I went down to the head resident’s apartment on the first floor to see if he could tell me anything. He informed me that Hugh’s father had returned with him to campus the day before I arrived and demanded, without explanation, that Hugh move out of my room and be assigned a new roommate. I was stunned and deeply hurt. I was devastated. Why hadn’t Hugh told me about his father’s decision, and why had he made such a demand?
My stomach was tossing and turning, and I thought eating might help me think better, so I went to the dining hall. The first person I saw as I entered the hall was Hugh, who looked troubled. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the skullcap I had bought him for Christmas and put it on his head.
I confronted him, almost shouting, “What the fuck is going on?” He mumbled how he couldn’t do anything about it and then stared at me in silence.
“Why?” I demanded. He didn’t answer, as his big beautiful eyes wandered around the room in search of a response. “Hugh, you at least owe me an explanation. I thought we were best friends,” I said.
“We are,” he said softly.
“Then why can’t we be roommates?” It was like I was pleading with him not to leave me after I had invested so much in our friendship. I could think only of all the plans I had imagined for us together after we left Fayetteville.
“My father says …” Hugh paused, and his eyes looked beyond me as his lower lip quivered.
“Your father says what?” I asked.
“My father said we’re too close,” he said quickly, almost whispering.
I didn’t respond. His words hung between us as other students walked around us to enter the dining hall. Suddenly we realized we were blocking the entrance. We slowly moved toward a corner and just stared at each other. I looked down at a stack of old student newspapers on the floor, then back at Hugh. He was still staring at me.
Too close? What did his father mean? What was he trying to say? Had he read my mind? I was certain that I was the only person besides God who knew how I really felt about Hugh.
Suddenly I was furious. I felt like I wanted to hit Hugh or choke him. Instead I shook my head and walked up the stairs to another section of the dining hall. Hugh called my name, and when I looked back he asked if we could talk later. I didn’t answer, and I didn’t speak to Hugh Perry Watson again until almost two years later.
AS DIFFICULT AS IT WAS, I made the decision to cut off my friendship with Hugh. The distress of not being in his life or having him in mine was painful and brought on my first period of depression. I missed seeing his crooked smile when I came into our room from studying, or talking to him about the future as we lay in our beds, our voices weaving together like a chorus in the pitch-black room. But most of all, I missed the wonderful way I felt when I was in Hugh’s presence.
My first thought was to leave school, and I considered transferring to Howard University. Howard sounded good because of D.C. and its large “gay problem.” Maybe that’s where I needed to be. I thought if Hugh’s father could see through me, then maybe others could, too. It didn’t matter how many girls I dated or how many lies I told. My infatuations with men were going to cause major problems for me. Yet I couldn’t call myself gay. I felt a great deal of shame. I was convinced that if anyone found out about my feelings for men I would be laughed off campus by the other black students. I guess it would have been easier if I was just looking for sex, but I wanted love.
Whenever I caught a glimpse of Hugh on campus, walking hand in hand with his girlfriend, my misery became magnified, and the loneliness I felt before Gessler, Elijah, and Hugh closed in again. My pain was so intense, I couldn’t imagine living another second.
I went to a drugstore on Dickson Street near campus and purchased a bottle of Sominex and took several pills and ended up spending the night in the student infirmary. I thought if I committed suicide Hugh would realize how much I was hurting. All that happened from the episode was that I got an upset stomach and I had to beg the university health officials not to call my mother. I agreed to see a campus counselor, a white female, but I went only a few times. I didn’t think talking about my problems to a total stranger was going to change them.
I found solace in talking with a beautiful graduate student in the School of Architecture. Chris Hinton was a sophisticated woman who had earned a degree in drama at Jackson State University and then decided she wanted to be an architect. We had met in the same dining hall where I first talked with Hugh, and she had always been friendly toward me and was easy to talk to.
When I ended up in the infirmary, I asked them to call Chris. She reminded me so much of my Aunt Gee and my cousin Jackie, two women with whom I had always felt comfortable discussing my innermost thoughts, within reason. When I felt depressed and lonely, which was quite frequently, I would go to Chris’s room and just talk to her about my feelings.
Despite my request, the infirmary called my mother. So I had to tell her what happened and why I wanted to die. I didn’t tell her that I thought I was in love with Hugh, only that his friendship had become very important to me. My mother was a great comfort when I told her why Hugh had moved out. She assured me that Hugh’s father didn’t know what he was talking about and that he was the one with the problem. She asked me if I wanted to come home. I told her I would be all right. I appreciated her coming to my defense when someone had hurt me so deeply. I remember her soft and assuring voice telling me that I was her son and she loved me no matter what. Those words were reason enough to try and go on.
SLOWLY I TRIED TO BUILD UP my self-esteem by immersing myself in my studies, which had suffered during my depression and activities like the yearbook and the black student organization known as BAD (Black Americans for Democracy). The only social life I had was an occasional dinner with Gessler. He did recognize that I seemed distant, but of course I didn’t tell him about Hugh or the sleeping pills.
