DJ: And look at y’all now.
Raheim: And I never thought I would be in a relationship with another man. That wasn’t what I was taught to want in life, it wasn’t what the boiz ’round my way were into. But you never know what life is gonna throw your way. If somebody had read my palm sixteen years ago and told me I’d be a father of two and married to another man, I woulda laughed in their face.
DJ: What would you say is the most important ingredient in a relationship?
Raheim: That would be the most important word in relationship: relate. Just don’t get engaged to each other, get engaged with each other.
Mitchell: I agree. The devotion, the loyalty, the trust, the passion, the intimacy, the love can’t flow freely or be nurtured if you aren’t tuned in.
DJ: Alright. What’s next for you two, career wise?
Raheim: I just signed on to star in a bio-pic about Benjamin Banneker.
DJ: Wow. A theatrical film?
Raheim: It’ll be on Showtime.
DJ: He seems like an odd figure for a bio-pic. I mean, the brutha was a genius; he designed DC. But was his personal life juicy?
Raheim: Oh yeah. [snickers] He was gay.
DJ: What? Benjamin Banneker was gay?
Raheim: Yup.
DJ: You jokin’.
Raheim: Nope.
DJ: This is actually documented?
Raheim: Yeah. In letters. He doesn’t say “I’m gay,” but the correspondence points to him being intimate with men. And he was in love with someone who was not born a free man.
DJ: Damn. You do learn somethin’ new every day. I should’ve made the connection before; I’ve never read anything about his personal life. That’s always a dead giveaway. You know those “don’t ask, don’t tell” gatekeepers ain’t gonna like that.
[Laughter]
DJ: What’s next on the horizon for you, Mitchell?
Mitchell: Well, You, Me and He has been optioned. It could go before the cameras next year.
DJ: Great! Who optioned it?
Mitchell: Black Eyed Peas & Rice, a production company in Atlanta. It’s run by a sista, Amelia Denson. She used to work at Dreamworks.
DJ: Did you write the script?
Mitchell: Yes.
DJ: Was that difficult, adapting your own work?
Mitchell: The difficult thing was taking off the novelist/journalist hat. The blueprint you use for crafting a screenplay is much different. You have a lot of ground to cover in a hundred pages and every element you believe is important in the book can’t be transfered to the screen. Every scene has to be concise, and you can’t have a character talking for paragraphs or pages. I did three drafts before I came up with something feasible and filmable. I have new-found respect for screenwriters; it may look easy but it’s not.
DJ: Will it be shot in New York?
Mitchell: NYC and Jersey.
DJ: Who has been cast?
Mitchell: No one yet, but I’m hoping that Sanaa Lathan will sign on as Lynette.
DJ: I was about to say! She is the only actress I see in the role. What about Bry and Wil? Raheim, you would be a perfect Wil!
Raheim [chuckles]: How did I know you were gonna say that?
DJ: How about it?
Mitchell: Raheim has his heart set on playing Ashton, Bry’s best friend.
DJ: Do you?
Raheim: Yeah.
DJ: I can see that, too. Regardless, you gotta play somebody. How could you not, in your Baby’s movie?
Mitchell: I believe Bry and Wil will be played by unknowns, or rather actors who aren’t well known to the public.
DJ: Why?
Mitchell: Because I want to avoid the “I don’t be kissin’ no man on the lips” syndrome that afflicts many Black, allegedly hetero actors.
DJ [laughs]: Gotcha. Would you consider gay and bisexual actors for the roles?
Mitchell: Certainly. Chances are those actors will be.
DJ: Are you working on a new book?
Mitchell: I am.
DJ: Jood. It’s been three years. Your public is feenin’!
[Laughter]
Mitchell: I know. I had to push back the delivery date because of the film project. But I am almost done. It may be out the end of next year.
DJ: Is it a sequel to You, Me and He?
Mitchell: It is.
DJ: Jood!
[Laughter]
DJ: If you haven’t read the book yet: spoiler alert. So cover your ears or turn down the volume for ten seconds. Do we find out who is the father of the baby?
