Darrell's Blog

Family of Friends

I’ll tell you: I cannot possibly imagine my life without my friends. Without them, only God knows where or who I would be. They are my family: my “Cosby Show,” my “Brady Bunch” my “What’s Happening.” And my “Soul Food.” From my greatest moments of exaltation and defeat to the peaks and troughs inherent in daily, ordinary life, my friends—primarily Black men—have been there for me. They have listened, consoled and advice-d me well. They have fed (dined) me, sheltered me, and held me when my body was too weak to hold up on its own. They have been and are always standing in the gap.

My friends are the fabric of my life. Some cottony soft, others woolen. Some as smooth as silk and others rough like burlap. All textures. And each providing me cover for whatever “season” I may be dealing with. They are family. And yet they are not “family.” Not in the traditional (biological) way we are acculturated to define the meaning of a family.

But for me, this traditional definition is almost meaningless. Family is who you make it, and who makes it for you.

My biological clan, whom I love and who loves me is my family, albeit of a different sort. They’re the ones that chose me, so to speak. Mother, father, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, cousins. Each relationship defined (and circumscribed) by the dictums of tradition or social custom. In many cases biological family is all we can rely on, and in a lot of others, they are what we lack—their affirmation, their respect, their love.

In my own family, I’ve been fairly “lucky,” though I’m hesitant to call it that. Being Black & gay has never been an easy boat to row. Though I have never been kicked out of the house, I have had my ass “kicked” by my parents. Though my sisters and brothers respect me for who I am, they still (on occasion), refer to other homos as sissies and dykes. (In my presence, a quick pursing of the lips and/or an apology usually happens.) Though I feel loved by my family, I can’t say I always feel “appreciated” and “respected” by them. And—unfortunately?—I may never be. Yet, that is my family, the one I was born into.

My family of friends, however, are the ones that I chose. (Thank God for the little things.) The ones that I mingled with or encountered and came to know based on our own interests, proclivities and styles. There is a lot to be said for choosing who will be a part of your life. The choices are vast—you can take as many as you’d like or as little as you need—yet they are not without complication. For all the good times, affirmation, and love friends can provide, they are capable of providing equal doses of disappointment, jealousy, and betrayal. Just like family. I’ve had my share of friends—a few listed here—who have “broken” or betrayed me. And like blood relatives after many years of “knowing” each other, my closest friends can baffle me, still. But, somehow or –way (in all but a few situations), we have managed to make up and come back together.

I think this (coming together) is because, in a way, our friends allow us a certain amount of room—to grow, to change and to be imperfect—our biological families do not—so weighted are those relationships by convention. Further, because we select our friends using criteria that we deem important to us, it seems easier to endure the fiery times when they occur and it’s easier to reunite once the smoke has cleared, precisely because of why we’ve chosen to bind to one another. (“You’re stuck with family,” as the saying goes.)

The family of friends that I have chosen are incredible Black men. (And a few are women.) Most of them are “gay” as I define it, but that’s not what’s most important here. A very few happen to be white. And I love them all. They have edified my life. Made me better and stronger and wiser in ways I could have never accomplished alone. Let me tell you a little bit about (most of) my Family of Friends:

Jeffery: The love of my life. A friend of more than 20 years! My most trusted confidant. An intellectual. A “real people” person. And he’s a priest.

Sheldon: A friend for all seasons. My brother and my protector. (Would clothe me and go naked, if he had to.) A Southern gentleman and a scholar. A member of The Talented Tenth, even though he loves Piccadilly.

Abraham: One of the most generous and selfless men I have ever known. Grand. Traditional. An executive workaholic and a great boss man. I’m lucky to know him. And he be “Country” too.

Donald: A creative wunderkind. Smart as a whip. Fiery! Nationalistic. And very loving. The “heffa” can cook too. (He even upstaged me at my birthday party a few years ago with his “Harvest Gumbo.”)

Kevin: Diva. The most spiritually centered and loving “drama queen” I’ve ever known. My wisest “student” and one of my favorite teachers. A survivor. One of destiny’s children.

Eric: Smart. Creative. Fashionista. Spiritual. And has got the goods to prove it. (Don’t get into an “argument” with him. You’ll either lose or concede from exhaustion.) Grand, but not “sissy grand.” And he used to be my boyfriend.

Tearny: My biological sister. A lady of the first rate. Classy. Stylish. Working mother. My favorite sibling. (Yes, mom, I said it!) If I were to marry, she would be the model standard. But she already has a Piscean husband.

Mary Alice: Sarah Lawrence classmate. Intelligent. More open-minded and fair than I thought a white person could be. Creative. Loving. Hospitable. But she’ll set you straight if you get out of line. She and her husband make me feel like family.

Joan: Another Sarah Lawrence classmate. Intelligent. Wryly humorous. One of my favorite “armchair” friends. Honestly “white.” (No fakely “behaved” white person.) Feels like a mother sometimes.

Charles: My “Chucky Baby.” Very intelligent. Generous. One of my favorite “kee-kee” friends. An astute businessman. And he has such presence. A man’s man and a woman’s man. He introduced me to Manhattan’s late-night nightlife.

David: Warm-hearted. A “good man,” as somebody’s mother would put it. Spiritual. Globetrotter. An affirming brother. Good cook. He saved me from the streets of New York in the mid-90s. But those stinky Indian cigarettes—if he still smokes them—have got to go!

Darrell: My namesake. Smart. Fine. And the funniest Black man I know. I love his wit (and his stature). Writer. Father. Husband (damn!). A brother and a confidant. And his wife (whom I love and admire) makes me wish I were a little less “crooked.”

Tom: Intelligent. Focused. Sophisticate. Citizen of the World. The deepest love I’ve ever known. My babies’ daddy. A family man. And he could benefit from a prescription of “chill pills” every now and again.

Those are my “Chosen Ones.” And I am grateful to be a part of their lives.

Postscript: There must be a few others, I’m thinking, yet my brain cannot recall their names at this moment. For those I have temporarily forgotten, I apologize for my lack. Know that you, too, are appreciated and loved.

Posted by Darrell at January 3, 2004 01:38 AM | TrackBack