Family First? Not Always (Making Hard Decisions): Note From A Content Black Sheep.

Dear Friends:

A few days my Facebook friend (and fellow blogger), Deonte K, deleted his brother from his page. The reason? His brother left him a horrible homophobic remark on his FB wall (and inbox). Deonte was rightfully pissed and penned a thoughtful message about it on his blog (stating how he had to cut his brother out of his life).

I am glad he chose to share. It helped me feel not so alone in my experience. In spite of this being the 21st century not all gays and lesbians have this magical experience of total acceptance from their familial counterparts. Sometimes, it is the antithesis(life is not an episode of Brothers and Sisters for the majority of gays).

Myself, I have not spoken to nor seen my older brothers in years. As I’ve stated many times before I am estranged by choice. The emotional toxicity  they heaped upon me (for years) was too much to bear. Therefore, I had to make a choice between happiness (minus them) and sadness (plus them). I chose myself.

It was difficult at first. Anyone who knows the story of my family wonders WHY it was difficult for me to cut them off (chile we are NOT the Evans’ on Good Times). Well, for me, it was all about being a human being wanting and needing to be loved and accepted. True, making the decision to cut off your biological family is easy on paper. Yet, when the pivotal moment comes it is tragically difficult. Ultimately, you know it is what you have to do. Yet, you do not want to do it. As a child you truly want and NEED for your family to: love, support, and care about you. You need them to anchor you. You need that safe place to fall. So, when the opposite occurs you still–in some cases–accept abusive treatment (be it emotional or physical) because it is familiar. You accept familiarity because you are scared of lonely.

Speaking for myself, through a lot of counseling, I learned that I would never be alone, ever. In becoming aware of that it empowered me to do what needed to be done. When I kicked my brothers (and the rest of my immediate family)out of my life the door opened for new people to come in.  Their support is unconditional. I can be myself sans any facade because these people know the REAL me.

I would just like to say today that if you are gay and have lost family members don’t feel like it is the end. Bloodlines do not necessarily equal family. Family is where you are loved, protected, and cherished for who you are, percieved flaws and all. Don’t sacrifice your soul and self worth to people who hate you simply because of what you are. Love yourself enough to begin a new and healthy life.

With Love…

Sincerely,

Toddy English.

The Story of Beauty To the Tune of Michael Jackson

Dear Friends:

I am obsessed with Michael Jackson’s face. Wait a minute…scratch that. I’m not obsessed with his visage insofar as I am morbidly fascinated by it. Oddly, my awe stems from a certain identification with him.  

Since the King of Pop’s tragic demise my love for him reignited itself. As a tiny tot for Christ I thought Michael Jackson was the greatest thing in the history of all things: past, present, and future. However, with the subsequent allegations of molestation and drastic physical transformations I–like many others–lost that love and adoration for him. Michael ceased being the ultra cool brotha in “Thriller” and became the strikingly pale, astoundingly eccentric, andrognyne that both beguiled and repulsed onlookers. The uniqueness and originality that sent him rocketing to the stars would ultimately send him crashing back to earth. The colossal talent that dominated the music scene in the 1980′s was completely overlooked throughout the 1990′s (and subsequently the rest of his life). Mike became better known for his alleged perverse eccentricities and not his bodily kinesthetic/musical genius.   

By this point I had thrown in the proverbial towel. I did not know this Michael. His life was as foreign as his new face and bleached skin color…

Yet, as cliche’ as it may sound, death always puts your priorities into perspective. The sad irony is (and I don’t mean this lightly) that death was the best career move for Mike. When Michael Jackson died so did all of his eccentricities, personality quirks, and every other bizarre idiosyncrasies that made him unrelatable to the fans who once cherished him. Instead our obsession with his personal life has shifted back to the complete reverence for his magnificent body of work (and that is as it should be).

Now, I love Michael Jackson again… just as I did as a child. Moreover, as I’ve stated previously, lately I find myself enthralled by him. Now that the veil of secrecy that shrouded him for so much of his life has been removed I feel a certain kinship with him. In his ever evolving facial aesthetic (which went from stunningly beautiful to shockingly grotesque), I see my face–my own story of beauty–in his.

A few nights ago I was watching Michael’s final concert DVD ‘This Is It’ and was moved(to tears at some point). I was transfixed by his face. Many people thought Michael wanted to be caucasian; however, for whatever reason, I could only liken him to an ethereal little pixie (complete with pointy ears. I wonder did he have his ears altered to look like that?) prepared to cast a wonderful spell on those fortunate enough to sit in the O2 arena.

Whenever I see the Michael Jackson of old (with his beautiful African features) juxtaposed against his final incarnation I am always astounded. This beautiful man who once epitomized black pulchritude and pride had, over the years, systematically removed every vestige of the motherland from his face. It often left me wondering what he was thinking about as he endured procedure after procedure. I wonder what his brothers and sisters thought about his appearance that seemed forever in a state of flux? Moreover, I wonder how Katherine must have felt about her child, born of her womb, removing every semblance of HER own unique traits passed down through the generations? More importantly, why did Michael choose to adopt white children (and try to pass them off as black)? Was it born out of hating his blackness (if he hated being black then why did he continue to proudly represented blackness)? Or was it the numerous insults that Michael endured from his father and brothers about his “big nose (the one feature of his body that was literally crucified by repeat surgeries)?”

I can theorize ad infinitum but I’ll never truly know. However, my captivation derives from the fact that I so closely identify with him in those respects (at least I used to).

