Corey @ I'll Keep You Posted

AUGUST PROVOST III: AN UPDATE!

It has been reported that outspoken Congresswoman Sheila Jackson-Lee (Texas), fresh off an exciting and politically-defining moment as one of the guest speakers at Michael Jackson's memorial, will demand a congressional inquiry into the death of Seaman August Provost III, the Houston TX native killed in cold blood (among his own) at Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton in northern San Diego.   In addition, Rod McCullom (Rod 2.0:Beta) who continues diligently to cover this story, reported that his sources revealed "the Congressional Black Caucus, NAACP, and the Black Leadership Forum are making a joint statement demanding a full investigation by the Department of Defense and the Secretary of the Navy. Rep. Bob Filner (D) of suburban San Diego, chairman of the House Veterans Affairs Committee, says his panel will investigate too".

Funeral arrangements have been set for Povost, and the viewing will be Friday at 10:00AM, at Wright Grove Baptist Church, 9702 Willow St., Houston TX 77088-4637 (281-447-2372).  There will also be a candlelight vigil later that evening (outside Camp Pendleton in CA), between 7:00PM - 9:00PM.  The address is 1300 N Coast Hwy, Oceanside, CA 92054.  Nope!  The vigil will not be held by a group of August Provost's peers, but by the North County LGBT Coalition & the DOD Fed Globe.  They want to remind participants that this is a very somber occasion and all signs need to reflect Provost's memory.  The organizers are arranging a funeral procession that will meet at 5:30PM at the LGBT Center parking lot and will depart as a caravan to the Camp.

Navy Capt. Matt Brown who made the announcement that Seaman Provost's murder was not a "gay related"  military hate crime, recently said that "particular" murder would have happened regardless because "What I can tell you, unequivocally at this point, based on the preliminary information that we have, is that regardless of the person standing watch in that sentry station, this crime would have most likely been carried out in the same way.  In other words, another sailor could have been on that post and would have been the victim of this crime."  After the release of the first "person of interest" that the navy had taken into custody, another was quickly found.  Reportedly, this sailor has given a statement that links him to Provost's death, but no details have been released and no charges have been filed.  Furthermore, this past Monday, an unnamed senior Navy officer in San Diego publically expressed his "frustration" with bloggers and other media reports that Seaman Provost had been brutalized - in addition to being shot.  "He did suffer gunshot wounds, and there was a fire in a pretty clear attempt to destroy evidence, but he was not bound, he was not gagged and he was not mutilated."  And we should all feel better now because ? ? ? 

A commenter on another blog seemed to have a bit of an issue with a comment (in my previous post on Provost) that President Obama could wipe out Don't Ask - Don't Tell (DADT) with the "stroke of a pen".  Yes, I understand that it is (and will be a process) and since being written into law, it will have to be repealed by both houses of Congress.  Reportedly, the Obama Administration recently asked the military how best to lift the ban, and Admiral Mike Mullen, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, said that he has told the President to make the change "in a measured way."  Apparently, such measures, in addition to a good dose of public support and the political climate seemed to work for other nation's that have struggled with the same issue, as modifying enforcement was followed by an end to their bans.  But we're supposed to be the progressive ones?  284 military personnel have been cooked up and dished out of their respective service ranks since Obama came into office after promising to end it. 

Personally, I would like to thank all of the commenters and emailers that have touched base with me on this issue, both on this blog and on (MALE) I would also like to thank those brother bloggers like MacDaddy (daddyBstrong) that have linked my posts to their blog, or were inspired to do their own posts to help keep the story alive.  I was particularly moved by a commenter named Rainywalker who had this to say..............

The military tends to protect in a manner their own even when wrong. They try in everyway to make the people believe the military walks on water when it comes to certain kinds of justice. In my 23 years service I had two gay soldiers and one that was discharged.  Back then many knew some of their soldiers were gay. However it really wasn't a big deal. After the "don't tell" soldiers in the military started hating gays in their ranks. It drew a line that was never there before and its a direct result of the president and military policy.  Granted the Marines have a way of taking care of their problems themselves, even when it comes to murder.  The young man I referred to above needed a performance report to be discharged from the military. The military wanted me to give him a bad report because he was gay. The numbers would reflect he was gay but not the written report. I gave the soldier all 9's which is the highest you can get. Not because I liked him, not because he was gay, not to defy the military but because he did an outstanding job and he deserved the 9's.  My commander called me in and ordered me to redo the report and give him bad mumbers. In the military only the person whom you work for can write you report. Nobody and I mean nobody else can do it or sign it. They can disagree with my findings on a futher endorcement but not change mine.  So I told the commander if he wanted a bad performance report to write it himself. He never did and the gay soldier left the military with what he deserved a report that reflected his being, not his sexual orientation.  The truth on this murder will likely never come out unless someone brings this crime out into the open with real evidence[parents, friends, real journalists, etc]. Trust me the military will not be there and will only give you lip service. All questions will have pat answers, made up in advance with phony evidence. This just came out in the open, it happens all the time.  To be quite honest in many cases of murder the military is not concerned with the truth, only results that change policy.

Well!  What's it going to be this time? 

CNN (mainstream media) finally picked the story up too!  I'm not good with posting videos, so here's the link:  http://www.youtube. com/watch? v=ZCM2nC32zi0&feature=player_ embedded 

 

   

PLEASE ASK! DO TELL! : The Execution of a Black Gay Sailor!

This story has gotten all down on the inside of me and made me sick!  I want to regurgitate!  I'm looking for the cure!  But as vile and disgusting as it is, I just haven't been able to let go of it!  If it weren't for Rod McCullom's consistent reporting of this story over at Rodonline Navy: There is "No Evidence to Suspect Hate Crime" in Torture and Killing of Black, Gay Sailor, I don't think I'd know about it at all.  Maybe you haven't heard it either?  I think it should be all over the net by now, and I feel it's now my duty to help spread the word.  Somebody over there said "OH..HELL..NO!  IT'S TIME FOR SOME ACTION".  I feel the exact same way. 

Last Tuesday, 29 year-old Houston TX native, and U.S. Navy Seaman, August Provost III was found dead in a guard shack on the western edge of the Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, north of San Diego, CA.  He had been shot three times, his mouth was gagged, his hands and feet were bound, and his body burned.  Brother Provost enlisted in the U.S. Navy in March of 2008, and was a boatswain mate seaman who worked on hovercrafts.  He was also a somewhat openly gay man serving under the archaic, dehumanizing U.S. military policy of Don't Ask! Don't Tell! (DADT).  Open about his sexuality on both his Facebook account, as well as his Myspace page, he also had a boyfriend that he referred to as "the love of my life".  Immediately after joining the service last year, he was faced with anti-gay harassment from fellow servicemen that lasted up to the time of his torture and murder.  Provost's boyfriend, identified as Kaether Cordero, has since indicated that those who became friends with his partner would know of his sexuality, because Provost would "trust" them with that information. 

When this story broke last week, the Naval Criminal Investigative Service had taken a "person of interest" in custody in connection with the case, but charges had not been filed.  And charges will not be filed!  That person of interest has since been released, and they now have someone else they're holding...yet another fellow marine that they're now interested in.  Wow!  That was quick!  Especially since, in the interim, that same investigative committee has since issued a statement that says August Provost's death was "a random act unrelated to his sexuality" and that "there is no evidence or information that suggests this is a hate crime".  I'm wondering exactly how many "persons of interest" did it take to stuff his mouth so he couldn't scream?  Exactly how many interested parties did it take to hold his hands behind his back, while someone else tied his feet together?  Did the smell of burning flesh make them as physically ill as they are mentally ill, or did they not stick around to watch that part?  For someone whose claims of harassment that (supposedly) cannot be proven, and who met a tragic end so "randomly", there sure doesn't seem to be a shortage of "suspects".

Mr. Provost's aunt, Rose Roy of Beaumont TX, said her nephew had complained to his family about being harassed for being gay since day one.  Capt. Matt Brown, director of public affairs for Navy Region Southwest, told the UPI "the military also couldn't confirm that Seaman August Provost was harassed in the days before he was killed".  But his family and especially his sister say otherwise.  She told the San Diego Union-Tribune that they supposedly advised their beloved family member to "tell his supervisor".  Of course, what would it have really profited Provost to go that route?  Under the policy of (DADT), he would have been "telling" on himself. DADT is as much a murderer of the lives, livelihoods, and careers as the soul-less cowards who executed Seaman Provost.  I'm afraid of some of the responses that this story will generate; afraid of those who'll say "well, maybe he shouldn't have trusted anyone with that information".  Okay!  But worse yet, "that's what he gets for being there in the first place" is inevitable and especially frightening.  It's this same mentality that DADT fosters, supports and validates.  It validated the hatred and homophobia that led to Provost's demise among his own. 

Oddly enough, this story broke the same day Defense Secretary Robert Gates claimed the Pentagon just now discovered how "restrictive"  the DADT law is, but how they were "looking for more flexibility" to apply the law, and "if there's a more humane way to apply it - until it gets changed".  Even more peculiar is the fact that Democratic Rep. Bob Filner of suburban San Diego was at Camp Pendleton "for over 5 hours the day of the murder and no one in the Navy thought it was important enough to tell him".  So far, anti-gay California Republican Congressman, Brian Bilby, whose district includes Camp Pendleton, has totally ignored the murder of Seaman August Provost.  Bilby, an avid supporter of the military & DADT, and also a member of the House Veteran's Affairs Committee hasn't issued a mumbling bumbling word on a death that took place right on the base, right in his district.  But what could he really say?  Since he's such an avid supporter of the policy, how could he get away without co-signing the torture and horrific murder of yet another black gay man.

Is it too much to ask that President Barack Obama at least make a statement?  Or is he going to go silent, too!  How many more dishonorable dismissals and discharges of proud & talented service men and women who just happen to be gay or lesbian will it take?   How many more deaths?  How many more tortures?  I think the president has the answer to, at least, some of those questions.  After all, he's the one who made the promise isn't he?  His answer might be in the stroke of a pen.  But when will he make good on it?  When I look into the beauty of August Provost's smiling face above, I look into shining eyes that will shine no more.  I wonder if he'll see the same beauty I see when I look at Provost's smiling face in the photo above?  Who else will consider how Kaether Cordero will miss the stylish swagger seen in Provost's hat profile?  Will looking at Provost's photos remind us of how many LGBT folk in the military, how many service people of color are being tossed, turned & killed (either by the letter, the spirit, or in this case the body) by their own?  How many people will finally get the level of hatred that LGBT people experience on a daily basis for just EXISTING! 

The commenter I mention earlier in this post over on Rod McCullom's blog said THERE WILL BE A CHANGE IN THE SYSTEM AND THERE WILL BE A CHANGE IN THE LAW!  I personally believe that!  But how long before there'll be in a change in some of us?

And what are we going to do NOW?

I WANT YOU BACK: MICHAEL JACKSON DEAD AT 50!

THE KING OF POP IS DEAD!

People!  I'm just so hurt right now!  I know that Michael Jackson was just a human being like any other human being, and that he had to pass on like we all have to do, but it's still just so unbelievable that he's gone!    When I first heard the "breaking news" that Michael had been rushed to the hospital for cardiac arrest, it was almost like being in a state of panic, but I was prayerful and putting all my energy there.  And then a gossip blog from somewhere reported his death, and it made me angry because I viewed it as just them jumping the gun, so they could say they reported it first.  Bastards!  I went on Facebook, and everyone there was upset and in a tizzy.  I still refused to believe it until that "reputable source" reported it as fact.  They have and it's done! 

My partner Marvin and I were going back and forth with each other for the last couple of days about stupid minor stuff.  Even through the verbal spars, we'd look at each other and laugh at each other, and play with each other because we love each other.  Marvin's such a major Michael Jackson fan!  He's at work right now and I can't reach him at all.  I know he knows about Michael by now and I know he's heartbroken.  That's why he hasn't called me because he's processing all this in his own way, but I wish he were here with me so we could experience it together.  Somehow, it would make it more acceptable!  I started to go frantic when nobody from his job would answer the phone, but I'm an adult, and I'm cool right now. 

Every generation since the 70's can claim a favorite moment from Jackson's career. I was there from the beginning.  I was just right in neighboring Kentucky when I heard this now long forgotten record with a little boy with a big voice singing on it out of Gary, Indiana.  A few years later, The Jackson Five were on Ed Sullivan with Diana Ross singing I Want You Back.  They were HUGE, and their success and appeal went so far beyond race, musical categories and the stifling constrictions in the United States.  When Michael went solo, he went so far beyond BEYOND!  If that statement makes any sense?  But when they first came out, and that dynamic, adorable, cute and smilin' singin' dancin' little black boy first became known to us, it was something where you just had to BE THERE IN THE MOMENT to fully get the impact that it had on those of us who saw ourselves in him.  Those little boys like me who wanted to sing like, dance like and dress like Michael.  We wanted to BE Michael.  We won't have to jump ship like so many others who've spewed the nasty jokes and snide comments of his later days and career.  We'll sing his praise song, yes!  We'll pay tribute, yes!  We thought some things were an awful, perhaps even shameful fact of life, yes!  But we were always there, still showing our support.  No matter what!  I was so lucky to have met so many of the stars of the 70's, and 80's, and I have a number of memories about them because some were more special than others, but I never got the opportunity to meet Michael or any of his famous family members.  That's okay!  He was one of us and it was as if we always knew him even when we really didn't.  I know I cannot be the only one who feels that way!

I don't know if I'll be doing any special Michael tributes any time soon, but this here is just my way of expressing how I feel and my way of showing honor right now!  You know, it got to a point where looking at those old clips of Michael and his brothers filled me with an odd mix of melancholy and that old thrill of wonder, too.  But now, I will never be able to look at little Michael singing songs like I Want You Back, ABC, The Love You Save, Ben or Never Can Say Goodbye in the same way again.  Listening to I'll Be There will be especially painful now.  There'll be more of an ache now.  There'll be tears.  I'm not ashamed to say that I've shed my share within the last few hours or so.  But you know, we'll all smile again about Michael, even now while we grieve for him.  Unbelievable as his passing may be, some of us always had this strange feeling that Michael Jackson would not be with us for long, that God would call him early.  Wow!  As I write this, I really do remember telling Marvin that when he was embroiled in all the court dramas.  He just seemed too fragile to last during that crazy time.  I think all of us who were around to watch him from the beginning felt as if that time took so many years off of his life. 

Michael Jackson was in a category all by himself!  More than a legend.  More than an Icon.  I don't know what comes after that!  He'll always be a THRILLER!

R.I.P.

In And OUT Of Emille Griffith's Ring Of Fire!

