Traveling the country to promote B-Boy, I was privileged to observe just how much of a publishing phenomenon he had become; it wasn’t only the sisters on the A train in New York City (or those brothers attempting to camouflage their book’s cover) that had caught E. Lynn fever. Back then, it wasn’t an exaggeration to state that we were indeed invisible; Blackness was very much a straight thing, gayness a white thing. And the most high-profile image representing Black SGL life was the documentary Paris Is Burning. Into this vacuum stepped a man spinning tales of heartbreak and healing, packing in hundreds of people at Barnes & Noble and Borders as if he were a rock star. We’d never seen that type of excitement, those types of crowds for a Black male or gay author before. He was bringing folks together who didn’t read the same books—and those who didn’t read at all. As the testimonials revealed, he was helping families break their “don’t ask, don’t tell” silence around homosexuality and begin building bridges of communication and understanding between straight and gay African Americans. It was common to see more than one tear shed during those question and answer periods, and for mothers to embrace and thank him for reuniting them with their SGL sons. He was respected like a dignitary, revered like royalty (and in many respects, he was).
Given that we were the most popular Black SGL authors at that time, some couldn’t help but compare us. But we would laugh out loud about folks thinking we were enemies; I was pegged the younger upstart attempting to upstage his mentor (as he joked about the manufactured rivalry, referencing his favorite film, All About Eve: “I guess that would make you Eve Harrington and me Margo Channing!”). We knew there was room for more than one Negro Homo in the literary universe; too bad some of our fans refused to see this, believing that in order to compliment one they had to diss the other. We had to remind them that it’s okay to have your favorite author but he shouldn’t be your favorite because another author isn’t; confiding in one of us that “I like you better than…” is an insult, for you’re not lifting either of us up if you have to put one of us down.
Being such a beloved figure made him a target for criticism, much of it unfounded and vicious. Some blasted him for not being gay or Black enough (I’ve often been accused of the reverse); some Black SGL folks felt he had sold out by also focusing on the lives of heterosexual sisters. While the accusations did bother him, he rarely addressed them publically. He heeded the advice he gave me when I was attacked for writing a story in which Black men were the center of their own universe and not bit players in the worlds of white gays or Black heterosexuals: don’t get wrapped up in the politics and melodrama. “The most important part of this experience has to be what you create. And if it’s not bringing you joy, then why do it?” And you could tell he received immeasurable joy from Raymond Tyler, Jr., John “Basil” Henderson, and the dozens of other characters he gave life to; the man glowed. He found his passion in life, something many of us aren’t lucky enough to discover and follow.
E. was one of the industry’s best-selling and most prolific authors. But he was also an ambassador for Black SGL people, taking our stories and our voices into venues and spaces we weren’t before. Not only did he do us proud, he encouraged us to be proud of ourselves. Invisible Life and Just As I Am were the lifelines that many, conflicted over their sexuality—and doubtful that they were worthy of love—needed. And, by publishing Invisible Life himself and selling it out of the trunk of his car, he was a shining example of naming and claiming ourselves by any means necessary, of not waiting for someone else to do it. He didn’t listen to the naysayers who viewed his leaving his corporate job to write a Black gay novel as unwise. His stepping out on faith inspired me and many of the Black authors we have today, regardless of sexual orientation, to do it, too.
There will be those who bite, mimic, imitate, and copy his storytelling technique and style, but no one will ever be able to reproduce or repeat it, or have the cultural impact he had. I thank God that I was blessed to know and fellowship with him, and in the process be a witness to history. I lost a friend, a colleague, a big brother, my fraternal twin. He was born to do what he did and he did it like no other—and my life, our lives are so much richer, fuller, and better because he did.
IS IT STILL JOOD TO YA?
James Earl Hardy
August 13, 2003, 12:23 P.M.
“Man…you crazy.”
Angel said it twice—and not because Raheim didn’t hear him the first time. Angel just could not believe what he was hearing. His outbursts raised the eyebrows and drew curious glances from a couple of the other diners. They were having lunch at The Pink Tea Cup, a soul food spot in Greenwich Village.
Raheim shrugged. “I ain’t crazy.”
“Then what you call it? You drivin’ the ex that you don’t want to be an ex no more to the airport to go mess around with some other dude!”
“They ain’t gonna be messin’ around.”
Angel glared at him like he was crazy.
“He’s gonna be singin’ on his new record, that’s all,” Raheim argued.
“You keep tellin’ yourself that.”
“They gonna do a duet, or somethin’.”
“He’s gonna be spendin’ how many days there?”
“Five.”
“Right. They gonna be doin’ a duet one of them days and a whole lotta somethin’ on the other four.”
“He ain’t never been to the ATL, so they gonna be sight-seein’, too.”
“I bet.” Angel leaned in. “You wanna get back together with him or not?”
“You know I do.”
“Then how you gonna just hand him over to the competition?”
“He ain’t my competition.”
“Homie got serious dibbs on ya boi. It ain’t no coincidence that he dedicated a song to him on one of his CDs.”
