYS matter- even to those who lecture that it shouldn’t.

8- Even those that should know better, don’t always know better.

9- Ms. Mitchell was right; you don’t know what u got ‘til its gone.

10-The MOST important lessons you can teach a child are that they are BEAUTIFUL and that they MATTER!!!

11-People show you EXACTLY WHO THEY ARE within the first 5 minutes of you meeting them.

12-There are always THREE sides to any story.

What do YOU know for sure?

Open Mike- Grown Man wit' MINE!!!

2006-05-23T18:09:00.000-04:00

The scene: chad g. steps up on the makeshift platform stage at the open mike. He is dressed in grey Akademiks sweatpants, a white polo rugby shirt and white Nike uptowns. He adjusts his blue Yankee fitted- his "poet hat"- surveys the crowd for a few seconds, puts his left hand on the mic stand, clears his throat and then offers them this:
"Ahem!!! This piece is called "'Grown man wit' mine"- based (partly) on a true story..."

Saw him guzzling that “ghetto lemonade” at the Pink Tea Cup
You think I took my pseudo-Dominican punk-ass over to say “wassup”?
Saw him dropping it hotly at A P T
You’da thought I woulda opened my mouth a little, to ask him to drop it with ME
Behind him in line when he picked up his grande skim Mochachino latte
Seems like after he got his change and turned around, I coulda had SOMETHIN' to say

Clocked him eating brunch reading the Times at Bar 89,
Perfect opportunity!
Before I could move some dude from the restroom sat at the table and cock-blocked me

Peeped him drinking White Zinfandel at the Tower in ATL
and thought "damn, is dude following me?
'Cause if ya REALLY interested, roll up, broad-chested, and ask the kid for the celly".

But I know his type: ugly-fine with plenty of knotches in his Dolcegabbana belt
Satisfied with the facial and other more satisfying features he’s been dealt
Goin' thru boys and breaking their hearts with no emotions felt

But I wouldn’t mind being one of ‘em...

I need to just step to him and say:
"Yeah, you got pecs and abs and all that other jazz- but fuck dat I got those
Just like you nigga, I got deep eyes, full lips, 10 fingers, 10 toes
And you breathe air and fart and dream just like me
So all this posturin’ and side-glancin’ you doin' only tells me you’re not ready
For all the boy-passion and thigh-crashin’ and tongue-lashin’ I’m trying to give
And if you thinkin’ I’m just some good dick and wide back
Lemme change ya perspective.
Yeah you probably had ya heart broke and ya brain smoked by some boys not worth ya time
Well I have too and 36 years due, I’m finally a grown man wit mine
So if you not tryin to taste these lips and grab these hips you really losin’ out
'Cuz there’s at least 3 dudes RIGHT NOW who wanna know what I’m all about"

But then I stopped myself and realized I’m making all of this up in my head
That I’ve not said 3 words to this brotha and I’m already pronouncing him brain-dead…

WE DO THAT TO EACH OTHER, YA KNOW!!!!

So I walked up to him, with all this in my head and said “SUP”,
Convinced that his reaction would be WACK
You know what he did y'all?
He flashed me those pretty browns and those pearly 32's and said
“SUP” back!!!

So I said to him:
"Look, I'm not gonna do back flips and endure mind trips to let you know I think you FINE
I'm just gonna step in ya personal space and let you know the taste
'Cuz I'm a GROWN MAN WIT' MINE

And just when I exhaled and laughed and tried to find something else on my behalf to say
He opened his mouth and what came out COMPLETELY made my whole fuckin' day

He said:
See I think you too are fine and I'm a GROWN MAN WIT' MINE
So I'mma tell you what I saw...
I saw you getting choked up at the Pink Tea Cup
And standing at bay while I got my latte
And coming at the wrong time at Bar 89
And looking good as HELL at that party in ATL
So I'm glad you had the balls and gall to step up and all
to see if our vibes would grind

I said:
"Oh yeah? well I'm glad too, thats just how I do
'Cuz I'm a GROWN MAN WIT' MINE!!!"

WHAT?!!!

My father's name is Miguel...don't SON me to death!!!

2006-05-12T18:07:00.000-04:00

My mother's name: Janice. My father's name: Miguel. Unfortunately, they have both taken the outstretched hand of God and joined him in heaven. In my estimation, those are the only two individuals who have to right to address me as "son"; NOT my boys who I hit the club with, NOT the brother working at ATRIUM greeting me as I walk through the door, NOT the dude asking me for the time as I'm waiting for the 2 train. And certainly not my good-good-girlfriend (whom I will not name, but she knows who she is!). Where the hell did this come from anyway? When did "bruh", "playa", "kid", "bro", "playboy", and the like morph into "son"?

I had the same stance two or so years ago, when everybody was going around calling each other "pa" ( i.e., "sup pa?"). Don't call me "pa"; I have no kids- to date, that I know of. (Pero, si hablamos espanol, puedes llamarme "papi" o "papo"- claro?).

This expression has become so ubiquitous amongst the brown and sexy that I don't think it even sounds strange to people anymore. And... its not confined to males! True story: I'm riding the A train back to Brooklyn late one night (as I've been known to do). Two o'clock in the morning on a Thursday. The train pulls into the West 4th Street station and the throng get on. Three young women, who couldn't have been more than 16 if they were 20, sat immediately across from me. What stunned me most was not that they were teenagers OUT SO LATE ON A SCHOOLNIGHT, nor that two of the three could easily have auditioned for "America's Next Top Model" and gave Ms. Jade a run for her money. What really furrowed my brow was the conversation-"...yo, dat nigga was mad cute, SON!"..."...soon as I get home, I'm hittin the bed, SON!"..." "...I'm not feelin like goin to class tomorrow, SON!". Since when is it okay for FEMALES to call each other 'SON'? WTF??!! That's supposed to be sexy?

