Villains: Remember The Name

Hey, there. My name is Jacob Celestin and I'm a six-foot-one, kind of chubby yet still mildly good-looking young black man living in the city of Brockton, Massachusetts. I'm twenty one years old. Someone once told me that a young man's college days are supposed to be the best days of his life. If you ask me, somebody lied. These days, I'm definitely not having a blast. I've got a lot of forces and obstacles arrayed against me. For one thing, I'm gay. Forget what you hear about Massachusetts being gay-friendly. I live in one of the most homophobic places on Earth. A lot of people in this world think young black men like myself are incapable of making it in life. I'm here to debunk this myth. Here is my tale of getting by in the City of Champions.

There isn't a lot to do in the city of Brockton. It's a boring town full of people who don't like each other. White folks, whether they're Jews, Irishmen, Italians or whatever hold the West Side. Black folks hold the North Side. The Hispanics and Cape Verdeans are always at each other's throat on the South and East sides. Yeah, this little shit hole of a town was made for conflict. It's times like these that I wish I could live in Boston, but whatever. Rent is cheap out here. I'm currently a student at Brockton Technical College, a two-year public school, and I'm very close to getting my associate's degree in business. Someday, I'm going to transfer to Bridgewater State College to get my bachelor's degree in business. I want to live in the dorms at that school too. I hear campus life in Bridgewater is pretty cool. But that's a semester from now. Until then, I have to survive life in Brockton.

Sometimes, I wish I could meet a better class of people. I hate the folks of my hometown. Seriously. The guys in Brockton aren't about nothing. Just smoking, banging bitches, getting into fights and winding up either dead or locked up. The bitches in Brockton aren't much better either. If anything, they're worse. They're rude, overly dramatic, think their shit don't stink and are prone to violence. And they're all about the paper. Couldn't care less about anything else. That's life in Brockton for you. Half the guys I knew at Brockton Technical High School are dead, in jail, or working three jobs to support the brats they had with more women than they've got fingers on each hand. Half the chicks I knew in high school have gone from loud and upbeat pretty gals to sullen women who've aged beyond their years due to getting into too many fights, having too many brats or a combination of both.

In high school, I was the guy who got mocked. The dude who actually showed up to class on time, did his homework and didn't get into fights, or wasted time chasing bitches. I knew I wanted more out of life than being stuck in Brockton. Seriously. There is a permanent air of doom and hopelessness in town. And every person who's tried to bring hope to the city has been mistreated in some way. A while ago, a gay black man ran for the Office of Mayor in Brockton. He was a good man with good ideas. He could have saved the city from the mess it's currently in. The city's Technical college is crumbling financially. Also, the public libraries had to cut back hours due to loss of personnel. Instead of electing someone who could fix things, Brockton chose to bypass this talented young man simply because he was black and gay, and re-elected a rather pompous wealthy old white guy who doesn't know the first thing about running a big city.

I supported the young gay black man who ran for the Office of Mayor of Brockton in 2007. Not just because he was black but because he was smart, talented, and open-minded. We need more people like him in the world of politics. There are many talented black men and black women out there who would make fine leaders for America's cities, corporations and other entities. Yet they never get the chance to prove themselves because many white folks don't trust them and many black folks don't care enough to support them. I was amazed when Barack Obama became President of the United States in 2008. I was praying to God that all those white folks who appeared to support him weren't just paying lip service in front of the cameras. Thankfully, the brother won. I'm eternally thankful to God for that.

I was hoping that black men and black women living in America would use the Hawaiian-born first-ever black president's example and try to rise about the petty stuff we do. The things we let stop us from achieving greatness. I can't tell you how many black women I hear going on and on about the countless flaws of the black male. Yet these same women get mad when they see a black man with a white woman. What gives? Most black women I meet hate seem to hate black men anyway so why should they care what kind of woman a black man they don't want is spending his time with?