Since Gessler’s fraternity life seemed to make him so happy, I decided to pledge one of the three black fraternities on campus. I figured it was a way to make some new friends and a way to get the badge of manhood I so desperately needed.
Besides tales of hazing, I knew there was a deep homophobia that existed in some black men, especially in fraternities. Like many all-male institutions, fraternity brothers were always terrified of the possibility of a gay member, so anyone who was suspect was raked over the coals about their sexuality during the interviews before the pledge process started. I knew immediately I was going to be in the suspect category. I wasn’t dating anyone seriously and I had tried out for the Razorback cheerleading team during my freshman year, but dropped out before the finals because I thought people might think I was gay. It didn’t matter that college cheerleading was considered a sport and that white fraternities encouraged their members to try out.
I made line, I was invited to join the fraternity of my choice, and was elected secretary of my pledge class. Nobody wanted to be secretary. I wanted to decline the position, because to me secretary was a position likely to be considered soft. Besides, pledges couldn’t use the word “no.”
One weekend while we were pledging, some big brothers came to visit from UAPB (University of Arkansas at Pine Bluff), the once-proud black college that had been forced to merge with the U of A system. When big brothers from other universities visited, they were given the same respect as members of the chapters you were pledging. It didn’t make a difference where they came from if they were active, meaning paying dues. Each brother was to receive the utmost adoration and reverence. Asskissing was the norm.
When the brothers from UAPB came into our pledge meeting, one little sawed-off, four-eyed big brother was carrying a big, thick paddle. In a booming voice, he called out my name the minute he entered the room. His voice was so loud and forceful that it gave me goose bumps. I was scared that some guy I had never laid eyes on knew my name. How did he know me? My pledge brothers all looked at me with fear in their eyes. This was not a good sign.
I meekly
stepped out of the line and looked straight ahead, like I was a private in the Army. The guy was so short that I couldn’t look him eye-to-eye without looking down, but looking down at him wasn’t a consideration. Pledges never looked down on big brothers.
He joked and called me Miss Lynn Harris as he gently rubbed the paddle.
“My home girl told me you were a faggot. Are you a faggot?” he barked.
“No sir, big brother,” I responded in a forceful voice.
He identified himself as big brother Taylor but didn’t advise me where he was from, so I couldn’t figure out who his home girl was. He went on to tell me that he didn’t believe me and that his mission for his weekend visit was to make sure that my “high yellow, faggot ass” was no longer a pledge when he left. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t dare. Memories of Ben flashed in my mind. I wanted to run out of the room and never return, but I didn’t flinch. I wanted to be a fraternity man no matter what, and no little short runt of a man was going to stop me.
I knew what I was getting into, so I wasn’t unprepared, just humiliated.
I survived the weekend and many nights of torture and was initiated into the fraternity. In a lot of respects, my initiation was a big step in my search for manhood. For the first time in my life, I had several black men I could honestly call my friends and my brothers. The extra punishment I received since they believed I was gay proved to advance my status in the eyes of many of my brothers. Despite the humiliation, I had taken the extra ass-kicking like a man, and it made me feel stronger.
In many ways, fraternities are like today’s gangs. My fraternity wanted to be better than the other fraternities, especially the other black ones. We protected our territory, even though it was only a dorm floor. We were always looking for new members, trying to impress the top students before another fraternity did. Like gang members, many of us were looking for a family. The only difference between fraternities and gangs was that we required a college transcript before the torture began.
At my first meeting after initiation, I was nominated for chapter president. I was sitting at the front of the room with my new fraternity T-shirt on, when I heard one of my line brothers nominate me. At first I was surprised. Then I was embarrassed, because I knew there was no way a neophyte member was going to be chapter president, especially one whose sexuality was still in question, although some of the suspicion had been put to rest by the way I’d handled myself during the pledge period.
The incumbent chapter president’s name was also placed in nomination. He had been a good president, and I was certain he would win. When we voted, I lifted my hand for the other candidate and didn’t turn to face my brothers when my name was called. Since we were all brothers there was no need for a secret ballot, but still I was afraid to look. I won by a margin of 22–6. I couldn’t believe it. When I stood in front of the room, amid the cheers of my new brothers, I was nearly in tears. That moment was one of the most special feelings I’d ever experienced. I thanked my brothers for their faith in me and told them being their president would be the highlight of my life. And for a long time it was.
CHAPTER 8
On paper my senior year in college was one of the best in my life. It was a time when I finally got the feeling that life might be fair, when I would actually experience some of my youthful dreams of success and requited love.
At the end of my junior year I was selected as editor of the 1977 Razorback, the university’s award-winning yearbook. I became the first black student to edit a publication at the university, and according to Jet magazine the first to head a yearbook at a major southern university. I was thrilled to see my name in a national magazine—especially Jet, because I had grown up with the magazine and was a big fan of its founder, John H. Johnson, who was also from Arkansas. I had been reading Ebony and Jet religiously since I was ten years old.
