fiction and musings from a gay black dude with delusions above his station
[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…
Shirley and Patty were invited to attend a local revival to give a presentation on the intersection of African-Americans, gays, and the black church. They asked me to come, too, and I said yes, though I had my reservations. Unlike Shirley or Patty, or their friend Grace who they also asked to come, I was…
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….
Something happened to me the other day on Facebook which has never happened before. I put up what I thought was an innocuous post about 82 year old Jim Nabors marrying his partner of 38 years in the Great State of Washington. Mr. Nabors and his now-husband Stan Cadwallader live in Honolulu, but hopped across…
Their bodies glided across a stage ankle deep in white mist and glittered with streams of tiny lights draped from above. “Newton, isn’t her dress lovely?” his mother said. “Yes, it is,” he answered. However, Newton wasn’t looking at the ballerina or her dress. He was looking at the guy in the tights, which left…
(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…
Intermediaries arranged a meeting. They selected a neutral location, the house of a mutual friend, which granted privacy and gave neither side an advantage. Lorraine’s mother thought it a waste of time. “Can’t mend a cracked teapot,” she intoned several times. Lorraine had to maintain hope, however, because her very existence hung in the balance. …
(Ed. note: Loosely based on a true story.) 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 two-way chatter as a slight. She focused her attention…
In an era decades before cellphones and Twitter, word spread instantly throughout campus: Clayton was to get a butt whipping. Mrs. Hamilton, though, was not naïve. She kept Clayton after class on a trumped up pretext. When the room had emptied, she walked slowly towards him. “You know they’re waiting for you, Clayton,” she said. …