Like Michael I knew what it was like to be that “adorable little kid” that everybody loved. When you are a small child you get used to everyone calling you “cute,” “adorable,” “precious,” and the like. You ultimately take it for granted that you are never going to grow up and people will always love you because you are so little and so cute.

As a small boy my mother was all about appearances. She dressed me in every cute little outfit imaginable. Growing up I always felt like a little doll. Every weekend she purchased me little outfits and had my picture taken (at least once a month. I have so many baby pictures it is almost nauseating). Of course, every Sunday, the gargantuan breasted ladies in church would literally grab me and nearly smother me to death in their E cup bosoms. “Oooh he so handsome!” and all that (coupled with numerous bags of candy).

Again, as a kid, all of this is lost on you because you think, “It’s just the way it is.” No one really thinks about being an adult as a child (until someone asks “What do you want to be when you grow up?”). Then, almost overnight, you turn into an adolescent and are forced to navigate the winding pathway between childhood and adulthood, sans cute chubby cheeks. The short cherubic little body becomes lanky and awkward with features too big for your face and pimples to match. Your feet look too big for your body and you last resort at looking normal is to hide beneath baggy clothes in an effort to conceal your shockingly emaciated frame (but those big clothes only serve to exacerbate it). The “awe he’s soooo cute” suddenly become “Ew he ugly” or “what happened to you?”

After childhood I came to think the definition of ”ugly” was synonymous with me. Everyone, including my family members, told me how ugly they thought I was. It got to the point where I started to believe it. I developed this repulsive obsession with my appearance. There would literally be days that I would not go out if my: nose, eyes, skin, or hair did not look or “feel” right. Sometimes, I would turn the lights out in the bathroom just to avoid looking at myself in the mirror. I could give you a laundry list of flaws that I percieved about myself. As far as I was concerned the elephant man was not nearly as hideous as me. According to my skewed perception my: head was too big for my body; I was too thin; my eyes were too big; my nose was to big (I begged my mother to let me have a nose job); my voice was horrible; and just overall hideous. It got to the point where I could not take compliments, ever. If someone told me I was: handsome, smart, or funny I’d quickly dismiss it as a lie. To this day it is difficult me to accept flattery because, sometimes, in the back of my mind those feelings and emotions are always there. I won’t even lie and say that sometimes I’m still insecure about myself on certain days.

Yet, in spite of all that at least I had a childhood, unlike Michael. Whereas I could retreat into my perpetual state of anonymous teen angst Michael went through puberty before the collective eyes of millions. He endured the worst ridicule simply because he was in the public eye. His fans could pick him apart all they wanted to. He could never escape it. If he wasn’t out his face was sure to be on the cover of Tiger Beat.

What I’m getting at is…

I no longer fault Michael for why he became obsessed with his face. Unlike him my face did not decide my future. His made his living. As Michael transformed I couldn’t help but envy him(at that time). He could change what he thought was not right anytime he wished and however he liked. I had to be told, as a young teen who thought he was horrendous, “You will eventually grow into who you are.” That was enough to send me fleeing to my room in tears (because when you’re a teen you don’t look to the future. All you care about is the present).

Eventually, I did grow into my body. Like an oversized suit hanging on my small frame I eventually changed to fit into my lanky arms and oversized features. Basically a couple of pounds, a few years, and some additional height leveled off the traumatizing effects of adolescence. Like I’ve stated before I still have some insecurities about my appearance; but, overwhelmingly, I am really learning to love the skin that I’m in. It took a very long time but I’m thankful that I came to the conclusion on my own terms.

In retrospect I was fortunate to not be in Michael’s position. Instead of pinning my hopes on the miracle elixir known as cosmetic surgery I grew and developed as a person. I learned that–at the risk of invoking yet another cliche’–true beauty really comes from within. Bettering myself as a person and showing kindness and compassion to others are what made me feel better about myself, not the slice and dice of a surgeon’s scalpel…

Michael and I took different paths to reach our goal. Therefore, in spite of his cosmetic changes I embrace Michael in totality. The face he chose may have been an anomaly to us; but it was the face that Michael ultimately settled on. It was the face that he was finally happy with him. So in spite of it’s affront to my Afrocentrism it was his canvas to do with as he pleased.

With that said as“This Is It” progressed Michael’s face ceased to take center stage in my mind’s eye. No matter what stage of cosmetic evolution his face was in Michael was still beautiful to me. He was: smart, funny, sweet, and in tune with the feelings of all of those around him. Michael Jackson was truly a warm spirit filled with love and compassion. No amount of cosmetic surgery could make him anymore beautiful than he already was. Moreover, his beauty was in his art…art which he gave to the world so selflessly.

Michael ultimately showed me what true beauty DEFINITIVELY is.

Thanks Mike…=0)

With Love…

Sincerely,

Toddy English

No More Monsters (Moving Beyond Childhood Trauma)

Dear Friends:

Last night I had a nightmare. It was about my older brother, Damon (not his real name). It wasn’t the first one I’ve had about him. The dreams are recurring (they only come about when I’ve got a lot on my mind). Whenever Damon manifests himself in my dreams I become this tiny, powerless, and defenseless person (a child if you will). Just seeing his face induces mortal terror. In my dreams I have: shot, stabbed, maimed, and beaten Damon with with an array of weapons (particularly baseball bats). However, like some horrific slasher movie stalker, Damon would only rise up and relentlessly attack me (As if all of my efforts served only to piss him off). Whenever I awaken from these nightmares I’m always drenched in sweat. I am always terrified.

This morning was different. Something had to be done. That’s why I’ve decided to face down my nightmares by being open and honest about their symbolism.

