Love the One You're With (9 page)

“Sure.”

After he purchased us both a hot chocolate (his with whipped cream, mine without) and the bio was revealed (born in Seattle, oldest of three boys, Harvard grad, architect with Goodman Designs), we got down to his political philosophy—and if I was blindfolded, I'd swear I was listening to a
very white
white man. He rattled on about limited government, less taxes, and individual responsibility. How could someone who was so appealing a view spout such
un
appealing views?

He was reading straight from the Republican talking-head script—and I planned to rip it up. “Have or do you feel any conflict as a Black gay man being a member of the Republican Party?”

“Conflict?”

“Yes. The party isn't exactly welcoming or accepting of those who are not white, not male, not heterosexual, and not, at the very least, middle-class.”

“It may not appear that way, but it is.”

“Oh? How?”

“The party doesn't believe in individuals thinking or behaving like they are a part of a group.”

“Doesn't that mean you have to not just assimilate but erase who you are in order to join the club?”

“No. They just don't want any part of this identity politics, whereoppression is used as a calling card.”

“Could you explain that?”

“That's how the Democrats deal with minorities: Trade in on your victim status as a disenfranchised group and we'll be your friend. Ha, a lot of good that has gotten minorities over the past several decades with them, especially ­African-Americans.”

“If Democrats, as you have indicated, have taken minorities for granted, it appears Republicans have ignored them altogether.”

“I wouldn't say that. It's just that the party sees me as an individual and not a member of any minority group. And I like that.”

“But, Mr. Armstrong—”

“Please, call me Pete.”

“Pete?”

“Yes. Every­one does.”

“Okay. Pete.”
Pete
… it sounds
so
white. “You
are
a member of a minority group—
three
to be exact—and some would argue that your unwillingness to demand the party see you for all that you are makes it con­ve­nient for them not to take the concerns of ­so-called minority groups seriously. Treating you like a victim is one thing; ignoring that certain groups do not have the access or opportunity others do is another.”

“I think the party does take our concerns seriously. Minorities want the same things whites and het­ero­sex­u­als want: ­crime-free neighborhoods, good schools, jobs, homes, a family. The American Dream.”

“I'm sure. But some of those things are harder to attain because of who one is
not
—and the party doesn't make it any easier when ­they continually block efforts that would enable those who don't have the advantages the ­so-called majority groups have always had.”

“Well, people cannot expect the government to make things easier. That's just the nature of a free marketplace. It's not the government's job to give a handout or a hand up.”

Now, how did I know he would go there? I was ready … “It's not about offering a handout or a hand up, but a hand
le
.”

That one slapped him across the face—his head actually swung left as if I backhanded him.

I went on. “The playing field isn't level, yet the party acts as if it is. And it isn't going to change so long as the status quo is protected. What are you, as a Black gay man, doing on the inside to change that?”

His face was blank. “Uh, could you excuse me for a moment? I have to use the rest room.”

“Sure.” I shut off the tape.

He returned five minutes later. His face was glistening. I guess he'd doused it with cold water.

“May we continue?” I asked.

“Yes, we can.”

I turned it back on. “When we left off—”

“I think it's important to play by the rules if you want to make inroads in any industry or institution, and that's what I'm doing in the party. My being Black and gay are incidental. They don't have to be brought to the table.”

“Are you saying that your being Black and gay just aren't important—at least to the party—and because of that you won't bring it to the table?”

“I'm saying neither one has to be nor should they be made an issue.”

“If that's the case, then can one say that you aren't making any inroads as a Black gay member?”

“I wouldn't say that. I see myself—and I believe they do also—as a member who
happens
to be Black and gay.”

“But you just don't
happen
to be who you are. You do, however,
happen
to be a Republican at this moment. You may not be tomorrow. Or next week. Or next year.”

He considered this point, tapping his cup. “On the outside they may see a Black gay man, but they soon realize I can be just as dedicated to the cause as they are. That speaks volumes.”

Uh-huh: You're a sellout.

“So, then, your being Black and gay
do
matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“You want them to see a Black gay man who is just like them—whoever
them
is.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“So I go back to my original question: Have or do you feel any conflict as a Black gay man being a member of the Republican Party?”

He hesitated. “No.”

“So then it doesn't bother you that quite a few members of the party are white men who have direct or indirect ties to white supremacist groups?”

“Uh … one shouldn't judge a man solely by those he knows but by what he does.”

“Given how the party has demonized Black people, isn't it possible that at least some of its more vocal members feel the same way about Black people as their racist friends or acquaintances in hate groups do?”

“I don't think the party can be held accountable for what some members say or do.”

“It can if it does not disassociate itself from such imagery, and it hasn't. In fact, it has thrived on racist messages, from Ronald Reagan's welfare queens to George Bush's Willie Horton to Jesse Helms's dishonest attacks on affirmative action.”

“Those are just three examples. I don't believe they represent what the party is all about.”

“Then what does the party say to you about Black people?”

“To me?”

“Yes, to you.”

He pondered. “That I have just as much right to the American Dream as anyone else and that my color doesn't have to be a hindrance.”

This man was truly in denial.

I decided to switch the topic. “Does it bother you that the party has been vigorously fighting, along with the Religious Right, gay civil rights laws across the country?”

“Well, those laws are really unnecessary. All Americans are currently protected under the law from discrimination.”

