SGL Café

Enough can't be said about the Village kids ...

Eric Leven at the Bilerico Project gives us The Importance of the West Village and those God-Damned Christopher St. Kids. In it, he acknowledges that he's talked at great length on the subject many many times before. I tried to comment but for some reason I couldn't. So I decided to air my thoughts here, because the LGBT haven known as Christopher St. and the attack on it by outsiders who knew damn well what they were buying into but did it anyway must be seen through the prism of concern for the safety of these children. Period. We understand the residents issues, but they must take a back-seat to those LGBT youth who have no other haven as accepting as the W. Village and Christopher Street. They knew exactly what they were buying into when they purchased that swanky-cool W. Village condo. Their whining now does not move me, never will. Anywhere else but the Village, these youth are liable to be killed just for being who they are. I understood Eric Leven's broaching the subject repeatedly because I also can't say enough about the Village and its kids. My first such lament here was titled Haven -- and it recalls a most remarkable time in my life.

The Jourdan Chronicles: Gangs of the Ball Scene

The cover of the April issue of Out IN Jersey is a proud moment for me. I shot it. (Yeah. I still got the shutterbug. View here. ) The Newark-based House of Jourdan> is about so much more than voguing. Though it was cold and windy as hell, we had a ball. Check out my article The Jourdan Chronicles: Gangs of the Ball Scene. Bernie Jourdan is on the right. Sorry Bernie didn't make the final cut (not my fault), but I'll make it up to him. This is only the first of a series of articles on the House. Stay tuned.

JCLGO Black History Event: A Peek into the Harlem Renaissance ...