"Maricon" the slur viciously and purposely slipped out of Benny Paret's mouth & into Emille Griffith's ear.   He had just called the boxer a faggot in Spanish, and Griffith wanted to take him out right then and there, but the fight hadn't even started yet. They were still at the pre-fight weigh-in of the welterweight match that was scheduled to jump off later on March 24, 1962 at Madison Square Garden.  This was to be their third (and last) boxing match, and surely this wasn't the first time a fighter verbally insulted his opponent below the belt this way.  Benny "The Kid" Paret was given to loud talking, teasing and insults, but this time the verbal sparring hit a little too close for Griffith's comfort.  Did Paret know something for sure?  Emille Griffith decided to handle the situation in the ring and go in for the kill.  It would be a fight to the death both figuratively and literally, and it would happen on national television.

They were a few similarities.  They were a year apart in age, with Paret born in 1937 (Cuba) and Griffith born in 1938 (Virgin Islands).  They were both black immigrants who grew up impoverished, and came to New York city with hopes of bettering themselves.   Both would become world boxing champions.  They are remembered as being total opposites.   Benny Paret was aggressive extrovert.  Emille Griffith was introspective and soft spoken.  At the time of their final fight, Paret was married with a pregnant wife and Griffith was rumoured to be homosexual.  Today, there are only a handful of professional athletes who have declared or will admit the truth of their sexual orientation.  In 1962, it was not thought possible that an athlete could be one of the gays, certainly not in the uber manly sport of professional boxing where uppercuts, hooks and knockout jabs were on the regular.  If the truth is threatening today, back then it was career suicide.   Not much has changed.  Today, as in the early sixties, to be called maricon, or faggot, is one of the most derogatory slurs used to insult males of any culture,  especially in black and latino communities.  We might have snappy comebacks now, or even own up to it to some degree, but in 1962, Emille Griffith was assuming nothing.  To this day, it is still a word that rankles him, as it does many of us.  And rightly so!

April, 1961.  Benny Paret held the World Welterweight boxing championship until he encountered Emille Griffith in their first boxing match.  Griffith captured it.  Six months later, Paret won it back in a narrow split decision.  On March 24, 1962, Emille Griffith took it back again after 2 minutes and 9 seconds of the twelth round, with Griffith knocking him unconscious with at least 25 deadly blows in that amount of time.  Earlier, Griffith had been down for an 8 count in the sixth, but his rebound wasn't at all surprising because he fans saw him in control of most of the fight.  Benny Paret was known for being tough and resilient in the ring, able to withstand many punches, but tonight his stamina wasn't holding up as usual.  In fact, long before 23-year old Griffith's dizzying two-handed maze of punches (that started with ten consecutive right uppercuts to the chin) many in Paret's camp were begging the referee to intervene.  Referee Ruby Goldstein wasn't moved to or by pity until it became quite clear to him that the only reason Paret still appeared to be on his feet was because Griffith's hard driving pounding was keeping him propped on the ropes.  With his eyes closed for pretty much the last time, his hands limp at his sides, Paret's head was being snapped from side to side with punch after brutal punch from Griffith's fists.  The crowd seemed panicked and bloodthirsty at the same time.  Their bloodlust rose to a new freak level when Paret didn't slump.  When ten rights to the face failed to properly do the job, Griffith started alternating right hooks with lefts.  Paret still didn't fall.  Goldstein finally stepped in, and Benny Paret slid from the ropes to the canvas.  He lay unconscious for about eight minutes while physicians worked on him.  When he failed to regain consciousness in the ring, he was taken to his dressing room on a stretcher and later rushed to the hospital emergency room where he underwent brain surgery at New York's Roosevelt Hospital.  Benny "The Kid" Paret never opened his eyes again, and died eight days later.  The widespread publicity of this incident, and the ensuing criticisms of boxing fueled then New York Governor Nelson Rockerfeller to lodge a full-scale investigation into the sport that forced NBC to suspend its boxing broadcasts.  Other networks followed suit, and it stayed that way until the 1970's.

The general public seemingly never knew the reason for Emille Griffith's tunnel-vision aggression that night until a 2005 article in Sports Illustrated suggested that the questioning of his sexual orientation and Paret's insults drove him to the outer limits.  Griffith was also interviewed for the article, and seemed somewhat confused about his sexuality, alternately identifying himself as homosexual and then as heterosexual.   The magazine blamed the Alzheimer-like condition of pugilistic dementia as the cause of his confusion.  Apparently, in a moment of clarity, Griffith was quoted as saying "I like men and women both...(but) I don't like that word: homosexual, gay or faggot.  I don't know what I am.  I love men and women the same."  A later interview for Newsday, and he gave the money quote with "I keep thinking how strange it is...I kill a man and most people understand and forgive me.  However, I love a man, and to so many people this is an unforgiveable sin; this makes me an evil person.  So though I never went to jail, I have been in prison all my life".  Indeed, as well as struggling over the issue of his sexuality, Griffith would receive hate mail for decades and suffer lifelong nightmares and guilt after the death of Benny Paret.  Just eight years before the aforementioned Sports Ilustrated article, Emille Griffith was confronted, attacked and beaten after leaving a New York gay bar.  The cause of the attack was never confirmed, but assumed to a be random hate crime with Griffith being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  He was in his early sixties.

Emille Griffith continued his career.  He was a junior-weight, a middle-weight and a welter-weight.  A six time world boxing champion.  From the Paret bout to his retirement in 1977 (long after he should've quit), Griffith fought 80 bouts, but with only twelve knockouts.  He admitted to using his superior fighting skills now as opposed to brute strength.  Out of the ring of fire, he hung out at some of New York's early pioneer gay bars like the Tenth of Always, the Blue Bunny and at the infamous, Mafia owned and operated landmark, The Stonewall Inn.  The patrons had a degree of freedom but were still repressed in a setting among themselves.  Griffith's presence seemed to inspire and and lend hope.  He was somewhat revolutionary to the degree that at a time when public figures, let alone sports figures, were so deep in the closet with no lights on, Griffith was often seen on the scene.  Subsequent to the historic gay rebellion at Stonewall, Griffith became a charter member and part bankroller of the Stonewall Veteran's Club (now called the Stonewall Veteran Association).  In 2005, he became the association's first VP.  The association is comprised of the actual, surviving and active veterans of the 1969 GLBT "rebellion" in front of the Stonewall Inn at 69 Christopher St., in Greenwich Village.  Emille Griffith was not there that night, but for awhile, at least, he did participate in some of the current gay pride parades held in the city in their honor.

That same year, a film was made which documented Griffith's life called Ring Of Fire: The Emille Griffith Story.  The film documents his background, his rise as a boxer, depicts his agony over what happened to Benny Paret, has snippets of interviews with an ex-wife who basically implied she knew nothing of his sexuality, and interviews Griffith extensively as he tells the camera he is "nobody's faggot".  The film is a fascinating documentary but details next to nothing about Griffith's sexuality, and certainly nothing about frequenting gay bars, and riding in gay pride parades.  But it does depict a tearful and forgiving meeting between the ex-champ and Benny Paret's son that absolves a lifetime of pain and regret. 

Emille Griffith resides in Hempstead, New York City, in an apartment where he requires full time care for his sickness.  All things considered, it is said he is still relatively socially active. 

WHITNEY HOUSTON'S NEW CD! IT'S ALMOST HERE ! ! !

 

IT'S TIME TO EXHALE ! ! !   THE WAIT IS OVER ! ! !  

WHITNEY HOUSTON DELIVERS A NEW CD ON SEPTEMBER 1, 2009.

http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid25196401001?bctid=25207485001

ANTICIPATION IS A TEASE!  SO IS THE LINK ABOVE ! !  CLICK IT AND CHECK IT ! ! !

JAZZ CLEOPATRA: JOSEPHINE BAKER IN THE ART DECO AGE!

  I love all things Art Deco.  I love all things Josephine Baker, and today is her birthday. Both phenomenons were at their apex at the exact same time and it makes sense to me that the two go hand in glove.  There is no other figure that better exemplifies the Art Deco asthetic than Josephine Baker in the 1920's and 30's. 

We all know the story of the ignored, ugly duckling from America, who transformed into a beautiful swan in France and took her revenge on the world.  Josephine grew up black and poor in St. Louis.  She was just a chorus girl, but with a little sumthin' sumthin' extra (and still just a teenager) when she left Harlem in 1925, and traveled to Europe with a theatrical troupe in a sub-par vaudeville revue.  On opening night the show plodded on & on until...JOSEPHINE!  Carried on stage on the back of a coal-black muscle man, she shook her tits and her bananas and electrified all of Paris.  And the Parisians were ready!  In fact, the Parisian cultural scene was ready for all things African (American) in the 1920's.  This photo:  Consider Josephine's jewlery.  The most important single innovation in Art Deco jewlery was the invention of the double-sided clip or clasp.  New materials were introduced like laquered metals and rhinestones to fully complement the new short hairstyles popularized by trendsetters like Josephine Baker. 

That very same year (1925), Paris presented another sensation that shook the world, the Exposition des Arts Decoratifs et Industriels.  Paris was the center of the Arts world, and this exhibition was a full-scale attempt to further place French architectural design, fashion and luxury goods at the forefront of every field.  It is from this exhibition that the term Art Deco derives its name.  We all know Josephine's story, so to better understand Josephine's importance in the movement, it's important to talk a little more about Art Deco than it is about Josephine, herself!  In literally every room of my house you'll find something Art Deco.  Sometimes it will be subtle and sometimes it's not so subtle, but I am of the opinion that a little bit of the Art Deco style goes a mighty long way in sophistication.  Art Deco is easily recognizable today even by the non-collector.  Telltale signs are sleek, smooth and seductive curves, emphasis on geometrics, rakish designs and zigzags.  Everything from clocks, picture frames, sculpted figurines to cocktail shakers in birds-eye maple, chrome and bakelite are easily identified as an Art Deco object.  Architecture like New York's Radio City Music Hall and Cincinnati's Union Terminal are living breathing testaments to the style.  Movie theatres of the period offer the the best example of Art Deco at its most extreme with the palace-like decor in ornamental iron, murals, mirrors and high grandeur.  With a combination of Egyptian, other African, Asian and Native American motifs, Art Deco hit its peak in the 1920's and 30's right when Hollywood was at it's most glamorous, and when Jazz first really came into mass popularity.  And Josephine Baker was positioned right in the center of that time and place.  This photo:  "She helped popularize Art Deco, and she epitomized the style - her lookwas extremely sleek and almost machine-like, her hair like a cap" says one art historian.

The muse for many creators of Art Deco was the female body, with the sleek female form being found in professional photography, on posters, as bookends, and at the base of lamps and other lighting fixtures.  And with her gorgeous, bronzed feminine form Josephine Baker was considered the living embodiment of Modernist art from primitivism to expressionism to Cubism.  The one lasting theme that ran all throughout Art Deco illustrations and posters was that of the modish, chic, self-possessed and highly energetic woman.  View the vintage footage, review the photographs, the articles, the bios and the memories and you know Josephine Baker was all of that!  It is worth noting in this post that one of the era's greatest poster designers was Paul Colin.  (Look in the header of this blog for an example of his caricature).  All about symmetry and geometry, as they are about stereotype's, Colin's posters of Josephine are famous as expensive collector's items; even the reproductions make a bold statement in many a smart modern decor.  I have chose not to include any of those images here.  As equally reproduced and recognized, this is more about the photos and artwork from myriad artists that present Josephine Baker, the Jazz Cleopatra, in the Age of Art Deco. 

The pictures tell the story better than I ever can.  Enjoy!

 

 

 

Bakerfix was created especially for Josephine in Paris because she could not find black hair products in Europe.  It was made to slick back or straighten the hair to keep it in the style that she popularized all over the world.  Bakerfix flew off the shelves in France whether the ladies needed it or not.  Today, original tins of Bakerfix sell in the thousands of dollars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Note the sharp-edged and stream-lined cuts that so are so typical of the posters and artwork in the Art Deco Age.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They tried to make everything primitive!  Animal motifs like gazelles and panthers were used in Art Deco photography like this shot.  Note the unmistakable African imagery in Josephine's shadow on the wall. Josephine was an animal lover, and this shot was no doubt a play-up of her scandalous behavior as she strutted along the Champs de elysee with her pet leopard, Chiquita.  They said they didn't know which was the more beautiful animal, Chiquita or Josephine in their matching outfits and diamond chokers.

 

 

 

 

The Ultimate!  An Art Deco sculpture come to life!  Sexually liberated and free in her own skin, Josephine Baker is photograped here by George Hoyningen-Huene.  She stands naked but for a long cloth and a strand of beads!  Bakelite, no doubt!

 

 

 

 

 

 

After her Paris debut, Josephine dominated the stage at the Follies Bergere!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jo Baker was born on June 2nd.  The actual date is arguable.  She remains an enigma in death as she did in life.  She is more than Jazz Age Diva.  More than Art Deco poster child.  She is more than legend.  More  than icon.  She died in 1975 after a rags to riches, ugly duckling to beautiful swan, fairy-tale and fabulous life of personal and career highs and lows.  For practically six decades she stayed at the top of her field and always, ALWAYS brought her A-game.  Today, you can find Josephine galore and Youtube and it's worth every minute of viewing.  Before Diana, before Madonna, before Beyonce and before Lynn Whitfield (in her career defining moment as Josephine) there WAS Josephine!  I only hope I've done the woman, the age and the movement justice in just one blog post!

 

THE LAROCHE FAMILY, A TRICKSTER AND THE SINKING OF THE TITANIC!

Is that Shine sittin' over there with that white 'wawmon!  What's that?  'Say it ain't Shine?  Who it be, then, 'cause errrbody know Shine was the only Negro on the Titanic, and I know Stag-o-lee and that 'sho ain't him!

For far too many years, the prevailing thought was that the only black man that could have been on the Titanic would have been in last class shining the shoes of somebody in first class.  For African Americans, the running joke of the period was that of Shine and the Sinking of the Titanic.  Some of us know that Shine is one of the most well-known trickster's in African American folklore.  His name could refer to the dismissive nicknames given to any of the many black men who shined shoes (or it could have indicated that his skin was so black it was shiny).  Relegated to the boiler room, Shine was stoking the fires when the first sign of disaster struck the luxury liner.  After repeated warnings to the ship's captain about the encroaching waters down below, Shine wasn't surprised to find his concerns routinely dismissed as usual.  In the ensuing chaos, Shine's services were increasingly enlisted, but by then he'd taken a serious attitude.  Each request for help was met with an exceedingly ribald rhyme, and through his innate cunning, Shine emerges as the sole survivor "drunk on the corner of 125th St." by the time the ship met its icy fate.  Whatever!  The truth of the matter couldn't have been more dramatically different.  Haitian-born, French-educated engineer, Joseph Phillippe Lemercier Laroche was a second-class passenger on the Titanic with his French-born wife and two little girls.  Hardly known among the general public, their existence has always been known by a handful of Titanic historians but not talked about.  Leonardo DeCaprio and Kate Winslet's characters from the 1997 blockbuster movie were fictional, but everything about Joseph, his wife Juliette, and their girls, 3-year-old Simmone and 1-year-old Louise was very real, indeed!

