The Story of Wayne Brady

I don't exactly remember when I realized I was on the verge of becoming an Uncle Tom, but I assure you it was before I graduated college. There wasn't any grand event like a cop singling my out amid my white friends or a profound witchhunt like a proud black woman calling out something problematic I said. No, I was too homely and quiet for either of those to transpire. Besides, being problematic didn't exist in 2007-2011; you were just wrong.

There was never any separation from black classmates as a whole. I had several friend groups during college, one being the extensive multi-cultural underground at my PWI. No, one day I just realized I was an uppity negro.

Though I grew up in a crime ridden city, I definitely grew up privileged. I had two older sisters and divorced parents, but I still got most of what I asked for. I still remember the day I ask my mother if we were poor because we switched from boxed to bagged cereal, yet I was never in danger of not going to private schools. My parents definitely sacrificed and provided for me.

By the time I reached middle school, I realized I was different. I couldn't relate to the other kids at church when they talked about their shenanigans. I would run into elementary school classmates and wonder how we came from the same place. My natural intelligence was budding. I knew better than to do certain things that would make me look "foolish" or ghetto, but I also looked down on those that participated in those reindeer games.

I had never seen the crime I heard about in Newark, but I always knew it was around me, lurking. Eventually it would come for me. And somewhere along the way, I equated lack of education and desperation to my black peers who weren't lucky enough to grow up like me. Newark was too black for me; I didn't know how to relate. So I was happy to leave for college, not realizing it was my gateway drug to caucasity.

Baltimore reminded me of Newark; it felt like home right away. However, there was a light that shined on Baltimore that at the time didn't shine on Newark. I realize now that light was gentrification mixed with quirkiness. The quirkiness is what distracted me, what drew me, what I related to. Besides my immediate family, I didn't know of any black people that were as weird or silly as me. I equated silliness with being carefree, but of course that isn't true. As a now silly 29 year old, I can assure you I am not carefree. I am weary.

Part of this weariness comes from the current state of our nation. It's exhausting, I'd like to report on it from the black perspective, but these days I only have my own. It's not that I've lost touch with black culture, but I've lost touch with the community. Post-college, I surrounded myself with wacky and interesting people, men and women of different cultural and sexual backgrounds. It was my own little bubble from the world, but in it, it's hard to admit white wasn't the default. Sure at the core of the group was a gay black man, an afro-latina lesbian, and an unfortunately-straight Asian men, but our playgrounds were wholly white spaces we inserted ourselves into, proving we could go anywhere.

Along the way, I lost the ability to relate to some black people. Occasionally, a friend would bring over a black person I didn't like because they seemed ignorant through and through. Granted, I held contempt for some of the basic white women my friends would invite over as well, but the unwanted black guests burned hotter in my spirit. Was I disappointed they weren't being "10x as good" but instead fine with the environment they were in? Was I jealous they were so at peace with themselves, that they knew where they belonged? Reflecting on it, it's still hard to tell.

So why am I exposing myself in this manner? Why am I criticizing myself? Why do I feel so lost?

Well, because I thought I had it figured out, but I don't. This year has proved that to me.

Part of me has always believed I had trouble writing because I was writing for the wrong audience, from the wrong experiences. I shifted my audience in college to educate the white and straight majorities about black and queer culture, but I lost myself along the way. I needed to be back among my people if I was going to properly write for them.

Last year, I joined an organization to not only help spread sexual health awareness and LGBT acceptance but to reconnect with black gay men. However in the last 20 months, I froze up during any event were they were the majority. I passed up invitations to black gay events because I didn't know who I would go with, to afraid to dive in on my own. I felt like a phony within my own demographic. Perhaps it's because I'm trying to be something I'm not, but still I yearn to reconnect with them.

In another facet of my life, I moved from the outskirts of the city to the downtown area two and a half years ago. I went from a mixed community to a predominantly black area experiencing an invasion from med students and young white 20-somethings. I had long considered myself a peacemaker between black and white, but that was no longer the case. The people I now live among are more like the people I left behind in Newark.

