In the dream, Randy told me to call Carlton, a friend of ours who lived in Lithonia, Georgia. He kept saying Carlton needed me. Randy and I had met Carlton and his identical twin, Calvin, on one of our trips to Atlanta. I’d fallen hard for Carlton. I even asked him to be my date for a birthday party I gave myself at New York’s Plaza Hotel. Nothing happened sexually or romantically, but Carlton was so special that we became good friends.
We were friendly, but we didn’t talk to each other regularly. I didn’t understand why Randy wanted me to call Carlton, but the dream was clear. Call Carlton.
I told Dr. Dove about my dream, and he didn’t offer any strong advice either way. A couple of days later, I ran across Carlton’s card and called him at work. He was excited to hear from me, and we talked about the new home he’d just built, his job, and new love. It sounded like everything was going great for him. I told him I was great as well. I had this habit of never letting anyone who had rejected me know when things were a little tough.
Just as I was getting ready to hang up, I mentioned my dream and that his twin Calvin was also in it. My impression was that despite the fact that they were identical twins, they had very different personalities. Carlton is one of these organized individuals, always planning, whereas I got the impression that Calvin was sort of a free spirit. Calvin had acknowledged he was gay at a very young age, whereas Carlton’s first experience with a man happened in his late twenties.
“How is Calvin?” I asked. For a moment there was silence on the other end of the line, and then Carlton said softly, “Oh, Calvin isn’t doing so well.”
I had heard the “he’s not doing well” comment more times than I wanted to recall. It had become code language for saying someone was sick with AIDS.
“Oh, what’s the matter? Is he not working?” It was not only a question, but a secret prayer that Calvin was actually fine.
As I suspected, Carlton told me that Calvin had been ill for a while and had recently moved in with him. I didn’t ask what was wrong; I just assumed it was AIDS. I ended my conversation with Carlton by telling him that if there was anything I could do to please call. He thanked me, and we agreed to do a better job of staying in touch.
ARMED WITH MY INSURANCE settlement money, I continued my daily therapy. Dr. Dove still hadn’t mentioned money, even though he knew of my settlement. I had now added the gym to my daily schedule but didn’t realize I was losing weight until one day Dr. Dove mentioned it. During my depression I had ballooned to 232 pounds, the most I had ever weighed in my life. I knew it had to be the alcohol, since I was never really a big eater. I was currently weighing around 190 pounds. Randy used to tease me about worrying about my weight, especially whenever I would race to the gym and work out for hours after I had felt I had eaten too much. He once joked, “If you were a white lady, they would call you anorexic.”
Recalling Randy’s wonderful wit made me realize how much I missed him, Willa, and Richard. On days when my depression tried to overwhelm me, one of them would always say something that would cause me to laugh out loud. Now, even though they’d passed away, I got the feeling that maybe they were still with me in a spiritual sense, helping me fight my battles.
DR. DOVE AND I STARTED to discuss the next step in my treatment. I told him that I was afraid that if I went back into sales I might revert to my old ways, which would include drinking. I also knew that going back into sales might mean creating new lies about my background and romantic life and I was getting tired of the lying Lynn.
I’d already passed my first big test of being able to say no to drinking. Dr. Dove had suggested I start hanging out with friends who I was certain were true friends, people who really had my back.
One day my friend Regina from Chicago called and I just opened up and shared what I had been through. Regina had a wonderful ability to put things in perspective. When I told her my doctor had given me some pills and I was certain they were going to make things all right, Regina responded, “What kind of magic pills are they? Are they gonna pay your rent when they put your shit out on the street?”
I laughed so hard that it hurt. When I told Regina they had already put my ass out, she responded by joining in my laughter.
Sensing I needed a trip, Regina, who was working for singer Whitney Houston, invited me to Fort Lee, New Jersey, to spend the weekend at one of Whitney’s residences. She told me she was going to be there working on some business and Whitney was going to be out of town. Regina told me not to worry about any money, that she would take care of everything. So with Dr. Dove’s blessing, I caught a train to New York.
