The invisible black homo blues
Early spring 2009
So you see, I am invisible. Yet I’m hard to miss. I’m the black guy: bald, nearly six feet tall and over 200 pounds with artfully plucked eyebrows. I also mix my own scented body oils, so you probably smell me before you see me. Still, I am not seen. Now that the older black art critic guy moved to the editorial side and the sassy black fashion writer woman went back to metro and then left the paper shortly afterward, I’m the sole darkie in features. No good news for me.
My first three years at The Sun were a whirlwind as I enjoyed the gig: going to all the major shows in Baltimore, D.C. and Virginia, and interviewing some of the biggest names in pop. Plus, Do-Good-White-Man, the editor who hired me in 2003 but was fired by the publisher soon afterward, praised me regularly.
‘‘You have strong storytelling talent,’’ he’d say nearly every time he passed me in the cafeteria, rarely looking me directly in the eye but flashing a tense boyish grin. ‘‘I really like your columns about growing up in Arkansas.’’ Although I was writing tons of features and criticism on a variety of pop topics and figures, he only singled out the pieces in which I briefly referenced my funky childhood down home.
But after Do-Good-White-Man was forced out, so much started to change, especially for me. Resources have evaporated, and my column, which anchored a popular weekly pullout section, is gone.
In fact, the weekly pullout was unceremoniously dumped — no explanation given.
I’ve had this gig for six years now, publishing colorful profiles on legends. I’m talking Chaka Khan, Bette Midler, Aretha Franklin and many hot contemporary stars from various genres. Now my job has been reduced to small weekly CD reviews and a few haphazardly edited features squeezed into the main section.
I’m trying to figure out what happened here. When did I fall asleep? When I was hired, the editors seemed open to what I had to bring, something The Sun was definitely missing in its features section: a young black perspective. Extensive critical pieces that delved into urban-pop culture were welcomed early on. Readers immediately responded, filling my inbox with testimonials about how they related to my columns, or how glad they were that The Sun found a clue and hired a black critic who ‘‘got it.’’ I always forwarded these e-mails to my editors.
But the tide has turned. The editors haven’t a clue about anything these days. They’re the proverbial headless chickens running around the newsroom, bumping into one another and making a mess. They’re scrambling to save themselves as the impending shit storm of companywide layoffs draws near. In such a climate, fuck a black perspective. Nobody cares about offering such insight at this white paper, which ostensibly serves a predominately
Reflections on my time at The Baltimore Sun
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