Black Like Us

by Devon Carbado

  Dexter’s thoughts drifted from the tape to the disturbing advice he’d received from the Greek chorus of friends over the telephone a few hours before.

  Are you crazy?! And you’re gonna stay with him?

  It’s best to bail out now. Save yourself the grief, honey. And there will be grief. Nobody would blame you if you left him. And fuck ’em if they did!

  Oh, yeah, I just remembered I’m talking to a writer. To achieve art, I guess you’re supposed to suffer… Dexter would show them, the faithless. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something, he didn’t know what exactly, but something, a panacea, a cure, a fucking miracle, whatever, whatever it took, something was going to save Sergio. Dexter hoped Sergio had enough time left so that it, whatever it was, would reveal itself, show itself to them. He and Sergio just had to be patient. They just had to learn how to hurry up and wait.

  Sunday night, Dexter and Sergio were driving to a dinner party at the home of Dexter’s friend, a costume designer. The guests were a film producer, a former Saturday Night Live actress-comedienne, and a casting director. Dexter and Sergio had stopped by the bank’s automatic teller and were headed for the supermarket to purchase flowers and wine.

  “As a writer, what do you want to say through your art?” Sergio asked, ever the challenging inquisitor.

  “That’s a loaded question,” Dexter replied with a chuckle. “There’s a lot I want to say in my work. Aside from exploring the human condition in general, there are things I want to say about the African-American and gay experience in this country.”

  “I really envy you that,” Sergio said. “I admire and envy you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you can be so…so open…so honest in your work…as a gay man, I mean.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. I’m your biggest fan. And I don’t think I could ever be that open and honest.”

  “You couldn’t?”

  “I’m working on it. Really, I am. That’s part of why I love you, Dex, and respect you so much. I’m trying to learn from you, trying to learn to love and accept myself wholeheartedly, unconditionally, the way you love and accept yourself.”

  “I’m touched,” Dexter replied, and blushed. “I don’t know what to say.” “Dex, you’re like a burst of light invading the twenty years of darkness I’ve been living in. How’s that for metaphor?”

  “Maybe you should write.”

  “Is your art fueled by anger?”

  “Of course. That’s true of most artists, period; especially those of color. There’re still hundreds of stories in Hollywood that haven’t been told.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, like what it means to grow up a black, gay male in America—” “Didn’t you deal with that in your first film?”

  “Only somewhat, because it had to be made digestible for a mainstream audience. Besides, it’s only one story.”

  “Just on a daily basis,” Sergio said, sliding into his familiar role of devil’s advocate, “what angers you?”

  “Lots of things. Subtle things. And nothing much is subtle anymore. Like whenever we eat out, have you noticed that the waiter always talks directly to you to present the wine list and the day’s special, never to me, as if I weren’t even there? Or that he invariably gives the check to you and never to me? Or when I’m walking down the street behind a white woman and she clutches her bag or crosses the street, or if I happen to—”

  “But wait, Dex. You can’t take that personally. I mean, these women are responding from an unfounded but ingrained fear of black men that is perpetuated by the media and society—”

  “What do you mean, ‘Don’t take it personally’?” Dexter’s head instantly grew hot, repressing the words that were stuck in his throat. Here it comes, Dexter thought.

  “Because their fear has nothing to do with you personally, Dex—” “I don’t care. I’m a hypersensitive man and when women or children react that way to me it hurts and angers me. There’ve been times when I was conservatively dressed in a suit and tie, carrying two giant bags of groceries, and they’re still scared. That’s just pure American racism—”

  “But I think you’ve got to—”

  “I don’t care what you think, Serge. What do you know about it? Has it ever happened to you?”

