I Can't Date Jesus Read online

  I had every intention of planning a formal talk, but in actuality, I didn’t come up with even a general idea of what it was I wanted to say until minutes before I arrived. Thankfully, they didn’t notice. So I just talked about myself and my background. How I initially wanted to be a news anchor and how I kinda fell into writing full-time. How I wanted to write books and be on television and offer a perspective I felt was missing: working class, southern, Black, gay, country, twerk-friendly, and so forth. As I spoke more, I remembered that even in the midst of my frustrations, I did have a purpose: I wanted to make people laugh and make people think. I wanted to write and say things that I hoped would make it better for those who came after me.

  And, yes, I talked about my family, religion, boys, and stigmas.

  After I finished, someone came up to me and said, “I mean no disrespect I really enjoyed your talk. I will say one word, though: pain.” He said “no disrespect” because he worried I would react the wrong way and pop off on him, I guess. I didn’t take offense. Why would I?

  Shortly before that talk, I had spoken at a panel on the HIV/AIDS crisis in the Black community. In both cases, I was honest about my experiences and forthright about how they impacted me. Some people cried, but I didn’t. I didn’t need to, because I’m all cried out about that. That’s not where my head is anymore. I used to worry so much about coming across as sad. I feared that I would be adding to a lingering narrative about people like me. I learned to stop fixating on that so much. Some parts of my life are sad, but I am not a sad spirit.

  As I explained to the guy, “It’s fine that you heard pain, but what matters is that I’m able to speak about it without breaking down, and with hope.” Even if he didn’t want to say it explicitly, I think he anticipated me speaking about my life in a way that ended with a pretty little bow around it. I get it. When people talk about their lives—in speeches, on panels, in memoirs, in documentaries, and the like—you’re often given some ending that’s packaged that way. You’re typically given something that leaves you feeling all warm and fuzzy. I aim to inspire and be inspired, but I don’t necessarily have to speak about my life through that kind of filter.

  In the past, there were days when I didn’t want to get out of bed. I struggled emotionally because I refused to deal with my anger, with my self-loathing, and with my insecurities about my sexuality and so many aspects of my childhood. I would so easily just keep going, and took the approach that I would get back to all that eventually. Eventually never came, and I suffered as a result of it. There were times when I tried to convince myself that I was trying to change, but in reality, it was just me talking rather than actually doing.

  But I have done the work now. Still, I have a few remaining concerns. I don’t know how some things will work out with respect to my folks. I do wish my mom would be like, “I talked to Jesus, and he said it’s cool. I mean, I got the sugar, and you got sugar in your tank. It’s all good!” But at the same time, whatever happens happens. I am not in control of that.

  I don’t know what day I’ll pay off my damn student loans, but whew, how I long for that shit. To that point, every now and then, I worry that I should have taken up escorting as a minor in college to put off these private student loans. It’s never too late to mumble rap, though!

  And there are moments when I play a certain R & B song and think, “Damn, I’m single as shit. Still!”

  Speaking of R & B, as an intern way back in 2003, I met Mary J. Blige. Her My Life album has always meant so much to me. It is my all-time favorite album. I have long given it partial credit for keeping me alive and pushing me to work hard so I could thrive and enjoy life. I got to meet her interning at Majic 102 in Houston. She was there to promote her Love & Life album, which was better than a lot of y’all gave it credit for. The DJ I worked under, Kandi Eastman, had stepped out of the studio for a second, and Mary entered. It was just me and her.

  She entered the room wearing an all-white jacket and a big smile.

  “Hey,” she said. “How you doing?”

  Before I could even answer, Mary extended her arms and gave me the biggest hug. Maybe she thought I was the DJ, but who cares? I was hugging Mary without having to post bail as a result.

  “I have something I wanted to share with you,” I said. “Whenever you find the time to read it.”

  “Cool,” she answered. She placed the letter in her Louis Vuitton bag.

  She did the interview, and that was it. I wasn’t sure if she’d actually read the letter or if it would just end up in the trash.

  Your album was the first album I ever purchased. And I’ve been playing it nonstop for nine years. Even when I didn’t understand every single thing you were talking about, I could feel your sadness, and it helped me cope with my own. You’ve helped keep me sane and want to keep going.

  I know what it’s like to feel miserable and unloved, I know what it’s like to have people constantly criticize you, and I understand what it’s like to want to be happy but simply can’t be. I know it’s mainly women that admire you. But I wanted you to know that I, too, appreciate the honesty in your work and the fact that you’ve been brave enough to be so open throughout your career.

  A week later, I was in Los Angeles at the Staples Center watching a charity basketball game. During halftime, I picked up my phone and saw that I had a voice mail.

  “Michael, how you doing? This is Mary J. Blige.”

  My eyes lit up, and I almost fell out of my chair.

  “I read your letter finally,” Mary said. Her voice was wavering. It sounded like she wanted to cry. “I just want to say to you. You have no idea. You made my day.

  “You made it to where I want to go on. I thank God for you and this letter.”

  I was stunned. She even left a number for me to call her back. When I called back, her then fiancé, Kendu, answered the phone. I could hear Mary grab the phone when her soon-to-be husband said my name.

  “Hello?” she asked.

  “Hey, this is Michael, I’m the one who wrote you the letter . . . in Houston?”

  “Hey, Michael,” she said. “I remember you.”

  “Thank you for taking the time to read my letter,” I said.

  “No, Michael,” she said. “Thank you for writing it.” She went to say, “You will find someone just as beautiful as you are.”

  After that call, I realized I could make a connection with people through my writing.

  I write all that to say, I’m still single, Mary J. Blige. Where is this person you promised? Also: I’m so mad at Kendu. I’ll never not be mad. I love you, Queen!

