Just For Fun

My Life With Sade

Dedicated, with Appreciation, to Paul Denman, Helen Folasade Adu, Andrew Hale & Stuart Mattheman

Diamond Life: Heaven Help Him, When He Falls

  

October 1984 | 2:30 am | Provo, Utah

Lying across a sturdy sofa, empty lobby of a dormitory, Brigham Young University.

Eyes smudged with eyeliner, highlighted hair tousled, bleached white 501s.

I’d been at The Star Palace, a refuge from the adjustment of moving out of Seattle and into Pleasantville. “Don’t drink, don’t smoke, what do you do?” I danced. Hard.

My best friend back home was black. We frequented black clubs, listened to black music. There’s no “black” in Provo. I adapted; rather than rock steady to the Whispers, I swayed to Swing Out Sister.

In a malaise of misfit and dried sweat, I was watching Night Tracks, a late night music video show.

He’s laughing with another girl,
playing with another heart.
Placing high stakes making hearts ache.
He’s loved in seven languages.
Jewel Box life, diamond nights and ruby lights,
high in the sky.

Sight: red lips, black hair, freckled brown skin.

Sound: delicate piano, driving bass, salvific sax; creating structure to protect, wings to carry a voice soft and soaring, mysterious and familiar.

Heaven help him, when he falls.

And fall I did. No help from Heaven.
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On Satchels and Sexuality

I’m leaning against a bar, swirling Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks and reading Somerset Maugham’s “Of Human Bondage” when a woman approaches with a scowl and purpose. “Empty that bag and prove to me that you need to carry everything in it” she demands, handbag slung defiantly over her shoulder, arms crossed. “You should not be carrying a bag; men don’t wear purses.”

One might expect such a confrontation would catch me off-guard, but this interrogation is common. For the past 15 years, I’ve carried what is derisively referred to as a man bag.

More frequently than it should, this accessory elicits stares, comments, scorn and on rare occasion, compliments. In the seeming view of many, my bag further erodes the lost beacon of masculinity, the fall of the Western World.

For me? It’s just a bag. I’ve come to see it as a Rorschach Test that reveals more about others than me.

With deliberate movement, I take another swallow of scotch, set the tumbler down slowly, and ceremoniously two-hand lift my black Ferragamo onto the counter, exhibit A in this darkened courtroom drama.

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