Now I might be overreacting; "son" could just be another term of endearment that defies gender-specific categorization; sort of like "partna", "ace", or "running buddy". But I don't think so. Those colloquialisms denote an equality with those being referred to. When you address someone as "son", it denotes progeny, someone who would not be here if it hadn't been for you or your hormones. It automatically places the addressed in a subordinate position and the addressor in a position of reverence, respect and in most cases authority. Maybe its just me, and maybe I'm having a bad day, but unless your seed is responsible for my existence, unless you put me through college with your hard-earned money, unless you guided me into becoming the man that I am today, you don't have the RIGHT to refer to me as "SON".

but I digress, son...LOL

Epiphany...I LOVE myself for ONCE loving you...

2006-04-10T18:00:00.000-04:00

I once wrote about the pain of having been in love with someone and having that feeling of love degenerating into a feeling of self hate (catch it here). Its amazing what a simple read of a few paragraphs can do to completely turn oneself around. I’m laying across Terence’s bed in Harlem, reading the April issue of ‘O Magazine’- (I know, very homo! LOL) I’m reading the article “Love With A Twist”, about a couple’s teetering on the brink of marital disaster due to his inability to stop drinking (because he’s an alcoholic), and her refusal to do so (because she enjoys it so).

After taking us through the highs and lows of their relationship, Natalie (the author) gets us to the climax of the story: they start separate marriage counseling sessions. As these sessions go on, one day (after a broken light bulb fixture leads to the argument that prefaces “the make-up discussion”), her husband Hank asks Natalie what happened in her session. She says to him “I told her that this is so hard, and it’s making me miserable and half the time I hate you. So she asked me if I wanted to leave, and I said no. No matter how awful it is, I’m going to stay forever”. The climax to the story comes when Hank gives her a look and says ‘That’s what I’ve been telling her too”, after which they stare at each other and both involuntarily start to evoke a freeing, “one-of-those-changing-moments-in-a-relationship” laughs- which makes them both realize that that one guffaw carried with it the realization that they WANTED to still remain committed to each other- even through all of the shit.

What was life-changing to me was not the climax of the story, but rather the dénouement. She ends this story with the following powerfully true paragraph:
"When the last speck of fairy dust is gone, and you are married to exactly the person you married and not any fantasy of your own, you find out whether you have what it takes to make it through a few more decades of togetherness. It takes commitment, it takes forgiveness, it takes resignation and compromise, but with all of this, you still have to feel tenderness. The person you see in those eyes that meet yours across the pillow, or the dining room table, or over the head of the child whose hands you hold- if that person still touches something wordless in you, you can imagine that there are still good parts left, still surprises in the story. You can only find out what happens when you believe in love if you believe in love. We choose to believe.”

Reading this brought me back to the re-examination of my last relationship, the “one that broke both the camel’s back and my heart”. In the three-plus years since I’ve been saddled with what I perceived were a malfunction corazon and an inability to fix my “loving soul”, this paragraph made me realize two freeing things. Firstly, even though ______ and me shared a commitment, neither one of us was necessarily committed to the idea of it. I woke up every morning wondering if this was going to be the last day of my relationship; because I knew I had not been my true self going into it (turns out that day would be December 23rd!). I had not presented to my man the REAL Chad from day one, and that built up every day into a fear of being “found out”, of being less than desired and ultimately a disappointment to him. It would only stand to reason, I thought, that this disappointment would lead to an inevitable dissolution of the relationship. I watched and checked and re-checked myself every day to make sure that the person I had presented had still fallen in line with the false persona I had put forth, with no flaws in the lining of this persona, no questions of consistency with what I had said or done as this ‘pseudo-person’, and no cause for pause as to the authenticity of this character I had made up. It was completely mentally exhausting!!!! Anything that takes up that much energy to keep up eventually will falter and fail miserably.

I wanted him to believe that I was (we were?) the exception and not the rule, even as I knew the rule applied to me (us). Meeting someone online and having sex with them at the first available opportunity COULD lead to true love. I’m not saying it can’t happen, I’m just saying that it can’t happen with me; this I know. However, I was trying to convince him (and perhaps myself) otherwise. Two people with VERY active online lives (and multiple screen names) CAN decide overnight that they just want to be with each other and trust never be an issue. Again, not saying it doesn’t happen, just not in my world. Yes, it IS possible for us to completely isolate ourselves from our friends and family in order to keep outside forces from influencing us as we build this (weak?) foundation of a relationship that we’re working on. Not even (in my opinion) in the most mature relationships is that possible, baby! One more time: could work for someone else, not in my way of thinking.

But it would be a combination of all of these and couple of other things that would lead us down the road to dishonesty, infidelity, rage, conceit, hurt and pain. I don’t know if these were ______’s issues, but I know he definitely had a few of his own going into the relationship as well. Perhaps one day we’ll both be mature enough to handle an honest discussion, though I doubt it. There’s an old Rwandan proverb which says “you can eat from a lie once, but not every day”, and I would be surprised if we were able to sit down and really talk about all of the ingredients that we both put into the poisonous stew from which we ate everyday for almost 2 years. It would be like getting food poisoning from a restaurant and going back to find out exactly at what point you got sick. If you’ve made it past the point where you’re not running to the toilet every 5 minutes, what does it matter? Moreover, the question of whether you would try a different entrée at that same restaurant is entirely up to you; my feeling is that there are enough restaurants in the world that can nourish you and please your palate and experience to prevent you from having to revisit a poisonous pit, no matter how much you like the décor.