Continue reading "JCLGO Black History Event: A Peek into the Harlem Renaissance ..." » Posted by Taylor Siluwé on January 29, 2007 at 03:21 PM in Ball Scene, Black Gay HIStory, Harlem Renaissance, Jerz, Notable Quotables | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0) Technorati Tags: Bessie Smith, Black History, Countee Cullen, Harlem Renaissance, JCLGO, Jersey City Gay and Lesbian Outreach, Langston Hughes, Wallace Thurman Digg This | Save to del.icio.us Conversations with Frank León Roberts .... Frank León Roberts reports on the Atlantis Ball. Pictured here, Darryl Prodigy as The Prince of Healing. Frank's blog is the most colorful and intellectual blog you'll ever come across. Today, I was dazzled with great photography (of beautiful men) for my eyes & a few good books concerning black/queer cultural studies for my mind--like the following: He's got a beautiful mind and body ... plus, he's practically a Ball Scene guru. Check out it. His blog is truly unique. Posted by Taylor Siluwé on September 04, 2006 at 11:31 AM in Art/Photography, Ball Scene, Blogger Quotes | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0) Digg This | Save to del.icio.us End of an Era: Willie Ninja Steals Away An old negro spiritual opines, 'Steal away, steal away home, I ain't got long to stay here.' Just as the summer suddenly fled, two people very close to my heart stole away. Willie Ninja -- star of Paris is Burning, legendary father of the House of Ninja, the one who taught Madonna how to vogue, and the shining star who made Pier kids cringe and set some hearts a-flutter … has left the building. Yeah, he will be terrribly missed. The Pier in NYC has changed. Willie Ninja, its reigning Grand Dame, the one who I loved from afar but never had the balls to speak to, is also gone. I’m feeling quite introspective and melancholy today. Because also this summer, Randy, my friend and mentor in the life passed away at forty-two. In the eighties we usta to do coke together on the the pier in my blue Trans-AM and in clubs like Better Days and Midtown 43 ... I stopped, he didn't. His heart finally couldn't take it. Now with Willie Ninja gone and Randy gone, I can't help but to feel that a chapter in my life has ended for good. Still tears won't come. I guess I've already done my share of that. What a sad close to a glorious summer. Silver Lining: Harmonica Sunbeam is back on her feet and doing her thing. Praises for that! Memories of Willie, and the Pier in NYC ... Haven Other Willie Ninja Tributes ... Jasmyne Cannick ... Keith Boykin ... Emmanuel Xavier Posted by Taylor Siluwé on September 03, 2006 at 11:21 AM in Ball Scene, Black Gay HIStory, Gay Youth, The Village / The Pier, Willie Ninja | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBack (0) Digg This | Save to del.icio.us Haven When I was a little boy, maybe in the 5th grade or so ... there was this gang that terrorized Jersey City. They were called The Bones. It was rumored they went around beating up black kids, had, in fact, beaten some poor kid half to death. I remember they even closed the school once and sent everyone home early because ‘they’ were supposed to be coming. They, The Bones, were always talked about in hushed tones, like Candy Man, as if to speak the name too loudly would conjure them. I was terrified. To this day, I don’t know if The Bones were real or just an urban legend that got way out of hand. I never actually saw them, but still, I lived in fear. When I got older and was hanging out on The Pier, the new fear was roving gangs of straight boys ... who bashed faggots for sport. I never saw them either but knew they were real, had seen their handiwork. However, they never had the courage to actually travel all the way west on Christopher St., doing their dirty work on the fringes of the West Village. At most, some would drive past on the West Side Highway and yell things as we crossed at the base of Christopher to get onto The Pier. That was my biggest fear then, crossing the street at that point … because invariably, there would be some wild type who would purposely ‘flame-on’ to taunt the traffic … and everyone else was guilty by proximity. We were all “faggots” according to those screaming Neanderthals, who would always wait ‘til the light changed before they expressed themselves … and then peeling off in a cloud of laughter and exhaust fumes. But once on The Pier itself, all was safe. And all the Paris is Burning kids where there too, styling, posing, and being the over-the-top beautiful caricatures they were. They may have been swishy, but they were strong. For some reason, they made me feel safe. I remember I had the biggest crush on Willie Ninja. Oh, yeah, I can admit that now. At the time, I thought he was most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on. But I was also deathly afraid of him, because queens of his ilk would slice and dice with words at the slightest provocation. He was one of the Pier Royalty … the ones who left me speechless, and in awe. There were no Bones there … no roving bat-wielding gangs to threaten us. Not on the Pier at least. The only danger was falling out of favor with a royal and being sliced with a comedic quip, and being forced to skulk away and lick ones wounds. But we were safe. Yeah. In our own little world … until, of course, we had to cross the street again. I haven’t thought about this stuff in years. I’m almost getting misty. I need to get over there again, to The Pier … the once crumbling rat infested structure now gentrified into Hudson River Park. Because I fear the day when I’ll see a Starbucks there, peopled with yuppie straight couples sipping $10 double caramel lattes, in the very haven where I began this journey called my adult life, where I watched the most talented homos doing the most amazing things … and where I learned that it was pretty fuckin' cool to be a fag. But progress moves on and yuppie types don’t care for our history, or preserving our Haven. I don’t really advocate the revelers pissing on people’s doorsteps, or puking their bushes … which I’ve done on more than one drunken binge. And once, I even pulled my car into this nice little alley a block or so from Christopher and started having sex. Turned out, my little alley was really a driveway into a very swanky condo development. Screwing in the passenger seat of a Trans-Am can be awkward enough … without looking up and seeing a horrified white couple staring down at my bare ass. My point is, at nineteen all I thought about were boys, partying, alcohol, boys, drugs, boys, newer drugs … boys … and at a time when I should have been off in college somewhere mingling all those hedonistic activities with higher learning. But that wasn’t the route I took; thought it was a waste of my precious time actually. I think all young men, gay and straight, have that same wild streak in them … we’ll fuck anywhere, at any hour of the day, on The Pier under the stars … or even a swanky driveway. And when we drink, which we do a lot of, we’ll pee where and when it suits us. I terrorized the village in the late eighties and early nineties and I have a million stories involving something that a resident must have been pissed about. I’m not a bad person though. No resident had to fear me or my friends … can’t say the same for other roaming bands of testosterone-charged youths. There are worse things in NYC than the occasional piss-scented doorway. Today’s pier kids are nothing but frat boys with a highly developed sense of style … who sometimes, inexplicably, have the uncontrollable urge to vogue. After all this talk, I think I might just pop over to the City on the first pleasant day this spring and hit the pier, maybe take some pictures. I haven’t been there in over a year, and I’m only ten minutes away. It’s changed so much since I was that nineteen-year-old nihilistic hedonist who expected Armageddon to take him at any second because he’d let a boy poke him in the butt. Ahh … the price of being born and raised in a cult euphemistically called, The Truth. Amazing, twenty years later, I haven’t been smited yet. Religion sucks ass. My point is … the village and the pier has always been a safe haven for gay youth in a harsh, homophobic, unforgiving world … a place were we formed a new surrogate ‘family’. Those complaining village residents have always had to deal with that. Why whine now? And where else would they like these youth to move the party to? Where else would be a haven? It’s the one spot they can feel free. So what if they occasionally pee in someone’s doorway. Anyone who moves into festive area should expect festivities. I’ll always support 'the children’. Everyone is talking compassion for the residents (mostly yuppie investors who knew damn well what they were getting into) … but what about the children? Have we gotten so old and jaded that we can’t remember what it was like to be young and afraid and alone … and tired of feeling like an outcast everywhere we went? The ‘Vill’ and the Pier is our Haven, always has been. They’re trying to take it away to make room for a more “family-oriented” space. Doesn’t that phrase make anyone else’s skin crawl? Maybe The Bones were never real. Maybe. But still, I remember the fear. Posted by Taylor Siluwé on March 24, 2006 at 07:32 PM in Ball Scene, Black Gay HIStory, Gay Youth, The Village / The Pier, Willie Ninja | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0) Technorati Tags: Haven, The Pier, The Village, Willie Ninja Digg This | Save to del.icio.us

