My name is Breeze Vincinz. This is my journal. What a beginning huh? I started one before this one in a spiral notebook back in my first year of college. It told everything up until a couple of months ago when I destroyed it. Why? A million reasons. The most important being that I was concentrating more on documenting my life than just living it. I hesitate to start this one with the same defensiveness I had with starting the other one. There is too much backstory. Shit, it’s 21 years of backstory. There’s no way in the world you can condense 21 years in a journal. So why start one? Prosperity for one. Vanity for another. I want to be remembered dammit! I don’t want to be a nameless person in my family picture album. I had big quarrels with this very subject in my last journal. Just who the fuck would I want to read this motherfucker? Let’s be real, I am writing this for myself but there is quite a big vanity aspect in it too. Who hasn’t written a journal for somebody to see at some particular time? So who do I want you to be? I need you to be someone interested in the soil that the flowers were grown from. I need you to be interested in why I do what I do.
Sex is also another factor in destroying my last journal. Not actually sex but sexuality. It’s a big thing to me. I’m definitely not comfortable with my libido and I ever so carefully dissected, judged, exposed, and exploited it in the last journal. Then the question again... just who the fuck would I want to read this motherfucker? I was writing things without thinking realistically. Sure I can play tough guy with time on my side. I wouldn’t mind somebody finding out who I fucked last week ten years from now, but what if somebody found out tomorrow? I would be devastated! I’m just not that strong yet. I can’t even admit to the fact that I want to have sex. I can’t see sex as being a good thing.
I would call myself a homosexual if I have had sex. Well... I have had sex. I just don’t call it sex, fucking maybe. I’ve had it with about 3 guys in 3 years. Except for one, I never knew their names. I can’t remember their faces. Two were white. Nothing really happened... too much. I mean, it was nothing like making love. We were not naked, we kissed, but it wasn’t a ‘Kiss’. This is what I mean about who I want to read this. Ten years from now I could care less if somebody found out I kissed a guy ten years ago. But if someone were to find out now? Devastation.
I’m not exactly sure what I prefer sex-wise. I’ve had more experience with guys and no girl has yet to find me as attractive as a guy has (which really pisses me off). This ex-convict told me about sex in the penitentiary. He said no guy got fucked that didn’t want to. If you wanted to get fucked, you did. He said some got raped but a lot of them had that homosexuality in their heart before it happened. They wanted it and they got it. I think I’ve got it in my heart. It seems too normal, too natural, too erotic, too preferable for it not to be. Whether I want to actually tell somebody or act on that urge is something else. I guess I’m in the closet (which really pisses me off). I’m not embarrassed by it or ashamed of the fact I feel this way towards men. I feel embarrassed for being embarrassed by the feeling. I’m not ashamed of falling in love with a picture of Charles Barkley in a magazine more than I’m ashamed of feeling shame when somebody finds out.
My birthday was 2 days ago. I turned 21. I’m getting old as hell and I haven’t been laid yet, by girl or boy. I do like girls. I’m not a complete faggot.
But this whole preoccupation with sex makes me realize that... that’s exactly what it is, a preoccupation. Yeah, in the beginning, I’ll be the faggot, sissy, punk, even nigger. But in the big picture, what it comes down to is am I good in my chosen profession. Right now I choose screenwriting/ editing. I don’t think anybody, i.e. family, would give a shit if I marry Joe or Jocelyn if I’m good at what I do. That’s all that should matter, right? If it came out that Einstein was gay, I don’t think too many would focus in on that more than on his ability to visualize the structure of a D.N.A. molecule. Yeah, in the beginning, he’ll be the faggot, sissy, punk, but it’ll come back to the D.N.A.
So why do I even mention this? I mean... I could live forever and never have anybody know any of this about me. Marry a woman, have kids, she along with the rest of the world would never know these feelings. So why bring them up? Because they’re real. They are honest and real. They make up too much of my existence for me to be ashamed of them or shove them under the rug. I just have trouble putting them in perspective.
I do want to eventually marry a woman. I could love her as a woman because I am a man and all men have the ability to love a woman. I would be faithful. Homosexuality is not a fucking cop-out. Adultery is adultery.
But I cannot just ignore this feeling I have for men and it’s so hard to have individuality or consistency within the African-American community. We just don’t accept ourselves doing something that everyone else ain’t doing. That’s "Being White". You can’t have your hair like this because you're trying to be White, you can’t listen to that music or you’re trying to be White, you cant wear that or you’re trying to look White and you definitely can’t fall in love with someone of the same sex. You’re trying to be more than just White, you’re on grounds of disrespecting an entire nation. Our idea is, how can a Black man be seen as being strong if you’re seen fucking another man? "How is my boy supposed to see a positive strong black image in you and you are a faggot?" My answer... I don’t know exactly. I do know that it’s not like if he does see me, I have a dick hanging from the corner of my mouth. It’s all relative. If you were walking through the park with your son, would you rather him see two men in love or a guy beating the shit out of his wife? It’s all about values man...