It's often that I feel the glares of the locals as I walk from the bus stop to my home. It's like they can tell I've abandoned them, that I'd rather sit up under my white friends than talk to them. And it's hard to say they're wrong. As much as I long to have a regular crew of people around me that knows how to play Spades and remembers Moesha, I don't actively seek them out.

I was robbed again at the end of last week, not even a full month after experiencing a home invasion. This time my friend and I were walking around our neighborhood playing PokemonGo, foolishly showing off our phones. We'd done it all summer; we didn't think anything of it. Before we could cross MLK Blvd, not even four blocks from our house, two black guys got us at the corner. I wanted to fight back, but they held my friend hostage with a chokehold. I didn't want to risk him getting hurt. I felt dumb; I felt betrayed; I felt humiliated. I never had much trust in white people as a whole, but living around them, I was starting to trust my own kind again - even if I still silently judged them as they stood on the corner. I would have liked nothing better than to be robbed by a white man for once.

I know I still have Uncle Tom tendencies; I'm working on them. It's still difficult when you don't feel accepted or safe around your own kind, but what have I done to make them feel accepted when they come across me?

My mind is still racing from all that's happened to me this summer, from the experiences of my entire existence. I don't want to feel other-ed anymore. In reality, though, it has to start with me. I have to change my mindset and be more open. That doesn't mean let my guard down; I've done enough of that already. However, I have to stop judging black people so harshly. Other cultures do that for us enough.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to attempt to find a black lesbian on TalkSpace* to listen to all my problems.

Word

*Not a paid advertisement, but it could be.

Liam Neelon's Daughter

I love Baltimore. That's no secret. If you count college credit, I've lived here for 11 years this September. This place is literally my home. It feels like I grew up here. People constantly mistake me for a native instead of one of Jersey's sons when they meet me. I've become very comfortable in my surroundings. Perhaps a little... too comfortable?

Before Jay-Z officially claimed he was "good on any MLK Boulevard," I made my way home one summer night after an evening of drinking. It's something I was used to doing, even during my undergrad years (though back then it was York Road). I spent a wonderful night of singing karaoke at one of the few gay bars still in Baltimore followed by post-gaming with a virtual-reality headset at my friends' place. Oddly not feeling like sleeping on a couch for once - I paid for my mattress six years ago after all - I left my friends' apartment and started my usual mile trek down MLK back to my home.

The air was crisp that night. It was cool but not chilly, just the right temperature to prevent me breaking a sweat like I'm prone to do. I was feeling myself, not only because I had a great buzz going but because I had on a very - for lack of a better term - hipster outfit on: blue overalls and a short sleeve button-up with a pattern I can only describe as summer-into-fall realness. 

I was about halfway through my walk in the shadows of the boulevard bouncing along to my karaoke greatest hits when I felt something cold against the back of my recently buzzed head. Being drunk, I felt at total peace with the world and turned around calmly as if I already knew the predicament I was facing. I soon stared down the barrel of a pistol. A gun? A glock? I just remember it felt cold, so it was definitely real. The man holding it wore a ski mask. "Take out your wallet and throw it on the ground." Without even thinking to run, I did as he said. I was basically broke anyway.

Soon I noticed two other guys with bandannas over their faces appear. One was clearly the lookout while the other kicked my wallet around to open it. He was avoiding any unnecessary fingerprints. I quickly admired the operation these three young black entrepreneurs started for themselves. "You got money on you anywhere else?" the runner asked seeing I only had three singles in my wallet. 

"Naw, but my card is in there." I offered up my debit card because I knew I could cancel it but more importantly because I remembered hearing of robbery victims being shot because they were too broke and had nothing of value to offer. Basically, they were killed for wasting the criminals time.

"Naw, you good." The runner left the card and the cash in the wallet and backed up. 