“What about those gay and lesbian Americans who are fired from a job, denied a place to live, and harassed at work or school because of who they are? They are not included under the Civil Rights Act of 1965.”

“I doubt very seriously if that's happening to many gays and lesbians.”

Is he for real?
“Even if it is happening to just
one
person, isn't that reason enough to ensure that the majority does not trample on their rights?”

He shrugged. “Majority rules. It can't be about what special-interest groups want, for then government becomes a fractured mess trying to cater to the whims of every subgroup out there.”

I was waiting for that phrase to come up … “Isn't everyone, in his or her own way, a special-interest group?”

“Huh?”

“Well, each person has specific interests that they want met. No one person is a single thing, as you can testify to, nor do they only occupy one station in life.”

Looks like I pimp-slapped him again. “Uh … uh … I would say … you might be right.”

“Well, then, how can the party go on and on about the Dems being the home of special interests when they have particular groups, like the Religious Right, in their front pockets, as well as millions of other Americans, like Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson, each one with a special-interest agenda of their own? And, mind you, the majority of those folks make up one of the biggest and most powerful special-interest groups in the country—white men.”

He was on the ropes now. “I, uh … I think that there is a … I don't believe that the two groups … special interests are organized blocks that work for the good of themselves and not the country as a whole.”

“A while ago you said that the party doesn't believe in individuals thinking or behaving like they are a part of a group. Yet judging from who has benefited the most from its agenda, one could argue that the party is a special-interest group working for the good of itself—its good white-male self.”

He was on the mat; the countdown began … “Uh … uh … uh …”

Click
.

The first side of the tape was finished—and so was he.

As I started to turn it over, he pushed back from his seat. “You know, I'm sorry. I really have to go. I just remembered that there's another project I promised to work on weeks ago and haven't begun yet. I … maybe we can pick this up sometime tomorrow.” He threw on his coat.

“Okay. Call me, for I would really love to finish.” Ha, I'd really love to finish
annihilating
your ass.

“Uh, uh, I will.” He stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

I shook it. “Same here.”

And he literally ran out of the shop.

I didn't think I'd hear from him again, but I did. That next day he left a message on my machine:

“Hello, Mr. Crawford. This is Pete, Pete Armstrong, from yesterday. Uh … I was hoping you'd … well, I don't want to be featured in the article. Because of my position and the chance that this article could be in a major paper … I don't think it would be wise for me to … be so public. I hope you understand. If you have any questions, just call me. Thank you.
”

Yeah, I understood: He didn't want to look like a fool in print.

Normally, I would've ignored such a request (I'd received it a couple of other times from folks who regretted saying certain things, but since they had given consent to the interview—
on tape
—what could they do?), but decided to let him off the hook. I could make the salient points I needed to without humiliating him. Besides, the next day I interviewed a Black lesbian Republican who made more sense than he did. She understood what kind of group she was a member of (“I have no doubt some of those folks would love to see me swinging from a tree”) but argued that it was important for African-Americans to be represented in both parties so that there was someone in the room who could point out the obvious (“You motherfuckers are racist and you need to check that shit”) when no one else would. She also set a timetable on how long she would stick around (“I've been in it for three years and will give it another three; if I don't see any concrete steps being taken, I'll be joining the Reform Party.”). Now,
that
I could respect; while I still didn't agree with her choice, at least she was clear about who she was and realistic about what kind of group she was dealing with and what her role in it could be.

Peter, however, was more concerned with impressing his white/hetero cohorts (can you say
house nigger
?). And he was just as evasive and transparent as many of those Caucasian Republicans I'd had the displeasure of discussing these issues with over the years. But one thing made that forty-five minutes we spent not such a total waste—he was cute. Confused, but cute.

A few weeks later, after the
Village Voice
agreed to run the article, I was at home watching
L.A. Law
when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Uh, hi. Mitchell?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“This is Pete, Pete Armstrong. Remember, the guy you interviewed.”

How could I forget? “Yes?”

“I … uh … this may seem a little … I don't know, out of place. Even weird. But … I was wondering if … if you'd like to maybe, uh … get together sometime for a drink … or dinner … or something.”

I was
stunned
. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Uh, well … I guess I am.”

Silence.

“When?” I inquired.

“Uh … I don't know. Whenever you'd like to. I'm flexible.”

“How about this Saturday night?” Did I just say that?

“Oh, okay. What time?”

“Eight o'clock?”

“That'll be fine.”

“Where will you be taking me?” That's right, where will
he
be taking
me
. After all,
he
asked
me
out …

“Um … where would you like to go?”

“A movie and dinner would be fine.”

“Okay. It's a date.”

Dinner actually came first, at this quaint but not so little Italian restaurant named Luigi's. Then we saw
Jungle Fever
. Then we ventured back to his place. And after we guzzled down a bottle of white zinfandel, I turned him the fuck out.

To my knowledge, he was the first Black gay Republican I ever got busy with. But he upped me in the “first” department—I was the first Black
man
he ever slept with.

I knew it before he officially confessed. The dead giveaways? His comments about the film (“I don't know why Spike had to come down so hard on black men who date interracially; it's not always about the stereotypes and the myths”). The men he'd found attractive over the years (Montgomery Clift, Sylvester Stallone, and Tom Cruise). And, what he grunted while I was going down on him (“Oh, yeah, suck that big, black cock!”) and he was going up in me (“Yeah, ya like that big black cock up in ya, huh?”).