To Be Aging, Gifted, Black, and Gay
It starts with one gray hair.
A single strand that takes unwelcome residence in your beard or moustache. You pluck it out, hoping that it will be the only one. The only time. But it comes back days later, and you notice it has a different consistency than the other, darker-hued hairs. Firmer. Tougher. More stubborn. So, you pluck it out again. And again. And again. In the following weeks and months your hope fades as you realize that a pattern to this hair’s emergence has developed, a rhythm of sorts. And you play the game where you keep plucking it out every time it returns, fooling yourself into thinking you can disrupt its cadence. Before you know it, you notice another gray follicular rebel in your hair. And another. And another. You spot a few gray hours sprout up on your chest. Your armpits. Even your pubic hair — the ones you know will be too painful to pluck out. Soon your friends are calling you salt and pepper daddy, and all the Just for Men and Bigen dye in the world won’t help you stop the onslaught that follows.
You begin to see deep and violent wrinkles in your face and forehead that you never noticed before. You look down on your well-manicured hands and see your skin resembling something like thin parchment paper. That smooth chocolate, caramel, or chestnut brown skin, once so vibrant and glowing, has morphed into something slightly duskier. A burnt mahogany of sorts, unfamiliar and foreign, littered with darker or lighter blotches that disrupt its even appearance. Your bulky muscles ain’t bulkin’ no more. They aren’t as defined as they used to be, and all the hours and workouts in the gym and with trainers don’t have the lasting effects like they used to. Your waistline has expanded, and you are now starting to see the reflections of your father, uncles, and other male relatives in the selfies you take. The persistent bags under your eyes could be the topic of an Erykah Badu song, and not just the result of one poor night’s sleep. And no matter how many creams or patches you apply to them, they always return like unwanted luggage.
You notice you can’t eat certain foods or drink alcohol that much late at night anymore. That heartburn be acting up, waking you from a deep sleep, snatching your breath and leaving you gasping for air as your throat is scorched with acid.
Your back, that lean foundation of strength and vitality, now twists into painful knots with the slightest turn, limiting your mobility for days. The joints in your knees snap, crackle and pop like so many Rice Krispies when you go from a sitting to standing position. Your body takes longer to crank up and get moving, like your Dad’s old Buick station wagon from the 1970s or 80s, desperately trying to push through the miles of wear and tear that inform its every move. Walking up stairs or a hill has become increasingly difficult, making you short of breath in a way you thought only happened to cigarette smokers.
When you go out to the bar or club, guys don’t hit on you the way they used to. You don’t get the playful glances, the wayward flirtations, or lustful up and down looks anymore at Kroger, Target, or even the Chevron gas station. You see more swipes to the left than the right on your dating apps, and your DMs are lonely and barren. The one young brother you trying to mack on at the restaurant calls you “sir,” and your heart immediately sinks.
Your dick, that erect pillar of manhood you used to brag about breaking other brothers’ backs, begins to betray you. It won’t stay up the way it used to. When you’re with your husband, your partner, or anyone else with whom you decide to be intimate, it takes you longer to rise, longer to cum — and you notice that those “round twos” to which you were so accustomed during your younger sexual escapades, are now occurring as frequently as Donald Trump tells the truth. You even fall asleep while stroking to your favorite porn before you climax.
The number of bottles of prescription medications on your dresser has been steadily increasing. You used to hide them in a drawer so that visitors wouldn’t notice and inquire why you take them and what for. Now you just leave them in full view of anyone who enters your bedroom, while restraining yourself from buying that pill box on Amazon that you used to make fun of your mother for using.
With all this swirling around you, you look in the mirror one day and think “Oh shit, I’m getting older.”
You ask yourself — How did I get here? Is this just the normal part of aging? Is this the way it’s supposed to be? What the hell is happening to me? It seemed like yesterday I was the freshest thing on the block!
For a moment that lingers longer than it should, you allow yourself to feel depressed. More questions flood your brain: Is this gonna be my life’s journey from here on out? Do I have to resign myself to the fact that my body and society are trying to tell me that my usefulness on this earth is over?
But before you allow yourself to go too far down the rabbit hole of self-pity and despair, you start to notice other things about yourself as well.
