POVERTY: A LOVE STORY

(c) Breeze Vincinz

I remember an episode of the original “Melrose Place” when Heather Locklear’s character Amanda, a ruthless, cutthroat Donald Trump/Omarosa Bin Laden hybrid whose net worth seemed to be in direct proportion to her immorality explained with all the romanticism in the world that when she was younger her main goal in life was to write poetry and paint in oil and acrylics. When it was asked why she didn’t pursue those dreams, all the romance dropped from her face and she responded very flatly and coldly, “Because poverty sucks.”

I began to think of the tumultuous relationship with Poverty that I have had over the years. Truth be said, he’s been the one asking for a divorce; it’s been me who has wanted to talk things over, see if we can work things out. He’s been so consistent; my childhood friend, my adolescent confidant, my adult lover-rapist-therapist… he’s always been around to kiss and/or kick my ass when appropriate. For the past couple of years I have been talking with other entities: Prosperity, Self-Sufficiency, Affluence, Brand Name Ravioli… it’s been pissing him off. “Haven’t I provided for you? Haven’t I been there! When those financially rich and soul poor people demean you haven’t I masturbated you into a cynical, derisive, generic Ravioli and Ramen Noodle calm! Do you think they care about you? When you had no shoes haven’t I always provided you with Payless Shoe Source shoes! When you needed to travel haven’t you consistently flown coach because of me! You would be barefoot and immobile if it weren’t for me!”

And the truth of the matter is… he’s right. If I would have listened to Opulence I would totally be on Skid Row by now or at least have moved back in with my mom… homeless not being able to afford a condominium mortgage, car note, insurance, credit cards for Macy’s/Bloomingdales and such. It was Poverty who sat me down and said, “Kiddo… don’t save up for a car, just get a bus pass, and why buy when you can rent this ghetto ass cold water flat off of Sunset Blvd. with me and we will be just fine.” And I guess we have been… for awhile at least. But there is something awfully unfulfilling about our dysfunctional little relationship lately, something that I used to think was this manifestation of my growing ego, of me wanting to keep up with the Joneses as I get older. It doesn’t feel like that anymore. In certain ways it feels like I want more just to keep up with me. And it other more prominent ways, I think I have just become exponentially co-dependent on that relationship. I have used it as the punch line of so many of my jokes, the excuse for so many of my short failings, the hub of so many of my dispositions. And while Opulence has his distracting attributes of wanting you to live beyond your means, Poverty can be just as destructive with never wanting your means to ever grow or flourish

Not too long ago I received a comment about one of my articles in which the author touted that I need to “stop claiming poor” with the inclination that if I claim poor then I will be poor. I was extremely pissed reading that comment and I still am not in a pleasant enough state of mind whereas I can thank the author for the advice but what it did do was open my eyes to the type energy that I am giving out to the world. I don’t think that proclaiming myself to be poor makes me poor but I do think that it gives people who are listening an opportunity to treat me as if I am thusly welcoming them into my already dysfunctional relationship with Poverty… and the last thing any shaky relationship needs is well intended advice from someone who only has half of the story. One part of the story is that I have embraced Poverty, the other half of it is the reason why, and the reason why is that in certain ways….I’ve fallen in love with Poverty. You know, he has always been there for me. If there was ever one thing I could ever count on in life, it’s been my inability to pay shit on time… if I pay it at all as well my ability to be self deprecating in regards to my finances and to usher comical shards about my appearance and/or manner due to my income. And like with any relationship, you go through your changes, you both grow at different rates and hope that at the end of the day you still wind up together. Well, I am realizing, and I am putting this energy into the world, that as bittersweet and comforting as these decades have been for me, yeah… I think it’s time we get a divorce.

And dude… like any divorce, it’s not as easy as it sounds! I have been obsessed with anything that emanates from the mouth Suze Orman lately and last Monday I actually sat down, listed every single one of my creditors and gave each and every one of them a call to work out a repayment plan, which let me tell you… took courage of Herculean proportions to do! That along with trying to get back on schedule with paying my rent is probably going to affect my trip back to Chicago this Christmas and that’s when Poverty keeps creeping back in, “Fuck all those Credit Cards, and your management company doesn’t care if your rent is late! Go to Chicago! Get more credit cards to pay for the trip! You won’t have any money when you get back but you don’t have any money now and if you stick with me, you’ll be eating Ramen Noodle dinners again for the next couple of months to pay for the trip and you’ll be fine… just like you always have been!” It’s a convincing argument. It’s one I listened to and atoned to for a couple of decades now. But I also keep hearing two other voices in my head also that are basically saying the same thing, “You’re in a fucked up situation, but you can get out of it, and never return.” One voice is Suze Orman’s, the other, is my own.

So, I want to say that this is a “trial separation” but I somehow feel like a battered wife with a bloody nose and a blackened eye saying she wants a “trial separation” from her husband. You can just feel swarms of voices screaming, “No girl, he needs to leave!” Yeah, my sweet love Poverty has to go. I don’t forsee myself ever becoming a ruthless, cutthroat Donald Trump/Omarosa Bin Laden hybrid… but I will honestly and loudly proclaim that “Poverty Sucks!” And if I ever eat another Ramen Noodle as long as I live it will be too soon.

