Yesterday, LAVERNE COX, actress and star of the runaway hit series, ‘Orange Is The New Black‘ spoke at the opening ceremony for the ‘Creating Change‘ conference. The conference is being hosted by The National Gay and Lesbian Task Force in Houston, Texas.
After being introduced by one of the chairpersons, Laverne Cox walks towards the podium as Beyonce’s ‘Bow Down/Flawless’ plays from the loud speakers. I think that was the perfect song to segway into Laverne Cox’s speech, as she spoke intimately about her struggles as a transgender woman living in this country. She taps into the fact that she is undoubtedly a black, transgender woman. Laverne mentioned that she stems from a working class background where she was raised by her single mother. I enjoyed the speech, for Laverne Cox’s words paint a vivid reality of the obstacles that trans women especially, are forced to jump through, push over and toss aside in order to be respected as human beings, first.
I often read the negative comments that are posted beneath the photos that Amiyah Scott posts via her Instagram page. I see the hatred and ignorance that is written online in the comment sections of videos and blog posts that focus on transgender women. Their daily challenges seem to be a lot tougher and heavier than what I have ever experienced in the 13 years that Ive lived as an out, gay man. It’s very disappointing, quite honestly. One of my closest and dearest friends is a transgender woman who experienced the backlash of the ways in which trans girls were treated in the 80’s and early 90’s. Some of the stories that she has shared with me as it pertains her life directly and those trans women who stood alongside her are quite heartbreaking. Black, transgender women are often even ostracized from the ‘mainstream’ black, gay community. We do not embrace these beautiful creatures beyond the stigmas and stereotypes that society has already placed upon them. It’s 2014, and the effort on part of the LGBT community alone isn’t inclusive of transgender individuals on the street level. The acceptance may be a little more obvious in the upper echelon’s of the LGBT decision making groups. However, amongst the common crowd that exists between day to day tasks, transgender women are still mistreated and marginalized harshly.
Watch and Listen to Laverne’s very moving speech, below…
Hey Xem! I’m sure you won’t see this for a while but I saw your status message on Facebook and I am really excited that you will be posting stuff everyday for us. Im a new fan because my boyfriend made me watch the video of you interviewing that really cute couple about their relationship. I learned a lot from it and me and my boyfriend are also going on two years together. After we watched we both started following you on Facebook and watching all of your other videos too. You seem so smart and informative about a lot of things that I have been thinking about. All of my friends say that I have a great personality and they always come to me with their problems so that I can give them advice. When I was watching your videos I thought about making some of my own by having my friends ask me questions in front of the camera and me giving them advice the same way I normally would. Do you think people would actually watch that? I also have a tumblr where I post my favorite pictures of Rihanna, J Cole, my friends, me getting dressed to go out and a lot of stuff from youtube of my favorite celebrities. I know that people like you and so many other people have real blogs and youtube pages with a lot of viewers. Do you think it would be stupid for me to try and start up my own blogging since it seems that everybody does that now? Sorry for rambling and everything but how did you get so many people to look at your videos and come to your blog? Im in school, but I have a lot of time between my classes to post things if its something I decide to focus on. I hope you respond but if you don’t, I still love you and will be waiting for tomorrow.
So, not only am I reading your message at this moment, but Ive also decided to reply to you as my very first, ‘Dear Xemmy’ post. I will copy and paste this message in your inbox. However, the response will be live at XemSays.com by the time you log in again. *SMILES*
First, thank you so much for watching my recent youtube video. Tell your boyfriend that I appreciate him sharing my work with you. Interviewing Chris and David was such a refreshing experience for me. I was truly impressed by their candid moments on-screen. I think the on-screen conversation gave hope to a lot of us who may have given up on love or who face issues in our present, romantic relationships. Meanwhile, I most certainly encourage you to share your own relationship stories or personal interests online. The internet has become the perfect outlet for individuals like myself to express thoughts, opinions, ideas, creativity and visual artistry. When I first began blogging in September, 2007, my audience solely consisted of my real life friends, my brother and sister, parents and associates in the Baltimore, DC, Virginia area. I didn’t have a huge following, at all. My only social media network was MySpace, and I would often share my links with the 500 friends or so I had at the time. I would make posts about everything I loved, much like you said you already do. I talked about red carpet events, awards shows, events going on in Baltimore, and a slew of other topics. My friends were often annoyed by me flooding their email accounts with my blogs, but it was therapeutic for me at the time. Little did I know, the next 11 months were preparing me for national exposure. I recorded and posted my first Youtube video in August of 2008 while residing in Los Angeles, California. I shared the video on MySpace on a Saturday night, and woke up to the video posted via MediaTakeOut.com that Monday morning. I had not personally sent my video to the site, for I knew nothing about submitting content to blog owners. I knew nothing about being a ‘Youtube Star’ or even blogging to create an income. I started sharing myself online as a hobby. God then revealed that my purpose on earth was to use my personal experiences to reach the lives of those who otherwise felt silenced.
You HAVE TO REALIZE that everyone uses social media because these networks define our generation. Many people record videos for Youtube, Vine, Vimeo and other digital sharing platforms. Lots of individuals also use tumblr and personal dot coms to post about celebrities, relationships, technology, finance and a slew of other topics. The ‘trick’ is that you bring your own personal style to these social media platforms. I think it’s a unique idea to have your friends sit beside you on camera and speak about their problems as if you two were alone, behind closed doors. Let the ‘world’ see the special bond you share with your friends. Most people can already identify with ‘friendship’. Then, your new viewers will also listen to you give sound advice.
Keep in mind that most people are solely on youtube to achieve overnight ‘fame’. Their hope is that a silly, comical video will go viral and somehow land them on a makeshift television series. A lot of individuals strictly talk about reality shows, celebrity headlines and other hollywood driven topics. While it works for their platform and the audience they aim to target, you are more so looking to share yourself with people who want to feel as if they’re sitting with their BFF. Honestly, most people tell me that when they watch me online, they feel like they’re sitting with their big brother, best friend, son, preacher, father, etc. LOL! I embrace that.