Joseph Laroche was directly descended from Haitian royalty ~ the bloodline of Jean-Jacques Dessalines (left).  Dessalines was one of the major leaders of the Haitian Revolution between 1791 -1804.  Too early to be televised, this revolution was most definitely live as thousands of black slaves successfully revolted against French colonization on the isle of Saint-Domingue, and thus became the first republic ruled by the descendants of Africans.  With the iconic Toussaint L'Ouverture as their leader, Dessalines was his chief officer.  When Toussaint was eventually captured by French troops, Dessalines assumed leadership and in 1803, Napoleon was defeated.  Elected by a council of generals primarily made up by the second-tier mulatto class, Dessalines became the Governor-General of the new independent nation.  But this wasn't enough!  Dessalines proclaimed himself Emperor of Haiti, and continued the pattern of violence established under the former colonial rule.  For his cabinet, Dessalines needed literate and educated officials, and placed in these positions well-educated Haitians, who were disproportionately from the light-skinned mulatto class, who often had close family ties with the French.  They married among each other and the Dessalines clan would remain among the aristocracy for the next 100 years.  It is from these ranks that Joseph Laroche stepped.  Indeed, at the time of the sinking of the Titanic, his uncle Dessalines Cincinnatus Leconte (bottom left) was president of Haiti.  Leconte is now considered as the country's most productive president of the early twentieth century, before his early death in a freak explosion. 

Joseph Laroche wasn't born until May 26, 1886.  In 1901, at the age of 15, he was sent to France for an education, as so many young men of the black upper classes were.  Within a few years, he met Juliette Lafargue, the daughter of a prosperous wine merchant.  While impressed with Laroche, father Lafargue did not allow his daughter to marry him until he completed his degree in engineering in 1908.  It is believed that for all of his culture, credentials and pedigree, Joseph Laroche could not buy a job in France, but he was employed for awhile on the building of one of the early Metro lines in Paris.  But it wasn't enough to support a growing family!  He wanted to go back home to Haiti and take his family with him.  The move was planned for 1913, but that year (1912) Juliette discovered she was pregnant again.  Back in Haiti, Joseph's mother was happy about it!  Surely, she must have felt like she was doing the right thing when she immediately purchased first-class tickets for them to sail home on the French liner La France.   Right before departure Joseph learned the ship did not allow children to dine with their parents.  Surely, he felt like he was doing the right thing when he switched their passage at the last minute for second class tickets aboard the Titanic. 

The Titanic was the largest and most lavish ship that had ever been built up to that date.  The style of the decor ranged from Italian Renaissance to Geogian, and the cost of a first-class parlor suite was $4,350.  First class boasted some of the richest folk in Britain & America on with a collective wealth of over $500 million.  The Laroche's boarded this luxury water palace on April 10, 1912, and for the next three days enjoyed the ship's splendor.  Yes, they were in second-class but they shared many of the same amenities as the first class passengers. They dined in the same saloon as the first class passengers and their lounge was large and spacious with sycamore paneling on the walls.  According to a few survivor reports, the Laroches conversed freely with some of the other passengers, and fellow shipmate Kate Buss wrote home "There are two of the finest little Jap(anese) baby girls who look like dolls running about".  They were charming and good-looking but they did not totally escape racism aboard, especially among the crew members who reportedly centered the focus of their sickness toward all the "darker-skinned" passengers, and no doubt, Laroche was the darkest of all.  Regardless, after a 9:00PM, April 14th seating for dinner, the couple would dine together, and enjoy together for the last time. 

We all know the story!  If I attempted to write what happened next (and do it justice) this would be the longest post in the history of this blog!  Shine tried to warn them!  When the iceberg hit later that evening, Shine went straight to the captain several times, but Captain Edward J. Smith, master of the Titanic was arrogant and adamant.  The builders of the ship, the White Star Line, had issued press throughout the world that the ship was "designed to be unsinkable" and everyone believed it!  They felt superior and invincible and they subsequently failed to take the proper precautions; they only had enough lifesaving equipment for 1,178 of the 2,228 passengers and crew.  The original plans called for 64 wooden lifeboats but that number was reduced to 16 so that passengers could look cute and have more mobility about deck.  Of the total number of people aboard the Titanic, only 706 survived, and 1,517 perished.  It is also popularly believed that the men stood gallantly by and allowed the women and children to be saved first, but this is not quite the truth, either.  First-class men were four times as likely to survive as second-class men, and twice as likely to survive as third class men.  Nearly every first class woman survived compared with 86 percent of those in second class and less than half of those in third class.  Everyone had a better chance of being saved than a third class child with only 34 percent of the those children surviving. 

When the water finally reached Shine's head he was downstairs eating his bread.  "Captain, Captain, the water is now up to me head."  Captain said "Shine, Shine sit your black ass down.  Got ninety-nine pumps to keep the water down."  Shine took off his shirt and started to dive.  The captain's wife came over to Shine "Shine, Shine save poor me.  I'll give you all the pussy you can see".  Shine said "Your pussy is good and this is true, but it's some hoes down in Harlem that'll make an ass outta you."  Even the captain relented "Shine, Shine, I'll make you richer than any shine can be."  Shine said "Captain, to save you would be very fine, but I got to first save this black ass of mine."  Shine jumped in the water and met up with a shark.  Shine say "you may be king of the ocean, king of the sea, but you gotta be a swimming muthafukka to outswim me".   

Joseph Laroche was among the 166 second class passengers to die.  His body was not one of the ones recovered in the aftermath.  Juliette and the girls were saved!  Without diapers, food and among wailing widows and floating bodies, Juliette clung to her children but her feet were frozen blue and stiff.  Some say they were in raft 14, some say raft 16, but they were rescued six hours later by the RMS Carpathia and delivered to safety in New York City.  There was nobody there to meet them!  They received medical attention at St. Vincent's Hospital, and were provided with shelter, money, clothes and food by a well-know philanthropist.  Juliette Laroche returned to France pregnant to live with her father, and a week before Christmas, Joseph Lemercier Laroche Jr. was born.  Judith Geller, author of Titanic: Women and Children First, writes "that nowhere in the copius 1912 press descriptions of the ship and the interviews with the survivors was the presence of a black family among the passengers ever mentioned."  Juliette would enter a long legat battle with the White Star Line.  Geller says "Lawyers came and went, no settlement arrived and Juliette, with her three children, lived in poverty through the first World War."  In 1918, the White Star line eventually awarded Juliette Laroche about $22,119 - the eqivalent of close to $300.000 today.  She never remarried any mention of the Titanic was strictly off-limits.  Neither daughter ever married or had children.  Juliette Laroche died in Paris, 68 years after the Titanic tragedy in 1980.  Daughter Simonne preceeded her in death in 1973.  Joseph Laroche Jr. is the only one who married and sired Laroche offspring.  He died in 1987.  In 1998, Louise Laroche (left) was present when the Titanic Historical Society dedicated a stone marker in Cherbourg commemorating Titanic passengers who sailed from its port.  She died that very same year at the age of 87.  There is no evidence that any of the Laroche's ever traveled to Haiti or ever heard from their Hatian relatives again.  They thoroughly assimilated into European culture. 

 

CURIOUS POETRY AND FOREIGN BORN PROSE!

I, Incubus

You, my chaste chalice of virtue whose physical beauty is unblemished ~ I hear your whispers brought to me on wisps of wind ~ you call for me night after night with please inaudible to listening ears ~ a litany of beseeching dulcet tones adorn my heart as you pray ~ you wish of me to slide between and beneath the sheet to be with you ~ in vain hopes you bolt windows and doors to hold me near for some blissful imprisonment that you are longing for.

I linger long in your mind after you dream of me ~ clinging to you like a cologne that is fused to your memory ~ I glide and adhere to fingers and lips with a flavor likened to bouquets of roses and paradises you wish to devour me whilst bussing ~ opening mouths and lips for exploration you cast this web to catch me with to ensnare me in a tangle of knotted arms and legs locked in a death's grip ~ always this ploy, I always escape before morning, do I not? ~ And I always return.

You seem to have tactile rememberance of me ~ your skin puckers and welts from the thought of my touch, and that glisten of sweat, which glows in your sleeping, a moisture saturated with bee's pollen and diamond dust which trap highest brightest bluest noon and deepest softest embrace of night ~ this luminous perspiration flares men's loins to arousal and hunger and thirst to drink a the scent and sight of it ~ your nude and simple beauty beckons and poses incendiary promises, but your lips ope's not such words to such pelages.

In my presence the frequency of breaths quicken ~ you struggle to say my name ~ and my name, when waking, you forget ~ never forget that I do care for you, but I am after all a beast that flirts and flits with the walking on cat's feet ~ for I,

I am Incubus! 

 

 

A Kiss Of Crimson

To kiss you brings crimson stars to the forefront of my vision

leaving me breathless

and tossing my equilibrium off kilter.

To look into your eyes leaves me wondering who I am

as to possess the devotion of one such as you.

To hold you spurns on my heart like rolling thunder, and I ask myself

Do I deserve you?

What have I done to earn your love?

And then you kiss me

I wonder aimlessly out of myself, forgetting what it is that I wanted to ask

as crimson stars fold out of my mind

to the forefront of my vision.

 Your Neck

You brush past me, cloth barely grazing cloth, and I am left wondering ~ am I a vampire?  I dare not wonder what else there is that compels me to you.  I cannot think in presence of you ~ a breath and a hair between you and I is not enough.  You leave me feeling as though I am a lush - drunk on the quivering shudder of your vein that pulses ~ a red rush surging through that sinuous soft structure, you leave me intoxicated from the sight of your long creamy chocolate throat ~ stinging its image into my eyes, the haunt of you dwells in my memory.  And your scent, being something like virginal roses and crushed berries, a fugue that sings to my nose and eyes with that aroma that is left lingering in my brain, awakening my senses to flare my nostrils, spraying saliva onto my tongue, I ask myself from a distance is my "love" for you questionably vampiric?

Is it you that I'm after, or is it something else about you that I am drawn to?

As I walk behind you sometimes, watching that flash of life as it washes up your delicate unflawed pillar, climbing higher to explode into your face, to blush into your cheeks and brighten the soul showing in your eyes, you brush past me.  And I watch. 

I want to kiss you there at the crook where your throat meets your shoulder ~ I want to ask you if I may bite you there, my love? ~ I linger there too often now when you are not looking ~ then I want to speak to you, but when you approach me, my mouth goes dry ~ then suddenly wet, and my eye-teeth itch, and I'm speechless ~ to be near you scares me ~ I am unnerved and left without fortitude to stand, and I cannot pry eye from that worming rush that gives as you take breath fluttering in mid-assent of ...

Your Neck. 

 

Unremembered

I sit here under the umbra of this mighty oak.

I sit there in the slowly rolling waves of the fronds of grass;  they wax and wane, splintering the light of the sun they sway and drift, caught in the breath of spring.

Around me are the gravestones arranged in nice neat rows; some lay, fallen over, in disrepair, strangled by vines.

Hidden by heather and thickets, they glint up into my eyes.

In from the dappled play of light and shade from the undergrowth, they seem pastel smooth.  Chalk soft.

And the names are dead from memory, erased from the lips of stone...

eroded and gone forever.

Ruel Thompson is of a strange and curious foreign birth, and these are his poems.  He first came to my house with a friend.  We've laughed and talked in restaurants and sat down to work together.  Yet, I still don't know him very well.  I know that he's a studious and multi-talented man.  He says he's thirty-one years old but he seems much younger.  Some other times, he seems much older.  He's quiet but full of drama.  They say the quiet ones usually are.  Ruel composes lyrical, verse-prose both in his poetry and fiction, but I think he doesn't believe it when friends tell him his work is very sensual and vivid.  He participates in local poetry slams but tries to keep quiet about it.  He is currently writing his sixth collection of poetry while concurrently focusing on three seperate novels and is loving it.  Ruell is newly single but not loving that!  He recently introduced me to a wonderful iced coffee drink at the bar of a local restaurant that is served with cream & I am honored that Ruell thought to share his wonderful poetry with me, and that he agreed to allow me to share it with you!  But for turning me on to that drink, I am eternally grateful!  If you feel the flow, leave a comment and let him know.  We both will appreciate it! 

The photo accompanying I, Incubus is used courtesy of Aaron Douglass at Masculine Curves

 

BLESSED ASSURANCE, LANGSTON HUGHES IS OURS!

Forty-two years ago on this date, Langston Hughes made his transition from the people's poet to Eternal Literary Icon.  In this attempt to remember him brother to brother, I had to go looking for Langston the same way so many others have had to do.  Today, historians and academicians are almost unanimous in their opinion that Langston Hughes was a gay man, and Black gay writers and filmmakers have since centered him both in the tradition as well as in the life.  We recognize that our sexuality is but a component of the wholeness of who we are, but for those of us who identify both as gay and black, sexual orientation (in conjunction with race) often influences our total state of mind.  It colors our fantasies, our creativity and psychosocial dispositions.  It is important to be able to reach back for affirmation and historical reference to properly frame our desire right now.  It is for this reason that it remains ever so expedient to continually look for Langston.  Hughes lived his life in the closet and a proper context for those desires will never be found on the main page of his life.  Instead, one has to look between the lines, in the bylines and in the margins.  Hughes's closet was a carefully constructed fortress, he built it himself but it is now guarded by those arbiters of all that is black and cultural, while they ignore the contributions of black gays and lesbians.  To acknowledge Brother Langston's full truth would be akin to sullying his tremendous icon status in the African American community with the stain of homosexuality, a status they feel is contingent upon his heterosexuality.  It is notable that Hughes probably felt the same way.  We now understand that to maintain the huge respect and financial support of the black churches and cultural institutions, Hughes remained closeted while many of his contemporaries were not.  This is a legacy that continues to haunt African American public figures from Luther Vandross to Tyler Perry.  Regardless, many people who knew Langston Hughes say they just always assumed.  Indeed, many others like myself have always assumed because he could always be sensed, felt or known in spirit.

Bother Langston was large!  A venerable American poet who loved the history and souls of black folk and celebrated them in his literary expressivity.  He proclaimed, affirmed and articulated our glory and our pathos in his prose.  He did it with rhythm, style and class and we loved him for it.  Real.  Bold.  Unashamed.  He was a profound novelist, short story writer, playwright, columnist, essayist, lyricist, man of letters and world traveler.  Langston Hughes was the man and the voice of what is called the Harlem Renaissance, and it is during this period that he created his best known works and poems.  Works that so totally defined the era of a whole new generation of black writers, most notably in The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain .........

