I Can't Date Jesus Page 15

  It took a while, but I finally started to say these things to people out loud, forgoing my fears of how jaded I sounded. But, as a believer in the mantra “You don’t have to get ready if you stay ready,” I would have my defensive talking points prepared. “If I don’t end up with anyone or, like, get married and shit, I’ll still lead a happy and fulfilling life.” I may never be married, but that doesn’t mean I’ve failed as a person. Nor does it mean being unmarried means I will be lonely.

  A friend called me on something: “Why would you shut down the possibility before it even happens? That doesn’t sound like you.”

  No, it doesn’t. My preoccupation with making sure I never do to another what I think my father has done to my mother has made me needlessly cautious about entering an institution that I have found creates more problems than solves them. The fact that I have thought about this so much suggests that I’m already ahead of most people when it comes to taking marriage seriously.

  Another challenge is that there are not litanies of healthy gay marriages out there to be held up and learned from. The bright side of this is that I might be able to set my own rules and boundaries—ones that work for me and my needs.

  To that end, I can think of a few rules.

  As previously acknowledged, he must accept Beyoncé as his lord and gyrator. I do not believe in Beytheism. No, no, no.

  He must accept that I will probably always have a craving for fried catfish on Friday. Even if I do not eat fried catfish every Friday, he should not try to read me for craving it. That would be culturally insensitive.

  He must not judge me for wanting to watch Love & Hip Hop and The Real Housewives. The same goes for Lawrence O’Donnell’s show on MSNBC. I feel like Lawrence is me as an old white guy and we have a spiritual bond mere mortals cannot fathom. And he better watch Joy-Ann Reid with me, although I’ve noticed she has developed quite a following with the gays because she serves more reads than a twenty-four-hour library.

  He must understand my need to sing Kut Klose’s “I Like” at least five times a week out loud. The same goes for Kelly Price’s “Don’t Say Goodbye.” It’s a thing for me.

  Oh yes: #datass.

  This doesn’t mean I’m suddenly back to dreaming of a wedding day. I am still not addicted to the cult of marriage or preoccupied with the idea that it is a milestone that must be reached. I know so many straight people like this. Frankly, they all seem crazy as hell. But it is nice to know that for so long the rest of us have been deprived of this kind of crazy, and finally I get to partake in it too. And in doing so, I can shake off the stigmas I once applied to marriage because of the folks who made me. I don’t have to let the past dictate my lifestyle choices. So if marriage happens, awesome; and if it doesn’t, oh well . . .

  Okay, one change of plans if it does happen: maybe instead of “Get Me Bodied,” I should bop down the aisle to “Formation.” That feels more appropriate.

  The Pinkprint

  I don’t care about white people like that. That’s not to say I carry with me some pointed, irrational hostility toward white people. Granted, when I find instances of white folks engaging in some sort of racist stunt, I will look at Black folks and other nonwhites, let out an audible sigh, and maybe voice a comment such as “White people!” But no, I do not specifically abhor white people. I spread my hatred evenly—the way God intended.

  When I say I don’t care about white people like that, I am referring to whiteness. Whiteness is why white people are placed at higher in the social hierarchy than everyone who isn’t white. Whiteness fuels racism, and that racism is designed to protect whiteness and the aforementioned hierarchy at the expense of everyone else. Whiteness is so pervasive and so powerful that I have to explain that when I say, “I don’t care about white people like that,” I have to be very clear that I don’t mean I hate all white people—because it would be catastrophic for me to utter such a declaration. White men and women can create media companies, businesses, and accrue political power based on anti-Blackness, but even though I would never want to do the same with some similar shtick centered around contempt for white people, the fact is that such an option would never be afforded to me in the first place, since only white people can hate without repercussions. Like that punk-ass forty-fifth president of the United States of America.

  Whether white people want to admit it or not, whiteness by and large informs their outlook on everything. How could it not? They sit at the top of the food chain in society, so their standards are considered, well, the standard. Whiteness is so pervasive and so powerful that many make it seem as if whatever opinion whiteness and white people have is of greater value.

  But I don’t care about white people and whiteness like that, because I wasn’t raised to pay white people and their whiteness much mind. This had to do with not being around white people much at all growing up. They were not prevalent in my neighborhood. Outside of middle school, I didn’t see much of them in my K–12 schooling because I primarily attended predominantly Black and Latino schools growing up. Even when I was a magnet student and saw a handful of white students in middle school, we still didn’t have the same classes.

  I can remember three white teachers in my entire K–12 life: the first was a very young white woman who came across as one of those people who planned to teach at a Black school for a short spell before applying to law school (indeed, she was gone the following year); another taught choir and was very upset about O. J. Simpson’s acquittal; the last one wasn’t necessarily the Teena Marie of white teachers, but she definitely conveyed a level of comfort about being around a bunch of Black and brown faces. So, yeah, outside of those three and the handful of white kids in middle school, that was it.

