Standing at the Crossroads

Standing at the crossroads, tried to flag a ride, Standing at the crossroads, tried to flag a ride, Ain’t nobody seem to know me, everybody passed me by.

—Crossroad Blues

I am the fifth child of seven children, the fourth boy of five boys. I was born into a social experiment that my parents called a family. In spite of the dynamic social interaction that goes on in a large family, I grew up a very private kid, constantly demanding his own space, his own place, his own identity—separate from my brothers (the athletic brother, the talented brother, the handsome brother, the younger brother). I always felt that I was at a crossroads between who I was and wanted to be and who they were, my biological brothers and my cultural brothers—and the directions that their lives were taking them.

The house that I grew up in was located on a corner lot in the center of our neighborhood, at a crossroads between Simcoe Street and 12th Street. All the local kids flocked over to our house. My mother used to say, “with seven kids you’re bound to attract a lot more.” Our yard was the place to be. We had pecan trees and mulberry trees, a fig tree and a pine tree. We had a big front porch, an area for football and a dirt basketball court. This was the main attraction. Guys from around the neighborhood would come with their attitude and bravado, fighting over who would be shirts or skins. Sporting their new Converse tennis shoes, these guys would walk into our yard talking a whole lotta shit, who would win, by how many points and who would make it to the NBA. These Black guys performed the pageantry of youthful dreaming and the ritual of growing up. I watched the fellas from the side window, one of two in the living room of our house. I would watch them, young Olympians in the prime of their manhood—calling up the dirt, swirling in dust clouds of hopes and dreams. Their bodies were caked with a mixture of sweat, dirt and tenacity. The basketball court was a crossroads, a passage into another time, another space, a ticket to another place.

The other window in the living room looked out the front. The house that I grew up in was located across the street from Syrie Funeral Home. During the evening I would often look through it and see the pageantry of death and the ritual of saying good-bye. In the distance I could hear the mournful wails of those feeling grief. I could see the old men sipping from a bottle of courage near the dumpster. I saw children doing what children do—some playing games, others engaged in solemn social banter. I saw people looking silently, longingly into the distance, standing at the crossroads of their memories and their reality.

On September 7, 1994, I drove from Carbondale, Illinois, to Lafayette, Louisiana, to attend the funeral of my brother Nathaniel Patrick Alexander, who had died from complications with AIDS three days earlier. Family members and friends asked why I didn’t fly, but I needed the time. In my informed confusion I thought that if I delayed getting there I could somehow suspend time. During that eleven hour drive I crossed real and imagined borders, traveling down a road that took me to painfully familiar places: The day he told me he was gay. The day he introduced me to a partner. The day he called me and said, “Are you coming home this summer?” The day I helped him move home. The day I found out he had AIDS. The day he said, “I’m sorry I let you down.” The day he said, “I love you.” The day he died.

As I pulled into Lafayette, I reflected on another special day. After a name calling episode with some of the local boys in which I was the focus of their pro-masculine anti-sissy juvenile male posturing, my brother sat me down and said, “I see me in...