Whenever a man is "accused" of being gay (and I'm loath to use the word "accused" because it seems to imply one needing to defend one's self rigorously against something untoward and deplorable; I hold that there's absolutely nothing wrong with being gay, therefore there's nothing to defend one's self against) he's forced, no doubt due to a social instruction informed by false notions of masculinity, to address the matter in a way that puts all the mainstream minds at ease and assures them that all is straight with the world.

That is to say, homosexuals are expected to keep completely silent (or be completely dishonest) about who we're dating, who we're living with, who we're sleeping with, who we love lest we offend the public proper, because (*nudge-nudge wink-wink*) we all know that homosexuality is depraved, disgusting, abnormal and immoral, and we homosexuals should be lucky that we're even allowed to exist much less damage the collective psyche and pervert the minds of children by being open and honest about who we are.

Much of this mentality has seeped into the consciousness of even those who consider themselves the most decent, upstanding individuals. But most sadly, it’s worked its way into the minds of many gay men.

We've become complicit in obstructing our own freedom and perpetuating the ferocious injustices designed to keep us as second-class citizens at best, and sub-human deviants at worst. Homophobes and heterosexists get to maintain their smug and comfortable lives with their dangerous illusions left intact, and homosexuals get to wallow in a deep and abiding shame, certain of only this one thing: not even God could love us.

Sometimes, we convince ourselves that answering in the negative is the truthful response. We tell ourselves that "gay" means something other than how we think of ourselves or our desires. "Gay," we say, "is going out, partying, clubbing, carrying on and injecting ourselves into the (largely white) 'gay lifestyle.' Gay isn't sex, it's romance; it's love. So long as I hold myself separate from that rambunctious, flamboyant and offensive community, as long as I never enter into anything romantic or loving with another man, I'm not really gay."

Other times, we self-medicate. We drink and drug ourselves into blindness and amnesia, assured that what we cannot see and what we cannot remember we cannot be. Or, we act contrary to our very own nature, force ourselves into relationships with the opposite sex in hopes of proving our viability as "normal" human beings. We lay down with her, but to be aroused we must imagine him, thus ensuring the eventual destruction of two lives instead of one. These games of semantics we play to in order to maintain our sanity and our existence often end up costing us both.

For it escapes us that by "gay," the mainstream

Heterosexists and homophobes don't feel the need to dice us up into categories that afford us safety against the stigma of being labeled a "faggot."

They don't care if we're drunk or high when we do it, or whether or not we're wearing the most normal drag in our closets at the moment it happens, or if we're camouflaged with a wife and kids. To them, we're all faggots: the tranny in red pumps, the discreet dude in sagging jeans, and the husband sucking anonymous d**k in the park. We're all faggots and we all deserve to die.

If we happen to be faggots and persons of color, multiply all of that hostility by two because in this case, we must also contend-and very, very closely-with the power and sway of religious institutions. Religious institutions in the main and the black religious institutions in particular, provide solace for people who feel largely powerless in their lives by placing some Other on the altar for sacrifice and consumption.

That some of us have survived all of this relatively unscathed is nothing short of miraculous. That there are some of us who still speak honestly and openly about our lives or refuse to hide or cannot hide or dare to love in the midst of it all is the most salient demonstration of courage I've ever seen. Indeed, it's no small feat to withstand the God of Eternal Threats, Torture and Punishment. It's an even greater accomplishment to endure his followers. If that isn't a testament to strength, resilience and grace, then I don't know what is.

It's into this tumultuous, highly-dysfunctional world-unassailable in its ignorance, unfounded in its righteousness, exceeded in its hatred only by its bloodlust-that Drake, a young, bi-racial (read: black) man, finds himself thrown.

And then there's us: heterosexists and homophobes who crave someone at whom aspersions can be cast, to whom a cross can be affixed; and homosexuals bubbling with wish-fulfillment and needing to be confirmed by any see-he's-gay-too so-it must be-okay poster boy that can be exhumed from the ruins.

It's this perpetual adolescent pathology that prevents us from seeing the beauty and complexity of the world in which we live and the beauty and complexity within ourselves. When our childishness interferes, we aren't able or aren't willing to see each other-with adult eyes-for who we are really. And our greatest failure occurs when we deny ourselves the opportunity for a closer inspection which would reveal that what we believed was a crown on the boy's head was actually a tiara all along.

And I say we should let him wear it.