  Houston was an incredibly diverse city, but I saw white people only in doses depending on the setting. For example, I saw them at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, because it was the sort of big event that brought people together. Then again, I only went to the rodeo on what was commonly referred to as “Black Night” because it featured performers like Luther Vandross, Gladys Knight, Destiny’s Child (or Beyoncé once she went solo), Monica, and Brian McKnight, while also honoring the contributions of Black cowboys. So, yes, I saw a few white people the same way I saw them when I would go to the Galleria, the really nice mall with all the fancy department stores (as opposed to the “Black mall” known as Sharpstown a few mins away), or at AstroWorld, the now demolished amusement park, or maybe the museum or the zoo. But even in those instances, I recall few times when I ever interacted with white people. If I did, it was incredibly surface-level, because southerners are ultrapolite.

  Much of this is rooted in socioeconomic status. As a Black person growing up working class, by default, white people didn’t want to live by me, go to school with me, or be in most of the same social settings as me. My neighborhood and schools each represented the “inner city” that is so often discussed in media, but most frequently by white people who don’t know the people in those spaces. We are treated dismissively: as products of our environment and as people whose fate is sealed. So, no, it’s not about any bias, but merely seeing myself ignored and responding in kind.

  I didn’t fixate on white people and whiteness because it was well established that, as a collective, they found no value in me. Nevertheless, I knew Black people were of value. Despite not growing up wealthy and despite being effectively segregated by way of that status, my mother made it clear that Black people were not deficient. She took me to Black doctors and dentists as a child. Although she couldn’t afford it, when she did want to place my brother and me in private school, it was the Imani School, a private Christian school run by the Windsor Village Methodist Church—a hugely popular and predominantly Black church. She was a devout Catholic, but she still wanted us to be at a Christian private school run by Black people. Yes, my mom told me about racism—not that it was a hard thing to figure out as an early news junkie—but while it was made clear that I may face certain obstac
les, I could overcome them because I had already seen a wide variety of all the things Black folks could achieve on their own. In hindsight, my mom was preparing me for the times when I would be around white people—and whiteness made certain that I would enter those spaces with a sense of pride.

  So this is what I mean by not caring about white people like that. Of course, I will always worry about interactions with law enforcement, as those pose life-threatening situations, but overall I look at white people like this: if you don’t present prejudice and we can just enjoy each other, awesome; but if not, I will not let it eat me alive, because it’s whiteness at work, and that’s not my Black-ass problem. Yet as someone who now works in media, I realize that my situation is very different from that of many other people.

  It requires a great degree of sacrifice to work in media. You are expected to intern for little money, if not for free, and then take an entry-level job that will not pay much and possibly lead you to question why you bothered getting a college degree. You do this under the impression that if you continue working hard, you will finally be compensated the way you deserve to be. Most people cannot afford such a sacrifice. Needless to say, I do not come from a background that lends itself to being able to afford such sacrifices, so in a lot of ways, I do find myself to be a bit of an anomaly among other Black media folks because even coming from a solidly middle-class or upper-middle-class background is a distinct advantage that I know nothing about. A lot of Black people in media come from worlds I only ever saw on TV when I was growing up. That is, they went to more diverse schools, if not predominantly white ones, whereas I went to Howard, the HBCU. They’ve had to deal with white people and whiteness for much longer, and while I would never make the sweeping generalization that all of them carry the burdens that come with being a Black person in a majorly white space, there are some who do. I feel for them, but I cannot relate to that. I’m lucky to even exist in this space with any of these people whose futures seemed more certain than mine.

  I’ve learned over time that success in this world has a lot to do with one’s proximity to whiteness. People overall value mainstream publications more than they do Black media. Part of that is rooted in folks knowing how difficult it is to be able to have your voice in mainstream outlets. Still, I want to be a success, and that entails placing myself in spaces different from those I’m accustomed to. The struggle with that, though, is that I am often asked to lead with my otherness. I don’t walk into a space pronouncing to be Black or gay. I happen to be Black, and I happen to be gay. These things inform my perspective, but I don’t believe either requires a great announcement. Still, when you are one of a few, you’re typically asked to speak from those places.

  Unfortunately, even when we are asked to write about ourselves, we are often asked to do so within even more rigid prisms. For instance, Black outlets and certain newer mainstream outlets run by younger editors will pretty much let me talk about whatever I want, however I want. (Well, minus the one time a Black male editor younger than I was warned me about using turns of phrase that were too “in group.” Translation: stop sounding so Black. He cared more about whiteness than I ever will, and I never wrote for him again. Problem solved.) In any event, with more traditional outlets, whenever commissioned to write about subject matter that’s more personal, I’ve learned over time that the more pathos is involved, the better it will be received. You know, because it’s so hard to be po’ Black me.

  Here are the topics mainstream outlets love for me to write about from the perspective of a gay Black man: Black homophobia; AIDS; and sexual racism. I don’t mind confronting Black homophobia and transphobia, but it’s always been twofold for me: I will condemn any mythology that suggests Black folks are magically more antigay or antitrans than white people, as if Black folks came over on a cruise ship clutching their Bibles while saying they couldn’t wait to pick cotton and keep Luther Vandross in the closet while also calling out Black folks for trying to borrow white folks’ oppressor baton and use it on issues related to sexuality and gender. As for the AIDS, well, yeah, I get it, and I try to confront the harsh realities of an epidemic that lingers on and on. With respect to sexual racism, I tend to cringe and roll my eyes so fervently that I’m always surprised that at least one of my eyeballs doesn’t roll out of its socket to escape the abuse.

