Darrell's Blog

The E.T. Journal (Part 1 of 4)

There are things you tell, and there are those things that are best kept to your self. Such as infidelity or stealing, or something worse, perhaps. Don’t worry, though, I’m not trying to absolve myself of any guilt by confessing to a crime or some unfathomable secret; I did not cheat on anyone nor did I rob anyone. And as much as I am prone to want to bury certain events of my life that might show me as naive, weak, or just plain foolish, I have to tell you this story. It is excerpted (and edited) from my journal and is very personal. And I share it because, like so many men I know who long for a committed, loving long-term relationship with a good man, I am at a loss (and steadily losing faith) for what it takes to find and maintain a healthy relationship with a Black man. Uniquely, this is the story of one of the greatest loves I have known—a 2-year up-and-down-and-up-and-down romantic relationship with a man named Tom Noble. More commonly, it’s a typical story of how love—between men—can be so damned baffling, often painful, and difficult to navigate and sustain.

A very abbreviated summary of our relationship: We met in the spring of 2002 through a mutual Kappa Alpha Psi friend. For me it was lust at first sight, and love the next day. We made love all night, and the following day he had to report to military school…We spoke daily and wrote at least twice as often. (The correspondence numbers in the hundreds.) Loving sentiments, promises, and dreams…Physically reunited, we made plans—life plans—vacationed together, I met his parents and siblings (and grandparents!) and his baby boy…We dined; I sent flowers; there were spontaneous gifts. We slept together on military bases, in hotels, in his parents’ home—in the same bed. This was love, honest and affirmed…Then, a trip to the emergency room. Confusion. Shock! Confrontation. Anger. Distance. Tears. Breakup…He leaves the country; I shift inward and regroup…A phone call, an “I love you,” a lukewarm apology. A few letters. Pictures. More letters. A few phone calls. An outpouring of emotion. Reconciliation. Loving sentiments, promises and dreams…Physically, reunited. May 2004…

I arrive at Atlanta’s airport on a Friday about noon, about five hours before Tom’s plane is due to land. I take the Marta train to the Buckhead hotel where we’ll be staying, just across the street from Lenox Mall. I want to relax and make sure everything is comfortable and in order…I take a nap and then go downstairs to the gym for a quick workout, then take a shower. I want to be ready for his arrival, feeling and looking good (and “edible”) for my man. A feast for all his senses.

He’s wearing a black pima cotton dress shirt with fitted blue jeans when I spot him standing at US Air’s baggage claim. He doesn’t know I’m watching him, and I use the brief time before he turns around to “inhale” his aura and take in his presence. Ahhh, yes, I think.

Tom turns around and smiles at me smiling at him. He walks toward me and we embrace over the rail that separates our bodies. I breathe “I love you” into his ear and lightly kiss his cheek. (He doesn’t respond, but I am too “high” to notice at the moment.) I walk around the rail and into the baggage claim area where we talk giddily and try to find our rhythm as we wait for his luggage to pop onto the conveyor belt.

Minutes later, we pick up the rental car and our on our way to pick up his 2 ½-year old son (I’ll call him “Saar.”) from Saar’s mother’s house. (Saar’s mother is Tom’s ex-wife—as in female, in case you wondering.)

The drive to Powder Springs is easy, but the air is a mix of awkwardness, relief and caution. Lovers who were separated by “oceans” and time trying to re-synchronize to each other; feeling relieved that my man has safely made it out of the war zones of Baghdad and Fallujah, and that the two of us are finally in the relatively safe and private space of a car, alone; and wondering if, when, and how we will discuss all the things we need to talk about in order to reconnect and grow—all the things either of us agreed we’d talk about.

But for now I deal with the silent weight of it all, punctuated by intermittent small talk (“How is your mother?” “Was your flight comfortable?”), guessing or hoping that things will work out themselves very soon.

