Peephole in the Bolted Closet.

“Peephole in the Bolted Closet.”



It was simply a footfetish, I thought. I had acquired my particular taste for tickling Black male feet from my childhood experiences. As a child I was at my greatest elation, in the company of Richard; a boyish brown pal, who giggled uncontrollably at the slightest stroke. He pleaded me to stop, yet enjoyed the ordeal. With an impish grin, he goaded me, with his big toe. How irrational, I ponder now. Plato once articulated, "There is no greater or keener pleasure than bodily love -- and none which is more irrational." I agree. As I matured, it was the philosopher within that compelled me to understand the irrationality of my psyche’s impulses, and its meaning in my life. However, my searches were closed to those disheartening nights without moon, or star, a closet.

It wasn’t a fact that I could disclose to my parents, as it is not hard to imagine, they would chastise and belittle me, because of my odd obsessions on the male foot. Being already emotionally distraught from consistent teasing from classmates for my unusual drive to be well-informed, I was not about to tell them about this aspect of my life that I didn’t entirely understand. Unfortunately, the end result of my curiosity was the strengthening of an incidental attraction to men. This reality seemed rational as I realized we all had the natural propensity to distinguish ugly from good-looking, regardless of gender, as normally functioning human beings. This attraction was limited to attributes about the male that I desired to have, however, the implications of the fantasies that stemmed from them, I believed meant in the end of the day, I was somehow abnormal and, yes, gay.

I gots to [be] with the religious brother. I ain’t that religious to be honest but I believe in God, and I feel that stuff is nasty. Gay people should keep it in the closet fo real son. I don’t want to explain to my seed why men are holdin hands, gettin married, kissin, and that other nonsense…we have to draw a line somewhere, we already got too much nonsense going on in the hood. I can’t change the fact I’m black, a woman can’t change being a woman, but a man ain’t got to do the do with another man…


“I’m supposed to be on the “dl,” I gestured to the screen appalled by the boldness of an internet post. On occasion, I would slip into my normal enticements to peruse websites not in search of anything in particular, but generally inspirational writings, SNL/MadTV spoofs on Youtube, and sociopolitical issues close to my heart. Not surprisingly, this calling to the World Wide Web happened while I was preparing a paper – a 7 page paper. Ugh!! The night’s surf brought me to blackprof.com, where I perused an article releasing a 2007 interview with Barack Obama. The dialogue revolved around homosexuality – more specifically the heightened homophobia that either plagued or hallowed the Black community depending on your opinion. After reading the article, I scrolled down to read the comments of the website’s members. As expected, a mélange of voices had been posted. It was not long until the conversation soon veered off the topic unto the epic battle of what is sexual normalcy? Two distinctly polar groups became painfully apparent to me as I read on. Quotes from the Bible and Quran scorning homosexuality repeatedly were posted, along with the bitter judgments and invectives that passed unabashed. Gays and their progressive sympathizers quickly took defense by questioning their interpretations, even the revered sources cited. Attack after attack ran the pages, until I was literally noxious.

Black people don’t like gays because unlike liberal whites and black academics we believe in God (Allah) because we are a spiritual people and we know such behavior is against human nature given to us by the creator.


I could see the solipsistic, self-righteous view that the black homophobes had were based on taught traditions of right and wrong founded from ancient texts and sustained by emotional attachments thereof. In my opinion, the origins of odium were most believably bred from the alleged threat that homosexuals posed to the rest of the world. The existence of homosexuals happened to break the conventional outlook on natural order in a radically visible way. Moreover, their entire definition rebelled against the normal biological function between man and woman. To them, this behavior alone merited their elimination.

You want a civil war with all gay men. [Why] you want a straight against gay war in our communities? You are like over 90% of the population. Why do you want to oppress us for? Why can’t we have the freedom to be us?