  The reason why I roll my eyes is that I am supposed to take umbrage at the fact that I do not meet the sexual fantasies of a white man. Why? Because white men are the end-all, be-all, don’t you know? How could I not be so offended to the point that I must address the matter over and over and over again. Then place the topic in my back pocket and pull it back out on command? #AllWhiteDicksMatter or whatever.

  —

  I remember the one and only time a white boy kissed me. Technically, it was two of them at the same time, but it was spawned by one of them because he kept calling me “beautiful” in an accent that I couldn’t quite place. I can make out a British accent, a German accent, a French accent, and maybe an Australian accent, but outside of that, I’m clueless. The best I can do is say the dude sounded like one of the men Jason Bourne beat the shit out of in The Bourne Supremacy. Anyway, it didn’t matter where his speech pattern stemmed from, given that he mainly communicated with me with his tongue. It happened at some white gay club in New York that I never would have gone to if I weren’t with Samuel, someone I met through a scholarship program who was visiting the city at the same time I was back for another internship. Samuel was Mexican and from Los Angeles, but he was clearly no stranger to the Blacks and was very good at clocking a homosexual. I thought Samuel was a snack when I first greeted him, but I wasn’t out, so I never said anything. By the time we did link up, I learned he had quite the appetite for white men, which is why we hung out: he wanted to go to clubs my gay friends from the same area as me in Houston were not at all interested in going to.

  Samuel, who called me “girl” every thirty seconds, was high out of his mind, and wanted me to at least get drunk so we could go to some spot in Chelsea. The spot was massive and full of shirtless, no-body-having white boys and quite loudly played that kind of music that just thumps and requires a glow stick and Ecstasy to appreciate. I didn’t want either, so I had lots of vodka to deal with it. By drink number infinity and beyond, I found my way to the dance floor, and not long after, into that triple kiss. The one who called me beautiful was the one who kissed me first, then had me kiss his friend, and then had me kiss the both of them at the same time. Then he kept kissing me. He also grabbed my dick a lot.

  I hung out with Sam a couple of days later, and once again, it was at some gay bar populated mainly by white gays. I realized Sam’s affinity for white men was partially influenced by the access that it provided. He liked white men with money, and regardless of what many gay white men dealt with in terms of homophobia, they remained white men and commanded a kind of social capital that only white men could. Being on the arm of white privilege had its perks, and he enjoyed them. I still did not like those clubs. The lil’ triple kiss was fun, but I wasn’t toned enough to leap around shirtless, and if I was at a dance club, I wanted to hear music I could dance to. You cannot body roll to techno, or at least body roll in the manner that I’m accustomed to. Not to mention, Sam got most of the attention and was bound to ditch me.

  I wasn’t sure initially if not being paid much mind in the white gay clubs was directly related to racism. A lot of people have told me that I look unapproachable. I appreciate this one straight Black man who was comfortable enough with his sexuality to tell me, “Yo, bro. You do have resting bitch voice. Cut that shit out, bro.” I do the best I can, but I normally have to end up approaching people as a result of my being seen as unapproachable. Having said that, I do know the type of men I attract, and they are overwhelmingly not white. Anecdotally, the running logic between my friends and me is that in terms of aesthetic, American white men want Black coffee, no sugar, no milk, while the European ones are more into café au l
ait.

  I never honestly thought about all this at great length until I had been asked by multiple editors on several occasions if I had some story to tell. And then if I had any others. I know that within the last couple of years, there has been a personal essay boom. There is also an insatiable need for content and a desperate need for clicks. All of this explains why across various outlets—but for sure gay publications that are mostly run by white men—there is a constant overflow of pieces penned by Black men lamenting white men who don’t find them sexually attractive.

  Most of them read the same:

  Oh, white bae, why don’t you love me?

  Please, baby, baby, baby, please, white zaddy, want me. The way I want you.

  Give me that pumpkin-spice-latte-loving penis; I need it.

  The same goes for white men who write pieces claiming that their stance against dating Black men—“It’s just my preference”—does not make them racist by default. For the record, yes the fuck it does.

  Of course, because video matters more to media outlets with each passing quarter of lackluster advertising revenue, these diatribes have now been flipped to videos. As if the essays weren’t painful enough reads . . . Either way, they’re heavy-handed and hard for me to read.

  Look, I understand the frustration. Sexual racism is wrong, and I get that this is a long-standing issue. I know that people should make sure bigots know they cannot cower behind the false pretense of preference. Yet I am sick of reading and watching Black men complain about white men not wanting them sexually. I loathe the immediate assumption that I care that much about whether or not white men find me sexually attractive. You would think that Martin Luther King had a dream that one day a Black dick and a pink dick would sword fight and then finish all over the rainbow flag.