Mitchell: Yes…and no.
DJ: Oh, see, you playin’ with me!
Mitchell: That’s all I can say, DJ. But I’ll make sure you get a galley as soon as they’re available. You’ll have the scoop before the rest of the public.
DJ: Thanks, man. I appreciate that. Now, I heard thru the vyne you’ve been approached about doing your own reality show.
Raheim: Ha, that’s news to us!
DJ: Would you do a reality show?
Raheim & Mitchell: No!
[Laughter]
DJ: Why not?
Raheim: No Jon and Kate Plus 8 here.
[Laughter]
Mitchell: We wouldn’t put our lives—especially our children’s lives—on display like that. No matter how grounded you think you are, your life will become a three-ring circus because it won’t be your life anymore. What many don’t realize is that those shows are scripted; nothing just happens. You become a paid actor, your moves and thoughts dictated by a writer, a director, a network. His skills and judgement as a parent are definitely questionable, but I believe Jon realized all that too late. Unfortunately, you can’t unring the bell.
Raheim: I really feel sorry for their kids. They are growing up with cameras in their faces; what happens when the cameras are turned off? How are they gonna handle not being on television? And, where’s their money? Will they have to sue their parents, like Gary Coleman did? This is why we went back and forth on whether Destiny should start performing. Show business ain’t easy on the adults; I know. It can crush a kid.
DJ: How did Destiny handle being on Broadway?
Mitchell: Very well. We’re so proud of her—not only for the excellent work she did but for how focused and professional she was. We told her, “Have fun.” That’s what childhood is supposed to be about. You let us worry about the business and you just enjoy the show.
DJ: Does she have any projects coming up?
Mitchell: No. But she plans on winning American Idol in several years.
DJ: Ah, another Fantasia?
Mitchell: More Jennifer Hudson.
Raheim: She reminds us of Monica. A woman’s voice in a young girl’s body.
DJ: Does Raheim the Third have any artistic aspirations?
Raheim: Not at all. He plans on working for NASA and walking in space.
DJ: Sounds like y’all got it all. Is there anything you wish you had?
Raheim: Bill Gates’s bank account.
[Laughter]
Mitchell: We’re blessed to have the life we do and to have each other.
DJ: And I’m blessed to have shared this time with you. You gave me and the audience a lot to consider—and a lot to laugh about. Thanks so much for coming to Da Spot.
Raheim: Our pleasure, man. And thanks to you, DJ, for doin’ you and letting us be a part of your world. This was a lot of fun.
DJ: I hope we can do it again real soon.
Mitchell: I’m sure we will. I bet I’ll be getting a call right after you finish the sequel.
DJ: Ha, you know it! Continued success to you both and all the best for you as a couple and for your family.
Mitchell: Thanks much, DJ. And thanks to everyone out there for their love and support.
Raheim: And here’s to you, DJ, in your quest for a huzman!
DJ: Man, thanks. Now, if y’all got any single friends, hook a brutha up!
[Laughter]
DJ: Thanks everyone for tuning in.
Y’all be safe and stay blessed. Peace out!
A Tribute
By Stanley Bennett Clay
Originally published in SWERV magazine—Fall 2009 issue
We don’t have a lot of role models as black gay men. We tend to buy into the sleazy side rather than the romantic aspects of making love and being with someone, which is one of the things that always disappointed me about ‘the life.’ Everything’s always based on sex rather than romance.
—E. Lynn Harris, April 1996
What I will always remember about my friend Lynn is that he was hopefully romantic. A true Southern gentleman with an easy smile, the child of modest means became a literary force to be reckoned with, who redefined gay-straight alliances in the black community and shined a needed light—sometimes harshly but always with class and compassion—on the emotional and often difficult trajectory of black gay men seeing their full, visible selves for the first time.
Even though we had spoken on the phone several times previously, I first met Lynn face-to-face in February of 1996 during a scheduled interview for my magazine SBC. Black History Month was making its presence bodaciously known with record-breaking snowstorms in the East, chilling rainfalls on the deserts of Southern California, and a freak winter heat drought throughout the Lone Star State. Although it was 84 degrees in Dallas, the air was clear and clean.