I’ve never talked about this before (indepth at least) because I’ve always felt ashamed about it. Rationally speaking I shouldn’t feel that way in any capacity. Moreover, I should KNOW that none of the events that transpired in my past were of my making.  Yet, these dreams continually invade my sleep. That’s how I know these issues have not been resolved.

To make a very long story succinct Damon, my older brother (16-years my senior), emotionally and physically abused me from the time I was ten up until the age of seventeen. Since the cradle Damon has always been jealous of me. He has always had a vendetta against me, for what I don’t know.

My mother had me at a late age. So, naturally when she found out she was a pregnant 40something she doted on herself and me. When I was a toddler Damon began nice enough (so I’ve been told); however, between the ages of nine and ten he changed…For the worse. It all began with Damon getting into all kinds of trouble and run ins with the law. His then girlfriend (whom he was abusing at the time. Damon has been married twice. Both of his wives, and his girlfriend, left him due to physical abuse), and baby mama, had the cops on him on several occasions.

Damon was very violent and belligerent at home as well. He would yell at my mother and punch holes in the wall during, what seemed like, marathon arguments. Damon was also an alcoholic. He kept a loaded 45 in his bedroom next to a bottle of gin and the holy bible (no, I did not make that up). Needless to say he scared the shit out of me (and my mother). My mother put him out on the streets two or three times, but like a boomerang he kept coming back…promising that he had gotten his life together. Of course she always felt sorry for him and kept letting him back in the house. What I hated most about him was that he lived like a pig. His bedroom literally smelled like a landfill…

Honestly, I don’t remember precisely when Damon started in on me. All I remember was being caught in this endless cycle of emotional torcher and abuse (it all seemed to run together). After my dad died Damon called himself, “being a firm hand in my life” (which I really did not need. Seeing as I was a very sensitive and quiet child to begin with). In retrospect I know that I was nothing more than a convenient punching bag. A loving disciplinarian he was not, ever.

Damon was like the incredible hulk. One moment he was docile and jovial. The next he would literally become the personification of rage. To this day I believe he’s an undiagnosed manic depressive…

Anyway, as I moved into my adolescent phase (around 11-12) that’s when it all started. The emotional abuse came first. Damon always made it a point to tell me how “ugly” and “sorry” I was, all the time, to everyone. He would humiliate me in front of his friends and particularly my mother and various other relatives. He really knew how to make me feel low. I never retaliated because we were taught growing up, “That’s your brother. You are supposed to love him” and all that other mess. However, one particular time I remember being in an argument with my mother. It was stupid teen angst B.S. (when you’re a teenager you’re just a ball of hormones and emotions). It had something to do with school (I was bullied heavily from 6th to 12th grade). Well, Damon got involved (tell me why I don’t know) and the next thing I know my skinny little arm was twisted up behind my back and I was promptly thrown into the wall of my bedroom like so much garbage. In addition sometimes he would pass hard licks (like a punch in my arm, chest, or back) just to put fear into me (and show me that anytime he wanted to smack me he could)…

At the time I was twelve years old and all of 88 pounds soaking wet. Damon was twenty-eight years old, six feet tall, and obese at around 230. It was pretty much no contest in terms of brute strength and physicality. Granted, the abuse was not ritualistic (it didn’t happen daily) but it wasn’t sporadic either. I estimate that Damon would knock me around at least twice a month (for five years. You do the math). One time while my mother was at work we got into an argument. Damon’s son had fucked up my bedroom while I was at school that day. It pissed me off and I started ranting about it. The next thing I knew I was pinned to the wall, with a broom stick to my throat, and my feet were dangling in mid-air. The only thing I remember was the rage in his face. He was yelling at me and all this spit was flying out. Damon has halitosis really bad so you can just imagine being caught up in that. It was the equivalent of being attacked by a rabid dog…

I told my mother about the incident. Of course she didn’t do shit about it. As a matter of fact she never did anything when Damon put his hands on me. In the past couple of years I raised holy hell at her regarding that, please believe me. Fairly recently, she apologized to me for all of it because she really didn’t think it had affected me in such a profound way. My mother genuinely thought that all brothers fought (because she was raised in that kind of environment). Initially, when I was younger, I thought the way she did. I thought what he was doing was “loving discipline.” After every beating Damon would come and apologize as though NOTHING had ever happened. He would take his anger out on me and later on he’d be fine (acting jolly and cheerful). I’d just be fucked up wondering what was happening to me. Then, I would just accept the halfass apology and walk on egg shells until something happened again (which it inevitably did).

The worst part about the abuse was never knowing when it was going to occur again. It was psychological torcher pure and simple. I could say or do one wrong thing that he felt was a slight and the next thing I knew I’d be held down, punched, smacked, or locked inside my bedroom. Once, and I’ll never forget this as long as I live, Damon dragged me outside–into the front yard–and threw me onto the grass, sat on top of me (effectively pinning me down. Imagine that…an obese man sitting on a small child). All of the neighbors were out there and I was screaming for help at the top of my lungs. I don’t even remember what this incident was about but Damon started pounding me on my chest, my little 13-year-old bird chest, and yelling to everyone, “I’m gonna get this big grown 13-year-old NIGGA straight!” I was crying telling him that it hurt (which it did. I could barely catch my breath). All he said was, “Good it’s supposed to hurt!”

After it was over I was so angry and humiliated. Worst of all it made me feel powerless. It was like he could do ANYTHING he wanted to me and no one would care, not even my own mother. This resulted in me having extremely low self esteem and becoming increasingly withdrawn and passive. In the past few years I’ve just learned to be an assertive person and no longer allow myself to be victimized by others.