Frank León Roberts reports on the Atlantis Ball. Pictured here, Darryl Prodigy as The Prince of Healing.

Frank's blog is the most colorful and intellectual blog you'll ever come across. Today, I was dazzled with great photography (of beautiful men) for my eyes & a few good books concerning black/queer cultural studies for my mind--like the following:

He's got a beautiful mind and body ... plus, he's practically a Ball Scene guru.

Check out it. His blog is truly unique.

An old negro spiritual opines, 'Steal away, steal away home, I ain't got long to stay here.' Just as the summer suddenly fled, two people very close to my heart stole away. Willie Ninja -- star of Paris is Burning, legendary father of the House of Ninja, the one who taught Madonna how to vogue, and the shining star who made Pier kids cringe and set some hearts a-flutter … has left the building. Yeah, he will be terrribly missed. The Pier in NYC has changed. Willie Ninja, its reigning Grand Dame, the one who I loved from afar but never had the balls to speak to, is also gone. I’m feeling quite introspective and melancholy today. Because also this summer, Randy, my friend and mentor in the life passed away at forty-two. In the eighties we usta to do coke together on the the pier in my blue Trans-AM and in clubs like Better Days and Midtown 43 ... I stopped, he didn't. His heart finally couldn't take it. Now with Willie Ninja gone and Randy gone, I can't help but to feel that a chapter in my life has ended for good. Still tears won't come. I guess I've already done my share of that. What a sad close to a glorious summer. Silver Lining: Harmonica Sunbeam is back on her feet and doing her thing. Praises for that! Memories of Willie, and the Pier in NYC ... Haven Other Willie Ninja Tributes ... Jasmyne Cannick ... Keith Boykin ... Emmanuel Xavier