You ARE able to stand out from the crowd, for as long as you aren’t trying to copy someone else’s style and presentation. Don’t mimic the platform that someone else has already built for themselves. Use your youtube channel or your blog to share stories in a way that isn’t common across all online websites.
And to answer your question about how I built my following..initially, it truly was a lot of work. I created Yahoo quick lists to email my video links and blogger links to 100 people at a time. In 2008, Yahoo would allow email users to create ‘quick lists’ that held 100 email addresses. Each week, I would spend my nights gathering as many email addresses as I could find on Facebook, in forwarded messages, in the ‘Contact’ sections of different websites, and anywhere else that would allow me to intrude. There was a time when I had a total of 25 quick lists; each holding 100 email contacts. Every weekend, I would then email links to my most recent video, as well as all of the posts I had made during the week, to those individual quick lists. After six months had gone by, word of mouth really helped my online presence expand. People were posting my videos in different online forums. My blogger webpage was also linked at the end of each weekly video. As a result, the viewers would then visit my website daily to read my articles while they waited for me to post a new video.
Honestly, once you have people interested in who you are, they will support the content you place in front of them. It’s not always the quality of the written or recorded material that establishes your audience. It’s often times, your personality, demeanor, vulnerability and ‘human factor’.
YOU CAN NOT BE AFRAID TO BE TRANSPARENT.
You can not approach blogging or recording videos as your opportunity to be ‘fabulous’ and ‘pseudo famous’ online. Share an authentic side of your character, and your blog posts or videos will certainly stand amongst the sea of individuals who are pretending to live a life that doesn’t truly exist. I encourage you to do it all!
dedicated to our untold stories and shared experiences.
It was November. The fabric of the fall season had sewn itself against the backdrop of Northeast, DC. Sharp winds streaked across my windowpane, blowing dead, crinkled leaves against the early morning air. I was stitched between the tattered comforts of my worn mattress and the dingy, white, twin size comforter that had held me for the past fifteen years. The walls shook between an echoing of metal, clapped against cup-shaped, cast metal. It was one hard, resounding hit after another. The church bell hung inside of the tower directly across the street from my second floor bedroom. It wakes me at 6am everyday. As the striker hits back and forth on the flared, thickened rim, the wind recites, ‘ding-dong-ding-dong’. A heavy banging swings into the softening horizon. Rays of purple and yellowish sun rise beneath the arch of the clouds. Orange squiggles of light begin to dart between the two beige sheets that my stepfather has draped along the plastic rods on my window. It’s another, dreadful Monday. I knew that everyone in school would be talking about homecoming weekend. My best friends would verbally lash me for skipping all of the festivities and events. The day would somehow feel like my burial. I’d need a miracle to simply get through it.
While lying flat on my back, I saw shadows of tree branches quilting patterns along the ceiling. My mother would say it was the lord’s way of blessing our home at the beginning of each day. When we were children, she told us that the shadows were God’s arms and every room would be protected. Growing up, my mother instructed me to say my prayers whenever the shadows began to tap the listening walls. Without moving, I silently recited the same prayer I had been sending since the seventh grade. “God, its me…Elijah. Please, make me like all of the other boys.”
I’m counting down six weeks, three days and eighteen hours before Christmas vacation. The date is marked on my calendar of famous writers; highlighted in the same month that features my hero, James Baldwin.
I peeked across the room to make sure that my older brother was still buried in his bed. There was a half hour left before the force of Jelani’s clock alarm would yank him from beneath the sheets. Thirty peaceful minutes gave me just enough time to do what I always do when I first wake in the morning. I turned onto my left side to face the wall; making sure that Jelani would only see my back if he were to get up early. Placing my right hand on top of the blanket, I quietly slid Baldwin’s ‘Giovanni’s Room’ novel from inside of my pillowcase. It was the only copy stocked in our school library. A peering glow from the sunrise provided just enough light for me to travel between the lines of Baldwin’s infamous tales. His words made me think of a far-off day when I wouldn’t have to bow my head beneath the clouds. There would be no shame. No threats of having sin beat from my body. No one to forgive me for being black, feminine and frail.
My unclean thoughts could somehow fill the daylight and swallow up darkness. A place that had no language of rights and wrongs. Where I longed to be. I was so captivated by how ‘Giovanni’s Room’ detailed the social and romantic relationships between men. I would lie here for a moment, waist deep in helpless desires. My loins began to stretch. I had no power over this longing to feel and experience nakedness. A freedom illustrated between these pages. Since starting high school three months ago, I’ve read all of James Baldwin’s essays. My English teacher only required that we journal our thoughts and other findings from ‘Notes Of A Native Son’. However, I’ve begun to lose myself in Baldwin’s entire collection of work. He and I both paint the world with words.
I do not like being the first in the bathroom every morning. The cold licks my hideous skin, spreading across the unsightly pimples that are forming on my cheeks and my chin. My bare feet chill into clenched numbness against the freezing tiles on the floor. Standing in the bathroom mirror also forces me to see everything I hate about my face. Maybe Monday wouldn’t be so bad-looking had I not skipped my haircut on Saturday. I intentionally missed my appointment over the weekend to avoid the awkward, barbershop conversations. It’s uncomfortable having to change the topic whenever my barber begins to ask about the football game I clearly didn’t watch and whether or not I have a girlfriend.
