A Fractured Past: Out, Black and Gay in 1970's Atlanta

By Tony Holland

This is a true life account of what it was like growing up a young, black gay man in the largest southeastern city in the Bible Belt. 

Atlanta, GA; 1960's and 1970's...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony L Holland
• Release date: Nov 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798218037833

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Prologue

PROLOGUE

Arguably, this could be considered the worst day of my life. As I sit here, I try desperately to make sense of all that’s happened in the last few days. Why, with all the loss that I’ve experienced up to this point, is this so palpable? What is it that’s setting this apart from the deaths that by all measurable standards should have been the worst? It takes a bit before the answer comes to me. And to be truthful in this writing it is many weeks later before that answer arrives. The secrets – so many secrets that are the staples of our lives as gay men - and the length of time that we’ve been friends has isolated me in this room from just about everyone else that has reason to hurt here today. Greg, we became each other’s confidantes, each other’s therapists, sounding boards, yardsticks of life. Most of the things that are painful and wonderful in our lives we would talk over and reason out before moving forward with them. And even then there were things  I find today that you kept from me.  Just as I know there are feelings and facts that I kept from you. But I also know that these were the things that I couldn’t share with ANYONE;  For if I could, dear friend, your name would have been the first on the list of consultation. 

       I look around  here today and I see Ms. Dorothy. Such a strong black woman! In her, I see my own mother and every other strong African-American mother who possesses that unyielding iron with a gentle and sweet center. The makeup that has carried her and her children through more hardships and strife than most can imagine. Today, her pain is obvious and I can only guess at what it’s taken for her to make it through these last few weeks. Not only to bury a child, but you; her youngest at that. Next to her are your brothers and your sister and all of their children. The lost look that they are all wearing speaks volumes. None of us understand or can entirely comprehend just what has happened here. The sense of the surreal is astounding. On the seat just next to them is Peter, your partner. I think of the many discussions you and I had when you were contemplating becoming involved with him; all the fear of allowing yourself to drop your defenses. How wary you were of letting vulnerability creep in while allowing him entrance to your life.  Also the wisdom that allowed you to see that he had fears as well. It was amazing how difficult it was to look at all sides of that particular situation. Sometimes your growth and insight were astounding to me. The things that it seems many of us have to work double time to get would come to you through the simplest of deductive reasoning. 

      And then on the other side of the church sits us three- Terry, Howard and me.   It’s funny how we all categorize our lives and our friendships. It wasn’t until just recently, since your passing in fact, that I realized that we all filled a certain place in your life. It was a revelation to see that those places and purposes were quite distinct and totally independent of each other.  Initially, that realization hurt and made me quite angry. But upon further examination I came to realize that it didn’t diminish my part in your life. It was your right to go to whatever sources you chose to fill your needs. It’s just that I loved you so much! You were MY little brother! My friend, my ally, and I couldn’t imagine that you would ever not seek my counsel. 

     We’ve made it through the first portion of your service. Thank God Diane gave me the two anti-depressant tablets to take, or I doubt I could have walked in here, much less viewed your body and sat through these moments. And I sure as hell could not just sit here passively and watch the undertaker closing your casket, knowing that I will never see you again. I remember telling you of a dream that I had about this very day. Talk about grotesque Deja vu! 

It's so very hard to explain the feelings that I have. I know what your blood family is going through because I've sat where they are sitting four times now.

    Life has taught me there's very little that one will experience that's more painful. In fact, the only thing that I can imagine worse ,would be facing death in my own nuclear family for a fifth time. That would leave me the only original blossom left on my family tree.

I can only imagine that then I would feel TRULY all alone. Yet the isolating pain today is different inasmuch as this time I can’t fully identify where I belong in the script. I’m not a blood relative and, as with most gay people of our generation, we’ve both kept our families at arm’s length to a degree where our intimate lives and our close personal friendships are concerned. So though you are closer to me than many who carry my own blood, and I hurt for your loss so much that it’s almost indescribable, I feel as though there’s nowhere to really carry that pain. 

