La Vida Loca

Recently, Ricky Martin of Living La Vida Loca fame, appeared on the Oprah Winfrey Show. I didn't watch the entire show; I just saw some of it while in the barbershop. The fact that my barber had this on his 40" flat screen seemed strange to me, but that's beside the point. There were excerpts of different men who applauded Martin for "coming out". To them, he served as an inspiration and gave them enough strength to "come out" to their inner circle of family and friends.



Let me start by saying, I'm not gay. Even though my friend, Alexis, tells me that even the most heterosexual individual is bisexual to some degree, I can't ever recall having any attraction to another man. Yeah, I've seen a dude and thought, "That dude has a nice body." But it was more of a comparison to me; I was trying to see how my body stacked up and what I needed to do to get to his level. I didn't want to wake up to the scruffiness of his beard.



And I'm not homophobic, either. Growing up, I was. I think most people I knew had a negative feeling towards gays. Between my peers, most of my older male relatives, and the church, I lived with the idea that homosexuality was a sin and anyone involved in such actions were, in some way, subhuman.



Going through public school, there was always the little boy that preferred to stay with the girls during recess instead of playing football with the boys. You know, the same boy that smacked his lips when he talked and played with Barbies and Cabbage Patch dolls. Truthfully, I played with Barbie, too, but that was only to give my He-Man, Optimus Prime, or Hulk Hogan action figure a love interest. (G.I. Joe was too small for her.) As we got older, that same little boy became the teenager that tried out for the cheer leading squad. His clothes seemed to fit a lot tighter and the lip smack was now accompanied by a neck roll and finger snap.



You knew he was gay; you heard the rumors about him. And as a straight teenage boy, the last thing you wanted to be accused of being was gay. So, you stayed away from him. Snickered at him and joined in with the rude remarks. You might not have been the ringleader, but you were definitely in the circus. You had to be, or they might think you were like him.



That was me. I wasn't the one shouting "fag" as he walked by, but I was the one tapping my friend and pointing. I stayed that way until my freshman year of college. Halfway through my first semester at the University of Florida (GO GATORS!!!), a third person was thrown into our already cramped dorm room. His name was Scott. Scott was an ordinary white guy, a little more Brahms than bong, but normal, nonetheless. He didn't even seem to mind being thrust into the room with two black guys. We got along great. It didn't hurt that he worked at Red Lobster and would bring home bags upon bags of those Cheddar Bay biscuits.



One day, I came home from a weekend trip to find Scott alone in the room. He was talking on the phone. As I entered, he seemed startled and nervous; it was obvious he had been crying. "Mom, Darius is here. I'll call you later," he said as he watched me drop my duffel bag.



"What's up, man? You cool?" I asked, knowing that he wasn't. He paused for a while and just blurted it out.



"Darius, I'm gay!"



I sat there for a minute, confused. It was almost as if I didn't understand what he was saying. Then I comprehended it, but didn't quite know how to process it. He didn't remind me of any of the gay guys I knew. He didn't bring a set of dolls to litter his bed. He didn't paint his finger and toenails. His voice was deeper than mine. It didn't add up.



All I could say was, "Oh. Okay, cool."



He broke the awkwardness by saying, "Don't worry. I'm not attracted to you."



Just then, my ego kicked in and brought me back to that moment and out of my daze. He let me know that he'd never really been attracted to any black guys, but that he could see how someone would be attracted to me. I felt a little better.



I had questions, and I asked them. He was willing and relieved that I wanted to know so much.



He explained to me how hard his life had been. He told me about the feeling he had when he was as young as four years old. Feelings I could relate to because I was sneaking onto little girls' mats during nap time in nursery school. He told me of the guilt he felt for feelings he thought were wrong. The pain of trying to force himself to be with women, when that was far from who he inherently was. He told me of his spiritual conflict; his parents were ministers and often preached of the "abomination" that is homosexuality. We talked for hours that night and for hours on many more occasions.



Scott was my Ricky Martin. He opened my eyes. At that very moment, a veil of ignorance was lifted from my eyes. My perception completely changed. I was no longer that kid that didn't want to be seen with someone because of their preference, I was now that young man who would walk into the movies or the grocery store with my friend, no matter who he was attracted to.



There are still somethings that I really don't want see, and somethings that make me slightly uncomfortable.



Scott moved out shortly after "coming out" to me, but we remained relatively good friends throughout college.



Sitting in the barbershop, watching Oprah was a seminal moment for me. Sitting in the bastion of masculinity, I was transported back to high school. I wasn't the one calling names, but would I be the one to snicker and nod my head or would I say something? In the comments of Ricky Martin and the other guests, I could hear Scott. So, I said something. Not as much as I could have said, but I said a lot more than I would have at an earlier stage of my life.



Being a black man in America, I know a lot about prejudice and discrimination. People constantly categorize me just by looking at me. But I am extremely proud of who I am and can't imagine having to live a life denying myself simply because others don't think it's right.



Don't we all simply want to be able to be who we are? Black or White. Christian or Atheist. Straight or Gay. Not being able to do that...that's La Vida Loca.

Vindication!!!

True story, but the names have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty.