When interacting with your younger colleagues and social circles, you have knowledge and experience that makes them look like the naïve individuals they are. You recognize how insane and unproductive it is to manufacture drama out of thin air in a public setting. People come to you for advice and counseling, and actually pay attention to what you have to say. You truly understand that a hard dick, a fat ass, and busting a nutt doesn’t compare to the true intimacy of kissing, cuddling, and mere physical touch. You are quicker to heed the early warning signs when meeting new friends or potential romantic partners — instead of ignoring the red flags or trying to change people, you simply walk away.
During conversations, you listen more than you speak. You don’t waste your breath on needing to “be right” when debating others. You appreciate that disagreements don’t torpedo friendships and other relationships, they’re actually healthy for growth, development, and understanding.
You now prefer companionship over codependency when it comes to romantic relationships, and fully understand the difference between the two. You realize that heterosexual standards of relationships are not the gold standard when it comes to two Black men, by any stretch of the imagination. You comprehend that being alone is actually time well spent. You know your worth and recognize your unique talents now, more than at any other point in your life. You realize that when it comes to suffering foolishness — you have zero fucks to give. And that feels so good.
You have come to appreciate that with each year of life, you are given the opportunity to grow, live, and evolve… and that the experience of aging and maturing is a blessing that was snatched away from many of our friends and loved ones. You comprehend how growing older gives you more opportunities to interact with younger Black same gender loving men and queer folk. It gives you the chance to shower them with the mentoring, love and support they so desperately need — the same mentoring, love, and affirmation many of us didn’t receive growing up.
Now, you gaze at that seasoned and distinguished Black man looking back at you in the mirror, and instead of muttering a despondent “Shit, I’m getting older,” you exclaim with vigor and pride “Shit, I’m getting older.”
And just like that, the narrative takes a different turn.
My father used to always tell me “Don’t ever get old, son,” as if I had a choice in the matter. The old cliché says that Father Time is undefeated. So if aging is so out of our control, and we don’t have a choice in the matter, what can we do to address this process that shakes the very core of our being?
To answer that question, you must ask yourself another — Are you just getting OLDER? Or are you becoming an ELDER?
They are two words. Five letters each, two syllables. The first one is an adjective. The second one is a noun. With only the first letter distinguishing between the two. But these words hold drastically different meanings.
Getting OLDER speaks to the chronological and physical changes that come with aging. Being an ELDER speaks to the wisdom, growth, and evolution that comes with that same time frame. The dictionary definition of “elder” describes it as:
“an influential member of a tribe or community, often a chief or ruler; a superior”
In many African cultures, elders are revered for their wisdom, experience, and contributions to society. They are sought out for their counsel and are considered to be the best source of cultural knowledge. They are seen as a source of stability and guidance, and their presence helps to ensure that the collective wisdom of the past informs the decisions of the present. Elders are often consulted to help prevent conflicts and preserve peace in the individual, family, and society. And perhaps most importantly, they are regarded as the connective tissue between generations, influencing younger generations through lessons and cultural traditions.
As Black same gender loving men, we don’t have to choose between one or the other, being older or becoming an elder, as they are both sides of the same aging coin. The choice facing us is which aspect of aging we lean into more as time passes by.
We can all agree that the physical part of getting older sucks. It ain’t for the faint of heart, and is a sobering reminder or our own mortality. But you can allow yourself to get down over the battle known as aging, one that none of us will win, or see it as the blessing it truly is. The flawed process that yes, is painful and uncomfortable, but also affords us time to reflect on our personal journeys in ways we never imagined. The chance to live another day and be thankful for what we have, instead of lamenting over what we don’t.
Whether you have seen that first gray hair in the mirror or have witnessed so many that you can’t count anymore, ask yourself — are you content with just getting OLDER, or are you going to embrace being an ELDER as well. Not only for yourself, but for the legacy you have the chance to leave with the generations that follow while you are on this earth, and long after you have left.
The choice, my brothers, is yours.
David Malebranche, MD, MPH, is a board-certified internal medicine physician and specialist in sexual health and HIV/STI prevention and treatment. He is also a public health official, activist, and educator who lives in Atlanta, Georgia, and has appeared in the YouTube series “Revolutionary Health” as part of The Counter Narrative Project and also on the #AskTheHIVDoc video series. Dr. Malebranche’s writings and research have been published in JAMA, the Annals of Internal Medicine, the American Journal of Public Health, and Lancet. He has also been featured on the “Greater than COVID” campaign with the Kaiser Family Foundation and has written several articles on HIV treatment education at thebody.com. In 2015, he penned a memoir entitled “Standing on His Shoulders,” a memoir about lessons learned from his relationship with his father, which is available on Amazon.