     All week, and indeed since you first started this last phase of your illness we (your family and I) have been in  close; but somewhat uncomfortable proximity that only happens when something like this occurs. We know each other, but do we REALLY know each other well enough to cry on one another’s shoulders?  And I hope and pray that poor Peter, who’s been a saint through all this, doesn’t feel too strange. It must be hard being in his position - the only white face in the family entourage at a black funeral.  Not to mention being the identified spouse in a same-sex relationship of the deceased! Talk about being outed!!! I note that he has some good friends here in the congregation supporting him, a few of whom I’ve met. 

     As we finish up now and head up the aisle, I see others in the crowd (quite an impressive one I might add) who dot our history together.  Isabel and P.J., Greg from Decatur and Todd have all come to pay their respects. Not to mention the legion of people whose lives you touched professionally. After all these years of your speaking of them I’ve finally gotten a look at Richard and Susan. Richard spoke eloquently of your many years of service to the company and of the special relationship that you shared with them all. And even though they were not able to make it today, I talked with the two Jacks, and I’m sure you’re in both their hearts as this day progresses. It’s rather surreal to me as I wait in my pallbearer’s position at the door of the church to help position you for your final ride.  I see your cousin Moses looking at me and I know that somewhere around the corners of his mind, he’s sure that he knows me.  He may even remember from where, but either certainty is not totally there. Or maybe there’ve just been too many years from sixth grade to now for him to feel that he still knows me well enough to speak. I don’t know and am in no mood today for extensive trips down memory lane with folks that may (or may not) be able to handle the reality of what’s been going on in my life since they saw me last. Especially if that time was before I even reached puberty!  

    As your burled walnut casket is passed between the group of us - Terry and your nephew on the side with me, and Howard and two other guys on the opposite side, I’m surprised at how light my burden feels. The thoughts cross my mind that there’s no way that I want you jostled. Greg, I can only hope you feel comfort knowing that Terry and I are right here at your side to see you through this.  I’m here at your head and you can count on me.

     As we start the drive to the cemetery, I’m surprised at the route that’s being taken. It is once again down memory lane. We pass the area near Cascade where you and Dick bought your house, and once again I wonder if he’s heard all the way in Chicago about your death. News like this has a way of growing legs and walking. I would have called him if I’d had a number for him. Even with Gloria’s request that I call friends of yours, how could I explain to her the nature of our existence as gay men?  Many of the friends you had, we did not share. And of the people that you and I had in common, most had preceded you from here long ago. Even more, I couldn’t be certain of how Dick would have received a call like that after all you told me that had transpired between the two of you.  Hell, of those that you’d been involved with, would you have even wanted them here? 

      Here we are passing the neighborhood where you grew up and just on the opposite side of the main street there’s the community where my family lived when I was born and where I attended elementary school with your cousin Moses.  As Terry, your niece and Howard are all chatting away here in the limousine, I sit here pensively exploring these thoughts. They cannot possibly know that our history extends back even this far. I can see you coming down the drive of what was then your parents’ home over here.  You’re no more than a whippet at 16 years old, and as you rush down the drive to get into the car, your mom leans out the door to say hi to me. I’m sure she has no idea where we’re off to, though I marvel at how you’ve always tried to be honest with them. It blows me away that you have told them that you’re gay! I am totally undone at your courage and your strength. I should do the same, I know, but I’m scared. 

    As we pull into the cemetery, I think about all the times you would tell me that we didn’t have time to feel bad about this, or let's not talk about that. We’ll deal with whatever  when we’re both old and sittin’ in our rockers! SO many situations could fill those blanks, and now our time has run out! Part of my pain is that I truly don’t know how to be an adult with you not in the picture to bounce things off of. I don’t know what the future will hold, or how the story will end, but I do know this was certainly NOT in the script when my story started…. 

1

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

   A big question that I think most of us stumble on at the outset is one that we never quite get answered. That question is simply;  Who can determine what any of our outcomes will be? Certainly, I never anticipated the twists and turns that my own tale would take. I trust that many, many more chapters are to be written, but here’s my attempt at making a start.

   Out of a union bearing three prior offspring I sprang, in the year of 1958, on the twentieth day of July. Both my parents, being of a time when people worked to make their relationships stay together, enjoyed a place in all our lives. I was the last of the brood, and therefore my position was, and still is, quite questionable to me at times. Certainly my parents never gave me any intended indication that I was not expected or desired, but such are the feelings that sometimes accompany a youngest child. And surely those feelings are experienced by a sensitive child, and I really fit that category. Also, let’s not forget the influence of my older siblings. Boy, Was I ever picked on!  Mainly at the hands of my older brother, but my closest sister got her punches in as well.

