Funny Queer Shit: That One Basketball Game

3 months since leaving the library. 

Trumpet Creeper Before

Trumpet Creeper After

For the first time I feel like I'm working for myself. Do I have goals? Yes! Do I have a plan? Yes! Have I made a dime from writing? Not yet. But I'm not deterred, which is new for me. 

Do I feel like a bum? Sure. Am I anxious to start making money again? You bet your ass I am! Do I want to hop into the first thing that pops up? Not at all. I'm not ready. If some time in the future getting extra income becomes necessary then, hell yeah! But it's not necessary. I'm giving myself permission to at least try whatever it is I'm trying right now.

I still don't know what I'm doing. But the not knowing is at least planned.

It's my Dad's birthday this month and he's in this one.

Another installment of Funny Queer Shit

That One Basketball Game

    As a baby queer, I was very quiet. Observant. Looking for cues on how to act in certain situations. I never would have dreamed of sharing anything about childhood as an adult. Childhood was scary. And I'm not talking about a literal hell hole that some kids have to grow up in. But scary in that I already knew something about the way I thought and acted was different from the peers that society associated with me. I was different and didn't want to become more oscracitized than was already felt. To be honest, I like people, intrigued by how connections are formed, some that we desire and some that we can't seem to get rid of. But I like people from the sidelines. Always the observer. 

    But have you ever had one of those moments where you come out of your character? A moment when you become someone else? No, the same person but more realized? I'm sure as adults we come out of our character if someone cuts us off in traffic or a baby throws up on you. But have you ever done something so freeing it unlocked something inside of you? 

    One of these moments happened to me at a halftime show. Don't get excited.

    The halftime show was for a local college exhibition game. To further prove how insignificant of an event, the game was at the PWI of Furman University. 

    Furman U became a staple of Greenville back in the 90s when the Carolina Panthers first started out and were using the campus' football field for practice and to amp up new fans with cheap swag and autographs. What was not intended by the school were the Black people that would start popping up in droves at random intervals throughout the pre-football season. But they made their money off Black folks too. So many Black events that Furman U saw profit.  Everything from seeing my first Step Show and my Dad's beloved Q- Dogs step to seeing Maya Angelou for the first time. Historically Black Sorority and Fraternity cotillions on a campus that still doesn't represent these organizations today. Even my high school graduation culminated with a visit to Furman U. 

    The exhibition game that Dad and I were about to go to was courtesy of Momma. When she used to work retail, Momma would get perks she had no desire of using. Tickets for Disney on Ice in the nosebleeds. Or cheap timeshare offers for places you wonder if Black people have even been yet, let alone lived. But Momma is personable. Likable. And one of the regular perks were these basketball tickets to exhibition or low profile games at Furman U. And Dad would eat these up every time, trying to drag one or both myself and my sister to the game. 

    Going to these games with Dad was no new thing, but this game was a trifecta of great happenings from the Universe. 

    First, Dad let me dress myself when we went out because, hey, the kid's got it! My outfit choices were often questionable. And while the windbreaker pant/jacket combo had a bit too much neon that night, I got the seal of approval from Momma and was out the door before she could change her mind. I promptly turned my neon green hat backwards once we got in the car. I was clothed so I was in the clear with Dad. 

    As I said before, Black folks would take over the campus of Furman U at random intervals through pre-football season and these basketball games became an unspoken community spot for Black people in the area. This night was one of the first nights that the crowd tipped over from being a sprinkling of Black folk to being a congregation.  

    When walking in, there were a lot of Black folks walking into this PWI basketball arena. Most of the ticket holders had gotten theirs free from some organization or event. It was a happen chance convergence due to circumstances. Black folks trying to have a good time and lift the veil of the mysterious PWI at the same time. This was the week's entertainment. 

    Even now, the moment of ease and relaxation that comes over when bracing for being the only person of color in a white space and seeing another person of color in that same space is poetic. It's like taking a fresh gulp of water when you didn't know you had thirst. Being able to continue because you are here too. I think everyone felt that walking into the arena. At least I'd like to believe so. I felt unexpectedly secure. I went in hoping for a free cozie. 

