Gap.
Generation or just Khakis?
© 2001 RL BALDWIN

I saw an old sissy on the train today. Homeboy had to be at least 70 years old. For real! A 70 year old gay man. He sashayed off the platform right into the first available seat. He gently sat down, crossed his petite legs and glanced over his newspaper with his wrinkled little hands.
Think about the odds he has beaten in 70 years. First he is a black man. He waltzed and strutted through the civil rights movement. When King was marching on Washington, he was probably dancing to the blues with his trade! His trade! This man's trade is 70! Can you imagine what trade is like at 70?
Now on top of being a black man, he is a flamboyant man lover. That shit obviously didn't get to him either. He ain't dead of AIDS. He ain't been killed in some vicious ex-lover shoot out. He ain't been beaten to death by some crazy fool who hadn't dealt with his own sexuality issues.
Oh shit. He just caught me staring at him. I wonder if he can tell that I'm gay? Yeah my hair is braided like Allen Iverson. I might have on my hip hop gear, pants hanging off my ass. But I hear a gay man knows another gay man no matter what the surroundings or how you try to cover it up.
So what does this 70 year old sissy think of my generation? Does he think we are a lost cause like all the straight people do? I can just hear him now. "Back in my day we didn't act like that. We knew how to behave and have a good ol' time. Ya'll little niggas done lost your minds!"
He just smiled at me. OK. So he was a friendly gay black man. (Was that redundant or just a vicious rumor?) I wanted to talk to him. I wanted him to tell me about the good ol' days. I wanted to know if he still got his freak on! And if so, with whom? Boys my age? Trade at the retirement homes?
Fuck it. I was going to spark a conversation. If he were a gold tooth, corn rowed nigga I wanted to meet I wouldn't hesitate or have any reservations. I built my confidence and planned my every word. I don't know why I was so nervous. I talk to a hundred men just like him every day at work. Just then the subway doors flung opened and in walked your typical crew of 4 black teenage boys. All the niggas were fine as hell. They sat in the two rows directly across from me. They were loud, knowing all the words to DMX's new song that I just heard for the first time yesterday. They wore the typical hip hop uniform. Baggy pants. Timberlands or Nikes. Bandanas around their heads and gold in their mouths. My dick started to bulge in my jeans.
The 70 year old sissy caught me checking the niggas out. He smirked like a cat that just swallowed the canary and quickly faced forward. So he had to know what was up with me now. Why do I feel like I have let him down for some reason? Was I not representing and keeping it real hiding in these unlaced Timberlands and nappy ass braids. Was I not Gay And Proud?
The boys got off at the next stop. I caught one of them checking me out as he walked by. Why was he scared to say something? Why did he just nod his head in the universal sign for "What's Up?" the way black people do? What was he looking at? Did he want to say something to me as bad as I wanted to say something to him? Mark Twain said it best, and I quote, "Man is the only animal that blushes. Or needs to." What in the hell were we so scared of? Why are we so embarrassed? Instead of just living.
Mr. Playboy 1962 saw it all. He smiled at me again. What if he was just trying to get up with me because he already knew I was down? Why are all my gay friends niggas I first tried to kick it with? Can't gay men just have a conversation without the two of them ending up having a "session"?
"Do you know if this train goes all the way to Sandy Springs?" He broke the ice.
"Yeah. This is it." I said in my best trade imitation.
"I like your Timberlands."
" 'ppreciate it. I got 'em at West End Mall." Why was I trying to make my voice boom in bass?
"You are not from here are you?"
"No. I just go to college at Morris Brown."
"That doesn't tell me where you are from!"
We both laughed.
"I am from New Orleans."
He smiled.
"I used to do a lot of partying in New Orleans back in the day. Is it still party all night like it used to be?"
"I don't know. I was just in high school."
"That don't mean you can't party."
Our two generations laughed together again. Now it was my time to ask the questions.
"So do you still party?"
"Occasionally."
"Where do you go?" He gave me a weird look. Maybe I was getting too friendly.
"You really wanna know?"
"I asked didn't I?"
"Then you already know."
I looked with amusement. He did know me. Just like I knew him. The Timberlands couldn't hide it The cornrows couldn't cover it up. The generation gap closed just a bit as Gay Man of the 18th century stood to exit the train.
"Here's my stop and here's my card. Call me." He touched my hand as he handed me the card. " Just to talk."
"Just to talk." I repeated and the generation gone walked off the train onto the platform.