When I was a little boy, maybe in the 5th grade or so ... there was this gang that terrorized Jersey City. They were called The Bones. It was rumored they went around beating up black kids, had, in fact, beaten some poor kid half to death. I remember they even closed the school once and sent everyone home early because ‘they’ were supposed to be coming. They, The Bones, were always talked about in hushed tones, like Candy Man, as if to speak the name too loudly would conjure them. I was terrified. To this day, I don’t know if The Bones were real or just an urban legend that got way out of hand. I never actually saw them, but still, I lived in fear. When I got older and was hanging out on The Pier, the new fear was roving gangs of straight boys ... who bashed faggots for sport. I never saw them either but knew they were real, had seen their handiwork. However, they never had the courage to actually travel all the way west on Christopher St., doing their dirty work on the fringes of the West Village. At most, some would drive past on the West Side Highway and yell things as we crossed at the base of Christopher to get onto The Pier. That was my biggest fear then, crossing the street at that point … because invariably, there would be some wild type who would purposely ‘flame-on’ to taunt the traffic … and everyone else was guilty by proximity. We were all “faggots” according to those screaming Neanderthals, who would always wait ‘til the light changed before they expressed themselves … and then peeling off in a cloud of laughter and exhaust fumes. But once on The Pier itself, all was safe. And all the Paris is Burning kids where there too, styling, posing, and being the over-the-top beautiful caricatures they were. They may have been swishy, but they were strong. For some reason, they made me feel safe. I remember I had the biggest crush on Willie Ninja. Oh, yeah, I can admit that now. At the time, I thought he was most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on. But I was also deathly afraid of him, because queens of his ilk would slice and dice with words at the slightest provocation. He was one of the Pier Royalty … the ones who left me speechless, and in awe. There were no Bones there … no roving bat-wielding gangs to threaten us. Not on the Pier at least. The only danger was falling out of favor with a royal and being sliced with a comedic quip, and being forced to skulk away and lick ones wounds. But we were safe. Yeah. In our own little world … until, of course, we had to cross the street again. I haven’t thought about this stuff in years. I’m almost getting misty. I need to get over there again, to The Pier … the once crumbling rat infested structure now gentrified into Hudson River Park. Because I fear the day when I’ll see a Starbucks there, peopled with yuppie straight couples sipping $10 double caramel lattes, in the very haven where I began this journey called my adult life, where I watched the most talented homos doing the most amazing things … and where I learned that it was pretty fuckin' cool to be a fag. But progress moves on and yuppie types don’t care for our history, or preserving our Haven. I don’t really advocate the revelers pissing on people’s doorsteps, or puking their bushes … which I’ve done on more than one drunken binge. And once, I even pulled my car into this nice little alley a block or so from Christopher and started having sex. Turned out, my little alley was really a driveway into a very swanky condo development. Screwing in the passenger seat of a Trans-Am can be awkward enough … without looking up and seeing a horrified white couple staring down at my bare ass. My point is, at nineteen all I thought about were boys, partying, alcohol, boys, drugs, boys, newer drugs … boys … and at a time when I should have been off in college somewhere mingling all those hedonistic activities with higher learning. But that wasn’t the route I took; thought it was a waste of my precious time actually. I think all young men, gay and straight, have that same wild streak in them … we’ll fuck anywhere, at any hour of the day, on The Pier under the stars … or even a swanky driveway. And when we drink, which we do a lot of, we’ll pee where and when it suits us. I terrorized the village in the late eighties and early nineties and I have a million stories involving something that a resident must have been pissed about. I’m not a bad person though. No resident had to fear me or my friends … can’t say the same for other roaming bands of testosterone-charged youths. There are worse things in NYC than the occasional piss-scented doorway. Today’s pier kids are nothing but frat boys with a highly developed sense of style … who sometimes, inexplicably, have the uncontrollable urge to vogue. After all this talk, I think I might just pop over to the City on the first pleasant day this spring and hit the pier, maybe take some pictures. I haven’t been there in over a year, and I’m only ten minutes away. It’s changed so much since I was that nineteen-year-old nihilistic hedonist who expected Armageddon to take him at any second because he’d let a boy poke him in the butt. Ahh … the price of being born and raised in a cult euphemistically called, The Truth. Amazing, twenty years later, I haven’t been smited yet. Religion sucks ass. My point is … the village and the pier has always been a safe haven for gay youth in a harsh, homophobic, unforgiving world … a place were we formed a new surrogate ‘family’. Those complaining village residents have always had to deal with that. Why whine now? And where else would they like these youth to move the party to? Where else would be a haven? It’s the one spot they can feel free. So what if they occasionally pee in someone’s doorway. Anyone who moves into festive area should expect festivities. I’ll always support 'the children’. Everyone is talking compassion for the residents (mostly yuppie investors who knew damn well what they were getting into) … but what about the children? Have we gotten so old and jaded that we can’t remember what it was like to be young and afraid and alone … and tired of feeling like an outcast everywhere we went? The ‘Vill’ and the Pier is our Haven, always has been. They’re trying to take it away to make room for a more “family-oriented” space. Doesn’t that phrase make anyone else’s skin crawl? Maybe The Bones were never real. Maybe. But still, I remember the fear.

