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Baldwin’s latest tour de force, published just last August, had instantly become a classic to me for its depiction of two black men kissing at the heart of a fictional world full of love. One by one, I had devoured all of Jimmy’s Blues by then. A real opportunity to escape the limitations of my local surroundings to venture out into a world of greater possibilities. A job for a bank in the City of London would be my manna from heaven.
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It was 1980 finally, and I was leaving school for the world of work.
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Still, the foreword said he had written other books, so I might as well go seek them out at my local library, too. There was no sense of James Baldwin’s African American heritage whatsoever. The novel might have been written by a white author for all the feeling of home and familiarity I found in it. There were no signs of two black men kissing anywhere. Little did she know that I was devouring my very first tale of homosexual love, and very depressing it was, too, or so it seemed to me aged sixteen. She figured I must have been sick, despite the light being on in my room into the early morning hours. Still, I tucked his book into my school bag and rushed home to my bedroom as if smuggling contraband.įor three long nights, my mother couldn’t believe that I had gone to bed so early. A ‘queer black man’, although he didn’t look to me like someone, I might want to kiss. Good, God! He must be a homosexual, too, I said in my head. The blurb said his name was James Baldwin, and he was the author of this Giovanni’s Room. Imagine my surprise when the book finally came, and I flicked to its back cover to find a picture of a black man.
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“Two Black men kissing fantasies haunted my dreams…”Ī fantasy of 2 Black men kissing haunted my adolescent dream. I hadn’t the foggiest idea why I thought I might find evidence of two black men kissing in a book delighted over by a suspected white killer, but it was the only lead I had to go on. These snippets of information gave me all the impetus I needed to sneak off to our local library to seek out his reading material of choice. He had taken great lengths to hide his numerous affairs with men for fear they would reck his political career, the papers said.
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Thorpe, a British MP and married father of one was on trial for attempted murder. Being as inquisitive as I was then, in my teens, my curiosity was piqued. According to newspaper reports, one of the two men had gifted the other a salacious novel about homosexuality. It was 1979, and the Jeremy Thorpe and Norman Scott trial was the talk of Britain. I had read a mention of the book in the “News of the World” my mother had delivered every Sunday, religiously. Still, it was the same thoughts of two black men kissing that drove me to order Giovanni’s Room from our local Forest Hill Library.
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A football sock as a willy-warmer shoved down the crack between my bed and the wall worked just as well as a masturbation method but left no telltale signs. So, I learnt to perfect a new technique instead. She might have sent me for a lobotomy if she only knew the many thoughts of men kissing men running around in my mind. “I don’t know what you do in your bed every night to wear out the middle of your sheets in record time,” my mother scolded.
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Soon I was wearing out my bedsheets and experiencing visions that left me in no doubt that I was having carnal thoughts of a non-fatherly kind. But over time, the dreams became more and more erotic. Surely, this was a sign that I was missing the old man. Dragged back to England from Jamaica, kicking and screaming on a plane to a new life among cold, snow-white people. At first, I thought it was a sign that I was missing my father.