    We take our seats, and even now I don't recall much about the game. I'm sure the players themselves don't remember much about the game. I do recall the lights. The basketball arena had been recently remodeled and everything gleamed. The floor was spotless and they had people run out from the sidelines and clean scuff marks during time outs. The railings for the bleachers were pristine and the seats didn't have built up chewing gum underneath. The new lighting made it appear that daylight was breaking through the roof. The new basketballs bounced and reverb perfectly off the walls. Just shiny. 

  Halftime eventually came around. And just like any halftime show, this is the other piece of entertainment that the people came to see. But this is an exhibition game on a Wednesday night at a PWI. The entertainment was slim: "Let's have all the kids come down and have a dance off!" rang out over the intercom. You could hear the  immediate patter of feet as people made their way enmasse to the concession stands. 

    This was around '95 so it's safe to say that Spice Girl's "If You Wanna Be My Lover" started playing at first or some variety of 1995 pop music. 

   This proposition would mortify me. You would think I would have a better tolerance of being in front of people with the Back to School Fashion Shows that Momma would without fail would sign us up for at the beginning of every school year. Now I understand we had no choice being the kids of the only Black manager at a predominately white department store. I even think on a subconscious level I caught chicken pox in kindergarten  because I didn't want to play a tree during the graduation play. 

    Never graduated kindergarten technically. 

    But this night was different. I think it was the level of stimuli all involved. The stimuli of seeing myself in clothing of my own choosing. Seeing the crowds of unbeknownst Black people crowding into this new and flashy arena. Watching a game that even then I associated with being masculine. For some reason I was compelled. I wanted to be seen by these people in this moment. I asked Dad if I could go down to dance. 

    He immediately asked "Are you sure?" He already knew that I was good for wanting to do something and backing out of it  halfway. I once stopped myself midway down a McDonald's playground slide because I got scared half way down sliding head first on my back. Momma would have his head for bringing back a crying kid. 

    But after a reassuring nod from me, he let me walk down the many stairs to the basketball floor. 

    Other kids had already started to pool onto the dance floor. There were about 8 of us in total. The music was much louder down here than in the stands. For a moment I just stand there as the music plays. I'm just looking around at all the newness up close. The basketball goals are spotless. The grain in the flooring seems symmetrical somehow. 

    Then the music changed. And that feeling of suddenly hearing familiar music through white noise hits. Like when your favorite song pops up on a random radio station on a road trip. The song was "This is How We Do It" by Montell Jordan.

    I don't recall exactly what moves I did. But I was moving like the rock star I felt like I was. My arms were moving. My legs were going in some direction. And it may be my kid mind superimposing the imaginary onto reality but the rest of the kids pushed to the sides and I had the floor. If they moved to the sides due to my erratic dance moves is a high possibility. 

    The thing I remember the most was my last move: my attempt at break dancing and spinning around on my back, using my arms to slowly twist myself like an upturned turtle. I ended it with the traditional roll to side pose, hand under my chin. Literal boss moves. 

    I was free. I felt no restrictions on who I was or suppose to be. I was dancing in that moment and I was just a happy spirit. And I wanted to be seen in this version of myself. But it took perfect conditions. Half the parental oversight, plus the influx of Black folks in a brand new gym on a wary PWI campus somewhere in my mind equaled safe space. I let out a part of myself that I wanted seen. Not the shielded person that I had to present daily, but the part that wanted to connect with everything in that moment. 

    The next day Momma came home from work with a story to tell. Someone she knew (Momma knows a lot of people), told her they saw me dancing during the halftime show the other night. Dad had told her about my show stopping dance moves, but it was one thing for your Dad to tell Momma that you danced in front of a crowd. It's like giving a report before handing off kid responsibilities. But it was another thing for someone else to see me, recognize me from the floor and then tell Momma about it. I felt exposed. Like my narrative was being changed right before my eyes. I just wanted to dance. And now the story was "I saw your little girl out there dancing the other night." That's not the night I had. I felt like someone was retelling my experience for me. Someone had seen my queer magic and was trying to make it make sense to them. And it didn't need to be made sense of. It just needed to be. 

    I was pretty quiet for the rest of childhood after that.