Required Reading: How to Get Your Life for Good

By Darryl Stephens

Darryl Stephens is probably best known for his portrayals of other people, like Noah–the hopeless romantic on "Noah's Arc," or Lenny–the jaded pragmatist on "DTLA." You've also seen him on "Private Practice," "2 Broke Girls," and on the big screen in "Boy Culture" and "Beyond the Lights." Here, he steps out from behind the scripted characters to open up like never before about his experience as a black gay man in Hollywood. He shares personal stories about being closeted on set, dating in the age of hookup apps, visiting a black church, and feeling daunted by the notion of being a role model. He’s straightforward and unapologetic in his pursuit of authenticity and encourages the reader to be as well. But mostly, he just wants you to get your life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329320802

Book preview

Required Reading: How to Get Your Life for Good

REQUIRED READING: How to Get Your Life for Good

Darryl Stephens

Copyright

REQUIRED READING: How to Get Your Life for Good

Copyright © 2015 by Darryl Stephens

All rights reserved.

First Printing: 2015

ISBN 978-1-329-32080-2

www.darrylstephens.com

Cover Photography by Stephanie Vovas

Cover Design by Darryl Stephens

INTRODUCTION

Let me start off by saying that I don’t know any more about life than you do. My experience is mine alone, just as your experience is entirely specific to you. We are all trying to make sense of our time on this planet, based on our individual understandings of what we see, hear, and feel. And while it may seem that some of us have navigated life with more finesse or more success than others, this journey is constantly presenting new challenges and opportunities and obstacles and victories for every single one of us.  All we can do is hope we are able to recognize and apply the lessons that come with the hardships we encounter, as we strive to keep our hearts open enough to celebrate and appreciate all the love and beauty this world has to offer.

I’ve lived in Los Angeles for almost twenty years and at this point I can’t see myself living anywhere else. We have beaches, mountains, deserts, fantastic cultural attractions, African-American millionaires, gay bars in almost every neighborhood, more beautiful people than we know what to do with, and sunshine all year around. I have been blessed with a loving and supportive family and I happen to make my living (although at times, just barely) doing what I love in a place where I can be my authentic self without fear. 

I am well aware that given a different set of circumstances, I could be a far less well-adjusted individual. I try not to take for granted that I have been extremely fortunate and that much of what I have accomplished in my life is largely due to the tremendous support system I have been blessed to have. Sometimes I wonder who I would be if I hadn’t grown up able-bodied and educated in Southern California with a brilliant and outspoken mother who made it very clear that mediocrity was not an option, a grandmother who championed academics and the arts, and a circle of friends who have each, at some point, held me together when I’ve been on the verge of falling apart. And trust me, I have been close to losing it on many occasions.

Being an artist is not an easy life and I have struggled at times with the decision (although I honestly don’t remember making the choice) to pursue my dreams instead of creating a simple life of stability. Could I abandon my passion for storytelling and work a nine-to-five job in some Pasadena cubicle under florescent lights? Maybe. Would I be able to pay my bills on time and get those student loan people to leave me alone? Probably. But I don’t think that’s what I was put here to do. Yes, the money will come, as it always does, and the material wealth that living in America has taught me to prioritize will accumulate in time. I know this. But seeking out wealth has never been my purpose.

I don’t focus on money, which some would argue has been detrimental to my financial well-being. Perhaps they’re right. But for me, my career has always been about the art itself; the story that illuminates the shared human experience, the characters who affirm and uplift an otherwise underrepresented population, the emotional arc that encourages an audience to persevere and continue striving and believing in love. Yes, ultimately, I believe my purpose here is to spread love. I believe that is your purpose as well, but we can get to you later…

Very early in my career, I was blessed to play a character who resonated with a lot of people. Noah Nicholson was a soft-spoken, fashion forward romantic with a group of friends who helped guide him through the silly, soapy missteps of being a young, gay, black man looking for Mr. Right. (Or Mr. Robinson, as he turned out to be.) That role brought me into contact with a world I hardly knew existed. There were thousands and thousands of people who, while very familiar with people who looked and behaved like the characters we were depicting, had never seen men like these on television. They were seeing themselves, their estranged sons, their best friends, their uncles and cousins… reflected back at them on TV. At last!  Right away, words like groundbreaking and revolutionary were being attached to our little cable series and I found myself in the middle of all of it.

Here I was, a thirty-something actor trying to cope with suddenly being recognized by complete strangers at the grocery store, while people were tracking me down on social networking sites to ask me how to come out to their parents, or how they might aid in rescuing a family member who was suffering abuse for being a so-called sissy, or how to make the heterosexual man they’d fallen in love with reciprocate their homosexual feelings. I didn’t have the answers to any of these questions, but with time, I learned how to respond honestly and hopefully, constructively.

