Live Through This: Surviving the Intersections of Sexuality, God, and Race

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SEXUALITY

GROWING UP, I WORSHIPPED ALL THINGS GIRLY. LIKE MANY other boys, I loved Star Wars, but in my mind, Princess Leia ran the show. I acted out elaborate scenarios in which she flipped the Jedi narrative and was the one who chained up Jabba the Hutt. I owned He-Man action figures, but when in possession of a black Barbie, whom I named Dee-Dee, order was finally in place and she became the real master of the universe. I once dyed my hair blonde, which turned into a strange orange color, but I didn’t care—I was a blonde in my mind, lip-synching to Donna Summer’s On the Radio in the closest mirror. Today, experts might politely, clinically describe my childhood expressions as gender nonconforming, but back then I was a sissy, a punk, soft, and, of course, a faggot. All praise goes to my mom, who didn’t grow up in a progressive home (or era), but for whatever reason, she let me exist. Creative freedom for a child was rare in those times. That said, I vividly remember the first time I was called a faggot. I was seven years old.

I loved watching my mother get dressed up. She was only eighteen when I was born, so when I was seven, she was a twenty-five-year-old woman who could still drop it like it was hot—whenever she could find and afford a babysitter. My mother’s soundtrack was the pop and R&B of the 1980s: Madonna, Prince, George Michael, and Janet Jackson. I was mesmerized watching her prepare for a night on the town as she sang along to Klymaxx’s The Men All Pause or Sheila E.’s The Glamorous Life. She stood before the bathroom mirror, dolling herself up with the harsh beauty products of the 1980s: press-on nails, icy blue eye shadow, endless blush, and enough Aqua Net hairspray to clog your lungs. By the time she was finished, she had transformed herself into a fusion of True Blue-era Madonna and Wendy from Prince and the Revolution.

Fascinated by my mother’s magic, naturally, I wanted to experience all this glamour for myself. So one fine evening, when she couldn’t find a babysitter, I begged to dress up in her clothes. She huffed and puffed, but eventually gave in—I was a highly persuasive child. I knew instantly what I wanted to wear. I picked out a maraschino-red, bedazzled, sequined gown with a sweetheart neckline and more trim than a Christmas tree. I shimmied my tiny boy feet into spiked, black pumps. I felt like Donna Summer on the cover of the Bad Girls album! Although I was channeling more of a Cyndi Lauper vibe, the She’s So Unusual era—but I digress. Of course I needed some makeup, and my mom helped me apply a little lipstick and a touch of eye shadow. I saw myself in the mirror and was overjoyed. I captured a bit of my mother’s magic.

I was in a state of jubilation, running around our small apartment, screaming with excitement. My mother stared after me inquisitively, not with disappointment, or worse, judgment, but more with uncertainty. She didn’t possess the language to describe what I was doing. This was the mid-1980s; the idea of gender nonconforming children wasn’t on the radar. Yet, somewhere in her soul, my mother understood that I was simply playing with gender, exercising creativity.

In the midst of my joy, my mother’s on-and-off boyfriend unexpectedly arrived. He was tall, masculine, played electric guitar, and spoke with a deep voice that often frightened me. My mother gave him a huge hug—they had recently reconciled. However, once he caught a glimpse of me in ill-fitting heels, a baggy red dress, and makeup on my face, his mouth twisted.

He snapped at my mother, nearly roaring, You got your son in women’s clothes! What the fuck is wrong with you?

Knots tied in my stomach. Something was wrong. I was suddenly embarrassed by my mother’s clothes. I was ashamed of the makeup. I began to fidget, wiping off the red lipstick with the back of my hand, but only managing to smudge it over my face.

You got your son dressed like a girl? he continued, his anger and shock flooding the apartment. Your son is gonna be a faggot!

That was my first time hearing the word, and I would hear it a million times after that, but this moment was vital. I was vulnerable and impressionable. My childhood imagination, innocence, and admiration of my mother’s magic were at stake. I turned to Mommy, searching her face for what was next. She locked eyes with me. I was scared. Maybe she was scared, too. Maybe she regretted letting me play dress-up. Mother and son, we had reached a crucial fork in the road of my development. Whatever my mother did at that moment would either damage or affirm me for life. My little soul was in her hands.