I half sat and half leaned on the sink while brushing my teeth. I missed my father. Though most of my childhood memories include him nodding on the stoop outside of our house, he was always the first awake and walking around downstairs in the mornings. Even though he often reeked of whisky, I was too young to realize that he was an alcoholic. Some nights, my mother would yell for Jelani to help her drag my father from the curb in front of the church. Since he was always sitting there when I arrived home from school, I guess I thought his job was to guard the building. Whether my father was sitting outside at night or slouched across the couch in the living room, I always felt protected when he was around. I remember that he would carry me on his shoulders as we walked to the corner store on Saturday afternoons. He always wore the same pair of burgundy corduroy pants and a mustard yellow T-shirt. If it were cold outside, he’d throw on this worn, black leather jacket that smelled like mothballs. I’d hold mother’s grocery list in my fist, while gripping steadily the sides of my father’s head. He always bought me a twenty-five cent pretzel stick from the plastic jar that sat beside the register. He’d pull me from his shoulders as soon as we walked through the front doors of the store. My father would sit me on top of the counter and hand me two quarters from his sock. I’d pay the man with one and shove the other in my shoe. For years, I watched my father pull his dollar bills from inside of his sneakers whenever he needed to pay for anything. I guess I figured that’s where I was supposed to save my money too.
We’d leave the corner store, and my father would carry the see through, plastic bags back to the house. He’d then have a tiny, paper bag stuffed inside of his leather jacket. When I asked him what he bought, he told me it was his medicine. I remember a time when the brown bag fell onto the kitchen floor as my father lowered me from his shoulders. Glass shattered and dark liquid began seeping through cracks in the tiles. My father insisted that he’d clean up the mess, but my mother still began to cry. It was the first time I ever heard my parents screaming at each other. My mother would only shout in church on Sundays. And my father only yelled the time he caught me playing with Janna’s Cabbage Patch Kid. He yanked it out of my hand and said, ‘only sissies play with dolls Elijah!’
‘Get out punk. I need to take a shit’, Jelani shouted in his abrasive tone of voice. Even though I wasn’t finished getting dressed, I’ve learned to not argue with my older brother first thing in the morning. My stepfather will only defend Jelani, and my mother will argue with my stepfather for taking sides. Standing up to Jelani ruins the start of everyone’s day. Instead, I gave myself one final glance in the mirror, grabbed my navy, paperboy hat from the sink and began to walk out of the bathroom. Jelani slammed the door as I stepped away, hitting me in the lower back with the brass knob. A stabbing pain shot down the inside of my left leg. Gripping the top of the bannister, I fought back tears. Anger combined with helpless fury welled up in me. I grabbed my navy pea coat and grey, wool scarf from my bed. On my way leaving out of the front door, my stepfather yelled from the dining room, ‘why your pants so damn tight, Elijah?!’ I stopped and looked at him, very quiet. My stepfather had hardness about him. He chiseled his way through life, grunting his dissatisfactions. He rarely spoke two words to me, unless it was to criticize the way I walked, who I hung around, or even how I dressed. I placed my paperboy hat on my head and replied, ‘my pants aren’t tight…they just fit.’ My stepfather swallowed a fork full of scrambled eggs and then said, ‘well, your brother doesn’t wear his pants like that.’ Silence falls again. Before I could respond to yet another one of Glen’s comparisons between Jelani and I, my mother began to walk towards me from the kitchen. She was a sanctified woman who did everything she could to make life easier for me. My mother had a Cinderella soul. She was carrying my lunch in a white, plastic, grocery bag and wearing her sweet, nurturing smile. My mother shouted, ‘have a glorious day at school Elijah!’ Glen let out a huge grunt as he fell back into his chair. My mother then handed my lunch to me and wrapped her arms around my body. This was her way of defending me against my stepfather’s verbal lashings. I faked a smile as I turned away from my mother and walked out of the house.
The leaves created a natural quilt pattern that layered the ground in various shades of red, yellow and green. Adam was waiting for me in front of the church. He stood on the main sidewalk directly across the street from my front door. When I reached the pavement, I paused and looked in Adam’s face. He had clear, dark brown skin. His face was angular and his slanted eyes set deep within their sockets. He and I stood 5’10, shoulder to shoulder. The brown pea coat that Adam was wearing blended with the canopy of trees that lined the walkway. Adam and I called one another brothers, as we practically grew up together. His mother moved the family to our neighborhood when we were both five years old. We’ve attended the same schools since Kindergarten.
I was still wearing my make pretend smile. ‘What’s wrong Elijah?’ Adam asked. Adam knows my moods, even when I’m silent. He and I got to be, for each other, what the other missed. Adam had two younger sisters and always wanted another boy around. I had Jelani, but hadn’t felt close to him since my father passed away. I continued smiling and responded, ‘everything man. It’s everything.’ I put my hand on Adam’s back and nudged him to walk down the street alongside me. I didn’t want my mother to see me upset, as I knew she was watching us from the front window. Adam and I began to make our way down Branch Avenue. I explained to Adam that it was becoming extremely difficult to ignore Jelani’s bullying. Combined with my stepfather’s nitpicking, I told Jelani that it felt as if I was living with vultures. They both seemed to circle around and close in on me at the worst of times. It was as if they could sense my spirit dying, but circled lower to eventually feed off of me. Adam was already familiar with Jelani and Glen’s preferred way of living. He had been at my house enough to witness their ignorance towards everything and everyone that didn’t fit their one-way mold. Me included. Adam put his hand on my shoulder as I told him that I couldn’t wait to graduate and move out of the house. He reminded me of our lifelong pact to travel far away from Washington, DC. Our plan is to room together as freshman at whatever college or university that grants us both full scholarships. Adam said, ‘but in order to get to that point Elijah, you have to somehow fix your mind to get from one day to the next.’ Adam and I were both fifteen, but he spoke about life as if he had lived once before. ‘You have to avoid thinking too far ahead. Face the day’, he declared.
