Childhood Memories Covered in Dust

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My memories of my childhood feature me as a boy who wore glasses. Which is weird, because I didn’t start wearing them until I was in my second year of college. The image of what I looked like between the ages of four and nine is like Egghead Jr., the baby chick who made guest appearances in the Foghorn Leghorn Looney Tunes cartoons. When I see Egghead Jr., I see myself—a shy boy studying those around me. Plotting the day I could live the life I believed I was meant to enjoy.

Reading Wame M. Molefhe’s book, Go Tell The Sun, a beautiful collection of stories that capture the author’s country of Botswana, I realised my childhood is covered in dust. Not because I don’t think about those years occasionally. It’s more that when I left Phoenix, Arizona for college, I was determined to blank them out. If I’d had the means, I would’ve moved to the other side of the planet. The last thing I expected was to find strength in eighteen years woven with sadness, disappointment, anger, and fear.

My earliest memory is seeing my grandmother propped against the narrow white gas stove in my aunt’s kitchen. She stared ahead with a slight smile. A light-skinned, heavyset woman with long dark hair worn in two braids that fell across her large bosom. I loved the feel of her plushy skin when she’d wrap her arms around me. Assuming she wanted to play, I was delighted she was on the floor.

“One of my favourite memories of being with Mama is the two of us sitting in a dark orange circular booth in a diner on a Saturday morning.”

When I shared this with my mother twenty-five years later, her eyes widened with horror and sadness. “Who told you that?”

“No one. I remember it. Even though she looked serene, she wouldn’t play with me. I was confused.”

“That was the night she had a stroke.”

“Oh… When was that?”

“Just after Christmas 1972.”

I was a month shy of three years old. Suddenly, the other details from that night made sense. Standing on the patterned sofa and looking out the window at two tall white firemen walking across my aunt’s front lawn. My grandmother died when I was young. I knew that. But I never thought to ask about the date.

My mother wasn’t a hugger. At least, not with me. So, I didn’t put my arm around her shoulders to comfort her. Instead, we allowed an awkward silence to share the space with us.

One of my favourite memories of being with Mama is the two of us sitting in a dark orange circular booth in a diner on a Saturday morning. She smiled down at me as I went between sharing my week at the babysitter and shovelling forkfuls of pancakes into my mouth. Mama reminded me to focus on chewing so as not to choke. I was content. My mother wanted to hear what I thought about life as a four-year-old.

I never knew what she did there, but my mother worked at the Revlon Manufacturing Plant. Each morning, she dropped me off at Mrs Sledge in South Phoenix. Mrs Sledge was a dark-skinned, middle-aged woman who lived with her husband and their two youngest children, several years older than me. I didn’t like her or their kids. Mrs Sledge always looked at me as if she was picking me apart.

Mama made the best pancakes. Still, I liked it more when we went out for them. Even though it was just the two of us, she felt more like she was mine when we were out. I was proud; sitting across from her wearing make-up and a fluffy afro wig. She looked pretty. People commented on how much I looked like her.

I don’t remember the name of the diner. But the decor was various shades of browns, yellows, and oranges. It’s no longer there. Even so, each time I visit Phoenix, I make sure to look west when I drive through the intersection of 24th Street and Thomas Road. A place that reminds me of the love my mother and I shared that day.

“In my dreams, my mother looks like the woman I remember in her late twenties and early thirties.”

My second favourite memory is Mama’s thirty-first birthday on 31 October 1978. I was determined to make her a special gift. When the last bell rang at Martin Luther King, Jr. Elementary School, I didn’t join the other kids who went to Mrs Sledge. I stayed behind and asked Ms Brown, my third-grade teacher, to help me make a gift for my mother. She agreed.

Ms Brown was an unmarried middle-aged woman with a short afro. She always wore creased bright polyester pants, blouses with big flowers, and reading glasses that hung around her neck on a gold chain. Most of the kids in the class were afraid of her. I wasn’t. We had a bond. I was her smartest student. Her small house was down the road from the school. When the season changed from late summer to autumn, I was tasked with picking up her keys and opening the classroom. Ms Brown didn’t want us to stand out in the cold.

What Ms Brown and I created for my mother was a masterpiece. It started with a brown kraft paper cone that we covered in bright green tissue paper leaves she helped me cut. When that part was done, we crafted flowers using red tissue paper and dark green pipe cleaners.

