What I did not count on was graduating during the worst economic conditions since the Great Depression and an entire industry blindsided by a swift and ultimately fatal shift from print to digital at the advent of faster internet. When I graduated, I was willing to take whatever role was close enough in proximity to get the start I needed. It took some time, but I did get one offer to be the assistant to the editor in chief of a publication I grew up obsessing over. I initially took it, only to turn it down because I didn’t think it was enough to cover my student loan payments, which were already set at about $800 a month. I have mentioned that tidbit previously, but what I leave out is that I really, really wish I hadn’t listened to the advice of the person who told me to turn it down, stay home.
I blame no one but myself for whatever choices I make, but what I would say in hindsight is that the best counsel comes from people who understand not only the way you think, but the way a given world is. I can’t listen to folks who don’t know the world I’m trying to enter as I learn it on the fly. People may have your absolute best intentions at heart, but dreams often die at the encouragement of those who have long since let theirs die.
Pragmatism has immense value, but in this case it came from the place of basically saying, Well, you went to college for X, Y happened instead, so I C your Black ass better figure some other shit out fast ’cause ain’t nobody rich round this way. The argument had merits, but it felt unfair to portray my yearning for a life I had always pictured for myself in spite of setbacks and reality checks as a selfish act. It wasn’t selfish; it was keeping me alive.
Now, for inquisitive minds near and dear, of course I have considered other careers outside of writing. Before it was Trump’s America, it was Barack Obama’s America, and before that, George W. Bush’s America, and before that, Bill Clinton’s America, and before that, George H. W. Bush’s America, and before that, Ronald Reagan’s America, the one I was born in. The pain ratio varies by the plutocrat and neoliberal, but the constant with each era is that if you are a Black person living in America, unless you come from a sweet, sweet cushion—the rarest of scenarios for the demo—you have to be prepared for the worst because you are typically dealt the harshest circumstances.
I may not have the best schooling, but a bitch is only slightly blind, not dumb, and while I’m not deaf, I really need to turn down the volume on my headphones at the gym.
The following are several other career options outside of media and entertainment that I have contemplated or been encouraged to pursue over time. Some are signs of desperation; others suggest I need to switch strains. Some are opportunities that have come to me directly and randomly; others are suggestions used in language that loosely translates into “stop being a masochist.”
Most are no longer in consideration, but you never know. Again, I’m a Black. I live in the United States of Wage Stagnation and Economic Inequality.
CAPITALIST
My mother and I have an undeclared ritual with respect to my airport travel. It goes as follows: she always picks me up from the airport and she always takes me back to the airport. It matters not what happens in between each visit so long as how I arrive and how I depart remain the same. It’s the way it is, and no, I’m not thinking of Keyshia Cole after reading that; your hood, R&B-loving ass is! It has been this way since I was eighteen years old and left for my matriculation at Howard University, tacking on a debilitating degree of debt that would go on to have an impact on every facet of my life the very second my second deferment ended.
There was only one time she did not pick me up: when I went to Houston for a book event. Given the sensitivity toward me writing about being a practicing homosexual and telling the masses my business (one of the gravest of sins to a southern Black woman who grew up with the Bible era and not the blogging era), I broke tradition that time and rented a car at the airport to spare us both a disaster.
It bothered me for a lot of reasons, but mostly because what I love most about those to and from rides to the airport is that it is our time. I use a lot of that time to ask how she is doing with work (or I used to, before she retired). Then I get updates on the extended family members I love and cherish—and also the ones I haven’t seen since 2Pac died or Rick Ross dropped “Tupac Back”—and likely won’t bother seeing again unless ’Pac’s ghost visits me in a dream demanding as much on a day when I’m feeling generous.
For my mom, this is her chance to be a mom, which for many, many, many, many moms is a chance to tell their special little miracle how they can salvage their mess of a life. My mom, longtime lover of the Lord, of course brings up why I ought to return to the church. She’s never been like “GO BACK TO CHURCH NOW, MY SODOMITE SON!” but that’s only because southern women know how to wield their might in a way as soft as their biscuits. Of course, she inevitably brings up Jesus and church in our car rides, but her delivery has gotten softer.
She’s long given up making pointless references to a wife and kids, because neither of us is getting any younger, so why waste any second that could go elsewhere?
We both talk about my career, or better yet, I try to explain why I am not a failure—though she doesn’t necessarily believe me to be a failure, but rather someone who needs to make a lot more money and probably could if they found another way to make it other than writing. One time, after we made our first and second post-airport stops—Shipley’s, for the best donuts and kolaches ever, and Whataburger, for all the fixings I’ve been missing while up yonder in New York—we were riding down South Post Oak and there were only a few minutes left before our ride time was set to end. As I ate my jalapeño sausage and cheese kolache in the passenger side of my mama’s ride, my mom said something about maybe me working in finance. Or something about business. An MBA? Whatever sounds like The Wolf of Wall Street without the prison time. (I have never seen The Wolf of Wall Street, but assume this is one of the few times a white man will go to jail for a financial-related crime, because clearly it’s a much harder feat to net in real life.)
This wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned me doing some kind of job that centered on the mo-mo-money, the yen and the pesos. While I was in college, probably about midway and not too late to save myself from a communications degree in this economy, my mom threw out a few suggestions on how the rest of this journey should go: something about my pledging a fraternity and me working in finance or law since I’m so obsessed with the words and things. I can’t recall a direct mention of a vagina and vaginal sex, but I’m sure it was intimated at the time. Ever the good son in my head, I briefly considered each thing. Finance is probably the thing I’d be the worst at, but would benefit most from.
I’ve seen footage of Ebenezer Scrooge, the early years. I watched DuckTales religiously and saw Scrooge McDuck swim through that gigantic vault full of gold in the opening theme. I recall that before he became president, Donald Trump was paraded around as Richie Rich after his balls dropped and got stuck halfway. Believe me, I understood the perks of being a rich business type early in life.
Unfortunately, only Beyoncé can get away with not knowing much about algebra. Like, I am a failure of the Houston Independent School District. Creatives aren’t often known for being math whizzes, but couple that with a few fun facts about my educational background: When I started ninth grade, our algebra teacher, Mr. Whomever, apparently died right before the school year started. In his place was an uncertified fill-in who was pregnant and looked two finished pickles away from her water breaking. She ended up lasting a bit longer than expected, but do you know what I remember most from that class? This one dude who played football having the nicest ass and a classmate I had known since elementary school teaching some other girl how to hide a razor under her tongue. The next year was somewhat better, but the inconsistency in quality of teaching left me with, uh, quite a wake-up call once I got to college.
I managed to get my degree, but yeah, my math abilities are nonexistent, so if I could go back in time, I would fix my
mathematics journey by way of actual learning and retaining of what I had been instructed. And maybe I would at least give vaginal sex a real try for my mom’s sake. Just kidding, I would have run track and kept the track body as much as possible until I found a sponsor—preferably a successful financial analyst, venture capitalist, or any other job title Bernie Sanders would rightly assert is ruining the fabric of society or whatever.
I would have been far more philanthropic than them, though.
K STREET THOT
Some of the gays like to put down sex work, but from a viewer’s perspective, the escorts who sell ass successfully usually seem happier than those judgmental sissies (I can say it), so with respect to shame, the label feels misplaced. Regardless, I have wondered whether or not my time at Howard could have been better spent on Capitol Hill or K Street, where power really likes to party (no capitalized T ’cause meth ain’t it). Not only could I have gotten my tuition paid, I could have gotten the loans I took out my freshman year paid for. And maybe an off-campus apartment. While we’re at it, a car, too, ’cause everybody knows the Metro is some bullshit.
Now, I’m not saying I would have been slobbing lobbyist and/or congressional knob, Alhamdulallah. Again, most dicks are ugly, and I’m selective, which is a classier way of saying selfish and suspicious. My earning potential would have been higher, but there are only so few attractive people in politics, and these types are the ones who pay them, not the other way around. Life can be cruel, etc.
So I would have elected to be something of a boy toy. It would have required me to presumably only eat kale, açaí, and bun-deprived turkey burgers, but no debt? To quote the late Macho Man Randy Savage, “Ooh yeah, dig it!” Same goes for working out to an obnoxious level that resulted in one of the tricks paying for my trainer. That also would have been fine because it sounds very Real Housewives—only in secrecy because most of these types are married to a woman.
I would have accompanied the men—varying from dirty old man to sad older gay man who’s actually not that bad but is painfully socially awkward—to social events most people of any age would find boring but I would relish because I am basically an endless stream of political commentary. The attendees, white . . . duh . . . would have been pleasantly surprised by my political awareness because the least is expected of the young and Black in these circles. They would have been intrigued by my hair because unlike a lot of the Black men in the world of politics as active players or storytellers, my line-up actually exists.
This would have lasted until graduation and ended with one of those folks blessed to have enjoyed my company (albeit with invoicing attached) hooking me up with a great entry-level pushing.
This would have been a great scam, only it never came to pass because I grew up deathly afraid of dying of AIDS and programmed to think homosexuality was an abomination. Actually, whatever to that because plenty of people have that problem. My issue is it took me too damn long to get over the shit. Had I known by at least twenty that Jesus Christ truly doesn’t give a damn where I stick it, I could have made this plan work—especially after someone sent me a clue about my lender’s repayment plan. I know this because later in life I met someone who effectively served as an intermediary between college boys and men who pay for their company.
I could have been a Sugar Baby!
. . . or not.
I’m far too self-aware, so as much as it sucks to admit this, I would have been terrible at Operation K Street Thot.
I talk too much, or worse yet, I talk back. So in reality this combination of me, my Republican sugar daddy, and the people in the room longing for sweet antebellum’s return would have ended in disaster. Someone would have said something casually racist, and I, full of wealthy people’s whiskey, would have surely made a face that prompted an inquiry that gave way to a public shaming.