As Adam and I approached the bus stop, a group of boys stood clustered around the corner storefront. Most of them were dressed in dark sweatshirts, jeans and Jordan sneakers of some kind. I recognized one of them. He comes over to the house often to play video games with Jelani. I don’t know his name, but I definitely remember the face. He squinted while staring at Adam and I place our book bags on the ground. I slightly tilted my head back and chin up, to greet him like I usually do. He tossed his fist in the air and tilted his head as well. Now, all of the boys were looking at me. There was a stitch of silence amongst the group of boys before one of them blasted from the background, ‘you know that faggot?’ The group erupted in laughter. They playfully beat each around the shoulders. I leaned towards Adam and whispered for him to not turn around to face the boys. Adam prided himself on defending me. He wasn’t afraid to fight and he didn’t care about getting hurt in the process. Before Adam could utter a single word, loud music roared behind us. As I then turned around, I saw Jelani parking my stepfather’s pickup truck in front of the store. Jelani and I made eye contact. He turned his gaze towards the driver side door as his friend approached the truck. ‘I think it’s really foul that your stepfather lets Jelani drive his truck and he never offers you a ride to school.’ I responded, ‘It’s cool. I wouldn’t have anything to talk to him about in the car, anyways. Id actually rather catch the bus with you.’
The beat of the morning was unsteady. A mutable rhythm seemed to pace throughout the room. My math teacher stood at the front chalkboard. She requested volunteers to assist with our test review. No one responded. Even though I knew the answers, it was a heavy feeling of embarrassment that kept my hands pinned beneath the desk. Constantly being told that I sound like a girl or speak too softly weighed down my desire to talk in class. I was the only ninth grader taking Algebra II Honors. Sitting in the back section of Mrs. Beechman’s room, I tried to bury myself behind the rows of upperclassmen. I slouched down in my seat while keeping my gaze lowered between the series of math equations in my textbook. Mrs. Beechman made a habit of calling on me whenever we would make eye contact. As long as she couldn’t see me, I figured I would avoid answering any questions in front of the entire class. The room was quiet. A slow tempo of warm air blew from the ceiling vent. Mrs. Beechman slammed her teaching guide on the front table and told the class to close our notebooks. ‘Fine! Clear your desks and take out a pencil!’ Mrs. Beechman shouted. ‘If no one needs the review, it must mean that you’re ready to be tested’, she continued. The room erupted in sighs. A gush of relief flowed through my body. A pop quiz meant that we would be instructed to work in silence.
I met up with Janna between classes. She walked down the hallway swinging that thick behind of hers. I swallowed my grape juice while Janna shouted the lyrics to some Kelis song. Her voice sounded like pistols. People stared at Janna. She would lock eyes with the other girls especially and give them that yes-bitch-I-know-I’m-cute look. Janna had a round face, penny size dimples, hazel eyes and perfectly white teeth. She was pretty and had already become the center of attention at school. The first floor was filled with maroon streamers, gold balloons, sparkly confetti and various championship banners hung from the ceiling. Our football team won the homecoming game over the weekend. The entire school was still hung over with excitement. I, however, felt as if I was being embalmed alive. My physical body was present inside of the school building, but I didn’t exist amongst my classmates. Janna and everyone else around me seemed to have found their place within the crowd. Janna’s big hair and beaming personality naturally made people want to gravitate towards her. Even the upperclassmen girls who were intimidated by her popularity, still waved when we walked by. ‘I know! Lets take a picture!’ Janna yelled, as we were walking towards the cafeteria. I told Janna that I didn’t want to take a picture, as I didn’t like what I was wearing. Janna stopped in the middle of the hallway, turned towards me and gave my outfit her classic, once-over. She pulled her crinkled hair away from her face, raised her left eyebrow and looked me up and down. ‘What are you talking about Elijah? You look handsome! Best dressed boy here.’ I had on a pair of dark denim jeans that were cuffed at the bottom, black utility boots, a white oxford shirt and the black suspenders that Adam bought me for my birthday the month before school started. I guess I was still reeling over the comments that my stepfather made about how tight my pants fit. I didn’t want to pose with Janna in the hallway; drawing added attention to my skinny legs. Janna handed her pink cell phone to her friend, Melissa. She then pinned me against one of the grey, metal lockers. Poking out her butt and pressing her breasts against my arm, Janna instructed Melissa to take a full body shot. Playfully, Janna snapped, ‘Elijah, you better smile BOY…or do something sexy. Don’t ruin my damn picture.’ The camera on Janna’s phone flashed twice. I tried to look comfortable while posing beside her.
Janna and I have been friends since the first grade. While Adam and our other classmates were playing kickball or tag on the playground, Janna and I would be digging to China near the steep hill. Our teachers in elementary school always paired Janna and I as partners for class field trips. She would split her ham, cheese and cracker Lunchables with me, and I would give her half of my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Even when our seats would be placed apart from one another in the classroom, we’d still slide notes back and forth between the desks. Janna and I have just always been close. Whenever she meets new people, most of who happen to be other girls, she introduces them to me.
Now that Adam’s schedule has been changed, I felt awkward being the only guy sitting at a lunch table with Janna and her new girlfriends. They all talk to me, of course. However, I now wondered if everyone else in the cafeteria looked at me as being a sissy of some sort. At least when Adam would sit across from me at the end of the long, laminate table, it appeared as if we weren’t co-stars of ‘The Janna Show’. I was nervous about having to defend myself, again. Aside from Adam, guys in school never talk to me unless we are forced to work together on a science lab or other group project. The majority of my friends have always been females. I didn’t realize how different or weird it was until the boys in middle school began to tease me about it. Some of them would call me Elizabeth instead of Elijah. Janna would curse in response. She dared any of them to call me Elizabeth a second time, in her presence. She would pull her poofy hair into a thick bun and challenge anyone who made fun of me to also make fun of her. Janna has always been ready to defend me, especially if Adam wasn’t around.
From the corner of my eye, I could see Jelani standing against the floor to ceiling, cafeteria windows. His dark, masculine complexion and broad, vertical stance positioned him at the center of attention. He was posted up alongside three other juniors from the track team. I watched them with bitter eyes as they were laughing and pointing at the table of girls from my Creative Writing class. I hated the way Jelani treated other people, especially me. He doesn’t speak if he is walking with one of his friends. We at least played video games, watched television and walked to the store together when I was in the fifth and sixth grades. Now, I can’t even ask him for a ride home from school. Though my newspaper meetings end the same time as his track practices, he’ll say there isn’t enough room for me.