I could see the helplessness of a shunned people that desperately wanted to be, but instead were destined to be seen as “filth” or an “abomination.” They fought as emotionally to be accepted as a social equal in the eyes of a dominating establishment of religious rights and social conservatives. To them, it was a question of human dignity. It was a question of feeling at peace with their being alive. Paradoxically, I noticed their self-esteem regrettably hinged on the general population’s view of them. From time to time, casual travelers would express their ignorance of the gay experience claiming neutrality in this 2 week long cyber war. Their harmless exploratory questions managed to allay the situation only until another post of hate appeared that enlivened the battle. This meeting of oil, water, and wandering dust couldn’t settle the question of sexual normalcy. If one thing was to be learned – gays were hated. They were misunderstood. Those who misunderstood these barbers, lawyers, nurses, teachers, patients, parishioners, soldiers, students, brothers, sisters, and many others with various sexual appetites perceived as abnormal would have preferred that these men and women had not existed or just would die off. Since this wasn’t possible, these scores of men and women just hide in their closets.

In the closet, the rooms were extensive and encompassing, real and virtual, transitory and permanent. It was essentially an experience of self-imposed isolation from publicly sanctioned persecution. A common coping mechanism, which protects a person from social persecution by concealing the aspects about him or her deemed as unacceptable to the perceived ruling class, called lying. This experience made me a chronic liar in no time. Initially, I would wander these underground rooms with the same intentions as that ignorant person, yet with an espoused certainty that gays were subnormal. I wanted to find reasons to disassociate myself from them by verifying the pervasive fears of them being promiscuous, hypersexualized, pedophilic Sodomites. I was mistaken. The false generalizations I set out to prove could never fully be confirmed. Furthermore, upon retrospection, I did it more so to help me to identify who I was. The internet proved to be a way to sneak in and out with the least chance of leaving a trail. The surrounding comfortably misinformed still thought the average homosexual was overly flamboyant and exclusively phallocentric. I didn’t want to be given a characterization I never embraced. In the meantime, I held my key to the closet and its many rooms.

No heterosexual man could harbor such persuasions and feminine interests, I thought. My father had expressed to me that I was a sissy because of my creative streak in the literary arts and my blatant unapologetic disinterest in sports. This male figure, at the time, only reinforced the mounting negative weight that classmates already placed on a Black kid who wasn’t skilled at basketball and spent his days writing poetry. He was different. Different was bad. Different is strange. Different was not in order what ought to be. Different is home to me. Additionally, my same gender appeals didn’t sustain my confidence in the notion of sexual self-determination as I tried to come to terms with who exactly I was or where I fit in among my Black peers. I set out to be objective about who I was, regardless of the consequences. Throughout all this, I realized the meaning of a friend, a person to not weigh words with and still be met with honest attention and care. None of the self-proclaimed heterosexuals seemed to openly relate to me in the least.

In my preteens, I excluded myself from conversations with males; avoiding forming friendships conscious of the possibility that I would be rejected for being open about my past and the curiosities I had. My self-esteem was already shot. Unlike them, I wanted to talk about something different – no sexual hearsay, no bitch tales, no “how easy she was” stories. Since my childhood, I retained a strong respect for the Black woman and the historic motif of a quiet determination and superhuman ingenuity that manifested itself when times were rough in her. This Black woman was my mommy, my sister, my teacher, my close friend, and my grandma. I would not degrade her or any woman. Reality was I dreaded her wrath and the thought of her repulsion if ever these private undertakings fell out. Nevertheless, I was left to find out for myself who I could identify most with by exploring my virtual closet. Just like a childish spectator at an amusement park, I stared at crude sex narratives and nude photos that coursed the web pages mystified by sensations they stirred in me. In here, my basest vanity was tugged at. In it, a muscular, slim torso, even skin tone, strong jaw, flawlessly etched chest drew my eyes. Conversations were absurdly open. Mischievous banter flew flagrant. Sexual innuendo was rampant. Under the closet’s influence, I remember staring at the high school basketball players wishing I could get to know them and wishing that they would want to get to know me in return. Not in the sense to seduce them, but to know if they felt, understood, or even experienced the same. I would focus on these thoughts that urged me to think I was gay, even though I reasoned I wasn’t gay, because I didn’t want to have sex with them. I didn’t even know what “sex” was exactly. Early on, I just wanted to befriend an understanding Black jock with nice, ticklish feet.

A chat window flashed before me. It was Antoine.

“YO WASSUP”


I typed “Hi, Antoine. How are you?” glancing at his defined, cocoa bean face display at the corner of the Yahoo messenger window. In this close up picture, he sported his blue and white striped oversized cap sideways trying to look the part of the popularized hoodlum. He had a playful smirk drawn out and the white of his eyes ringing his brown iris were tinted jaundice-like.

