Black Manhood

By W. F. Twyman, Jr.

“Maybe, when it’s later in the afternoon we can go to Coronado and go for a walk” — My Wife

I am the last person to write about Black Manhood. When my Free Black Thought Co-Host Michael Bowen suggested Black Manhood as a topic, well, let’s just say I knew my limitations. As my readers have known since March 23, 2023 and the birth of this lonely Substack, I do not lead with Blackness. My natural default position is color consciousness switch turned off. So, Michael was inviting me to turn my color consciousness switch “on” for two hours.

And I did so. For me, the conversation this Sunday morning was riveting and maybe even went too far. More on that later. I was primed to talk about stereotypes of Black men but the conversation did not really go in that direction. Michael and I heard each other and our curiosity led us to places in deep caves of the soul. Two Writers in a Cabin

Michael has a theory. He believes one’s perception of a group is informed and influenced by the first person one meets from that group. So, for example, if the first black person one meets is an Army Brat at Fort Lee or an overseas base in Germany, that black person will color one’s perception of that group going forward in time. The theory made eminent sense to me and I offered my own examples.

As the only black student in my advanced placement classes, I was the first black person hundreds of white students encountered and knew in Chester, Virginia in the 1970s. I unwittingly became an ambassador, a diplomat, for black people. That is a heavy burden for any kid to carry as an aside. However, I did not think of myself as a black ambassador. I thought of myself as ME, the ambitious, driven, shy ME. Only this morning did I imagine myself as an accidental black ambassador and that I had generated a good first impression in the minds of hundreds of my white southern, small-town classmates.

I did good by doing well. The realization resonated within me. I Need People Who Look Like Me

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I took Michael’s idea one step further. I remembered Valerie, the first Hispanic I ever knew. One day, I was curious and approached Valerie in history class. I was taking a class Minority Groups in the U.S. taught by history teacher Gene Brown. The class discussions made me curious about Hispanics. I asked Valerie and she explained with upmost confidence and pride. Her ancestors were Spanish who had settled in New Mexico in the 1700s. I appreciated knowing her story.

As a result, my default position was to perceive Hispanics as aristocrats like Valerie’s ancestors out West. I would not meet another Hispanic American again until law school when I took a class taught by Gerald Torres. That he was a Harvard Law School professor reinforced my first encounter with a Hispanic American, Valerie, in high school. My experience supported Michael’s theory.

I know a Tejana who has dated and married black men. To be Tejana is to be of Mexican descent and live in Texas. This woman grew up along the border in a 99% Hispanic school. Why would she gravitate to black men for intimacy? Well, she encountered a black music teacher in high school. The teacher was so riveting and inspiring and attractive that the woman’s neural pathways were altered. She found herself more comfortable and happy in intimacy with black men.

Further proof in support of Michael’s theory.

I then thought about Jewish Americans. There were no Jews in Chester or Chesterfield County, Virginia to the best of my knowledge in the 1970s. I was not aware that being Jewish was a thing. The first Jewish person I met was Mr. Levy. Mr. Levy interviewed me as a member of the Harvard Alumni Committee for admissions to the college. Mr. Levy lived in a comfortable home in Windsor Farms, one of the most affluent neighborhoods in Richmond, Virginia. I was impressed with Mr. Levy, his intellect and living circumstances. To impress him, I played several classical songs on his piano. Alas, the college rejected me on April 14, 1979.

And yet, the fondest memories of Mr. Levy have remained with me to this day. All of my roommates except for one person were Jewish in college and law school. I lived in a Jewish fraternity house during my first summer in law school. I have written that Jews are my people/smile. I meant it then and I mean it now. Who Are My People?

Further proof that Michael’s theory about one’s first encounter had staying power.

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Then, we started talking about dating and wives. Michael and I are Old School husbands in multi-decade marriages. The more I talked, however, the more my words unlocked my mind filled with insight.

If taken to its logical conclusion, I should have dated and married “A. B.” A.B. was a Jewish woman from Detroit, Michigan. Check. She was a Yalie undergrad. Check. And Harvard Law School. Check again. We met in the laundry room in the Story hall dorm on campus at the law school. She was a 3L. I was a 1L and in awe that my small-town butt had found myself at this august institution. A.B. was a philosophic woman. She loved to talk about ideas and the universe. She reminded me of my college roommates. Some black students sought out other black students as roommates. I sought the absolutely smartest brains I could find. I loved being around nerds and geeks and the to-die for curious.

A.B. energized all of those neural pathways for me. We started hanging out for dinner on Mass Avenue and talking for endless hours about the universe. Who does that in law school? Who does that as a 1L at Harvard? It was all so, so wrong. My first girlfriend was in Richmond, Virginia, a southern belle from a prominent Black American family.

How does that song go, Let’s Get Closer and Closer….

I remember the moment it hit me. Can’t recall the date but I remember the moment. By this point, A.B. was into me. She had curled her hair into a ferocious Afro. I had a weakness for Afros which she exploited/smile. One thing led to another and I could see the event horizon of intimacy. My Mom wanted me to marry a black woman. And I could not get Mom’s whisper out of my mind. A.B. was not home. Home was Blackness. Home was the southern belle, not the intellectual from Detroit and Yale.

I pulled away from A.B. and never explained my reason for my sudden distance. As an old guy, there are maybe five to ten moments I regret in life. I regret this avoidant moment with A.B.

Michael’s theory fell apart with A.B. I had every reason to think fondly of Jewish Americans given my encounter with Mr. Levy. And yet Mom intervened. My feeling of home intervened. Despite my assimilation into the larger world and lack of color consciousness, Home Was Blackness. Michael was as stunned as I was by the revelation. Within the paradox of my attraction to A.B., home led me away from A.B. and to another Yalie on February 24, 1989.

Home led me to my wife.

It is all so strange. My wife has never found white guys and non-black men attractive. She loves black men. She loves black men with mustaches. She fell in love with me.

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Did I benefit from my wife’s love of Blackness? Yes, I did. Did my wife benefit from my visceral feel for home as Blackness? Yes, she did. In ways we may never fully appreciate until we pass away, it was Blackness that brought us together. It was Black Manhood that cemented our love together.

I…cannot…believe I just wrote those words. Help me out here, Toni Braxton

Home As Blackness

But Michael understands. He understands the power of the right song one recalls from one’s youth, the expression native to Black Culture and the Consciousness, the whisper of a Mom in a son’s ear.

A.B. never knew I was Black at this level. It saddens me in that I did not understand myself that deeply at the age of 22. It was such a paradox. These Black American women I dated came from Afro-centric families. I was always destined for misalignment, disharmony.

Anyway, I wonder if my family members are trolling me when they send me outrageous articles and essays about Blackness. They must know where my heart is. Maybe, it is fun to troll the nephew, the son. Have your fun, I say. In the next life, I will be honest with A.B. Manhood is about courage, strength and sexual potency. I was young and Blackness took my hand towards home.

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Conclusion: What is this point of this essay? Now I look upon my life, I realize that there are depths of Blackness to me that I never explore. I don’t have to. My black American wife tolerates me, my black American children ignore my writings, and other black American family members have their fun. It is all good. At the end of the day, I am happy as I listen to Mercy Mercy Me by Marvin Gaye.

My wife and I will be strolling along the ocean together in an hour.

Good Evening!