I’ve told him to stop pushing up on Janna. He makes repeated comments about her ass whenever he sees us walking together. His eyes always move over her body. Janna smiles and rolls her eyes at him, but I think it’s disgusting. It would seem that Jelani would look at Janna as his little sister or younger cousin.
As fourth period lunch ended, I could hear Jelani’s voice chanting above the cluster of other voices. ‘Cake! Cake! Cake! Cake! Cake! Cake! Cake!’ belted from him as I walked beside Janna and her friends. The harmonized laughter from Jelani’s track teammates infuriated me. They were following behind us as the crowd dismissed from the cafeteria. I had never before expressed to Janna how irritated I was by Jelani’s advances towards her. I figured that she wouldn’t entertain his nonsense. Janna was a big flirt when she wanted to be. She dropped her purse on the floor and stopped in the middle of the doorway. She stuck out her tongue, rubbed her fingers through the back of her hair and started shaking her ass. Janna was wearing grey leggings that accentuated her full curves. Melissa laughed and started chanting in unison with Jelani’s clown posse. I darted ahead of them.
I loathed crossing the big, burgundy corridors that led to the gymnasium. This is the worst part of my day. An intolerable heaviness formed in the pit of my stomach as I slowly dragged my body down the long, dark, basement hallway. While captains chose the other, more athletic guys to join their teams, I was always the last pick. As beige, concrete walls frame my journey to PE, I can’t help but to want to skip class, again. I intentionally missed eighteen days out of forty-five during the last quarter. I also only changed into my gym uniform eleven of those eighteen days. Coach Miller gave me a sixty-five as a first quarter grade. Even though it’s considered passing, my mother was very disappointed. In the teacher’s comment section, Coach Miller reported, does not participate fully in class, attendance is unsatisfactory and does not present proper and appropriate class materials. Avoiding gym class in middle school was easy since I played the saxophone. Band was a year long, mandatory elective for all members. During the first week of this school year, I begged the ninth grade advisor to assign me any other class other than Physical Education.
Adam was already changed into his gym shorts by the time I entered the locker room. He was standing shirtless, bow-legged and barefoot, while shoving his jeans and boots into his book bag. Since the start of second quarter, Adam has been weight-training afterschool, three days each week. I could already see results in his upper body. Adam’s pecs were sitting at attention, his back looked wider and his arms were definitely thicker. Before we started high school in September, Adam and I spent the summer talking about putting on more pounds. We were supposed to start lifting weights together. I instead joined the school newspaper. As I sat down at the end of the wooden bench, Adam laughed and said, ‘I see that sixty-five got your ass in here this afternoon.’ ‘Barely’, I responded. Adam grabbed my neck with one hand and playfully pulled me backwards. He then leaned over me with his little smile and said, ‘well, you’ll enjoy these next few weeks of swimming bro.’ The heavy knot instantly grew larger inside of my stomach. I was going to have to stand barechested in front of my entire gym class. While swimming is one of the few sports that I excel in, I hated my puny body.
The white, drawstrings on my gym shorts were tied extremely tight. I would normally have my tee shirt tucked in to prevent my shorts from falling down. Standing half naked around the pool caused me to freak out! My heart was beating like a fist banging on a locked door. I could feel my fingers trembling. They were cold and clammy like fish scales. Adam stood directly beside me while Coach Miller called roll. As each of my classmates names were called, I couldn’t help but notice their bodies. I avoided making direct eye contact with any of them as I snuck quick glances of their torsos. I was still the skinniest amongst the group. This was the first time I was seeing the other guys in my gym class half dressed. While changing in the locker room first quarter, I always took my clothes off in one of the bathroom stalls to avoid moments like these. I couldn’t wait for Coach Miller to blow his whistle so I could jump in the water. I desperately wanted to hide.
Wringing wet and funky with chlorine, I dried off while facing the lockers. My towel was wrapped around my waist as I slid my shorts off. I was afraid to peel my gaze from the cement wall. The fear of being seen naked or someone else seeing me, see them naked kept my eyes mounted forward. While Adam was rinsing off in the showers, some of the other guys walked into the aisle to congratulate me for swimming the fastest laps. It was the first time I had ever heard my name spoken inside of the locker room.
The remainder of the day felt like that moment between reaching the top of a roller coaster ride and dropping 144 feet into the depths of unknown territory. I was now tall. For once, I finally felt like all of the other boys in school. It made me wonder if God had finally answered my prayers by making me normal. I walked down the center of the third floor hallway with a gigantic smile on my face. Janna stopped me as I was headed to Spanish class and asked why I was grinning so big. I told her that I swam the fastest lap speed during gym. She jumped, brushed her hands through my wet hair and then grabbed me tight around my upper arms. Janna then shouted, ‘my winner…you Elijah, are MY winner!’ People were slowing down in front of Janna and I to see why she was once again yelling to the top of her lungs. Her enormous personality had a way of crowding open spaces. This time, the stares didn’t make me feel awkward or uncomfortable. In my mind however, I questioned whether or not this day would mark the beginning of my happily-ever-after. Had the listening walls finally heard my silent cries?
It was now four o’clock. Mr. Gibson ran afterschool newspaper meetings the same way he taught our last period, English class. Everyone sat around a semi circle of wood finish desks to toss ideas back and forth. It forces the group to engage with one another directly, I suppose. Aside from Mr. Gibson, I was the only other black sitting amongst seats that were filled by white students. I didn’t mind, for I rather enjoyed being the ONE everyone turned to for advice when completing sensitive article assignments. Since the majority of the student body was black, I did often wonder why I was the only African American student on staff. Mr. Gibson suggested I sign up to write for the school paper in the beginning of the year. He was impressed with my first thesis paper and said he enjoyed my unique, writing style. I guess he has become the only teacher I relate to outside of school. He took me to a journalism workshop in Georgetown a few weeks after I officially joined the paper. Hanging out with Mr. Gibson on a Saturday made me look at him a little differently than I do the other administrators. He’s only twenty-five, so our conversations reminded me of how Jelani and I would possibly talk to one another if Jelani ever spoke to me at all. I remember during our first staff meeting, the Editor-In-Chief of the paper assumed I would be interested in doing the sports column. She probably thought that black boys in Washington, DC didn’t enjoy life beyond the basketball court. I initially accepted the position, for I didn’t realize that I had the option to turn it down. Having no idea how I would cover games that I never attended, I later expressed to Mr. Gibson that I felt more comfortable writing editorial pieces. He spoke to the Editor-in-Chief days later. Together, they obliged my request.