    Really, I looked upon her as a sort of mother figure. Since both my parents worked, she spent a lot of time babysitting my brother and me. There was such a vast difference in our ages, that to my young eyes, she appeared to be an adult. 

     There was a difference of eleven years between her and my brother, and fourteen years between her and me. To say that I seemed to be an afterthought certainly appears to fit the bill. I always considered myself a change of life child, since my mom was 39 when I was born and my dad was 41.

     My eldest sister was sixteen years my senior and my earliest memories of her are as a young married woman.  It is my understanding that she married right out of high school to get out of the house. Not unlike most mothers and daughters, a certain tension cropped up between her and my mother during those years. Nothing that they would not work out eventually, but right then it required that they get out of each other’s orbit. 

      Basically, home life was good, though it did feature its tensions. For instance, there was the never - ending feud between my younger sister and my father. It was legendary.  Never have I seen two people that totally disagreed on EVERYTHING. Years later, there would be speculation and irony concerning the why and how of this aspect of their relationship. Though never confirmed, my sister wondered if she may have been the illegitimate child of one of our aunt’s, and given to my mother and father to raise as their own, since said aunt was without a husband. My sister thought that if this were true, it might certainly explain why she and dad never could get along, and always seemed to argue about mother most of all. She felt perhaps the basis was in his resentment at having the added burden of raising a child that was not his own, on what was an already extremely limited income. Though it seemed a wild theory, there were questions that were unanswered that could have certainly pointed in that direction. For instance, it was found that when my sister gave birth to her twin boys she had a different blood type that didn’t show up anywhere else in our family. I suppose the test could have been flawed, but nevertheless it was a really peculiar finding. 

     During my early years, I think that the evidence of who I was to become should have been clear for all to see.  I describe myself as a sensitive child. The fact that I often cried and was deeply touched by things seemed to escape my parents’ notice. Or, perhaps it was constantly ignored because they assumed this heralded things that did not bear mentioning. I mean, I cried when looking at carnival clowns, for God’s sake! Later, as an adult, I realize that the reason for that is that I was terrified by disfigured faces, a shortcoming that still affects me to this day. I am also happy to find that later in life many people have come out and admitted that clowns are just damned creepy!  In my youth however, I did not possess the vocabulary to explain just what the issue was, but I can clearly remember being frightened at the Southeastern Fair when a clown came up and tried to pay attention to me. My dad got impatient and said that I cried over everything.  I must have been three or four year’s old, maybe five at the most. I could probably go so far as to say this was the first indication to me it was not okay for me  to be sensitive or show feelings. 

    Another place that my sensitivity reared its head was around the lyrics of popular songs. I can remember certain songs making me very sad as a child, and not really knowing why. However, when I listen to them now, I do realize that the lyrics appealed to a deeper self, and that I would pick up on these lyrics and the sorrowful sounds of the music. 

     I’m not sure that it was the sole cause of my sensitivity, but a contributing factor was likely that I was never in head start or any other organized group of kids my age. I was very isolated from other children, and growing up in a family where feelings were not freely expressed or talked about at all. I spent those entire early pre-school days home with my mom. I remember them as being very bright and lots of fun mostly, as she had a very warm and loving spirit. She was a simple woman who found pleasure and beauty in nature. Her garden and the naturalness of that early neighborhood I believe were her mainstays.  My mother loved plants and I can remember her tending to them there in the living room as the morning sun came streaming in. We spent wonderful times walking about the neighborhood during those early days. We would go around to the store that was on the next street over sometimes. It was run by a lady named Ms. Lily Rambo, and she ran it out of the front rooms of her house. It was on some of these walks that my mother started to introduce me to nature. I can remember her picking figs from a tree in the neighborhood and showing me how to wash them and prepare them to eat. She also showed me black walnuts growing right there on a tree up the street from our house. She was a wonderful cook. We had a great garden in the backyard at the very rear of our property.  She would take these opportunities to teach me just how these foods that we found growing on the trees in the neighborhood, as well as the foods in our garden could go directly from the source to the table. It was a wonderful period in my early life. 