When we finished, I looked up at the big clock above the green chalkboard. It was four-thirty. I need to go. Mama would be picking me up from Mrs Sledge at five. Grabbing my books, I thanked Ms Brown and raced out of the classroom.

As I moved towards the black iron gate that surrounded the school, my mother’s 1973 burgundy Buick Regal with the black vinyl top careened into the parking lot and stopped several feet in front of me. I was so excited to see her. She jumped out just as I ran up to her door.

“Boy, what are still doing at school? You scared the life out of us. Mrs Sledge called to tell me no one knew where you were.”

Ms Brown came up behind me just as I handed Mama her gift. “Happy Birthday,” I screamed.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know Erick hadn’t let you all know where he was.”

“It’s okay. I’m just happy he’s alright.”

Moving around the front of the car, I opened the passenger door and hopped in. My mother got in, turned the ignition, and pulled the column shift down to reverse. As we moved backwards, I leaned out the window and thanked Ms Brown again. She waved, and we drove north home.

“Thank you for the gift, Erick,” Mama said. “It’s beautiful.”

My gift was a centrepiece on our coffee table until the following summer. After marrying my stepfather, Mama placed it above a kitchen cabinet. It hurt each time I looked up at it. She never told me why it had to move out of sight.

In my dreams, my mother looks like the woman I remember in her late twenties and early thirties. Not the one who married and had more children. The person who lost the sparkle in her eyes. Who continued to insist I do well in school, while not wanting to hear about my days.

The first seven years of living, I knew nothing about my father. The day I gathered the courage to ask about him, my mother was driving eastbound on the I-10 highway. Everyone in class talked about a mother and a father. I had no answer when asked about mine. I needed to know.

“Your father and I met when he was stationed at Luke Air Force Base. I’m sorry, but I never told him about you. But I’m happy you’re in my life. Don’t worry. You will meet him one day.”

In 1979, I lost my mother when she married my stepfather. Fearing his rage, she interacted with me only when it was time to get me off to school, check my report card at the end of each term, or silently express disappointment that I wasn’t like other boys. I cared most about reading, being a good student, and keeping clear of my stepfather’s temper. For the next nine years, I kept to myself when I was in the house.

In my late twenties, I learned how to live in the present. Working through resentments I held on to for years. Reading Wame’s book, I want to revisit that period of my life. To sift through my mother’s emotional neglect and my stepfather’s abuse. I am ready to rediscover my happy childhood memories. They’re there. And I want to celebrate them.

The Return of My First Love

Photo by Yanal Tayyem on Unsplash

There have been quite a few starts since my first attempt to write about him. I believe I’ve run out of the fuel needed to keep our story hidden. But I’m afraid to commit to revealing who I was and what we did during those six years of living together. Spread across three decades, our saga began, layered with friendship, passion, and hope. It ended up soaked in codependency, denial, and booze.

I didn’t admit to myself I was in love with ‘Robert’ until I said it to him over the phone, on the evening of December 24, 2018. Ringing him, to back out of being the best man at his upcoming church wedding, to a woman he’d married in a civil ceremony a few years before. The dam broke when my confession spilled out. Despite being an out gay man for 20 years, it was in that moment my romantic feelings for Robert became clear. Since the dawn of our journey together when we met in a theatre class in 1990 in Tucson, Arizona.

It was an awakening that first surfaced on a chilly southern Arizona evening in early February 1991. Robert and I were alone in the YWCA dance studio, rehearsing one of the dance numbers in Barbea Williams Performing Company’s spring production of George C. Wolfe’s The Colored Museum. I’d been struggling during the group rehearsal and Robert volunteered to stay with me afterward to go over it.

“…he casually placed his left hand on the mirror next to my head. The heat from his body warmed me…”

Dark, wavy hair spilt into his eyes when he took off his red baseball cap. “Wow!” I exclaimed. “Who knew all that was hiding under there? Is that why you’re always wearing a hat?” Robert smiled, pushing rewind on the cassette player. The whir of the tape bounced off the walls of the small dance studio.

“Who does your hair?” I went on. “I try to straighten mine to get that wave. But I can never seem to get it to look like yours.”

Robert chuckled. “My mom is white?”

“What?”

“My mom is white.”

“Ah. Okay.” I scanned his face. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? Although he was several shades lighter than me, it never crossed my mind one of his parents could be white.

My damp, loose-fitting white t-shirt felt like a suction cup as I pressed my lean frame against the mirrored wall. I was wiped out but still hyped to continue. Robert moved towards me, leaning back to blow sweat from his upper lip. My eyes followed as he casually placed his left hand on the mirror next to my head. The heat from his body warmed me as I listened to him talk about the play.