An early fall sunset illuminated the tips of the bright red oak trees that framed my ride home. It was now a quarter after five. As I sat in the rear corner seat of the transit bus, I thought about Adam. He had been teaching me to take precautions when traveling the city alone. Adam insisted that I sit in the back row whenever we weren’t together. He said the back row provided the best view to see everyone. Adam said to never place myself where someone I couldn’t see would be able to watch me. I directed my gaze outside to witness the city get darker between each bus stop. I somehow didn’t want to go straight home. My mind wandered as I thought about James Baldwin’s adventures in New York City; the ones I had repeatedly read about. I recounted in my head the stories about him meeting other writers and artists in Greenwich Village. As I imagined living somewhere like Manhattan or Harlem, I envisioned myself sitting outside of a tiny café. I’d sip coffee beneath a white, bistro umbrella and people-watch between writing journal entries.
My daydream was then interrupted by the acrid smell of smoke. I looked up to notice three guys sitting near me in the rear of the bus. They all looked familiar, but I couldn’t immediately place their faces. The thicker one of the group had taken up two seats on the opposite side of the back row. He was looking at me from the corner of his eye and moving his lips soundlessly. The visible wear and tear of his clothing made me think that he had just left his job at a warehouse or something. I saw the other two staring at me from their seats as well. They kept tapping one another on the knee and motioning their fingers towards me. The bus driver peeked at me through his long, rearview mirror before turning into my neighborhood. It was then I realized that the guys were a part of the group that hung out in front of the corner store.
My stop was coming up. I wanted to ring the bell, but the muscles in my arms were frozen in fear. The thought of these guys following me off the bus made me wish I had Janna or Adam sitting beside me. My first mind told me to remain seated and simply allow the bus to roll by Branch Avenue. I figured the boys were getting off there anyways to do whatever it is they do on the storefront at night. If I got off at the stop after Branch Avenue, I could easily take the alley behind the church. Id cut across the street in front of Adam’s house to get home. Jelani nor my stepfather would care if I made it home tonight or not. However, I knew that my mother would be heartbroken. It was the thought of seeing her smiling face at the receiving end of this Monday that forced me to get up. As my mind raced between the ideas of being ambushed by the group and my mother finding my mutilated body lying in the street, I began fidgeting with my house keys. For a moment, I felt silly even having these thoughts about three guys I didn’t know.
I fearfully lowered my gaze to stare at my shoes. Though my tiny fists probably wouldn’t inflict severe pain during a fight, I knew the front of my utility boots could. Lifting my right arm to pull the bell, I stood and began walking towards the back door of the bus.
The boy wearing the black thermal shirt and black puff coat turned his head towards me. He was sitting in the seat directly across from the back door. His wicked gaze traveled from my shoes, resting on my book bag and up to my face. I caught only a glimpse of his eyes before turning to face the outside. I shuddered as I could see the window reflection of all three boys standing up behind me. I held tightly to the silver pole that was parallel to the back exit sign. My house keys were now clenched in my right fist. The taller, light skin boy had a devious smirk wiped across his face. He kept looking back and forth between the heavyset boy and me. Neither of them seemed too threatening. However, the guy in all black appeared to be someone who could be capable of anything. I recognized him as the one who called me a faggot after I spoke to Jelani’s friend at the storefront.
The bus finally stopped on the corner of Branch Avenue and Hampstead Road. As the backdoor swung open, I felt a brisk wind blow against me. My body filled with panic as I walked down the exit stairs. My throat tightened for a brief moment. I tried slowly to breathe-in the air that was smacking against my face. The tingling of pins and needles in my toes made it difficult for me to walk. I knew once the bus driver pulled away there would be no one to protect me. ‘Where’s your little boyfriend?!’, the one in black shouted. I didn’t respond. The two other boys laughed while standing behind me. He continued, ‘you heard me FAGGOT.’ I turned to face the group of boys and said, ‘I’m not that.’
A high-pitched squeak from the brakes on the bus drowned out whatever the boy in black said next. His eyes were cold and empty as he jumped towards me. He grabbed the collar of my coat and viciously shoved me to the ground. When my face hit the concrete, I heard a familiar ringing sound in the distance. It was a torn, chilling metal, clapping against the evening skies. Curling my body into the same fetal position that I usually sleep in, I covered the back of my neck with both of my hands. The thick lining of my coat seemed to cushion the heavy blows from shoes kicking and stomping my body. It hurt then it didn’t hurt. As angry hits then streaked across my face, I could still hear the chime of church bells in the background. Sharp knuckles pierced my skin causing blood to gush from my nose. I laid nowhere. Shadows from tree branches framed around me. My body was being protected. I wanted to scream for my mother, but I knew she wouldn’t hear me above this Monday night storm. It had come. It was doing its damage and then it would hopefully be gone.
