They are the boyz who are walking stereotypes, walking statistics for commentators, forecasters, academicians, and politicians to discuss and dissect, to berate and blast, to write about and write off.
They are the boyz whose main challenge in life is to gain or sustain props (that’s respect). So, don’t even think about looking at them the wrong way or looking at them, period, when they don’t want to be looked at, for it is over for you. They’ll cap you, take you out, snuff you, to prove who is runnin’ this motha-fucka.
They are the boyz who just don’t give a fuck.
They are the boyz who are the true hip-hopsters, the gangstas, the menaces 2 and of society, the troublemakers, the troubleseekers, the hoods, the hoodlums, the hood-rocks, the MacDaddys, the Daddy-Macs, the rugged hard-rocks… You get the picture.
We’ve all seen ’em and one thing is certain—they scare the shit out of a lot of folks, especially The Man and his Woman. They are White America’s hellmare—those Big, Black Brutes, those Common Criminals, those Violent Vagrants who have made the streets unsafe, taken the value out of “family values”—since, the logic goes, so many of them make babies but don’t care for them—and just, in general, brought down the quality of life. When they are coming down the street, a path is not only cleared for them, it is cleaned. And they love it… “Dat’s right, step outa da way, you betta move ta da otha side of da fuckin’ street, you white bitch, you ain’t impo’tant, I don’ want yo’ fuckin’ purse or yo’ pussy… “Mr. Mutha-Fuckin’ Wall Street, I don’ need yo’ wallet or gold money clip, it ain’t about you, it’s about me, you cracka jack motha-fucka…”
H ere are “men” who throw their masculinity around for the entire world to not only see but swallow (pun intended). Of course, it is a rather grotesquely exaggerated take on manhood. But, when you are on your way to growing into a man (at least in years) and nobody has told you how to be one and almost all the “men” you see around you walk, talk, dress, and act like this, how else do you prove that you are a man but by joining them? Yes, you too have to be one bad motha-fucka, the one they’ll fear the most. It’s a man thang, nothin’ but a man thang, and only the roughest, the toughest survive.
Banjeeness has become a boyz2men rite-of-life for many preteen/ teenage/postteen males in the so-called inner city. And, the vibe these fellas give off is an overtly “straight” one. But B-boys do come in all ages (uh-huh, forty-year-olds nursin’ a “40”), persuasions (the girlz are down, too), mutations (white boys like the down-with-the-homies-phony and Great-White-Aryan-Muscle-Boy-Hope Marky Mark), and orientations. For many Black heterosexuals, though, there is no such thing as a homosexual, so most would faint if you were to even suggest that a B-boy could be gay. The general rule is that, even if there are homosexuals in our community, there shouldn’t be, and those willing to acknowledge that we do exist feel comfortable with us only as flaming faggots (a la Blaine and Antoine of TV’s In Living Color). Given our history in AmeriKKa, it has been a struggle defining what manhood means in a society that does not afford us the right to be men.
So, the worst thing for any Black man to be is a cocksucker or someone who takes it up the ass. We “want to be women” because we can’t handle the harsh reality of being a Black man in America or dealing with a “strong sister,” as if sleeping with other men is going to change one’s sex or sexual orientation. God forbid if we bend over for a Caucasian—that is the ultimate symbol of subjugation, a throwback to slavery, and proof to some that homosexuality is something “the white man forced upon us.” In fact, the nation’s prisons, which many consider the white man’s modern-day slave system, are responsible for helping to perpetuate this “pathology.” We are worse than females who may be bitches or ho’s, for at least they are good for something—pimpin’ and puttin’ out.
And we are a “threat” to the Black family—even though all of us come from Black families, and head or have our own, whether they be blood- or bond-related.