I’m pretty sure eventually a request for something sexual would have been made and promptly denied, resulting in my immediate firing.
I’m not sure I would have been compensated properly with all these strikes against me. That is, if anyone hired me at all. If anyone wanted to continue the situation in spite of such asterisks, I guarantee they would not want to pay my misandry tax, dismissing it as a personal problem.
However, even if I could be convinced to become more accommodating and try this hustle out, I’m too old now. One of my friends tried to convince me otherwise, citing some vintage thots we watch on basic cable. It was so sweet of her to tell me whoring is still an option, but as I explained to her, you become an aging gay by twenty-five. I’m . . . not twenty-five.
It may be too late for me, but if you’re out there with a line of work that’s more or less the City Girls catalog live, best wishes and private jet trips to you. You get no judgment from me.
BIG TOE HO
Did you know people with foot fetishes will pay you for pictures of your feet? Not to toe-suck-shame anyone, but when I first found that out, I wanted to vomit in my mouth a little. However, I had Casamigos swirling in my mouth at the time of that reveal, so I stopped myself from wasting such a high grade of liquor in this economy.
There are so many people named Michael, but it took me more than thirty years to befriend another person named Michael who has managed to be far more inappropriate than me. He won’t admit that, but it matters not. I finally have these bragging rights and I’m going to make the most of them.
A group of us was hanging out, and like many people of select generations who hang out in this decade, we were looking at Instagram instead of each other. That’s when I saw the picture of some Instathot—that is to say, someone who posts nothing but thirst traps that I probably both judge and hit “like” on. He was showing his feet just swinging in the air. For foot freaks, this is apparently the equivalent of showing some ass. Through Michael, I learned that this was done as a means to elicit attention from those who would potentially pay to see more. I’m no Ronan Farrow, but I was tempted to perform some quick investigative journalism.
That is to say, I took another sip of my tequila and asked Michael, “What the fuck did you just say?”
Come to find out, a lot of you people in this world know about this. Some have even partaken in the practice to cover a few Sprint bills or weekend excursions to Miami or Dubai during one of those glitch sales. Well, ice y’all out.
The first dude I ever dated used to slightly mock me for my “pretty hands and pretty feet.” Sadly, my feet aren’t as pretty as they used to be. I don’t know if it’s from walking around New York so much or racism, but until I go through some intense pedicures and return to splendor, I can’t make money from someone’s fetish fund. But if you’ve maintained, you’re welcome for this idea.
TEACHER
I got an email once from a recruiter for the Los Angeles Independent School District asking me if I had any interest in becoming a teacher. I received it several months after graduating from college, while working as a grossly underpaid freelance writer who kept up a hobby of job hunting. The recruiter saw my résumé on CareerBuilder and asked if we could speak on the phone to discuss an opportunity he felt I would be a good fit for. The opportunity in question would be me teaching English in high school.
Did I have any interest in teaching? I did not, but I was interested in full-time work. Getting out of Houston was always a good idea in my mind, and the idea of tipping west was becoming of greater interest, albeit for entirely different reasons than teaching. As someone around me at the time noted, at the age of twenty-four, taking a slight detour might not be the worst action to consider. Another spoke of it in terms of the potential impact.
There is a paucity of Black male teachers in U.S. schools, with them only representing 2 percent of the nation’s educators, according to a report on racial diversity released from the Department of Education in 2016. I went to majority Black schools, but even in those settings, there were not many Black male teachers around. Of those few, two had a positive impact on me—unsurprisingly both we
re English teachers for me in high school.
The Black man who had the biggest impact on me, though, was Mr. Morris. He was a teacher’s assistant when I was in elementary school. In elementary school, most of the adults around you feel old. Mr. Morris did not. He looked like he was in his twenties and felt cooler than the other adults around. Most of my teachers were encouraging, but he used to lavish me with praise differently. He used to point at me often and say, “Michael is going to be president.”
It made me smile every single time. (I have never wanted to be president, but I have wanted to be a U.S. senator since high school. That is, before Mitch McConnell rendered the senate moot.) Because of memories like that, I was able to picture what a similar impact from me could look like. Most of all, I would be helping fill a massive, specific void.
As lovely as that sounds, absolutely not.
The only time I have envied a teacher’s life is when Mr. Cooper sang the Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper theme with En Vogue.
I find that I don’t like a lot of children who are not related to me—and while this may end with a standoff in front of the cornbread dressing (not stuffing, mongrels) at whichever of the holidays I show up to at a later date, I really only mean my sister’s kids and the spawn of select cousins. In my senior year of high school, one of my electives was the day care center we had on campus for the teen moms and low-income folks who couldn’t afford child care. So, plenty of niggas over there.
We were taking care of children aged three to five. My aversion to children besides my nieces and certain second cousins aside, I was pretty good at watching the children because I am not a monster, I just talk like one sometimes. I read stories with eagerness and entertainment value. I helped them with their lil’ assignments since this world has enough illiteracy in it. I was good at administering nap time because I wanted to talk about the Ashanti and Tweet debut albums without so much interference.
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