A Confrontation on the “L” and My Love of Black Men

Nettrice Gaskins reflects on her lifelong love of black men, and the stereotypes that project on their lives.

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     ‘The lens in which you view the world shapes your reality.’

bell hooks notes that when women gather to talk about black men it is usually about bad news. When I get together with women (and men) we usually talk about social justice, art, music, or popular culture. Sometimes we dance. As a younger person my favorite pastime was going to dance clubs. I’d pick a spot on the floor and let myself go for hours. On one of those nights, in Chicago, someone gently tapped my shoulder. It was a young black man. He leaned in and asked if it was okay to dance with me. I honored his request.

It felt almost formal, like something you might see on a classic movie channel with Fred Astaire joining Ginger Rogers except we were dancing to House (music) and we were both black.

When the session was over my partner actually thanked me. It felt weird to be thanked for dancing in a dance club. Years later, a similar thing happened in a Washington D.C. club and this time the music was salsa. Once again a black man politely approached me. I can recall several stories and interactions with black men that counter age-old ideas and stereotypes. Mainstream views about black maleness suggest that audiences simply do not have a clue about the experiences of black men.

The title of Ellis Cose’s book The Envy of the World: On Being a Black Man in America is taken from Toni Morrison’s novel Sula that, according to bell hooks, implies an “audience of non-black males looking through the lens of their envy (or fear).” hooks’ observation brings to my mind a confrontation I had on a Chicago “L” (or “el”) which is short for elevated train. My daily commute to and from Englewood (a South Side Chicago neighborhood) took place on the Ashland/Red Line L train. I was a graduate student at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC) and I had moved into a room on the top floor of the Boulevard Arts Center (BAC). This was back when BAC was on S. Justine and a few blocks walking distance from the L. One morning I entered the train bound for school and sat towards the front, in a seat facing the window. I was preparing to study and did not want any distractions. Seconds later a Black man, 17 years of age at the most sat in the seat directly in front of me, against the window and he said, “I’m going to sit here and ain’t nothing you can do about it.” My response, “It’s a public train, so you’re free to sit wherever you want.” He was wearing blue and black clothing with a black baseball cap. His small earring had the letters “GD” which I knew to stand for Gangster Disciples, a notorious Chicago street gang. I was unfazed.

After the Gangster Disciple (“GD”) kid insisted on disturbing me and asked me questions like, “What are you doing?” and “Where are you going?” I realized my study plans were a bust. I answered his questions and the more I answered him the more he wanted to know about me. When he found out I was a grad student at an art school he shared his own personal story. “GD” told me that he once wanted to go to art school and learn to be an artist or designer but his sister got sick and he had to pitch in to pay bills. When I was his age, I said, I moved to New York City. He wanted to know what living there was like and whether or not gangs were there like in Chicago. I told him no. He told me he wanted to live someplace where there were no gangs. As the L train entered the Loop and approached my stop, I got ready to exit. My new “friend” demanded that I give him my number (or take his). I told him that where I lived I had no phone (partly true). He said, “We’re going to be friends” like it was a threat but his guard was already down. I knew he would not hurt me. I looked him in the eyes and said, “I wish you the best of luck in life.” Then I waved goodbye and exited through the doors before they closed or he could say anything else. I wanted him to see the love I had for him in my eyes.

I thought about this encounter later when I saw photos of murdered teen Trayvon Martin circulating in the media. I thought about “GD” when George Zimmerman was acquitted and some people were referring to Trayvon as a “thug” or “Let this be a lesson to the thugs” (something I read in a blog comments section). I remember being sad that “GD” had to defer his dreams and I was sadder when I realized that Trayvon would never experience “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” the way so many teens who are not black or brown but still wear the same clothing (and make the same hand gestures) will. In Aesthetic of the Cool Dr. Robert Farris Thompson, in conversation with Dr. Lowery Stokes Sims, was asked where he stood on the popular debate over the implications of young Black men wearing baggy pants. Rather than pathologizing their fashion choices, Dr. Thompson chooses to analyze and embrace its nuanced connotations – ultimately empowering rather than marginalizing young people who identify with this style. “I love sag,” he says. “In hip hop loose is cool – that’s why you don’t tie your shoelaces.”

Photo: AP

I wondered why “GD” had picked me to bother. Maybe it was my street style. At the time I wore hooded sweatshirts, baggy jeans and sneakers. I loved Hip Hop (culture) and my heroes included Chuck D of Public Enemy (PE) and the Bomb Squad, American music producers who are best known for their work with PE. When I wasn’t studying at SAIC I taught art at Boulevard Arts Center and some of the students in my classes were like “GD” who really just wanted to be an artist or designer and go to college. Thirteen year-old Melvin announced one day after class that he was either going to art school or joining a gang. Melvin’s father was a recovering alcoholic and his mother neglected him. Art was his escape and I could relate to that. I got Melvin an interview at private art school, and I went with him and his father. Melvin got accepted but could not raise the funds for tuition, so he went to a public high school and joined the football team. I decided then and there that I would work to make a difference in the lives of kids like Melvin and “GD.” That is why the Zimmerman acquittal hurt me so much (like being stabbed in the heart). In my view, Trayvon wasn’t a thug. He was just a kid role-playing a thug on the Web (as many teens his age do). When the “GD” looked in my eyes he seemed to immediately know I did not judge him based on his gang colors or his skin color. I just saw a kid who needed a friend or an advocate. Trayvon was a kid with his own dreams and those dreams are now deferred forever.

The love I feel for black men like “GD,” the polite club dancers, or even Trayvon Martin who I’ve never met is protective and complicated. Like them, I know what it is to be perceived as a threat based on the color of my skin. My love affair is not tainted by early memories I hold of witnessing domestic violence among family members because I also remember what it felt like when one of them (a black man) cried on my shoulder after being kicked out by a lover. I feel a strong obligation to present different stories and portraits of black men — to reflect not only the violence from my past, but also the times when black men, individually and in groups, have shown me that viewing them through a loving, caring lens often can result in reciprocation: the act of loving or caring in return. I was once gently reprimanded in a subway for showing fear when a black man approached me. I was told, “You never have to be afraid of me.” On a dark street I remembered his words as I approached a large group of black and brown boys, the leader of which nodded in my direction and said very clearly, “Good evening, ma’am.”

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This piece originally appeared on Nettrice’s blog and has been updated.