At Brockton Technical College, I see lots of young black men dating outside their race. My best friend Leroy Alton is a big and tall, dark-skinned dude from Louisiana who moved to Massachusetts with his police officer father James about a year ago. He attends Brockton Technical College and is one of the toughest guys on the new varsity football team. The guy is good-looking, smart and friendly. A true gentleman. He's cool with my being gay and doesn't treat me any different for it. He also comes from a good family and has impeccable manners. On top of that, he's a great scholar and a college football player whom Division One schools like Northeastern University and Boston College have shown interest in. Definitely the kind of man you think today's young black college women would like to meet, right? Nope.

The young black women on campus go on and on about the unavailability of decent, smart and friendly black men yet they bypass fine young black men like Leroy all the time. It's times like these that I feel sorry for heterosexual black men. Especially the nice ones like Leroy. It's hard being a black man in America whether you're straight, gay or bisexual. I wanted to see Leroy happy, folks. He's been there for me. About six months ago, I was dating a six-foot-three, light-skinned, fine-looking black guy named Henry Mendes. He was half Cape Verdean and half African-American. This fine specimen of man was the star of the Brockton Technical College men's track & field team. With the face of a male model and the build of an Olympic athlete. Oh, and he was no slouch academically either. He always made Dean's List, proving that the stereotypes about jocks negative attitudes toward academia to be pure myth.

When I met Henry, he was seeing a five-foot-eleven, busty, pretty-faced and big-bottomed Latina named Amelia Figueroa. Folks, you've seen the type before. The chick was built like a porn star. I am one hundred percent gay and even I took notice of her good looks. Don't even ask me what effect she had on the straight guys. Henry and Amelia were the golden couple on campus. She was the captain of women's volleyball team and also a member of the Honors Club on campus. The woman was perfect. Every heterosexual man on campus wanted her, as did most of the lesbians. And every straight woman either hated her guts or wanted to be her. Henry should have been a very happy man. But he wasn't. Why? Simply because he was bisexual and the sexiest woman on the planet could only satisfy fifty percent of his desires.

I was approached by this stud while studying at the campus library. He needed help with his Advanced Calculus homework. I was happy to help. I thought he was straight, since I've got absolutely zero gaydar, but when he hit on me, I knew what was up. Folks, I want you to know that the stereotypes about gay men don't apply to me. I don't jump into bed with every horny man I meet. I don't have sex in bathrooms. I don't have sex with strangers. I don't have unprotected sex. Hell, I'm the least adventurous gay man ever. I've only had sex with two men and they were both longtime friends of mine. One married a religious chick he met after dumping me ( and forsaking his true sexual nature ) and the other went into the military. Yeah, I'm not a ho, folks. Thank you very much. However, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted by Henry Mendes. If you saw him, you'd understand why.

Henry Mendes was a stud in a class by himself. He could have anyone he wanted, man or woman. He was one of the fastest runners in the world of U.S. Collegiate Track & Field. Rumor is that UMass-Amherst scouts have shown interest in him. So many sportsmen and sportswomen from Brockton Technical College go on to play for Division One schools. Yeah, the guy was sexy, smart, and had lots of potential. He also had a girlfriend. I didn't get involved with bisexual men who had girlfriends or wives. I'm not a home wrecker. In the words home wrecker, you can clearly see the ho. And I'm not a ho. So I resisted Henry's attempts at seducing me.

I told him I'd rather be friends. He seemed okay with that. On campus, I had a reputation for being smart. I was the Chief Executive of the Brockton Tech Intercollegiate Chess Team, made up of nine guys and three chicks. All of whom I trained and tested myself. We'd gone to national competitions and actually defeated Florida State University, M.I.T. and even Yale University once. I didn't broadcast my sexuality. I simply focused on my work. As for the few young women who showed any romantic interest in me, I let them know that I was too busy with schoolwork and didn't have time for relationships. When some of them offered me casual sex, I told them I was saving myself for marriage. Hey, I had to tell them something!

Henry and I became buddies. He was really popular on campus and I had to admit, hanging out with him was a serious social status booster. Men and women who had never talked to me before looked at me with newfound respect. Henry also introduced me to his family. Something no guy friend of mine who knew I was gay had done before. Henry's father, Horatio Mendes was a lawyer in Boston. His mother, Juanita Vega Mendes was a small business owner. She owned three hair salons in town. They did well for themselves and lived in a nice mansion on Brockton's mostly white and secluded West Side. Henry had a life I could only dream of.