Anyway…

After this beating had ended everyone was looking at me and the only thing I wanted to do was murder him. At that point I HATED my brother (can’t emphasize that enough). But, within ten minutes, Damon came to my room and asked, “Are you still mad at me?” I wanted to say, “I fuckin hate you and I wish you would die.” But I did not feel like going through anything else. My mother and step father did nothing of course (they actually laughed. My stepfather died six years ago and my mother, as stated earlier, begged me to forgive her. I did). So, I had to go to school like nothing ever happened…again (it got to be commonplace). In retrospect I noticed that Damon never hit me in the face. That was probably by design. The irony is that he said he could not control himself…Yeah right.

When I was 13 my mother started taking me to a therapist. She saw how quiet, sad, and withdrawn I had become (uhm duh?). By this time the whole gay issue had come up too (longer story). I didn’t open up to the therapist much, initially. However, as the sessions increased I offhandedly told her about my brother hitting me (as if it were normal. I really did think it was normal at the time). Her entire expression changed. My counselor suddenly took a keen interest in me and asked, “Does this happen often Todd?”  I immediately shut my mouth. At the time I never told anyone about what was happening. I was afraid if anyone knew my mother would hate me. That’s how messed up I was mentally. In retrospect I would have sang like a canary and had his ass thrown in jail. But I was only 13 (we never know then what we know now). Well, the therapist apparently said something to my mom…I was promptly yanked out of counseling after seven sessions.

So, I spent the next few years depressed, scared, angry, lonely, and a little suicidal. That’s when my brother got engaged and subsequently married. I was so HAPPY when he was gone! My wish for him to be sucked into a black hole didn’t come true, but this was the next best thing.  Well, that didn’t last long. His wife had a baby and after that he started beating on her. One night he beat her bad enough that she called the police on him. My mother of COURSE gave him a room for the night and blamed his wife for my brother beating her (my mother is old school. It is always the victim’s fault). Anyway, wifey cleaned out the bank account, ran sacked the house, took the baby, divorced him, and we haven’t seen her (or my nephew) in about twelve years now. She did the right thing as far as I’m concerned.

Anyway, since then my relationship with Damon NEVER improved. The abuse stopped because he eventually got a real job and stopped mooching off my mother. Yet, I was still trying to play the ROLE (you are supposed to love your family, even if they treat you like shit). The only reason I did so, in the past, was for my mother. I’ll never do that for anyone EVER again.

In spite of not being in close proximity he was always a constant presence. It sucked. Instead of owning my feelings and dealing with the trauma I pushed my emotions down. But, as I’ve said before, when you try and push them down those mother fuckers FLOAT. It was impossible for me to be around Damon and not feel like total shit. I can only liken it to Michael Jackson’s interview with Oprah. Michael said that whenever Joseph (his father) would come over (even when he was an adult) to visit he’d go to the bathroom and regurgitate. That was and still is exactly how I feel about Damon. Whenever he is near me my skin crawls. Waves of terror wash over me. I literally feel like I’m ten years old again and there is no way out. Damon is one of the most heinous, hateful, and monstrous people I’ve ever known. I can’t even look at him and see any semblance of a human being. He’s like an animal. In addition my own feelings of rage, in regards to him, would always surface. Sometimes we would be sitting at the table for Thanksgiving dinner and I’d look at Damon and fantasize about slashing his throat with a carving knife. Naturally, I would go back and PRAY hoping that I could forgive him and get over the feelings (because I was being a good little christian). But I never could, ever.

Flash forward to now…

I have not seen or spoken to Damon in two years (there was an incident, after my mother got really sick, that he tried to attack me in my car. He didn’t touch me but he dented my car door. I got a protective order against him). These have been some of the best years of my life. I am so thankful to have him out of my life…

Yet, the nightmares still occur…

I believe that whenever there is a lot happening in my life the stress encapsulates itself within a Damon avatar. Whenever the dreams occur I know, immediately, that I’m under some form of stress. However, stress is a natural part of life…The Damon factor is not.

That is why I wrote this post today. I’m tired of him having power over me. Damon was literally the boogie man come true for me as a child. All these years I’ve never truly spoken to anyone about all of this and how it made me feel. It made me feel powerless, hopeless, angry, bitter, and confused (confused because if someone is supposed to love you then how can they treat you that way?). Earlier in my life I felt that confessing that would make me appear weak. “Oh get over it! That’s over!” family members would say. But WHY did it continually surface in my sleep and whenever Damon appeared in my waking life? Because I never discussed it Damon became a monster. I made him larger than life when he is nothing more than a lowly degenerate coward.

Today I want the nightmares to end. Damon’s hold is broken over me. I have power over my own life.

Damon, you will never touch me again…Ever.

Damon, you will never come near me again…Ever. If you do you will be in prison.

Damon, you no longer wield any power or control over my life.

There will never be any reconciliation between us…EVER.

Because of you Damon I will now donate a portion of my monthly earnings to charities that go towards protecting small children from animals like YOU.

You will NEVER have the privilege of knowing me EVER again. I am none of the horrible things that you said I was. And you did not destroy me like you tried to do.

Back then I was a child. I had no choice in my circumstances. Now, I am a man and Damon is no longer my monster. With this post I am leaving Damon in the past where he belongs.

Before I sign off…

For anyone out there who has been emotionally or physically abused (whether you were a child or an adult) or is being abused I would like to say this…

IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT! IT IS NEVER YOUR FAULT!