HOMOCOSTAL

(c) Calvin McFadden

I was recently talking with a friend of mine in Los Angeles about the differences between how gay men relate to each other out there as opposed to the way gay men relate to each other here in my hometown of New York City. I’ve had my fair share of relationships in both cities and as I began to ponder my experiences, I realized that the differences between the two locales are pretty huge.

I spent my entire twenties in Los Angeles and I remember having several conversations with paramours that expressed that they did not prefer to be penetrated yet on several occasions it did not take much coercion at all to actually “infiltrate their citadel” as it were. There were even partners that said that they did not perform oral sex yet would attach themselves to my crotch faster than you can say “J.L. King.”

Back here in New York, I find that men are more honest, direct and upfront in pretty much every aspect of life including their sexual proclivities. There are no metaphors when comes to the New Yorkers’ sexuality, there are no grey areas or phrases up for interpretation. When someone in New York says that they are a “top” it means that they are a top, unlike in Los Angeles when it can be interpreted as, “Really-I’m-a-notorious-bottom-but-I-totally-have-issues-with-my-sexuality-so-I-wear-the-baggy-jeans-the-Timberlands-and-walk-with-a-pimp-so-no-one-will-know-exactly-how-much-of-a-flaming-homosexual-I-am-so-I-will-tell-you-that-I-am-a-top-but-if-you-make-the-slightest-effort-to-try-and-fuck-me-I-am-going-wrap-my-butt-cheeks-around-your-dick-so-fiercely-they-are-going-to-need-a-crowbar-to-separate-us.”

As my friend in Los Angeles conveyed, the brothers there still have huge hang ups when it comes gender roles, particularly when it comes to matters of sex. Tops are seen as masculine, virile, prodigious. Bottoms are seen as feminine, weak, powerless. The ideas of strong femininity or solicitous masculinity are foreign concepts to Los Angeleans, particularly when it comes to matters of sex. Sexual positions are not seen as innovative means to an orgasmic end, but rather deeply embedded identification markers that represent your lot in life. In Los Angeles, your desire to penetrate and be penetrated can be synonymous to bar codes on produce, if you like to be penetrated, your bar code will read, “punk.” If you like to penetrate your bar code will read, “rough trade.” And did I mention that these codes are being read and interpreted by other gay men? When did Los Angeles adopt the sexist and homophobic attributes of our heterosexual counterparts and how in the name of all that is sexy did they turn those attributes into erotica?

Now of course being New York born and raised I do have a certain biased towards the games men play on the East Coast as opposed to the West Coast but there is some truth in that you would be hard pressed to find a higher percentage of sexually repressed gay Black men in New York as opposed to the “DL” brothers in Los Angeles. I think of the sexual experiences I’ve had in Los Angeles (e.g. those benches upstairs to the back right of the dance floor of the Catch, behind the curtains at the El Rey) and there is always a certain surreptitious gleam in those memories, not out of remembering the fear we had in getting caught by security and being escorted out, but more of a social concern at the idea of an associate catching us and spreading the absolutely horrible rumor that you, a gay man, were actually having sex, with a gay man… in a gay club. This doesn’t really exist here on the East Coast. Like I said earlier, there are no grey areas when it comes to sex here, there is no hierarchy. There is no “penetrate” you are gay level one, “get penetrated” you are gay level two. Here, we are all able bodied, oversexed men and if someone were to catch me playing naked twister behind a curtain here, there would be no infantile gossip mongering because everyone who would be told would either understand that we are all able bodied, oversexed men and/or would just stand in line for their turn.

The more I think about it I realize that it is an idea of “image”. Like those old “Sprite” commercials that used to tout “Image is nothing, thirst is everything”, Los Angeles is an industry town and it’s industry is the production of images so it’s no wonder that much like the coal dust that has a tendency to spread through Allentown, PA, the toxicity of the images produced from Hollywood has a tendency to spread through the city’s paradigms. In Los Angeles, it’s not whether or not you are a top or a bottom but rather if you represent yourself to be a top or bottom that matters. Which I assume has some amiable qualities since people have been playing that game there for so long… but fuck if I know. Personally, I would rather just cut to the chase and be honest. I don’t particularly view my relationships, sexual and otherwise, as commodities or tools to improve my social status or allure, I view them as sacred talismans, customized to always remind me that at the end of the day, I am alive, I am blessed and I am damn beautiful.

And as far as my sexual practices are concerned, they are what they are. And some might go on and on into oblivion trying to classify my state of being solely based on those practices but I have a tendency to think those same people are over compensating for something lacking in their own personal regime; top, bottom or the salacious space in between, at the end of the day I’m a man… and that’s all that matters. As I was talking to my friend we both began to see our sexual practices a lot like pets and we both began to see New York as walking the dog and the dog walking Los Angeles. And while I love my friend dearly and his constant fight to gain control of the leash… I wouldn’t trade New York for any other bitch in the world.

THE FOURTH ANNUAL BEAUTIFUL MAN LIST

(c) Breeze Vincinz

The Beautiful Man List started in retaliation to the “Most Beautiful People” issues of mainstream magazines (e.g. People, Us Weekly). More than likely the lists would be filled with page after page of thin, chiseled, young, clear skinned people of no color that would fit in quite well in your typical Gossip-Gilmore-Girl-Smallville-90210-esque television show. At the time, I wondered where in the world James Avery, the guy who played the dad on “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” would fit. Or Heavy D. Or any of the “Wassup Guys”. These were the people who rocked my world at the time and in certain ways still do. It began this train of thought of what exactly do I consider to be “beautiful”… and why.