It was great seeing Regina, and she kept me laughing. We went to a couple of wonderful restaurants where we received the star treatment because the owner knew Regina worked for Whitney. We spent one evening with Whitney’s mom, Cissy Houston, and on Sunday we watched football with her father, John.
That’s when I was tested. While watching the game, Mr. Houston offered me a glass of wine, which he said cost $500 a bottle. I’d never had a glass from a $500 bottle of wine, but I resisted. Mr. Houston, ever the perfect gentleman, didn’t appear offended as he and Regina enjoyed a glass. I had never felt so proud of myself and couldn’t wait to get back to D.C. to tell Dr. Dove.
A couple of weeks later, I passed another big test. Mario tried to reenter my life. He was on a serious mission to win me back and even drove to D.C. from New York and paid half the money for a hotel room for us to share.
I didn’t tell him what I had been going through, and it was nice to have him chasing me for a change. We had a decent time, although he spent the majority of the weekend begging me for sex, which was a first. I had made a promise to myself to remain sober and celibate until I got myself together. I was under the misguided impression that maybe if I stopped drinking I would lose interest in men, too. I found myself still attracted to Mario, possibly still in love with him, but I’d made a commitment to myself that I planned to honor. I knew that if I allowed him to hurt me again, I’d be left devastated.
I realized that he always sought me out when things were not going well for him and David. So, as with the offer of wine, I said, “No” to Mario. That alone seemed to erase some of the pain my relationship with him had caused.
Around Thanksgiving 1990, I was still making progress but felt I needed to keep looking over my shoulder for the ghost of serious depression. Holidays had always been tough for me. I was thinking of going to Atlanta, having dinner with my family, and deciding on my next step. Deep down I knew it was time to leave D.C. and start a new life someplace else.
I HAD ALWAYS FELT ATLANTA would be the perfect city to settle down in. But since I didn’t have any prospects, I didn’t know if Atlanta was where I needed to be. Atlanta did have something Washington, D.C., or New York didn’t have: family members who I knew loved me and would help me with my recovery.
My Aunt Gee was there, and she had always been the one person I could talk to. I tried not to bother her with a lot of petty things, because she had a husband and four sons. Her kind and gentle spirit always made her the one person I knew would understand me. Aunt Gee had always made me feel special, like I was her son. The great thing about this was that my mom understood and was not threatened by our relationship. As it was during their childhood, Mama and Aunt Gee remain more like best friends than sisters.
In 1990, Atlanta was the new boomtown, and I felt that finding a job wouldn’t be hard. Dr. Dove was supportive and told me to check things out and decide after the holidays. If I stayed in D.C., I would eventually have to find my own apartment, and that would be difficult with the eviction and credit rating.
I spent Christmas in Atlanta with my family, and it turned out to be the medicine I needed. I had a wonderful time. I went out and spent the day with Carlton at his beautiful home. Calvin had died recently, and Carlton seemed to enjoy my company. I shared with him what was really happening with my life. He reminded me of my dream and asked me to be his roommate for a while so we coul
d help each other out during our difficult time.
That night over cheesecake and coffee I talked things out with Aunt Gee. She told me how much she would love having me close by so that she could give me a hug whenever I needed one. I knew that if the depression returned full force, I’d need something I hadn’t tried with my previous bouts: one of Aunt Gee’s powerful, restorative, and loving hugs every day.
CHAPTER 14
At the beginning of 1991, I made the Atlanta area my new home. I moved into Carlton’s three-bedroom house in Lithonia, about twenty miles from downtown Atlanta. Emotionally, I still felt as fragile as ice on a river in late spring, but for the first time, I was feeling hopeful about summer. I had my faith, family, friends, and medication. I was beginning to feel stronger, and had finally realized I didn’t have to fight the battle against self-doubt and depression alone.