Because homosexuality is still a no-no, an unmentionable topic in most households and churches, too many of us spend our lives in the closet. And, one of the best ways to do that is to adopt the B-boy stance. And B-boys, with the indirect support of the community, fool themselves into thinking that, because they are so hard, because no one knows and probably won’t be able to figure them out, they can’t be homosexual. They just like to suck dick or have their dick sucked by another man is all; they just like to fuck other men. Hey, they can get an erection with a woman, maybe even have a baby (now there’s a badge of masculine honor), so they must be straight. They are real men, unlike us, the faggots they fuck. But, as Teddy Pendergrass once vocalized: “You Can’t Hide from Yourself.”
Gene calls B-boys many things (most of them too vulgar for even me to repeat), but three of his labels are priceless. There’s “homie-sexuals,” “homoboyz,” and his fave, “perpetrades”: guys who “look” straight, “act” straight, may even think they’re straight, but ain’t. Since so many B-boys are trapped in this syndrome, Gene doesn’t see how anybody could find them appealing. He admits their aura screams sex— lusty, animalistic, ravenous sex—and they do know what to do between them sheets (he has tasted a few himself). But an orgasm can last but so long. And, for people like me, who are looking forward to being “married” someday, they ain’t exactly husband material. How can you build something with someone who lives for the moment, who can’t or won’t grow up? As Gene once remarked: “I want a man, not a boy!”
Still, I find them irresistible.
It took some time for me to notice they could be, though. Like most people, I was intimidated, put off by them. That in-yo’-face, gruff-and- grandiose air would always make me think, “Who the hell do these guys think they are, walking around like they own everything and can run anyone?” I guess because I have always been a softie, a sensitive, sensuous guy who cries at the drop of a hat, I was also somewhat jealous of this quality. But I soon came to find it sexy. It was certainly a smug kind of confidence, but it grew on me. That head-nigga-in-charge atimatude made me wish they would take charge of me!
The next “characteristic” that caught my eye was what Gene calls their “tail waggin’.” As mentioned before, B-boys wear their pants hanging off their asses. Most of them have juicy behinds to begin with, so when they bebop down the street, it just jingles and jangles—and that is a sight to see. I am convinced that most B-boys, whatever their orientation, really enjoy the attention that their asses attract; I mean, why advertise like that if you don’t want it to be seen and salivated over? When you think about it, this is very homoerotic. Homosexuals are often accused of “flaunting” their sexuality (a tired charge, since straight folks bombard us every day with images that glorify their sexuality), but B-boys, who are supposedly a heterosexual lot, seem to do it more, especially in this area. Needless to say, my head began turning a lot to gawk. Of course, this was something I had to do very carefully. Even if the one I was lusting over was gay, they might have kicked my ass for looking at them that way, anyway. I managed to do it well, though, and went from being just an ordinary homosexual to a butt man. It was then that I began daydreaming about having a B-boy.
But the curiosity boiled to the point of deep-seated desire by the spring and summer of 1991. It was the year of new jack cinema: boyz from the ghettos, dealin’ and doin’ drugs, carousin’ and killin’ up a storm, getting any and all the pussy they wanted. After seeing one of these flicks, I’d find myself starring in my own version at night, complete with opening and closing credits, soundtrack, narration, and special effects:
In New Jack Booty, I was a simple, naive schoolteacher who lectured his students on saying no to drugs, while I was cautioned by my own peers about saying no to a fine crack kingpin. Does my conscience prevail over my carnal instincts? In a word, No.
In Hangin’ Out, Over, and Under the Homeboyz, I am picked up in a bar by one homie, agree to go to his house to have some fun, and we are joined by two of his buddies. T
hey pass me around like a “40,” taking turns sipping and gulping me down. And believe me, this one always made me wake up in a hot sweat.
In Lovin’ Large, this hulky, bulky thug kidnaps me, the “bitch” of a rival, and demands that my hubby, a big-time drug lord, come up with
$1 million in a day or he’ll kill me (doesn’t sound at all pleasant, does it?). Well, while we’re waiting for hubby to decide whether I’m worth saving, I’m doing some serious sleeping with the enemy. I love it so much, I don’t want to leave him and he feels the same way. Twenty-four hours later, he tells my now ex-boyfriend that he can keep the mill, cuz he’s got something money can’t buy, and we blaze off into the sunset in his Jeep.