The abuser has the problem, not you!  You will NEVER be able to say the right thing. You will NEVER be able to do the right thing. An abuser just needs a reason. Any reason will do. Don’t subject your mental and physical well being to that treachery.

If there is someone that you can trust and confide in please tell them about your circumstances. Don’t subject yourself to being demeaned and battered simply because you feel a masochistic obligation to your abuser. Remember, you are never alone in this world. If you are a teenager or child (just so happening to read this) please tell a friend, teacher, or any other adult. Don’t be quiet about it. No matter what anyone says know that you ARE worthy of feeling safe, protected, and loved.

Anyway…

Thank you all for listening to me. I believe I will sleep better tonight. Sometimes you have to stand up to a demon. My feet were tired of running.

With Love…

Sincerely,

Toddy English.

The Black Gay Male Pledge of Allegiance

Dear Friends:

I found this video so wonderfully affirming. It’s called “The Black Gay Male Pledge of Allegiance.” I initially saw it on Facebook and quickly friended the author (Derek McMahon) afterwards.

It made me stop and think about the ritualistic psychological abuse that the black community places on LGBT youth, particularly the church. So many lives have been destroyed because of spiritual gay bashing. Words really do have power. When authority figures (parents and spiritual leaders) tell you you’re: sick, perverted, nasty, dirty, sinful, and reprobate long enough you eventually believe it (whether you want to or not).  This is why I believe STD’s are so rampant among many black LGBT’s. If you don’t believe you are worth anything why should you bother having protected sex? Why should you bother getting tested for STI’s? Why should any of it matter when inside you’re already dead?

The irony is that sexually transmitted diseases grow and flourish in the darkness. The Black community, in terms of homosexuality, is lost in the dark. It will be up to brave black LGBT’s to shed light on the situation by simply standing up and being counted. It really is a matter of life and death.

I remember an acquaintance of mine named Trevor. Trevor and I attended the same southern black Baptist Holy Roller church in the late 1990′s. Trevor was leader of the youth group, lead singer in the choir, and one of the smartest kids I knew. He seemed like he had such a bright future ahead of him. Well, after our church fell apart (there was a huge controversy that involved one of my family members) I didn’t see Trevor again until 2003.

Oneday I was coming home from work to drop some mail off at the post office. Trevor was meandering around in the parking lot begging for money. Initially I had no idea who he was. His skin was covered in lesions; he was emaciated; and he looked completely disheveled. Anyway he recognized me and called my name. I did a double take. Once I got a good look at him I knew who it was. So I smiled and said hi. He asked me how me and my family were. We had a little small talk before he asked me for a dollar. So I gave him two dollars. That was the LAST time I ever saw him again. The next thing I knew, two weeks later, he was dead from AIDS related complications. He was 27-years-old (He would have been 33 now).

It was rumored that Trevor had gotten hooked on drugs and hustled. I don’t know the entire story but it didn’t end happily. He had so much promise and it really shook me the way he went out…

Now, it makes me wonder which one of our wicked pastor’s sermons sent him over the edge? Which bible scripture (other than that Leviticus one) did his loved ones hurl his way consistently? Which of his relatives told him to stop lisping when he talked because it made him sound like a “sissy?” How many times was he called a “Faggot” or “punk” by his peers? I wonder how many men did Trevor give himself to simply because he wanted love (like so many other gay men who go that route), even if it was momentary? How many of them lied and said he was special but threw him away like garbage after the act was complete? How many nights did he stay up and pray that he could be “healed” from his “perversion?” How much can one person endure before they finally break?

I told myself that I never wanted to end up like Trevor, ever. Which is why I’ve made it my purpose to counteract all the negativity levied against me by the “community.”

To that end this has inspired me to write my own personal manifesto. Every black gay person should write his or her own. This is 2010. It is time to end all these negative statistics and start loving ourselves for who we truly are.

Thank you Mr. McMahon for throwing down the gauntlet!

With Love…

Sincerely,

Toddy English.

Nothing To Lose and Everything To Gain (Coming Out)…

Dear Friends:

So many times I’ve heard gay men (particularly black gay men) detail a myriad of reasons why they refuse to come out of the closet (most of the time opting for secret lives, the down low if you will). The ultimate being, “I’ll lose everything if people find out I’m gay.” 

Now I do believe all of this has been debated ad nausem on every gay blog in creation; however, does anyone ever stop and think about the reverse side of the proverbial coin? Does anyone ever imagine the prospect that he or she may have everything to gain by coming out? True, coming out to the world as a: gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender person can be an Earth shattering experience (in the majority of cases). But why does that always have to be a negative? True, change does hurt but not all change is bad.

Speaking for myself coming out was nothing that I would ever want to relive. Yet, I wouldn’t trade my experience for anyone else’s. I garnered a whole new perspective and saw my entire life expand immensely. It changed me for the better. There is nothing more freeing than having the audacity to give yourself permission to simply be your authentic self.  Now If you’re gay doing so is like an act of revolution!

True, you may very well lose friends and loved ones. However, they eventually comeback. And for those who refuse to embrace you for what you are perhaps that relationship is better left dead. Love is never conditional. True love should be unconditional. If you woke up one morning with antlers a conditional friend would turn and flee, never to return. A true friend or loved one would tell you how to decorate your antlers so they can look pretty and presentable. Coming out is like growing antlers over night.

