fiction and musings from a gay black dude with delusions above his station
I wanted an area where black and queer intersected, overlapped. My friend and former college roommate Pete recommended that I create my own neighborhood—from this suggestion The Huck was born. In its center lies Huckleberry Park, a large urban patch of green that spans several long blocks. A largely African American neighborhood, straight folks live…
Here is my reading from this past Saturday. I read as part of Perfectly Queer East Bay @ Beast Crawl in Oakland, CA. This was filmed at Octopus Literary Salon. Video produced and compiled by Friend and Videographer Michael Guleff. (Thanks, Misha!)
[Ed. note: Today (March 3, 2016) is the 25th anniversary of the beating of Rodney King by police officers. No single event of police violence has had a greater effect on me. I still can’t watch the video anymore. Before Twitter, hashtags, and #BlackLivesMatter, there was Rodney King, recorded old-school on video tape. It gave the world a glimpse…
In light of the horrible events in Charleston, South Carolina, I was going to shelve this post, which I started writing a couple of days before the shooting. The whole Rachel Dolezal drama seemed particularly trivial by comparison. But actually, it’s not. It speaks to the ways we discuss race, discuss our troubled national history…
His uniform and the strong sense of purpose with which he came at me caused an instinctual reaction. I no longer roamed freely around an open market in small-town Malaysia. I was back home in South Central, a frightened nappy-headed kid who knew he hadn’t done anything wrong, but felt a need to flee anyway….
[Ed.’s Note: This piece was first published in August, 2012. It is loosely inspired by real events.] Mrs. Cobb stood in the classroom doorway during recess watching her flock. Two of her colleagues stood by an adjacent classroom talking, their voices deliberately hushed. Mrs. Cobb paid no attention to them, nor did she take their…
25 years ago, either this week or next, I wrote a letter to my family entitled “What James Baldwin, Bayard Rustin, and Gregory A. Russell Have In Common.” Sadly I don’t think I have a copy of it anymore, though I don’t think the essay itself was as good as the title I gave it….
(Editor’s note: Because this story takes place on Thanksgiving Day, I thought it appropriate to repeat it today. A safe and happy Thanksgiving to all from the gar spot.) Originally published January 30, 2012. Grease splattering, water boiling, pots and pans clanking, bodies moving and shuffling, and layered above it all were the voices of the…
After the lights dimmed, the familiar hum began as four men of color came on the stage. They stood in a circle, humming and snapping fingers, swaying back and forth. Then, one by one, each introduced us to the evening to come, an evening of storytelling. I first saw Pomo Afro Homos perform in 1990…
After the service, I became visible again. Folks asked me if I enjoyed the service, and I had to say yes, I did, because I did get into singing and clapping and all that. XY spoke to me. He told me to wait with XX while he got the car. So I did. But then…
