Missed Connections

Last week I had the privilege (thanks to a great friend) of attending two very black and very queer events: a screening of the movie Moonlight and Baltimore in Conversation. I've been wanting to get more involved in Baltimore's queer community for some time now, and these were great opportunities to do so. Unfortunately, the way my anxiety and awkwardness is set up, I didn't get very far.

Through Johns Hopkins hosting a screening at the Charles Theatre, I was able to see Moonlight for free, but not before I took advantage of the free food they were providing. I showed up with my roommate an hour before the movie started (which is the time Hopkins put as the start time so that everyone would so up early/on time, or so I want to believe). As we snacked on the light dinner provided, I noticed glances from the other black gays in attendance and immediately realized I was sitting with a group of all white women. I felt judged, but I didn't mind the company I was keeping that night. It did, however, keep me from interacting with any of them.

Feeling defeated on my first objective of the night, I pocketed my popcorn voucher (a PrEP business card with a smiling black face on it) and filed into the movie theatre. Before the film started, we were joined by one of my roommate's black classmates, who took a liking to me quickly and insisted that the black man photographing the event take a pic of our whole group.

If you haven't seen Moonlight yet, go see it; it's a great coming of age story despite the protagonist not being a straight white man.  I almost teared up but found something to laugh at instead, because I am who I am. After the movie, a panel was going to discuss the themes of the movie. I knew I should have stayed, but I was growing restless and just wanted to retreat home. Zero for two on my "connecting with the community" list, if you're keeping count.

The next night, I stepped back out into the night and walked a mile and a half to MICA where the latest installation of Baltimore in Conversation was being held. BiC's mission is to give voices to queer people of color and to have their stories be told. Two trans voices were to be featured that night. I visited BiC's Spring gathering and was impressed with the stories that were shared and wanted to find my way into their group.

I arrived to the scene before my friend who had invited me arrived, so I waited outside in the cold like any logical awkward person would. After receiving [let's call her Meg]'s text, I joined her for another light dinner we were both afraid to get stuck in our teeth, which is right when we were asked to give our thoughts on the night in front of a camera. Following her lead, I fought through my nerves and fears about my speech impediment and gave clear and semi-insightful answers to the interviewer's questions. By the time we wrapped up, I felt a +1 confidence bonus surge my body.

Minutes later, Meg introduced me to one of the organizers of the event, the same tall, muscles-bulging-from-his-shirt Nigerian man she introduced me to at the last event. This time I was going to impress him... until he asked me for my business card and I didn't have one to trade with him. -6 to my confidence, resulting in my lack of desire to find him again as he moved on to socialize with other people. Someday I'm going to get the hang of this networking thing.

Having taken all the L's I thought I could take in two days, I followed Meg and our other friend to our seats before the show began. Meg asked me if I met Puma at the Moonlight screening, a fellow she thought I would like who help organized it, and I replied that I must have missed him.

Baltimore in Conversation is very focused on community building, obviously, so before and between every "act" they ask the audience to speak with people they don't know. Surprisingly, I managed to do this on my own at the Spring event. Though I didn't have the energy for it this time, I prepared myself to fake it until I made it. That was until I turned around to talk to the guys sitting behind us and Meg introduced one as Puma. Upon seeing his face, it all registered to me and I quickly turned around in embarrassment.

It turned out Puma and I matched on Tinder about a year ago. We had a short conversation that fizzled out, but he messaged me again earlier in the week randomly. I didn't see it until the morning of BiC and decided not to respond to it because I had nothing clever to say. It would also turn out that I had seen Puma at the Moonlight screening: once as the smiling black man on the PrEP popcorn voucher and again as the man taking my photo.

My being told me to turn around and make conversation with him, to bring up everything so it's just out and not awkward, to cease the opportunity in front of me, but instead I quietly introduced myself to the three men behind me and sat in silence for the rest of the night.

What's ironic about this last experience is that most guys on Tinder aren't real to me. Tinder almost feels like an egotistical video game only there to improve my self-worth. It's hard for me to talk to men there because it doesn't feel organic, and I often wished that I could just meet men in person through friends. Yet there I was, faced with just that situation, and I froze. I reverted back to my awkward self and doubted my conversational skills.

The only solace I can take is that I messaged Puma the next day. I doubt it'll even work but we'll s-- [typing interrupted by a Tinder notification]. Oh. Well, um, I guess I'll need to write a part two. Til then.

Word.