The clouds would no longer cover my scars as dusk turns to dawn. I stumbled across Hampstead Road with my torn book bag still strapped to my back. The three boys had darted into the darkness. My foolproof plan to pray away my differences had been outnumbered. I was coughing and crying beneath the streetlights that lined Branch Avenue. The air was foul with the smell of mothballs and whisky; the same scent that stayed in my clothes for weeks after my father would lower me from his shoulders. I felt his presence in the series of short steps that led me closer and closer towards my front door. The dollar bills I had shoved deep into my left sock after buying snacks at lunch were now soggy and sticking to the bottom of my foot. It was as if my father was taking this walk ahead of me. A barrier of protection from the intolerable world. He spoke a silent language in my ear this night. Over and beyond the thoughts of what I would tell my mother or how Janna and Adam would react, I heard my father saying, ‘Get home, Elijah.’ Blood trickled down the side of my face, but I somehow wasn’t in physical pain. Shame fell away from my heart, even knowing that Jelani and my stepfather would see my wounds. I felt no more threats of having to defend myself against their verbal lashings or the physical blows from strangers. There was no need to be forgiven for my being feminine, soft spoken and frail. I began thinking about what Adam said to me in the morning as we walked down this same street. And he was right. I had to face the trials and tribulations of each day in order to celebrate the triumphs of tomorrow. There was no majestic place I could travel to escape my way of living. No faint ability to blend into the crowd. No miracle. No miracle on Monday.
Regardless of ones race, class, gender or sexuality, LIFE throws each of us curve balls. We invest time and effort into devising a short term plan for our lives, and somehow, prayer just doesn’t seem to be enough. You’ve been trying to save money so you can move into a nicer place, and every other month, something new is going wrong with your vehicle. Just when your relationship seems to finally be flowing in a positive direction, your grandmother is diagnosed with a rare disease. As soon as you’ve secured a new job that is barely paying, but enough to make ends meet, your financial aid for school falls through. Every day, you’re waking up and trying to forge forward for the sake of your family that supports you or your child who looks up to you. You’re reminded by friends and associates that you have your health, a roof over your head, food to eat and other basic needs that are being met daily. However, you can’t seem to place your hands on the pulse of happiness. Often times, you feel sad and alone as you stand in the bathroom mirror, brushing your teeth. There are certain intangible things in life that you have tried so hard to attain, and nothing in your plans seems to work in your direct favor. As a result, it becomes easy to feel defeated. Many people then begin to accept failure during these moments; for it seems that they’re carrying the weight of the world on their tired shoulders.
There have been times over the past four years that the conventional form of ‘HAPPINESS’ did not exist in my life. Even now, with all of my blessings and opportunities, I don’t know if I am truly ‘HAPPY’. I was raised to be appreciative, grateful, humble and understanding. However, as I get older, it becomes tougher and more difficult to find the PULSE OF HAPPINESS. I get tired of having to ‘be grateful’ or satisfied with ‘what I already have’. I become annoyed having to be patient and understanding of the fact that ‘Im where Im suppose to be.’ It’s frustrating accepting the fact that, ‘everything happens for a reason’. Life, for me, has presented many circumstances over the past four years that I have allowed to take control of my existence.
What many of us don’t realize is that the pulse of happiness changes its pace, rhythm and beat as we enter and exit the different phases in our lives. The pulse slows down at certain moments when other feelings and senses are intensified, as it increases when we are experiencing a surge in the turning points of our lives. As human beings, we subconsciously compare the feeling or idea of happiness to what we remember it to be as children, teenagers and very young adults. The pulse of happiness feels different for each of us. As some associate the feeling with financial freedom and the comfort of existing in a long term relationship, others experience the pulse of happiness in their ability to be free of family burdens or even having a clean home. We associate the feeling of being HAPPY with the environments, activities and circumstances in our lives that create the most peaceful state of mind. Finding your PULSE OF HAPPINESS is about discovering the elements in life that present the most comfortable and secure experiences.
When I say that YOU ARE NOT YOUR CIRCUMSTANCES, I am suggesting that the setbacks in your life should not dictate your mood. Being HAPPY is a conscious decision on the part of the individual. If your financial, romantic and professional life all seem to be in temporary shambles, turn towards your PULSE OF HAPPINESS. If planting in your garden, eating a quart of ice cream, watching a figure skating competition or playing video games intensifies your pulse, indulge in those activities. Control the pulse of your happiness by structuring the events, situations and experiences that frame the down time in your life. We choose to be miserable, defeated and sad. We choose to wallow in the rejection, failures and disappointments. We choose to stop the PULSE OF HAPPINESS by turning our backs on the elements of life that help catch and redirect the curve balls that are thrown into our lives.
HAVE YOU EVER HEARD ANYONE SAY…WHEN YOU’RE FEELING DOWN, GO AROUND YOUR FAMILY OR THOSE WHO MOST LOVE YOU? – That is a part of controlling your PULSE OF HAPPINESS. You are making a conscious decision to fight against the set backs by surrounding yourself with people who naturally create a sense of comfort in your life.
It is extremely difficult to free your spirit from the dungeon of distress. I know. I’ve experienced it all. When sadness saturates our being, we often give in to that mood. Staying in that dark space for too long results in depression and eventually leads to greater, emotional problems. It becomes most important that you recognize what your PULSE OF HAPPINESS is. When you are faced with hardship and your circumstances appear bleak, turn towards the elements in life that force your heart and spirit to beat. Fight against the disappointment, rejection or feelings of failure by finding your PULSE and controlling your HAPPINESS.
It’s NOT an easy task, but it will truly help pave the rocky periods of your daily and ultimate, life long journey.
I had the very distinct pleasure of interviewing a young man who I met five months ago while attending The Rebirth Of Carta Ball in Washington, DC. This young star, DAVID BRIDGEFORTH captured my attention on the night of Saturday, February 18, 2012. He introduced me to his magazine and overall DBQ brand when he pointed out an article that featured me alongside the likes of LGBT royalty, Derrick Briggs, B.Scott and gay rap artist, Bryn’t.
Ive been paying attention to the work of David Bridgeforth ever since he and I shared those few moments this past winter season. It’s very rare that I am impressed by the younger generation of men who create our community. Im often embarrassed by the values that many of them uphold and the lack of integrity that exists in their daily lives. David, however, represents the alternative.
