Black Like Us

by Devon Carbado

  Now the one they call Robbie is talking to her. –Open it, he says. Robbie, O Robbie. Eager and edgy, large-eyed and fine. Robbie, who has a name, unspoken hopes; private dreams. How can they know? Will he be dead within a year like so many others? A mirrored image in a mirror that shows them nothing? A wicked knife’s slide from a brother’s hand to his hidden chewed-up heart? Shattered glass, regret. Feeling now only the circle around his neck that keeps all in thrall. For now he must be a man for them. Must show the steel. Robbie don’t be fronting, he prays they think, Robbie will be hard. Will they like you better, Robbie, then, if you be hard? Will the big boys finally love you, take you in, Robbie, if you be hard? Deep and low…he knows. Knows the clear tint of that pain. Alone and lonely…unknown, trying to be hard. Not like it was back then when then when he said you was pretty. Remember? All up in his arms…one of your boys, Darrel J. in his arms. Where nobody couldn’t see. Didn’t have to be hard. Rubbing up, rubbing. Kissing up on you. Licking. Talking shit about lovelove and all a that. But naw man he said the first time (Darrell J., summertime, 10 p.m., off the court, hotwet, crew gone home, had an extra 40, sweaty chest neck face, big hands, shoulders, smile, was fine), just chillin whyn’t you come on hang out?—so said Darrell J. with the hands and the yo yo yo yo going on and on with them eyes and mouth tongue up in his skin my man—: kissing up on Robbie the second time, pretty Robbie, the third time and the fourth and the we did and he kissing licking holding y’all two and O Robbie Robbie Robbie. A homie’s song. Feeling then. Underneath him, pretty. In his arms. Where nobody couldn’t see didn’t have to be hard kissing up on him shy shy and himinyou youinhim Robbie, Robbie. Where has the memory gone? Back then, straddling hips, homiekisses and the nightbird’s song. But can’t go back there, can you? To feel and feel. Gots to be hard. Can’t ever touch him again, undress him, kiss his thing…feel it pressing against the teeth and the slow-hipped song. Black skin on skin and

  —but he was holding onto me and sliding, sliding way up inside sucking coming inside me in me in hot naw didn’t need no jimmy aw shit now hold on holding him and I was I was Robbie Robbie Robbie Darrell J. together we was and I we I we came we hotwet on his belly my side sliding over him under him holding and we came we but naw, man, can’t even be doing that motherfucking punk shit out here. You crazy? You bugging? Niggers be getting smoked dusty for that shit. Y’all ain’t never seen me do that. Gots to be hard. –So open it, bitch, he says. Lemme get my fingers on up in there. Awright, awright. Damn, man, he says, nobody don’t got a jimmy? This bitch stinks, man, he says, know I’ma probably get some VD shit on my hands and shit. They laugh. –He a man, all right. Robbie! Ain’t no faggot, yo. Not like we heard. They laugh. –Just put a sock on it, the one they call Dee says. Chillchill, yo. Everybody gonna get their chance.

  And the sun. Going down, going down. Light ending now, fire and ice, blue time watersheen and the darkened plunge. Sink, golden sun. Rest your bronze head in the Sound and the sea beyond. The birds, going down, going down. Movement of trees, light swathed in leaves. Going down, going down. And.

  Hard to see now, but that’s okay, they say. This bitch got enough for everybody here under the bridge. No one’s around now, only rusty cars and rats. Who cares if they shove that filthy rag into her mouth and tie it there? It’s full of turpentine and shit, but the night doesn’t care. The same night that once covered them in swamps from fiery light. Will someone come in white robes to save a lightskinned bitch this time?

