WHAT
A
COINCIDENCE
that
R&B
legend
Luther
Vandross
passed
away
in
the
same
week
when
Terry
McMillan’s
divorce
to
a
gay
man
became
public
and
R.
Kelly’s
new
“Trapped
in
the
Closet”
music
video
outed
a
closeted
gay
man.
Just
hours
after
Logo
launched
the
first
ever
gay
television
channel
on
basic
cable,
our
heads
were
spinning
with
news
that
Vandross
had
died
at
the
age
of
54.
The
night
before,
in
the
very
first
show
to
air
on
Logo
—
a
documentary
called
“The
Evolution
Will
Be
Televised”
—
gay
activist
Urvashi
Vaid
had
warned
gays
that
visibility
does
not
equal
understanding.
She’s
right,
of
course,
but
those
of
us
who
are
black
and
gay
are
still
struggling
just
to
be
visible.
Some
black
gay
men
who
have
been
visible
recently
are
not
our
best
representatives.
No
matter
what
else
he
does
in
life,
for
example,
Jonathan
Plummer
will
always
be
remembered
as
Terry
McMillan’s
gay
spouse,
left
to
be
immortalized
like
Bobby
Brown
being
introduced
to
the
Dali
Lama
as
“Whitney
Houston’s
husband.”
McMillan’s
husband
claimed
in
court
records
that
he
did
not
know
he
was
gay
when
he
met
and
married
his
famous
companion.
Yet
J.L.
King,
author
of
“On
the
Down
Low,”
quickly
pronounced
Plummer’s
explanation
not
just
implausible,
but
impossible.
“Nonsense,”
King
told
the
Washington
Post.
“He
knew
he
was
gay.”
I’M
NOT
SURE
if
Plummer
is
telling
the
truth,
but
his
story
is
certainly
plausible.
So
how
would
King
know
the
mental
state
of
a
20-year-old
Jamaican
man
he
apparently
never
met?
And
how
does
someone
like
King,
who
can’t
even
decide
if
he’s
straight
or
bisexual,
become
a
spokesperson
for
black
gay
men?
Welcome
to
the
media
depiction
of
black
gays.
Just
in
time
for
the
McMillan
controversy
—
in
a
choice
almost
as
ironic
as
the
casting
of
the
closeted
gay
actor
Rock
Hudson
to
play
the
San
Francisco
police
commissioner
in
the
1970s
television
show
“McMillan
&
Wife”
—
the
producers
at
the
“Oprah
Winfrey
Show,”
on
hiatus
for
the
summer,
scheduled
a
July
7
re-run
of
the
controversial
“down
low”
episode
that
first
catapulted
King
to
public
attention
15
months
earlier.
But
there
was
another
hitch
to
this
story.
Plummer
accused
McMillan
of
hurling
hateful
homophobic
epithets
at
him
after
he
told
her
he
is
gay.
I
asked
black
gay
author
E.
Lynn
Harris,
a
personal
friend
of
McMillan’s,
and
he
told
me,
“Terry
is
not
homophobic.
It’s
not
fun
going
through
a
breakup
of
any
sort,”
he
said.
THEN
THERE
IS
Luther
Vandross,
the
quintessential
balladeer
of
our
time,
a
wealthy
and
successful
bachelor
with
a
beautiful
voice
who,
fat
or
thin,
could
have
easily
found
a
wife
but
never
married
and
hardly
even
bothered
to
fake
a
heterosexual
lifestyle.
When
asked
about
his
sexual
orientation
in
a
2002
interview
with
BET,
Vandross
simply
said
it
was
none
of
their
business.
It
was
an
honest
answer
that
no
straight
celebrity
would
ever
give.
But
in
the
black
community,
we
still
subscribe
to
the
policy
of
“Don’t
Ask,
Don’t
Tell,”
which
may
explain
why
some
blacks
are
upset
by
efforts
to
out
Vandross
posthumously,
as
if
being
gay
would
somehow
mar
his
already
extraordinary
career.
What
people
don’t
understand
is
that
black
gays
and
lesbians
are
desperate
for
affirming
images
of
ourselves.
While
the
white
gays
get
Ellen,
Elton
and
the
“Queer
Eye”
guys,
we’re
stuck
with
the
likes
of
King,
Plummer
and
Othniel
Askew,
the
black
gay
man
who
murdered
a
New
York
City
councilman
a
year
ago
this
month.
We
rarely
see
positive
stories
about
us
in
the
media,
and
when
straight
blacks
attempt
to
tell
our
stories,
they
depict
us
as
scandalously
as
the
closeted
gay
pastor
in
R.
Kelly’s
music
video.
That’s
why
we’re
so
anxious
to
clutch
onto
Luther.
We’re
eager
to
find
realistic
images
that
reflect
the
true
diversity
of
who
we
are.
And
that’s
why
we
have
to
tell
our
own
stories.
And
maybe
one
day,
a
new
Luther
will
sing
our
song
instead
of
R.
Kelly.