I started to send out résumés to several computer sales organizations. I had a few interviews, but now companies were telling me I had too much experience. I guess it was a nice way of saying I’d had too many jobs. During the final interview for a position I was certain I was going to be offered, I started to daydream. I was beginning to realize that cushy sales jobs were a part of my imitation-of-life image—trying to create an image I thought the world would accept. I would always tell prospective employers how I dreamed of being the top salesman in the organization. If it was a dream, it was one filled with rain and occasional thunder. I also knew I could never totally be myself working for such companies.
I had always stayed in sales because of the money I could earn and because it allowed me to mask my emotional problems and drinking. I thought of the countless times I had woken up with a hangover and simply called my office and said I was at a customer location or preparing to leave for an out-of-town meeting. Many times I could get my customers to cover for me, bribing them with expensive lunches and dinners when I finally got around to visiting their sites.
“So are you going to accept our offer? I know it’s less than you’re used to making, but the cost of living is lower in Atlanta,” the rail-thin sales manager said. His question brought me out of my trance.
“I don’t think so,” I said boldly, surprising even myself.
“Excuse me? I thought you said you dreamed of being the top salesman here.”
“I think it’s time for something different,” I said. It was time for some new dreams. I needed to listen to my heart more, and then dreams of my own would come.
While in therapy with Dr. Dove, I had once again brought up the idea of writing. When he asked why I didn’t pursue it, I told him maybe nobody wanted to read what I wanted to write about. He told me I’d never know unless I tried.
I still had a little money, and Carlton wasn’t asking that much for rent. If I managed my money right, I could live for maybe six months without working. I decided that writing was what I wanted to do, but I had to be sure.
I also thought about going back to school. I felt an academic environment would be a safe place for a new start. I looked at Columbia University but didn’t think I was ready to go back to New York. Besides, I didn’t know how somebody could teach me how to put what I was feeling on paper without the final product being their thoughts and not my own.
Even though I was no longer in therapy, I kept my mind clear by doing things like going to the gym, taking long walks, and having long conversations with Carlton, my Aunt Gee, and my fraternity brother Butch Carroll, who was on a cloud attending law school. He was finally living his dreams. All three were a source of inspiration for me, especially Butch, who was studying for exams with the shadow of AIDS hanging over his head.
I started to go to church regularly with Carlton and his partner, Jerry. One Sunday I ended up sitting next to a cute little boy, whom I imagined to be around eight or nine years old. He was sitting with his very attractive mother, who appeared to be in her late twenties. Every time I would make eye contact with the little boy, he would smile. It was obvious from his constant squirming and animated behavior that church was the last place he wanted to be, and for a moment he reminded me of myself when I was his age.
It must have been the first Sunday of the month, because it seemed like every fifteen minutes an offering or something was being taken, and my funds were getting exhausted. When it came time for the mission offering, which I remembered from my childhood as being a token of silver, I realized that I didn’t have any change. The little boy noticed me searching my pockets and coming up empty-handed, and in a gesture that touched me deeply, he took one nickel and one dime from his tiny hand and placed them in mine and gave me a magical smile.
His mother noticed our exchange, and after the service she came up to me and introduced me to her son, Daniel. She then asked me if I was a part of the mentoring program the church had, and I told her I was only visiting. She went on to say that she had never seen Daniel so taken with someone and wondered if I was interested in spending some time with her son. I squatted so that I was eye level with Daniel and asked him if he would like to spend the following Saturday with me, and he very shyly said, “Yes.” I exchanged numbers with his mother, who told me her name was Dellaresse Jones. I noticed she was smiling at me just as much as Daniel. It was a smile that warmed me more than the minister’s sermon. I wanted to ask where her husband and/or Daniel’s father was, or whether it would matter that I was gay, but I didn’t.
The next Saturday I rented a car and went to meet Daniel. He lived in the southwest section of Atlanta with his mother, grandmother, and several cousins. When I walked into the medium-size, wood-framed house, it was like walking back in time. The house looked and smelled like my grandmother’s. I met Daniel’s grandmother and promised to have him back before evening, and the two of us took off.