  Now it was out. Dexter had not meant to turn surly on Sergio, but he’d grown impatient with nonblack people instructing him as to how he should feel—or how he shouldn’t feel—about racism. Sergio, moving through the United States of America with an olive complexion, sandy hair, and blue eyes, could not possibly have walked the same potholed roads of bigotry as had Dexter. Dexter had noticed that although Sergio identified himself as Latino and proudly and vehemently related to that side of his racial heritage, and considered himself a Mexican first and foremost, perhaps because he had been born and raised in Mexico, Dexter also observed that Sergio utilized his Anglo heritage when it was convenient, when it most benefited him—namely out in public, where people never thought he was Mexican, but always considered him to be white. And though Sergio was as culturally Latino-identified as Dexter was black-identified, just who the hell was Sergio to tell him how to feel, when Dexter had grown up smelling, tasting, breathing, swallowing, and gagging on racism since he had fallen out of the womb.

  Dexter, who was driving, pulled the cherry red BMW convertible into Lucky’s parking lot. He opened the door and noticed Sergio wasn’t getting out.

  “You coming?”

  “No,” Sergio said gruffly, suppressing a cough, refusing to face Dexter.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m really pissed at you.”

  “For what?”

  “You know what.”

  Dexter slammed the door shut and entered the supermarket alone. Storming up and down the aisles, he searched for the wine section, though he knew where it was. Distracted by Sergio’s stinging words, which echoed in his head, Dexter realized and accepted that they were having their first fight. But the last thing Dexter wanted was to attend this dinner party engaged in a cold war with Sergio. He had been looking forward to showing off Sergio to friends of his Sergio had never met. Only around Dexter’s friends, gay or straight, could they be open and honest about their relationship. Among Sergio’s friends, all of whom were hetero, it was simply out of the question.

  As Dexter drove out of the parking lot, thinking of ways to reconcile without compromising himself, Sergio beat him to it.

  “Let’s have this out and settle it before we get to the party, okay?” Sergio suggested.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Dex, don’t you ever tell me I don’t know about racism. You don’t have to be black to experience it, you know—”

  “I didn’t say you had to—”

  “You said I didn’t know anything about it—”

  “You don’t!”

  “For your information, I caught a lot of shit about being Mexican, especially in the lily white neighborhood where I grew up in Seattle. And I’ve had my ass kicked by black guys because I’m white. So, don’t tell me—”

  “I’m not denying you that, Serge. I’m only saying that to be black and male in this country is the lowest level on the totem pole. And you know it’s true. Your racist experiences are not comparable to mine. I have to deal with racism every day of my life—”

  “I think you’re a little too angry—”

  “People like you, who enjoy every racial and societal privilege there is, always think people like me are too angry—”

  “All right, already!”

  “Okay, then!”

  Then silence befell them, filled with animated breathing, Dexter barely able to concentrate on the traffic. Dexter switched on the radio to drown out the silence and Sergio switched it off. Ten minutes later, Sergio reached out and groped for Dexter’s fingers wrapped around the stick shift.

  “Friends?” Sergio said.

  “Sure.”

  “Now,” S
ergio said, coughing, “we can go to the dinner party and have a great time.”

  What a fresh approach to fighting, Dexter thought. During Dexter’s six-year live-in relationship with his ex-lover Pietro, they had never settled an argument as quickly and neatly. Chronically uncommunicative, Pietro thrived on silence and holding grudges whether they were in public, around friends, or not. And here was another kind of man, who was in touch with his feelings, and who wanted to settle a disagreement and get on with the business of communication. Gosh, Dexter thought, this man is even great at fighting and resolving issues. What a guy.

  When the door opened, the first things Dexter and Sergio noticed were two cats, one Persian, the other calico, standing on top of the dining-room table, sniffing around the plates, glasses, and eating utensils. As Dexter introduced Harlan the host to Sergio, and handed Harlan the flowers and the bottle of wine, he saw that Sergio’s face had turned white. Sergio acted graciously until Harlan walked away.

  “Dex, I have to speak to you privately,” Sergio said with urgency. They walked into a bedroom, as Dexter waved and bade distant hellos to the guests. He had no idea why Sergio was acting so strangely. In the forty-five seconds it took them to get to Harlan’s bedroom in the back of the house, Dexter assumed that one of Sergio’s ex-lovers, or a past trick, was among the dinner guests, which could have made for an uncomfortable, awkward evening.