SHIT.
I looked at my watch and realized I was going to be late for my stock boy job at the GAP.

RL Baldwin can be contacted at rlbaldwin2000@aol.com

Rich Man Wants a War
©2001 Amanda Majestie

There was once a very rich man who lived in a big opulent house. The house was located on a huge estate with many buildings in which thousands of people worked, making great fortunes for his empire. One day unforeseen destruction hit his empire. Someone managed to flow up the tallest buildings on his estate and killed thousands and thousands of workers in a horrible blast. Everyone across the land was angered and saddened and tried in every way to help the families of those who had suffered great losses.

The rich man was angry, but he also felt insulted that someone would dare to infiltrate his estate and harm his workers. It also revealed that his security force and secret police were not doing a very good job protecting the land.

The rich man was so angered that he made public speeches promising to find those responsible for the attack and bring them to justice. He made no distinction between the perpetrators of the deed and their hosts, meaning that any kingdom allowing them to live there would also be punished. Some people wondered about this because they knew that kingdoms can't always control everyone inside living there.

Then the secret police (that up until this point was not doing a very good job) started to work day and night. They immediately blamed someone whom they suspected was guilty, but he lived very far away in a very poor kingdom.

The rich man felt the pressure of all the other angry men in his land, so he wanted to show everyone that he was tough. He promised that he would go to war: the only problem was his security force and secret police could not really be sure who he should go to war with.

Another reason he wanted to go to war was that it would be good for the business of his estate (he could use more of the kingdom's public money) and that if he attacked the poor kingdom where the suspected guilty person lived, his estate could control the territory and use it for an oil pipeline for his friends.

All the people working in his kingdom were very depressed. They did not want to go to war and lose more of their children. They did not think justice could be served by creating more destruction and killing, especially when the secret police (who had been doing a very poor job) could not be sure who was responsible for bombing the tall buildings.

But there were always people who wanted to go to war. They liked blaming others and the rich man liked this. He felt very comfortable creating an enemy because then his own people would never discover the faults of his policies.

ONE ENDING?:
The rich man had his way and created a world of hell for many people in the poor kingdom. The bombing suspect somehow escaped. Thousands of people died because he wanted to prove to his angry friends that he was tough. Many more thousands died because he wanted more territory in which to put the oil pipeline. Even though all he wanted and needed was provided for him, his life was still very stressful. One day he came down with a fatal disease and no physician in his land could save him.

When he died and faced God, God was very angry with him:
"You were given every chance to soothe those in need and help lift humanity during your lifetime. I place every resource at your fingertips, every power at your command, and instead of responding with compassion, you bred anger, fear and hatred. Because of you the dogs of war and destruction ran over the land.
I will now let you fall down to hell so you can understand what you have created."

OR ANOTHER ENDING?:
The rich man tried to steer his empire into a war, but people all over the land did not believe that their treasury should be used to benefit his friends. Those who had lost relatives in the tall buildings did not want additional killing and destruction done in their relative's names. They pleaded with the rich man to change his mind.

A very courageous reporter publicized in the national media that the rich man's father had supervised the training of the bombing suspect and his goups almost twenty years before. In addition, the secret police was discovered to have had recent communications with the bombing suspect's group, which pointed to their complicity in the original act of terrorism. The rich man tried to distance himself from the work of his father and his secret police, but no one in his kingdom believed him. He, as well as his second in command, were disgraced and resigned from office.

ONLY YOU CAN DECIDE..
Call (212) 975-3691 with the truth.

A Piece of Silk
© 2001 Lynn E. Levin
This poem originally appeared in KEREM: Creative Explorations in Judiasm

You with that gold ring in your nose,
you sleeping in his tent each night
with all the pillows,
you at his side when he visits kings,
you whose hands are fine enough
to bake bread for angels,
just remember I'm the one he runs to
when he fears death.
He grows hard just being near me.

Do you think we've stopped seeing each other?
Under the pomegranate tree he often visits me.
Sometimes we even speak of making a little brother
for our Ishmael.
He gave me gifts the other day --
some eye paint and a piece of silk
so fluid that, if I were in the desert and thirsty,
I could drink it.

Oh! Do not send me away!

I know that I'm the concubine and you're the wife.
But, Sister, listen.
It's not you or I.
What he really loves is that Voice.
That Voice
with its wings, its claws.
He's so afraid that it will leave him.