But the one that gave me some seriously sticky nights was Boyz under My Hood. Talk about a romance: My car breaks down on a highway and this tall, dark, handsome B-boy with a bald head (shades of Raheim?) stops to help. He checks under the hood of my car, and then asks if he can check under mine! Of course, I let him, and his monkey wrench turns me out! This dream was too real. When I’d wake up in the morning, I could still taste him, smell him, and feel him in bed with me. While this made me smile the entire day, it also made me mad as hell. I wanted it, for real.
So, after all of this, I couldn’t take the hunger anymore. I had to find myself a B-boy to satisfy it or I’d bust. And, when I met Raheim, the fantasy in full-bodied flesh had finally come along. All I could think was that he could definitely be Mr. Boyz under My Hood. He would be The One.
But, of course, I had said this before.
BRIAN KEITH JACKSON
[1967–]
Raised in Monroe, Louisiana, Brian Keith Jackson grew up listening to the Deep South stories of his great-grandmother. After moving to New York City, he published his first novel, the critically acclaimed The View from Here (1997), winner of the First Fiction Award from the Black Caucus of the American Library Association. Jackson is also the recipient of fellowships from Art Matters, the Jerome Foundation, and the Millay Colony of the Arts.
His second novel, Walking Through Mirrors (1998), takes place in the author’s home state, where Jeremy Bishop, a young, apparently gay African American photographer, has returned from New York for his father’s funeral. Known as Patience by his grandmother, Mama B., Jeremy tells his story through flashbacks of his boyhood.
from Walking Through Mirrors
[1998]
I had often wondered what my mother looked like. I knew she must have been beautiful, for that’s what a fantasy demands. It was Mama B who told me that there were no pictures because some people just didn’t care for them. But every black family I knew seemed to dote on photographs, so her explanation made little sense to me. She said that the Indians believe that every time someone takes a picture of you, a piece of your spirit is stolen. From this I was led—or rather chose—to believe that my mother was an Indian, maybe even one of the descendants of those who founded Elsewhere.
Just that belief was all it took for me to pass up hide-and-seek and make cowboys and Indians my favorite game. But this meant recruiting others. Having been around mostly adults and believing myself one, I had little tolerance for children my age, but many children are older than they appear—in actions if not intellect.
The Baker boys lived just down the street. Their family had won a plot of land in a lawsuit. It had three houses on it, along with certain areas that resembled a car graveyard. About ten cars populated their yard; not a single one provided mobility. Some were supported on cinder blocks; other were on the ground, weeds substituting for tires. Some had the hood wide open, but others had no hood at all, their rusted wounds becoming a home for yellow jackets, lizards, and the like.
The Bakers were known to produce at the rate of rabbits. No one could say exactly how many people lived on that plot of land. I knew just the three who were somewhere near my age and the mothers who always flirted with me in that way that only older women can.
I’d walk down the street to their place and the Baker boys would be out and about. Pookie was the youngest. He was always the first to be found in a game of hide-and-seek, but he could never seem to figure out that his soiled scent was the giveaway. Chester was the middle child and mean as all get-out. He was two heads above us all and would spit so much you were surprised that there was any more liquid available in his body. Tyrone was the eldest, so I liked him the most. But he rarely had time to hang out with us, as he was on his way to manhood.
Summers garnered notable additions to the clan, as Miss Irene’s grandchildren always came from Detroit, carrying the mystique of coming from that unknown place up North. Miss Irene’s granddaughter Shandra and I had been boyfriend and girlfriend ever since we had heard the words. My job was to say mean things to her, then she would do the same to me, and later we’d meet and kiss. Her little sister Precious—”to name a chile Precious is just askin’ for a heap o’ trouble”—was a crier. I never knew her to do anything but cry or say, “Ooo, I’ma tellit.” I believed their brother James to be the coolest thing since “sliced bread,” as I had heard the older folks say. I never understood that saying, for I didn’t realize that bread came any other way. But I was honored to have James as a friend, if only for the summers.