The weather and the city reminded me of what I had not only heard, but also deduced on my own (through his writing and our phone conversations) about the best-selling author. He was a brother of great warmth who spoke honestly and clearly. His prose was simple and clean and his stories were sweet, old-fashioned bedtime tales for black homosexuals in search of fantasy, Mr. Right and themselves.
According to everyone I spoke to who knew or had met E. Lynn Harris, he was truly one of the last of the nice guys. And with more than 300,000 book sales up to that date, multiple Hollywood offers, and a cash flow that placed him in the upper one percentile of black authors, it was good to know that nice guys can finish first.
We met in the restaurant of his hotel, The Crescent Court, a lavishly appointed palace of Old World Southern charm in Dallas. He was in town for part of his book tour and also to attend the annual Black Gay and Lesbian Leadership Forum convention that, of course, I was attending.
The setting seemed apropos. Lynn was the epitome of old world Southern charm and what began as an interview between a magazine editor and a literary celebrity ended three hours later as a friendship that would last until death brought down the curtain.
After that, we talked often, about anything and everything—the men in our lives, our writing careers, family, friends, the latest hot gossip, the black gay scene, and spirituality. Lynn was a very spiritual guy and felt that the hand of God guided his career. Therefore he felt privileged to help others as part of his spiritual duty. When I asked him to read my second novel In Search of Pretty Young Black Men prior to its publication, not only did he read it in a matter of days, but he also offered to write a cover quote. His endorsement—he called it “brilliant”—boosted sales beyond my wildest imagination.
It was Lynn who referred me to producer Proteus Spann, who hired me to write the book and lyrics (along with Ashford and Simpson) for the Broadway-bound musical stage play version of Invisible Life. And it was with Lynn’s blessings and vigorous endorsement that I was hired to write the screenplay adaptations of Not a Day Goes By and I Say a Little Prayer. When he heard that I had collaborated with Tina Andrews on a musical version of Why Do Fools Fall in Love? he called me up and wanted to see the proposal so that he could invest. He believed in investing in our community; our black community and our black LGBT community.
I did not until after his death find out about his homage to me in his final novel Mama Dearest. His reference to me as a prominent playwright whose work Yancey’s mother Eva had appeared in was yet another wonderful gift from a man who gifted so many so often, with little fanfare, little fuss, little focus on himself, only for the smiles he knew he would engender. Lynn was an oxymoron. Modest, yet extravagant, timid yet boisterously jolly, at times a shrinking violet who never thought of himself as good enough, cute enough, worthy enough, deserving enough.
He was crushed by Hollywood’s rejection of his screenplay for the remake of Sparkle, and he was resigned to the fact that he would never be a Toni Morrison or James Baldwin. Resigned, yes. He was fully aware that that sort of respect would elude him. That doesn’t mean he was particularly happy about it. He was not angry. Anger was not his thing. He was saddened by it. And so he ate himself to death. A heart attack complicated by high blood pressure and the hardening of the arteries.
The coroner reported that E. Lynn Harris died of natural causes. Well, I beg to differ. There is nothing natural about a man dying at the age of fifty-four. It is a life cut terribly short; leaving devastated loved ones in its wake.
Losing Lynn brought back the pain of losing my own father, who died seventeen years ago at the tender age of sixty-four. He, like Lynn, was a gentle man who laughed easily, was generous beyond a fault, rarely raised his voice, and was universally loved. And, as in Lynn’s case, a heart attack took him away from us. My father was my friend. The loss is indescribable. To this day, when I pass his picture on my mantle, I often break down in tears, but then recover, grateful for the gift I had in him, and the gift I continue to enjoy in his spiritual presence.
And so, even as I mourn the loss of E. Lynn, I must be grateful for the gift that he was, and the gift that his great and generous spirit is.
I cry and then I smile.
HOUSE OF JOHN
Love is never a plan.