But all of this leads me to the second freeing thing, and my “a-ha moment”. When the fairy dust cleared, neither one of us had or embodied commitment, forgiveness, resignation, compromise or tenderness. How could we continue? Going forward with the restaurant allegory, _____ no longer wanted to dine at the “shell” of the bistro Chez Chad any more than I wanted to endure the wait list at the impenetrable _____ steakhouse. What we presented to each other- whether or not they were our true selves- did not in the end please each other’s palate. Additionally (speaking only for myself)- if I were honest with myself- even though I’d honestly be ambivalent to try the aperitif of sex at his “steakhouse” again, I could never truly see myself partaking of the complete meal of intimacy again- the risk of poisoning would be too great in my mind.

Natalie said you can only find out what happens when you believe in love if you believe in love. Well, in 2003, we chose not to believe. What I learned from that whole experience is nothing- absolutely nothing- that begat in Schadenfreude and deception could ever prosper.

But I digress….

What if we ALL had AIDS???

2005-12-14T15:26:00.000-05:00

Once in a while, an advertising campaign comes along that even I have to praise for its ingenuity and authenticity. I first saw the engaging campaign posters for “WE ALL HAVE AIDS” plastered on subway stations and then went to the website (http://www.weallhaveaids.com/) to read up on it. The “WE ALL HAVE AIDS” mission communicates one thing: if one of us (in the world) has AIDS, then we ALL do. I commend this message because it has done what none that came before has done; it has actively attacked the STIGMA of being HIV/AIDS- infected and put it in the first person. It shifts the mental paradigm.

Firstly, it flies in the face of conventional wisdom concerning HIV/AIDS prevention/treatment. In the recent past, other campaigns have tried to remove the stigma of HIV/AIDS by showing the “cross section” of people whom the plague has affected; actual HIV victims. While this was brave and innovative, there was still a disconnect. People were able to look into the faces of these people fighting for their lives and know that this disease was real and tangent. However, there was still an “us and them” component to it that made it easy for people that weren’t actually affected by the disease in their daily lives to separate themselves from the atrocity. It allowed the viewer to empathize with those affected, but the urgency to step up and do something -other than perhaps contribute a few dollars to an AIDS charity like AMFAR- was missing. However, giving to a cause simply as a knee-jerk reaction to people dying doesn’t change the “those poor people” mindset. It still allows you to separate YOURSELF from the problem. “She has AIDS and I’m doing something to help HER” is different from saying “I have AIDS and I’m doing something to further the search for a cure for ME”. This campaign takes the “us and them” premise and goes after the “them” component, taking it out of the equation and declaring that the sole community affected by AIDS is “US”. While only some people belong to the “them” demographic, we all belong to the “us” demographic. This shift in mindset is genius and absolutely essential if we are to mount an effective battle against the worst healthcare crisis the world has faced in recent history.

It also negates the idea that the solution is simply to throw money at the disease (which is not necessarily a bad thing. If Reagan had “thrown money” at the disease at its inception, we would probably be 10 years ahead in the search for a cure. But anyway…). There is a listing of all the charitable organizations that you can contribute time and energy to that subscribe to the message of the campaign- everyone from nelsonmandela.org to rosiesbroadwaykids.org and youthaids.org. You can find out how these organizations enact different strategies and touch different demographics in the fight against AIDS. However, the genius in this campaign lies in the T-shirts designed to extricate the stigma that is attached to each HIV/AIDS victim. They enable the wearer to make a simple statement- We ALL have AIDS if even ONE of us has AIDS. There is also another, bolder t-shirt simply proclaiming I HAVE AIDS. The shirts, available at Barney’s, Fred Segal, Theory, Scoop, Louis of Boston and Kenneth Cole New York stores, cost $35- all of which goes directly to the WE ALL HAVE AIDS foundation to further HIV/AIDS education and eradication.

Keeping the AIDS pandemic in the "mental first person" keeps the battle fresh - especially with the rash of other tragedies that perhaps have taken the spotlight off of the fight. When asked does he think that in the United States HIV/AIDS has lost its position as a much-talked-about issue in mainstream America, campaign creator/designer/activist Kenneth Cole responded “Unfortunately, it has because we as a people, I guess, respond more easily to acute disasters than to chronic ones. We deal with them comfortably, be they tsunamis, be they hurricanes or wars of questionable relevance. But we have a hard time dealing with something that isn't packaged comfortably and isn't easily fixed. Especially if we don't find ourselves to be at risk”

How absolutely, unapologetically prolific!

Open Mike- Yelling at God

2005-12-11T15:08:00.000-05:00

For years I’ve been quietly weeping
I’ve been hoping against the obvious
Praying against the inevitable
Shaking my head at the ugliness we do, the unconscionable

I’ve been praying for my people
And crossing my fingers for things to turn out right
I’ve been quietly singing hymns and psalms and Old Negro Spirituals
And putting my heart and soul into every syllable

I’ve put on a happy face and smiled through the pain
And tried to realize that for every 3 sunny days
There has to be at least one day of rain

And I’ve done what I was supposed to do
And gave what was expected of me to give
And learned what was necessary
And listened to how a Christian is supposed to live

But through all of this giving and singing and praying and being and hoping…

I’ve tried my best to stifle this voice
That wailed at the idea of men damaging little boys
I’ve stroked it softly when it cried from its gut
When it heard about little girls in Thailand getting fucked
I’ve tried to reason with it when it couldn’t gage
How wonderfully creative people in the first world could still die of AIDS

How we could allow the savagery of clitoral circumcision
And be satisfied with international cultural tunnel-vision
How it's ok that people who sleep with their own sex have provisions
In our laws designed to keep them second-class citizens
How those poor souls were never served anything uglier and meaner
Than a ball of hell packaged with the beautiful name Katrina
How we don’t question what’s REALLY the matter
When given the choice of ‘Vote or DIE’- and we choose the latter

And so sometimes I find myself laying on my back staring at the ceiling
YELLING AT GOD!!!