  Hot. Dark. On the backseat. Burning bright. Burning. On the backseat. Fire and rage. –Naw, man, Robbie, not so hard, man. You gone wear the shit out fore I get my chance. –Who said that? Which one in the dark? O but can’t tell, for all are hidden now, and all are hard. The motherfucking rigorous shit, one of them says. Shut up, bitch. Was that you, Bernard? Did you miss your daddy when he went off with the one your mama called a dirty nigger whore, Bernard? Was that where you first learned everything there was to learn, and nothing? –There, Bernard? When he punched you in the face and left you behind, little boy Bernard? You cried. Without. A song unheard. A song like the shad-owrain— wasn’t it? The shadowrain that’s always there so deep, deep down inside your eyes, Bernard. Cold rain inside. Tears and tears. Then fists and kicks on a black shitboy’s head. Little punk-looking nigger dumped in a foster home, age ten, named Bernard. Fuckhead faggot ass, the boys there said. The ones who stuck it up in you. Again and again. The second and the third… –don’t hurt me, don’t!—screamed that one they called the faggot ass pussy bitch. You, Bernard. How could they know? Know that the little bitch punk scrunched up under the bed had seen the whole night and afterward and after alone? Bernard? Hurts, mama. Daddy—. Rain. Little faggot ass punk. Break his fucking face, yo. Kick his faggot ass down the stairs. Then he gone suck my dick. Suck it, bitch, fore we put this motherfucking hammer up your ass. The one you trusted most of all in that place, in all those places…everywhere? Bernard? The one who said he’d have your back no matter what. Little man, my man, he said. Smiling down. His teeth so white and wide. Smiling down. Smiling when he got you by the throat, sat on your chest and made you swallow it. Swallow it, bitch, he sang. Smiling down. Choking, choked. Deep inside the throat. Where has the memory gone? Something broken, then a hand. A reaching-out howl within the rain. A nightbird’s rage. A punk, used up. Leave the nigger there, yo, they said. Til the next time. And the next. On the floor. Under the bed. Under. Bleeding under. You, Bernard.

  The words to every song on earth are buried deep somewhere. Songs that must be sung, that must never be sung. That must be released from deep within the chest yet pulled back and held. Plaintive and low, they rail; buried forever beneath the passing flesh, alone and cold, they scream. The singer must clutch them to the heart, where they are sanctified, nurtured, healed. Songs which finally must be released yet recalled, in that place where no one except the singer ever comes, in one hand caressing the keys of life wounded, ravaged, in the other those of the precious skin and life revealed. The three of them and Cassandra know the words. Lying beneath them now and blind, she knows the words. Tasting turpentine and fire, she knows the words. –Hell no, yo, that bitch ain’t dead. –A voice. –Fucked up, yo. The rag’s in her mouth, how we gone get some mouth action now? –Aw, man, fuck that shit. –Who says that? –My turn. My turn. –They know the words.

  Now comes Dee. Can’t even really see her, has to navigate. Wiggles his ass a little, farts softly to let off stress. –Damn, Dee, nasty mother-fucker! they laugh. But he is busy, on to something. Sniffs and sniffs. At the bitch’s asshole. At her cunt. –Cause yeah, yo, he says, y’all know what’s up with this shit. They be saying this bitch done got into some bulldagger shit. Likes to suck pussy, bulldagger shit. –Word? –The phat-test bitch around, yo, he says. Bulldagger shit.

  Dee. DeeDee. Someone’s boy. Has a place that’s home. Eastchester, or Mount V. Has a heart that hates his skin and a mind half gone. Is ugly now, got cut up, but smoked the nigger who did it. Can’t sleep at night, wanders seas; really wants to die. The lonely bottle might do it if the whiffs up don’t. The empty hand might do it if the desire can’t. What has been loved and not loved, what seeks still a place. The same hand, pushed by the once-winsome heart, that before painted angels, animals, miraculous creatures. Blank walls leaped into life, lightspeed and light. When (so it seemed) the whole world was light. But was discouraged, led into tunnels, and then of course was cut. The eyes went dim. Miraculous creatures. Where have the visions gone? Look, now, at that circle around his neck. Will he live? Two young ones and a dark girl waiting back there for him, frightened—will he live? Crushed angels drowned in St. Ides—will he live? When he sells the (yes, that) next week to the undercover 5-0 and is set up, will he live? When they shoot him in the back and laugh at the stain that comforts them, will he live?

  But now he’s happy, has found it!—the hole. The soft little hole, so tight, down there, as he reaches up to squeeze her breasts. Her eyes are closed but she knows
the words. That bitch ain’t dead. How can they know? When there is time there’s time, and the time is now. Time to bang the bulldagger out of her, he sings. Listen to his song. –I’ma give you a baby, bitch. –(She knows the words.) –Got that lightskin, think you all that, right, bitch? Word, I want me some lightskin on my dick, yo. When I get done this heifer ain’t gone be half a ho. You know know? Gonna get mines, til you know who you dis and who you don’t. Til you know we the ones in control, sing it! Got the flavor. –Dim-eyed, banging out his rage. Now, a man. Banging out his fear like the others, ain’t even hardly no faggot ass. Def jam and slam, bang bang shebam. On and on as he shoots high, shoots far…laughter, but then a sense of falling, careening…sudden fear. It doesn’t matter. The song goes on.

