I was walking alone, along Christopher street,
When James Baldwin and E. Lynn Harris, who had been out,
On a mission to rescue lost boys, found me.
This was back in the day when that infamous bit of paved asphalt,
Off NYC's West Side Highway,
Opened its arms (and doors), to kids like me.
I was a college student, studying hard to maintain honors,
But not understanding anything in my world. I had a bag on my back,
Heavy and weighed down with questions.
Anyone bothering to look would have guessed it full of textbooks,
But Baldwin and Harris knew better.
They could sense a confused gait anywhere.
They called me by my name, tapping my shoulder with words,
Their meanings so familiar I recognized them immediately as friends.
This was an invitation to a house party.
Everything would be revealed there and then.
So I put myself together as best I could and showed up,
Forefinger eager to ring the door bell of this historic edifice of
Brownstone. The street had a great many trees,
Giving it an air of peaceful seclusion and something comforting,
Like lemonade on a summer afternoon.
I would later identify this sweet taste as self-acceptance.
Mr. Harris opened the door and, resting on me that famous smile,
Guided me through the foyer into the living room.
It was surprisingly expansive, with an open,
Breezy feel. For me, it was like walking into another world.
Between introductions, I gazed around at the walls.
After all, walls mirror and house the soul of a home.
On these walls I witnessed African masks hanging side by side art,
Paintings so dark and beautiful I felt myself being pulled,
Drawn to them by some unseen force.
Was it curiosity or something more primal.
Africa's secret past...
Our hidden history
Solve this mystery
How could one not
Recognize ancestors
The
Yoruba's "adofuro"
Nigeria's "yan daudu"
Uganda's "mudoko dako"
Senegal's "gor-digen"
Seated in the center on a throne
King Mwanga ll
Adodi
"Boy-Wives and Female-Husbands"
Images of...
His
Hands
Holding his
Hands in villages
His hands enfolding his hands
In huts round the continent
His hands brushing his hands
As he braids his hair
His hands lifting his hands
Pulling him closer
Pulling him near
Pot of cassava boils
Brightly colored beads, palm oils
Parting hair and planting seeds
Gift of cows and cowrie shells
Hands reaching down into wells
Of time and space now
Touching my face
Warm beautiful hands
This man's hands
Outstretched...
Welcoming me
African God
Warrior of human sexuality
Standing tall and mighty and proud
Spear glistening
Intricate wooden points spanning the spectrum of our humanity
African Goddess
Bless us all
Soft effeminate men everywhere
The vision past as quickly as it came,
And I was back in this charming parlour. The buzz of conversation,
And the names of these men I'd just been
Introduced to, coming back to me... wait was I dreaming?
The Harlem Renaissance was alive and well...
At one corner Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, Claude McKay,
Wallace Thurman, Richard Bruce Nugent and Alain Locke sat on
Victorian style chairs,
Relating the rebirth of African-American arts in the 1920s and 30s.
They called it the New Negro Movement,
And endeavored to uplift the race,
So there was little space to interject sexuality into their
Writings even with the use of codes and other subversive tactics.
James Baldwin and Bayard Rustin stood near open windows debating
Civil rights in the 1950s and 60s.
Hardcover copies of "Go Tell It on the Mountain" and "Tell Me How
Long the Train's Been Gone" lay sprawled on antique side tables
Beside them. The novelist conversing with the pacifist who
Transported the message of nonviolent resistance from Gandhi to
Martin Luther King, and who, from the court records,
Paid the price for living the life Baldwin so often wrote about.
At another corner AIDS activists and poets alike gathered together,
Publicly dissecting their lives as African-American gay men,
In the 1980s and 90s, their tongues finally untied. Essex Hemphill,
James Beam, Marlon Riggs,
Melvin Dixon and Assotto Saint convened around a coffee table covered
With books like "Brother to Brother:
Collected Writings by Black Gay Men",
"Does Your Momma Know About me?" and "Here to Dare..."
It was into this milieu that E. Lynn Harris now strode,
Bringing with him new characters to add to this
Plot, new novels to add this burgeoning library.
Hunky football player Basil followed protagonist Raymond,
Who now joined Baldwin's David and beautiful,
Sad Giovanni on the love seat.
It was a curious mixture of black and
White standing and sitting side by side.
At that very moment, the grandfather clock in the hall began to chime.
Midnight. I didn't realize it was this late,
I had classes in the morning...
So I rose to find my hosts and
Thank them for an enlightening evening.
What an epiphany
"Invisible Life"
What a beautiful symphony
Husband no wife
I was ok
I am ok
"Just as I am"
The door bell signaled new arrivals.
But I would hear about those new authors later,
The ones who kept the tradition alive and well into 2000s and beyond.
The ones who joined the party and helped
It swell and overflow out onto the streets.
As my feet hit the pavement, a vinyl record began to spin,
Turning round and round on someone's stereo. Needle touched groove,
Almost in time with my steps,
And Sylvester's falsetto filled the night air.
I smiled and looked back at the door I'd just come out of.
All the characters and all the men were now dancing... together.