Stanley Bennett Clay
Chapter One
One must take a good close look at oneself when one feels a need to assign blame for a failed relationship. It is so easy to self-identify as the victim and point elsewhere at the culprit when oftentimes, not always, the culprit is that pampered figure feeling sorry for him or herself in a rather biased mirror.
And the clown thing about it all is that one is narcissistic enough to think that somebody else really cares. News flash: No, nobody cares. They are annoyed. Annoyed at the blathering idiocy and the melodramatic flourishes. Why would one think that a drama queen update on one’s piteous, self-created predicament of the heart would be of any interest to anyone else? Such emotional self-centeredness surely renders one pathetic and laughable and downright foolish.
And yes. I am that one. Throughout the years, I’ve been known to cry in alleys, curse lovers’ mothers, blame God for good sex gone bad; been known for bad luck with good men, and good times spent too quickly and recognized as good times only when time has passed.
Before Sean, I had traversed the roads of romantic partnership with mixed results, some good, some bad, one as hot as a California hillside fire, most as insipid as drying paint.
But after Sean and I crashed and burned, I decided to totally give up on love, at least the romantic kind.
After Sean, I was both fortunate and unfortunate enough to have loving family and friends.
I am the oldest of six children. After forty-two years of marriage, my parents were still as giddy as newlyweds, unable to keep their hands off each other, staring at each other from across crowded rooms, glow-eyed with longings and secrets not to be known by anyone else, certainly not by their children, who would still have to be blind not to witness occasional hints of their—our parents’—senior citizen erotica.
Most of my siblings followed my parents’ example, marrying compatibly, romantically, and stably.
Well, except for my sister Frankie. Francesca Templeton Chapelle DaSilva acquired and discarded husbands like wardrobe. Seasonally. The baby of the family, Frankie has had more exes, lovers, boyfriends, and fuck-buddies than all the rest of us combined.
Frankie is an actress. Not a star, but she makes a good living at it and has a recognizable face. She’s had small parts in block-busters and leading roles in low-budget film fes
tival gems. Back in the day, she almost got a starring role in a big budget actioner opposite Will Smith when Halle Berry got sick and had to drop out. Jada Pinkett-Smith got the part instead. Although not the kind of doll to cry over spilt milk and lost parts, Frankie pitched a bitch behind that one, claiming nepotism had robbed her of her shot.
My name is Jesse. Jesse Templeton III. Named for my father and grandfather. Most people call me plain old Jesse, except for my immediate family. They all call me Junie, short for Junior, but since that was my dad’s moniker, they had to come up with something a bit more frivolous to always remind me that I was Jesse the younger, Jesse the cuddly.
Well, anyway, when Sean and I broke up, I was a mellow thirty-eight-year-old, freelance photographer. I’m still a freelance photographer, am back to being mellow and, needless to say, no longer thirty-eight. I was born and have lived in Los Angeles all my life and possess the breezy, devil-may-care attitude to prove it, although a cynical side does occasionally rear its pointed little head from the sunny disposition of my native Disneyland. Life has actually been very good to me in spite of my romantic lamentations, and I’ve been very good to life, in spite of what went down between Sean and me.
I have to either thank or blame my sister Frankie for Sean. You see it all began right after Frankie lost that part to Jada. She was in between men and in between jobs, though there were prospects for both. Her third ex-husband, Alvin, was still sniffing around and Frankie had an audition for a recurring role on Grey’s Anatomy, as a sex-obsessed nurse whose bedside manner went way beyond the call of duty—a real stretch.
She arrived early at the Warner Brothers Studio lot for her meeting with the producers. While waiting in the reception area, several actors—all black, all built, all fine—sat across from her, sides in hand, silently mouthing the printed dialogue.
Used to and appreciative of lip-smacking stares from all black, all built, all fine men (Wait a second. Let me clarify that. Not all black. Color never mattered to Frankie. She has always been an equal opportunity ho’. And I mean that in the most complimentary way.), baby sister was in her erogenous comfort zone surrounded by all this pretty-boy testosterone.
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