Steel River is the latest urban gay series based on the down-low stereotype. Meanwhile, another Atlanta-based series that's trying to get picked up, Skin Deep, which focuses on the intersecting lives of a diverse group of gay men, promises to be a better show.
Lemon taught me that there is too much life to experience to remain trapped in the closet or, worse, to hurt oneself. It was a relief to relate to someone's struggle, and it inspired me to do the right thing. I didn't want to be 40-something and still debating whether to come out.
It's as though "down low" were synonymous with "gay and black." Not only is being on the down low problematic, but portraying all gay black men as down-low brothers stigmatizes the gay black community.
The discussion about heterosexuality, homosexuality and masculinity is long overdue within black fraternities. Engaging it will require a delicate balancing act. Avoiding it will have lasting effects unforeseen by black fraternity members and leaders.
Some folks understand marriage as the ultimate goal in relationships. However, that view obscures the possibility of other forms of relationships, like multiple-partner commitments, long-term unmarried relationships, sexual relationships, etc.
Though I can remember almost everything about that day, from my mother's facial expression to her subtle physical responses, only recently have I tried to understand her reactions and consider her feelings throughout my coming-out process.
It all started with an awkward conversation with my dad when I was 16. On what I thought was a day like any other, we were passing our neighborhood Walmart when my father began the line of questioning I'd been dreading since before I was positive I knew the answers.
To say that a barbershop, street, or neighborhood is safe for all LGBTQ people is to forget that not all LGBTQ people share the same privileges that we do. Would a feminine-performing brother be safe in your barbershop? Would a masculine-performing sister feel safe in mine?
I thank Mr. Kelly for assembling these photographs. Although they have existed for years, by assembling them together for easy viewing, he has done something that is very beneficial not only for the black community but for the gay community as a whole.
Why do faith communities accept Madea when they are aware that she is played by a man in drag? Would the same churchgoing audiences accept a man attending their church services in drag? Could that love extend to someone who still has manly features but identifies as a woman?
My diploma symbolizes the fact that no matter what obstacles I may face, once I stop blocking my own success, I can do it. Despite the fact that I've been living with HIV for 25-plus years, I now have something I thought I'd never have: an unlimited world waiting for me.
To some in the LGBTQ community, Cleo Manago is a dangerous demagogue. But to tens of thousands African-American brothers and generous funders, he's seen as a brother driven with a dream. And he's perhaps dangerous because he's effecting change.
Each year, I mark the MLK holiday by reexamining King's teachings, remembering that my longing for LGBTQ justice is inextricably tied to my work toward religious tolerance in the black church. And this is why I continue to speak up.
The alarming HIV infection rates among black gay and bisexual men beg this question to every black congregation, family and community: do we exemplify unconditional love for our gay and bisexual brothers, uncles, fathers and sons?