We pull up to Kroger Supermarket and I get out of the car. (We had come to an agreement that it would be best if Saar’s mother did not see me waiting in the car when Tom picked up the baby. Seeing me—a man—Tom’s lover, maybe?—might trigger the “My-ex-husband-is-a-fag-and-left-me-for-a-man” syndrome in her. Or so I think.) Besides, I need to pick up some fruit and juice for myself to keep in our hotel room.

(Note: Tom did not leave her for me; that was another man, before me. And, she and I have never seen each other.)

My hands are full with bananas, apples, Tropicana Pure Premium and Juicy Juice when Tom and Saar walk up to me on aisle 7. Saar’s eyes are sparkling, brown with flecks of amber and green. He stares and me as Tom stares at him. Tom is smiling, doting, high on fatherhood, it seems. Things went well at Baby’s Mama’s house.

I drive to the hotel in Atlanta while Tom sits with Saar in the back seat. His eyes are glassy with pride and his smile is soft and open. He is immersed in Saar. I am driving but it feels more like I’m chauffeuring; I do not feel jealous, just invisible. Yet, I genuinely understand; Tom has not seen Saar in almost a year and a half and is heartsick at the thought that his young son may have forgotten who he is. It has also been a year and a half since we’ve seen each other.

After getting settled-in at the hotel, we had dinner at an Italian restaurant on Cheshire Bridge Road. It didn’t dawn on me until we walked into the restaurant, filled-near-capacity with white gay men, that we were in one of Atlanta’s many “gay” neighborhoods. As we waited to be seated I pretend not to notice the three of us being gawked. We were an anomaly for sure—a Black gay couple with a baby. I enjoyed this (my illusion of a Black gay family), I’ll admit, feeling I was the envy of those (couple-less and childless?) white “queens” whom I’ve envied for appearing to have it all.

Back at the hotel. (I was the “chauffeur” to and from the restaurant, as well.) We unwind, kick off our shoes and Tom turns on the television to the Cartoon Network or the Disney Channel for Saar. I turn down the bedding and lay on one of the double beds, the one nearer the window. My gut tells me I will be sleeping alone the entire night, so I chose to sleep closer to the window. That way, from this room up high in the sky, I can gaze into the stars and get lost in my imagination… I want to touch Tom but don’t quite know how. Strangely, I feel as if I need his permission, to ask to do something that had always been so natural and spontaneous between us, I think. Tom prepares Saar and himself for a bath. I read a book in my bed…

I heard talking and awoke to find Tom and Robert (one of Tom’s closest friends), chatting on the bed next to mine. Robert is fine and fashionable. He is loquacious and gregarious, the kind of guy that everyone flocks around at a party. Dark and compact, he commands attention. How did get in here? I wonder as I sit upright, coming to awareness. Robert walks around the bed toward me to greet me. We shake hands/hug and I plop back down onto the bed. Robert asks me a few perfunctory questions, which I answer perfunctorily. (Saar was asleep and Tom watched our exchange in silence.) I say “Good night” and lay down, facing the window, my back to Tom and Robert. I am tired still.

Of course I didn’t go right to sleep. I lay awake wondering, What was going on? I didn’t expect any hanky-panky. (It’s only a fun guess, but I think Robert, like Tom, is a vigilant “bottom.”) Then, I felt a surge of anger, thinking Tom should have known better than to let anyone (even his close friend) into our private room where I would be “exposed” (but not unclothed) or not "dressed" for company—to what would qualify as a “stranger” in this situation. Couldn’t he have tapped me on the shoulder and said “Baby, Robert is coming up to the room, you want to change, cover up, or get ‘decent’?” I thought. Apparently, not.

I tried to listen to what they were talking about, but couldn’t decipher their hushed voices. Fuck it, I think to myself. You’re tired. Go back to sleep and deal with it tomorrow. And that’s what I did…

(Part 2 of 4 will be posted by June 17th)

Posted by Darrell at May 12, 2004 04:22 PM | TrackBack