I think the scariest, if not the worst event that ever occurred in life was my birth. I know that I have some purpose here and I think that I am on my way, my path to defining the reason why I am here.
I think it became very relevant, clear, and real that I am disconnected. The confirmation of this feeling that I’ve always felt has come and gone, but today I’d never thought that I would feel the way that I have. Does anyone know what it’s like to have your own mother hate you? I mean hate you for things that children aren’t even hated for; well I guess they are because I am hated for them.
I remember when I was 5; my mother told me that I was a mistake. I didn’t know what that mean, but my earliest memory was being told I was a mistake. That was followed up by giving me material things, clothing, shelter, masked as being “concerned for you,” that was always followed up by you’re fat, you’re stupid, what a wonderful contradiction.
I can remember hating my mother from very early on, but at the same turn I remember always wanting my mother and missing her. I remember doing great in some of my classes at school-and her not being genuinely interested, there was always some half ass “I like it!” or “Good Job.” Thinking back today, I realized that my mother lost who she was a long time ago. And for all this time she’s been trying to make me loose myself.
The man that has been occupying space in my house called me a “Muthafuckin fag!” I said nothing. I sat my mother down and told her that I simply had enough-I had been silent and respectful long enough to this outsider and I wasn’t going to tolerate some piss colored, burnt the fuck out ass man come in my house and disrespect me. What did I say that for?
This whole can of worms opened up, about this, about how I am that. How I am the reason for all of her failed relationships, I am the reason why she has drug problem, the reason why I am stuck in my life, the reason why I can’t get a man, and what really threw me for a loop is when she said “You didn’t act like such a bitch when I have a man around you act like you want to get fucked in your ass by him! If you ever been in a relationship before then you’d know what it takes to make one work, maybe you should get a man and you’d know what to do”
Wow lady, you really don’t know me. You don’t know your own son. Something that you second-guessed on giving life to. When she said that I laughed and then I cried, because I realize there is apart of me that she’ll never know, simply because she has that bible glued under her armpit so tuff she’s gonna need some hot water and a miracle to get it a loose. Then I broke it down to her.
For the record I’ve had a few relationships. The last one didn’t work he liked drag queens, not my fault, the other one decided he wanted to get back with his babies momma, again not my fault, the one before that, lets see, I had to go identify him at the morgue with his sister…the one before that would have lasted but I had to move back to Los Angeles, to help take care of an ailing mother.
My mother has set the tone for me not to talk to her about my “life.” The environment of support has never been there for me to openly talk about my relationships or my life as a black gay man. I was always told I was going to hell for being involved with a man. She even told my aunt who will vouch for me any day that she “hates faggots,” but if you ask her…”I had a gay best friend what are you talking about?” Why do people always do that? So yeah lady there is a whole lot that you have no clue about, and ultimately you don’t know me.
I am tired. Drained. After sitting in the park crying on the phone with my grandma for an hour, joking with Tara about not wanting her to see me in such a state cause I didn’t have on any makeup, and wishing Tuesday was there to listen and understand because she was the only one that did in a time like this-I’ve come up with one conclusion: ME.
I’ve always known who I am, who I WAS, and who I will be. I am really tired of outsiders looking in, trying to tell me about me and they don’t know shit about me. I know me…and no one, not a one, from this day forward is gonna make me think I am crazy or un balanced, or say I have a negative attitude about something when you don’t know the experience or the story (logic) that comes behind my idea. To know me is to understand me…and like T.I. said, “You don’t know me.”