An early 90s eighth-grade classroom. The students in this Algebra 1 Honors class are all the cream of the crop of their middle school. The red-headed girl in the corner with freckles is an accomplished violinist. The Asian Boy ignoring everyone else is already trying to decide between a few Ivy League schools. In the middle of the class jotting down raps in a notebook is Cute Chocolate Boy. Cute Chocolate Boy recently transferred to this middle school, therefore, he is an unknown commodity to teachers and students. He's made a few friends, Circle Head and Lanky Indian Kid, and the girls seem to be intrigued by his newness. However, many of the teachers have yet to be swayed by his intellect and natural charm. One teacher, especially, seems to have it out for him. It's his Algebra teacher, Ms. Should Retire. Ms. Should Retire sits angrily behind her desk, peering at each of her students. Class doesn't start until she takes the ten or fifteen minutes she needs to sip the coffee that has painted her teeth the color of her soul.

On this particular day, the class has finished the lesson on factoring and everyone is just kinda doing their own thing for the last fifteen minutes of class. Cute Chocolate Boy walks over to Skinny Jewish girl and gets a piece of candy. On his way back to his seat, he notices the test that they were supposed to take at the end of the week laying peacefully on Ms. Should Retire's desk. He contemplates for a moment, but he knows he doesn't need it, so he walks away. A few minutes later, class ends and everyone leaves.

The next day, as Cute Chocolate Boy enters class, Ms. Should Retire stops him.

"Hello, Cute Chocolate Boy. I have a question for you," she hissed through her darkened teeth between sips from her thermos.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied quizzically.

"Did you see a test on my desk yesterday?"

"Naa."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes...I mean, No. Yes, I saw it on your desk when I was walking."

She leaned in really close to him, placing her heavy paw on his shoulder. He could hardly breathe through the cloud of caffeine and cigarettes.

"Do you know what happened to it?"

"No!"

He pulled away from her so he could look directly into her face and understand what she was saying.

"Well, Cute Chocolate Boy, the test was on my desk yesterday and it's not here, now. Now, I'll turn around and you can walk away. And if the test is on my desk, no one will get in trouble."

"Are you saying that I stole your test, Ms. Should Retire?" he asked with enough volume that the entire class stopped to listen. Even Asian Boy stopped working in the Calculus book he'd checked out from the library to check out the action.

"No. I didn't say that."

"Well, that's what you're insinuating," he snapped back.

Her face dropped. The classmates gasped and looked to each other for clarification.

"What?"

She didn't know that Cute Chocolate Boy had been reading the dictionary almost everyday since he was five years old.

"I didn't steal your test. I have an A in your class. Why would I steal your test?"

"You know, it is very serious offense. I'm gonna have to write you a referral."

He sucked his teeth and gave an indignant smirk. He looked around the class and started to figure out what was going on. Besides Circle Head, Cute Chocolate Boy was the only Black kid in the class. And Circle Head had been there for three years and fell in line with whatever the teachers said. Plus, the other kids had told of how Circle Head's parents came out to the school and beat him in front of the class because a teacher told them that he didn't turn in an assignment. So, everyone knew that he didn't want to face that embarrassment again.

Though he was young, Cute Chocolate Boy had read and experienced enough to make a deduction.

"You're a racist pig!" he shouted. "I'm going to the office."

As he walked to the office, he realized that he might have given away his upper hand with his last statement. But he didn't care. It was the NWA he'd been listening to and The Autobiography of Malcolm X he'd been trying to read. Even as he grew to become Handsome Chocolate Young Man and Sexy Chocolate Grown Ass Man, he would always have an issue with holding his tongue when he felt he was being wronged.

Once the office received the referral, they called Cute Chocolate Boy's mom at work. Damn! He hadn't thought about that. Once that realization crept into his mind, his head dropped into his hands. The next thing he knew, he was awakened by a slap to the back of his head.

"Get up," Mama said as she snatched his arm.

They walked into the Principal's office. Sitting at the table, chatting, were the Principal and Ms. Should Retire. She began to go on and on about how she was certain he'd stolen the test because one of her best students told her. And she lamented on how offended she was by his accusation of racism.

Mama let her speak for a while, then she put her hand up to stop the spiel. She turned to her son and looked him in his eyes.

"I'm gonna ask you one question. And you already know what I expect from you, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did you take that damn test?"

"No, Ma, I didn't."

Mama turned to the principal and Ms. Should retire and said, "Don't you eva call me from my job for some nonsense like this! My child is a good student. I think he has an A in your class. You didn't call me to tell me how good he's doing, but you call me because some other student told you he stole a test? You've gotta be kidding me!"

Cute Chocolate Boy smiled as his mama chided his now sworn enemy.

"Ma," he interrupted. "She embarrassed me in front of the whole class. I think she should apologize to me in front of the whole class."

Mama agreed and so did the Principal. They all walked down to the classroom. As they entered the door, all the students scattered to their desks. The teacher that was watching Ms. Should Retire's room met them half-way with a stapled stack of papers in her hand. The top page read Unit 4 Test. She said that a student found it underneath the teacher's desk.

Cute Chocolate boy smirked. Mama peered at Ms. Should Retire whose chin had dropped to the middle of her chest. The Principal shook his head then "cleared his throat".

The apology sounded like Guy's Piece of My Love or Eric B. & Rakim's I Ain't No Joke to Cute Chocolate Boy. He not-so humbly accepted her apology and aced that test. The rest of the year, however, was quite contentious. He had to nearly walk on egg shells because Ms. Should Retire was waiting for the moment to pounce on his slightest discretion. But she never got the pleasure.

Moral of the Story? I don't know. Whatever you want to take from it. I just wanted to share.