Suddenly Robert shouted, ‘Look at this!’ as he bounded towards the centre of the room. Pushing up my round tortoise-shell glasses, I watched as he hit play on the stereo. The original cast recording poured out of the speakers. And once more Robert pulled me in, fusing jazz, tap, and hip-hop into an impromptu routine. Besides playing football and baseball, he grew up taking dance lessons. Like his outgoing personality, Robert seemed completely unafraid of allowing his body to surrender to its instinctive rhythms.

“Come here.” Robert motioned me to him. I walked over and he returned to patiently guiding me through the number, encouraging me to follow his movements. Suddenly, a familiar tickling fluttered inside of me, joining us in the evening light of the rehearsal space. Robert’s well-formed arms and shoulders transfixed me as they glistened with sweat. His cut-off t-shirt and light grey sweatpants took me in, as they clung to his toned physique.

Feigning fatigue, I stepped back towards the safety of the mirrored wall. Robert bent down to catch his breath, his hair hiding his face. Then he straightened up and replanted himself in front of me, placing his right hand on his hip. My underarms itched. My nostrils flared. I struggled, sneaking looks at his full lips. Sweat trickled down my forehead from fear he could hear the pounding in my chest. I screamed inside, Stop it! Then I scurried away, my arm grazing Robert’s damp bicep.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I was getting a little cramped from leaning like that.”

“It was a scene that when I read it aloud, released tears of shame, from a darkness that had been stagnant inside of me for a long time.”

Robert and I met at the beginning of the fall 1990 semester at the University of Arizona in Tucson, as first-year theatre majors. We were the only Black male students in the department. A Phoenix native, I was 20 and a transfer student from Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, where I’d spent three semesters as a journalism major. A year younger than me, Robert arrived at the U of A from the Midwest the previous year on a baseball scholarship.

Our exchanges were cordial during most of that fall semester. But it wasn’t until Barbea cast us in her production that we would know each other. Despite being quiet and reserved, I was drawn to Robert’s vibrant and confident masculinity. Our conversations were varied and interesting.

There’s more to our story, as we moved through the years. In 1992, we dropped out of college in the spring of 1992 to pursue our dreams of becoming actors in Hollywood. Our journey during that time was a hazy one, laced with codependency and suppression. And it’s a history I never intended to share. That is, until it came out during the summer of 2018, through a writing prompt with The Missing Peace, a Los Angeles-based memoir writing group. When a long-forgotten memory of Robert bled out of my blue pen onto white-ruled paper. It was a scene that when I read it aloud, released tears of shame. Coming from a darkness that had been stagnant inside of me for a long time.

Through my admission to this part of my past, the founders of The Missing Peace encouraged me to accept that it’s okay to own my story. They also helped me to return to my first love of writing. My relationship with writing has been there since third grade, when my teacher praised me for using the word ‘aroma’ to describe the smell of the Thanksgiving turkey. From that moment onward, those around me supported a career as a writer. I dreamt about it too. But it would take me many years to come to a place of being completely ready for it.

There’ve been moments over the years when I’ve attempted to pursue writing. But it’s only been in the last couple of years that I’ve understood that besides dreaming about it, I need to believe in it. Just as importantly, I need to come to a place of seeing that creating narratives has to be influenced by my own experiences and beliefs. Not by the ones I want others to believe I’ve lived. Seeing parts of my life in print helps me to accept and move through feelings and perceptions that no longer serve me. They also encourage me to take pride in my accomplishments and my joys.

Through my passion for reading, I know that my story with Robert isn’t a unique one. However, I realize that if it continues to push up to see the light, then I need to share it. In chronicling my history with him, maybe I can aid someone in releasing shame that may surround parts of their life journey. The same as so many influential writers have done for me.

Being Gay and My Relationship with My Mother

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Many gay men talk about the special bond they have with their mothers. “…being gay might be a factor that makes some mothers and sons even closer (Psychology Today, 2011).” Many of my gay friends have shared with me that their mother is their best friend.

Of my four siblings, I look the most like my mother. Because of this resemblance and her youthful appearance, some assumed we were brother and sister. However, when I think of who I am, my values, and my morals, I don’t think of her. I know she influenced my views of myself and the world around me. But from my perspective, we were never close.

“As her long sigh wafted through the phone, I realized she’d always known.”