Let the blare of Negro jazz bands and the bellowing voice of Bessie Smith singing the Blues penetrate the closed ears of the colored near intellectuals until they listen and perhaps understand. Let Paul Robeson singing "Water Boy," and Rudolph Fisher
writing about the streets of Harlem, and Jean Toomer holding the heart of Georgia in his hands, and Aaron Douglas's drawing strange black fantasies cause the smug Negro middle class to turn from their white, respectable, ordinary books and papers to
catch a glimmer of their own beauty. We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our individual dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If white people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, it doesn't matter. We know we are beautiful. And ugly too. The tom-tom cries and the tom-tom laughs. If colored people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, their displeasure doesn't matter either. We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how, and we stand on top of the mountain, free within ourselves. (1926)

Hughes was an Award Winner!  He went on to author two autobiographies, and would later influence a whole new generation of up & coming writers like Chinua Acheba, James Baldwin and Lorraine Hansberry.  In later life, he was devoted to the nature, nurture and developement of young writers (including the many gay men who now flocked around him) and in the process discovered Alice Walker.  On May 22, 1967 Langston Hughes died from complications resulting from prostrate cancer.

Ambiguous.  Androgynous.  Ageless.  Sexless.  Peter Pan-like.  Vague insinuations, references in parenthesis, and mass asexual assertions are offered throughout Arnold Rampersad's landmark two-volume biographies, The Life Of Langston Hughes:  I, Too Sing America (1902-1941) and I Dream A World (1941-1967), respectively.  Rampersad defends Hughes's heterosexuality but on the other hand, admits he sees what he really does not want to see.  Kinda.  In the end, he almost presents a counterbalance between the two.  While constantly asserting that he cannot find concrete evidence of Hughes's homosexuality, he yet documents Langton's sexual fascination with dark skinned sailors and seamen.  It is this fascination that led Hughes to what he described (in the first person) as his "first" homosexual experience.  It could have been with any of the other attractive young men his age who bunked in the same cabin like the Filipino serving boy, the Puerto Rican boy who admitted to not liking females, or the handsome blackskinned cut-up from Kentucky, former valet to a female impersonator, who enjoyed tantilizing Hughes by lazing around in the cabin butt-naked all day.  Rampersad noted that this experience led to yet another in another year and in another port, but failed to recognize the gay sub-text in a poem written around the same time called To F.S., which laments the lost love of Ferdinand Smith, a seaman rumored to be Hughes lover.  The Rampersad biographies offer assertions to not even second hand info on Hughes's sexuality but go on to thrill us with tidbits on his blacker-the-berry sexual turn-on's to other men.  Five pages are devoted to what Arnold Rampersad calls a "campaign of homosexual seduction" orchestrated by the founder of the New Negro Movement, Dr. Alain Locke and Harlem's poet prince, Countee Cullen.  Hughes refused thier advances and played coy throughout this three-way sexual intrigue but ended up being squired all over Europe by the older, cultured and sophisticated Dr. Locke.  Perhaps the author never imagined why Locke or Cullen divested so much time and energy into snagging the beautiful young poet unless they thought they could have what they were trying to get.  Sexual orientation often informs the fabric of our being and is about more than the sum total of a sexual act.  Always drawn to (or involved in) gay intrigue but at a distance, we all know men like Hughes, who stand on the periphery and peer into the circle, afraid to cast their lot. It is not coincidence that Hughes's closest friends and confidants in life were either women or other gay men.  He maintained a lifelong brotherhood with the likes of the OUTrageous bohemian of the Renaissance, Richard Bruce Nugent, Wallace Thurman, Countee Cullen, lesser known figures like Harold Jackman, Alexander Gumby and white gay intellectuals like Carl Van Vechten and Carl Jung.

Blessed Assurance!  Queer identity cannot be ignored in the Hughes poem Cafe 3A.M., which protests early morning bashing by police in a gay bar.  Blessed Assurance!  One may need to know what Jazz Age black gay slang to look for in some other lesser known Hughes poems but it's there.  Blessed Assurance is a short story Langston Hughes wrote in 1961, and it is the truth!  Assurance tells the story of Delmar, a gay teenager whose homophobic father struggles more with that fact than he does.  Hughes tell us that Delmar was a "brilliant young queer, on the honor roll in high school, and likely to be graduated in the spring at the head of his class".  Delmar's brillance cushions us.  Validates us.  And right behind the groove of the story, Delmar has more than just a little bit in common with the young high-school age Langston Hughes.  Delmar has big dreams of pursuing his studies in Paris after graduation.  He "could have made the track team had he not preferred the French Club, the Drama Club and the Glee Club".  Langston Hughes was an officer in his French Club and realized his dreams of Paris after graduation, and sang and acted in his high-school Drama Club.  Delmar played scrimmage while Langston excelled on the relay team.  He was too pressed, too neat and too perfectly matched for the tastes of some and so is Delmar.  Delmar is named after the men in his mother's family as was Hughes.  They both came from broken homes where the mother took up with other men, and while our protagonist is poised to graduate at the head of his class, Langston Hughes was in line for class president, was voted class poet and served as editor in chief of the school annual. 

With tunnel vision, Hughes framed Delmar's story within the structure of the black church, and many of us will recognize his special relationship with the choir director who sneaks him off alone on a trip to the Village, when the choir visited the New York.  While his father obsesses over what he considers his son's obvious effeminacy, things come to a head when the director, a Dr. Manley (Wink!) Jaxon, writes and dedicates to Delmar an original anthem based on the story of Ruth in the Bible.  Those of us with a queer eye for the bible know that some theologians now consider the story of Ruth and Naomi to be one of the two same-sex relationships remotely possible in the scriptures.  And those of us with a working history of black gay history will recognize the peculiar spelling of the doctor's last name as the same Frankie Half-Pint Jaxon, a transgendered performer used in the 20's and 30's.  Sunday morning comes and Delmar begins to sing. They congregation listens as Delmar's voice begins to soar while singing the female lead.  Disruptions occur.  In the midst of the excitement and the revelations of Delmar's father, Dr. Jaxon and the pastor of the church, he continues to sing out loud and up high ~ perfect metaphor for the direction Hughes knew Delmar's life would take. It is also perfect affirmation and assurance to all the Delmar's of the future in the reading of the story.

We all had to have one of these posters in the early 90's. This beautiful & iconographic image is recognized as the artwork from the original movie poster of British filmmaker Isaac Julien's landmark 1989 film, Looking For Langston.  Breathtakingly beautiful & erotic, the film isn't really about the life of Langston Hughes per se.  But it could have been.  It's actually a mediation and a meditation on Hughes's life in Harlem during the 1920's.  It's a lyrical, ethereal and always stunning poetic imagination of what could have been by considering Hughes within the sometimes ambiguous sexual subtexts of the period.  The then executers of the Langston Hughes estate tried to fight the progress of the film tooth and nail.  For the U.S. screening, they demanded that the volume be turned down on the part showing Hughes reading from his own poetry, and in doing so only underscored the years of silence surrounding the very issue that Hughes was never to speak directly on.  Today, when we watch exciting films like Brother To Brother (2005) starring Anthony Mackie (as a young black gay artist who ends up having to look back in order to find his future) and Daniel Sunjata (Langston Hughes) contemporary audiences are apt to take the portrayals of HR figures like Hughes, and Richard Bruce Nugent for granted without fully realizing the odds the writers and filmmakers were against in order to present our hero's as family finally back at home with us.  

Forty-two years after death, I am of the opinion that we no longer have to go searching for Langston because he's been found.  Indeed, we can be blessedly assured that he was with us all the time. 

 

 

 

 

DRAMA QUEENZ: STAY TUNED FOR SEASON TWO!

Dane Joseph knows a good drama queen when he sees one! In fact, he didn't have to look very far for examples when he created Drama Queenz, a very hip & funny ten minute webseries that made its debut on Youtube last year.  Drama Queenz follows the lives of three aspiring Broadway performers, young men of color that you may recognize as anyone you might know living in upper Manhattan, Brooklyn, the Bronx or "Queens", which ironically is where this trio resides.   Joseph is Writer, Director & Executive Producer of the show.  His company is NovoNovus Productions, a multi-media outfit committed to defying traditional hindrances which restrain creativity and thinking outside the box to discover what's new, next and now!  "I usually find that I encounter very little opposition or aggression when I'm sticking to my truth and writing from the heart instead of what I think people expect or what they think is good" Joseph told me.  Queenz is all about dreaming dreams, unexpected songs, and simple little things with a little fall of rain.  The drama that the audience is drawn into is based on real life experiences involving the rigors of constant auditioning, maintaining personal integrity while surviving on a budget, and living in a cramped apartment with other queens who may be a bit more dramatic than you are.  And did I say boyfriend dramas?  And more boyfriend dramas!  Dramatic they may be, but the guys know how to handle their business and know how to look good doing it!  "The show is mostly based on my reality and the reality of my closest and dearest friends.  So I simply projected what I knew" says Joseph.  "In my reality and in my circle, we behave a certain way.  I never really try to think about who or how I'm representing.  I just try to speak my truth in its entirety, without too much exaggeration" he adds.  

Season One of the show found art imitating life and life imitating art as Jeremiah (played by Joseph), Davis Roberts (Kristin-Alexzander Griffith) and third roomate Preston Mills (Troy Valjean Rucker) go about living their everyday lives.  In real life, all the guys have acted & performed on stage, and in the national touring companies of such shows as Rent, Aida, Joseph & The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and Jesus Christ Superstar.  In their parallel life, they are often struggling to keep it together while keeping each other's backs.  They have the type of relationship many of us watching like to see, yet marvel over because we've never experienced that stick-closer-than-a-brother-like closeness.  This is the same concept witnessed in shows like Queer As Folk and Noah's Arc (now also Christopher Street).  Dane tells me "I'm always glad when people compare us to successful shows.  I'm always hoping that we can make it as big as those that we get compared to....I didn't really have a model upon which I used to develope the scripts and storyline.  Comparisions are going to happen naturally.  It's how we set our standards and make judgements".  He went on to say "I don't understand, however, when people start to view things as a competition.  Why can't we all just be successful at doing our thing?  I'm glad that there are people out there creating work that touches people, regardless of whether there are superficial similarities between their product and my own."  Bravo Dane!  Queens queenz Jeremiah is the one with the mean Ethel Merman ringtone.  He's handsome, level-headed, often disappointed but eternally optimistic.  Davis is somewhat grounded, somewhat shy, somewhat clueless but cute as a button, while Preston is perhaps the most dramatic of the three.  He loves the boys and is quite sincere about it.  They're all likeable and attractive and keep the viewer smiling.  And they all get big ups for loving the word BITCH!  

A very common and very valid complaint among many gay men of color is the lack of representation of our romantic relationships with each other, particularly in the mainstream gay mass media, but the fellas want us to have a good time and to enjoy the ride with them, and part of that ride crosses the terrain of interracial relationships in the Big City.  Romance for Jeremiah, Davis and Preston certainly does not discriminate and here, the queenz certainly bring the drama. "The truth is that it is 2009 and many people date interracially, particularly in the gay world.  I think that people believe that happiness and love can be found from a variety of sources, so they're a bit less closed off than they used to be.  From a producer's perspective, it was really important that we try to diversify the cast as much as possible.  I didn't want a "black" show or a "gay" show.  I wanted a good show that meant something and that spoke to people...whenever I get negative comments about Jeremiah dating a white boy or Preston and Davis meeting European men at Coney Island, I just kind of laugh it off because the show isn't about all that".  Our three brotha actors are quite attractive, and the fans are rooting for them to play on an equal playing field, but imagine lookalike Zac Effron or Robert Pattinson actors on the show as boyfriend material?  Now that might even things out!  Talk about diversity, I'd be remiss if I did not mention the soundtrack the queenz live and love by.  It's fabulous and classic!  This might be the first time you've heard Duke Ellington's Black & Tan Fantasy as the soundtrack to a young gay man's life anywhere today?  In fact, there's plenty of Ellington, and European classical too!  There's theatre classical from the likes of Gershwin and Rogers & Hammerstein all the way down to Dr. Mattie Moss Clark and her gospel classical.  Love it!    

Season Two's first episode is expected to drop this fall!  The guys have matured and are more experienced both being in front of (as well as behind) the camera.  As well they should be!  Standards started off on a high level last year, and viewers should look forward to more of the same only better ~ more laughs, better writing, better acting, and now that they have more budget, better production quality and technicality too!  As well it should be! They'll deliver and serve it as well as any good drama queen should. This is all about progress!  "Right now, we're still hammering out the scripts for next season and making sure everything is set for whatever lies ahead.  Things will definitely be more refined.  Think of it as DQ 2.0.  We have to keep working hard, and challenging ourselves to be better. Otherwise, people will soon get sick of us.  A year from now, I would love it if Drama Queenz was actually on TV in a half hour format, or would be considered must-see Web TV.  Only time will tell, though"  Dane concluded. 

Congratulations guys on a job well done! http://www.dramaqueenztheseries.com/ 

Watch and Subscribe:  NovoNovusProductions

2009 Memorial Day Weekend, DC Black Pride will be screening Drama Queenz.  Come out!  Show some love and say hello to the fellas!  This time sans the drama! 

Episode 7: "There's Gotta Be
Something Better
Than This"
 

 

GOLDEN MEMORIES FOR MISS GOLDIE MAE!

Meet Miss Goldie.  My mother's mother.  Besides my mom, I don't think there's anyone living who remembers her, and because she was only five years old when Goldie passed from us, time has stolen most of those memories.  Goldie was with us for only 28 years.  She died in 1932, well before my before my birth, but I remember her.  I've always known her.  She has always lived with me & in me.  I've always had a fascination with all things Goldie.  I've collected them like precious gems and I stand guard fiercly over her memory.  

This particular image is part photo and part drawing & does not fully reveal much of who she was.  That's why I chose it, and that's how protective I am of her.  For many years, it seemed even a good photographic representation had died with her so many years ago. 

