My First Time

"The same mouth that will speak ordinary words now say things only meant for me as it roams my face and neck. Hands that will casually grip a stranger's neck now travel lovingly down the curve of my back, pulling me closer. Though two thin layers of skin keep us apart, spirit knows no such boundaries and indeed we are one."-Sidney Brinkley


My first time was a passionate embrace. I paused and looked at his beautiful black male body. I could not resist the urge to bring his attention to his beauty, I wanted to scream this at the top of my lungs. My roommate, however, was awake at his desk reading a book, and I could see it took self-restraint to not peer into the action in my bunk. "You're so beautiful," I whispered, and he was dumbfounded, as if my beauty emanated so strongly his could not ever penetrate, as if he was hideous. "No, you're beautiful," I felt a euphoria. My soul was raptured, and our spirits embraced and conflated above the physical restraints of flesh and blood.

I thought of the beauty of two black men loving each other. A beauty that is rare. A beauty that was horridly disfigured in the act of Cain killing Abel, black men unable to love each other because they were taught to hate them self; feeling he must denigrate his fellow man in order to distinguish himself. We existed together neither relenting our essence, acquiescing our agency, yielding against our will. This was a beauty I rarely experienced growing up. My father punching my in the face at four, blood dripping down, inhaling blood, standing in a corner for four hours, fighting fainting-this was the beauty I was taught to love. Being gay bashed in front of the police station at thirteen by my "brothers" who were knew that I would one day escape the ghetto. They did not want the token Negro to speak of the "black experience", as if there is one experience, as a gay experience. Besides, that's that "white shit".

But, it wasn't "white shit," it was black love, the type that God wanted with Adam when he decided to create utopia at the intersection of the Euphrates and the Tigris Rivers. Spiritual love. I love his spirit. If only this love could be felt by all men of color towards each other, the solidarity we could create, the hegemony we could subvert. The bourgeoisie knows of the benefits of discord. Willie Lynch did wonders during slavery.

A few hours of sleep feel like an eternity of rest. How did I ever sleep without him in my space? I ask this often when I think of the many sleepovers growing up, and how I could never sleep. I would rest, but I could not sleep. I do not like people in my space, I feel violated.

We woke and entered the light together, walking into the bathroom He, I, and Lauryn Hill on the toilet. She felt so comfortable and inspired by this black love that she serenaded the morning. Nothing even mattered at that moment like the fact that I was missing class. WE found peace of mind, and rhythms that flowed just like water. Dirty/clean, fresh/FRESH, a wonderful oxymoron of a morning. Back to my bed, "Baby, you gotta go to class," he offered. " Fuck class," I responded, "besides without me there the professors will see that I'm the star pupil. If I'm not there then they'll have no one to steal comments from and everyone will know they did not read". We slept, and I have not slept like that, since conception. Ever since being formed, created, supplied the necessities of life to exist. In that bed I was formed, supplied necessities of life. He is my safe space when I am attacked, when I am annoyed, which is often, he forms me...


And what fucks me up the most is...I was created to help form him. My purpose is divine. One day, I will tell him I love him. I love the God in him.

If we are all the children of God, then aren't we all Jesus but with different names?

If we are to be crucified I want to be on the hill next to him, and we will resurrect together.

After telling anyone about your first time, one of the first questions is, " How was it?"

Simply put, "RAPTUROUS!"

I'm enthralled beyond belief I waited, because I will never regret my first time.


-Marz

Three Reads, Two Scholarly

Scholarly Read- talking about someone's "ridiculous shape, their tacky clothes" using something you've learned or read in class.

Random White Girl: Oh my God, I love you're outfit. Are you going somewhere today?

Me: No, I just wanted to attain the white normative gaze so they will listen when I assault their privilege. I like your shoes though...as I continued to walk down the hallway, effectively administering a hair flip with my light Caesar haircut.

Last week at the Theorizing Blackness conference at the CUNY Graduate Center, I read a professor because he was LIVING in his patriarchal privilege, the same way that WASP men live in, well, everything. (white supremacy, privilege, heteronormativity, hegemony, patriarchy, etc.)