My memory of our relationship, from an emotional standpoint, is that there was always a plexiglass shield separating us. I saw her, but I never really knew her. Similar to images I’ve seen of Queen Elizabeth II of England, my mother’s pleasant coolness hinted at little.

I was born in late January in Phoenix, Arizona, three months after my mother’s twenty-second birthday. Single and living with her religious and widowed mother, she shared little with me about this period of her life. For reasons not fully known, she ended her relationship with my father, never telling him she was pregnant. Throughout my youth and young adulthood, she shrouded his existence in mystery.

My mother’s pregnancy was a shock to the family because as my aunt said “she never shared with us she was seeing someone. To my knowledge, her routine consisted of school, work, and home. Of course, I asked, and I wondered. But your mama never told me who he was.”

After my mother’s death in January 2004, I discovered that my father was a 22-year-old New Yorker, an airman at Arizona’s Luke Air Force Base. I later located him, living in a Maryland middle-class suburb with his wife, in the city that they settled in during the 1970s to raise their children. My dad accepted me and we became close.

According to my mother’s closest friends, my dad liked her. However, at the dawn of her life as a young woman during the spring of 1969, it seems she may not have wanted to settle into a marriage with someone she didn’t feel strongly about. Thus, she took on the stigma at the time of being an unwed mother, something that was a source of criticism in her family.

“…it was during this time people started noticing you weren’t like other boys.”

My mother wasn’t a physically demonstrative person. There were no kisses on the cheek. Throughout my childhood, her hugs were sparingly given. My desire to be held often elicited responses like “You’re too sensitive,” and “It’s not good for boys to be smothered by their mothers.”

My mother eventually met someone else, married, and had three more children. I was six when my brother was born. Over time, I saw he could lean against her when sitting on the sofa and wrap his arms around her neck to kiss her cheek. She stopped my attempts with “You’re too old to be doing that,” or “Not now, I’m busy.”

I came out to my mother when I was 30. As her long sigh wafted through the phone, I realized she’d always known. But from then until her passing four years later, she encouraged me to keep the secret between us.

When I came out to my aunt a few years later, she said “I knew when you were four.” When I asked how this was possible, she added that “it was during this time people started noticing you weren’t like other boys. And they whispered you were this way because of not having a father.”

My mother never opened up to me about her revelations of who I was as a child. Based on her attempts to minimize physical contact between us, I suspect she felt responsible for me being gay. “…many mothers initially blame themselves and these close relationships for their sons’ homosexuality (Psychology Today, 2011).” To put it into the context of society’s view at the time, it wasn’t until 1973 that the American Psychiatric Association removed homosexuality as a mental illness from its Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM). This was three years after I was born.

Throughout my 20s, I struggled with accepting that my mother and I weren’t close. I didn’t connect it to being gay, something I didn’t fully acknowledge to myself until I was twenty-eight. It was more that I hoped for an intimacy I sensed when around male friends and their mothers.

With the help of therapy, family, and close friends, I mourned my mother’s death. I also put to rest wishing for something that could never be. And that looking for this sort of love with a romantic partner isn’t good for the relationship or my emotional health.

Today I accept being gay as an integral part of who I am. The LGBTQ+ community is diverse, talented, and culturally influential. And I uplift and celebrate this through Our Black Gay Diaspora Podcast, a global biweekly podcast where Black LGBTQ professionals share about their countries and professions.

Like many who have survived adversity, I’m re-parenting myself. The challenges I faced, including my relationship with my emotionally distant mother, are part of who I am. However, through being open about my experiences, I can slough off the shame. And honor and celebrate what makes me uniquely me.

Dating as a Black Gay American Digital Nomad in Europe

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I’m a Black gay American digital nomad who has spent most of the last four years between Sweden and the United Kingdom. After over 20 years as a graphic designer for a Los Angeles-based investment banking firm, I am a freelance writer and the creator, host, and producer for Our Black Gay Diaspora Podcast, a global biweekly platform where Black LGBTQ citizens share about their countries and professions.

One question I get is, “How is it dating in Europe?” My experience so far, at least with dating apps, is I don’t notice a difference. As an introvert, someone most comfortable “spending time with just one or two people, rather than large groups or crowds (WebMD, 2020),” casual dating isn’t something I’m the most adept at doing.

“Similar to the United States, assumptions about being Black in Europe may influence one’s perceptions and expectations.”