Screaming like I have a right to question Him
Not in decibels full of contempt without fear of retribution
But in a blind, awkward and earnest attempt to obtain a viable resolution

Because MY God couldn’t be watching all of this go on and do NOTHING…

So my faith is being tested at a time when it could be stronger
‘Cause my patience is growing shorter and my emotions longer
And there’s only so much giving and singing and praying and being and hoping that I have left
Before I have to personally address these injustices and get something off my chest

And who knows what would happen then…

In the meantime, I’ll continue to try to lower this voice that speaks volumes of despair
And hope that sometime soon my God will take over and get us away from there…

Is "Gay Sex" dead"?

2005-11-13T11:04:00.000-05:00

www.sexinthe70s.com

At the beginning of “Gay Sex In The 70’s”, artist and activist Barton Benes is sifting through pictures of some of the men he’s “come across” during his sexual awakening in the 70s. He has chosen to immortalize these images by affixing them to jagged pieces of hardened clay and keeping them on his coffee table. One of the interesting things is that the pile is quite high- filled with “cowboys”, “leathermen”, “trade” and other staples of the gay community that any fan of the Village People would be completely familiar with. This is his segue into the tawdry tale that is his experience as a gay man in the city that never sleeps during one of the most turbulent and storied periods in gay history- and he is not alone or unique. Cart out the procession of older gay men with their own versions detailing the freedom of being “happy, carefree, and gay” during a period about which they wax poetic with so much zeal that is almost seems made up. However, we are presented with irrefutable evidence that is most certainly is NOT made up. What is so titillating about this- and one of the reasons the film succeeds- is the cross-section of subjects that the documentary puts in front of the camera; from pioneers of the ACT UP movement and The Gay Men’s Health Crisis to Larry Kramer (author of “Faggot”) and Mel Cheren (founder of West End Records, whose recordings were a large soundtrack of the PHENOMENON of Larry Levan and The Paradise Garage).

“Gay Sex in the 70s” is chock-full of stories (and imagery) of the “libertine” period of homosexuality- and examines the rise of the “sex without guilt or consequences” dogma that many a present-day fag longs to return to. It is Gay Camelot- the time immediately following the riots of Stonewall (which mentally “freed” gays as a whole) and right before the discovery of “GRID” (which would be renamed AIDS once the bigoted medical community realized this new disease affected more than just gays). This period is brought to life by Benes and other “survivors” of this era. All of which is book-ended by historical references, stock film of “Vintage Gay NYC” (the mere mention - never mind the footage-of The Paradise Garage made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end), and thoughtfully-edited images of gay sex (dare I say classic porn?) that illustrate the bacchanalian revelry known as “gay sex” back then.

The film eases into the subject of STDs that became commonplace as a result of this “lifestyle” (is that where this expression comes from?), and tales of taking penicillin before a night of “partying” and such (one person’s re-telling of having gonorrhea of the throat was particularly NOT SEXY) lead us to the END of the fantasy. Benes talks about the “pervert” that asked him to wear a condom during sex. People start questioning whether they are destroying themselves literally with all the preoccupation with sex. It is then that AIDS rears its ugly head and, as one of the subjects put it, was “out the door before we could catch it”. Cue moral: gay sex in the 70s was GREAT, but would be greater if there were more of us around that could talk about it. Remember the irrefutable evidence that these tales were definitely NOT made up? Well, here goes. All of the men whose faces don the artistic clay chips on Benes’ coffee table- every last one of them- is now DEAD (it is inferred as a result of AIDS). Moreover, the stilts that held up the abandoned factories down at the pier (where footage showed men having anonymous sex by the hundreds) are now just a collection of thick wood pieces just barely visible above the water- a grim allegory for the hundreds of thousands of gay men that are no longer “above ground”.

The “RE-EDIT”…
Ok, the first thing that was interesting about this movie was that the vast majority of the audience attending the screening could have been in the movie. For the most part I was surrounded by older white homos out on the town with their lovers or ‘dates’. These were the people who nodded in agreement or who let out knowing laughs at points during the film that showed sex behind or in trucks parked down at the piers, orgy-parties on Fire Island, or taking a line of coke at Studio 54. No judgment- this just wasn’t MY experience (for the record, I wasn’t even OLD enough to be having sex during the 70’s!!!). . I knew that going into the theatre. I did, however, feel excluded from the discussion (as most black gay men can attest to when entrenched in conventionally “white gay” situations). I mean, black gay men DEFINITELY had sex in the 70’s, did we not? Maybe someone will make a documentary about THAT (hmmmm)

Another thing that was interesting was the arc of the film, and how it mimics the “gay” experience of the 70’s through present day. At the beginning “we” are titillated with erotic images of man-sex and Dionysian orgies. We are regaled with “I remember this one time…” stories that are fantastic in every sense of the word. We are shown how sex and sexual freedom changed our own perception of our homosexuality; it went from something to be ashamed of to something to be celebrated. I could almost feel the “pride” and freedom that was present during that time in the audience. However, when the onset of AIDS is broached, I can hear and feel a collective “sigh”- a feeling of the wind being taken from sails- in the voices of the movie as well as in the sorrowful moans of the audience members. This has to be what those that are still among us must be feeling about being gay BEYOND the 70s; a new-found sexual freedom “high” (which was really “the calm before the storm”), followed by so-called “consequences” of gaining said freedom, and a return to the restriction of such.