Conversations with Frank León Roberts ....

Frank León Roberts reports on the Atlantis Ball. Pictured here, Darryl Prodigy as The Prince of Healing.

Frank's blog is the most colorful and intellectual blog you'll ever come across. Today, I was dazzled with great photography (of beautiful men) for my eyes & a few good books concerning black/queer cultural studies for my mind--like the following:

He's got a beautiful mind and body ... plus, he's practically a Ball Scene guru.

Check out it. His blog is truly unique.

End of an Era: Willie Ninja Steals Away

An old negro spiritual opines, 'Steal away, steal away home, I ain't got long to stay here.' Just as the summer suddenly fled, two people very close to my heart stole away. Willie Ninja -- star of Paris is Burning, legendary father of the House of Ninja, the one who taught Madonna how to vogue, and the shining star who made Pier kids cringe and set some hearts a-flutter … has left the building. Yeah, he will be terrribly missed. The Pier in NYC has changed. Willie Ninja, its reigning Grand Dame, the one who I loved from afar but never had the balls to speak to, is also gone. I’m feeling quite introspective and melancholy today. Because also this summer, Randy, my friend and mentor in the life passed away at forty-two. In the eighties we usta to do coke together on the the pier in my blue Trans-AM and in clubs like Better Days and Midtown 43 ... I stopped, he didn't. His heart finally couldn't take it. Now with Willie Ninja gone and Randy gone, I can't help but to feel that a chapter in my life has ended for good. Still tears won't come. I guess I've already done my share of that. What a sad close to a glorious summer. Silver Lining: Harmonica Sunbeam is back on her feet and doing her thing. Praises for that! Memories of Willie, and the Pier in NYC ... Haven Other Willie Ninja Tributes ... Jasmyne Cannick ... Keith Boykin ... Emmanuel Xavier

