Whenever I would visit my cousin, James, my mother would give him instructions about our time together. "Don't let him sit in the front seat," she'd say. "Don't drive fast. Make sure he minds his manners and no fast food."
James would always nod and agree to her demands. Once we turned the corner, however, I'd jump in the front seat as we slid down the block on our way to McDonald's. He had managed to break my mother's rules within minutes. We both took an oath of secrecy about our endeavors. And I loved him for that. James — we were separated by more than a decade — always made me feel free, fun, loved and protected.
I do not know if he ever felt the same way. James was Black and gay in the 1980s, which subjected him and others like him to a compounded marginalization. In my personal universe back then, the fullness of James' existence was mentioned only in whispers. "James is, well, you know."
I thought about James a week ago when I decided that I could not attend Dave Chappelle's recent performance at the Target Center. Chappelle was there — joined by Justin Bieber and Usher for some reason — to discuss his documentary, "Untitled," which details his promotion of comedic acts during the pandemic through outdoor concerts at his farm in Yellow Springs, Ohio.
I am a fan of Chappelle's work.
He is one of the world's most important voices on racism, its power and its texture. In Chappelle's stand-up, racism is not a concept but a tangible force that impacts anyone who isn't white. And if you're Black, the consequences of your skin tone are magnified. That's the thread through Chappelle's comedy, from "Chappelle's Show" through his multiple specials with Netflix. I believe he is a genius — a combination of Dick Gregory, Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy.
But he arrived last weekend steeped in the controversy tied to his latest Netflix special, "The Closer."
In that special, Chappelle focuses on the LGBTQ community. He jokes that rapper DaBaby — who was criticized for bigoted comments he made during a performance — had "punched the LGBTQ community right in the AIDS." He questions the "progress" the LGBTQ community has made in contrast to the hurdles African Americans have endured. He also highlights his relationship and friendship with Daphne Dorman, a transgender comedian who defended his comedy before she died by suicide, in a weird dialogue that resembles the "I have a Black friend" perspective that harms my community. He ends the special by asking the LGBTQ community to quit "punching down" on us.