I wish I had made the earlier screening, because Joseph Lovett and other members of the cast were present afterwards to discuss the film. I would have asked about the idea that “gay sex in the 70’s” is just not that different from gay sex now. I mean, I know PERSONALLY that there is a large contingent of gay men out there at this very minute who are having indiscriminate “raw” sex with reckless abandon. The only difference now is that most don’t appear to be doing it with the freedom and license that those in the 70s seemed to; it’s been reduced to a subculture. Even as people are still having “gay sex” in the manner that is discussed herein, for the most part that behavior (which defined “gay” for a lot of people in the 70’s) is now reviled in the gay community- at least on the surface.

I think every gay person should cop this documentary once its released on DVD- put it on the shelf right next to “And the Band Played On” and “Paris Is Burning”.
But I digress…

The Rear-view Mirror of Life...I'm Testifyin'!!!!

2005-11-09T15:04:00.000-05:00

"You can't go forward looking in the rear-view mirror of your life"- Tammy Faye Baker (From the Logo Channel TV special "The Eyes of Tammy Faye")

You know, I'm generally not one for hanging on the every word of Tammy Faye Baker- but when somebody says something that's sooooo right and sooooo true and soooo succinct, you HAVE to give credit where credit is due damnit! When she was asked about how she is going to "recover" from the stain of the Jim Baker/PTL Scandal, La Baker basically said that sometimes you have to concentrate on moving forward and doing what you need to do and leave the past exactly where it is. Otherwise, you're not living life, you're RE-LIVING the past over and over again. HOW PROPHETIC, POETIC, and TRUE!!!

Hearing that made me mull and reflect on the times in my life when I SHOULD have just LET GO- of insignificant things, of hurtful situations, of damaging people- and just moved ON. Many times we are so intent on looking BACK at situations where things went awry and beating ourselves up about how we could have fixed them or done better- so busy checking and reanalyzing the 'rear-view' of the past- that we don't allow ourselves to see what COULD be coming up in the front windshield of possibility. We allow the MACK TRUCK that is life roll down the road on 'cruise control', hoping that it will eventually transport us magically to happiness. We fall asleep at the wheel, and then any number of things can happen. We could miss the exit or the offramp to very lucrative opportunities that maybe we could have taken or we might speed past very important spiritually-uplifting people that God is trying to bring into our lives. I can recall being soooo caught up in the "failure" of a relationship (that had LONG since been over) that I couldn't fully take advantage of a new and profitable employment opportunity. I also could not fully emotionally avail myself to key people in my life at important times when THEY needed ME-which made me the worst kind of friend to have. Had I not been so stifled by the fact that something that I thought I wanted so bad didn't turn out the way that I WANTED it to- had I left that situation in the rear-view mirror- I could have been more of a TRUE source of comfort and wisdom to those that really mattered to me. This kind of regret is completely preventable- by using the 'rear-view mirror' philosophy.

I'm not saying to go through life with a hardened heart and the cynicism of, say, a Michael Musto (who really is kind of BRILLIANT) and not allow your emotions to guide you through SOME situations. Emotions are REAL and should NEVER (well, hardly ever) be disguised or dismissed for fear of reprisal, exposure or pain. However, there comes a time when you have to put emotions to the side and say "you know what? It is what it is, and now what its going to be is DONE"- and TRULY accept that. Pining for the return of a lover is NOT going to make him/her come back through sheer pining- and if they don't come back of their own volition you shouldn't want their crusty ass anyway. Moreover, you should be grateful that they are quickly becoming rear-view mirror images- which can APPEAR closer than what they really are- so that you can turn around and look into that HUGE windshield in front of you and proclaim that YOU are the navigator of your life/car. This doesn't just apply to scorned lovers, but for any situation where you have no choice but to accept the fact that 'hey, shit didn't turn out the way I wanted it to". It took me 2 LOOONG years to fully integrate this philosophy into my life, and now that it is such a genuine part of my being I wondered how I could have gotten to 36 years old without having learned it (through the grace of God, that's how- but that's another story!).

I have decided to LET GO of the pain, deception, hurt and fear that has come my way. I have also decreed that all of the disappointments, limitations, and injustices of the past are just that- THE PAST. It is time to experience (as Joan Didion so intelligently entitled her new memoir) "The Year Of Magical Thinking". So here I am repeating what is fast becoming an important mantra in my life---I AM NO LONGER LOOKING INTO THE REAR-VIEW MIRROR OF LIFE; I AM PEERING OUT OF THE FRONT 'WINDSHIELD OF POSSIBILITY'.

Join me in repeating that, if you feel like it. For now, I digress...

Noah's Arc...Let's get REAL!!!

2005-11-04T11:07:00.000-05:00

So... I've had a chance to FINALLY sit back and etch onto the tableau in my mind exactly how I feel about the whole 'Noah's Arc' controversy/debacle/ground-breaking series that has erupted on the LOGO channel (www.logoonline.com) and on countless online groups/blogs. Let me first admit something- being the prurient "pseudo-homo-thug" I sometimes like to THINK I am, I agreed with those that said that the show was unrealistic- that the characters were overdramatized fem/drag queens and that seeing those images of black gay men would only further marginalize US. I agreed with those that found Noah's "drag" disconcerting (I mean, c'mon, the last person I saw tie a scarf around their neck like that was Pinky Tuscadero on 'Happy Days'!!!). I agreed with those that complained that the only "masculine" offerings were the main character's mates. I agreed with those that pooh-poohed the idea of these decidedly feminine creatures actually having MANLY partners ("that would NEVER happen in real life!!").