      Then came the culture shock of kindergarten.  To set the scene here I must tell you that prior to going to kindergarten, I only remember one child in my life that was not older than me. All the others were either my brother’s age, (three years my senior) or just between our ages, which still made me the youngest. Funny thing, that one kid that was my age, lived at the end of a street that was adjacent to our street. He would come to the top of his street to play wearing only a slip! My brother and I thought this was odd even then… The next time I saw him (we moved when I was five) we were both in a show at a club and he was a pre-operative transsexual.  Yes! I think we can safely say our destinies were already on track! While I would never go out of the house dressed, I certainly spent a lot of time playing dress up on the inside of the house in those early years… But I’m getting way ahead of my story. The point was that I got to play with practically no kids other than my brother and a couple of other older boys before kindergarten. Needless to say, when I went to school, they scared the hell out of me!

      I know that some kids take a couple of days to get used to the idea of being without mom for a while, but for me, I spent the whole first school year in stark terror! I cried so much that I remember them trying to leave me and not being able to. My older sister almost got into a fight with the kindergarten teacher over wanting to take me back home when I cried. My sister did take me that day, but finally to persuade me to stay, the teacher had to take me with her everywhere that she went if she left the class. I would NOT stay in the classroom with all those kids. It seems odd to me now that no one noticed at that time the issue was not the school or the new building. I had just met this woman, just as I had just met the kids, but I clearly was able to consider developing a connection with her, but not them.

    This set the tone for most of my relationships with peers for many years to come. I know that it was a good three years before I felt at home in the school environment. I know this now because the first and second grades are totally not in my memory at all. They all run together with kindergarten.  However, the memories pick up again in the third grade teachers’ class. By that time, I had enmeshed myself in the cultural life of school, so to speak, and had become more comfortable. Still, I remained a sensitive, wary and frightened kid.  The next few years moved along pretty much without incident. As I became more and more adjusted to the environment it became easier and easier for me to excel in my studies. I look back at some of my old report cards from that period and I'm surprised at how well I did in school then. I even enjoyed some limited success with the band. Although, I must admit that the only reason I was even in the band was because my brother Ed wanted to be. I remember he came home talking about wanting that and wanting to play the trumpet. He was really excited and all pumped up about it. The actual interest that I had around music was in piano, but I was told that it would not be possible for us to get a piano, so I should play something that I could play in a band. I settled on an alto saxophone. The thing was awful! It was bigger than I was and made this God-awful sound when I blew into it that set my teeth on edge. 

      Here, I have a confession to make. The ONLY reason that I chose the saxophone was that while we were in the music store, I saw one lying in the display case with its case open. It was lying there gleaming goldenly on a navy blue velvet background, and it looked absolutely beautiful. Yes, that's right folks! I picked that damned sax because it sparkled and was pretty. It had mother-of- pearl keypads and the combination of all that brass and velvet and pearls was just too much for me! Yes, beauty and elegance were a requirement of mine even then...

     Back then, we had a music director that was truly a joy. The guy was a lot of fun and seemed to really be a nice person. He made being in the band bearable for me.  I also think that I had something of a crush on him. He was very nice looking. I remember that I heard some time later that the reason that he had left the school was that he had a nervous breakdown. Apparently, he and his wife separated because he was supposedly gay. I don't know that any of this was true, but I remember hearing it and I never forgot it.  It was my younger sister that told me this, and since she worked in the medical field, I believed her. I think that even then, she suspected that I would turn out to be gay, and telling me anything negative was supposed to discourage that.

     I once read that people born under the sign of Cancer in the zodiac are largely homebodies and love praise and flattery. That sums me up totally even back then as a kid.  I did learn how to put myself in a position where once the kids got to know me, most seemed to like me, and in short order I had something of a social standing in grade school.  That is, until the class bully came and called me on my shit!