It was a marvelous day with a special little boy. We played basketball, went to an arcade, and then had lunch at a downtown restaurant. Daniel won my heart with two very innocent actions. When the day started, I gave him twenty dollars to pay for his portion of lunch and some of the games, but I usually ended up putting the quarter in the slot before he had the opportunity.
After lunch we passed a store, and Daniel asked if we could go inside. When I asked him what he wanted, he said he wanted to get a gift for his mother. That touched me deeply, because I remembered how much I loved buying gifts for my mother when I was a little boy. No matter what it was, Mama always loved my gifts. Daniel made his purchase of a piece of costume jewelry, and as we were returning to the car, Daniel grabbed my hands and looked up toward me with his lively brown eyes and asked, “You know what, Lynn?”
“No, what?” I responded.
“I wish I had a daddy like you,” he said. I didn’t respond, because I was too busy trying to hold back tears.
FROM THAT FIRST SATURDAY, Daniel and his mother became a part of my life and recovery. Daniel and I spent almost every Saturday together, and we sometimes did things during the week. He was a humbling influence in my life, and I considered resuming my job search so that I could do more for Daniel than give him the occasional five dollars, which was a lot of money for me at the time. I realized that I had spent so much time looking for love from all the wrong people, and here was a little boy who saw something good in me. I wanted him to be as proud of me as I was of him.
I was still thinking about school, so I began filling out the extensive application for Columbia University Journalism School. I didn’t think I wanted to leave Atlanta, my family, or Daniel, but realized I had to keep all my options available. If I got in, I would consider my acceptance a sign from God. While completing the application I came to a portion where I had to write about myself. I started to think about the fascinating, though sometimes pitiful, life I had led.
I couldn’t help but notice how I enjoyed putting it on paper. I started to think about what Richard had said about my writing, and I thought maybe he had a point. Just as quickly as I decided I might write about my life, I started to question who would be interested
in reading a story about a sexually confused black man who had basically wasted every opportunity given to him. There was no reason for me to believe that I could write a novel. I had never written a short story or even a poem.
About a week after I had finished the application and a make-believe version of my life, I was watching Oprah Winfrey. The show was about closeted bisexual men. Everyone on the panel was white with the exception of one black guy who was the stereotypical fierce, finger-snapping queen. After the show, several of my closest gay friends called to talk about it and how women didn’t have a clue when it came to spotting closeted gay men. They had a point. When I looked through my old phone books over the last decade, I came up with more than fifty men I knew who didn’t look or act gay. The same evening, I read an article in Jet magazine stating that minority women were the fastest-growing segment of the population infected with HIV.
I thought about all my close female friends, like Vanessa, Regina, Deborah, Lencola, Cindy, and Robin, and wondered if any of them had dated bisexual men or ever found out about their secret lives. I began to think about how I would feel if I started to lose my female friends like I had lost my male ones. These women had stuck by me through all my depression drama and the deaths of Willa, Randy, Larry, and Richard. Even when I had tried to shut these female friends out of my life, I knew they were there if I needed to talk.
Since I had always gotten along with women, I was beginning to realize that I had taken these important relationships for granted. So many times when I was in one of my love hangovers, I would separate myself from them as I did with my family, even though they had never given me any indication that my sexuality mattered. As Robin once told me, “Harris, you’re the only one who makes it an issue.”
A few days later, watching Oprah once again, I was finally motivated to take a chance and follow my dream. I had spent so much of my life following what I have come to know as my rain dreams: the ones that I could hear, those I thought the world wanted for me, like being married and successful in my career. I remembered how I wasn’t all that impressed with taking a job with IBM until I heard the sound of awe from my classmates. I finally realized that up until this point in my life everything I’d pursued was in order to impress others so they might love me more.
What Becomes of the Brokenhearted Page 22
