Guess Who's Not Coming To Dinner

                                                    
            I was dressed to the nines at the Birmingham Civic Center.  It was the Apollo Ball.  The gay social event of the year.  And very exclusive, unless you were a member or at the very least, fucking a member of the Apollo Club.  I was neither.  But lucky for me, my friend Paul treated “screwing for social status” as some kind of sport.  And after a few weeks of rolling in the sack with the Apollo Club’s treasurer, he was golden. 

We had a prime spot at a table near the front.  Mardi Gras beads and decorations adorned the tables, and a runway jutted out from the stage where a procession of drag queens and other notable dignitaries would strut out throwing beads to party revelers.  The atmosphere was festive.  But I was livid.  Because there at the next table was Stuart, the mop-headed thorn in my side.  Stuart, a prissy four-star bitch, never liked me for whatever reason.  And he constantly was knocking my clothes or trying to steal my men.  Again, lucky for me, Paul hated him too and spit in Stuart’s drink whenever possible. 

            But this night was different.  Stuart was seated with the guy I was supposed to be seated with.  The guy who was to be my date.  His name was Jim.  He was tall and successful and very handsome.  Kind and considerate, funny even.  So why in the hell was I on a date with my best girlfriend Marilee, while Stuart was sitting across the aisle making out with Jim?  Why wasn’t I making out with Jim?  We had dated for almost two months.  We were into each other.  He even overlooked my ornery mood swings.  So what was the problem?  Oh.  Yes.  I forgot.

            He was black.

            I was raised in Linden, only forty-five minutes from Selma, Alabama.  Selma.  One of the birthplaces of the civil rights movement.  And we were also close to Montgomery.  Rosa Parks and the bus.  And I eventually moved to Birmingham, site of the church bombings that killed four little black girls.  So I knew racism.  In Linden, there was even a doctor’s office with separate waiting rooms for blacks and whites.  Complete with separate water fountains.  And this was in the nineties.  However, I always sat on the black side.  Not because I was radical or anything.  I simply didn’t want nosy white women in my business, asking me what’s wrong and why I was at the doctor’s office.  I knew that if I sat on the black side, no one would talk to me.  Until one white woman walked into the black waiting room and leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“You’re not supposed to be sitting on the colored side!”

Maybe I felt a bond with colored people who were discriminated against and taunted just because they were different.  Or maybe it was because I had the flu and felt like shit.  Or just maybe it was because I adored Diahann Carroll on “Dynasty.”  Whatever the reason, I looked up at this white woman who always sat in the choir loft in church.  Above everyone else. 

“I’ll sit wherever I goddamned wanna sit,” I rasped.

“Your mother will hear about this,” she replied.

“She’s in the restroom.  She’ll be out in a second.  I’m saving this seat for her,” I shot back.  With that, the nosy white woman left in a huff.

So even though I’ve been exposed to racism all my life, I never bought into it.  Or so I thought.  Both of my parents are well-educated.  Both taught in the public school system early in their careers.  While many of our friends extolled the virtues of the Ku Klux Klan, we never heard those words in our house.  By the time I moved to Birmingham, I was well-adjusted in race relations.  A few years after I came out, I met Jim at a dance club.  I had seen him around but was always too nervous to say anything.  So he finally approached me.

“I always see you out, but you just look at me without smiling,” he said.

I’m imagining how many sexual positions we could get in without breaking any bones.

“I’m just shy,” I said aloud.

“Well, I’d love to take you to dinner sometime.  That is, if you’re into black men.  ‘Cause I’ve been interested in white guys before who suddenly have a problem dating black guys.  And I don’t wanna do that again.”

I assured him that I was more open-minded than that, and we made a date.  The next week we went to a small Italian restaurant in the historical district.  He was fantastic company and so easy on the eyes.  He could have been Blair Underwood’s twin…and I love Blair Underwood.  Conversation flowed, he put me immediately at ease.  We spent a lot of time together over the next two weeks.  Jim and I had so much in common.  Likes and dislikes, goals.  Even horizontally, it was well worth the wait.  My feelings for him had gone from warm and fuzzy to hot and fiery.  My roommate, Alan, finally noticed that I was spending an unusual amount of time with my new beau.

“You’re spending more and more time with him,” he observed.

“Well, I like him.”

“You know I don’t care about things like this, but…”

“But what?” I asked.

“Some people in the gay community here tend to look down on dating black men.  You could get a certain kind of reputation for dating black men.”

“Reputation?  What kind of reputation?  That I like fried chicken?”  I was getting angry.

“There’s just a stigmatism attached to dating black men, and a lot of white guys won’t want to date you anymore.”
            “Well, I don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks,” I yelled.  “AND…it’s a STIGMA.  Astigmatism is in your eyeball!” 

With that, I went to meet Jim for dinner.

Again, the dinner was lovely.  Jim held my attention and was a charming date.  However, after my conversation with my vocabulary-challenged roommate, something was different.  I started noticing the stares.  Here were two gay guys out on a date.  Two gay guys.  And one was black.  I saw a small group of gay acquaintances across the restaurant. 

Were they whispering about us?  Snickering behind my back because I was dating a black man?  Or was it my imagination?

 I found it increasingly difficult to focus on what Jim was saying.  I was sure we were being talked about.  Jim noticed my change in behavior, especially when I turned him down for an after-dinner cocktail and a sleepover at his place.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.  Nothing is wrong.  I’m just tired,” I lied as I kept one eye on the gay guys across the room.

The next few times we were together, our dates followed this same pattern.  I was nervous, aloof.  When we went to a gay bar, I stood by him but didn’t allow him to show affection.  It wasn’t long before he saw right through me. 

“I asked you at the beginning if you had a problem dating black men.  You said no.”

“I thought I didn’t.  Maybe I do, I don’t know.  I’m ashamed, but I don’t know what to do about it.”

“You’ve already done enough.  I thought you were different than these simple-minded people.  And to think I was falling in love with you.  I should leave,” he said.  And he did.

I was crushed.  Embarrassed by my behavior.  I prided myself on my sophisticated world-views, my staunch liberalism, my compassion for the disenfranchised of the world.  But here I was.  Letting a great man slip away because he was black.  Only worrying what others would think.  I was no better than the idiots who would call Jim a nigger.

I sat there at the Apollo Ball in my rented Armani tux as Marilee made out with a bisexual and Paul made out with half our table.  I sat there and watched Jim and that Stuart.  Having a ball at the Ball.  Jim looked over at me and gave me a half-smile.  I smiled back, and my chest ached.  He turned back to Stuart and kissed him passionately.  For once, I envied Stuart.  Stuart who was kissing what should have been mine.  Unable to stomach anymore, I headed to the cash bar.

I ordered a stiff Crown and Coke, turned around and ran right into Stuart.  I rolled my eyes and tried to get by him.  But he held my arm at the elbow.

“I’ve always been jealous of you,” he began.  “Always with friends, dating different guys.  But now I just feel sorry for you.  You didn’t know how good you had it, but now he’s gone.  And you’re alone with nothing but a cocktail.”

There was nothing I could say.  He was right.  Stuart walked back to his date, and I walked out onto the terrace that overlooked downtown Birmingham.  The cold February wind stung my face, and my eyes started to water.  I thought about marching back inside and telling Jim that I wanted him back.  Telling him that I liked him and was possibly falling in love with him.  But I didn’t.  I just downed my Crown and Coke alone.

Besides…what would the neighbors think?