Over the years I have gotten some slack over the choices I’ve made, mainly because the choices I have made have been quite antithetical to the original rebellious intention of the list. There have been more than one thin, chiseled, young, clear skinned man of color that would fit in quite well in your typical I’m-a-thug-but-I-have-a-stylist-and-a-Pilates-trainer hip hop video.

What I have learned is, you just can’t please everybody. And while I do understand how grueling it is to compose a comprehensive list, I’m still unsatisfied by what the mainstream considers to be “beautiful”, and maybe just a little ashamed that in certain instances, I concur.

Over the years when I have posted a personal ad what I have done is reprinted the lyrics to Alanis Morissette’s “21 Things I Want In A Lover” with the notice that these things are exactly what I’m looking for also. They are also what I consider to be the most beautiful attributes of men. The gist of the list is someone who smart, funny, conscientious and can fuck like a stallion. All of which you don’t need a six pack to be… though it wouldn’t hurt… thus the overlap.

So without further ado, I present to you the 4th Annual Monthly Breeze Beautiful Man List. Each one of these men I feel embody every one of the 21 things I and Alanis are looking for in a lover. The majority of these dudes are straight, married or both… but even still… just beautiful…

10. Common (Rapper)

Over the years I have garnered quite the appreciation for Common. He’s truly one of the very few rappers out there that comes off as street smart but not a minstrel show. And that body doesn’t hurt at all.

9. Luis Guzman (Actor)

I have just always loved this dude! I just think he’s adorable and his eyes get me every time! I read this interview he did in Esquire magazine once and fell more in love with him. He has this very unassuming masculine yet humorous quality about himself that just knocks me out. And he’s short… always a plus.

8. Nate James (Singer)

So this is my dream. I’m in NYC, 2:00 a.m., having a hot dog while looking at some magazines on the corner. Nate James gets out of his cab, preferably after a performance of some sort and asks the cashier if he can break a $100 dollar bill. Cashier gives him a smirk no. I give him a smirk yes and give him five $20 bills. He graciously thanks me, hands the cabbie two of the $20 bills, comes back to me and says, “Thanks so much man. I don’t mean to stare but… have you heard that song ‘21 Things I Want In a Lover’ by Alanis Morissette?” with the biggest smile on his face.

7. David Otunga (Reality TV Star)

Truthfully, he should be much higher. Physically, I can’t think of too many men who are as blatantly attractive. But he does have a few flags, volunteering to be nick named “Punk” on national television is one. Literally crying because he could not win the heart of Tiffany “New York’ Pollard on the same television show is another. And though I absolutely love Jennifer Hudson… I mean… come on… have we learned nothing from Star Jones or Terry McMillan?

6. Diesel Washington (Porn Star)

I am very proud to announce the first official Porn Star on the Beautiful Man List. And if I were going to choose a porn star, Diesel would most certainly be the dude. The physical attributes are obviously there: tall, dark, handsome… and his sexual prowess has been documented and certified platinum on several DVDs by Titan Media. But if you ever took a look at his MySpace you’ll see he’s actually a very funny, sensitive and thoughtful guy. If Michelangelo's David were a human I imagine it would be Diesel, you know… if he were bald, had a ten inch penis and liked to fuck white boys into pretzels… which you know… would be kinda weird.

5. Manny Ramirez (Los Angeles Dodgers)

So I know as much about baseball as your typical baseball fan would know about Tori Amos. What I do know, however, that his face was plastered on every screen in my gym for weeks when he was getting into all that trouble with his drug use. I know it’s politically incorrect to think but all that was rolling through my head at the time was… he’s a professional athlete with dreadlocks who’s willing to share his stash… I GOTS to get me some of dat!

4. Deadlee (Gay Rapper)

Once upon a time me I was fooling around the internet and found this really cute dude who claimed himself to be a gay rapper. Fast Forward a year or two and I’m performing with the same cute dude at Los Angeles’ Outfest Spoken Word festival. Fast Forward a couple more years and I’m actually drinking and having conversations with the same cute dude at my local bar. If Diesel is the first porn star on the list, Deadlee is the first person that I sorta know on the list so it’s a little hard to gush here but I’ll say this… I’m still a fan, he’s still cute as all hell, and I wouldn’t mind doing a tequila shot or two off of his stomach.

3. Naveen Andrews (Actor)

Now this one I have to attribute to my friend Jair who listed him in his “Beauty of Humans” section of his MySpace page. I have always thought this dude to be the heartthrob on “Lost” and always thought I was alone in my lust until I saw an incredibly handsome and groomed picture on Jair’s page and decided to search for more pictures on the net that resulted in just a bevy of photographs that fully show this dude to be a walking aphrodisiac. I get that there’s a certain allure between that whole Kate, Jack, Sawyer triangle but I think it’s definitely time for Sayid to get some naked time… how about with Hurley!

2. Michael Eric Dyson (Academic)

I think anybody who has ever seen this dude talk for even thirty seconds would be convinced without a doubt that the rivers that run through this dude are endlessly deep. I love the fact that he constantly challenges all Black men including himself to rise above the inconsistencies that we all fall into. Add that sexy ass beard of his and you have got one well rounded brother that would most definitely have me stuttering if I ever met him.

