One of the major problems in my life, besides that I drank too much, I also have a smart ass mouth and don’t know how to back down. It’s doesn’t help that when I don’t wear my eyeglasses or not in a button up shirt and tie, I look like my father, a once ruthless drug dealer who was murdered when I was five years old. If I’m wearing a baseball cap, t-shirt and baggy jeans, I got that channel five news look, inherited the face that is misinterpreted as militant if I’m not smiling, and at night white women clench their purses when I pass them on an empty street -- I’m a young black male in America which often is mistaken as dangerous or a problem.
Despite the police, salesclerks at major department stores, black night clubs are the worse. It’s just not the strip search to get in the club, it’s also the people working the door, how black people with minimal jobs make you feel like it’s your fault just because you decided to show up and spend your money. They take your $20 dollars at the door and still treat you niggardly. What is worse, I’m gay, and the black gay clubs door people are so fucking rude. They are usually straight, most black gay clubs are only gay on a certain night, and the promoters can’t or don’t hire a different staff to administer the bar and front door, so you get the regulars, and they always seem so disgusted to have to participate what I’m sure they consider a freak show. They snicker with their boys about the drag queens or flaming girly boys. They take your money and act like they’ve done you a favor for letting you spend half of your paycheck to get in the bitch and drink their water down overpriced cocktails.
Well this past weekend, I had the misfortune of attending a gay night at a straight club called “Trade Sundays” or “Club Five.” I’ve been there a couple of times, no problems, just the usual rude door people, the bouncers in the club who act like if you make one disagreement they have to kick you out. And they really don’t have any patience for black fags. I became a problem when I walked off the dance floor and decided to refresh my water-downed cocktail. I approached the bar, and this guy sitting with some girls tells me, “Nigga you better back you punk ass up a couple of feet.” It didn’t matter that I was no where near the guy, was just trying to order a cocktail, but Trade Sundays for some reason mixes it straight crowd with the gay crowd, and the straight guys who know it’s gay on Sunday night always have an attitude. They are either friends of the club owners who come to drink for cheap on Sundays or picked the wrong night but they are so uncouth. I, being a little intoxicated, was insulted because I was no where near him and didn’t understand why he had to call me names. His girlfriends quickly told me to walk away and not pay him any mine, but I wasn’t going to move because I still needed to order my drink and why should I have to go to the other side of the bar to avoid some heterosexual belligerent troglodyte. So I stood my ground. I told him I wasn’t moving and didn’t appreciate his attitude. I even tried to throw in a joke. That my name was only “Punk ass” on Tuesday but he could call me “Sean.” His girlfriends laughed, yet, before I knew it, the bouncers of the club had grabbed me, asked me what was my problem, and before I could even answer, the bastards twisted my arm around my back, dragged my face against wall as they dragged me downstairs and then kicked me out the door on my ass liked they watched too many Clint Eastwood movies growing up. I was so in shock. They really hurt my arm, but most importantly, they even try to get my side of the story. I was just another black fag in what they considered the freak show. They already hated me, and got pleasure from abusing their power.
As I began my walk home, feeling abused and insignificant, but mostly voiceless, I realized how black gay men in general are so dispensable. Here it was, I spent my $10 dollars to get in the club, and another $15 on drinks, and it didn’t mean shit. I was just another black fag. I could’ve just gone across the street to the Lizard Lounge and would’ve gotten treated better and more respect.
As I walked home, I thought about a high school friend who I just found out was murdered by his lover. The high school friend picture didn’t make the news, but his murderer picture was ever where, and the news made it out to be that the high school friend was on the trendy down low and met some hustler who shot him seven times in his bathroom. As a black gay man, I wondered when we’re murdered, abused, gay bashed who do we turn. We just accept it, like we accept everything in our invisible lives. I knew my arm would heal faster than my pride. I’ve been kicked out of clubs but not so violent.
I know one thing I will not go back to that club. Funny, I know on some level I was gay bashed, attacked and thrown out for just being gay because they didn’t even touch that other guy. It’s not like we were in each other’s face or about to fight, I just brought attention to myself and I was gay. I never thought I would be gay based by a club I paid $10-20 dollars to get into every Sunday.
1 comment:
This is an awful story. And its also why I rarely go to those gay 'nights' at straight clubs.
I remember one NYC club that was split, half-gay half straight, divided by a black curtain. The gay side was its usual decadence (even had the dark back-room where god knows what went on) ... and the straight side was filled with those sort of men you ran into, one's who secretly wanna dip under the curtain so badly it makes them violent.
Thing is, no one told guests what the deal was ... u had to figure it out for yourself. I saw disaster looming when I noticed peeps dipping back and forth through the curtain if one bar was too crowded. A fight broke out, don't know what it was about because I bounced.
I never went back.
Screw 'gay nights' unless the establishment truly gay people. That place clearly had none. I'm glad you told that story, maybe people will stop patronizing it.
Post a Comment