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “Dex, I’m sorry, but I can’t eat here.”

  “You can’t? Why not?”

  “Because Harlan has cats.”

  “Cats? Yeah?”

  “You know: toxoplasmosis?”

  “Oh, my God!” Dexter said. “I never thought of that.”

  “What’re we going to tell your friend?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s think. Quick.”

  “I know what. I’ll tell him I’m not feeling well.”

  “That doesn’t sound too believable. And this guy’s real sensitive about people liking his food. He’s Jewish, so he can be a real Yiddisha mama about how he’s been slaving over the kitchen pots for the last two days without sleep.”

  They walked back into the living room, where Dexter introduced Sergio to the guests. Dexter could barely remember everyone’s name, though he knew them well. For the longest time, Dexter was preoccupied with what alibi they could offer Harlan. After the introductions, Dexter asked to speak privately with Sergio.

  “How about if we tell him the truth?” Dexter said.

  “I don’t care. I still can’t eat here.”

  “Well, maybe Harlan will have some ideas.”

  “I just can’t eat here when it’s endangering my health. I hope you understand.”

  “Totally. Let me call him.”

  Dexter called Harlan into the bedroom and shut the door.

  “Harlan, we have a problem.”

  “What is it?” Harlan said, his eyebrows arched, a serving fork in one hand, wiping the other on his chef’s apron. “Is everything all right?”

  “Well,” Dexter began, “Sergio can’t eat here tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you have cats…and—”

  “I have a compromised immune system,” Sergio interrupted.

  “Compromised immune system?” Harlan said. “Okay, I’ve got a great idea. How about we all speak English?” Harlan suggested, always the joker.

  “Sergio has AIDS,” Dexter said.

  “And?” Harlan said.

  “Cats have toxoplasmosis,” Sergio said.

  “Which is?” Harlan snapped his fingers repeatedly. “English, honey, English.”

  “Which is a parasite that lives in their feces,” Sergio said. “It’s in their litter box and on their feet and paws and ultimately, it could make me very sick, even kill me.”

  “Especially since the cats are hanging around the place settings,” Dexter said, wondering what the hell behooved people to allow their animals around places where they ate.

  “I got an idea,” Harlan offered. “How about if I sterilize your plate and eating utensils. Would that be better?”

  “Sterilize them how?” Sergio asked.

  “I’ll pour boiling water over everything you use. How’s that?”

  Dexter didn’t think Sergio would go for it. He looked at Sergio, waiting for a response. Sergio shrugged his shoulders hesitantly.

  “Yeah, that’ll be okay, I guess.”

  “Great! I’m so glad we solved that problem,” Harlan said. “I mean, after all, my darlings, I’ve been slaving over the kitchen pots for the last two days without so much as a nap.” He turned to leave the room. “Dinner in five minutes, boys!”

  “See,” Dexter said. “See what can happen when you’re just honest?”

  Sergio took Dexter’s hand in his, kissed his knuckles, and led him back into the living room to mingle with the guests.

  CANAAN PARKER

  [1954–]

  NEW YORK–BORN NOVELIST CANAAN PARKER GREW UP IN EAST Harlem. Following graduation from Williams College and Harvard University, he worked for the Legal Aid Society and the National Conference of Black Lawyers, where he helped draft a series of motions leading to the release of Black Panther Assata Shakur from solitary confinement. Parker also served on the Steering Committee of the Publishing Triangle, a lesbian and gay advocacy group, and was advertising director and webmaster for Outmusic. As an activist with Queer Nation, in 1992 he successfully lobbied then New York City Commissioner Mark Green to resolve a rash of gay-bashings in Chelsea. Most recently, the author served on the Advisory Committee on Gay Affairs to Manhattan Borough President C. Virginia Fields.

  Parker began writing fiction in 1990 while convalescing from an illness, and by 1992 his first novel, The Color of Trees, was published. He followed with Skydaddy in 1997. His writing also appears in Flesh and the Word 4, We Must Love Each Other or Die: The Live and Loves of Larry Kramer, and Lambda Book Report.