1. Barack Obama (President Elect)

“This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time - to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth - that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes We Can.”

Dear Mr. Obama,

Yes I Will.

Love,

Breeze

PLUMP FICTION

(c) Breeze Vincinz

Over the past year or so I have lost a substantial amount of weight. I never really had any plans on talking about it or mentioning it until I got down to some ridiculously Olsen Twin-esque weight but the gist of the matter is that I joined Weight Watchers last January and as of date I have lost 140 pounds. I've got about 80 more pounds to go so I'm still big as an elephant but more like a cute baby elephant… with tattoos. 

I have really been avoiding sitting down and penning my "fat memoirs" as it were or extensively journaling about the journey, but so many people have come up and asked about that journey either out of curiosity or a subtle plea for assistance that I've been thinking that maybe I should sit myself down and have a good long look at how my exterior has affected my interior and vice versa all these years.

As far as I can remember I have always been a big guy. I once saw a picture of myself in the first or second grade and I was just amazed that there was a time in my life when I was weight and height proportionate, I can't remember that far back. All of my memories from grammar school to high school to college to strip clubs all revolve around me trying to find my own little niche as "chubby-funny-guy-with-a-good-heart" in whatever clique I decided to squeeze myself into.

Needless to say, finding that niche in Los Angeles proved itself to be quite the challenging task. Keep in mind that I have always bucked trends. When most people went to college and gained the "Freshman Ten", the ten pounds that most freshmen gain from overindulging in the cafeteria, I actually lost fifty pounds. I didn't stay in a dorm; I got an apartment and had to fend for myself which led to a couple of unintentional extended fasts as I simply could not afford food for almost a year. And when most people come to Los Angeles and lose the "Los Angles Five", the five pounds most people who relocate here shed immediately in response to the smaller waistlines here, I gained a hundred pounds by munching on mountains of "low calorie" and/or "low carb" meals. And after getting my heartbroken in a million pieces, I ballooned up to my all time highest weight of 382 pounds. 

And I do have to say that being an obese African American homosexual man, in Los Angeles of all places, is quite the daunting occupation to have. We're the platypuses of the community, an odd conglomeration of different images patchworked together to reflect different parts of ourselves that we have been fighting against tooth and nail ever since we were kids and learned the meaning of the word "fat". To some I represent the pure depression and sloth that fed many a Hollywood serial killer, to others I represent the safe, kind and intelligent momma's boy who has to pay a prostitute and/or bathhouse in order to get laid. And to others I'm the uncouth ghetto boy whose major thrusts involve fried chicken, marijuana and cartoons. I represent a litany of negative connotations that this city has deemed upon people who don't look a certain way and unfortunately, this city's digestive system (particularly the Black Gay Community's) is designed to evacuate people like myself. And if you don't have some semblance of self here, you're going to get shit out… or go crazy from all the shit that people will dump on you.

The myth is that, once you get to some particular material place in your life, all will be fine with the world. Once you make this much money, once you have this car, once you have this condo, once you date this person and for me it was once I weigh this much, nirvana will be near. But one of my group leaders asked me one of the most simple and profound questions I've ever been asked… "And then what?" So after I'm able to fit into a size 32 jeans… then what do I do. I've always thought about "riding into the sunset", I never thought about "the day after". 

One of the mottos my group leader pines on about which I think is trite as all hell but it's pretty true, is that "Weight loss isn't a result, it's a journey" and the same can be said about life. It shouldn't be an ongoing accumulation of things in which, once you have them you'll be happy, the happy comes living your day to day life. I remember once dating this guy (the one who broke my heart in a million pieces) who figured that once he made enough money and got back into shape and I published a book (and maybe did something with my hair) then maybe we would be happy. I remember telling him that… this is it, this is the relationship… this is supposed to be the good part. 

I always figured that once I lost some weight that I would be happy but that's just not true. I had to get happy first… or at least a true desire to be, the weight loss just helps that. Truth be told, I don't particularly want to be thinner more so than I want to feel good, I want to be good, I want to do good. I want to enjoy the time I spend with my friends and family and not be concerned with whatever bullshit reindeer game that might be going on or concerned that I'm not wearing the latest clothes or have the flashiest car or that I don't have the best body. I honestly believe that there are some guys and gals out there who are 382 pounds or more that are perfectly comfortable in their skin and to them I honestly say God bless you, because that's what it's all about. For me, I can tell you that I wasn't. I was just extremely self conscious, self depreciating and a bit defensive, traits that haven't particularly gone away… but I'm definitely handling it a lot better and that is just as important if not even more so than the actual weight loss. The thing is… if you're an asshole at 435 pounds, you're going to be an asshole at 155 pounds. Weight loss might change the way you appear, but if you're still attacking the world in the same passive aggressive, heavy handed, shoddy way you were beforehand, you're still going to be unfulfilled.

Needless to say, the relationship between me and that guy did not workout… though I started to… three to five times a week at Bally's Fitness. It's a mind numbingly slow process potholed with setbacks, plateaus and a few failures but at the end of the day I feel better and that's what really matters. Don't get me wrong, I totally dig the fact that I can buy clothes that don't have silhouettes of animals in place of their size label, but I was just ecstatic when during my last trip to San Francisco I was able to walk from Ashbury and Haight to the Castro district with one of my best friends without hacking up a lung or passing out from exhaustion.