When I left the U.S. in October 2019, my goal was to find work that could help me settle in Sweden. So my first few months back in the country, I was focused on making this a possibility. Despite friends in Stockholm suggesting I get on dating apps. There are attractive men in Sweden. But I wasn’t ready to devote energy to pursuing romantic or sexual exploits.

Regardless of race or sexual orientation, dating can be a minefield of miscommunication and ridiculously absurd scenarios. I have my own stories of “truth is stranger than fiction” experiences. Some that would make you double over in laughter. And others I remember that left me distraught, dazed, and confused.

Several months passed before I began dating in Sweden. Similar to the United States, assumptions about being Black in Europe may influence one’s perceptions and expectations. It can affect how non-blacks interact with us. I don’t disapprove of interracial dating. But I’m cautious. There are Black citizens in most of the European countries I’ve visited. But the populations are smaller than most major U.S. cities. Thus, finding a Black gay man with whom to form a healthy romantic connection may be a challenge. Their numbers on dating apps in cities like Stockholm are negligible.

“I’ve received interest from non-black men who’ve said things like, ‘I love Black men and your beautiful chocolate skin!””

Another concern I have with online dating is it can attract persons interested in the sexual fetishization of Black men. Jason Okundaye’s October 2020 GQ article states, “This is how white people objectify black men as more masculine and sexually potent than our white counterparts.” And also, “The size of our penises are obsessed over and apparently betray our monstrosity.”

Because we start with photos and well-crafted descriptions, my opinion is that fantasy can greatly influence online dating. The story one can project on a person’s profile. For some, racial stereotypes are part of this fantasy. I’ve received interest from non-black men who’ve said things like, “I love Black men and your beautiful chocolate skin!” How does one respond to a declaration like this? Plus, the statement overlooks the hours I spent curating my profile. Hoping my profession, favourite films, and daily life mantras sound as interesting as possible. I would never think to say to a white man, “Oh, my God! I love white men and your beautiful vanilla skin!”

I see colour and other physical characteristics. As an American, I grew up in a Eurocentric society. Through my lived experiences as a Black man, I know how racism influences my perceptions of myself and those around me. This includes racial hierarchy, the “system of stratification that is based on the belief that some racial groups are superior to other racial groups (Wikipedia).” However, I don’t believe the colour of their skin has ever led to my perception of attractive non-black men. Like with Black men, it’s his face, his build, his height, and that special something I see in his eyes.

In my time wading through the sea of men on dating apps in Europe, I’ve only met three in person. Only one moved beyond an initial meeting. Beginning with a swipe right on a popular dating app, I met him at a café in Stockholm’s Södermalm district in late May 2020. His friendly eyes were what first caught my attention as I scanned his face, complimented by a shaved head and reddish-brown moustache and beard.

Our conversation flowed smoothly as we sat outside at one of the café’s small tables. Soaking up the sun’s rays on the crisp spring afternoon, my Swedish acquaintance held my interest with his humour. But I was leaving for England in a couple of months. And he shared about his summer travel plans. I didn’t see things going past what we were enjoying at the moment. And I was okay with it. I enjoyed interacting with someone new.

Arriving in London, England in late July 2020, my Swedish friend remembered and reached out to see how I was settling in. We remained in contact while I was in the UK, video chatting 2–3 days per week. I enjoyed our conversations. How they progressed into us discovering our shared interests. I looked forward to seeing him again upon my return to Stockholm in early November 2020.

I believe my Swedish friend saw beneath the surface of my skin tone, to the person those close know me to be. I continued to open up about my origins in Phoenix, Arizona. I shared about my years in Los Angeles, California. First as a struggling actor and later as a graphic designer.

For the first time in some time, I was open to being vulnerable with another man, becoming more transparent. I experienced a new sexual awakening. Something I knew many tapped into years before, without the aid of a stamped passport. I embraced my sexuality in ways that went beyond the cerebral. I saw how my trust issues, formulated during my formative years, also influenced this part of my life.

So, to answer the question. How is it dating in Europe? Apart from cultural differences, it’s identical to dating in the United States. What’s changed is that I’m more honest about who I am, what I want, and where I would like to be. I no longer minimize the realities of racism and how it filters into my dating life. That being said, I no longer shy away from discussing race. That is as long as I’m in a safe space to do so.

White and Black labels categorize people. But they’re generic monikers. They don’t capture a person’s ethnic or socioeconomic background. I am a Black American. I’m a creative introvert who loves the sound of honest-to-goodness laughter. I am me.