She became a mystery.  The tales that survived about her were suspicious and terribly one-sided, told by people who were insanely jealous of her, or who, like me, had gotten ahold of second hand information themselves.  Most of the stories that had been passed down about Goldie came from my grandfather.  They were married twice and he had an obssessive compulsive disorder about his wife that culminated in a second divorce.  He did not treat her as she deserved to be treated and almost 80 years later, Goldie's own voice would speak out and tell her side of the story through two sets of dusty divorce records and pages and pages of depositions.  For those who sided with my grandfather, I would smack them in the face with Goldie's own words.  About ten years ago, I'd had enough.  I went on a full-scale genealogical dig for my grandmother and resurrected her.  In addition to the divorce records, I unearthed three new photos of her that had not seen the light of day in my family for almost 75 years.   She was the quintessential flapper.  She took the idea of New Negro womanhood in the 1920's as a serious business.  This could be a dangerous thing for black girls who were not expected to assert themselves during this time.  Goldie spent the whole of her flaming youth during the decade of the Twenties, and she was totally a woman of her times.  While she wanted (and deserved) to be loved, to be a good mother to her two girls (and wife to her two husbands), she also wanted to make her own decisions.  She dreamed of being a dancer, and she became known as one.  Goldie was a champion Cakewalker and she could kick you under the table doin' the Charleston.  Women liked her.  Men adored her.  They wanted to control her, but it would take a special man to control Goldie.  She was stubborn and defiant, yet she was genuine and sincere, too.  Years ago, an elderly cousin told me "She was a vamp.  I don't mean that in a bad way.  She was very nice and everybody liked her, but when she walked down the street she turned heads".  Indeed.  During my research, I found a few elderly gents who knew her and lamented that they were either too young or too close for comfort to get quite close enough.  She was very stylish, and always wore her hair in what's called a Bob ~ a short cut hairstyle that was considered scandalous for the times because flowing hair was such a desirable attribute that men admired.   As much as her dancing & flair for fashion, Goldie's tresses have also become part of her legend.  Thanks to her multi-racial heritage, she had beautiful thick dark brown wavy hair and those who recalled her never failed to mention her bob haircut, dancing prowess, feminine wiles and the short skirts that the more daring ladies of the Golden Age rocked with no small amount of fashion forwardness.

There were always whispers about her second marriage.  Was Norman a gangster?  Did she find the love she needed with him?  Some were tight-lipped and downright lied about how & why Goldie left us so young.  So early.  For far too long, there was only that one tattered photo.  Family members and friends who remembered her were leaving us at a rapid rate.  All that remained was a ghost of a life that was once so vibrant, so enjoyed and almost so celebrated.  Some old accusations and questions have been answered but there are still those that remain.  I am in the process of writing Goldie's definitive biography.  As much as it will be based on the interviews, the snippets of memories, the lies and now the truths, it will be in part due to the paranormal experiences that I've had with Goldie.  She's whispered in my ear, and spoke to me through the documents, either flat out or between the lines.  A nationally known psychic once described a woman who "lived with me".  When I replied there was no such woman, he looked at me askance and described her to a T.  It was unmistakably Goldie.  I apologized both to him and her.

This Mother's Day, in remembering Goldie, I'm not only paying tribute to my grandmother but to my mother as well.  I present this tribute to her as much as to anyone.  Join my family as we go before God with beautiful white flowers, gardenias, flickering candlelight and the scent of vanilla.  We invoke Goldie with precious and golden memories, prayers for her continued protection in spirit.  We speak her name.  We want her to know that she is still remembered, loved & cherished by her offspring in this earthly realm.  We thank God that out of all of the mothers that He could have chosen for us, He chose Goldie to bring forth our own wonderful mother. We're elated that Goldie is with us in Spirit, and we're overjoyed that her daughter is still here in the flesh.    

 

 

 

 

 

  

VICIOUS ON THE MIKE: MARVIN ON BLAST !

I finally got my baby to sit down and write a post for me.  And write he did!  Talk President Barack Obama and those right-wing radio pundit fools and he'll bend your ear forever.  Let him keep you occupied for a minute or two.  Who's vicious on the mike?

 

Communist.  Fascist.  Socialist.  Anti-Semite.  The Anointed One, the Savior, the King, the Don, the Professor, the liar in chief, the worst president we’ve ever had, an international embarrassment, the Neville Chamberlain of our time, the chosen one, the messiah, the lapdog of big money interest.  If you regularly listen to the major right wing radio talk shows of Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Michael Savage, Marc Levine and Bill Cunningham, you’ll no doubt recognize all these terms as descriptors routinely used to describe President Barack Obama.

I have always maintained that it is very difficult to measure with any degree of certainty or accuracy the true level of racism present in our country. With people of color so often being the instruments of their own suffering and self destruction it is very difficult to point a finger at Americans of European descent and clearly discern the level of their culpability in keeping Black folks down. However, since the election of President Obama, the self proclaimed leading lights of the conservative revolution have been unrestrained and absolutely vicious in their meanspirited and overtly racist commentary about the President and the direction in which he wants lead the nation.

I am often asked why I continue to listen to these men who twist and distort every word, gesture and deed by President Obama so as to portray him in the most disparaging and unflattering light possible.  The answer is simple ~ keep your friends close and your enemies closer.  More importantly I find it a fascinating (if at times disheartening) glimpse into the hearts and minds of those Americans who struggle most with the presence of "Blackness" in the good ole U.S. of A.

For those of you who have never or would never listen to any of these men let me assure you they have been as disrespectful, small minded, meanspirited, ugly, vicious and at times overtly racist during the short 100 days of Mr. Obama’s presidency as they could posibly be.

President Obama they say will be the worst President ever while history they say will vindicate George Bush’s efforts to keep us safe.  President Obama is roundly critizied for the role he played in the resignation of General Motors C.E.O. Rick Wagner, however Ronald Reagan (whom right wingers routinely refer to in the most reverent of tones) fired thousands of air traffic controllers and was applauded by them for doing so.  George Bush routinely borrowed money and ran a budget defecit to finance the war in Iraq and few conservatives said anything.  Yet President Obama is skewered for doing the same in order to prevent economic collapse.  Many of the conservative talk show hosts and national leaders have made headlines by denouncing President Obama's bail out plan (though they never put forth one of thier own).  Some, such as Louisianna Govenor Bobby Jindal have gone so far as to refuse stimilus money.  Truth be told despite their feigned allegiance to fiscal conservatism many of these govenors have already taken stimulus money while others only intend to return a portion of the money in protest not all of it.  In the minds eye of the Republican/conservative far right every act engaged in by the President (from choosing a new pet for his daughters to choosing a new Supreme Court Justice) is deceitful, deceptive, dishonesty, derisive of American values, disrespectful to the office of the of the President and designed to turn America into a de-facto socialist state

President Obama has been called an elitist, despite his thoroughly middle class upbringing.  He has been critiscized for the relatively modest fortune (modest when compared to Dick Chaney, George Bush, and John McCain) he earned through the sale of his two books.  He's been blasted for being photogenic, dressing well and being a gifted speaker (an empty suit, an emperor with no clothes, the teleprompter president).  The President has been chastized for being too available to the press and having too many press conferences (transparency, get it?).   At times no one knew where Dick Chaney was!   He was castigated for releasing the so called " torture memos " but had he not done so they would have asked what is he trying to hide?  President Obama has even been criticized for flying Air Force One (big carbon footprint).  Should he travel by hot air balloon?

In truth, it is still much to early to judge the success or effectiveness of the Obama administration.  Much of the programs and executive orders put in place have yet to take effect or be in effect long enough to yield measurable results.  At this point we can truthfully only judge the intent and direction of the legislation enacted by the President and his cabinet.  This is of course why we elected Barack Obama. Americans of good will, of all colors, creeds, and political leanings wanted our country to move out of yesterday and into tommorrow.  To move away from politics and political agendas that pit Democrats vs. Republicans, rich against poor, Black against White, Gay against Straight and ultimately nation against nation. Despite some miscues and misteps Mr. Obama has thus far kept a pragmatic eye on the prize.  He has balanced his grand vision for a transparent, transformative, and transcendent administration with common sense, common decency and a complete commitment to serve the common good.  If you are critical of the Obama administration I ask you to honestly examine your own heart and ask how much of your critiscism of the man is based on the color of his skin and not the content of his character.

DO BLONDES HAVE MORE FUN...OR IS IT THE PEROXIDE?

Besides Monroe, there's Rupaul!  I woke up this morning with visions of white women in my head.  No, not the kind my big brother had years ago when they used to call the house and my father would go ballistic with "boy you must have the fever..you better stay away from them girls, they ain't nuthin' but trouble."  

No, my fever for the flavor is more slanted toward the Old Hollywood  icons like Marilyn Monroe and Jean Harlow.  I don't know why I woke up with images of Monroe and Jane Russell singing the lyrics to "we're just two little girls from Little Rock" from the movie Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.  However, I quickly decided to take advantage of the situation and create this very quick blogpost. 

I actually prefer shiny bald heads, but I do consider myself to be a gentle man and I will admit to having a few favorite blondes.  Like I said, there's Rupaul!  Of course, Rupaul isn't a white woman.  She's a black man!  With blonde hair!  Like Monroe, Rupaul Charles is an icon ~ if only in the gay community, but this status has not come without some controversy.  Some black gays think the peroxide may have seeped in a little too deep and perhaps Miss Ru is now just a little too...umm...blonde for our tastes.  What you see is what you get with Ru and it's always been that way.  Odd thing!  A fellow blogger ~ a black heterosexual female ~ recently flipped the script and cited Rupaul Charles as an extraordinary example of black masculinity.  What she basically said is that it takes really big balls for any man to embrace his feminine side to this degree.  Whether you agree or not, mainstream society may have already gotten over the fascination with the mean Miss Charles a little while ago.  Rupaul is still fierce & fabulous in every way and that's why we still love her.  Man!  Woman!  Black!  White!  Gay!  Blonde!  Rupaul transcends all the labels and renders them null and void! 

Note to the trifling young man switching across the street in a pair of his mother's pantyhose ~ do it like Rupaul or don't do it all!  You know who you are!

Jean Harlow!  The original Blonde Bombshell!  This heffa started it all in the 1930's.  My mother cites Harlow as one of her favorite childhood actresses, and I have a 30's diary that belonged to my aunt which often details going to see Harlow's movies.    She could be tart and trashy and half of the time, you fully expected her to pull out a knife and cut you.  Okay!  Flashlight!  That's why the women in my family loved her, and consequently, so do I.  Harlow was at her best when she was paired with on-screen maids like Hattie McDaniel or Louise Beavers. Their quick witty and almost dangerous reparte is a sight to behold.  Harlow was also often at her best with Clark Gable, but wouldn't you be too?  The legendary Hollywood photographer George Hurrell used Jean Harlow and Joan Crawford as his favorite muses and together, they practically invented the Hollywood glamour shot.  Consider this one here of so very many others.  Like Marilyn Monroe, Jean Harlow met an early death at the age of 26, and subsequently passed into icon status.

Who could forget the creepy kids from the original Village Of The Damned ?  I'll never forget seeing this movie as a kid and being absolutely mesmerized by these little freaky platinum blonde  tykes.  If I remember correctly, all the females (even the old ones) from a quaint little village in the English countryside all become pregnant at the same time.  This phenomenon causes quite a stir in more than a few households.  Nine months later, what they thought were sweet little blue eyed blonde babies were born and continued to develop at an alarming rate.  If you looked at them sideways or for too long, you just might meet your end, and if their eyes started to glow, you knew your ass was in trouble fo' sho.  Who were they and where did they come from?  Were they extra-terrestials?  Whoever they were, I knew I wanted to hang out with them!

Many years later, I dyed my own hair blonde.  It was the fad of the moment and I just had to have the look.  Of course, I kept it cut real close so I had to keep running back to Evelyn ~ a lady I used to go to church with ~ to dye my hair.  The first time it came out cool, but thereafter the dye jobs started to come out with these strange shades of orange.  I remember going to a family function where I was the only man with orange hair, but there sat my mother, her sister and their cousins all with those peculiar shades of reddish hair.  I took my place at the table as if it were the most natural thing to do and I heard an older man say "I guess you can tell he's one of the family".  One of the family, indeed! 

July 4th, 1970something.  It was a July 4th celebration of barbeque ribs, potato salad and baked beans and my oldest sister was sporting a black skin tight pleather outfit with matching boots and a damned blonde wig.  During this period, trying to rock a blonde wig was a most unique fashion statement to say the least and she knew it.  Out of all the people she could have asked to walk up the street with her, who did she ask?  Yep!  Me!  I loved her for it and I'll never forget it.  I remember both of us holding back tears of laughter at all of the stares we were getting from folk's gawking out the windows & shit.  I don't know exactly what possessed her.  I don't even know what statement she made but her outrageousness ran in the family, and she provided me with one of my most treasured memories of two misfits walking through the hood.  I would never dye my hair again, and looking at the few remaining photos, I looked a hot mess!  So did my sister.  Don't be fooled! If you're not Caucasian & if you're not Rupaul and you have blonde hair, you look a hot mess too ! ! !

I had a friend who could not stand Marilyn Monroe.  She said Marilyn was overrated and too hyped even after death and placed on a pedestal for being the epitome of beauty that women like her could never aspire to some forty years later and blah blah and blah.  Whatever!  Sure, there are elements of truth to that I'd never deny, but there isn't too much this particular friend likes about blondes period.    

A goddess?  Isn't that what they call her?  Marilyn was wonderful!  She took what Harlow started and elevated it to an artform. Monroe's story is so well-known that I don't have to go into it here, and thank God because I am so ready to end this post!  I'm also not going to list my all-time favorite MM movies here either because just about anything available is representative!  I will give a little quick commentary on the photos.  I believe the year is 1952, and well before my time.  The photo is from Jet magazine, and I wish I was one of the little black boys smilin' with Marilyn. 

Also, here's Marilyn with the great Ella Fitzgerald after the First Lady of Swing was refused booking at a major nightclub venue called The Mocambo.  Fitzgerald was Marilyn's favorite singer and after she heard about it, she called management and bitched then pleaded on her behalf.  They relented and Monroe showed up every night at a front row table for the duration of Fitzgerald's run.  According to Ella, this particular engagement was the one to open the doors from the saloons to the posh big money nightclubs. 

They say blondes have more fun.  I was always laughing when I had blonde hair.  Rupaul makes me laugh.  Jean makes me laugh.  My sister made me laugh and she laughed when she had blonde hair.  And of course, Marilyn makes me laugh.   Maybe that's why all the mean lookin' sistahs rock blonde hair.  So they can laugh, too!  Or maybe it's the peroxide! 

 

 

THE RACE IS NOT GIVEN TO THE SWIFT!

I put my running shoes on and Corey @ I'll Keep You Posted got off to an admirable start. There have been times when it felt like smooth sailing, and then times when I've felt like Carl Lewis trying to run a relay race in stiletto heels. 

I've been a blogger for a lot longer than I realized.  I just didn't know what to call it.  Back when I had a real job, I'd go to work in the morning and start the day off by sending out emails (with a morning topic) to all of my friends, and then impatiently await their responses.  And I couldn't get any work done until I religiously read the morning posts of Keith Boykin and Rod McCullom, the two daddies of the Black Gay Blog.  I lost my job a few years later, and during a marathon email bitch-session with Kevin E. Taylor, he mentioned with lightbulb clarity that blogging is what I ought to be doing.  Up until that point (and even afterwards) I never took it seriously, thought it an option, or that it was something I could do.  Also, by that time I was heavily reading Ian and Aaron's blogs, Wielding The Axe and Masculine Curves, respectively.  I greatly admired these brothas and never considered that I could do what they do.  