Carey, with whom I later became friends, had mood swings even as a kid.  One moment he was threatening to kick my ass after school, and a few days later he was complimenting me on my legs. Anyone who hasn’t realized it, there are lots of folks out here that see slightly bowed legs as a definite asset. And even at my tender age I knew that his interest was intense.  Carey was apparently batting on the same team as me, though it would be years before we knew that fact concerning one another.  Even then, the compliment didn’t throw me ( I knew what to do with one of those!) but the threats left me in a cold sweat from sheer panic! Carey was a fat kid, even bigger than me (I always thought of myself as fat, even then) and known to be a bully. We got into an argument in class and he told me to meet him out front after school. What in the world was I going to do? My dad used to pick me up after school and so I had to wait out front for him. We no longer lived in that neighborhood so it was too far for me to walk home alone. My brother no longer went to the school having gone on to the high school that year. Needless to say I spent the rest of the day sweatin’ bullets! At 3 p.m. I wanted to be ANYWHERE but on that front stoop of the school. What would my constituency say when I got my ass kicked? Would I become a social pariah? Would no one look up to me anymore once my mask of authority as a grade school celebrity was stripped away? Well it turned out that Carey didn’t come looking for me at the end of the day. To this day I don’t know whether he forgot, decided that he didn’t want the scene or what… All I know is that I was as happy as a clam that he was not there when I exited. What I've realized is that mostly, the bravado that he showed was a defense mechanism because even though he was a big kid, he was also somewhat effeminate, he still felt that he had to be pushy to keep the others from giving him hell. I also realized that his trying to give me hell one minute and complimenting me the next, was a way of making a connection with me. 

      During this time in school, things also began to take shape around my sexual desires. Now I know that most of our society takes for granted that kids don’t have any sexual desires, however I have my own beliefs as to why this is so. I personally think that it’s because we have so much internalized guilt about sex and sexuality, and so many hang - ups about it being dirty that we just can’t get our minds around the concept that a child may have the same urges that we have as adults. I most certainly was aware of my attractions. 

      Those next few years found me pining away for a boy one year older than me. His name was James, and he was adorable. Even at that tender age I knew that to have it appear that I was even remotely interested in him would mean certain trouble. So the only way I knew to be close to him and not let him or anyone else, for that matter, know was to tell the world that I wanted to know more about his older sister. She was one year older than he was, and didn’t know that I was alive, which was just fine with me! All I wanted was to gaze lovingly up at him! But my cover story was just the thing that would keep me with things to talk to him about.  I think they stayed at the school for one more year, so that pretty much solved the problem of me getting caught up in fantasizing about him too closely. Nevertheless, he was my first real crush, and I did carry that torch for at least the whole next school term. 

       Seems that all the guys that I carried that torch for, from the very earliest, were light - skinned. This is very difficult to admit and certainly to acknowledge in print, but I don’t think that it’s all that uncommon. Lots of young, black kids were shaped by the attitudes of the day back then. The general overall feeling was that darker skin was not as desirable as lighter skin. And anybody that denies that we were all affected in one way or another is lying. James’ complexion was that color of warm biscuits just from the oven; light with just a hint of honey gold. The mostly straight, but slightly curly hair that was also characteristic of the mulatto black was also apparent in him. And all that, combined with a ready smile and soft-spoken manner was all it took to slay me. It still surprises me the level of attractiveness that was there in that kid even then. I believe that we all are given the gift of the aesthetic spectrum. It’s my belief that at some point in our lives we all get the opportunity to be the beauty and we also all get the opportunity to be the beast. It’s just a matter of  timing when we go through whatever stage. Have you ever noticed that some people are beautiful babies or even beautiful as children, but as they age, they lose their attractiveness? All too often the reverse is true as well. How many of us know or have seen people whose school day pictures were downright homely? Then, we see them as adults and they’re absolute gods and goddesses. I rest my case...

    The remainder of the school years at that particular school I was relatively comfortable, however I still was quite sensitive and a worrier most of the time. Fear was a constant companion.  Never let anyone tell you that kids have no worries. Though their issues may seem small to you, to them, those issues seem gargantuan. For instance, by sixth grade, the problem of me getting home was becoming a big one. A lot of times it was a hardship for my parents to pick me up since both worked. As I’ve said, by that time we lived some distance from the school, and I’d never ridden the city bus alone. That particular school had no school buses serving the area since most of the pupils lived close by.  One other kid lived close to where I did and his mom had made arrangements for him to stay with a lady in the neighborhood until she came to pick him up.

