Gay Men of Color are not Dishes to Be Ordered Off a Menu

Buck Swope: What's your look?
Becky Barnett: Chocolate love.
       — Boogie Nights

The first time it happened, I was a nineteen-year-old waiter at a predominantly gay restaurant in Omaha, Nebraska. I'd only been out for two years and let’s just say that my gay still had training wheels on.

One night, I was waiting on a table of gay men in their thirties. They were a fun group; energetic and catty, but not in a mean-spirited way. Then, sometime around their third or fourth glass of wine, it happened. I asked if they wanted to order anything else and one of them replied, “I'd love to get a piece of your chocolate meat?"

It took me a moment to realize what he was talking about. Chocolate meat? Who in their right minds would serve chocolate – OOOOOHHHHH.

I was stunned. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended or both. Morgan Freeman never covered any of this on Electric Company.

That night, I'd become a culinary genre that both white men and men of color were either into or not. And it wasn't long before I learned I wasn't the only food group around.

There were beans (Latino men), rice (Asian men), sticky rice (Asian plus Asian), hummus (Middle-Eastern men), and curry (Indian men). No wonder there's an obesity epidemic. I half expect Michelle Obama to caution against dating us unless one has secured a gym membership.

As if to even the scale, white men were either dairy (if you’re into them) or mashed potatoes (if they are into each other). I actually thought Native-American men were immune to this phenomenon until a friend of mine, who'd dated exactly one Native-American guy in his entire life, proudly proclaimed himself to be a maize queen. Well that’s just great. Some poor soul out there is now maize.

That night in the restaurant, I was chocolate meat. The words hit my gut, bringing with it nothing but confusion, anger and slight nausea. Like when I hear sentences that begin with the words “Don’t get offended, but…”, or “Some of my best friends are…” or “Of course, you’ve seen The Wire.” Only this time, I was supposed to take it as a compliment.

You know the old saying, “The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice”? That was supposed to be complimentary too. But did you know that it originated, not with African-Americans, but with white men as a way to support the stereotype of a black woman’s sexual prowess? I guess I don’t put a lot of stock into things that are supposed to be complimentary.

And damn it, we’re both chocolate and blackberries now? Oh, I’m so confused.

This has, on the surface, the feel of some transgressively camp meet-cute. Like something you’d hear at a 70’s key party. But while some of this language has died off (one doesn't often hear 'I don't do dairy' except at, perhaps, a lactose intolerance convention) the term chocolate and its color-wheel cousins are still being used.

Are these cute terms of endearment? I imagine for some it is, though try as I might, I just can’t find any endearing qualities in being called a ‘bean’ or find the route that makes ‘My hot hummus stud’ romantic or sexy in any possible way. I can assure you that neither I nor my ‘chocolate meat’ felt particularly aglow that night in the restaurant.

I didn’t feel merely objectified either. At least then, I’d know that the package being ogled was seen as a human being's package. This whole food thing takes our humanity out of the conversation completely.

Just to be clear, there’s racial insensitivity and there’s racism. That is to say, I don’t think everyone who uses these terms, in this context, is heading off to a gay Klan rally any time soon. But it is clear that not enough thought has been put into what this whole race-as-food thing means or what it does to those of us on the platter. We’re a community big into genres. From Leathermen, Bears, and Gym Queens to Ironic Hipsters, Geeks, and people who find a lot of realness in The A-List, if you want to belong to a subset, there’s an app for that.

But, as clearly as I can state it, a human being’s race does not make them a genre, culinary or otherwise. Men of color are not a use for the community, we are the community. In every way imaginable. We are a part of the Leather community. We are members of the Ironic Hipsters. We are a part of The A-List (we’re Mike Ruiz and we look like at any moment we’ll jump out of a window just to get away from these awful people).

Damn it, we’re here. Guys of all hues who want, no, demand to be seen as the complete human beings we are.

And while porn will only show our faces under the specialty section (ugh!) and HRC posters don’t show us at all unless our name happens to be RuPaul, don’t forget we’re still here. We are a part of the community.

For me, there’s a lot of joy that comes with being an out, proud gay man of color. There’s a special way of viewing the world that can only come from being reviled for a great many reasons at a Republican National Convention event. And one table won’t diminish that pride for me.

I hope, if you encounter these things, that they don’t diminish your pride as well. Always remember, just because someone out there decides to be a chocolatier, it doesn’t mean we have to be the chocolate.