And then I did something that I think a LOT of us should do- I let go of all the BULLSHIT. I let go of the FEAR of being represented by someone who was not as masculine as I purport to be. I let go of all of the stereotyping and nitpicking and critiquing of the "realness" of the show and realized---it IS realistic. It's SOMEBODY'S reality. This is SOMEBODY's story. There ARE millions of Noah's and Chances and Rickys and Alexes- and some of us are fortunate enough to know a lot of them. How many of OUR friends/associates possess the "I'm happy, I'm carefree, I'm gay- I was born this way" nonchalance of Noah, or the stoic witticism of Chance? How many of us, while at the club, enjoy the occassional company of a flamboyant femboy with a heart of gold like Alex? And while we're discussing REALNESS, how many of us know (or ARE or HAVE been), the 'looking-for-love-in-all-the-wrong-places' SLUT that we see in Ricky? Once I was able to put THAT into perspective, I was able to do what I should have been able to do in the first place---WATCH THE SHOW. I was able to dissect and discern the VOICE of the show- what it is trying to say. I'll say this; even if I don't necessarily relate personally to the main characters, I relate to its central theme; that through all the trials, tribulations and travails of this hurricane we call LIFE, it certainly is great to be able to have ONE other person in your life who will be there through thick and thin to complement, assist, and guide you through it. If you have more than one (in this case, THREE), you are truly blessed. Love is love is LOVE and you don't get any more DEEP than that. That when all is said and done- when the general population has devalued and denigrated you, when the love of your life turns out to be the regret you wish you hadn't had to experience, or when you need somebody to just back you up with a baseball bat (lol), we ALL hope to have SOMEBODY in our corner. I've only watched the first 3 episodes, and I already get that.

Now here I am, 3 episodes deep, and I'm deeming Noah's Arc Tivo-worthy. I think we as a COMMUNITY need to check ourselves with regard to who we're fighting against (ourselves?) and what exactly ARE the stories we want to tell about ourselves. Are we, as Noah so aptly states in the last episode, so caught up in "idolizing... hyper-masculine ideals" that we don't want our somewhat-limp-wristed brethrens' stories to be told? As there are undoubtedly countless stories we can tell (because we are NOT monolithic), I submit that this show opens the door (and indeed the DIALOGUE) for us to continue to tell the story of the gay diaspora. And before I come off all "holier-than-thou", I need to state what I think is the obvious- Wade and Trey are fine as F&*&^%%^CK!!! I hit the rewind button a COUPLE of times when Wade is shirtless on the treadmill or when Trey comes out of the bathroom KILLIN it in those boxer briefs! But I digress...

The Day My Life Changed Overnight

2005-11-01T15:01:00.000-05:00

It was almost TOO fantasy-like; but that's what made my heart feel as though in the next 2 or 3 seconds, it was going to implode- sending rays of multicolored sunshine bursting forth. The rain was coming down not in a flash-flood manner, but as though we were in a movie and a production assistant was following us (just out of the camera's perspective) with a showerhead apparatus; such that the camera would only catch the frame telling the viewer it was raining. The droplets caught the wrinkles in his forehead, the ends of his lashes, and crept willy-nilly into his beard. His semi-curly fade-and-taper was transformed into this wet Caesar cut, with the moisture developing a deep wave pattern starting at the crown of his beautiful manly head. Resplendent! The water dragged the bottom of his jeans past the sole of his Timberlands, making his thighs more apparent and even sexier than in my recent memory.

But here we were, standing in the middle of EVERYWHERE, looking into each other's skies. We were where every couple finds themselves in the 10 seconds after they realize and admit to each other that they are indeed in love- with each other- and that they are fine (in fact, elated) with it. The noise of shuffling feet passing by, the weight of furrowed brows and side-glances, and all the injustices of the world seemed to melt in that instance. We were in love with each other, and we knew it. We not only knew it, but we communicated it to each other. We not only communicated it to each other, but we were fine with it. So fine with it that this moment- this etching out of time and space- is (and would continue to be for the remainder of my existence) one that I would forever take to be a DEFINING MOMENT. One that would play over and over and over and over just like this:

him taking my hand (or did I take his?), the cupping sound made by the insides of our hands smashing violently against the raindrops that found themselves there. Myself watching (and I'm sure mimicking) the calm, knowing smile I found on his lips. Me watching as his eyesight sharpened enough to penetrate mine. Me holding my breath, even as I watched his chest heave innumerable small, nervous exhalations. Me thinking "things will never be the same, we have crossed a threshold" as I focused on him leaning into me so close I could taste his bodyscent. My own body quipping as I felt first his hand on the small of my back and then his other hand at the base of my neck, followed by the sweet cushion of his lips and the indescribable wetness of his tongue. My eyes turning into squints as I took him in.