“Whatever. Little Bit ain’t feelin’ him like that.”
Angel had to go there, again. “He ain’t Little Bit no more, man. He left that name behind in the twentieth century.”
Raheim’s eyes darted to the left. He sucked his teeth.
“And how you know he ain’t feelin’ him like that? You asked him?”
“I don’t have to ask. I know him.”
“No, you don’t. You tryin’ to get next to a totally different person now.”
“I know his heart,” Raheim snapped. “That ain’t changed.”
“But his heart ain’t what homie plans on pullin’ and tuggin’ on. And I’ve seen that dude in action: Brutha can sing, is hella-sexy, got charisma—and azz. Jazz was about to lose it at that concert, especially when he came over and sung to him, and then afterwards when he took a pic with him. But I couldn’t get upset: he coulda sung me outa my drawers. And they gonna be singin’ to each other? Man, I’m tellin’ you, if I was you—”
“You ain’t me, a’ight?”
Angel sighed. “A’ight.” Angel’s cell gonged. “It’s Jazz. I’m gonna take this outside.” He rose and walked several feet toward the restaurant’s front entrance.
Raheim knew that everything Angel said made perfect sense. Yes, there was the distinct possibility that this business trip could turn into pleasure; along with Mitchell’s admission about the liner notes dedication, there was the mystery man Mitchell “spent the night with” in 1995 when Raheim was in L.A. making his first film. Mitchell never gave that mystery man a name but Raheim was pretty sure that Montee was him. But he certainly couldn’t ask Mitchell not to go—they were getting to know each other again and hadn’t even been on their first official date. Sure, they both attended the kindergarten graduation of Destiny, Mitchell’s daughter; the high school honor roll induction ceremony of Errol, Raheim’s son; and visited the Vietnam War Memorial in D.C. on Father’s Day to pay respects to Mitchell’s father, who was killed in combat in 1972. But they were always surrounded by their children (and others).
By volunteering to take him to the airport, Raheim wanted to send the message that he was indeed a different man from the
one Mitchell was with years ago (there’s no way the younger, jealous, possessive, territorial, self-absorbed Raheim would’ve supported him going—and he sure as hell wouldn’t have taken him to the airport), and that he didn’t feel threatened by Montee. Also, it would be Mitchell’s first time flying since 9/11 and Raheim wanted to be there to see him off since Destiny would be with her grandparents in New Jersey and Errol was in Philly visiting Temple University with his best friends, Sidney and Monroe. Naturally, knowing that Raheim would be driving Mitchell to Newark scored him major points with both their children, who were more than eager to see their fathers reunite. But there was also an added bonus: the last familiar face Mitchell would see would be Raheim’s, and Raheim was hoping that maybe his face would stay on Mitchell’s mind all five days, preventing him from going there with Montee—if they hadn’t already.
Angel returned. “Jazz said hay and to give you a message.”
“What?”
“Pack a bag and follow him.”
“What? Why would I do that?”
“Why? M-o-n-t-e-e.”
“Man, I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I wasn’t invited!”
“You ain’t joinin’ their party. But you can try to spoil it.”
“How?”
“By showin’ up wherever they go—with a phyne mutha-fucka on ya arm.”
“And I betcha Jazz knows a coupla bruthaz down in the ATL who fit the profile and will gladly play the part.”
He held up his cell. “A couple? He can line you up with a brutha every day he down there.”
Raheim laughed. “Jazz needs to stop watchin’ soap operas; this ain’t Gays of Our Lives.”
“You let Mitch go down there solo and it will be.”
“I trust that whatever goes on down there is gonna stay down there.”
“He ain’t goin’ to Vegas!” Angel shouted.
“He knows what’s waitin’ back home for him. So, even if they end up…doin’ somethin’…I know it ain’t gonna compare to what he knows we gonna have. You know what they say: ‘If you love somebody, set ’em free.’”
Angel frowned. “Man, that’s a song.”
“And it’s real life.”
“I swear, you soundin’ more and more like Dr. Phil every day.”
They grinned.
Angel stirred his lemonade. “There’s one thing you gotta do before he gets on that plane.”
“What?”
“Tell him how you feel. And seal it with a kiss. At least you’ll get a dibb in before Mista Montee.”
Now, that Raheim planned to do. But he hadn’t settled on when he’d make that move. He’d been playing the different scenarios over for days and each one had a serious con…
When he arrives at the house? No, that would be too soon.
When they’re leaving for the airport? No, it might give Mitchell the impression that he expected it as a reward for giving him a lift.
Before they exit the car at the airport? No, he wanted to be toe to toe, eye to eye, face to face, in each other’s arms when they shared what would be their first kiss in the twenty-first century.
After Mitchell checks in and before he goes through security? Hell no. Raheim had become much more comfortable in his own skin as a man who loves men, but not that comfortable. Unfortunately, that would be the ideal time to do it—especially since they would most certainly hug when saying good-bye. So, while he might not be ready to do something like it, he might have to get ready.
