J.R. Whittington

I woke up panicked from another nightmare, ran to my computer, and realized I'm tired of watching my mediocre white counterparts get recognition so easily while I give give give and get nothing back.

My white ancestors enslaved me and made me the man I am today—that's the twisted truth I'm sitting with on my 50th birthday.

Kamala admitted Pete Buttigieg was the best VP pick—but didn't choose him because he's gay, and I'm fu*king tired of my own party betraying us.

Anxiety, resistance, and refusing to be erased: a Black queer writer's protest from the dark room on No Kings Day. Raw truth about surviving Trump's America.

I'm floating through liberal New York in my own protective bubble, madly in love with a young politician who might be the Superman this dying city needs—but will my fantasy survive when the old white guard comes crawling back for power?

Yes, my Black ass is about to write about whiteness and how it seduced me into dreaming impossible dreams.

I get horny when it rains. There, I said it. Sue me. But this isn't just about weather—it's about finding Black joy in dark times, dancing through storms, and why sometimes the most beautiful things come from the stormiest skies.

I'm not spoiled—I'm aged, like good whiskey or that vintage Saint Laurent blazer from Tom Ford's era that becomes more iconic with each passing season. While Hollywood stays stuck on mayonnaise-bland leading men, I'm over here seasoned like my grandmother's cast iron skillet, ripening into the kind of authenticity that makes people clutch their pearls and check their privilege simultaneously.

"I Cried Looking at Trump's All-White Cabinet—Then I Remembered What James Baldwin Taught Me About America's Soul

This year, Pride isn’t just a celebration—it’s a glitter-covered fuck you to the systems trying to erase me. I’m Black, gay, Afro-Latino, and an artist, and baby, I’m not here to survive—I’m here to be reckoned with. If you’ve ever questioned why Pride still matters, read this and try not to feel the fire.

I didn’t run to teaching—it pulled me in when I was broken, lost, and unsure of my place in the world. At first, I treated it like a secret, like an admission that I had somehow failed. But now? I know better. Teaching saved me. And I can be both: the artist and the guide. The dreamer and the vessel. And one day—mark my words—they’ll see it all.

I tear myself open, offer the marrow of my dreams, and still vanish into their indifference. This isn’t mourning—it’s the holy act of making space for who I am becoming.

I booked a TV show at the top of the year and thought, “Finally, it’s happening.” But Hollywood said, *“No, bish. Back to the grind.”* Still, I’m here—seasoned, sharp, and ready. Dreaming out loud. Fighting for the unseen.

Not many of us on that set, but the ones who were there—we saw each other. The Black nod. The I see you. The calm the fu*K down. The your ancestors fought for this moment. That nod filled my chest with joy. Made me walk taller. Made me slay.