“MI NAH DEAL WID NUTTEN”
My eyebrow rised. I enter, “What now?! What about my mama?!”
He knew very well that I knew no Jamaican patois, so I jokingly assumed the worse.
An emoticon with a tongue sticking out appears followed by a “LOL.”
“What does that mean?”
“it mean nothing much going on wit me. calm down, Chawn lol, how about you?”


I try to visualize for a moment him laughing. We had never officially met before. He was a native of Jamaica, who I crossed paths with in the darkest corners of this virtual labyrinth, gay chat rooms. After being a passive observer of conversations among these misunderstood denizens, I decided to take on a more critical role questioning them. Little did I know I had a strong bias fed by years of classes, family gatherings, and church services that held a fixated disdain of a people none seemed to bother to get to know on a personal level. Antoine was a confident, aspiring Christian teenager, who cherished his girlfriend, but also had an infatuation with the male physique. As we acquainted ourselves privately, I succeeded in debunking the prejudice claims I held in time. He was not on of the biblical sons of Belial as I once speculated. Ironically, he happened to be one of the few characters that I could relate to on many levels. Being raised in the Black church, we would debate the Bible verses and their meanings, share instances of the obvious hate miscreants like us received from our own congregation, and speculate on how much God loved or hated us. To amuse ourselves, he would recount his carefully planned dinners with his girlfriend. I would tell him how miserable the single life could be. He would not hesitate to tell me he loved Celine Dion’s voice and how inspired he was by her songs. I would not admit how I thought Jamaican men’s voices sounded attractive. It could not be denied how he was struggling as much as I was with my own insecurities about these confessions and the accompanying confusions of these realities. We struggled to live the Christian life, yet we wanted to live one life in one world. We wanted to accept every aspect of our being, even the sinful, yet we wanted to please God. We hated our nature that practically agreed with a person on the brink of having a multiple personality disorder, yet we wanted to live free and fluid. This profound hate resided even more in our spirit, because it was involuntarily placed on us by a fanatically religious family; a role of deception and doubtful living, because we projected any other option would be our ruin. Notwithstanding, paths to express your truest feelings were limited outside of the closet, so he sought someone to “be real” within the closet. The strict and pervasive homophobic sentiments that surrounded us embittered us, but we always managed to pick ourselves up by this strong belief in God’s unconditional love and mercy. This was an idyllic idea that he spoke into me. An idea he believed he could depend on among the merciless and murderous so-called Christian Jamaicans that engulfed him with shame and fear daily. He just couldn’t tell anyone close to him. This could mean his life.

“Fine, working on a paper. How is your girl?” I asked.
“she aiight we chilled at her house.”
“Didn’t you guys go to church?”
“Course, we did.”


Antoine, remaining consistent with the prescriptive morals of his religious conviction, believed that being gay was a sin and that being straight was the ideal. His only outlets of expressing his sexuality were limited to those things done in the secrecy of his computer and those random meetings with men who felt the same way. This further broke his self-worth as he maintained a dualistic life – one lived in public scrutiny and the other lived in private darkness. The closet’s darkness was depressing and debilitating. While manipulating his family and friends, he would pursue anonymous sexual encounters and experience secret affairs with men that he would admit emptied his every spiritual fabric. Tension was ever present with this seemingly undying desire and this conflicting sense of duty to the traditional social role of a man. He, therefore, found he couldn’t leave his girlfriend. He had already formed a fondness for her that was genuine. He saw that he had adopted a legitimate, rationally sound role as her protector and lover. He was fighting with an irrational part of him, which we Evangelicals called, lust. In this internal fray, he was undecided as to what was the more authentic feeling to heed to. I would tell him more times than not feelings are the antithesis of what is authentic. They leave the heart on too unstable a ground to make clear decisions. In my opinion, it blurred the obvious choice with doubts. It should never be the only reason a person commits to anyone. Instead, he should seek the person who will lead him to that ideal way of living. I imagine his silent consent, his half-hearted approval.

“at her house, really?? – did you behave yourself?”
“you know that. her mom was in the other room.”
“My friend, that never stopped you before. I know I am your older brotha and all. So I really should ask.”
“my foot… you should.”
“Haha, you got jokes,” I snickered.
“speakin of that I had seen some nice feet the otha day – want me to holla at him for you.”
“Only if you hadn’t already,” I teased.
“Lol.”