  But no, my life isn’t perfect. There are still some things I would like to change. However, what has changed is that while everything isn’t ideal (when is it ever?), I don’t worry the way I used to.

  It’s natural to have moments of doubt, but what keeps us going is faith. When I rejected the religion I was raised in, I struggled, because I didn’t formulate any other belief system. That is no longer the case. I do believe in a God, but more than anything, I believe in me. No matter what comes my way and no matter what happens around me, I am going to be okay. I always have been. I always will be.

  I was never looking for a happy ending anyway. What I’ve been longing for is a new beginning. I’ve settled on the reality that I can’t date Jesus, but I can have the life of my choosing.

  It took me longer than most to realize that, but I’ve long been a late bloomer. And better late than never.

  Acknowledgments

  I  love my parents, and while I know my writing this book may not have been their ideal choice, it would have been impossible for me to do it without them. I’m grateful to them as well as my siblings, Nicole and Marcus, my gorgeous nieces, Alexis and Alyssa, and the rest of my family.

  Thank you to the immensely talented Helena Andrews for providing me with a template for how to chase this dream. Thank you to the incomparable Denene Millner, who for every year it took for me to get an agent and th
en a deal, continued to both believe and champion me. You allowed me to have my sad moments, but you always pushed me to keep going, knowing that eventually the world would catch up. I can never say “thank you” enough.

  Thank you to my agent, Jim McCarthy, who after calling me into his office to revisit past dialogue, said, “I think I may have made a mistake.” I may have not been completely ready, but you certainly made sure that I was and ultimately became just as passionate as me about this journey. Thank you to my editor, Rakesh Satyal, who told me at a coffee shop in Midtown to just be a little patient because he, like Jim, believed in me, and would help make sure this country gay Black boy got to share his story the way he wanted to.

  Thank you to Kimberly Milburn, who has listened to me talk about what all I wanted in my career for nearly two decades. I love you, I love your family, and I’m so appreciative of how y’all have treated me since we forged a bond at James Madison Senior High School’s Blue and White game at Butler Stadium so many years ago. Thank you to Astrid McClendon for always being an ear because, as you know, sometimes only those who have had experiences like you can relate to what you’re grappling with.

  Thank you to andré williams, my friend-turned-brother and tour buddy, for your friendship, your ear, and your eternal optimism. I am so glad “Missez” featuring Pimp C brought us together. Thank you to Devon Augustine for being one of the brightest specks of light in my life. As much as I cherish the memory of us of recreating the “No Time” video on an escalator at the Century City Mall after so many margaritas, it doesn’t top all the years we have loved and supported each other. Nakisha Williams: I love the shit out of you and am so grateful to you for everything. Thank you to Janet Mock and Aaron Tredwell for being such amazing friends who, like my aforementioned beloved, have come to feel more like family.

  Now, this is the part where I want you to hear all of this in the voice and delivery of the late Whitney Houston at the first BET Awards: thank you to Sarah Lake, Lauren Ware, Maiya Norton, Charreah Jackson, Jason Parham, Alex English, Kirk Moore, Amber Reece, Raia Eke-Oduru, Brandon and Brian Smith, Mimi Blanchard, Shanise Coatney, Candy Reyes, Jessica Woodson, Xavier D’Leau, Corey Davis, Richard Brookshire, Sade Hazard, David Johns, Nicholas Nelson, Lauren Ball, Marcus Vanderberg, Robert Vann, Melanie Martin, and Nakea Tyson. I know that I am forgetting a few, and yes, this is the part when you can refer to me as “punk ass bitch.” I still love you, though.

  I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the people in media who have not only helped me in some way, but have inspired me and/or befriended me: Melissa Harris-Perry, Doreen St. Felix, Clover Hope, Jenna Wortham, Kelley L. Carter, Richelle Carey, Darnell Moore, Bomani Jones, Samantha Irby, Jamilah Lemieux, Kierna Mayo, Pia Glenn, Desus Nice, The Kid Mero, Danielle Henderson, Bevy Smith, Kiese Laymon, Zach Stafford, Ross Scarano, Jermaine Spradley, Rembert Browne, Tracy Clayton, Heben Nigatu, Mitzi Miller, Aliya S. King, Dan Charnas, Tia Williams, Emil Wilbekin, and yeah, I am probably forgetting more people so y’all can cuss me smooth out too. Also, thank you to every editor who has given me work along the way—particularly the ones who’ve consistently looked out for me.

  Once more: if I forgot you, blame my thot and not my heart.

  By now I know you are looking for your name, but no, I didn’t forget about you, Luis Roberto Machuca. You are undoubtedly one of the most intriguing additions to my life, but regardless of complications, the fact that we annoy each other, and general uncertainty, I couldn’t have finished this book without you. I hope my impact on you has been at least half as strong as the one you’ve had on me.

  And as I wrap this shit up, shout out to Hiram Clarke. I am who I am because of where I come from and what all I’ve experienced. To that end, to everyone reading this for one reason or another, who has some person, some institution, or some combination of the two trying to break you, allow me to quote one of my favorite singers, Teedra Moses: “Be yourself and if you people don’t fool with it, fuck them.”

  Oh yeah, and Mo’Nique, too, ‘cause I love us for real.

  About the Author

  Michael Arceneaux is a Houston-bred, Howard University–educated writer currently living in Harlem. Covering issues related to culture, sexuality, religion, race, and Beyoncé, Michael has written for the New York Times, the Guardian, New York Magazine, Complex, The Root, Essence, and many other publications. Additionally, he’s lent his commentary to MSNBC, VH1, NPR, Viceland, and SiriusXM, among others. Find out more at michael-arceneaux.com.

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  ISBN 978-1-5011-7885-6

  ISBN 978-1-5011-7886-3 (ebook)