Haven

When I was a little boy, maybe in the 5th grade or so ... there was this gang that terrorized Jersey City. They were called The Bones. It was rumored they went around beating up black kids, had, in fact, beaten some poor kid half to death. I remember they even closed the school once and sent everyone home early because ‘they’ were supposed to be coming. They, The Bones, were always talked about in hushed tones, like Candy Man, as if to speak the name too loudly would conjure them. I was terrified. To this day, I don’t know if The Bones were real or just an urban legend that got way out of hand. I never actually saw them, but still, I lived in fear. When I got older and was hanging out on The Pier, the new fear was roving gangs of straight boys ... who bashed faggots for sport. I never saw them either but knew they were real, had seen their handiwork. However, they never had the courage to actually travel all the way west on Christopher St., doing their dirty work on the fringes of the West Village. At most, some would drive past on the West Side Highway and yell things as we crossed at the base of Christopher to get onto The Pier. That was my biggest fear then, crossing the street at that point … because invariably, there would be some wild type who would purposely ‘flame-on’ to taunt the traffic … and everyone else was guilty by proximity. We were all “faggots” according to those screaming Neanderthals, who would always wait ‘til the light changed before they expressed themselves … and then peeling off in a cloud of laughter and exhaust fumes. But once on The Pier itself, all was safe. And all the Paris is Burning kids where there too, styling, posing, and being the over-the-top beautiful caricatures they were. They may have been swishy, but they were strong. For some reason, they made me feel safe. I remember I had the biggest crush on Willie Ninja. Oh, yeah, I can admit that now. At the time, I thought he was most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on. But I was also deathly afraid of him, because queens of his ilk would slice and dice with words at the slightest provocation. He was one of the Pier Royalty … the ones who left me speechless, and in awe. There were no Bones there … no roving bat-wielding gangs to threaten us. Not on the Pier at least. The only danger was falling out of favor with a royal and being sliced with a comedic quip, and being forced to skulk away and lick ones wounds. But we were safe. Yeah. In our own little world … until, of course, we had to cross the street again. I haven’t thought about this stuff in years. I’m almost getting misty. I need to get over there again, to The Pier … the once crumbling rat infested structure now gentrified into Hudson River Park. Because I fear the day when I’ll see a Starbucks there, peopled with yuppie straight couples sipping $10 double caramel lattes, in the very haven where I began this journey called my adult life, where I watched the most talented homos doing the most amazing things … and where I learned that it was pretty fuckin' cool to be a fag. But progress moves on and yuppie types don’t care for our history, or preserving our Haven. I don’t really advocate the revelers pissing on people’s doorsteps, or puking their bushes … which I’ve done on more than one drunken binge. And once, I even pulled my car into this nice little alley a block or so from Christopher and started having sex. Turned out, my little alley was really a driveway into a very swanky condo development. Screwing in the passenger seat of a Trans-Am can be awkward enough … without looking up and seeing a horrified white couple staring down at my bare ass. My point is, at nineteen all I thought about were boys, partying, alcohol, boys, drugs, boys, newer drugs … boys … and at a time when I should have been off in college somewhere mingling all those hedonistic activities with higher learning. But that wasn’t the route I took; thought it was a waste of my precious time actually. I think all young men, gay and straight, have that same wild streak in them … we’ll fuck anywhere, at any hour of the day, on The Pier under the stars … or even a swanky driveway. And when we drink, which we do a lot of, we’ll pee where and when it suits us. I terrorized the village in the late eighties and early nineties and I have a million stories involving something that a resident must have been pissed about. I’m not a bad person though. No resident had to fear me or my friends … can’t say the same for other roaming bands of testosterone-charged youths. There are worse things in NYC than the occasional piss-scented doorway. Today’s pier kids are nothing but frat boys with a highly developed sense of style … who sometimes, inexplicably, have the uncontrollable urge to vogue. After all this talk, I think I might just pop over to the City on the first pleasant day this spring and hit the pier, maybe take some pictures. I haven’t been there in over a year, and I’m only ten minutes away. It’s changed so much since I was that nineteen-year-old nihilistic hedonist who expected Armageddon to take him at any second because he’d let a boy poke him in the butt. Ahh … the price of being born and raised in a cult euphemistically called, The Truth. Amazing, twenty years later, I haven’t been smited yet. Religion sucks ass. My point is … the village and the pier has always been a safe haven for gay youth in a harsh, homophobic, unforgiving world … a place were we formed a new surrogate ‘family’. Those complaining village residents have always had to deal with that. Why whine now? And where else would they like these youth to move the party to? Where else would be a haven? It’s the one spot they can feel free. So what if they occasionally pee in someone’s doorway. Anyone who moves into festive area should expect festivities. I’ll always support 'the children’. Everyone is talking compassion for the residents (mostly yuppie investors who knew damn well what they were getting into) … but what about the children? Have we gotten so old and jaded that we can’t remember what it was like to be young and afraid and alone … and tired of feeling like an outcast everywhere we went? The ‘Vill’ and the Pier is our Haven, always has been. They’re trying to take it away to make room for a more “family-oriented” space. Doesn’t that phrase make anyone else’s skin crawl? Maybe The Bones were never real. Maybe. But still, I remember the fear.