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