Me: "I'm interested in the assumption that masculinity, specifically, black masculinity, is innate to maleness. I think this psychology negates the masculinity of women, especially within the context of the black woman whom, historically, has been masculinized as, essentially, a 'black man with a vagina' through popular portrayals. I feel, moreover, neglecting to recognize the masculinity of the black woman in theory and reality works to emasculate black masculinity as a whole. Lastly, I am intrigued in how these ideologies neglecting the black woman in this discourse is upholding patriarchy and misogyny".

OVERHEARD IN NEW YORK

This is a cute thing that are in many New York papers when people write in funny or shady things they hear in the city.

Location: Downtown 4 train

An old black Christian woman is screaming at the top of her lungs, "Come to Jesus, he will save your soul. The world is going to end and do you know where you are going to go, we are all sinners, but the Lawd will save you".

I was sad that she was trying to indoctrinate people, especially since Christian rhetoric was used to indoctrinate and keep her mother, no shade, (ok, maybe her grandmother) in slavery.

There is Old Chinese man, about fifty, and he is tired of this woman screaming in his ear.

CM: Can you be quiet?

BW: NO I CAN NOT! I refuse to be quiet about the goodness of my Lawd and Savior Jesus Christ

.
CM: Everyone do not have to believe like you.

BW: This is America, which means I have a right to freedom of speech, if you don't like it here, you know what you can do.

I GAGGED for dear life that this older black woman just told this man to fucking emigrate back to his country.

CM:I have right to not believe like you.

BW (continued): This is America, on our money what does it say, "In God we trust," not "in Buddha we trust". OH HALLELUJAH!!!! I bind you up in the name of Jesus, no weapon formed against me shall prosper.

Marz (in my head): That is the devil!! Chinese man keep subverting her.

P.S. My blog, my baby, I have a boyfriend!!! (I'll be back to write more, but I have to subvert people in class and refuse to half step.)

-Marz

My Favorite Pair of Underwear

Songs: "Trouble Sleeping & Call Me When you Get This" by Corinne Bailey Rae "It's late at night and I'm feeling so tired, having trouble sleeping, this constant compromise between thinking and breathing".

"Dream" by Alice Smith "When I wake up in the morning time, I, like to see you sleeping by made side, I, think about the nights we had before want to give you this and more, let you know I truly adore you".

"I Just Died" by Amerie "Staring in the mirror as I, start to carefully contemplate just really how deep is this thing I have for you, you swear you know my heart, and from the start you know I tried, steadily denied, friendship turned to love, I know you probably think that I'm so strange stuttering on every word when you look my way, why?And maybe it's all in my mind, But when we hugged goodbye, I had butterflies I just died. I just died in your arms tonight, don't want nobody bring me back to life, I just died in your arms tonight"

I have tons of underwear- all boxers and boxer briefs. Some were bought on discount when I worked at Old Navy. Some were purchased as Christmas presents from grandparents. Few were bought to fit my new slender frame after losing weight. I can go three months straight wearing a new pair of clean underwear.(I actually had to do this at the beginning of my college career when I couldn't afford to do laundry.) I love my gray boxer briefs that I dance around to Amerie's Touch album too, they go hand in hand. Although I hate that it does not have a flap. I like when I can match my underwear with my outfits. I picked this up from my gay father. I have orange striped ones, green holiday boxers, and striped trunk cut boxers; I have tons of underwear.

My favorite pair of underwear are boxers. They are midnight blue and have yellow Chinese symbols sporadically placed all around, size medium, loose yet fitted. I like the colors and the designs. I can't explain it, they are just my favorite pair. I regret wearing them sometimes because I know they will have to wait until the next wash to be worn again. I always joked to myself that I would be wearing my favorite pair of underwear the first time I had sex...I was right.

P.S. (Strangely he was wearing the same exact pair.)