My philosophy is, in the words of my muse Alanis Morisette, “I don’t wanna be adored for what I merely represent to you…” Why should someone else’s image of who they THINK I am (or should be) be grounds for defining MY reality? I’m the one that has to wake up and lie down with myself everyday and night. I need to be proud of the reflection staring back at me. The black community does not define me. Christianity does not define me. The black church does not define me. Tyler Perry movies do not define me. J.L. King does not define me. Dondra McClurkin does not define me. Rightwing bigots do not define me. Gay culture does not define me. I am the author of the story of my life. I get to write my own definition. Until I write a new chapter it will remain unwritten.

So, for those of you who are struggling with the coming out issue, the next time you stop to think about everything you could potentially lose think about what you will be gaining in the process…YOURSELF.

With Love…

Sincerely,

Toddy English.

I Don’t Hook Up!

Dear Friends:

My year’s resolution was to be a ho. I’ve come to the conclusion that I am so not a ho.

Since my birthday (two months ago) I’ve knocked down three different dudes. I had another date scheduled for tonight. I am going to forgo it altogether. It turns out I’m not cut out to be Samantha Jones. For better or worse I am Carrie Bradshaw. Plowing through random hotties just isn’t my cup of Starbucks Vanilla Latte (with extra sugar and crushed ice). I want my Mr. Big.

I’ve learned a lot about myself by just having a little casual sex. I’ve learned that true love, romance, and monogamy are important to me…

I love the feeling of being intimate just as much as the next hot-blooded young man (believe me I am hot-blooded. It is winter time and I still sleep naked with a fan on in the winter). However, after my brief experiment with sex of the casual kind, I’ve definitively concluded that sex with emotional attachment is important to me. It always has been. I don’t have to be in love to do it, true. I just really WANT to be in love with the one I’m doing it with.

After breaking up with my ex-boyfriend (wrote about it here) it got lonely, can’t lie. So I figured “hmmm, maybe I should be like everyone else and just have random sex?” Thing is I’m not like everyone else and it is perfectly okay. Like every other person on the face of the earth I think about sex, a lot. Sometimes I’m so horny that I could probably layer a ten tier wedding cake with my naturally white icing (sorry for being so graphic). I’m always tempted to let my ID run amok (consequences be damned). Yet, the moment I pleasure myself my super ego whispers, “No, you KNOW you really want something more than just a random fuck.” While it was fun having someone to sexually gratify me (after being abstinent for nearly a year) it was, ultimately, the same as pleasuring myself. When it was over I went back home and that was that. That was a little difficult for me.  True, you can protect your physical well-being (condoms and etc al) but nothing prepares you for being emotional penetration. Yeah, it was an ego booster (no doubt). But it wasn’t what I was looking for. On some subconscious level I’m still seeking the one to share my world with…

What I loved about having sex in a relationship was the afterplay (stuff that happens after foreplay and intercourse/outercourse). I loved just lying there and being held. I enjoyed feeling the warmth of my lover’s body and the rise and fall of his heaving chest after having sex. I loved basking in the dew of sexual sweat. We didn’t have to talk about anything but just knowing that I’d wake up and see him again was (and still is) intoxicating to me. I love feeling connected to someone through intimacy and romance, not just a wham-bam-thank you sir. Sometimes just being bare naked with a man whilst: passionately kissing, groping, and being close (sans any fucking) has brought on some of my grandest orgasms.

I guess I’m not as primal as most men? Then again maybe I’m primal but in a different way? Yes, I want to have tons of freak nasty sex…but with a special person. I’m total boyfriend material. The few times I’ve hooked up illuminated that fact quite clearly.

While I am a passionate person I’m also sensitive and hopelessly romantic. I’m the ATYPICAL profile on Adam4Adam (e.g. fully clothed, correct grammar/punctuation, and not pissed off and bitter). So, I’m not too proud to admit that long-term relationships are when I feel most free, stable, and sexual. I really want a boyfriend. I don’t have any designs on screwing hundreds of guys just so I can tell everyone what hot stuff I was “back in the day” (pleasant thought but so not me). If I met someone now who fulfilled me in every single way I’d settle down and stay with him forever, REAL TALK. Sex is really good; but I want everything else that comes with it: hand holding, kissing (lots of kissing. I love to kiss), hugging, writing love notes, feeling overjoyed to be in that individual’s presence, cuddling, comfort, and all of those other little things that come with the initial throes of infatuation…Then after that is all gone I love the whole concept of growing old with your best friend whom you have sex with. Furthermore, I don’t mind being a serial monogamist either. I’d rather be with five or six men (throughout my life) that I loved and cherished rather than five or six hundred that I fucked just to get my rocks off.

Furthermore, the EXPECTATION of hooking up is different. Yeah, you never have to see them again but your sexual reputation will follow you everywhere due to gossipy hoes. If you don’t give your best performance every single time out then you might as well brand yourself with the scarlet letters VBF (Very Bad Fuck)…

Perhaps my attitude stems from my upbringing? Granted, I’m out of that whole, “Oh I have to be heterosexually MARRIED to have sex or I’ll go to hell” thing. However, I still want to feel that special connection with someone that isn’t simply based on sex. I don’t think sex is SOLELY relegated to a bodily urge to procreate and pleasure yourself. If it was just about pleasure then self-gratification takes care of that. To me it’s about connecting with another individual physically, mentally, and emotionally (from an evolutionary stand point that is advantageous seeing as the rearing of young to survival increases when parents work in tandem). I always thought my attitude was ODD (ironic that my name is tODDy, hahaha) in the gay world. Everything is so hypersexual. There is so much emphasis on SEX, SEX, SEX that sometimes it is maddening. Damn it I WANT to DATE! I want to be courted by a potential suitor. I want to write love poems and send him ROSES  (instead of showing up on somebody’s doorstep just to get a piece…that may not even be clean. ew) and then have HOT sex. Maybe I’m Priscilla LeDebutante; but I’m really not ashamed of wanting something more than just a fuck.

