My brother is a fucking badass. Always has been. Even before he was my brother. I learned how to walk trying to keep up at Afrocentric art shows, poetry readings, dramatic performances, rallies, and protests. He taught me that Black Lives Mattered before the proto-progressives in Boston had heard of George Floyd or Rodney King. I tell people I’m on at least five government watchlists. Between lessons about IRA activities in local catholic parishes and revolutionaries smoking cigars with Fidel Castro, at least one of those lists is definitely his fault.
After years of distance caused by college, a ten-year age difference, and behind the scenes family bullshit I never fully understood, I reached out to reconnect. I missed my older sister. Wanted her to know how much of our fundamentalist upbringing, including tolerance of polite white supremacy, I had rejected. I wanted her to know I had become a poet and actor in college, inspired in part by the roles she played in my youth; that the entertainer genes had not skipped me or been relegated to the time I spontaneously composed and performed a one-boy, original episode of Star Trek: The Original Series on a bus, all the way from Ashmont Station home. I wanted her to be proud of me.
He told me that he was touched, but blood wasn’t thicker than water — neither of us had an obligation to the other based on escaping the same womb. That we were very different people from when we last spoke. That I should explore his website before deciding if I wanted to re-establish a connection. That I should know what I was getting into. When I clicked on his GeoCities link I began to understand. A month later, my friend Sarah and I took our seats in a Boston Center for the Arts venue to experience B4T: Before Testosterone. It was the last weekend to watch the Boston leg of his tour as part of Theatre Offensive’s 2003 Out on the Edge Festival. Hating spoilers, I went in blind, reading the play’s synopsis in The Boston Globe’s review the next week. Years later I would appreciate how my love of the braided narrative was likely birthed that evening. Three main characters were played by one performer: my brother. LaShawnda, a butch lesbian, whose post-mortem confessional is watched on a stage right screen; stage left, Keith, a clean-faced businessman, is uncomfortably interviewed by an over-eager grad-student composing her master’s thesis on being Black and transgender; spotlighted center stage are monologued scenes from the life of my sister my brother.
Before the show started, he told me, warned me, that I might be uncomfortable — the family would be mentioned, I would be mentioned. He also wasn’t sure how I would feel surrounded by gay and trans people. He joked I might get hit on. I told him I was good with whatever he included in the show, that I had brought a lesbian for moral support, and that I better get hit on because I’m a straight snack. Pun intended. He was always proud I could make him laugh.
Sarah and I found our seats and watched the line of brightly colored people filing in and out of the venue. A Black cishet male and a blonde lesbian surrounded by strangers, with ample time to kill, is a dangerous thing. We started checking people out. Our friendship deepened when a gorgeous Latina caught our mutual eye and we learned, for the first time, we had similar tastes in women. Naturally we began to hypothesize about her sexuality and which of us might have a chance. We were mostly kidding, but Sarah’s confidence rocked my head back in laughter, which is when I first noticed him, approximately 15 seats to my right. White. Late twenties to early thirties, perhaps a lot younger — it was hard to tell. Life had been hard on his face and body and aura. He was balding and wearing a black and red flannel shirt, too baggy even for the early 2000s. He was alone, unobtrusive, but noted.
***
In 1997, I was 17 and an introvert with no interest in small talk. Especially while at a B. Dalton Booksellers attempting to spend my hard-earned money on comic books. This was sacred time. So I was annoyed when he approached me and said, “hi.” He was of Middle Eastern descent: a dark-caramel skinned Syrian or Jordanian. Early twenty-something. Light blue winter coat half-zipped up. His speech was accented, but not enough for any misunderstandings.
He was standing too close, his breath almost reaching my face. I shot him a look and he retreated half a step, shoulder firmly pressed against the bookstand between us — half leaning, half swaying toward me. My parents raised me well, so I said “hi” back before pointedly returning to a copy of The Uncanny X-Men. He coughed to get my attention, mumbling something about the display being labelled “Graphic Novels.” The slight emphasis belied his halting voice, but clarified things. Raised a conservative evangelical, I was, on my best days, only mildly homophobic. But by high school, I “loved the sinner” — especially in my family: my lesbian sister, a closeted cousin — while “hating the sin.” An older me would be proud of such “progress” and cringe.