-Marz

A Beautiful Nostalgia

There is a ten minute span upon returning home to Philadelphia in which my heart swells with euphoria. I stepped into the night air in Central Philadelphia smiling and saw a girl wearing neon orange patent leather ballet flats....PHILLY!

My toothbrush was exactly where I left it, askew on the white ceramic sink. My room, however, was not. My mother, father, and sister have all tried to occupy my space and their belongings now reside there. I felt big in this space, my room, my parent's house, Philadelphia..."My son, the New Yorker". We conversed over gummy bears and green tea- mother and son, woman and man, two adults sharing on her living room couch. I understand her now. Little did I know she would finally understand me...

She drove her little black car oblivious to the shifting of traffic lights from red to green. Normally I would have yelled, but I was in no rush to get anywhere. She spoke of my sister, her job, health, and victories in arguing with my father and how they amount to nothing in the end. She hates my skinny jeans. She thinks I am too skinny, I need to eat. I think I am too fat, I need to eat less.

I told her I was not a Christian and did not align myself with any religion. She stared wide-eyed, as I begin to speak about The Creator and what I am learning.

"Right now, I'm learning to listen, because I hear often, but I listen seldom."

"I'm also learning to love, and validate myself. There are so many people who spend their lives so afraid to confront themselves, so afraid to be by themselves, hear their thoughts, hear their voice, enjoy the space their soul takes in the universe that they run from person to person trying to fill the void in themselves that they refuse to fill. I refuse to have someone in my life that I love more than me. I refuse to know more about someone in my life more than me. I refuse to devote more time to someone else in my life over me, except for the Creator".

The issue my mother and I have had for the last three years has been her seeing who I am. I have never been one to truly value my parent's wishes for my life or care what they think of me. I realized that if I allowed my parents to procure their happiness through me I would never be happy; and they would constantly find something new that would make them happy. "Marcus go to theology school. Marcus marry a woman. Marcus cut your hair." I, however, do hate when I am misunderstood, like Mother Nina Simone. Although I do not know who I am, I have been trying to show the few hard facts I have to my parents, and they have been consistently oblivious. I tell my parents I'm volunteering at HIV organizations but she believes the pastor who says I am prostituting. I tell my parents that I want to study African American studies they tell everyone I'm becoming a lawyer.

My mother is finally open to learning who I am and accepting that person. She does not understand a good majority of the things I'm saying, feeling, expressing, but she is asking questions now to get a further understanding. I believe most parents give birth to their children with these ideal lives that they have preordained for their child, and it is difficult for the parents to see the child subvert these ideals. I have been subverting my parents ideal son/child for a long time, and they know I do not care. My mother, however, is starting to realize that her ideals are just those...ideals, and nothing in this word is ideal. In addition, her ideal for my life is as oppressing as patriarchy or white supremacy.

She drives so slowly. We traveled to the bank and to get a pair of glasses, and it took three hours, but I enjoyed her company. I scolded her on her outfit, business conduct, and unhealthy eating habits. (Some things never change...lol) We returned to the house, their house, where I grew into the perfectly imperfect teenager that I am. I stood outside and stared around at the same crooked racist cops, juvenile delinquents, colored souls still singing spirituals centuries after slavery ended, the graveyard, my parents, and was humbled. Ilive in downtown Manhattan, The Creator took me from so much to so much. I used to feel disdainful about my neighborhood, but it comes with me every day in class. I shut the white students DOWN when it is needed, and it is needed often. I used to wonder why everyone stayed, but I realized that my parents are happy with their lives. The Creator knows I do not understand their happiness, but it is wrong of me to impose my ideal on them.