And we STAYED that way, for about 2 minutes of eternity, feeling God's tears and Zeus' winds whip around us- and not giving a damn. We didn't care about who might see us, what they might think, how our over-priced and over-soaked gear might be deemed unwearable heretofore, or what challenges Satan had in store for us. I wanted this feeling, this moment, to last me long enough so that I wouldn't mourn its end. And then our lips finally parted, making that juicy separation sound that the end of the most intense kisses make toward the end of their creation. I stepped back from him, taking in both his fluid and his visage (which had its own fluidity). I watched as his eyes, which had been closed through the entire liplock, slowly opened to show him the man who would be his soulmate. In his left eye, I saw complete satisfaction, pride, and the dissolution of years of pain, deceit and heartache. In his right, I saw the vacations, the introduction to his mother, the arguments, the co-habitation, the presentation of the simple-but-inherently-elegant single platinum band, the crying, the triumphs, the morning kisses on the back of the neck, the mind-blowing sex, and the future.

All of that I saw on that Brooklyn sidewalk. As we walked hand-in-hand to the subway. As we held each other on the A train toward Harlem. PURE. Yeah, things would never be the same. And thank God for that...

The Chick Down The Street...

2005-08-27T14:58:00.000-04:00

I pass her often enough; on my way home from work, on the way to the laundry, while I'm doing the walk of shame at 7,8 in the morning, etc... I don't know her name nor do I know what kind of person she is. I just know what I THINK I see.

She looks like she used to be pretty enough. Huge doe-like eyes, bronzed dark red skin, shoulder-length hair. She looks like she used to be a LOT of things; the hottest chick on the block, the captain of her Brooklyn sista-girl cheerleading team, the one who had on the latest style on the first day of school, the one who used to dawdle in her school composition book her first name and the last name of her ghettosoldier boyfriend in the center of a heart. She probably didn't get GREAT grades in school but did enough to pass and was happy to get out of high school. She seems like she would make some other chick a good friend and running buddy.

BUT...then I see other things too. I see her struggling to get little Latoya to school in the morning, because Latoya has been up till 3 watching BET Uncut. I see (and hear) her arguing with her latest boyfriend (screaming at the top of her lungs the name of his latest indiscretion- (at 2 in the morning on a Wednesday)- "I'm gonna fuck that bitch up". I see stretchmarks on her sides, memories of the 3 kids she's sired by 3 different daddies. I see the stretchmarks peering from under her low-slung jeans that reveal a body NOT holding up to time.

Maybe she let herself go taking care of the 3 kids from the 3 callous motherfuckers that used her body and her mind and then used the front door. Maybe she hadn't thought to monitor her fat and carbohydrate intake because its just easier to buy fried chicken wings and french fries from the chinese restaurant so she could feed the little bastards and put them to bed before 1 in the morning. Yeah, she tries to keep her hair and nails up, but sometimes its a couple MORE weeks than she would like between touch-ups because none of the ruthless bastards that sprayed seed in her wants to come up off of no fuckin' chedda. I see it all in her somewhat vacant stare as I approach and seemingly nonchalantly walk by the 4-apartment brownstone that has become (and probably will remain) her world.

I'm aware of her momentary stare- ("who does this nigga think HE is? ") . I'm cognizant of the head-to-toe once-over she administers in the 5 seconds that our worlds collide ("this nigga be poppin tags, but I don't never see him with no bitches"). I knew the first time I saw her that she was checkin me out, watching my comings and goings, and wondering how she could accidentallyonpurpose bump into me and check out my conversation- that hasn't happened yet. I think she's unconsciously internalized my orientation and doesn't have the time, luxury or inclination to pursue it further. OR, perhaps, its the involuntary expression that crosses my face everytime I see her- the same expression that I'm sure she's seen on the face of most uppity negroes when she takes her kids downtown or to the doctor or to the movies-' WHAT A WASTE, you could have been so much more'. I know that she senses this, because everytime I pass her and she's screaming at the kids, or chatting into the cell phone that I'm not sure she's going to be able to pay for at the end of the month, I know she sees (and I feel) the left corner of my mouth contort into that "mmmph mmmph mmmmph" that I, in my attempt to be LESS judgmental, desperately try to stifle. I don't think she works (other than being a full-time mother to 3 kids- which is in and of itself a job), because as my schedule is pretty unpredictable, I see her at 10 in the morning, 4 in the afternoon, and 2 in the morning-sometimes all on the same day.

I think about how she is the PROTOTYPE for a LOT of black women around this city and indeed around this country; no prospects of improving her life, no stable relationship with the man or men with whom she aspired to build a life with, one or more small lives to be responsible for, no means to take care of them in the way that ensures that they become accomplished individuals, no real accomplishments herself, and a potboiler of anger because of the combination of some or all of these things. Every time I see a young black woman pushing a stroller I think about ALL of this. I think about all that she COULD have been, and how it is going to be soooo much more difficult for her to pursue ANY of her dreams because her priorities have been defined for her before she could define the woman that she is. I don't know if this is an ode to abortion, pregnancy prevention, better parenting, social mores, the importance of education and education programs, a prayer for the elevation of self-esteem of our youth, or ALL of these things.

But I do pray for her.

I hate myself for loving you!!!

2005-06-07T14:53:00.000-04:00

I hate myself for STILL loving you. For STILL feeling my heart jump out of my chest at the mere mention of your name. For STILL allowing my thoughts to be interrupted EVERY DAY by you, one way or another. For having my REM sleep invaded by images of you; touching you, holding you, laughing with you, hearing your voice. I smell you in my dreams. I hate that I can't seem to get past you, even though its been over 2 years- even as I realize and still reel from the hurtful shit we've both done . I hate myself for STILL being emotionally unavailable to those that want to make themselves emotionally available to me. I hate knowing that even though we will never be together again (there, I wrote it), I can't see myself with anyone else--and HAVEN'T seen myself with anyone else. What can I do? How can I get past this? I tried bitterness, jadedness, altered consciousness, hobbies...what's next? I see you on the street and I can't even open my mouth to return a simple "hello", even though my heart is shouting VOLUMES. I hate knowing that if there WILL be another that I'll allow into ME, that your presence will be there to make things harder for me to have something REAL and HEALTHY; that I will have to work virtually around the clock not to make any potential twosome a menage a trois, because you have become so ingrained in my psyche. I hate that , in the sadly prophetic words of Deniece Williams, its "gonna take a miracle to make me love someone new". DAMN DAMN DAMN!