“Comic books” I said, flapping the pages, not looking at him, not feeding his desire. He didn’t leave. Just stood there, too close, breathing. I began to wonder if I was misunderstanding things — if my right hand should be inching closer to the knife on my hip — until I fully noted his body language. The soft voice. The slight stammer. The leaning. The shuffling feet. The furtive glances back and forth. Shit. Despite his age, this was his first time attempting to pick someone up. Publicly, if not ever. Where he’s from, a failed attempt means exposure. Rejection means death or worse. I relaxed my posture when he tried again, commenting on my lovely, knitted scarf. Making, maintaining eye contact, I thanked him, adding my own gentle emphasis when I say, “my girlfriend made it.”
It was the way his face crumpled seeing how utterly he misread me, the situation, his chances. How he continued to stand there processing it all, not speaking. How he didn’t quite say, “bye” as he sloughed away and over to the friend I noticed for the first time waiting between the door and the register, whose extended palms fell from inquiring — “how did it go?” — to a comforting reach for his shoulders. It all made me wish, for a second, I had something to offer him.
***
I tend to be hypervigilant, especially in unfamiliar places. More especially when I’m out in the world with a white woman. Even in 2003, in Massachusetts, in the supposed “safe space” of a queer venue, there’s no telling what lurks behind judging eyes. Black women and white men share a perfected, disgusted sneer in certain situations. When they don’t like the company I keep. It’s how I noticed, as Sarah and I continued our conjugal debate, that red and black flannel-boy was now 10 seats away. As we laughed, I remembered the time she almost got me shot by cops while she ranted at their racism (eight seats away), which was ironic given she was one of the main reasons I hadn’t killed myself earlier in the year (five seats away), which is something she feels weird receiving thanks for which, being a recipient of such gratitude myself, I completely understand, but I felt pressure on my right hand, fingers attempting to intimately intertwine with mine. My fight/flight/freeze response has saved my life on multiple occasions: near robberies, car accidents, mountain climbing falls. I get very calm, assess the situation, and then act. In this case, it might have saved his.
An outside observer would have seen the following: my head turning to the right — slowly, methodically — while tilling down to the pudgy, white, hirsute hand atop my own; my eyes rising to the slovenly white man, with a come-hither look; my face contorting to convey, in no uncertain terms, the three things flooding my mind:
1. How do you know the beautiful woman next to me, who you’ve watched me talk to and laugh with for the past 10 minutes, isn’t my significant other? You weren’t close enough to hear us over the din. Do you think, under any circumstances, I would leave her for you, you over-confident without good reason douche-canoe? How dare you disrespect her, you poor-man’s poor excuse for an ersatz, off-brand, bottom-shelf Nick Nolte.
2. What in the ever-lasting, weeping and gnashing of teeth, burning pits of Hell made you think you could violate my bodily autonomy? Is this real life? Am I in a movie and cast as Denzel? Is this where I turn to you and deliver his classic, “get your fucking hands off me!” in the assertive low rumble that makes everyone a little wet? You better take your thomas-jefferson-meets-Sally-Hemings-on-the-plantation fantasy somewhere else before I become another jail-bound Black stereotype, you simple-minded, fuck-twit.
3. If I was gay — my love’s hirsute arms massaging my shoulders after a long day; being big or little spooned on the bed or couch, Netflix and chilling in the firm knowledge of our pleasure; braving the stares of karens, kens, and kourneys, as I walked down the street holding the hand of my beautiful beau, happily destroying their pathetic breeder brains when we pause for a chaste kiss — if I enjoyed the romantic company of sensual men, You. Would. Never. Neeeeevaaaaah. Have a chance. With me. I have standards, you tacky, scrubtastic, ill-bred, raggedy-ass, flaccid, meat sack of failure. And there is nothing about you that is worthy of one ounce, one drop, one hint, one taste, one sniff of this sexual chocolate. You ain’t shit.
That silent second effectively communicated everything it needed to. His hand snapped back as if snake-bitten. He evaporated from the theatre before I could bring the event to Sarah’s attention.
***
In late 2009, a few months into my engagement, I ended up in the emergency room because someone who loved me would not allow me to ignore the symptoms of whichever ailment I was rightly ignoring.