Another myth that a good friend who also had experienced a major weight loss told me was that as I become more fit, the dating world will reveal a higher level of men of which to choose… which I just think is bullshit. I think it's going to be the same sons of bitches that have always been out there, I'm just going to have a harder time sifting through the mulch. I liken it to a very fair skinned Biracial girl who dates a white guy, they have a beautiful relationship and really dig each other then six months down line the guy makes some disparaging remark against African Americans, maybe even spouting off that he doesn't like them. If the girl were dark skinned, the both of them would have known from the get go where each other stood. Without that filter of skin color, the Biracial girl could conceivably date a member of the Aryan Nation. The same goes with weight. Even though I have lost a great deal of weight, I am still quite the bulky 242 pounds, far from being mistaken as anorexic, and right now I can tell within the first five seconds of meeting someone where their intentions lie as far as dating and/or associating with someone who isn't as pretty as they are. I imagine that the closer I get to my goal weight and getting something that at least resembles a six pack, that filter will slowly fade. At a healthy weight, I could conceivably date some pompous asshole whose main thrust in life is keeping his waistline, IQ and age under 30. The dating world might reveal more men in which to choose… I just doubt if they will be of a "higher level." I think that there will be a higher percentage of physically active assholes thrown in the mix.

It's been my experience that a lot of information out there in regards to weight loss, body imaging, cosmetics and such are all marketing based smoke blown up our collective asses. Every time I see a billboard for the lap band surgery nowadays or an infomercial about some product that promises that you can lose 20 pounds in 20 days or even a fast food commercial that touts the bliss in a deep quadruple fried barbequed bacon burger dog pizza I can't help but roll my eyes at this crazy capitalistic system of ours that tries with Orwellian proportions to make the rich get richer while the poor get poorer by making us feel even more shitty about ourselves, these carrots dangling in front our noses promising the fulfillment of all nirvana once you acquire some waistline, fade cream, hair cut, jean, house, car, burger… which in reality never happens.

You know that old saying "Give a man a fish he'll eat for a day, teach him how to fish and he'll eat forever"? Well that's basically been the most important thing I have got out of Weight Watchers and it has slowly become the lynch pin to my virility nowadays. Weight Watchers isn't trying to sell you prepackaged products that promise good health, they're giving you information on how to obtain good health on your own. They're not giving you fish, they're teaching you how to fish, and from there I just began to look at the world more holistically. If you give me a million dollars, and a car, and a beautiful house, will I get an adrenaline rush and feel happy beyond my comprehension? Fuck yeah! But then there's that question again, "And then what?" What about next year or five years from now, what about after I pay insurance, taxes and utilities on the house, insurance and maintenance on the car, after the big screen television, the trips to New Zealand, the shoes… where did my life go? Wasn't I trying to get healthy and watch my weight before I started ditching my Lean Cuisines for the deep fried quadruple barbequed bacon burger dog pizzas that I can now afford in abundance? Wasn't I trying to increase my writing skills so I can become a better writer, help people, help myself… find God? And the what fuck… wasn't I hanging out with my friends, trying to settle down with somebody who wasn't some pompous asshole whose main thrust in life is keeping his waistline, IQ and age under 30? Giving me the fish of house, car and money would keep me happy for a minute, but learning how to be happy on my own is one of the greatest gifts of life.

When people who I haven't seen a really long time see me nowadays, usually the first thing they say is, "Wow, you lost a lot of weight, you must be happier." I try not to come off as unappreciative but the optimistic truth of the matter is, I'm about the same, I just lost a little weight… but I'm getting there.

THE CULPABILITY OF THE ELDERS

© Breeze Vincinz

I was having a cup of tea with a friend of mind recently and we began to peruse the current political, social and even spiritual landscapes of the African American LGBT community here in Los Angeles. A fellow comrade once mused that he could feel some sort of malevolent ethereal pulsation within the community very much like fauna can tell when a storm is coming to their flora. In his mind’s eye, he could see a common thread that tied every incongruity, absurdity and broken collaboration that has occurred over the past year or so together, and like a blind man using a fence made of knotted rope to feel his way down a path, he felt that each tether was bringing us closer and closer to some sort of spiritual Armageddon for Black Lesbians and Gays. My friend and I could not claim the same “Cassandra” complex but we were in agreement that when/if the history books ever document this particular moment in time about our contributions to the greater social scheme, this would most definitely be our “Before” picture; this would be the rhetorical dark days before the dawn.

Without adding any more insult to the multi-tiered injuries going on I will say in the broadest of terms that there are substantial factions within the African American LGBT community that have surreptitiously placed themselves in diametric opposition to each other. And while my fellow comrade might blame some sort of cosmic retribution, my friend and I think it’s more of a case of overactive human ego on every one’s part. But who knows, maybe it’s both. Maybe we’re just reaping the piles and piles of self righteousness, self hate, self loathing, inactivity, immobility, macho posing, DL supporting, racist, misogynistic, materialistic, egotistical bullshit that we’ve been sowing for years now.

What I do know is that… when Proposition 8 passed and placed a ban on same sex marriages, one of the main people that I most sorely blamed for specifically not educating the African American community on the importance of the issue… was myself. Now in no way, shape or form do I think that the African American community was solely responsible for the passage of Proposition 8 but I do think that the information that was filtered through our community was highly flawed and toxic and I for one did absolutely nothing to alter that flow of information or even stop it. At the time I was in agreement with the majority of my heterosexual counterparts in believing that there were much more pressing matters to attend to within the community. I was also in agreement with my Caucasian counterparts in assuming that California, arguably the gayest state in the Union (outside of maybe Florida who gets extra points for having the most phallic shaped state in the union), would easily allow same-sex marriages to exist. I was wrong. I was flat out wrong on both counts.