The gunman looked me up and down, realizing I was too drunk to lie or to care. "Alright, you good. Pick up your wallet and go." I did as he said, probably replied with some dumb goodbye, and continued my walk home. I was happy they didn't go for my card or phone, most likely because they were easy to trace. I was happy they didn't do as little as pistol whip me. I was happy I was too drunk to be afraid. I appreciated the Robin Hoods. Merry Men? No, that would have sounded too gay to them. Robin Hoods. 

To this day, I barely remember the gun in my face. In all honestly, I'm shocked I lasted until 29 to be held at gunpoint. My hometown Newark definitely could have had that privilege. If anything, I was sad the invincible, tipsy negro of York Road had finally been defeated on his new route. Clearly, I refrained from walking home at night for a week or two, but I'm back to my old tricks now. I'm just more observant like I always should have been.

Unfortunately, robbery seems to related to the same death entity of Final Destination fame.

Three weeks ago, I received a message from my house's group text. My roommate "Don" woke up from his nap and walked out into the hallway to find a hooded man dart out of "Chet's" bedroom. I left work early to help Don and to access the situation.

Chet beat me home and was already helping Don but obviously he was anxious and scared. I waited until Don stepped upstairs to laugh to Chet, "Ha! We got robbed." Making light of it was all I could do. Make comedy out of pain; that's what my culture does best. I looked around. The guy stole all three of the game systems we had downstairs, the controllers, the games, my laptop, Don's meds, and Magnum condoms I left on the game room table from work. I walked in the kitchen and noticed the box of Magnum condoms from my room on the stove. He must have left them behind when he got caught. I ran up to my room to see he went through my desk, but the condoms were the only thing he found of value. Likely for Chet, the robber was spooked away by Don before he could take the Xbox in his room.

When I returned downstairs, there was a knock on the door. I went to open it and then froze. I realized it was the police. I realized they had already been inside the house. I realized I was black. My heart dropped. After a beat, I unlocked the door and let the (thank the lord) friendly, mid-20s officer assigned to our case in. Don reiterated that the robber came in through the back window in the kitchen, most likely seeing our back gate was barely locked from the bike lock we were provided by the landlord. The officer asked if Don got a good look at the man, but he only remembered his black hood and possibly black gloves. 

It still hits me in waves that we were actually robbed. Again, I'm surprised it took this long to be robbed. Other friends in our neighborhood had this happen to them, and it was no pleasure for them either. I suppose now we're all a part of the same club.

Since the robbery, we've upped our security by... deadbolting the front door when we leave and making sure the back kitchen window is always locked. Lightning rarely strikes twice, but at worst they would steal my TV and Chet's remaining Xbox. 

I don't miss anything that's gone until I jokingly whine about wanting to play a game that's gone or realizing I can't freely type something up like I've neglected to do earlier in the year. Honestly, the only thing of value we lost in the robbery was Don's sense of safety at home. Hopefully he can regain it soon, but I know it's a process. The investigation's obviously still in progress, but I'm not expecting to see any of my stolen devices again. I sincerely hope I never see the stolen Magnums again.

So, why did I wait so long to write this post? Well, shit happens everyday. It makes us stronger. Also I'm still pretending like I'm not shaken by these events. Maybe I'm truly not; perhaps I just feel like I should be. Is guilt of not being traumatized a thing? 

Do I hate Baltimore after this happened to me? No, not at all. The acts of a few men do not define the acts of the many. However, if this happens a third time, I may have to reevaluate some things.

Is black on black crime a thing?  I mean, yeah, white people rob white people all the time, too. I don’t know why I thought just cause I’m black I wouldn't get robbed by the locals just cause there are plenty of whites to jack. I can get this work, too, and clearly I have.

Finally, what's the moral of the story? Purchase renter's insurance or whatever. Like most insurance, it seems useless and like an unnecessary expense until you actually need it. Guess I'll skip robbery coverage and just pay extra for natural disaster damages.

Word.