While I’ve masochistically loved others (and they only really liked me) in my past it still made me feel good knowing they cared about me and neither of us was using the other as semen receptacles. I’m a romantic guy. Having a guy show me that he is feelin me (aside from “Yo shawty u sexxiiii” ) as something more than another notch in his belt makes me feel like I’m hot stuff.

Anyway…

I don’t begrudge anyone their right to fuck around ceaselessly. If you find pleasure and fulfillment in knockin out every piece of tail that you see then more power to you. That life just isn’t for me (and I just dipped my pinky toe into the pool of promiscuity). I refuse to believe that every gay man out there fits into the hypersexual mold. Surely, if there are Samanthas there are also a ton of Charlottes and Carries. Reiterating a former point I’m Carrie (kinda in the middle of Sam and Charlotte) and I’m not ashamed of that.

In the end I’m probably a unicorn in the gay forest but I’m going to stop being so insecure about it. I deserve to have what I truly want!

No. I DON’T HOOK UP (anymore).

With Love…

Sincerely,

Toddy English.

P.S.

The onething I’ve found on dating websites is new friends, oddly enough. I’ve spoken to some of them offline and they are really cool (lol). More on that later…

A Day of Gratitude…

Dear Friends:

Today, I am very thankful. The meaning of this holiday is so much more significant to me now than ever before (and it isn’t about food either). As I type this I’m going to try and keep it cute because it’s always emotional speaking on the previous series of unfortunate events that occurred in my life just over a year ago. Last year, on this date, I really thought my mother was going to die. I was seriously bracing for, what felt like, the inevitable. She seemed to be getting sicker and sicker by the day. It was a horrible period. I felt: lonely, sad, lost, humiliated, afraid, and defeated…

What a difference a year can make, no?

Today I feel completely victorious. In a manner of speaking I feel reborn. My mother is healthy and happy again. I am healthy and happy again. Moreover, in less than three weeks, I’ll be completing my graduate program (and just three years ago I dropped out of school with only eighteen credit hours left on my BA). Sometimes I think back to that time and wonder, “How in the hell am I still here?”  Yet, when that thought pops into my head it is followed by “thank you.” Sometimes it pays to not even wonder why and just be thankful. Bad things happen to good people all of the time. None of us are exempt. All we can ever do is push through it. All things good and bad eventually come to an end. Be grateful for everything and everyone in your life. Most important of all be grateful to yourself. No matter what you ALWAYS have yourself.

With Love…

Sincerely,

Toddy English.

 

15 Words (Words Have Power)

Dear Friends:

This morning I stopped to think about words that are instrumental in my life. Whether we know it or not words are more than letters strung together to create meaningful thoughts and phrases. Words do have significant power. We can use them positively. We can use them negatively. Either way they impact our perception of the world. Therefore, I decided to sit down and write fifteen important words that helped me through every tribulation I’ve ever endured. These words empowered me. They still do…

1.) Love – love is the power that binds us all and makes everything else possible.  

2.) Beauty – The world can be quite ugly, but there is so much beauty as well. You just have to pause and take time to look at it.

3.) Magic – I don’t know if there’s a God. But I do believe in magic. I see it every single day.  Life is magic.

4.) Strength – strength isn’t about mere physicality. Strength of character, perseverence, and determination are much more significant.

5.) Courage – Courage is not the absence of fear. Courage is the ability to persevere even when you are scared nearly to death.

6.) Wisdom – With wisdom everything that truly matters will be your’s to gain. With wisdom one gains power. With wisdom one keeps it.

7.) Destiny – Whatever is for you WILL be for you.

8.) Compassion – I try putting on someone else’s shoes sometime. One day I may have to walk in them too.

9.) Gratitude - You never know what you’re missing when you’re too busy appreciating every single thing that you have.

10.) Hope - Hope (in my opinion) is never futile. When all hope is lost then surrender inevitably sets in. Yet, within surrender, hope always springs eternal.

11.) Faith – I don’t have religious faith. But I do have faith in myself to make all my dreams come true.  

12.) Laughter – Is good for the: skin, heart, and soul.

13.) Joy – is serenity. A joyful heart is not made content by other people and things. A joyful spirit just is.

14.)  Imagination – Dreams are the blue prints for our lives. It’s up to us to build on the foundation that imagination affords.     

15.) Redemption – Mistakes a simply a condition of human beings being human. No one is ever beyond being redeemed.

Lafayette (True Blood): To Thine Own self Be True!

Dear Friends:

I’ve finally, FINALLY, started watching the HBO series True Blood! Yes, I’m two seasons late; however, as they say, “Better late than never!”

Anyway, all I can say is “WOW!” This show is right up my alley: vampires (I LOVE Vampires, particularly those of the Anne Rice variety), mystery, psychic powers, Gothic flair, hot guys, and bad ass women. However, my favorite character on the show (from what I’ve seen so far) is definitely Lafayette! I love, love, LOVE Ms. Lafayette chile! (lol)

First of all I happen to adore the African American characters on True Blood: Tara, Lafayette, and Tara’s mother (season two has that FINE Mehcad Brooks! Can’t wait to see that one). These are REAL black people (lol). Hold up, slow yo roll, don’t get it twisted, I’m not at all stating that there is a real way to be black. Quite the contrary actually (and the crux of this post). To me these characters are real because there is so much lower middle class authenticity. I KNEW people like this in my neighborhood (still do).