Miss Irene was probably the most popular adult in the neighborhood, for she was the huckabuck lady. A small huckabuck came in a Peanuts Dixie cup for a dime and the larger ones came in a Styrofoam cup for fifteen cents. Because Shandra was my girlfriend, I always got mine free during her visits. Or almost for free. She would steal them for me. Though Miss Irene counted her inventory closely during her grandchildren’s stay, she counted only what she made, never the ones that we made while she was out to replace those we’d already consumed.
Huckabucks were either red or purple. If you timed it just perfectly, the Kool-Aid would be frozen just enough that the top was a syrupy treat that you could lap up with your tongue. I always preferred the larger ones because they required less skill to eat. The small ones often entailed the consumer’s having to push them up from the bottom of the cup. Many times, the frozen treat, with a mind of its own, would shoot out of the cup to the ground. This episode was always the truest test of friendship, for a friend would understand that after you’ve washed it off, a dropped huckabuck was good as new.
The larger huckabucks were easier. As you worked your way down the cup, you bit the Styrofoam then spit it out to the ground. Though it hadn’t snowed in Elsewhere in a “dog’s year,” Miss Irene’s yard was the closet thing to looking as though it had, but it was a rake, not a shovel, that cleared the ground.
The notion of cowboys and Indians didn’t sit well with the others. Evidently, kids in Detroit had stopped playing the game years ago in favor of cops and robbers, leaving James to say, “You all are so backwards down here.”
“That shit’s for punks,” spat out Chester, allying himself with James. I took that statement to be some sort of Bakerism that I didn’t quite understand, but I was wise enough not to acknowledge my ignorance. Punk.
“Fine by me. We can play whatever y’all want to. Cops and robbers is perfectly fine with me. It was just a suggestion.”
“Why you talk so country, like white folks? You actin’ all proper,” said Chester, throwing this out at me like a dart that missed the board all together but stuck to the wall, begging for a reprimand.
I had never before heard anyone comment on how I spoke. All I could muster was “That’s just the way I talk.” It was Pookie who saved me, for at that moment, he started to pee on himself. “At least I don’t pee on myself” rolled out of my mouth with the same bitterness of a plum prematurely picked. That seemed to silence Chester.
Shandra then informed me that girls couldn’t play cowboys and Indians. I didn’t want to tell her that they could because my mother was an Indian, maybe like Pocahontas. I wanted to explain to Shandra, but I kept mum, as always, on the subject of my mother.
Clark soon appeared. He was their cousin and lived with Miss I
rene year ’round. I once asked her why his school bus was smaller than the others; it was then that I gathered he was “special.” But summers had him home just like the rest of us. Of everyone, I liked Clark best. He seemed most like me. He was bigger than all of us, and I heard it said that he was twenty. Though twenty seemed old at the time, he made twenty not seem old at all.
He did have the eyes of an old soul—like mine—and when I looked into them, I saw something that would never exist in the eyes of the others. I saw innocence, and wherever that is found, you’re certain to find longing. He loved hugging, but hugs were shunned by this tribe. I let Clark hug me once. He wanted so much to embrace everyone that he was unaware of his manly strength compared to that of my eight-year-old body. He was like a child roughly stroking a cat, unable to realize that love is gentle.
Clark would often be tormented to the point of tears. It was as though James resented Clark’s presence because it was a visible reminder that he had an imperfect relative. I don’t think Clark rightly understood what was being said, but he could feel the words that were as numbing as the ice from the huckabuck, now sucked clear of color and flavor.
It was the last day of summer—well, not really, but it was the day before Miss Irene’s grandchildren were returning to Detroit, where James said they were going to have dinner that very next night with Aretha Franklin.
The day remains vivid in my mind; the cold moves on, yet the cough lingers.
It was the boys. Tyrone. Chester. Pookie. Clark. Me.
We were sitting on Miss Irene’s back steps, the August heat presenting itself in a blur before us.
“Did you fuck her?” asked James.
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