  Night. Hell, no, broods the dim, that bitch ain’t dead. Hasn’t uttered half a sound since they began; hasn’t opened her eyes to let the night look in again; hasn’t breathed to the soft beating of the nightbird’s wing. The turpentine rag in place. Cassandra, Cassandra. The rag, in place. Cassandra. Is she feeling something now? Cassandra. Will they do anything more to her now? Cassandra, will they leave you there? Focusing on flies, not meeting each other’s eyes, will they leave you there? Running back from the burning forests behind their own eyes, the crackling and the shame? Will they leave you there? –Push that bitch out on the ground, the one they call Dee says. Over there, by them cars and shit. –Rusty cars, a dumping ground. So, Cassandra. Yes. They’ll leave you there.

  Were they afraid? Happy? Who can tell? Three dark boys, three men, driving away in a battered car. Three boy-men, unseen, flesh, minds, heart. Flame. In their car. O my God, three rapists, the pretty lady in her Volvo thinks, locking her doors at the traffic light. In their car. Blood on the backseat, cum stains, even hair. Who can tell? It’s time to get open now. Time to numb the fear. –Get out the whiff, yo. –40s and a blunt. –That bitch got what she deserved. –Those words, whiffs up, retreat, she deserved it, deserved it—and they are gone. Mirrored images in shattered glass, desire and longing, chill throbbing, and they are gone. The circles cleaving their necks. Flesh, blood and flame. A whiff and a 40. –We fucked that bitch good, G. –Night. Nightnight. Hush dark silence. Fade. They are gone.

  Cassandra. What nightbirds are searching and diving for you now? What plundered forests are waiting for you now? The girltrees are waiting for you, and so is she. Tanya. The girl-trees. Mama. How can they know? Their eyes are waiting, searching, and will soon be gray. The rats are waiting. They are gray. Cassandra, Cassandra. When the red lights come flashing on you, will they know? Fifteen, ripped open. Will they know? Lightskinned bitch nigger ho, went that song. Will they know? Girl-trees in a burning forest…they will know. And the night….

  Where is she, they’re wondering, why hasn’t she come home?

  They can’t know what the rats and the car-carcasses know.

  Cassandra? they are calling. Why don’t you answer when night-voices call you home?

  Night….

  Listen now to the many night voices calling, calling soft, Cassandra. Come. Carrying. Up. Cassandra. Come. Out and up. What remains is what remains. Out and up. They will carry her. A feeling of hands and light. Then the red lights will come. Up and up. But will she see? Will she hear? Will she know?

  The girl-trees are screaming. That is their song.

  It will not appear on tomorrow’s morning news.

  But then—come now, ask yourself—whose song, finally, shall this be? Of four dark girls, or four hundred, on their way to lasting fire in Sunday school? Of a broken-backed woman, legs bent? Her tune? Of a pair of hands, stitching for—(but they’ll never grow). Of four brothers rapping, chugging?—a slapbeat in the chorus? Doing time? Something they should know?

  A song of grieving ships, bodies, torch-lit roads?

  (—But then now O yes remember, remember well that time, face place or thing: how those ten thousand million billion other ashes eyelids arms uncountable dark ceaseless burnt and even faces once fluttered, fluttered for—in someone’s dream unending, dream of no escape, beneath a blackblueblack sea: fluttered, flutter still and descend, now faces ashes eyelids dark reflection and skin forever flame descend, descend over laughing crowds.)

  A song of red earth roads. Women crying and men. Red hands, gray mouths, and the circle’s clutch. A song, a song. Of sorrowing suns. Of destruction, self-destruction, when eyes lay low. A song —

  But whose song is it? Is it yours? Or mine?

  Hers?

  Or theirs…—?

  —But a song. A heedless, feckless tune. Here, where the nighttime knows. And, well

  Yes, well—

  —So, Cassandra. Now, Cassandra.

  Sing it.