My parents, certified public accountants Frederic and Elsie Celestin live in Avon. They haven't spoken to me ever since I told them I was gay, during the summer after I graduated high school. I'm dead to them, I guess. It's funny. My sister Hannah Celestin is currently locked up at a women's prison in Framingham for stabbing to death some white chick whom her ex-boyfriend Ray was cheating on her with. Before she went on her jealousy-fueled rampage, she was three credits away from getting her Master's degree in business from Suffolk University. My parents send her stuff and visit her all the time.

My older brother Joseph Celestin is a local cop who beats on black people to prove his loyalty to the high and mighty white men and white women of the Brockton Police Department. He's married to Cindy Shane, a big-breasted blonde bimbo of a white woman who's a probation officer. My younger brother David Celestin works at the local adult video store. He's got three brats by two different women. And he's only twenty years old. I come from a fucked-up family. My siblings are all crazy. Yet my parents only reject me. Simply because I'm gay. If I don't run into them or talk to them until the day I die, I'll die a happy man. I hate my family. And they hate me. Henry's family loved him. He was so lucky.

I fell in love with Henry's lifestyle. And I fell in love with him. We began seeing each other, as more than friends. He was the first man I gave myself to one hundred percent. I surrendered myself to him, mind, body and soul. I was in love. Henry said he loved me. We had a lot of fun together. Then one day he dumped me out of the blue. He won a scholarship to Georgia Tech, and moved to Atlanta with his girlfriend Amelia, who won herself an academic scholarship to Spelman College, and I never heard from either of them again.

Yeah, I was a wreck when I met Leroy. I had lost the only man I'd ever loved. Just like I thought he would, the bisexual man picked his girlfriend over his gay buddy. It's a classic tale experienced by gay men across America. Leroy helped me get over Henry. No, not like that. Leroy is one hundred percent straight. But he wasn't a bigot. Leroy treated me like a brother. He was the only true friend I ever had. His father James was a cool guy too. He knew I was a gay man hanging out with his son and that didn't bother him. He made me feel welcome in his house. I didn't think men like him existed! I was very protective of Leroy and his father. They were like family to me.

Like many young black men, Leroy has a thing for the big-booty ghetto bitches that can be found both on the streets and the college campuses across America. You can take a chick out of the ghetto but you can't take the ghetto out of her. Leroy hooked up with this tall, busty and big-bottomed yet foul-mouthed black chick named Monique Wayne whom he met in his psychology class. One look at her and I knew she was trouble. Black women like her didn't date educated, intelligent and sensitive young black men like Leroy. They preferred thugs and hustlers. I wondered why she was so into Leroy all of a sudden. Could it be because he was suddenly faced with the option of playing Division One NCAA Football? I warned Leroy about her, as did his father James. We all know horny people only listen to what's between their legs. I shouldn't have been surprised. I guess I expected better from Leroy. Still, I didn't want to lose my best friend, the southern gentleman to a common whore from the hood.

Leroy started spending less and less time with me and more and more time with Monique. I hate to say this but it seems some women have the ability to hypnotize inexperienced and unwary men with their pussy. Monique was a whore who only slept with guys for two reasons, either they were spectacular in bed or she was gaining something from them in some way. Young black men who play Division One NCAA Football and Basketball have a big chance of making it into the NFL and the NBA. That's why lots of women approach them while they're being scouted. I knew this was the only reason Monique wanted Leroy. And the fool couldn't see it.

For months this went on. Leroy went from a straight-A student to a B-minus student. He stopped focusing on school or playing football and instead bragged about getting head from Monique in the men's room. At a party at his father's house, he went on and on about how his sexy new girlfriend took it in every hole. I so totally didn't need that kind of imagery in my head. Monique was changing Leroy into something I couldn't even recognize. The witch had to be stopped. But how? I began following Monique around. Yeah, I know it's weird. A gay man stalking a straight black woman. It wasn't for sex. I just wanted to know what she was up to. Maybe I could find some dirt on her to get her to back off and leave Leroy alone.