This is a collection of essays and personal stories, some new, some previously shared, that will hopefully give some insight into how someone in my position, with my particular set of circumstances, has navigated through issues like dating in the technological age, working as an openly gay black actor in Hollywood, and coming to terms with the misgivings of church folk. 

My perspective is simply that. Despite my occasionally authoritative tone, I know I don’t have all the answers. You will actually see, particularly in the more stream of conscious sections, that I’m working through and figuring some of these things out as I’m writing. However, I do believe that sharing our experiences is the first step toward supporting each other on this often challenging journey. So take from this what works for you, and pay the rest no mind. This is my truth. May it inspire you to share yours.

No Shade

You know what reading is. You’re doing it right now… viewing printed material to comprehend its meaning. But context is key to understanding. Reading can also mean discerning an emotion in someone’s eyes or expression. Actors are often reading for roles while field agents for the Gas Company are reading gas meters. Reading between the lines is looking for hidden meanings behind what is explicitly stated, and reading up means acquiring extensive or specific information on a subject by studying it intensely. (If you continue on your present course, you’ll be reading up on me.) And then of course, there’s the black gay colloquial meaning of the word…

Shade comes from reading. Reading came first. Reading is the real art form of insult…

- Dorian Corey, Paris Is Burning

Black gay men can be quite skilled at fiercely scrutinizing one another to cleverly exploit even the subtlest flaw for humorous effect. Reading for filth often results in hurt feelings and bloody scalps. I’m not inexperienced at this form of reading, but it’s not what I’m interested in here. Imagine instead that we’re playing with the black gay terminology, employing that same level of scrutiny–hopefully along with some critical thinking and emotional intelligence–for good, with the purpose of raising one another up rather than putting each other down. I believe that observing and comprehending the nuances of our shared experience with empathy is essential to our evolution. Required reading, if you will. 

I’m not sharing these stories to sensationalize my life or to defame those who I think have wronged me. If anything, I hope to embolden readers to rise above petty grudges to embrace the healing powers of forgiveness. But if I’m going to effectively convey the emotional impact of what I’ve been through, it’s also important for me to be honest. So there may be instances in which it seems I’m writing to damage someone’s reputation, when really, I’m just telling you how I perceived what went down. I kindly ask that you please not use my words to vilify anyone, as this book was written with the spirit and intention of ultimately uplifting and inspiring the people who have stuck around long enough to still be reading. Thanks, boo.

We’re not going to be shady, just fierce.

- Junior LaBeija, Paris Is Burning

MOMMA’S BOY

Black Boyhood

I’ve known I was attracted to men for as long as I can remember. Even as a small child, being in the arms of a man made me feel special. Safe. I obviously didn’t understand then the personal or cultural implications of what I’d eventually come to know as my sexual desire, I just knew that masculine energy and attention left me nervous and excited. Of course, it had nothing to do with lust. It was more like an acute fascination.

My mother and my biological father divorced when I was an infant, so most of my earliest memories are of living with her and her mother in my grandmother’s beautiful house. My mother has always been forthright and unconventional, and my grandmother, regal and glamorous. But they were both always, in their own way, encouraging and affectionate. I believe the nurturing, loving space created by those two women during the crucial first few years of my life helped instill in me the confidence that would eventually empower me to live my life on my terms and urge others to do the same. No matter what the conservatives say about the degeneration of the nuclear family, strong women CAN raise strong young men. I will forever be grateful to them for teaching me the importance of pursuing intelligence, compassion, and grace. And color coordination.

When I was five, my mother remarried. Suddenly she and I were living in a small rented cottage with this green eyed man who strutted around with his chest puffed out, talking loud, charming the neighbors, and cooking soul food on the weekends. His people were Creole from Louisiana and even though he had pale skin, freckles, and bone straight-flyaway hair, my mother insisted on identifying him as ‘black.’ While Creole normally refers to descendants of French settlers, often mixed with Africans and/or Native Americans, I’ve always assumed that her having been previously married to a Black Muslim during the Black Power movement is what required this particular leap of logic.

Even then, I was transfixed by the male form: the bulging muscles, the strong hands, the fuzzy body hair, and–as this would have been the late seventies–the giant bush at the base of the meatiness in his lap. (Now that I think about it, she may have had other reasons for insisting he was ‘black.’)

My stepfather caught me staring at him once while he was washing up at the bathroom sink, naked. He had left the door open and I happened to be down the hall, on the couch with a coloring book, unable to take my eyes off him. And it. He stood in profile, his strapping twenty-six year old body framed against the pink tiles of the tiny bathroom. When he looked over and saw me staring, he said something to the effect of, Don’t do that. I don’t like that. Boys aren’t supposed to look at other boys. Then he slammed the door shut. I doubt he said the word ‘fag’ at that point (though i’m fairly certain he was thinking it), but he made it clear that my curiosity should be a source of shame.