  JAMES EARL HARDY

  [1966–]

  Born and raised in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn, James Earl Hardy has been credited with launching the Afrocentric gay hip-hop romance genre that began with the publication of his groundbreaking debut novel B-Boy Blues (1994). He has worn many hats as a journalist in his twenty-plus year career writing feature articles, book and music reviews, and essays for publications such as Essence, the Washington Post, Entertainment Weekly, VIBE, OUT, The Advocate, The Source, and The Blackstripe online.

  An honors graduate of Columbia University in 1993, Hardy won many prizes for his work, including a Columbia Scholastic Press Association Writing Citation, two Educational Press Association Writing Awards, grants from the E. Y. Harbug Arts Foundation and the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors, and scholarships from the Paul Rapoport Memorial Foundation and both the national and New York chapters of the Association of Black Journalists.

  But after complaining for years about not seeing depictions of African American Same Gender Loving (SGL) men in literature that reminded him of men he knew, he took what he believed would be a brief detour into the world of fiction and wrote B-Boy Blues (1994), in which Mitchell Crawford, a journalist, and Raheim Rivers, a bike messenger homeboy from Harlem, fall in love. Praised as the first Afro­centric, gay, hip-hop love story, the novel became an immediate bestseller. Four other titles in the B-Boy Blues series have followed: 2nd Time Around (1996), If Only for One Nite (1997), and The Day Eazy-E Died (2001). In addition to documenting and celebrating contemporary black SGL life, the series has prompted overdue discussions about racism in the white gay community and homophobia in the heterosexual African American community. And because of its cultural impact, B-Boy Blues has become required reading in many multicultural and queer college studies programs around the country.

  In this selection from B-Boy Blues, Mitchell explains what a b-boy is—and why he’s irresistibly drawn to them.

  from B-Boy Blues

  [1994]

  And why was he what the doctor ordered? Well, besides being a vision of lust, he’s a B-boy—or banjee/banji/banjie boy, or block boy, or homeboy, or homie, or, as MC Lyte tags ’em, “ruffneck.” For those who don’t know who these fellas are—and, if you don’t, just where have you been living, on another planet?—I’ll gladly school you on the subject. This is something I love to discuss.

  They are the boyz who stand on street comers, doin’ their own vogue—striking that “cool pose” against a pole, a storefront, up against or on a car, leanin’, loungin’, and loiterin’ with their boyz, just holding court like a king with a “40” to quench the thirst, tryin’ to rap to the females, and daring anyone to stake their territory, to invade their domain.

  They are the boyz you see every morning, afternoon, early eve, and late nite on the news, heads down and covered—but nothing can hide the handcuffs.

  They are the boyz who stand like a tree—body erect, but somewhat arched, slanted to one side, their arms stretched and reaching like branches. Their eyes are icy cold; they look through you, sizing you up and cutting you down. Their smile is a wicked, wavering one. At one moment, it seems both inviting and harmless; at another, cunning yet calculating.

  They are the boyz
who dress to thrill. Their heads—clean, close-cropped, or in a funky fade—are wrapped in bandanas, scarves, stocking caps, or sports caps, which are usually worn front, tilted downward, loose, or backwards on the head for full effect. They style and profile in their baggy jeans or pants falling somewhere between their waists and knees, barely holding onto their behinds, their undergear puffed up over their waists. They kick the pavement in sidewalk-stompin’ boots and low- and high-top, high-priced sneakers, oftentimes worn loose, unlaced, or open, with their trousers tucked inside.

  They are the boyz who move to a rhythm all their own—the swagger in their step, the hulking strut that jerks their bodies to and fro, front to back, side to side, as if they are about to fall. Their arms sway to their own beat. Their hands are right at home in their pockets.

  They are the boyz who, whether they are in motion or standing, are always clutching their crotches. In fact, it seems like their hands are surgically attached to their dicks, as if they are holding it in place and fear it will fall off (or are they reaching for something that isn’t really there?). They are the boyz who walk like they are marching off to war— a war that many of them are, unfortunately, fighting against each other and themselves.

  They are the epitome of cool.

  They are the epitome.

  They are cool.

  They are the boyz who are filling our prisons, where many pump iron to pump up their bodies, when they should be in school pumpin’ knowledge into their brains.

  They are the boyz who are loud and boisterous; they speak to be heard, not so much to be understood. They are cantankerous and obnoxious; they know everything, and don’t even try to tell them they are wrong. They are cocky and egocentric; the world doesn’t revolve around them, because they are the world. They are self-centered and self-absorbed; they are all true men, 101 percent, and it’s all about them.