So when I’m talking about the state of disarray that the African American LGBT community might be in, I have to factor in my own culpability in that because… I’m not talking about “them”, I’m talking about “us”… and as a whole, “We”… fucked up. “We” didn’t step up to the plate, “We” are bickering with each other trying to claim the title of omnipotent spokesmodel for all Black “Gaydom”, and most notably as of date… “We” are not listening to our youth and “We” are not learning from our elders.

Talking with my friend I imagined the state of African American LGBT affairs here in Los Angeles to the part in “The Wizard of Oz” when Dorothy and the gang looked behind the curtain and found out that the wizard wasn’t really a wizard but a lonely old dude trying to do the best he can. There is a certain level of transparency that a lot of organizations that serve the Black LGBT community here in Los Angeles do not operate under and much like Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz” there have been ambitious, young “go getters” who have peeked behind that curtain and have made the absolute horrible realization that… it is not wizards or gods who have sustained our community, but flawed human beings who have had the wherewithal and maybe just a little luck to maintain all these years. And while they most certainly deserve our respect, they just as similarly deserve our scrutiny. And while it is the obnoxiousness of the Dorothys out there that needs to be quelled, it is their ambition that should be nurtured.

And whether this influx of ego driven acrobatics that has played out over the past couple of years is the result of our community’s full concession into the Gordon Gekko Reganomics whose initial bittersweet blooming stages were caught in Jennie Livingston’s “Paris Is Burning” or some unquantifiable cosmic retribution, I think the one thing that we all should be striving for at this point… is reprieve.

While we were bickering and bitching and having pissing contests to see whose experience and/or eagerness could go further... we lost the legal right to get married, we lost a quantifiable portion of one of our most treasured pride celebrations, and most importantly we stand to lose actual lives as more and more of us feel as if there is no quantifiable support system for the Black LGBT and are deciding to slide back into the closet without acknowledging our HIV status and/or the homophobic incongruities that we might encounter further encouraging an environment ripe for hate crimes against us. According to Kim Pearson, a professor at The College of New Jersey, there were 659 stories in major newspapers about the 1998 gay-bias murder of Caucasian Matthew Shepard. When African American Sakia Gun was the victim of a gay-bias murder in 2003, there were only 21 articles written in the seven month period after her attack. Numbers like these could not be encouraging for the brother or sister dealing with coming forth with their own sexual identity.

I just feel as that at this point there are several factions wanting to take the lead and be our Gay Black Hope, be the hero who could thwart the evil doers out there and transform us into a healthy community. Well... to quote Tina Turner, I just don’t think we need another hero; I don’t think we need a singular representative voice. I think all of us, young and old, need to be accountable for what we do, why we’re doing it and how we do it. I think we should always be cognizant of the fact that there will always be some young “whip snapper” coming up behind us and pulling back our curtains to see what we’re doing and we shouldn’t take that as an act of disrespect but an opportunity to teach and maybe even learn. I think the visibility that we need to have cannot be facilitated through one voice; it has to be individually in our homes, in our churches, in our playing fields, in our jobs, in our governments, it’s going to take all of us. I don’t think it’s necessarily a hero we need more so than the strength, the courage and the wisdom it takes to save ourselves.

But alas, I do believe in the idea of “community” and the strength behind numbers. The trick to that is, however, you can’t have many unless each one is committed to the task at hand. Or rather, me and my friend can’t, as a community of two, patronize Starbucks if we don’t know what we’re thirsty for individually. Thusly, The Black LGBT Community can’t fully support the efforts against Proposition 8 if we don’t know what we emotionally thirst for individually.

But I have noticed in the past couple of years, that there has been a collective thirst building in those of us “out” LGBT people of color. So the trick to that is to agree on how to get what we need, where to get it, and to allow people who follow us the same access.

GAYS, LESBIANS AND CRENSHAW BOULEVARD

© Breeze Vincinz

While I had my own reservations about picketing a community on an issue in which there was arguably no outreach done to ask for support beforehand, I decided to march in the phenomenally momentous “March for LGBT Equality” down Crenshaw Boulevard last year. The march, organized by Love at Work – The Exchange, was a response to the passing of Proposition 8 which banned marriage between same sex couples in the State of California. After the Proposition passed, there was a flurry of conjecture, accusations and assumptions about how something like this could happen in California of all places, one of the most liberal and quite frankly… “gay” of all the states in the union. One of the first responses was that the African American community was to blame which of course started other flurries of conjecture, accusations and assumptions.

I think one of the most positive things that came from the whole brouhaha was that it gave an opportunity for homosexual and heterosexual Black people to have a good old fashion no holds barred, face to face, technologically-free conversation. Blogs, Twitter and instant messages are fine, but there is a certain intimacy that exists between people sitting face to face with each other and experiencing the beauty (and horror) of live, unedited, unscripted interaction that I find truly amiable. 