After the standard two-hour wait in the lobby before a nurse took my vitals, followed by the obligatory half hour behind a thin curtain playing the alphabet game on medical posters, the resident on duty came in. He was of Indian descent. Chestnut skin with stunning brown eyes. About my age, a mid to late twenty-something in a white lab coat. Bollywood worthy cheekbones and jawline. He introduced himself and took — not shook — my hand. He studied my face as he went through his “what seems to be the problem?” routine, none of which felt routine. For one thing, he hadn’t let go of my hand — was patting, caressing it. He maintained eye contact. Eventually he released it and got down to business. My fiancé felt the vibes when the nurse brought her in midway through the exam, saw the personal number on the back of the business card he slipped into my hand with the encouragement to call, anytime, if I needed anything. They say Brown don’t blush, but I know I felt flush. Was flattered. I returned home that night basking in the dual assurance that I was right — my body was not in need of any hospital-worthy interventions —, and that I could pull a hot doctor. Most mothers would be proud.
***
At dinner, after the show, I told my brother what happened. It would become one of many nights in hours-long conversations with him in the years to come. Conversations in restaurants, on the phone, or on my couch when visiting, on vacation, organizing a public action, or after a funeral. Conversations in his apartment when he introduced me to Battlestar Galactica, when I brought our mother to NYC for his fiftieth birthday party, and after he heard me read poetry in KGB Bar’s Red Room. Conversations about our family history, our degrees, our love lives, our future plans. Conversations about Scandal and How to Get Away with Murder, Talib Kweli and Common, Roy Wood Jr. and Dave Chappelle. Conversations about racism, gentrification, antisemitism, transphobia, christian nationalism, mumble rap, and the host of other evils which made floods, poisonous snakes, destroying angels, or the ground swallowing people whole in the Sunday School stories of our youth seem like a reasonable expression of divine righteous indignation. Tonight, it was basking in how inspired and insightful and raw and funny and fucking amazing his show was, how proud and honored I was to be in attendance. But I eventually I told him about what happened.
He asked how I was feeling, if I was alright. I assured him I was fine, finally giving voice to what I silently death-stared into that white face. He’d divined it was a white guy even before I mentioned race — explained that gay white men are still white men who think their birthright is whatever their eyes fall upon. A reality too familiar to all at the table. He began explaining “second adolescence,” but shook his head. Said that didn’t excuse a damn thing. He asked again if I was okay, searching my face with the concerned older sibling look I’ve grown accustomed too. I knew what he was worried about: the sexuality subtext and how we were raised. I reminded him that he told me I’d probably get hit on. But I was mostly pissed at the unmitigated gall of this white boy actually thinking he was in my goddamn league. The nerve of some people. Even though I made my brother laugh, I was surprised by how true that statement was.
On the drive home I couldn’t shake a feeling, a question: had I overreacted? And more than that: was it my fault? He seemed genuinely surprised. It wasn’t obvious that Sarah and I weren’t a couple. Maybe he could tell she was a lesbian, was confused about me, figured he had a shot. Maybe he thought we were polyamorous. Besides, I was in a decidedly queer space, so wasn’t it only logical to assume that I might be, must be, queer myself? Had I led him on? Was he responding to a sign or signal I had inadvertently sent across the seats? What was my hand doing before he grasped it? Was my foot absently tapping some sensual morse code? Was it something I was wearing? Or not wearing? Was my anger insanely disproportionate to a situation of my own making? Was I the asshole? I felt ashamed and dirty.
And then I heard myself. Heard the voices of female friends and students and adopted little sisters I had listened to, comforted, sat with in silent rage. My head cleared.
At no point, even with his hand on my body, did I ever fear for my safety or my life. I never felt threatened. I wasn’t worried about being followed into the bathroom or to my home. There was never a thought of knuckling my keys or wishing pepper spray within reach. Danger never entered my mind. My discomfort and disgust and self-doubt were only an infinitesimal microcosm of what countless girls and women in my life have told me of their daily experiences with men, especially white men. What they’ve told me of the places and roles they’ve found themselves in. The safe distances they hope to maintain.
Image by Frantisek Duris on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
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