Being Magnanimous DC Pride; Dear Tim double M

I flew in on Saturday to chillax with a buddy of mine, William, who’ve I’ve known in some detail for the last four years. This was my second trip to DC. My first time, last year, was absolutely spontaneous. It was one of those Laverne and Shirley moments, I drove down with Kindrick, a friend of mine, who had conned me into going on a road trip, suggesting we steal away to a water park for the weekend yet haphazardly found ourselves perusing the local gay wires of DC electricity. But I met William when I was late 18, early 19. Found him online, on yahoo, or to the contrary, he found me online, on yahoo. One of us said hi and the rest has been nostalgia, this sweet gospel of an undertone drumming to the tune of kinship, brotherhood, brethren, whispering: William and Ken friends ever since. Needless to say he was the first person I ever met online, my first socially gay encounter with a male that didn’t have a “teen” tagged to the end of his age and wasn’t out to kill or peel me outta my skivvies. Not that anyone’s ever tried killing me prior to William either. William kinda dispelled for me the notion that I was the only black male queer locked in Chicago. At the time we met that’s where he lived. Here. Close by the Wrigleyville area, I believe, somewhere north and northeast. At 19 I knew nothing. Gay boys for me existed few and far between the next one I’d find someone where unscathed and flamboyantly bright. William was proof for me that gay-guys could honestly be gay guys. I’ll forever love him for that.

But I saw you twice during my time down in DC Memorial Day weekend, and with all that burns in me I wanted to stop you and say Hello. Hi, Tim’m West, I’m Ken. Actually I’ve rehearsed it (because I’ve always imagined that one day I’d inevitably meet you, we share several mutual acquaintances) we would be walking towards each other, you would be unaware, occupied with the company with whom you were walking with, and I would pretend to not notice you or your company until you an I “obliviously” thump, smacking hard into each other…(this is part of the plan). You would look at me mean, maybe dust at the wrinkles I just imposed on your shirt, dimpled from the collision, and you’ll wait to hear an apology or an excuse me, anything to prove that I had, somewhere along my journey of living, been given manners, and you’ll look up towards me after too long a spell of silence, pragmatically suggesting for me to speak, issue you your apologetic dues, and with both my eyes, dizzy but unbowed, will return a look of displeasure commingled in curiosity, and as if the epiphany had lit the bulb over my head I stare at you, clutching my pearls, as if to finally recognized you and then lust your hand into a shake (but we don’t shake hands yet, we “hold them” as if we’re about to shake); firm, clasped, gripped, stiffened wrists, veiny forearms, eyes locked, I would notice your breathing.

In rehearsals (because, again, this is rehearsed) after I coach our hands to hold, I say something to the effect of: Tim’m?—as if you were this best friend I had found after years of missed birthdays and unanswered emails, in disbelief. And you would agree “yes”, not speaking, but nod, prophetically lowering your head into a bow like a king nodding his soldiers off to fight. And then I’d say something to the effect of: Well (eye contact), I do apologize for running into you like that. (Pause) Hi (I’d smile. We would then shake hands), I’m Ken (and I’d smile again).

And yet that’s as far as my imagination has figured, Mister West. I’ve been pretty occupied with this idea of being magnanimous—doing what needs to be done, accomplishing what needs to be finished, staying bright above all the stars. I first saw you at the convention center, Tim, and your face, I have keep so vivid in my head, having danced with this idea of greeting that face for so long, to be magnanimous was to have braved the opportunity to meet you, implement the smile-shake-introduce-and-smile technique, lit a conversation, tickled you out of your number and became your instant bosom buddy. They would taunt us, Tim, we’d be so fierce! Who’s that walking up the street, they’d say. Oh its Ken and Tim. Ken and Tim? Yes, Bitch, Ken and Tim! It sounds so perfect. We have everything in common! You being blessed to be you and I, in essence, striving to become you. But the moment I saw you I wasn’t magnanimous for a reason. The demographics, between us, Tim, have somewhat changed. And I told myself when I saw you, as my heart kicked up in speed, and my stomach knotted, and my nerves jittered, and my ankles weakened, that there goes a man that can appreciate why I love who we share in common. And had I not been so swift to I collect back my belongings, though my personal beliefs disallow for the idea of a man being capable of rightfully owning another human being, even in marriage, Jerome Harper belongs to me—and I might’ve lost him to possibly anybody, possibly you. And the idea of losing him, when I saw you, scared me, Tim, because you have to understand I’m aimless without him. So, there’s something new we share, Mister West—outside of the writings and the poetry and your presence in the community and my desire to be a positive influence to the community, we share a man in common and I feel so absolutely inconsolable that I couldn’t forget that when time had given us permission to meet. Tim, I got dizzy.

Being magnanimous would’ve carried my feet over to your booth in spite of— strangled any an all inhibitions, killed any an every fear, torched the great wall of insecurity I might’ve had about I being who I am in regards to you and whom we share in common. Consider me a victim to that type of love that makes you bleached happy about living in it, singing old Whitney Houston lyrics during a staff meeting to commemorate it, the kind of love that ails you to write a hundred and fifty four some-odd sonnets to figure the shit out and die centuries before ever fully discovering loves meaning. Consider me a victim to his ever-so brown, ever so beautiful everything. I got dizzy knowing you got too close. And whereas I thought I was better than being shaken aback by something so out of my control—I guess I am human.

The second time I saw you we were at the picnic, you were a few gay-guys behind me. I took your picture. You were oblivious. Not nearly the step I wanted to take or as close to you as I imagined our first encounter to be but I’m learning that being magnanimous requires a process with acquired steps. Hi, Mister Tim’m, I’m Ken.