My selection also was featured on page two of the Arkansas Gazette, the state’s largest newspaper at the time, and I got a note of congratulations from Mr. Seligman of Arkansas Paper Company. He told me he knew how proud my mother must be of me and that he was proud as well.
As editor of the yearbook, I was in charge of staff selection and had a budget of $300,000. I quickly hired my fraternity brother and line brother, Butch Carroll, as business manager and Gessler as advertising manager. Butch and I had become really close after pledging together, and his friendship would later become one of my most treasured. I knew Butch would watch the money like it was his own, which was a good thing, and Gessler would bring in lots of advertising from local merchants and Greek organizations on campus.
During my junior year Butch had become a special friend, not only because he was my fraternity brother but because he had let me know that I wasn’t the only black man in Fayetteville who had different feelings when it came to relationships between men. Yet Butch Carroll wanted all that life had to offer, like success and love.
One night Butch and another fraternity brother, Andy, were sitting in Butch’s dorm room in Gregson Hall when out of the blue Butch posed a serious question. Thinking out loud, Butch looked at Andy and me and quizzed, “If being gay is so wrong, then why did God make so many gay people?” Andy and I were dumbfounded, and for several minutes silence hung over the room like towels on a clothesline. Butch’s question started a dialogue and sparked a friendship that would become one of the most important in my life. For the first time, I had a friend who understood how I felt about being different from other guys and didn’t feel bad about those feelings.
The funny thing was that I didn’t like Butch when we met as freshmen, because one of my friends from North Little Rock had told me he had a friend attending the university that reminded him of me. At this time in my life, I had no interest in being friends with someone who was like me, because I didn’t like me.
I also hired Butch’s beautiful sister, Cindy, as my executive secretary. The rest of the staff members were hired with the promise that good work could lead to one of the more lucrative paid positions, like managing editor or production supervisor.
I spent half of the summer planning what I hoped would be the best yearbook in the history of the university. I knew people would be watching closely since I was the first black to hold the position, so I laid out the book with lots of color photos, highlighting the campus I’d come to love.
I also hired a beautiful sorority girl, Kristie Kalder, as an entry-level staff person. Kristie reminded me of a young movie star, with her auburn-streaked hair and stunning olive skin. At first I thought she was a typical rich bitch girl trying to get an activity to pad her résumé. But Kristie was different and quickly moved up the ladder until she was second in command. The two of us worked long hours together, and another treasured friendship was formed. She was someone who not only had great ideas for the yearbook but who was also easy to talk to. My friendship with Kristie taught me not to judge people based on the way they looked.
When the school year began, I received another coveted honor. I was selected for Who’s Who in American Colleges and Universities and was the only unanimous choice of the thirty-plus seniors picked by a secret student-faculty committee. I also became the first black male on the Razorbacks cheerleader squad, which I had summoned the courage to try out for when I was approached by several black football players who figured since I could dance well I could most likely do cheerleading. I had secretly wanted to be a cheerleader as much as I wanted to be editor of the yearbook, but my concern about what people might think had prevented me from trying out after I had quit the try-out process during my freshman year.
Male cheerleaders were a big deal at the U of A, as at most major southern universities. Most of the men on the squad had been high school football players, and I never thought any of the males the previous years showed outwardly gay characteristics. It was, in fact, similar to being a member of a sporting team because of the complicated partner stunts, and the entire squad worked hard to be perfect. Like the athletic teams, the U of A chee
rleaders were nationally respected.
In addition to being a cheerleader, I was now rush chairman of my fraternity and was elected vice president of Black Americans for Democracy by a write-in vote when the person elected the previous spring didn’t return to school. Everything was falling into place, but there was one piece missing. I was still looking for love.
BECOMING A CHEERLEADER was a catalyst that led to my first serious relationship with a man who would come to return my love and affection with equal measure. It was an experience I would later use in my first novel, Invisible Life, mixing in a little fact with fiction.
On the first Friday in October, as I was leaving the athletic complex from cheerleader practice, I literally bumped into a rock-hard body. I looked up at a handsome syrup-brown man, about 6′3″ and 210 pounds. He had intense hazel-brown eyes, with long thick eyelashes, perfectly curled at the end, which gave him a permanent sleepy, sexy look.
When I apologized, he smiled, and I tried to remain calm and will my heartbeat to return to its normal pace. I was preparing to continue my journey home, but the stranger struck up a conversation about the game the next day and my being a cheerleader. When I looked at him, I realized that I had seen him at a dance the first week of the fall term at my fraternity house. I had noticed him because he was so handsome and he danced with masculine grace. He had worn tight blue jeans and a white T-shirt that didn’t disguise his sculpted body. I remember that several young ladies I danced with had commented on how fine he was.
“My name is Mason Walker,” he said as he extended his large hand.
“Nice meeting you. I’m Lynn Harris,” I said.
What Becomes of the Brokenhearted Page 11