     My sixth grade teacher also lived not too far from us, so my folks made arrangements for me to ride with her for a short period. During this period, I was late for school one day and had to stay in detention afterwards.  It was a Friday and I guess she had things to do after school. She said that she wouldn’t stay and so she’d give me money to take the bus. Not only did I not know how to do this (it involved me going downtown and transferring to get another bus connection), but she scolded me and made me feel really bad for not being able to do it.  To some folks this might not seem like a big deal, but to a sixth grader in a city like Atlanta , who had never done the bus thing before , it seemed like solving all the problems of Congress. Here, yet again was another situation in my family and school life where it appeared I was creating problems. Since I was not responsible for getting myself to school in the first place, the detention felt really undeserved. I felt I was being penalized when all I was attempting to do was get home.

  It’s hard for me to remember now, but I think I called my sister at work and she came and got me. But prior to doing that, I remember being paralyzed with fear at not being able to get home that evening. The teacher had worked out this plan for me to take the bus home with no consideration whatsoever to what I felt, how I would cope or adapt. I remember feeling very betrayed because this was a woman that my family held in high esteem, so the shock was really doubled.

      The year that followed set the precedent for a lot of the feelings and emotions that would be a part of me for many years to come. It was 1970, and forced busing in the Atlanta school system was definitely upon us. That year, I was to enter the seventh grade.  It was determined by the government that all school students could no longer go to the school of their choice. All students had to either go to the school in their neighborhoods, or you had the option to go to a school in another district as long as that school was integrated by a certain percentage. Of course, this was not a problem for those in the white communities, since their schools were the best equipped and best funded. No one there was eager to change their kids’ schools anyway.  The only loophole for black families  was if your parents worked for the school system. Then, it was determined that you could still go where you pleased. 

Many parents were so eager to dodge the chaos that these moves were sure to cause in their children’s lives they resorted to lying on forms. Some used the addresses of friends and former neighbors or relatives in the areas where they wanted their children to attend certain schools. It was widely known that this was going on within the communities, and openly discussed within my home. My parents talked about it. They knew full well that I’d had a difficult time adjusting to school as it was, and this might cause problems. And though it did cause significant problems for me, I’ll always appreciate the fact that truth meant something to them. It was a value that I learned from them and that I hold dear today. It’s not always easy to stick by, but it’s very hard for me to turn away from. I believe that’s because they instilled that in us. 

     Having moved to an upwardly mobile neighborhood in the black community in 1963, my parents were all too aware of the difficulty that my brother and I would encounter trying to fit in with the kids that we found there. As a result, they had decided to allow us to stay in the school that we had started, so as  to try and keep us from losing ground and having re-adjustment problems on at least one front. 

     Many people may not be aware of the internal racism and discrimination that once occurred in the African-American community on a regular basis. Commonly called the brown paper bag test, this concept simply put, meant that if your skin color was found to be darker than the brown of a paper bag (i.e. the old grocery store variety), then you were considered too dark, or inferior. Needless to say, we were much too dark to pass this test. As a result, my brother and I spent a lot of time in those years fighting amongst the kids in the neighborhood to be accepted.

 Eventually, we did okay as far as the battles in the ‘hood’ went, but up to then, we were spared the hardship of having to do this battle at school as well. I was all too aware of the fact that this would probably be a part of the whole new kid at a new school thing. And what’s more, by this time my brother was in high school so I’d have to go it alone. 

     And believe me, in no way did they disappoint. The curious thing was that though a lot of classism and psychological abuse was directed from the kids, I found  even more was directed from the teachers and the adults I encountered at the new school. They were all very class conscious. The unspoken truth was who your parents were mattered very much. 

      I remember that first day of seventh grade as though it were yesterday. One of the things that had helped me to cope with my old school was that we were eased back into the school routine at the end of the summer vacation. Usually, on the first day, we became acquainted with the new setup, the classroom and the new classmates (many of whom we’d just gone through the previous grade with). This was largely a planning day, so it was not necessary to bring anything to school with you when you came. Not so in the new class! I am fully aware now that time was of the essence, and that every moment counted. Perhaps that was why the sense of urgency.

      I now know that this was certainly a more productive usage of the time in the classroom than what I was used to, but I’ll never forget the burning shame that I felt when the teacher,  Mr. McCullough, instructed the class to take out paper and