Much of this blog is about the hardships and pains of being Black and Queer but, it is also a celebration and as such, let’s start off the new year with a piece of sunshine.Somebody came into my house and tried to throw away all my clothes Mine! Imagine that! Imagine me all tried and dressed up as someone new. He came in shouting “oh no’s” and “have mercy” when he saw what I like to drape this fine body in. And he wanted it all gone. No more waist-high bell bottoms for when I’m feeling Saturday night. No more velvet smirks or sultry smiles. And no more whimsical laughs, you know, the one’s I like to save for my good girlfriends. No rainbow dances or cut off shirts that say “fuck what the world has to say about arm fat, I’m hot!” I used to soak in love with these arms and make life. And definitely no more righteous bangles, jingling “I will Survive” tunes as I walk down the street. And do you know what he left me to wear? Some old rag I left in the closet at the turn of life. Some ole’ creation I used to wear when I was a masochist and was only into body killing and joy stifling. I coulda sworn I gave it back to the Pentecostal, AME, Methodist, my old prayer mentor, or one of the other saved and sanctified messes that made me think it was a good idea to weave and sew sorrow and repression into ready to wear. Did you know that my wardrobe was almost in a trashcan? And the worst part was that I was almost ok with some man coming up and through here trying to get rid of my Saturday nights, and Sunday morns, and any other fit for the days I needed some special sass or potent pride. I had to scream an almighty “hell no!” These clothes are mine. There is a powerful love in here. These are inheritance clothes, made to pass off to the next young man after me. I have to save this sunlight for the next one in need of some clothes that compliment the switch in his walk or accentuate movement of his snaps. Yeah, I almost let some man throw me out like rotten food and the worst part is that I almost accepted it. I thought the promise of a half open heart, and a steady supply of dick was worth more than my right to peace of mind or my contribution to be made to other Nubian boys who speak softly. I almost let him throw away these clothes. These truth pressed to earth clothes. These giving clothes. And I had to slap myself back into reality. I done come to understand that I simply don’t have time for him and that foolishness. My life is too magical. My love too musical. My smile too sun filled. My laughter too joyous. My body too rich. My time too precious. And my clothes too fierce for some damn man to set them on a curb because he thinks that Black boys ought to outline their frames in mundane pieces of death rather than be caught up in a loving rapture.