One afternoon, I overheard her talking to a friend of hers in the campus library. I hid behind a large bookshelf and listened in. Monique was telling her girlfriend Cheryl about her exploits with Leroy. She was calling him a dumb nigger, saying she finally had him where she wanted him. She went to the doctor and found out her two best days to conceive. Monique was ovulating and she was going to sleep with Leroy, in the hopes of getting pregnant and trap him. She knew he'd been picked up by the Division One Football program at UMass-Amherst and his next stop would be the National Football League. So she intended to use her pregnancy to pressure him to marry her, then she'd be set for life. As he rose in the world, so would she. Or else.

I shrank back in shock. This woman's evil knew no boundaries! I left the library in a haste. She was going to ruin Leroy's life. He was only twenty-two years old. He wasn't ready for fatherhood or marriage. I told him Monique would be the end of him. But he didn't listen. The family courts in this country are biased against men. If Leroy didn't marry Monique, she could still ruin his life by demanding more financial support from him that either she or their offspring would need. She could falsely accuse him of assault and have him locked up since the police believed everything women said as gospel. Leroy should have stayed away from her. Like most straight men, he wasn't too bright when it came to seeing women for what they were. I'm gay. I don't lust after women so my judgment isn't clouded when I'm dealing with them. They can't tell me two plus two equaled five, the way they could with straight men.

I ran from campus, all the way to my apartment on Emerald Street, a seedy neighborhood on North Main Street in Brockton. I lay in my bed and wept. I wept for Leroy. The poor guy. His life was over and he didn't even know it. As I lay there, an idea sprang to my mind. It was a vicious, wicked, desperate idea. But I liked it. Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures. At nightfall, I left my apartment. I went to the South Side, to the Eureka Rising Apartment Complex near the South Side Fire Station, where Monique lived. It was raining. I waited in the bushes by her apartment. I had a brick in my hand. Monique doesn't have a car. She gets rides from her girlfriends or whatever guy she's sleeping with. Sometimes, she takes the Bat Bus. I waited for her. After about an hour, Cheryl's bright blue BMW pulled into the apartment's parking lot. Monique got out of the car, waved goodbye to Cheryl, who drove off. Then, head down against the rain, Monique proceeded to walk toward the apartment.

I waited for the perfect moment. Then I struck. Down she went. Again and again I struck. Until my victim lay still. I took her purse, to make it look like a robbery. Then I took off like a murderer in the night. I returned home, but not before getting rid of the brick and the purse. I also burned the clothes I wore that day, along with the shoes. Then I showered with bleach in the water. I put on goggles to protect my eyes. The bleach was absolutely necessary for the whole shebang. Why bleach? It gets rid of tiny blood spots too small for the naked eye to see. I watch CSI. I know what to do. I soaked in the bleach for the next three hours. Then I got out, and went to bed.

The next time I saw Leroy, he was devastated. With tears in his eyes, he claimed to have lost the love of his life. I was there for him, like a best friend and brother should be. I embraced him, and told him everything would be alright. His father James and I stood by his side the day of Monique's funeral. Surprisingly, Monique's funeral service went largely unattended. Not even her pal Cheryl showed up. There was a brief investigation. The police ruled Monique's death a robbery-homicide. Some thug who needed to get high tried to rob her to pay for his next fix. She put up a fight and the thug killed her. Yet another tragic, senseless death on the streets of Brockton. Monique didn't have any family. Leroy requested a cremation for her, then took the ashes and put them in an urn. He was sad for a long time, but eventually moved on with his life.

After graduation, Leroy went to play Division One Football for UMass-Amherst. I went to Bridgewater State College on an academic scholarship. I've left Brockton and I'm never coming back. Sometimes, I think about what I've done. Am I evil for it? Or was I only protecting a friend from a predator? I don't know. I only know that I did was I thought was necessary. There was no other way. Monique would have destroyed Leroy. He's a good man. The only decent man I've ever known. Men like him deserve better than manipulative and treacherous witches like Monique. I'm not sorry for what I did. My catholic faith tells me I'm going to Hell. Maybe so. In which case I bring it on. I'd do it again. Sometimes, someone must stand between good people and the evil ones who prey on them. And that person is me.