I wanted my own blog to be about acceptance and inspiration.  If someone (especially a gay youngster) visited and left here validated then my work was done.  I still feel the need to be responsible, accountable and trustworthy.  One of the biggest initial fears that I had was how I'd be viewed by close family members and friends.  I needn't have been concerned.  They're not my audience.  They didn't read me then and they don't read me now.  These were the same friends who used to get the emails & ask what am I going to do with my writing talent, and state how if I wrote a book (that's coming) how they'd be the first to buy it.  Odd.  I write the blog but they don't even read it.  Directly or indirectly, I've lost at least two of them since starting this blog.  Both were suspect for awhile.  One finally just showed out and revealed his true colors while the other is still slowly fading out, and for all I know she could be all but faded away by now.  Good riddance to bad rubbish.  I'm no longer concerned so much about what other people think.

This whole blogging experience has far exceeded any expectations that I ever could have imagined.  I've found myself behind the mike, in front of the camera and in the press.  Still, after a year I continue to struggle with readership.  It ebbs and it flows.  Right now, I'm enjoying a certain kind of growth.  It's steady but not by leaps or bounds.  Most bloggers feel that the comment section is often the lifeblood of a blog.  I get relatively few.  (I know there are those who lurk..thank you for lurking...I love it when you lurk) but I must take a minute and thank those who comment on the regular like Thomas, Gayte, and Toddy.  All bloggers.  In fact, most of my regular readership is comprised of other bloggers.  I attract writers.  I like that!  Still, I'm often left wondering exactly who it is that I appeal to.  Regardless, I now have a blogger brothalove with Aaron and Ian.  Also, there's Taylor and Chuma, and the various others who continue show up & stick by me, encourage me and support me. From the beginning there was "Manny", Mr. Funky, Raven, Richard, and Darius B.  I cannot tell you how I appreciate what you offer me.  On the other hand, there were those that I reached out to, and let's just say a year later I didn't hold my breath. 

I do a little bit of everything here.  I especially do old-school divas quite well.  I cannot do Keri Cassie or Ciara because I do not feel them the same way.  I'm not enthused with Beyonce because I was raised on Diana.  I cannot write about Lady GagMe...sorry Gaga...when I'd rather write about Lady Marmalade.  (I was the first to blast Labelle's Back To Now).  Ask Carmen!  I feel I do give credit where it's due and when I feel it.  Moreover, a few posts have been originated here that continue to be visited, lifted and copied, and I appreciate it.  Yes! I do want recognition.  Unfortunately, the serial blog hitters often don't find what I write of much interest, and I have found there is a most definite issue here.  It's called age.  Even with readers my own age, I've had a hard time attracting them here.  They're often jaded wondering why I do what I do because (they feel) it's not going to make any difference anyhow, or they're disappointed when they find out I'm not running an x-rated site.  Bottom line is they are not the ones who are reading (or writing) blogs on a daily basis. There are those who say I do this thing well & thank you for that, too.  Admittedly, I find blogging challenging.  The truth is sometimes I sit down at the computer and automatically feel like all my energy is being sucked up in cyberspace.  I think I'm fine with the writing end of it but some work it better than others.  I recently found out that at least three master bloggers (Daddy, Rippa and Lisa) have only been at it for a year, too!  It seems those who are the most successful (however you define that word) in blogging are the ones who love it and have a passion for it.  I guess that says something about me, huh?  Enuff said! 

Regardless, it's still a pretty respectful place over here and I'm looking forward to another year.  I'd love to do interviews and more historical posts.  I'm really surprised at myself.  I'm also proud of myself for what I have accomplished and for lasting this long.  I'm looking toward being more mice elf.  More blunt.  Straight-forward.  Honest.  I think those are good standards.  Thank you falettinme be mice elf ...again!

SPLASH ! ! !

We're all adults here, right? 

You betta recognize! 

Alluring!  Amusing!!  Bewitching!!! Impressive!!!!   And inspiring!!!!!   I'm at least one of those things according to the mack daddy who told me!  When he Splashed me, he said I was at my best when I kicked old-school Jazz and R&B at the chalkboard.  Like Einstein!  So, I guess that makes me...what...impressive?  I'll buy that!  I appreciate it too!  I love the positivity, sense of humor and integrity that characterizes this playa's blog at daddyBstrong . 

I take being Splashed by Macdaddy quite seriously!  Let me explain......

When I started this blog a year ago, I focused primarily on a black gay male audience.  That audience remains the major source of my readership, but from the beginning, things never really worked out the way that I thought they would.  Due to the primary subject matter alone, I thought I would draw certain segments of the black gay community, but it didn't quite work out that way.  Ironically, I found that I'd be ignored the most by the black gay male bloggers that I admired the most.  Another blogger, already a published novelist, told me these were the people I needed to attract, but I never quite vibed into their too-busyness, too fabulousness, short-temperedness and downright dismissiveness.  I don't think so!  I do think if I were fawning after them & riding their jock (do they still say that?) I'd get some recognition or at least a link on their blogrolls.  I'm not running after them like that 'cuz I don't think they're all that!  On the other hand, I continue to be embraced by a growing number of more mature blogger brothas and writers with a fierce brotherhood that I treasure and hold dear, some of whom I credit with influencing me and a few of whom, I'd like to think I influenced just a little bit.  You know, I'm always talking about other people, and how I feel they are so prone to put me in a box, but what happens when I box myself up and my own outlook is so narrow that I can't see my own beautiful forest for the proverbial trees?  Sure, the material here is very pro-gay and pro-black!  But not all of the supporters of this blog are gay, not all are black, and certainly not all of them are male.  I'm appreciative and thankful for all of them, and I'm especially grateful to them for constantly sending me the message to step outside of my own box!   

Part of the fun of splashing is Splashing others, and from the way I understand it, the Splash Awards were started over at the Electronic Village electronic village (http://electronicvillage.blogspot.com/)  to give recognition to other blogs they thought were alluring, amusing, bewitching, impressive and inspiring.  It's a blogger lovethang with a chain-like effect!  Once you've been Splashed, throw some recognition on somebody else.  You get to nominate up to nine blogs, and you must link them within your post (and link back to the person from which you received your Splash).  You also have to comment somewhere on their blog to let them know that they've been Splashed.  And please remember to use the Splash logo in your post (see above).

For your consideration ...........................

Lisa's voice at Black Women Blow The Trumpet is so deft and distinct I can hear her voice inflecions as I read her posts.  You don't want to mess with her!  She's a fierce preachin' lady with, I believe, a background in pschotherapy who is ready & able to get you together quick.  She brings it every time, and I admire her dedication to her blog and committment to black women.  If I could make the ladies in my life do one thing, her blog would be required reading.   And if you think it's just for the ladies, think again! BLACK WOMEN, BLOW THE TRUMPET!

Male.  A bunch of black guys, a white gay guy and a girl.  Somebody's bound to get gang-banged with intellect & difference of opinion from all angles because the participants are all guests, bloggers in their own right (with sites of their own). Ian is in charge of extending the invitation here or weilding the axe.  While the site is inclusive & all are welcome, it's still a gathering place where it's all about us; a place to check in for our daily male.  Umm...I mean mail.  Well, see what I mean here ~MALE

The Gayte-Keeper.  Kishna describes himself as a mediator between the flesh and the spirit, between male and female, and the content of his blog as life seen through his eyes.  What a pair of eyes!  Talk about 20/20 vision, this brotha constantly leaves me in awe with his insight and wisdom.  Intelligent and kind, he is deserving of all the buzz and attention that he's creating in the blogosphere.  And the photos he uses to accompany his posts always carry their very own WOWfactor!Kudos, Brotha! thegayte-keeper...

The Intersection Of Madness And Reality.  I cannot believe Rippa has only been around for a year.  This brotha was born to blog!  He does it with a vengeance!  He's bold like a brotha oughta be!  He's hilarious and twisted and a self-described fuck-up - all traits after my own heart.  If he were a singer, he'd take your material, put his own stank on it and make you never want to sing your song again. THE INTERSECTION OF MADNESS AND REALITY

Wouldn't you like to splash somebody, too!

 

 

CAN YOU SEE ME NOW ?!?!

The sermons of Elder Kevin E. Taylor, pastor of Unity Fellowship Church of New Brunswick NJ appeared on this blog three times last year.  This is the fourth, and needless to say, I really feel his sermons.  The way he's able to constantly flip the conventional interpretation of scripture, make it fresh as if hearing for the first time, and still keep it in context constantly leaves me in awe.  The sermon presented today is particularly meaningful.  It's a powerful message for all who will read it, but it is especially affirming to the sizeable number of individuals who make up the LGBT Christian community.  Imagine being depressed, oppressed or just at your wit's end, and in a place where you need to hear a word from God about what it is you think you are called to do.  You're lead to visit a church that you really don't know much about, and you may even be scared to walk through the front door.  You go in & you sit down, and recognize that it really isn't all that different from what you're familiar with, and you feel at home.  Eld. Taylor begins to teach.  Before long you're standing up because he's preachin' now, and you may have cut a step before you left because who you are in God has just been validated.  Validation!  (For me) that's just what this sermon is about.  When you leave, you'll be asking "can you see me" and when they look at you crazy, you'll state CAN YOU SEE ME...NOW!  Check out this photo of Eld. Taylor.  Can you see him NOW? 

Matthew 20:29-34

29 As Jesus and his disciples were leaving Jericho, a large crowd followed him. 30 Two blind men were sitting by the roadside, and when they heard that Jesus was going by, they shouted, "Lord, Son of David, have mercy on us!" 31 The crowd rebuked them and told them to be quiet, but they shouted all the louder, "Lord, Son of David, have mercy on us!" 32 Jesus stopped and called them. "What do you want me to do for you?" he asked. 33 "Lord," they answered, "we want our sight." 34 Jesus had compassion on them and touched their eyes. Immediately they received their sight and followed him.

There are some immediate and valuable lessons in these 5 scriptures; lessons that will unshackle and unshame you with the quickness if you let them. If you can hear me and just do what the Lord says in these 5 scriptures, you will be so visible that even your enemies will have to take and acknowledge your presence, haters will come out of the woodwork to roll that eyes directly at you and people who thought they were afraid to approach you will be compelled to step up and get to know you better.

STEP ONE TO VISIBILITY:

You have got to ignore those who tell you to shut up. When you share your dreams or your joys, your hopes or your visions and people try to tell you to shut up, ignore them! THEY DON’T REALIZE THAT FOR CHRISTIANS, SHUT UP IS WAR-CRY!….THEY SAY SHUT UP AND THAT FIRE IN YOU GETS IGNITED AND EXCITED!!!! You’ve got to believe in yourself enough to be willing to say it again and again and again and again, even when and especially when haters hate on you and try to get you to simmer! SHUT UP…IN MY BONES! When they say SHUT UP…you tell them that the thing that you desire is so passionate, so powerful, so deep, so real that it is a part of you…SHUT UP…IN MY BONES!

STEP TWO TO VISIBILITY:  

Be audacious. Get bold. Open your mouth! Do the opposite of what they told you to do! THEY SHOUTED ALL THE LOUDER! This is completely different from ignoring those taunts at you to be quiet. This is about you being true enough to yourself to get louder. Sometimes, people and situations come along and they bark at us, bite at us, yell at us and we get up but we don’t always get up the same. We want to love again, but we don’t be the same openness to the next relationship. We want to try to open another business, but the last time we failed. You’ve got to get louder and bolder and stronger and clearer and freer and believe in yourself NOW, more than ever…why? Because…

STEP THREE TO VISIBILITY:  

When Jesus shows up, TELL HIM WHAT YOU WANT! You can’t be stuck in old hurt, old heartache, old pain, old past. You’ve got to be steadfast and unmovable, sure and clear, because when Jesus shows up…HE CAN SEE YOU! You realize that the problem was that you couldn’t see yourself, but when Jesus shows up…he knows just where to turn, just where you are, just how many steps it will take to get to you and you’ve got to have it made up in your mind that you deserve what you desire and that you desire what you deserve…BECAUSE JESUS IS COMING AND HE CAN SEE YOU AND HE WILL GIVE YOU WHAT YOU WANT, BUT YOU’VE GOT TO DECLARE THAT YOU WANT IT. Not that you want it, but. You’ve got to be willing to have a new relationship God and realize that it’s not just on Sundays or at Convocation that God is watching, but that GOD CAN SEE YOU! You might have thought that those things that happened were signed that God was separated from you, but God is, was and will always be RIGHT HERE WITH YOU!

STEP FOUR TO VISIBILITY: 

Checking in to make sure that you can be seen is the final step to being visible. See, those two blind men were two blind men. Each blind man was hanging out with a blind man who couldn’t see himself OR the friend when was hanging with…but NOW that you can see….You’ve got to hang around people who can see too, so that you can check in on each other and make sure that they know YOU CAN SEE THEM and what they are doing and not doing. You can encourage them, support them, lift them up and settle them down when they start to freak out:

GIRL, I’M SCARED TO SING THIS SOLO TONIGHT!

MAN, I’M SCARED TO PREACH MY TRIAL SERMON AT THAT MORNING SERVICE!

See, when the Holy Ghost falls down on the building, I believe that it’s the Spirit of the Lord, checking in to see if I am on my job, doing what God called me to do! I know that the word of the Lord says that in the end, we will stand before the Lord and God will say WELL DONE MY GOD AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, but I believe that every once in a while, the Lord stops by just to check! Kirk Franklin had that song called LOOKING 4 U and that’s the Lord, coming through the hoods and the hallowed halls, looking to see if we are doing what we were built to do! IS GOD PLEASED THIS EVENING, IN THIS BUILDING? LORD, CAN YOU SEE ME?! See, we serve a mighty God that knows every hair on every head and when the Holy Ghost comes sweeping through the building, it’s the Lord doing roll call to see if you are on your job, doing what you were called to do this night for the Lord!

The Lord is in her Holy Temple this evening, looking for the Queen who was given the assignment to preach the gospel tonight. I ain’t the first Queen called to preach for the Lord but when the Spirit comes looking, I want the Lord to see me on my job, about my daddy's business.  I want Mother God to say THAT'S MY BABY!   When the Spirit of the Lord comes sweeping through the building, I want those who know that they were given the assignment to clap their hands to be on their feet, able to say LORD, CAN YOU SEE ME…I’m right here, clapping and praising, shouting and extolling.   When the Spirit of the Lord comes sweeping through the building, I want you to be able to stand for roll call:

Where is the big girl that the Lord gave the job of signing in the choir?

Where is the queen that the Lord gave the assignment of serving on the usher board?