In his TWO PART INTERVIEW with me, David discusses his childhood, coming out, life influences, personal relationships, business ventures, spiritual clarity and the vicious ‘kweens’ that live in Washington, DC. LOL! Enjoy all that this very intelligent and handsome young man has to share with the world.
As I just said on Twitter moments ago, DAVID BRIDGEFORTH is the EXAMPLE.
If you are unfamiliar with the Xem VanAdams Youtube Channel, please visit us TODAY and begin catching up on the past four years of visual moments where Xem is discussing issues related to race, relationships, class, gender, sexuality, pop culture and other social issues.
To this day, I would still declare high school as being the best four years of my life. Other than the time I spent living in Los Angeles, high school was the last solid period where I felt free and void of the concerns that boggle the mind. I didn’t worry about ‘what was going to happen’ or ‘what was going to be’, for I was extremely content living in the present. I was one of the fortunate teenagers who never experienced acts of bullying, teasing, name calling or feelings of being outcast from the student body. Quite honestly, my high school years were written like a classic, 1980’s, teenage drama and I played the starring, male role. I was always extremely popular, respected by my peers, standing center stage at school-wide assemblies, and involved in major extra curricular activities. I ranked in the top 20 percentile of my graduating class. I was voted, Most Outgoing, Most Outspoken and Rebel With A Cause in our senior superlatives. I was almost EXACTLY the same as I am now in my personality and demeanor.
I worked as a Sales Associate at Kay-bee Toys and The Gap Clothing Store during my summer vacations. With the money I made every two weeks, I was able to buy all of the extras; in addition to what my parents were already providing. I took a lot for granted during my teenage years. I grew comfortable with the idea that life would be easy, for that was the reality for me and many of my close friends. We all grew up in households where our parents allowed us to enjoy our childhood. Hardship and struggle were foreign notions. We attended one of the highest ranked high schools in the country and then graduated to attend some of the finest colleges in the nation. For all I knew at the time, by the age of 25, I would be living as a successful, wealthy filmmaker. My feet would be planted on the cliffs surrounding Hollywood, California. I would not have a care in the entire free world.
As I matriculated through my early college years, I developed the unhealthy habit of comparing myself to those around me. I began to mentally and emotionally struggle for the first time in my life. I quietly battled issues regarding my sexuality, credit card debt, not owning a car of my own and being frustrated with my inability to secure an opportunity to make movies. I felt as if everyone around me was comfortable in their lives and content with what seemed to be an air of happiness. I could not understand how at the age of 19 and 20, I did not have what it appeared my friends and associates were attaining for themselves. I could not make sense of why I felt so alienated living in Philadelphia and attending Temple University. Everyone in my life seemed to love their colleges. I wasn’t use to experiencing days of sadness and extended moments of confusion. It was difficult for me existing as a small fish in a big ocean. I was use to being the center of attention; always being clear of my present state and future plans. For the first time in my young life, I was experiencing doubt, confusion and my very first bout of depression.
Amongst all of my closest friends, I have always been the last one to reach the milestones. I was the last one to get my drivers license. I waited until one week shy of my 18th birthday. I was the last amongst the group to graduate from college, buy my first car, move into my first apartment and even get on a plane to travel outside of the Baltimore/DC area. When everyone I knew I was marching right, my life seemed to be drifting to the left. This has always been my existence.
I never made conscious decisions to be ‘different’. I never intentionally placed myself in situations that would cause my life to veer down a zig-zag path. It just seems that the people, places and things that have always been of pure interest to me, don’t necessarily fit the paradigm of what is considered normal or mainstream. There have been moments over the years where Ive tried to force myself to exist day to day and live as normal and pedestrian as possible.
In 2011, I tried to turn my back on the online media platform that I built. I thought my life would be easier, happier, more stable and fulfilling if I simply worked a government job alongside friends, instead of trying to carve my own path in the world.
Many years have passed since I’ve been able to survive the growing pains of my college years. Still, there are times when I gaze off from my lane in life. Everyone around me appears to be sublimely happy and successful. It’s during these moments where it becomes increasingly difficult to continue chasing my artistic dreams.
Despite the contemporary standards of success, I believe that many of us still feel that age dictates where we should be standing in our careers. We measure our present status to the positions held by friends, lovers and associates. We think about the levels that we hoped to reach by our current age. When we haven’t reached that point quite yet, the feeling can be rather daunting.
What I learned during my hiatus from blogging and recording videos in 2011 is that I’ve done myself a huge injustice by comparing my journey to those of others. My gifts and my talents are unique to who I am as an individual. Im guilty of looking at how other people are being blessed and questioning why my blessings aren’t being packaged similarly. Im guilty of dismissing the opportunities that I’ve been granted, simply because they don’t arrive in the form that I imagined. Ive turned my back on people and situations that I now know were sent by God in disguise of an answered prayer. However, because I was so busy gazing off into the lanes alongside me, I missed the signals and signs that were guiding me all along. My road map doesn’t match the directions that people riding in other lanes are following. My journey is different. SO IS YOURS.
We have all been victim to the ‘compare myself’ demon. It becomes tough at times to accept the fact that where we stand in our professional, personal, social and romantic lives is where we are supposed to be at the moment. It’s even tougher to not question why, how, who and when…am I going to be moved from this space? We see how other people are living physically and we often compare our position in life to theirs. However, what many of us fail to realize is that those same individuals are often looking back at us and comparing their situations to ours.
Depending upon what you most value in life, there will always be someone else who would be willing to trade their ‘right way’ for your ‘left’.
As I’ve always looked at many of my friends and wondered why I couldn’t just be happy working from 9 to 5 every day and making a 6 figure salary, many of them look at me and wonder why they aren’t as impulsive or care free in their ability to do the things they most love. Despite the differences in the roads that we each travel individually, we are all riding a similar path.
As we each search for our purpose, it’s important to remember that we can’t travel our journey of discovery by trying to ride in a lane designed for someone else’s life.