This move, this spark, then, catapulted me into the construction of a book that morphed my own understanding of masculinity, violence, queerness, and beauty. I did not fully understand this portrait, its innate beauty and tragic story, until I did some growing up and returned home after college. That was the first time I remember seeing the portrait of Benson James, my mother’s older brother, my uncle. I remember asking, “So he was famous?” Our mothers’ voices were quiet but there were small smiles and jokes here and there as they continued to talk.Īfter some time, the boys and I decided to leave the house back out into the setting sun. My mother told us it was our uncle, her older brother. One of my cousins asked about the identity of the man. ![]() I looked at what everyone was fixated on: a man with shoulder-length hair on a white page staring at us staring at him. We raced back into the house to join our mothers in the living room, the colder inside-air biting at our brown skin. My mom told us stories about peach trees and having boxes of peaches during harvest. There was a peach tree in front of her house. ![]() My aunt’s house was a faded light-blue house with a white porch. The summer was a scorcher, a direct type of heat that I tend to only feel being home. ![]() I remember looking through my aunt’s living room window, through a dust-caked window screen, and catching a glimpse of aunts huddled around a book on the coffee table. The afternoon I first saw my uncle was like any other summer afternoon my brothers, cousins, and I enjoyed as children.
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