I’ve noticed that it’s really easy to talk about “them” when you don’t really know who “them” is or when “them” is sitting right next to you. During the town hall meetings that I attended I was fascinated to hear the true voice of what African American heterosexuals had to say unadorned and unedited. The main thing I got out of the meetings is that both Black homosexuals and heterosexuals are guilty of stereotyping the other faction and we really don’t have a lot of experience in interacting with each other on a sober, respectable, daily level. I could sense that it was fairly difficult for a lot of the homophobes to spurt out the evils of homosexuality or the “ultimate homosexual agenda” to convert children when there were actual homosexuals sitting across from them who did not have the remote appearance or decorum of a bunch of extra rejects from Fame or America’s Next Top Model. It was equally just as difficult for me to spurt out my own ideas about the devil obsessed “breeders” more jealous and curious about anal sex than appalled by it when there where actual heterosexuals sitting across from me who basically just wanted to know why were we so angry and how is this going to effect the homicide and HIV infection rates in our community. It was just very refreshing to have an actual conversation where people spoke for themselves and I did not fill in the blanks with my own biased opinions and experiences.

It was definitely the motivating factor for me to participate in the march. While going into it I did feel as if it was a case of “too little too late” in regards to the Proposition 8 issue, but I mainly felt that… time was due. When I first moved to Los Angeles in 1998 I remember having a conversation about having a Black Gay Pride Celebration in Leimert Park with a couple of other brothers in a Discussion group that I used to patronize. The consensus at the time was overwhelmingly pessimistic as the brothers pined on about how it would never happen, how Crenshaw (and Black People as a whole) would never accept open homosexuals, how the gay version of Boyz-N-Da-Hood would never be told…

Fast forward a decade later to me in my Black Gay Pride t-shirt video taping a hundred or so African American homosexuals marching to the Crenshaw Mall chanting, “What do we want! Equality! When do we want it! Now!”

To me it wasn’t necessarily about Proposition 8. It was about visibility, it was about acknowledging our extended presence in a community that is quite frankly… ours. I remember at one point this irate older gentleman screaming at me and friend of mine, “Go home! Take that shit back to Hollywood someplace!” At which point my friend, enraged, screamed from the top of her lungs, “I am home brotha! I grew up across the street over there!”

There were a few little outbursts like that along the march route but all in all it was pretty positive. Afterwards one of my best friends told me that there was a pink “Yes on 8” mini-van that was following us in an effort to counter our efforts. He equated the van to the KKK’s antithetical efforts during the civil rights movement, a sentiment I thought was hilariously misguided. A pink mini-van with a tinny bull horn is pretty insignificant compared to burning crosses, lynches and fire hoses. But days before the march I honestly have to say that I was a little fearful. I was so hopped up on “Righteous Civil Rights” juice that I forgot that not everybody drinks that same drink… and that there was a possibility of some real danger, some real violence. This is South Central Los Angeles after all. It is a beautiful part of town but seriously… N.W.A. wasn’t lying about the gangs, the drugs, the corruption. On the bus ride up to Crenshaw and Vernon I do have to say… I was a little scared. Particularly since I sarcastically figured 15, maybe 16 people would actually show up to proclaim their full on homosexuality in the hood. But the one thing I kept thinking was, and I’m not sure who said it, but courage isn’t the absence of fear… courage is actually being scared completely shitless, and still going through with it. So I just stayed on the bus with images of the numerous drive-by shootings that could occur, some religious nut driving into the crowd or maybe a malitoff cocktail or two thrown at me thinking that what I was doing was righteous enough to accept any reciprocal effort.

Well when I got off the bus I was thrilled to find the park filled to the brim with supporters and as far as the drive-by shootings, deaths by speeding cars and malitoff cocktails… we had some numb nuts in a pink mini van with a tinny bull horn who had seen too many “Men on Film” skits and took them way too seriously. We also got the occasional name calling here and there and once when we passed by this barber shop, everyone in the place sprinted towards the windows to slam the shades shut and lock the front door… which till this day I think is just funny as shit.

What I’m really hoping is that the idea of this march continues. The dialogue, the visibility, the courage… it was for me a very proud moment in the history of the Black LGBT community and despite my reservations about the actual intent of the march, I do have to say that I am extremely proud to have been a part of its outcome. I had a chance to look my people in the eye and tell them that this is who I am. And while not all of them agreed, they let me be; they didn’t pluck my eyes out in retaliation or shoot at me or anything. Maybe shut the shades and lock the door… but that was cool, beats a bullet any day of the week. And I am most certain that the brothers who I had the conversation with back in 1998 about having a Black Gay celebration on Crenshaw who did not make it this far would say the same.

THE REBEL WITH A CAUSE

© Breeze Vincinz

Pornography as described by Merriam-Webster is defined as material that depicts erotic behavior intended to arouse quick intense emotional sexual excitement. I imagine most Freudians claim Merriam-Webster's dictionary to be their bible. Maybe I'm being cynical but it just seems to me that the basis of modern day society is the management of sexuality and perversity. It seems to be the diving board in the construction of everything from baby toys to skyscrapers to governmental policies; the main query being, "will this somehow arouse the most depraved of us to the point where the monkeys will overthrow the monkey house?" Everything has to go through that filter. Let's go back to the baby toy suggestion. I can only imagine the canals a new toy has to go through to make sure that a generation of toddlers aren't slobbering over some thingabob that while smooth, bright and too large to swallow doesn't even remotely resemble parts of the human anatomy that are smooth, bright and too large to swallow.