Without hesitation, my twenty-five-year-old mother turned to her boyfriend and yelled with a voice as powerful as his and a presence even stronger, "This is my child! This is my son! He’s being a kid! She pointed to the door. Get the fuck out of my house!" I never saw him again.

I’ve heard similar stories, but with terrible endings. Sometimes it’s simply the disappointed look in a parent’s eyes when a child goes against the repressive norm. Sometimes it is a young boy getting caught in his mom’s clothes and being beaten till he bleeds. However, the day I first heard the word faggot spoken with such venom, I learned that my mother’s love was stronger than bigotry, anger, and hate. I’m certain that if she hadn’t chosen my happiness— and safety—over her own ambivalence in that moment, my life as a child in Washington State, and later as a teenager in 1990s Philadelphia and an adult in New York City, would have been strikingly different.

As time went on, my gender nonconformity faded, but my creativity as a writer flourished. My mother’s encouragement to explore my self-expression—at any cost—continues to set me free in all of my intersecting identities. I still struggled, as a young gay man, to assert myself within the confines of traditional definitions of masculinity. I’ve been called everything from faggot to nigger to spic, but that one moment of affirmation armored me for life. I’ve always felt a protective force field around me from that day when I was seven years old. I am eternally grateful to my young mother. She personified unconditional love and gave me agency in her red dress. When your mother loves you, when your mother affirms you, no one else matters.

WHEN I WAS A CHILD, POP CULTURE, ESPECIALLY MUSIC, rescued me. In high school, as my sexuality was uncontrollably rising to the surface, I would cut class after lunch and ride the city bus for hours with my Sony Walkman, an extra pack of batteries, and countless cassettes stuffed in my backpack. I’d ride to neighborhoods I’d never been to, with big houses, lush green grass, and nuclear families sitting behind the windows. I was jealous of their bubble. I knew my life would never resemble that type of Americana, but my soundtrack inspired me on those bus rides, convincing me that I was capable of reinvention. No other artists had a bigger impact on me than Madonna and Prince.

My mother was a huge fan of His Royal Badness. Well, fan isn’t the most fitting word; she was deeply obsessed with the 5’2" musical prodigy. Prince was her boyfriend, husband, lover, and addiction. The release of Purple Rain in June of 1984 was a major event in my house. I was seven in 1984, and my mother was twenty-five, still young and not totally over the fanatical years we all experience in our youth. These were the days before music streaming, album leaks, or YouTube. The sole way of hearing the latest music was camping out by the radio and praying for the deejay to play your favorite song.

My mother and her best friend, Karla, a Chicana woman who was the same age as her, both worshipped the Purple One. They were delirious with anticipation for the Purple Rain album. Word got out that there was a contest at our local radio station in Vancouver, Washington, and the first twenty people in line with purple balloons would win a copy of the album. My mother and Karla seriously prepared: dressed in head-to-toe purple—even their makeup. (Purple eye shadow and lipstick were extra, even in the 1980s). They made a beeline for the radio station early in the morning, but when they arrived, the line already wound around the block.

As legend has it, when Karla saw a small cart of Purple Rain albums pushed to the front of the line by one of the radio hosts, she screamed and charged uncontrollably through the line. Bulldozing her way through, with my mother right behind her, Karla wailed, terrifying people and accidentally smacking a batch of purple balloons into a random woman’s face. Purple chaos ensued as everyone bolted to the front of the line, with my mom and Karla in the lead. They snatched their Purple Rain albums, screaming like they were on The Price Is Right, and ran back to the car. My mother said, I’m surprised we didn’t get arrested!

When Purple Rain opened in theaters, my mother and Karla made it a full extravaganza. They saw the film countless times and argued over who looked more like Apollonia, Prince’s girlfriend in the film. My mom consistently needed her purple fix, and when she couldn’t find a babysitter, she dragged me along. When the smoky silhouette of Prince hit the screen, right on cue, my mother squeezed my hand, threw her other hand in the air, and screamed in the theater. I would whisper loudly, Mommy, please stop! You’re embarrassing me!

But it didn’t stop there. Every single solitary time Prince popped up on screen, she let out a holler, yelp, or something to the effect of, Oh, Lord! I love him! Priiiince!

Mom! I’d say, mortified. This is his movie. He’s gonna be in it the entire time! I can’t remember how many times I experienced Purple Rain on the big screen.