I'm addicted to HGTV!!!

2005-06-05T11:19:00.000-04:00

How I can spend almost an entire Saturday afternoon with the television on one channel is funny to me- I'm a channel surfer and my attention span is not THAT great. However, there's something about this channel, with its insidious redecorating programs (I am addicted to the idea of re-doing things- or re-editing things lol). It started out innocently enough; watching "Trading Spaces" on The Learning Channel. Then it grew to watching "A Makeover Story". Then it shifted to "While You Were Out" (Robert Verdi can be amusing once u get past those sunglasses that appear to be sutured to his head---fierce designer sunglasses, but sunglasses nonetheless). And yes, I would make a special effort to be home when "Extreme Makeover" would come on ABC. Then...I discovered HGTV- Home and Garden fucking television! I have always had an interest in interior design and renovations- there's something very aspirational about seeing people re-do their home with a $100,000 budget (but it does make the apartment that you rent in Brooklyn feel like a bullshit tenemant long-abandoned!). The people that they enlist to overhaul perfectly "livable" living quarters are always personable, relatively physically attractive (most of the time), and completely accomplished in their field. They KNOW their shit! They always come up with ideas that you would NEVER have thought about but somehow work brilliantly in the overall scheme of things. I find myself going into my friend's spaces and doing a "Design Remix" (one of my favorite HGTV shows). I am always thinking, as I'm sitting in my TV room "How can I make this space more livable"- even though the room is actually quite comfortable! I am always re-editing, always taking mental inventory of what I have and what I CAN have. I can't help it! What I wouldn't give to have total and complete access to some gifted carpenter who could build ANYTHING I want, custom-made; to have Ty Pennington for two days to do my bidding! Of course, anytime Oprah has Neal Berkus (sp) on her show, I make a mental note to myself to try to catch it (don't have TIVO yet!). All of these shows pull me in and speak to the interior designer in me- at least for that 30 to 60 minutes. Shows like Design on a Dime, Design Remix, Designing for the Sexes, reDesign, Designer Finals oh God somebody HELP ME!!!DAMN YOU HGTV!!!!!!

How I got my LIFE at LOVE

2005-05-30T18:40:00.000-04:00

Sunday, May 29th, blue sunny skies on a Memorial Day holiday weekend. Chillin at DJ Bladerunner's house listening to The Game's CD (which caught me by surprise- the boy is really talented, and the tracks are SICK! I will finally give in and go pick that up), the decision is made to go to the dance music club LOVE (www.musicislove.net). Joaquin 'Joe' Claussell (of the ubiquitous and now defunct Body and Soul parties) is spinning.

We get to the place at around 8:30--and the spot is jumping like these kids have been partying all night! There were stunning Chocolate Amazons with chinky eyes and pouty lips; Mark Ronson-type white boys with modelboy bodies, Asian hipsters (there was one chick there affecting a 70s Yoko Ono feel that was FIERCE); Jewish American Princesses who had come to appreciate dance music and had to get a piece of Joe's artistry; Latino chulos in tight tanks which were soaked with sweat; and Body and Soul/Sound Factory/Paradise Garage survivors who will NOT let dance music go silently into the night. Absolutely NO attitude in this melting pot. The ambiance was simple/chic/mod- you walk through the first room which is all black with glow in the dark graffiti painted on them and beanbags on the floor leading you to the second room, also painted black with artfully hung "sheets" in all corners of the club with various still lives projected onto them, and tall lit candles surrounding the top of the space and providing alternate lighting to the INTENSE light show accompanying the INTENSE mixing going on in the DJ booth.

All of this, and Joe hasn't even hit the 1's and 2's yet; some chick is on the wheels of steel, and when I tell you that she got me sweating in less than 10 minutes...believe it! I wish I had found out her name or met her. Her set made me realize that I had been missing the REAL party by (of late) ONLY attending these hip hop/reggae(ton)/r&b concoctions that it seems EVERY promoter is doing these days; real SOUL music is still alive and well. By the time she ended her set with Me'Shell NdegeOcello's "I'm Diggin You (Like An Old Soul Record)", I had been taken to the next level, and dance moves I had stored in the closet of my mind had found their way back into my spinal column.

Then Joe came on. He played four sets, each with a different texture, each hitting different parts of my body, each taking me on a different journey. I mean, come on, who would think that in this day and time I'd be spinning on the floor while a DJ spins HIS version of Michael McDonald's "What a Fool Believes"? Trust me, his mix would have had you shakin that ass! He worked through two other powerful African tribal sets before taking us on a musical rollercoaster ride with his mix of- of all things- John Legend's "Ordinary People"!!!! How I'll be able to listen to that song again WITHOUT thinking of the things that Joe did to it, I don't know. To top the night off, there was LIVE music as well. 'Speak in Tones' featuring Daniel Moreno and his Cosmic Collective started out with a simple one-two beat which was then accompanied by a tambourine and the perfect mix of other instruments to give us a syncopated potion of...LOVE. After their set, I couldn't take any more; I had to leave, I was on overload. I replayed all of that music in my head on the A train back to Brooklyn; there was no need for the Ipod. I got LIFE at LOVE!!!