Now as a confirmed bleeding heart liberal, I have been trained to taunt and ridicule factions that try and make this a more anal retentive country. In the metaphorical Woodstock of existence I have rolled around naked in the mud and shit with my brethren as the acid rock of life is played on the stage. I have smoked a doobie passed to me by someone else with a noun for a name as we smoothed clay and excrement out of our hair. I missed the last presidential election because I was too busy spending the day arranging my Tori Amos and Joni Mitchell cassettes and giving head to my boyfriend and I'm damn proud of it! But alas, as I grow older, I have begun to appreciate, if not the actual presence, then maybe the concept of the keepers trying guard the gate of decency.

While I appreciate an ever growing world and the artistic interpretations of that evolution, there is something to be said for its reciprocal effects, for every angel born there is a demon sired. And while I have shed tears in the presence of some of the most ethereal art I have had the pleasure to experience, there is also a Brittany on the MTV Awards, there is a Hot Ghetto Mess and most recently, there is a 2 Girls, 1 Cup.

For those of you not in the know, and I pray that this means you, 2 Girls and 1 Cup is a video that is making its rounds through the annals of the information highway. It features two women defecating and vomiting into a cup then taking turns consuming the excrement and vomiting into each others' mouths, eliciting sexual arousal from the acts.

A friend of mine suggested that I take a gander at this little nugget of heaven and for the life of me my anarchist spray painted little hearted just wouldn't let me do it. I will admit that there is a mild curiosity, I have even gone so far as to see the first two seconds of the video where the two girls are embraced in a homoerotic kiss but I couldn't bear to see in actuality what my imagination has already sickened in my mind. But it wasn't your typical right-wing "lemon" fear whereas I was afraid that it would be so tantalizingly awful I would be interested in licking again, this was more of an adult morality calm of, "I don't need this in my world view."

There have been several things that have occurred in this life in which that high road didn't seem necessarily haughty, just simply a good choice. I never saw the leaked pictures of the deceased body of Lisa "Left-Eye" Lopez. I thought that it actually was a breach of Geneva Convention rules on the treatment of prisoners of war when pictures of Saddam Hussein in his underwear shuffling around after his capture were shown in newspapers and I was even more thrown at the pictures littered everywhere showing the torture and abuse of prisoners in Abu Ghraib. When Madonna is photographed with naked men surrounding her, MTV bans her, when Lynndie England is photographed with naked men surrounding her, they preempt Saturday morning cartoons to show that shit.

And all of it, the graphical reproductions of it, I don't need to see. I can honestly say in my heart of hearts, from the pits of my very existence, that I can live a full and meaningful life without ever having seen Iraqi prisoners pile their rectums up on one another in front of two redneck soldiers, Saddam Hussein in his boxers, the corpse of a beloved R&B star, two women defecating and vomiting into a cup then taking turns consuming the excrement and vomiting into each others' mouths. Not that I want my world view to be filled with kittens, lemonade and dandelions, but the more I am made aware of the depravities of this pin prick of a world, the more I understand the fight to keep the few precious kittens, lemonade stands and dandelions patches we have left around.

And keep in mind; I say all of this while (metaphorically) covered in mud and feces, smoking a joint and listening to acid rock. There's an old saying that a Republican is a Democrat who's been mugged. When I hear about things like 2 Girls, 1 Cup, I begin to feel like that robbed Democrat, getting out of the mud and shit, putting down the bong, taking a shower, cutting my hair, damning those dirty hippies to hell.

I gave my father a copy of my poetry book "Life as a Boy" for Father's Day last year. I never discussed it with him outside of him saying how immensely proud he was of me when he opened the package. After a recent conversation with him, he informed me that he would never show that book to his friends and he deemed the work pornographic, something to wit I took great offense to. But after a talk with my sister I began to see the bigger picture. I began to see that that threshold of civility is different for everybody and I tend to think that no matter how you fight it, it gets lower as you get older. I can call my father a 63 year old stick in mud for being offended by poems about fellatio and enemas but I also can hear the young calling me a 36 year old stick in the mud for being offended by 2 Girls, 1 Cup. Who knows, maybe if we were all 22 we would read my raunchy poetry, watch offensive videos then tape our reactions and post them on You Tube to see if we can get the most hits and wind up on Letterman.

But alas, I've come to the conclusion that I think I'm just too much for my Dad. I think that sometimes I force him to experience some of the more verboten aspects of my life and demand him to accept them and me whole heartedly and that maybe I am in the wrong for doing that. I am sure there are certain things that he can live a full and rewarding life without ever having experienced either and maybe my short story, "Enema: A Love Story" is one of them. I often imagine what my reaction would be if my kid came home and showed me his latest work "2 Girls, 1 Cup". It's a startling thought. And I've been reconsidering the idea of pornography, profanity, being cutting edge and turning over the apple cart just for the sake of turning over the apple cart ever since.

I've been trying to come to terms with the artistry of being a cart turner, the rebel rouser, the revolutionary. I don't think I want to leave the mud and shit but I also don't want to get anybody else dirty that doesn't want to get dirty and I most certainly don't want to add anything else even more septic into the shit I've been playing in all this time. And I guess at the end of the day I want my shit to have some higher purpose, some higher goal, some resonance. There has got to be more to life than mindlessly smoking weed and playing in shit, and there has got to be more than watching two women eat it.