Where is the straight young man born to a lesbian mother who can stand to his feet and give God glory, no matter how many people try to question his sexuality, he’s knows he’s here because God knows his spirituality?

Are you on your job this evening? Can you cry out to the Lord…LORD, CAN YOU SEE ME?! It’s me Lord, singing in the choir…like to told me! It’s me Lord shouting in the aisle, like you told me! It’s me Lord, the cream in the middle of all this coffee, giving you glory like nobody but me can…CAN YOU SEE ME LORD!? CAN YOU SEE ME?!

I ALMOST LET GO…I THOUGHT FOR A MINUTE THAT I WASN’T WORTHY…I THOUGHT THEY MIGHT NOT LET ME IN BUT YOU TOLD ME TO WAIT ON YOU AND BE OF GOOD COURAGE…AND THEN TO KICK THE DOOR IN ANYHOW! CAN YOU SEE ME!?

They told me I was too stupid to go back to school and now I’ve got a 4.0!

They told me I was born a man and I should stay that way, but you know my heart and my wholeness!

They told me to shut my mouth and be quiet while they laid on top of me and stole my childhood, but you said RISE, GET UP AND WALK!

They told me that I would never make it and that I should get my house in order, but here I stand tonight, clapping my hands!!!

You ain’t the first queen to be called to preach the gospel. God is just asking you to do it IN SPIRIT & IN TRUTH, with your husband in his rightful place and not hidden on the Deacon Board

You ain’t the first suit-wearing sister to be anointed to sing for the Lord. You are just being called to do so with YOUR SUIT ON STAGE and not just in the pews.

GOD IS TRYING TO CHANGE YOUR WALKING PAPERS…

DON’T BE CONFORMED OF THIS WORLD BUT BE YE TRANSFORMED BY THE RENEWING OF YOUR MIND…GOD IS WATCHING…IS ALL OF YOU VISIBLE!?  

I DIDN’T COME HERE TO MAKE FRIENDS…I CAME TO MAKE CHANGE!

I DIDN’T COME TO MAKE YOU AT EASE…I CAME TO STIR THINGS UP!

YOU ARE REAL…AND SO IS YOUR CALLING! YOU ARE HERE AND SO IS YOUR PURPOSE! I WAS BLIND AT ONE TIME AND COULDN’T SEE MYSELF! BUT IF YOU WILL BEAR WITNESS TO ME AND TELL ME THAT YOU SEE ME, THEN I KNOW I’M HERE AND IF I’M HERE, I GOT WORK TO DO!!! LOOK AT YOUR NEIGHBOR AND SAY NEIGHBOR…CAN YOU SEE ME?!

IT 'S STILL LIKE FIRE!

Let's just say that despite all the negativity that I've encountered in the church, I still have a burning desire in my soul as it relates to spiritual matters.  I've said before that if it weren't for that whole period of being sequestered in the church, I might not be alive now.  I am grateful, but I finally walked away from my church for my own health and sanity.  I also walked away with a God consciousness that I cannot deny.  I think the biggest lament that I have to this day is not fully being able to be a part of a community of folk who are likeminded, living, loving and growing.  However, in the ensuing years, I've been able to experience a progressive spiritual development in the local chapter of the New Thought Unity Church organization.  The diversity, inclusiveness, the mix of spirit, the metaphysical and philosophical was a Godsend to send me, helped heal my wounded spirit and expanded my knowledge of God.  Alas, I've also learned that no church is perfect, but there are those that are more affirming than others.  Today, I take what I can get when I can get it, and if it don't fit, I don't force it.   Only recently have I decided (or felt it safe) to start visiting the more mainstream communities again.  I will never do organized religion again.  At the risk of sounding arrogant (or maybe ignorant) I'll go so far as to say unless it's a really special place, I'll never do totally African American churches again.  I will never sit under another oppressive ministry that devalues my life as a child of God.  I will not pay offerings to be insulted or beat up with the bible by small-minded African American preachers in the black church.  Even though much work still needs to be done, I've had a taste of the diversity & the progressiveness elsewhere and I like it!  I want to backtrack just a moment and acknowledge the possibility that I may have made ALL of my former fellow church members sound nasty & hypocritical in my Churchqueen Confessional posts.  They weren't.  There were a few beautiful people that enriched my life and tried to keep it solid.  (Like I normally do) I basically vibed with all the preachers to some degree like Min. Jacqueline C., who kept me sane, grounded & became my spiritual big sister, Min. Vincent C., who struggled with his own different issues and who may have had it worse than I did, Deacon Carl R., who was distant but always supportive, and the elderly Mother's Board, where I always enjoyed a special respite.  I never meant to style my pastor as a total orgre.  He wasn't.  As odd as it may seem, I think he loved me in his own way but it was a conditional love.  Regardless, truth is truth!  Most of the brothers who stayed around stuck by me without judgement, a few of the young kids (who are now adults) occasionally visit Corey @ I'll Keep You Posted!  Speaking of blogs, please stop by masculinecurves.typepad.com .  Aaron Douglass is the blog author and photographer of the awesome photo that accompanies this post!

I can say that my spirit rests more easy now.  I'm still learning to reassess the scriptures, and I most definitely have a better understanding than I did previously.  I'm not locked into somebody else's interpretation and I think I'm less judgemental.  I LOVE TO RECEIVE THE THINGS OF SPIRIT THAT HELP ME LIVE MY BEST LIFE RIGHT NOW! 

I get help, inspiration (and occasionally get jacked-up) from my cyberspace pastor-friend Elder Kevin E. Taylor, pastor of the Unity Fellowship Church in New Brunswick, NJ., which is affiliated with the Unity Fellowship Church Movement started by Bishop Carl Bean.  Note: This is the kind of special that I mentioned above!   It might be funny to some, but I can testify that Oprah Winfrey's Change Your Life series from a few years ago which featured spritual author/teachers Gary Zukav, Caroline Myss and Iyanla Vanzant changed my life, indeed, and her shows with Bishop Michael Beckwith on the Law Of Attraction gave me a testimony!  Very recently, I tried to hang on to every word that was uttered in Winfrey's shows on Spirituality that featured Beckwith and Bishop Ed Bacon; they turned me on and turned me out and elevated me to write two of the posts on this blog that I am most proud of.  See My Best Life Will Not Be Televised! and A GIFT FROM GOD? INDEED! here. There are books that have helped (and are continuing to help) me mature like Elder Kevin E. Taylor's Uncluttered: Cleanse Your Spirit/Claim Your Stuff, Harvard Minister Peter J. Gomes's The Scandalous Gospel Of Jesus, Daniel A. Helminiak's What The Bible Really Says About Homosexuality, and Bishop Carlton Pearson's The Gospel Of Inclusion.  Pearson's book is life changing, life saving and is not to be /cannot be read as quickly as one might read a novel.  Please do not mistake all this talk of pastors, and this and that book to mean that I've arrived and walking on cloud nine.  I am not!  I forget and need to be reminded so much it's not funny, but I cannot tell you how much I love the growth and enjoy it when I'm able to just soak it all in and flow with it.  It's almost like a high.

The earlier posts that were recently remixed about sex, kink and stink were fun.  They have their place, and I hope I'm inspired to do another one, but the fact is that most of the posts that have appeared here have been about my spiritual and personal growth as a black gay man.  I've written about various related subjects such as my experiences with lusty preachers during church conventions, enlightenment through dreams, the possible sexuality of the Ethiopian Enuch and enuchs in general as Jesus described them in Matthew 18 (which elicited a glowing comment from a black father struggling to accept his gay son).  I've posted sermons from Elder Taylor (and I'll post a new one this Sunday).  In fact, I look forward to including a few new voices for future sunday posts but I'd like to end here with a snippet from a post that originally appeared last year on May 4th., called Saved! which defines a more evolved definition of the word as I now see it......

I remember being told early that salvation was a gift.  That Jesus paid the cost for the gift at Calvary, by dying on the cross (and rising again) so that we would be able to do the same thing.  Jesus also said that he came so that we could live more abundant lives. but much has been taught about suffering as Jesus suffered (bearing our cross) so that our salvation may be ensured.  Since when does anyone have to work so hard to receive a gift?  A gift is a gift is a gift, and gifts are given freely.  How is that we are working so hard TO BE saved, when we ALREADY ARE.  The gift has been given to mankind and we already possess it.  And following dogmatic rituals, certain baptisms, or being in Rev. SoAndSo's church where you never read, study, seek or ask doesn't change it.  Jesus paid the price so that we may not be consumed by the ills of this world.  We are called to rise above the things that bind us & live our best life.  On purpose.  Knowing that we could have been swallowed up in drug or sex addiction, and that the price has already been paid from living a hell on earth.  Just like some others who have been taught so rigid & narrow, many LGBT folk have been taught that we don't have a place in God or that God hates us.  From not knowing where to go, what to do next, and not seeking God for ourselves, many of us are living a hell on earth because that is a lie that we have been taught to believe.  I loved it when a SGL pastor friend told me that "to be saved is to have a relationship with Jesus and to trust that he died with YOU in mind and GOT UP SO THAT YOU WOULD TOO!."

 

 

FOR COLORED BOYS WHO HAVE CONSIDERED SUICIDE...

WHEN WHO THEY ARE JUST AIN'T ENUF ! ! !

It happened AGAIN!  Two weeks ago, it was 11-year old Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover in Massachussetts.  Now, it's 11 year-old Jaheem Herrera right outside of Atlanta, Georgia.  (Late last month, it was Eric Mohat in Ohio, slightly older at 17 years old).  All three committed suicide.  Both Hoover and Herrera were little boys who hung themselves in their own homes where they lived with their families.  Mohat ended his life in the family home too.  If home is where the heart is, the school-house must be where hatred resides.  All three were relentlessly bullied by other students while teachers and school adminstrators stood by, watched, probably laughed, and did nothing.  Nothing at all.  All three were smart and articulate kids who may have had a few interests that fell away from the strict confines of our poisonous and rabid modern day boy culture.  They were the different ones.  The boys with a bit of flava who stood out in a sea of tasteless sameness.

The similarities between the eleven year old's are eerie.  They were maligned with the old trusty invectives of FAG, SISSY, PUNK, and all the malevolent variants of the the word GAY.  They were kids who probably never gave a thought and two hoots about issues of sexual orientation.  Both were accused of being SNITCHES!  Their mothers pleaded with the school principals & teachers to help protect their sons against verbal abuse & threats of physical violence (and they probably were beaten up but just never reported it).  After all, that's what snitches do!  They chalked it up to boys being boys, and childhood bullying, but childhood bullying ain't what it used to be.  There are some real demon seeds out there who are left unchecked often because their parents are unchecked as they send the message to the young and vulnerable that they better not step out of line or rhythm to the beat of today's false masculinity constructs.  Our vulnerable children are something other than common.  Less than conformist, and the word FAG is just the word that is used to bring them right back to the narrow confines of male stupidity.  And that's all a lie, too!  Especially for black and latino kids who are "keepin' it real" with their clothes hanging all off of their skinny asses, failing in (and then dropping out of) school only to become little menaces to society while they hold it down on the street corner. They soon replace the previous generations of brothas gangsta leanin' and holding up the corner because they won't get/can't get a job to take care of the many babies they make because they're own lives are fucked up now.  Yeah!  These are the examples.  The real men!  In the meantime, our children cannot be children.  They cannot be themselves.  They cannot keep it real no matter who they are.  But who they are just better not be different, or they have hell to pay and nobody seems to care but their mama- and like B.B. King used to say - she might be jivin' too! 

As a kid, I had my issues and I was occasionally called those names too!  Sticks and stones never broke any bones but those names did hurt me!  It's interesting!  A lot of the kids that I had problems with had parents at home who were jealous of (or had their own issues with) my parents.  Primarily my mother.  She worked & had her own money and often wore it on her back while they were stay at home moms whose husbands may not have been as fortunate a provider as my father.  No doubt they learned it at home!  It was only natural that I'd get the blues when I came outside to play or was put on blast in the schoolyard.  But suicide was never a thought!  When I entered high school, I experienced a new level of ignorance and hatred, but this time I discovered a self-depreciating self-defense mechanism.  If they were going to spit nastiness, my outrageous antics became the perfect deflector.  Now we all laughed together, but I was the proverbial clown laughing on the outside and crying on the inside.  Still suicide was not an option, although I did consider MURDER!  Today they bring guns to school and use them.  Yesterday I took my mother's butcher knives.  I was the disruptive one when I spoke out, fought back or defended myself.  Like they do today, the teachers & principals looked the other way when I cried FOUL.  After graduation, my life drastically changed for the better.  I thought I had experienced freedom and developed a great pride in myself, but by my middle twenties those new ideas were being tested.  I experienced a new kind of second-classism, a new kind of ostracism, and this time the bible was being used to back it all up.  In some ways, I gained more than I gave up, but I didn't completely fit in the Apostolic/Holiness church either.  Not that I didn't try.  Not that I didn't meet God!  Trying to fit my square-pegged self into a little round box just never worked for me, and if they tried to box God just imagine how I felt.  I couldn't be straight.  I couldn't be gay.  Everything seemed to hinge on that alone, how much I proved myself a new creature in Christ.  Nothing was ever right.  I developed a love/hate relationship with my pastor and fell into the trap of trying to please him.  Nothing was right about that, either.  And then came Brother Lee.  And suddenly suicide became a viable option!

My pastor played Lee and I against one another and enjoyed every bit of our sniping at each other.  Lee can prophecy, can YOU?  If you don't learn and grow fast enough, God will remove you and replace you, don't you know that?  Lee wants to go places, where do you want to go?  He didn't know Lee was trying to go between the legs of every young sista in sight, and he probably didn't care.  After all, he finally had a young man he could relate to.  "There's not a funny bone in my body" he said.  He couldn't relate to my homosexuality.  Plus, he thought it was good for me to compete this way, but it was killing me.  I didn't know myself, didn't really know God, and I was trying to be all and please all.  I struggled to be the perfect custodian, the perfect usher, the perfect brother in a suit and tie pushed out front to collect the offering, given a list of long-gone members to call to find out when they were going to pay their monthly assessments because they never announced their departure.  I dealt with it and I had to help teach the others how to deal with it, but the constant comparisions started to wear me out.  Why couldn't I be more pliable?  Why can't you be more like Lee?  (I wasn't silly putty!).  Are you fuckin' that married preacher?  Which brother are you fuckin?  Lee brought Steve and Keith.  They brought others.  Then came Arthur and Marc.  Marc became my best brothafriend while Keith and I enjoyed a brotherhood bond.  Steve and I loved each other too, but if Arthur was a fake, then Lee was the devil.  We were BOTH being played in a game of pawns, both trying to be TOP SON!  At least I wasn't devious, but it was a vicious game orchestrated by my pastor right behind the veil.   It all became too much to bear with all the other things that were going on in the congregation that included my sadness and loneliness and hopelessness at failing to be what I was told GOD WANTED! 

