I vividly remember the moment when I began to fear being fetishized. My mind goes back to an amazing date — a moment of butterflies and complete infatuation. I was being treated so well by this super-cool white guy. The boy was fine, too. I don’t quite remember everything he said on that date, but I recall my ears perking when he mentioned his ex, whose name telegraphed his race.
I couldn’t help but ask. “Was your last boyfriend Black?” He paused. “Oh, yeah, he is,” he said. “White guys to the back of the line, please!”
I chuckled along…
I will call my friend “C.”
He grew up in Washington, D.C., with me and our crew of Black boys.
He was gay, but we did not know it. We suspected, but he didn’t say it, so that was that. People would say he was in the closet, but he and some other gay friends who grew up in the neighborhood had been pushed out.
C floated in both worlds. Still, there was no doubt in his mind that he couldn’t ever come out on his own accord. It wasn’t safe on so many levels. Yet C was our friend…
Three months into quarantine — and deep into what felt like our 500th Zoom or Blink or Google Video lesson — my husband and I finally began to give up. The endless online classes were not only taking a toll on our family’s sanity, they no longer seemed to be working. Our toddler sons couldn’t hold still, office matters constantly distracted us adults, and the increasingly warm weather beckoned our brood out of the house and into the great outdoors. Or at least what passes for the outdoors in Manhattan.
And so, we reckoned, what about home-schooling? Or maybe just…
Higher Learning. A publication from Medium for the interested man.