Of course, Mitchell could solve all of this by tackling Raheim (which, despite Raheim’s taller and larger frame, wouldn’t be hard to do when Raheim’s very willing to be taken), tonguing him the fuck down only the way Mitchell knows how to (Raheim just shivers thinking about it) and, instead of heading to Atlanta, locking Raheim up in love for days (yeah, ’til the cops comes knockin’).
Uh-huh, wishful thinking.
3:00 P.M.
This was the interview of Mitchell’s lifetime.
He’d profiled your usual suspects in the celebrity department: singers (Alicia Keys), rappers (Jay-Z), actors (Alfre Woodard), sports figures (Venus and Serena Williams), models (Tyra Banks), dancers (Savion Glover), politicians (Maxine Waters), even porn stars (Tiger Tyson). Most were gracious and engaging; some were self-absorbed; and a few, downright obnoxious. Most were entertaining; some enlightening; and a few, totally clueless (in one case, the publicist was actually answering most of the questions for them). No matter who it was or what mood they were in, one thing remained the same: Mitchell never got caught up in their spotlight. Even with the heavy hitters like Patti LaBelle, Bill Cosby, and Sidney Poitier, he wasn’t the least bit star-struck; he always left his fan hat at home.
Not this time. Mitchell was genuinely…well, giddy about his subject. He was so excited that he barely slept the night before and arrived at Jack’s Joint, a restaurant in SoHo, a half-hour early so he could cool down before the interview.
But his palms became sweaty the moment the world’s most high-profile Black SGL man—best-selling author E. Lynn Harris—breezed through the entrance.
Mitchell thought he’d be taller but that was because he looked up to him. E. Lynn was dressed in white. The smile was even more radiant in person.
“Mr. Crawford?”
“Yes,” Mitchell croaked, the word stuck in his throat. E. Lynn extended his hand. “So good to meet you.”
“Believe me, the pleasure is mine. Thanks so much for taking the time to meet with me.”
The maitre d’ approached them. “Ah, Mr. Harris, so glad you’ll be dining with us this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Jonah.”
“Your table is ready. If you and Mr. Crawford will come this way…”
They followed Jonah to a booth, hidden from the main dining hall.
E. Lynn settled inside. “Not only is the dessert here to die for—so is the view.”
They turned toward the window as a very muscle-bound brutha, wearing just cargo shorts and sandals, bopped by.
“There’s a New York Sports Club around the corner, and a modeling agency just a few doors down,” E. Lynn explained. “I’ve received lots of inspiration, sitting right here.”
“I bet. How many years have you been coming here?”
“At least seven.”
“I’ll certainly partake of the view. But I’ll have to pass on the dessert.”
“You cannot be on a diet.”
“No.”
“Then, please, you have to join me. You will not regret it—and I can indulge without feeling guilty.”
Mitchell didn’t regret it—the fudge brownie cheesecake was to die for. E. Lynn had a slice of sweet potato pie with a scoop of banana nut ice cream.
Mitchell figured the real juicy stuff would be revealed after the tape recorder was turned off—and it was. They were no longer interviewer and interviewee—just two bruthas shooting the breeze over a bottle of Dom Perignon. E. Lynn felt comfortable enough to disclose the names of one of the professional football players and an R&B singer he’d been involved with—as well as the melodrama that came along with it (which included clandestine meetings and baby mamas).
Mitchell didn’t expect he’d be baring his own soul, but E. Lynn turned the tables and began interrogating him.
It all began after another of E.’s secrets was revealed: he wants to be a father. That, of course, led to Mitchell pulling out his wallet and going on and on and on about Destiny.
“My. She is a baby doll,” E. expressed, like many before him. He then noticed the picture tucked behind the others that Mitchell wasn’t showing him: Raheim and Errol, after Raheim received his G.E.D. “Now, who is that fine man?”
Mitchell chuckled. “My ex.”
“He looks familiar.”
“His name is Raheim Rivers. He’s an actor/model.” E. Lynn connected the dots. “Right. The All-American man.”
“Yes.”
“I always heard stori
es that he was family.” E. studied the pic. “His son?”
Mitchell nodded.
“He’s definitely a chocolate chip off the old block.”
They laughed.
“How long has he been your ex?”
“Four years.”
“And when was this taken?”
“Seven months ago.” E.’s eyebrows rose. “Does he know you’re carrying that picture around?”
“No.”
“Then he doesn’t know you’re still carrying him around.”
“Huh?”
“It’s not just another memory, like the slideshow of Destiny. It’s the man he is today. That means you’re still carrying a torch for him, today. Does he know?”
“I…think he does.”
“You think?”
“I’m sure he does.”
“You’re guessing. When do you plan on telling him?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“You better know soon. Is he in New York?”
“He is.”
“Is he involved with someone else?”
“No.”
“So, what are you waiting for?”
“Well…”
“Hold it. Before you get into that, let’s start at the beginning—and get ourselves another round.” He motioned for the waiter.
Visible Lives Page 10