Although I would usher to Antoine my counsel reminding him of his oaths, I knew too well the strong temptations entrapped in his body, more immediately, his psyche. They bound him in an illusive bubble that he desperately wanted to see as reality, a momentary solace that had a cunning that drew struggling Christian men to it like dogs. Though my particular fetish hadn’t indebted me with that strong of an impulse to seek male to male physical contact, I knew how it felt to want to experience it vaguely. Convincingly, the closet had imposed subtly on all its denizens and guests, gay and straight, a desire rooted in the obscene pornographic scene thereof. It personalized and popularized its own hidden vernaculars, shady signals, numerous positions, and twisted set of mores. It catered overwhelmingly to a suggested interest that wasn’t even there to begin with; the sexual use of men. On numerous occasions, Antoine confessed that he wanted a friend who could relate to his situation. Instead, in his searches for this, he attained a porn addiction that escalated his longing to view more hard core pornography until he became desensitized to the inherent wrong in the sex acts he saw and wanted to act it out. Naturally, confessions that were taboo to admit were openly expressed as a result. Upon viewing a picture of me, he typed, “you’re handsome. you’re really cute.” I appeared, towering over a trimmed bush and surrounding decorative shrubs riddled with colorful flowers, wearing a green three piece suit with a blue shirt and marble green tie. Surprisingly, I had blushed at the comment. In my late teens, I finally felt loved.

“you there Chawn?”
“yes,” I inserted.
“someone got killed down here last week.”
“Who? a friend?”
“naw, a friend of a friend. They caught him sleeping with another man.”
“Wow, I’ve heard a lot about the instances of expressed homophobia down there being among the worse. The lyrics are especially hateful.”
“yea. They stripped him and dragged him down the street right in the front of his family. Beat him to death. All of them. His own father told somebody.”
“WOW… Are you alright? Did anyone report it?”
“yea. Im cool. No one gives a shit. Its anotha battyboy, anotha chichi.”
“How do you do it, man?”
“The only way I can. Philippians 4:13. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”


I smile. A slow, measured creak sounded in my ears. I immediately minimized my chat window as my mother pushed the door in, peering into the room. With her squinted eyes, she smiled at me and approached hugging my neck tightly like a noose.

“Wap travay la!! (You’re working here!!)” she shouted tugging on my neck with her strong, thick arms.

She laid down a couple of wet kisses on my forehead. I beamed up at her discomforted by her pull, but consoled by the outward affection, “I love you, mommy. Always remember that.”

“I know that, Shashun – you know Andrew needs your help with his homework. He has been having trouble with some math problems,” she informed me in a stern manner. She had a strong Haitian accent.
“Too bad,” I retorted gazing at the screen maximizing the Microsoft Word program to begin resuming typing my paper.
“Pitit, rete, apa wap jwe la. Genyen lekol demen!! (Child, wait, it looks like you’re playing here. There is school tomorrow!!)” she snapped, nudging my head.

Andrew sped in the room with his books in arm against his chest catapulting on the twin size bed that lay behind me landing his face into the plush pillow that sat at the head of the bed.

“Nooooo, really!?!? You know me too well, mommy,” I sarcastically replied and then nodded, “I’ll help him.”
She turned to Andrew, who rolled around on the bed. “Bon (Good), Andrew, when your brother is done with his homework, he will help you.”
“Okkkk, mommy,” he screamed as he rolled wildly on my bed. His foot kicked a book off the bed.
“Mommy, if you don’t calm Andrew, I will. You know I don’t talk twice, but I will quiet him down one way or the other.”


Mommy jeered at the insinuation. I gave a quick glance at the computer. The minimized Yahoo messenger chat window flickers orange indicating that Antoine left a message. The scent of burning meat made my mother dislodge my neck from the chokehold and hurry to the kitchen. My brother rolled to his feet and skipped after my mom. I’m relieved. “Andrew, stop walking like that,” bawled mommy.

“you there, Chawn?”
“Yes, I have to go. You can teach me a thing or two about Christ next time I come here.”
“you leaving?”
“Gotta go. I have a paper to finish and help my brother with his homework.”
“aiight. 1”
“1”