I cooked lunch and we talked some more. I told her how I used to want to be a power gay. But, I see now that many people in the gay/black community do things to receive awards and recognition, solely. They care about their causes because philanthropy is the chic thing right now. I no longer care about awards and banquets. I care about creating living awards. My students in Harlem are each an award that lives and has been enriched by the time I have spent with them and no amount of gold plated metal could equate to the feeling of knowing YOU touched a life. I told my mother that I am interested in studying Black Male Sexuality as my body of work. She inquired, and I explained. I can see it is difficult to explain, especially me wanting to get a Ph.D. in Pan-African queer literature, but she is amiable. I told her I want to work with young queer sexual minorities of color one day as my career. She questioned why. I explained racism, homophobia, patriarchy, and hegemony. She understood. I talked of my journey as a queer Pan African male living with two Pentecostal minister parents. She had never heard this story-her soul was vexed. She had not realized the pain she had caused working blindly behind her religion.

She thinks I am an atheist. My God does not have a name, merely, The Creator. She wants me to name her, him, and it, did he not create everything? I told her how slave masters inculcated Christianity into the slaves to keep them in bondage. I told her that the white people taught that we should serve the whites to get into heaven, but they also taught that we were so lowly that we did not have souls.

We discussed the bible and Lauryn Hill, Emmett Till and Nikki Giovanni, pro-blackness and my hatred of whiteness and white supremacy. She thinks I am a racist and hate white people. She joins the many that think I am a black separatist. She wonders how I became so conscious.

I came out when I was ten, thirteen, and seventeen...eighteen is going to be the one that sticks. We discussed her homophobia in correlation with having two queer children. I can see her joining PFLAG.

My soul cried tears of joy and pointed to scars and said, "You did this," not with malice or hatred but in explanation...Her soul in return stood with the knife in hand, dropped it, and said, " I did not know, and I apologize"...I could never imagine that she would acknowledge the pain she had caused. I did not expect her to, but I needed her to know that SHE DID THIS!

My father is next...

She asked where I was staying the night, and I told her my gay parents. She questioned their intentions in my life and explained why she does not like them. A mother lives to be the center of their child's life and when she feels she is being pushed away and replaced she is hurt. I explained that I needed to learn how to become a gay black man living in this society and she could never teach me that nor could she ever be replaced. I also noted her lingering homophobia, she noticed it too. It is difficult, but she's working on it, and I am grateful. He arrived outside and I moved swiftly to the door after a long embrace. "I hate to see you go again, but this is what you need, which is unfortunate for me, but I see the growth, I finally see you. It took me so long, but I do. I doubted your ability to survive in New York, and you're thriving...I would not be able to do some of the things you've told me".

I no longer wish to travel the road less traveled but the road ordained and predestined by the Creator. There are no previous voyagers, only the Creator and I. I trust in where my journey will lead.

I walked outside....I thought...I asked my mother would she like to meet my gay father...she obliged.
They hugged in front of her house.

THEY HUGGED IN FRONT OF HER HOUSE!!!

MY MOTHER SEES ME, SHE MET MY GAY FATHER, AND THEY HUGGED IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE!!!

I wish I could express this nostalgic five hours as beautifully as they occurred, but I can not. I also SWEAR that I have learned how to write better since being in college although it has not been properly displayed here. But this is dedicated to Ms. Mack, the few fabulous black gay men in my life that spoke it into existence as I rolled my eyes, the International Nomad, and to the people who still read...

-Marz

January 28, 2008

In retrospect
government is better than brie.

Candlelight dinners were intimate.

The fire hyrdrant was cleaner
than the public pool.


The second semester began with a gunshot, and although the race has only been in session for a week there is already 200 pages to be behind in. This semester I am more focused. I feel a sense of authority over the school. I belong here, many of these white students do not.

"Why am I the only stupid person in this class?"

Vulnerability is not weakness, only the truly strong can walk upright in their openness without fear.

Hearing is not listening.

I despise faggotry.

I could have never imagined that I had so much love inside of me to give...

-Marz

Nerd With Me!