I didn't want to kill myself but I knew I hated myself.  I wanted someone to know how I was hurting, that someone being my pastor.  I wanted him to know how I thought his games and ignorance and pronouncements of "you have to be harder on homosexuals because they have a stronger spirit of rebellion" shit was killing me.  One dark night at my parents house, I went to the medicine cabinet and downed all the aspirin.  I went to another medicine cabinet and considered taking my parents medicines.  But I didn't want to die.  So I downed another bottle of aspirin.  And then I got scared and called the hospital and told them what a "friend" had just done.  They told me about possible kidney damage and how I should get that "friend" into the emergency room.  Steve lived around the corner from my parents, and I called him to come and take me.  I had to admit to him what I'd done.  He stayed with me at the hospital while they pumped me with that nasty black chalky liquid to counter the aspirin.  We didn't leave the hospital until the AM hours.  I begged him not to tell even though I knew he would.  I knew he'd go straight to our pastor.  The next day was Sunday and I missed the service.  I didn't come back until that following Sunday.  He didn't blab but he did tell the pastor.  I was sick for a few days and nobody called.  When I returned to church my pastor looked at me like "you fool".  And it was right then that I knew I had been just that.  He said I had the "spirit of a woman" because men didn't do what I "attempted" to do.  He could be a hard muthafukka!  I stayed around for far too many years after that out of fear, and my little episode was never mentioned again.  Suicide had touched my family before and the aftermath of it was never ever really dealt with.  I knew I didn't want to die.  I couldn't do such a thing and have it wreck my family twice.  But I was hurting.  I needed help and nobody seemed to care.  Not even God.  I was a fool and didn't even get the attention that I sought.  To this day my family doesn't know about this.  I've never told anyone.  I would attempt suicide again, and this time it would be implicit and not explicit.  I tried to kill myself by smothering myself with sex.  A raging sexual addiction was on the horizon.  But that's another story.

I was an adult ...an immature one...in my twenties.  Just imagine how helpless, sad and alone an eleven year old feels when they don't fit.  They don't know they're special and beautiful.  They don't know they're the bright and hopeful ones.  They don't know that suicide is not the answer.  Hanging myself was not/is not a thought that I can conceive.  Imagine the lengths of despair that could make an eleven year old seek out information about how to hang himself.  God Help Us!  We've got to change things.  Why do we always have to experience the tragedy?  Why can't we prevent the tragedy from ever happening?  Are our eyes wide open or will we become deSINsitized to it like we are to so many other things that are literally killing us?  In a twist of irony, little Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, a sweet-faced kid who loved sports and going to church, was laid to rest on his 12th birthday (April 17th) which was also the national 13th Annual Day Of Silence, a day observed by (some) grade schoolers, high school students and on college campuses to give recognition to the many LGBT students across the country who are literally bullied to DEATH!

A SUNDAY POST: THE GOSPEL OF NEW BEGINNINGS!

There he is!  That's him!  That's the one who was always so free (and alternately so uncomfortable) with himself in church as to lay out on the floor emotionally butt naked & contrite before God in front of everybody at anytime, and whose spirit was slowly dying whenever he was reminded of his inferior status as an SGL man by the one who supposedly loved him most.  The one who was labeled rebellious & a backslider when he wanted to hold on to some shred of individuality in a sea of total conformity, but instead touched off a nasty "hair war" with his pastor once he realized his control wasn't quite so imminent.  Hair!  How trivial it all seems now, but I was to discover God did not care how I wore my hair and that all the furor was really all about control.  I was told to cut it because my pastor didn't like it.  I liked it and I didn't cut it.  So then, I was considered a threat and labeled disobedient.  And the proper measures had to be implemented to make an example of me to show the others what happens to those who get out of line.  I'll be the first to admit that I wasn't perfect.  I was often a handful, but I needed more direction and guidance in spiritual principles than I needed to be shaped and molded in my pastor's image. I understand that one of the major reasons we stay in these environments is based on tremendous fear.  This should not be surprising because many Christian ministries are FEAR BASED!  Fear of God, fear of the devil and hell, fear of asking questions, fear of difference, fear of leaving because it's been ingrained in us that we'd never make anywhere else; fear of freedom.  Fear is taught from the pulpit to keep folk in line to pay their tithes and weekly offerings, and even down to how to vote at the polls.  Fear is not of God, babies!

Blue and Moody.  Melancholy.  Those old blues divas didn't have nothing on me needin' their souls satisfied.  My walk with God became everything it wasn't supposed to be.  My eventual failures also disappointed my pastor, too.  We began to butt heads, and have serious disagreements that often affected my membership status.  This was an Apostolic-Holiness church with old-fashioned man made rules & regulations that needed a master manipulator to enforce.  Mundane issues such as hairstyles (flattops, twists, gumpbys), clothing styles (I was a fashionista trying to conform my look to the pastor's), secular music ( I sold most of my collection and gave the money to the church), men with earrings (I pierced my ears in defiance), and even reading material (Mary Wilson's Dreamgirl: My Life As A Supreme) took on epic proportions for me.  So did my sexual slips and my occasional boyfriends (which included several pitiful preachers and one petty drug dealer).  I was suspected of having a reprobate mind - doing things that ought not to be done, filled with every kind of wickedness, a terrifying prospect to hold over the head of someone who only tried and tried.  And tried. 

I initially wanted to regularly feature a "Sunday Post" on Corey @ I'll Keep You Posted when I first started this blog.  I hoped to have a continual feature that I wanted to call The Confessions Of A Reprobate Churchqueen, but the truth is that I'd soon run out of confessions (that I wanted to share) and was only able to deliver them in two parts, both of which were enough (and posted last year in April) and parts of which are combined here for this retro anniversary post.  I was never of a reprobate mind.  I just found myself in an environment that required conformity to survive, and while some will call me arrogant for saying this, I was part of a mindset that, in many ways, was spiritually retarded.  I was bound by the confines of religion and had not yet been set free by the truth of spirituality.  I've been delivered but I haven't yet arrived, and every now and then, it's worth looking back....... 

I used to spend all day in church on Sundays, starting with the 11:30 morning service, which usually lasted until 2:30 in the afternoon.  There were 4:00PM services that would often segue into the 7:30PM service.  There were also services held on Tuesdays and Thursday nights that we were strongly encouraged to attend.  (If not there were reprimands).  Looking back in retrospect, all this churchin' wasn't an indication of how spiritual we were or how religious.  I was often told in confidence "the church is a business, the bills have to be paid".  No matter that most of us were being financially bled by various other monthly dues and assessments for just that reason.  Over a period of ten years, I would hold various miniscule positions in the church from novice usher to Usher Personified (my term), not to mention that I was the church janitor scrubbing floors, cleaning toilets, and scraping chewing gum off the new pews well often into the midnight hours.  A thankless, underappreciated and often unpaid job, indeed!  I eventually worked as president of our men's auxiliary, going on to train as a deacon - a position that I never really desired, and it seemed that I was always "on trial".  Admittedly, I probably wasn't mature enough for it anyway, but after witnessing a few other brothas receive their licenses after a night of nightclubbing and (supposedly) fornicating, I really didn't want it after mine was denied on a very minor infraction.  And let us be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap became my mantra.  I was gaining my churchqueen credentials.  Thank God I couldn't sing because I would have been a mess! 

The flipside of the coin was that I was duly informed that my "gay lifestyle" would not be tolerated by God nor my pastor (who to some was God).  This man offered to become a father figure to me and help me "transition into a man" even though I had a father at home.  I agreed.  We also came to the conclusion that I needed to undergo a peculiar version of "reparative therapy" that consisted of praying and fasting my deviant sexuality back into the pits of hell from whence it came.  I became our church's full-time Tragic Mulatto spittin', foamin' and carrying on at the altar as "hands" were layed on me.  I never really believed that I was such a defect that God mis-created, but went along with the program anyway.  I accepted it because if God said it was right then I didn't want to be right.  I had a therapy session or two with a christian therapist and an encounter with a local branch of well-known ex-gay ministry.  I even had my own exorcism.  I ended up being celibate for two years, but developed and addiction to masturbation while hiding my sexuality behind a chuch pew.

Over the years, my spirit started to slowly die.  I literally felt dead while yet still alive just going through the motions.  Scared.  I'd occasionally visit other churches and sometimes I'd feel revived but still I was afraid to leave because I was told nobody else would put up with me or invest any personal attention to me in the larger churches that I became attracted to....

This was a pivotal time in my church life.  Membership was growing, and more & more young people my age were joining.  Some were single, or couples that were already living together, and so that the singles wouldn't "BURN" and the couples wouldn't be "LIVING IN SIN" there was a rash of forced marriages.  Couples ministries & groups were formed (and rightly so), but since I was only one of a few young singles left, I began to feel mighty marginalized.  (Ask anyone from this period, and they'll tell you that I was quite vocal about it, too).  All focus was being directed toward these new young heterosexual people & their new lives.  And there I sat with my unacceptably gay self!  It got to the point where I'd sit in the weeknight bible classes with a tight smile listening to the wonders of their God-ordained lives vs. the horrors of my imagined & supposed "lifestyle".  (UGH!  How I've grown to hate that word).   After services were over, I'd go home to face the four walls of my small one-room apartment, sad, beatUP & bruised only to cry myself to sleep.

Brother Corey needed to make some hard decisions.  I finally left, and while there are extenuating circumstances surrounding this move, my enthusiam had left this congregation a long time ago. 

Since leaving, I've found that religion is a man-made construct consisting of rules and dogmas (usually backed by obscure scripture for another time and people) used as control tactics to regulate behavior and mandate conformity.  Religion tells many a dynamic female minister that she cannot stand in the pulpit and declare what saith the Lord.  Religion makes room for condescending Christians to claim to "love the sinner but hate the sin" as they selectively lift ancient Levitical Codes out of context and scream ABOMINATION!  Religion allows the question to be asked how does my "choice" co-exist with my religion.  It doesn't.  I am not religious.  Neither is Jesus.  There is no room for my sexuality in the confines of religion, but what would happen if the oppressive cloak of religion were lifted off all of God's people.  I guess we'd then be left to be the spiritual beings that we are already in God's image.  By the way, I did not choose my homosexuality whether someone else "agrees" with that or not.  In fact, I could care less who agrees or not because I no longer look for approval from the wrong folks.  I did choose not to be a liar and live an inauthentic life.  It's a wonder that I still want to be called a Christian at all.  I am a man.  I am a black gay man.  I am out.  I am learning to walk in the abundance of God's blessings on a daily basis.  I am not a second class Christian with a bowed head in the corner, conflicted over my sexuality and my relationship with God.  I am that I am and I'm unapologetic about all of it.  Amen!

 

THE MAGIC JOHNSON AND THE MEASURE OF A MAN!

"Once I glimpsed both my father and my brother naked, and both instances caused me to look down between my own legs and declare "what the hell happened to me?".  While I'm certainly not an angry inch brotha, I could not help but to think "dayumm this just ain't fair".  On top of that, I'm a grower and not a shower".  Recently, I had the opportunity to sport a pair of riding breeches - those extremely tapered & tight-legged slacks worn in boots.  The booty was poppin' but I just wasn't feelin' the way things were hanging (or not) down front.  Soo...I wrapped my dick and PRESTO!  Instant BULGE!  And I totally rocked the look!"

Admittedly, one of this blog's early posts that tried to address an issue that I think is tantamount in our community was not one of Corey @ I'll Keep You Posted's most shining moments.  I lost my way in the material and never really got to the ..umm...meat of the matter as to why we have such an obsession with big dicks.  I also remember not wanting to be too analytical with it either.  In fact, I'm only mentioning it now because it did help generate a considerable amount of discussion on the issue among my friends, and impotent or not, it did contain a few essential points of considerable girth that were at the thrust of the subject matter.  Moreover, it completed the trilogy of rather risque posts that comprised funk, festish & killer cocks, and a quick revisit might place the issue in the foreskin forefront again.  I originally wanted to draw attention to our  disappointments with what God blessed us with by looking between my own legs -  see above.  Not the photo (((I wish!))) but the quote!  And without being too judgemental, our desire (((not mine))) to sometimes stuff a treestump up in our anuses. 

I asked "what is it that makes some of us stuff a sausage so big up in our behinds that we risk being paralyzed?  I so totally get it that size is subjective, but sometimes our eyes are bigger than our stomachs...I think the same thing can be applied to our sexual appetites.  When you see a big dick at first glance, you're like ahhhh ! ! ! but when it comes to gettin' down to the nitty gritty, you're more like  A H H H ! ! !  If it takes two hands to handle it, the chances are slim your'e not gonna get it all up in your ass.  The flip side of that is it means absolutely nothing if you have 12 inches the girth of a pop bottle and don't know how to use it.  Far too many brothas think they can just stick it in and pump until they burst (and perhaps they can if your orifice stretches from Cincinnati to New York City).  But having a Magic Johnson requires having skill & responsibility; a desire to satisfy your partner in addition to your own needs".

What about rejection and objectification?  Read on.......

"You've met a really terrific brotha and he looks for all the world like Reggie Bush.  He's kind, respectful, intelligent and he treats you like gold, but he's got a little ding-dong.  If you've bought into the bigger is better hype, what do you do?  Could you love him and enjoy the normal sexual relations that would naturally occur?  What if he's also insecure about his own size?  Brothas with small ones often feel the need to prove themselves a little more.  While long dong brothas may have to exert a some skill, the same is true of the less endowed guy, and I think it's worth it to stroke his...umm...ego and build up his confidence.  Overlooking a quality brotha just because he ain't holdin' is (to me) shallow and superficial.  My personal opinion is to throw some good booty on him, and he won't be able to do nothing but pop what he's got if he cares, but build up the intimacy & respect at the same time."

There were other angles that I could have included.  For example, big dicks are often theoretical or abstract.  Your big dick could be your job or your car, or who has the biggest and best-looking house on the block.  God only knows some of us often feel the need to remind others how many degrees we have and of all our other credentials.  We constantly whip it in each other's faces to compensate for what?  How embarrasingly small our self-esteem is?  How little confidence we really have?  Or just how much of a dickhead and a prick we really are as it's dictated by the erectile dysfunction of our stunted growth?  God forbid our name should be Peter!  Emotional and intellectual stimulation is just as pleasurable with someone who has the goods downstairs but nothing upstairs.  Instead of determining how big his mushroom head is, why don't we start trying to determine how big his heart is, and maybe we'll begin to find what it is we really desire.  It just might help fill that cavernous space that's constantly twitching to experience something big. 

I originally posted Magic Johnsons: The Long And Short Of It last year in June.