The Purple Rain album played on heavy rotation for the rest of the 1980s, in every house we ever lived in. Vinyl records were easily scratched, and my mother must’ve run through ten copies, getting her money’s worth from each. In our lowest moments, when she had been laid off from another job, food was scarce, and we suffered the end-of-the-month hunger pangs, we’d dance together to I Would Die 4 U, an invaluable three-minute escape. Her dedication to Prince extended to all of his protégés, especially Sheila E. Mom played The Glamorous Life ad nauseam. When she bought the album on cassette, we’d drive through the rich neighborhoods of Washington State, admiring all of the glamour. As Sheila E. pounded her drums, Mom would prophesize, One day you’re going to live the glamorous life, baby. One day.

There were pictures of three people on the walls of my home: Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.; Jesus; and Prince—but it was clear who reigned supreme. My mother decorated our entire apartment with Prince albums—Controversy on the windowsill, For You on the kitchen table, and 1999 propped up by the television. Magazines, posters that had come with the albums, and clippings from newspapers—Prince was present in every corner of our home.

My first memory of Prince is a milestone in my life. I was mesmerized by the Dirty Mind album cover, which sat on the nightstand in my mother’s bedroom. Prince stands seductively in skimpy black briefs, a bandana around his neck, rocking a trashy 1980s jacket with the springs of a mattress behind him. I was strangely attracted to the album cover, sneaking into my mother’s bedroom to obsess over Prince’s eyes, legs, and the pubic hair peeking out above his briefs. He triggered my sexuality. Yes, Prince officially made me gay. Blame it on Prince.

As I stared at Prince’s eclectic album covers, I was fascinated by a man who, to my childhood brain, didn’t present himself as the standard image of masculinity. He was gender nonconforming before the term existed. How could Prince be so effeminate and still be considered masculine? This was the question my underdeveloped mind attempted to process. My white mother and her Mexican best friend were lusting after a short and, for lack of a better word, femme man, who basically performed in drag. Plus, a little gay boy like me also felt an intense attraction. The Purple One’s appeal was universal—he was beloved beyond race, nationality, gender, age, and sexual orientation. Prince completely fucked up my world, and I am forever thankful.

There was also the Around the World in a Day album, which was released in 1985. For hours, I would gaze at the cover, transfixed by the images of a woman with a condition of the heart, the young boy flying on a balloon, and the man in all black clutching his tambourine. I imagined that was exactly what Paisley Park, Prince’s Minneapolis home, would be—a space of interconnecting stories.

Around the World in a Day is the first time I remember being sparked politically. Although they may be very young, even children can recognize societal imbalances. The song America shot through me as Prince critiqued God, country, and classism. In the era of the crack epidemic, the war on drugs, HIV/AIDS, and Reaganomics, which pushed the country’s national debt into the trillions, Prince made pointed observations of America. Beneath the guitars and godly vocal prowess, he was a musical activist for me, a Nina Simone with lace panties on his face.

Prince tapped into my angst as a child living under the lie of trickle-down economics, a clear attack on the poor. Poverty shames, and when you have no agency to express your rage, music is often your only outlet. This was especially true of my life in the 1980s. Prince’s America resonated with every welfare check and block of government cheese my mother and I received. However, Prince’s work was unpredictable. The Purple One wouldn’t abandon you in anger, but would remix you into accountability. The next track after America is Pop Life, where Prince turns the mirror on the listener, questioning if you are simply a victim of poverty.

I was confused. Was he now blaming the disenfranchised for their circumstances, cosigning a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps mentality? Not exactly. Prince challenged his listeners to take control. It’s about ownership over your right to exist, which is a perfect description of today’s movements: Black Lives Matter, LGBT equality, feminism, and the rights of the undocumented. In many ways, politics has become pop life; Prince saw that in his musical crystal ball. Pop is king. This is often not good—and may explain the madness of our last presidential election.

Around the World in a Day also tackled taboos. In songs like Temptation, where a conflicted Prince conjoined God and sex as only he could do, his manic cries encouraged an exploration of sexuality that wasn’t void of grace or faith. Sex and God were not mutually exclusive in Prince’s world. The theme of Temptation reminded me of 1981’s Controversy, where he sang about sexuality, faith, and race. Black, white, straight, gay, and God—even as a toddler, that was my story. Prince made me feel not so alone; he appeared to understand me.