" How much of wanting another man is the desire to be that man? So many gay men love not men but the idea of masculinity: their desire is not for any individual man but for maleness as an ideal, exactly that which defines them as other and lesser. This perhaps contributes to the promiscuity so many gay men pursue, because no particular individual can embody an ideal, or not for long, whereas that one (the one across the bar, the one you don't know yet) may well be everything you ever wanted, everything you ever needed, manhood itself. If one cannot be a real man, which by definition no homosexual is, then at least one can have a real man, though that's always problematic, since real men don't have sex with other men, certainly not with other real men. I think many gay men worship the power that oppresses them. I think, too, all sexual relations in our society are about power over another on the submission to the power of another. For a gay man, both roles are simultaneously available."-Reginald Shepherd

Gay Black Boys

Black gay boys walking dirt roads, cobblestoned streets, runways ,and pavements. Picking Cotton, husking corn. Hosed in the streets. Raped by slave masters with no light skinned babies to expect. Molested by "straight men" who are repressed. Beat in the night by men who want to feel STRONG. On slave ships, buggies, slave blocks, back of buses, colored sections, North of the Mason Dixon, trolleys, planes, and ships. Dredlocked, conked, Jerry Curled, Caesared, naturaled, parted, high top faded, and braided. Lisping, Strolling, Switching, Dancing, Singing, Hating Themselves, Loving Each Other. Always there are black gay boys.



He loves me. I did not know I could be loved.God loves me, but hates my sin. He lusts for my sin. Kisses my lips, licks my nipples, sucks my dick, eats my ass. he makes me feel special. He loves my sin, our sin, and I've never felt so righteous. I love him. Maybe I can learn to love myself. He is my reflection. I am afraid to look in the mirror and see who I am. I glance at him clothed, naked, open. He is love, I am love.



Sex is not love.


I feel so bad though, and it feels so good. Makes me feel good about who I am, that I can please another man. I could not please my father, and my mother is just a father in a skirt and I can not please her either. I can't please white Jesus crying tears on the cross knowing my seduction for dark lights, loud music, pursed lips, with reads more painful than death.

"The first naked man he saw was lynched. Hanging from a tree, rope so long so strong to hold a black man and his demons, deferred dreams, and tears. His face was disturbingly somber. He did not have a penis. My Pa says they chop them off sometimes, put them in jars...as souvenirs".

Black gay boys marry. They try to form their masculinity inside the wombs of other women, because it did not occur inside of their mother. "What did I do wrong? How did this happen to me?" Questions echoed between mothers, fathers, and sons.

Singing their hearts to God in the choir to open his ears to the pleas you make for "deliverance". Reading the bible. Reading the young queen that stepped on your shoe. Vodka and Olive oil. Lube and Communion grape juice.

Bitch. Cunt. Sister. Brother. Ms. Thang. Mother. Legends. Trade. DL. "Only on Saturdays after I get high".

GRID, destroying facades cemented in shame, guilt, and lies. Tearing doors off of closets, revealing a shrunken character to families more concerned with their appearance than their loved ones. "maybe if I hadn't found so many men who loved my sin...then..." Entire generations of black gay boys destroyed. Who will lead us into manhood? When there are few faint voices of black gay manhood, and besides we don't live for the old queens. (They have wrinkles.)


Up in drags, down in Timbs.

Feeling Isolated, Weird, Different, Special. Finding others. Elation. Vapid.

Finally we reach mirrors to see how fat we are. Why Anthony or Kevin did not look at us? WE starve ourselves of food, for attention from the ones screaming, "no fats, no fems". Slicing arms to visualize the pain inside.

Blasting beats off the walls that know you better than your mother, as you do dips onto the pillows on your bed. Feeling excluded because you do not fit into the stereotypical effeminate man, yet you don't live in feigned paradigms of black masculinity. Walking in your mother's shoes, knowing you're supposed to fill you father's.

Black gay boys in love with themselves. Removed of closets. Realizing they are more than a dick, ass, tongue, hand, more than their sexuality, which exists further than sex.

Wondering why they are black gay boys...because we were meant to have character and continue a legacy.

Langston Hughes, Bruce Nugent, Bayard Rustin, Essex Hemphill, Kevin Aviance, Harmonica Sunbeam, Pepper Labeija... and the list will continue, because always there are black gay boys.

(P.S. in a strange pensive place right now.)

-Marz