Queer Kid of Color

I absolutely love the blog Lazy Cheap Fat Bastard. It didn’t take me long to figure out that this blog will be a new addiction of mine. It’s funny, quirky, straight-forward and simple. Get into it.

link: http://lazycheapfatbastard.blogspot.com/

Blkgaychat

I’ve been on BGC since March of 2008. And since then, I have come across some of the most rigged and rugged guys I never thought I’d ever encountered. What began as a social experiment (I must admit, social curiosity) manifested into something other. For those of you who don’t know the acronyms that have now become synonymous within the Black gay community, those three letters means Black Gay Chat and they’ve been appropriated in a different context. As my friend puts it: “you’re a desperate queen who wants to be validated and wants a bit of attention if you’re on that site.” Currently I have 70 messages that have been building in my inbox for a little over two weeks. Each of these messages have been sent by persons livid about their sexuality, perhaps some who are sincere about getting to know me, then there are those who want sexual favors, are on the DL, maybe some folks from my high school or around the neighborhood who want to reconnect. Whatever the messages are, I’ve become selective about the guys who messages I have chosen to read. I look at their profile, see if their profile isn’t filled with grammatical errors and run-on sentences, and I seek through their photos – one nude pic means no reply. Don’t mock me – that’s just how I roll. I put a clear warning on my profile: do not open nude pics. Or hit me up if you have nude photos. Albeit being uptight and stubborn about these things have decreased the probability of conversing with jerks who can’t compose a sentence and biggest achievement is coming out of of the closet. I deserve more than that.

Dating Prettybois

Since becoming 20 I’ve had an eye opening revelation. This revelation didn’t come in my dreams, or from a friend, it hit me through common sense. That revelation folks: There’s no way I’m going to be able to be with someone who I’m not physically attracted to. I’ve dated – my friends can attest to this – some fugly dudes. Some so fugly that they’re character had to overwhelm their physicality. I think this is my part of the problem I have had with guys. I’ve admitted before that for me character trumps appearance. But as I grow older (and more wiser) I have learned (oh yea, and more handsome) I have learned that being able to physically connect with someone is as important (please! please! correct me if I’m wrong!) as being able to hold a conversation with them. I won’t even give unattractive guys (my type of unattractive) a chance anymore, unless they’re really, really, really smart…and are into politics, only then will I pardon them. How does that sound?

Political Aspirations

Last year I switched my majors (or concentrations, as my college calls it) to communications and political science as oppose to Filmmaking and Creative Writing. All my life I’ve been wanting to work at publications or networks as a filmmaker or a journalist, but my priorities this year have shifted. I’ve seen what has been given to me, scholarships parents only dream about their children having, second chances not given to many. I want to use the knowledge and effort that has been invested in me and help rebuild my community and restore a neighborhood that has long been forgotten. I need to get into politics and invest opportunity in Black and Latino young men and women from Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. I want to be able to share my story not for sobs and sympathy but for hopes and solace in knowing that because you’re a person of color from the ghetto it doesn’t mean the odds are stacked up against you. I’ve already imagined a hectic future: running the offices of some city councilman, working as a personal aide, lobbying for better schools in Bedstuy, perhaps venting and ranting in front of City Hall for safer housing projects, more gang intervention, better welfare policies, and greater police patrol in the neighborhood. A lot of people have said they see a politican or an attorney in me. I debate and argue what may mean nonsense to others, but what brings passion to me. My conservative values will definitely have to change and I will have to appease with the liberals and shift to moderacy to gain their trust. I won’t lie about my personal opinions, but I will do what I think is best for the public service of my neighborhood. Hmm….City Councilman Steven Emmanuel…I think so.

Wow. I’m twenty years old. Twenty. Twenty. Twenty. This year has been the most incredible year of my life. I hope twenty is as fulfilling as 19 was. And I can’t wait to get older. I’m excited to see what my 25^th year brings, what my 30^th brings, what my 40^th, and so on. I’ve learned that with age comes knowledge and wisdom – and those are two things I want more of. 

Thank you all for experiencing yet another birthday with me!

Happy Birthday To Me!

I last saw my father when I was about 10-years-old. The meet lasted about an hour. I remember him vividly, a strong staunch muscular man with dark skin, a thick mustache, and a receding hairline that complimented his balding head. He looked quite dapper and handsome in his dark blue jumpsuit. Family members tell me all the time that I have adopted some of his features. I heed these opinions as compliments: though I can’t quite see his reflection in me.

I never asked my mom why my father is imprisoned. Even after I developed the conscience to start becoming inquisitive, I didn’t care to ask questions about him.  When I heard the grownups having conversations about my father, I showed my discomfort or walked out the room. Of course, I know some things. Through out the years I have picked up pieces of sound bites from the conversations and have somehow been able to formulate an incomplete puzzle.  One that rises questions and begs for answers.

My father would write to me at least once a week, checking up on my older brother and I. When my eldest sisters and brother would go up to visit him, I would refuse to go with them. After a while, he began to slowly understand my refusal to write back to him, or to have consistent conversations with him, and he somehow got the message. Maybe he finally realized the embarrassment I faced. I regret that now, because he doesn’t share a relationship with my older brother either, I do believe that somehow I am partially to blame for this.

As I slowly approach 20-years-old (Sept. 9th) not having physical contact with my father for a decade has finally slapped me in the face. I want my father to know that he didn’t produce lazy kin. I need him to know that I’m a published writer, received an amazing college scholarship, that I’m queer, making films, and that, like him, I have a fairly thick mustache. But I also want to do this for me. I want to finally be able to acknowledge the paternal figure in my life and forgive him for his stupid mistake. I do want to bond with him. Even if it isn’t a dynamic that can erase the emotional damaged that has already been inflicted on me, I think a bond of any sort is long overdue.

I’ve been debating lately on how I should open up my letter to him. Should I say, “Dear Dad”? Wouldn’t that be fake though?  I think there’s a false assumption when you begin to call someone you have refused to talk “dad” instead of “father”. Maybe I’ll say start it off with his first name, but that’ll be disrespectful.  I use to address my letters to him as “Bendecion Papi” or in English, “God bless daddy”. Right now the letter opener I’m contemplating is, “Dear Father”.

In my soul I know that my father would have made a great dad. He raised my older sisters to be strong, educated, and bright women. They’ve become the essence of everything I want to be. My eldest sister is like a second mother to me. I love and admire her and am situated in her integrity. My second eldest sister is a mother of four and has given me the fiber and morals that contribute to my values. And of course, he married my mom. If there were a competition for Best Mom in the World or Best Wife in the World, my mom would win indefinitely. I may not have grown up to see how my mom and father got along, but I was able to see how she treated my stepfather, who raised my eldest brother and I, and provided us with conformability every dad should assume. If my father were able to produce such strong women and marry one too, than by default he would have been a great dad.