fiction and musings from a gay black dude with delusions above his station
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…
“Who. . .who are. . .” he stuttered. The man behind the desk looked up. “Who do you think I am?” he said gruffly, before turning his attention back to the papers he shuffled on his desk. “Well, I mean, you can’t be who I think you are,” Mr. Little said. “Why is that?” the…
When he opened his eyes, a bright light hit him, though despite its brilliance, it did not make him flinch. He felt warmth from it, but it did not make him perspire. He turned around and saw behind him unfocussed blobs, like muted watercolor brush strokes. Their shapes looked familiar, like houses and buildings and…
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…
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree. It was stately and it was a dome. Rick and I rode the tram around to the other side of the island, a longer ride than I would have expected. But around one final bluff there it appeared, a translucent, geodesic dome at least six stories…
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. …