Most boys who enjoy staring at other boys experience that pivotal childhood event, when someone communicates that our attraction is ‘wrong.’ It’s not always a direct admonishment. Sometimes it’s an offhanded comment about someone not in the room, or a thoughtless joke. The macho mechanism of degrading anything not masculine or mocking men who don’t disrespect women is deeply ingrained in American culture. Even as misogyny and homophobia–long considered mainstays of manliness–are increasingly dismissed as products of ignorance, the Age of Information hasn’t managed to mitigate their stronghold on our culture. Men belonging to communities that are disenfranchised seem even more disposed to propagate archaic ideas of masculinity, possibly because their ability to do traditionally male things–like provide for their families and protect those they love–is constantly being challenged.

The rules of traditional black masculinity seem particularly fixed and rigid. The history of dehumanization through physical and psychological abuse perpetuated against African Americans has been so traumatizing that generations of black men have been taught to celebrate violence and aggression, and that sensitivity and emotional honesty should be eschewed as signs of weakness. This tragic and epidemic coping mechanism of championing hyper-masculinity over vulnerability has left many black men with a very limited range in the way of personal expression and emotional consciousness. I would venture to say that my stepfather, who grew up looking like a white man in the rougher areas of the Crenshaw District of Los Angeles, probably shared this limited view of manhood with his neighbors of more apparent African descent.

So as I grew older, I learned that there were aspects of me, facets to my very essence, that were unacceptable to most of the people in my life. Just as my stepfather made it clear that I should not be so fascinated by male nudity, friends, family members, and even teachers taught me that I needed to lie, or at the very least, hide my feelings when it came to boys.

I’ll never forget the day one of my middle school English teachers, Ms. Osborne, walked past my desk while my friend Tom and I were talking about Prince’s recently released LoveSexy album after class. (For those of you who weren’t following Prince in 1988, the album cover depicted him butt naked, seated on a giant flower petal.) She grabbed the cassette case off my desk and proclaimed, in her distinctly backwoods twang, Prince is a fag! Tom and I were both shocked, but as a huge Prince fan with my own secret connection to the F word, all I could muster at the time was a nervous laugh. Tom came to Prince’s defense, reminding her that David Bowie (his fave at the time) had also pushed the envelope when it came to fashion and traditional expressions of masculinity. Ms. Osborne responded, too quickly, David Bowie’s a fag, too! At that, we put our cassettes into our backpacks and went to lunch. She was later reprimanded and forced to apologize by Tom’s father, who taught English at the local high school, but the damage had already been done. Someone I was supposed to look up to, a woman I was to trust with helping to shape my young mind, had made her true feelings clear: men who don’t abide by society’s prescribed ideals of masculinity deserve to be mocked and demoralized.

Coincidentally, this was around the time I noticed that many of the kids from my neighborhood, boys I’d grown up with, my best friends, were adopting mannerisms and pursuing pastimes that I believed were inconsistent with how we’d been raised. It seemed to happen overnight. All of a sudden, there was a new appreciation for the so-called ‘thug life’ mentality among my peers; a collective move towards macho posturing and with it, an apparent disregard for school and authority figures. My sensitive and artistic disposition became an obvious liability when it prevented me from joining in their appropriation of Compton-based rap outfit N.W.A.’s hood aesthetic, or their shared overuse of the heretofore forbidden N word. Suddenly, I felt I wasn’t black enough for most of my friends. That’s not to say that I was exemplifying the still popular and inane insult of being too articulate, because the truth is that my friends were all very bright. (Is there anything more insulting than suggesting someone who is articulate is somehow not black enough?) No, I just didn’t have enough swagger to run with that particular group of teenage boys.

I found myself pulling away from the black and Mexican kids with whom I used to ride the school bus and socializing instead with the racially diverse, but primarily white kids in my gifted classes. Where my neighborhood friends seemed put off and confused about the young man I was becoming, the white kids in class seemed to embrace my ‘otherness.’ With them, I didn’t have to pretend to enjoy gangster rap, and my obsessions with Prince and Janet Jackson were excused as ‘funky’ rather than ‘faggy.’ They thought it was cool that I loved dancing and drawing, and probably even considered me somewhat of an arbiter of style. At the time, it felt like I was finally allowed to be myself. But that didn’t last long…

My best friend in eighth grade was a white kid named Arnie (not his real name). He lived with his older brother and his mother, about six blocks from our school. His grandparents lived in the back house, which I think might have been a converted garage with limited amenities, because they were in the main house a lot. The first time I saw Arnie cuss out his grandmother, who was admittedly loud and crabby, my eyeballs tried to pop all the way out of my head. The other white boys in the house just laughed, unfazed. When she turned around and cursed right