Due to a series of events–or rather a series of jokes I’ve made–it’s become abundantly clear that my son’s potential sexuality would draw a definitive line in the concrete, foreclosing some of the familial, suggestively unconditional love for which he would have otherwise been privy to. That is, he’s a Black boy and if he didn’t turn out to proudly fuck women frequently that might not be approved of. Nothing new, per se, but I’d been thinking a lot about the conditions of unconditional love lately, those both oblique and, with instances few and far between, clearly stated. More so than my own family hating me because they thought I was gay, long before I evolved into a hyper-sensitive nuisance with intellectual curiosity, I grow more certain by the day that I don’t believe in unconditional love. Not the fact of its existence, just that the idea that it’s something we should aspire to, or be proud of, feels more than mildly ridiculous. That might initially sound cruel, but fuck it, it’s a blog.
For years, I took my feelings towards unconditional love as an immature jealousy of something I’ve never felt personally privy to, and that’s probably where the skepticism began. But lately I’ve begun to feel that it’s more socially problematic than just personal. Questions like “What Happens When the Rapist is Your Family Member?” aren’t really questions as much as they are excuses. This particular article was talking about Nicki Minaj’s brother, and her supporting him through rape accusations. But I care much less about her own politics than I do the polite consideration we seem to give those who don’t hold triflin’ ass family members and loved ones accountable. I dry heaved a little when Brock Turner’s daddy, in the rapist’s defense, read an entire letter in open court about how his son would “never be his happy go lucky self again,” amongst so much of the usual fuckery that I couldn’t ascribe enough fuck outta here’s to.
Sinking into the vampire infested lemon grove that is the comments section for such instances would, at first glance, trick you into thinking there is lively debate about the complications of dealing with unsavory loved ones. Not really. Most people, in lieu of evidence, defend blood and family and love and the need to protect each other, condemning the rapists as lone wolves…
Few sought to condemn both, and when I flippantly suggested to a friend that they’re all trash, said friend of mine asked what I would do if my son grew up to be a rapist.
Easy. Disown him, support his punishment, maybe accept short phone calls from a prison industrial complex that I don’t even believe should exist? All of the above? For some reason this seems like it shouldn’t be an easy thing to say, but it is. I’ve been told that this makes me a diabolical human being, and parent. I’ll admit it’s easier to jump to conclusions when considering worst-case scenarios; not every friend or family member or loved one is as horrible as a rapist, though there are subtle ways they can come close. But then I also have to admit that I was never conflicted over an R. Kelly, a Bill Cosby, a Chris Brown or a Louis C.K. This belies the fact that even though I’ve come to terms with my own grandfather, it doesn’t always feel like I have. I’m for complications and contradictions in personal politics, but I guess I feel like the excuse of unconditional love, like most empty words (patriotism, heroism, honor, justice, etc.) gets in the way of useful dialogue by conflating what we don’t know shit about into absolute, yet completely unregulated truths consisting of absolutely nothing. Group-thinking social pressure degrades these “truths” even further as they continue to be deployed as argument stoppers, slamming the gavel down just before we can honestly reckon with ourselves, each other, or anything useful.
The older I get though, the more often I’m confronted with aggressive protestations by people who are also grossly enabling the antithesis of their cause in every other context. Looking at you white liberals with the racist family members making all these violent ass decisions, all you married niggas cheating with everything that moves, hugging your wife and daughter on Instagram talking about “I got love for my queens.” There are frustrations. And I’m not convinced that direct confrontation is always the best answer, so while it does help thin out my friends list, I’m not always sure to what end.