  Set in the 1960s, an era of racial integration during which the author himself came of age, The Color of Trees opens with Peter, an African American teenager from Harlem, having received a scholarship to attend a prestigious upstate boarding school. He attempts to navigate the racial exclusivity of the predominately white student body population— as well as deal with his growing awareness of his sexual attraction to T. J., a rambunctious white classmate.

  from The Color of Trees

  [1992]

  It was obvious Ashley Downer didn’t like me. Perhaps he needed someone on the corridor to have a lower status than he did. Or maybe he thought making me a target would take the pressure off him for being the class nerd.

  He was too shrewd to make race the issue, at least not explicitly. My hallmates wouldn’t have gone along with that. Ashley made it a question of money.

  “When are you going to pay me the money you owe me, Givens?” “I beg your pardon, Ashley?” I said.

  “I’m subsidizing your scholarship. Everyone on this corridor is. What are you going to do for us in return?”

  Being fourteen years old, I’d rarely been confronted with such direct hostility. I’d endured enough physical threats, of course—from the boy in fourth grade who tried to steal my coat, or the three girls in junior high who tried to take my bus pass every month. But Ashley’s tactics caught me off guard.

  “I think you should be working in the kitchen. Or mopping the floors. You should make up our beds every morning. It’s only fair. My father is paying your tuition. All of our fathers are.”

  We were sitting in the Common Room on Saturday. It had been a pleasant winter afternoon, quiet and cozy, until Ashley started his tirade. Barrett Granger was there, and Kent Mason and Captain Zero. T. J. was sitting in the corner reading, one of the few times I’d ever seen him quiet.

  “Say something, Givens! If you had any decency, you’d see I was right. You come all the way out here from Harlem to go to our school, and you refuse to pay your share.”

  “Calm down
, Frogger,” said Captain Zero.

  “Ribbit,” said Kent Mason behind Ashley’s back.

  “I’m serious. Don’t you know what the school could do with all that scholarship money? They could hire maids. They could build a new hockey rink.” Ashley turned towards Kent Mason. “I don’t know about your family, Mason, but I have a maid at home. Why should I have to clean up here when there are scholarship students?”

  I couldn’t think of what to say. I looked around the room for support. “I think working in the kitchen is fair for scholarship students,” said Barrett.

  “You guys could probably cook better,” laughed Captain Zero.

  “That’s right. And if the Headmaster won’t impose it, you should volunteer to clean our rooms. We should make it corridor policy,” said Ashley.

  “Frog, why don’t you go lay some eggs under a rock somewhere?” T. J. interrupted. Ashley ignored him and turned his back. “Just because your father is on the board of trustees—”

  “That’s right. He is. And I’m going to propose it to him.” Ashley turned towards me and spoke impersonally. “It’s for your own good. So that you don’t become confused. I’ve noticed lately that you’ve been acting confused about your background. As though you were one of us. You aren’t, you know. I’m just being truthful. Your confusion could cause you problems in life.”

  Ashley sent a memo to the Headmaster threatening to complain to his father. The mood of the campus changed in the following days. I didn’t speak to any white student. The eleven black students and the one Native American student on scholarship showed the pressure. We sat together in the cafeteria, in chapel, and in the library. Keith Hanson said we should all withdraw if the Headmaster implemented Downer’s proposal. I felt awful at the thought of being forced to return home. Everywhere I went I felt like an outsider. Ashley, through his pure viciousness, received more respect from the Third Form than before. On the corridor, he glared at me with a sullen malice.

  Mr. Chase called a meeting in his study with the scholarship students that Friday. He told us Briarwood was an egalitarian society, and could well afford its scholarship program, but could not afford to distract any of its students from their academic duties. Therefore no one would be required to work in the kitchen. He delivered his brief address in his usual quivering tones, beaming with beneficence as though he, at that moment, embodied the school’s traditions of charity and grace. “Any questions?” he asked, smiling and quavering in his chair. Keith asked if Mr. Chase had discussed the issue with the trustees. “It’s not a decision for the trustees,” answered Mr. Chase.