When I was a preteen—bullied, confused, and grappling with every identity imaginable—Madonna became my goddess. From the late 1980s to the mid-1990s, Madonna vexed America with her blunt presentations of sex, religion, gender, and even race. Seeing a black Jesus in the 1989 Like a Prayer video blew my world to pieces. One of my white, Christian neighbors attempted to convince me the video was demonic. My mother countered by telling me they were fanatical, Bible-beating racists and I wasn’t allowed to be around their ignorance again.

Nineteen ninety-one’s Vogue showed me a world I didn’t know existed: black and Latin men, boldly gay, dancing, posing, and popping, while Madonna was relegated to the role of a costar. My mother would vogue with me, not knowing the roots of voguing or ballroom culture. Little did I know that five years later, I would dip into the ballroom scene, a subculture of LGBT people of color encompassing fashion, creativity, and dance. This is where voguing began. I found freedom in voguing with my mother. When someone from school babbled that Madonna revealed vogu-ing was a form of dance she saw in the gay community, and if I vogued I was a fag, I ran home and told my mother. She answered, Don’t let anybody stop you from dancing. You vogue, do the running man, whatever the hell you want. While Madonna is often critiqued for cultural misappropriation, as a child, I never saw an outward expression of black and Latin LGBT culture from any other mainstream artist except for Madonna. Her work was a vessel to clearly see myself. And then there was the documentary about 1990’s Blond Ambition tour, Truth or Dare.

Most gay men will tell you about the impact of seeing two men kiss for the first time. For me, it was Madonna’s two dancers—who were boyfriends— passionately and deeply kissing on screen after a dare from Madge. Their long, deep tongue kiss traveled leagues beyond the untapped sexuality that had been sparked in me by Prince’s Dirty Mind album cover. This was a clear presentation of two men, one of color, sharing affection. There was no censoring, no shame, and no mocking. Madonna added, I’m getting a hard-on! As did I— at fourteen, I credit Madonna for the first teenage erection I can remember.

For most of my childhood and teenage years, I was a Madonna encyclopedia. My favorite story of the Queen of Pop was this: In 1979, she dropped out of the University of Michigan, moved to New York City with thirty-five dollars in her pocket, and told the cab driver to drop her off in the middle of everything. She landed in Times Square, and the rest is pop culture history. For me, the City of Brotherly Love lacked the resources I needed to accomplish my dreams. I wanted to do something creative with my life; the concrete jungle called loud and clear. While visiting a friend in New York City in July of 1997, I sat in the food court at the Manhattan Mall and predicted, I will be living in New York by August of next year. Nearly everyone told me that moving to New York would be a massive mistake, but I thought of Madonna’s story. I was no Madge, but I felt like if she did it, I could at least try.

By early summer of 1998, I was on a crazed hunt for a job in Gotham. I wanted out of Philly and didn’t quite have the gumption to travel with just thirty-five dollars like Madge, but my ambition was unstoppable. These were the days before online job searches, so every morning I walked to the only newsstand in my Philadelphia neighborhood that sold the New York Times and the Village Voice. I waded through endless job listings, searching for any gig that would take me. I spent tons of money faxing my resumé from local delis, believing that someone would bite if I kept the bait out long enough.

In July of 1998, I received a last-minute call from a temp agency to be at an interview in New York City by four p.m. It was noon when I got the call. I jumped on the next train and arrived at the temp agency’s Midtown office fifteen minutes early. The woman who interviewed me said, It’s funny—I know people who live in Harlem and they can’t get here on time. You’re from Philly and you’re here early! The temp agency landed me a job at a cellular phone company, making just a few dollars above minimum wage, but I didn’t care. It was my only option. Everything in my soul told me I needed to be in the orbit of New York City. I soon found a roach-infested one-bedroom apartment, which represented independence in my mind. On August 16, 1998—Madonna’s birthday—at twenty-one years old, I sped down the New Jersey Turnpike, in a rental, singing my soul out to Madge’s Ray of Light album, ready for Gotham City. Madonna inspired me to take the risk, and her music was my soundtrack against the fear and naysayers.

My liberation cannot be credited to pop stars. That work comes from within, but we all need inspiration, a beacon to get us through. It’s hard to deny the need for your story to be represented, even if the messages or vessels require adjustments. However, I dismiss the notion that every community needs exact representation to see beyond their circumstances. If that was the case, I’d still be a closeted black man