Out in Hip-Hop, But Where is the R & B?! by Jeffrey Q. McCune

Out in Hip-Hop, But Where is the R & B?!by Jeffrey Q. McCune | @DrJeffrey2U | special to NewBlackMan (in Exile)
The VH1 special, Out in Hip-Hop with TJ Holmes, left me with questions: Are there black same-gender loving men who do not hide behind a swizz beat or a B-3 Hammond? Are black gay men always beholden to the black church and its brother hip-hop?!
Watching Out in Hip-Hop left me thinking that these questions were a done deal. Until I began to think about the many men whose anthems were sung by Luther Vandross, Sylvester, Frank Ocean, Frankie Knuckles, and even Ms. Frieda. As Karamu Brown, of The Real World kept emphasizing,  we must never forget the ways in which the black gay community has affirmed itself, loved itself, made it’s own music, and moved beyond the pews and the “pimp juice.”
What do we gain by thinking about the forgotten R & B Brothers? We gain an understanding of a community anchored in love, searching for love, and always beholden to love. In the face of homelessness, exile, HIV/AIDS, and anti-black violence, black gay brothers (and sisters, for that matter), have to find their way out. R & B, house, bounce, or even gay-affirming hip-hop just may offer such refuge. 
Growing up, I recall my parents listening to Luther Vandross’ “A House is Not a Home,” making me grateful for the type of “be yourself wherever you go” space which made me safe at home, even as it housed the subtle homo-antagonisms hidden nicely in scriptural reference and common brotherly policing. I remember the proclamation of “Divas to the dance floor!” at my first gay club, which became a house music anthem of revolt and revolution for the South Side Chicago kids who traveled “up north,” to get their taste of something beyond concrete anthems and gospel medleys.
I also remember turning from the hip-hop station, as I sat in the car of the man whose name would forever be a part of my history; seeking to feel comfortable for every internal feeling in my 19-year old body. These reflections remind me that my masculinity and sense of self was never built on the sinking sand of the same ol same, but rather a rich collage of rhythmic riches which taught me how to be. 
Out in Hip-Hop forgot these stories; leaving us to believe that hip-hop and the black church were the only frames through which to see our world; the only survival mechanisms for these black children living “in the life.”
Nonetheless, as Pastor Delman Coates told us, these out of context scriptures have packed a real punch in the lives of black gay men, right along with the hip-hop hymns which dawn every anti-gay slur possible. The black church has become a kissing cousin to it’s use-to-be-nemesis hip-hop, as it continues to use texts to exile brothers and sisters, while at the same time using their labor and claiming to love. For this reason, it makes no sense to believe that black LGBT folks are not finding other ways to celebrate themselves: either by hearing the hip-hop and church hymns differently than their straight counterparts, or moving away from them all together.
Cause if the truth is to be told, many black gay men heard LiL Wayne’s “ He so sweet…wanna lick the wrapper” too and created a bromance of their own. For us, the “she” pronoun was muted and we were left to engage in the fantasies we had come to know as a necessary response, to sister or brother so & so at church who made us answer the “who are you dating” question. 
Avoiding this daunting, presumptuous, and often irritating question meant going to other spaces and sources to affirm the love which “dare not speak it’s name.” It is this commitment to love that music like R & B illuminates, offering a site of potential connection which hip-hop just can’t facilitate with it’s multiple ways of telling black LGBT “you are not welcome.” Of course, R & B is no utopia, as we would have to search hard to find explicit lyrics of same-gender love. And yes, there are a few songs in hip-hop—like Young Thug’s “OD”—which speak of  showing “love for my partner.” These truths can’t be discounted.
Nonetheless, the texture and Otis Redding like tenderness in R & B provides a musical space of imaginative, creative lovemaking; a real dedication to the erotic, the friendly, and the everyday emotional breadth. The capacity to connect on this love-level cannot be understated, in a world ridden with religious fundamentalism and persecution, anti-black/anti-gay violence, workplace discrimination, school non-accommodation, and the various violences done unto black LGBT folk everyday. 
I refuse to believe that the only refuge is the church and it’s hyperbolic cousin hip-hop. While there is mad love in hip-hop, the presence of love in Hip-Hop for black LGBT folk is hard to find.  Furthermore, it is hard to believe that everything we know about manhood and womanhood—for those non-LGBT and those who are LGBT—is found in two singular spaces which create all types of havoc in the lives of us all. 
What we know for sure—about all who are black, for whom freedom is so fragile—is that we will find routes of escape. So while some sit behind the B-3 Hammond or the hard beat, many black LGBT folk sit in homes they built, where the music and melody more often seems to include them, or at least invite them.  These folks are finding their way out of Hip-Hop, all while others navigate being out in Hip-Hop.
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Jeffrey  Q. McCune, Jr. is the author of Sexual Discretion: Black Masculinity and the Politics of Passing (2014). He is an Associate Professor of Gender Studies at Washington University-St Louis,  an activist, and Pastor-elect at Liberation Christian Church in St. Louis , MO.