That said…

I’m feeling Lafayette most of all. Not only is he a wonderful OUT (No DL Chronicles over here ::Snap!::) gay black male character but Lafayette  doesn’t fit any particular stereotype. Honey, Lafayette wears make up and sports timberland boots. He walks around waving a church lady fan, but also works part-time as a construction worker. Lafayette is just as in touch with his masculinity as he is his femininity.

I was held enthrall by the beauty and audaciousness of the character. Lafayette could NOT be defined. He is just Lafayette! He fits his own mold and sets his own standards.

It really got me to thinking…

Why do we allow other people to define who we are? What is so inherently difficult about writing our own definitions? Aren’t we the ones who know ourselves best? After all, we wake up in our bodies and lie down with them night after night, amen?

When I was growing up (and well into my late teens) I always tried to fit in. I believed that if I could be “just like everyone else” then I would be happy, carefree, and lead a life free of worry. However, the more I tried to be like everyone else the more they changed and the harder I had to try and emulate them. It became a most daunting task. Moreover, it brought about internal suffering. I literally began to feel like a fake person. It was because I had no concept of who I was. I was so insecure that I had to latch onto what other people thought was impressive.

Thankfully, those days are in my past. I think I had to unleash my inner Lafayette in order to get to a place of self actualization.

Lafayette appealed to me so much because, in the gay community particularly, you’ll see a lot of conformity. Even though you see all of these people talking about, “Oh I am proud to be me” and “This is who I am” those very same individuals are running with cliques that dress, act, and believe the way that they do. There is no autonomy. They are just reflections of each other. It is maddening when you think about. We, as a community, clamour for all of this acceptance and tolerance when we–in many cases–refuse to love and tolerate one another (e.g. no fats, no fems, no asians, no this, no that, and etc al.) .

The other reason I love Lafayette is because he’s simply comfortable with himself and not caught up in conforming to gender norms and stereotypes. Again, in the gay community, all of this unnecessary emphasis is placed on the illusion of hyper masculinity (which nary a gay man is) and if you don’t fit into that ideal then you may as well cease to exist.

Recently in my life I’ve learned to totally love and embrace myself just as I am. Lafayette was just one more concrete reason why it’s wonderful to just be yourself. It is empowering. It is comforting. Most important of all it is freeing. When you really think about it it’s difficult to emulate other people; however, it is simplistically simple to be yourself. You get to define yourself. You get to set your own standard. No one else (not even your mother) knows you better than you.

I’ve learned that I don’t have to be a super macho thug boi to survive in the gay world. Nor do I have to be some fashion glamour puss (although I do like to shop) with teased and highlighted hair. Moreover, I don’t have to be a married heterosexual man in order to have a joyous and fulfilling life. I have the right to just be myself and people can love it or leave it. Most of all I have the right to pursue my own happiness.

When we hold the opinions of others too close to our hearts that induces suffering. My motto is: Place all things on the universal shelf that are not that significant. If someone does not like the way you look, dress, act, believe, or etc al…Oh well? What can you do about it? Moreover, in a million years, is it really going to matter? Not really.

We each have our own unique story to scribe; therefore we should just give ourselves permission to just settle into the idea…right? Myself, I’m tired of trying to fit into everyone’s narrow definition. Look, I’m not apart of the borg. Like Deniece Williams, “I got to be FREE!” Sometimes when you allow yourself to just love your body, your mind, and soul it’s just relaxing. The great thing about knowing yourself is that if there’s something you don’t like you have the right to change it.

Anyway, thank you Lafayette! Even though you are a fictional character you’ve inspired me!

With Love…

Sincerely,

Toddy English.

My Soul Has Been Anchored (Why I love Inspirational/Gospel Music)

Dear Friends:

Even though I still keep an open mind about the whole “God thing” (Agnostic…Open to either or. Not really sure) I’m finding myself, more and more, gravitating back to the music of my childhood, Gospel. I love gospel, black gospel in particular, not simply because of the artistry but also the soul, conviction, and universal truth within it. Even if you’re not a religious person there are themes that everyone can identify with.

This weekend I was in Best Buy and purchased a copy of my favorite gospel group’s (Trinitee 5:7) latest album. My favorite song on the joint is definitely, “My Soul Has Been Anchored.” For whatever reason I was moved to tears by that tune. Granted, them sistahs can SANG; however, I was really feelin the message.

How many times have we all felt as though our lives were just chaotic? I’m talking about those times when everything seems to be falling apart and tumult is seemingly ceaseless. That is a very scary situation to be in. I know because I speak to you from personal experience (read my coming out story). Yet, I look back on it and realize, “Hey, my soul really was anchored.” I was not destroyed by the chaos and upheaval. All of it was momentary and here I stand.

Just today I was reading, “Until Today” (a book filled with daily devotions) by my girl Iyanla Vanzantand she spoke about “coming home.” In Iyanla speak home isn’t a physical place but a spiritual one. The power for change, love, encouragement, and all that other wonderful stuff is right in our very midst. Taking the time to go “home” helps us anchor ourselves.

The song made me happy because just thinking about the resilience of the human spirit is beautiful. No obstacle is too big to overcome if you anchor yourself in place. What I want to say today is, that in the midst of trials and tribulations, take the time to be good to yourself. Even if it is something as small as buying a new outfit. Just taking the time to tell yourself that you’re worthy, in spite of what some negative force may dictate, is key.

Anyway, that was my spiritual up chuck for the day. Haha.

Best Wishes!

With Love…

Sincerely,

Toddy English.