4 Views and a Dream; A Black Queer Man's Manifesto

4 Views and A Dream!

Yes, my Black ass is about to write about whiteness, and how it seduced me into dreaming. How it taught me to hunger for visibility in a world that refuses to see me whole.

First, my gay ass fell hard for The Golden Girls. I thought I was Blanche—all sass and sexual liberation—until time moved through me like water through cupped hands, and I woke up one morning to find myself Dorothy: sharp-tongued, disappointed, still searching for something real in a world full of performances. The years had carved wisdom into my bones, but also a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from watching the same dreams get deferred, again and again.

Then came Sex and the City, and Lord, I thought I was Samantha—sexually free, unapologetic, cutting through bullshit with wit sharp as broken glass. But the truth crept in slow, like morning light through venetian blinds: I was all of them. Every single neurosis, every desperate search for love, every moment of profound loneliness dressed up as liberation. I was Charlotte's romantic idealism crashing against the rocks of reality. I was Miranda's cynicism protecting a heart too tender for this world. I was Carrie's self-obsession masquerading as self-discovery.

And then Girls arrived, and I loved the brilliant audacity—the raw, unfiltered honesty that cut through television's polite lies. I couldn't see myself in those particular white women's struggles, but their fearless messiness garnered millions of views while I sat in my dusty-ass apartment in this godforsaken city, wondering why their stories got to be art while my survival was just... surviving.

But here's what James Baldwin knew, what Toni Morrison whispered into the darkness: the master's tools can build something new if you're brave enough to break them apart first. These white women archetypes that dominated our screens? They're ripe for revolution. Ready for my twist. Ready for the Black queer man in the city to claim his rightful space.

So now I sit here blogging like I'm Hannah—entitled to my feelings, demanding the world pay attention. Educating like Dorothy—cutting through the foolishness with truths that sting. Living like the ending of And Just Like That—a single gay writer in New York City, heavy on the single, drowning in the lonely.

I have this YouTube series now, where I excavate my shame like an archaeologist of pain, documenting my gay escapes, my dreams of revolution. Of giving back to young queers who deserve better than the scraps of representation we've been fed. Learning the terrifying freedom of not giving a fuck—that space Langston Hughes wrote about, where the soul unfurls like a flag in the wind.

Here I am, 40-something, trying and failing regularly but still trying to do right by this broken world. Still dreaming that somebody, somewhere, sees all this work—my YouTube confessions, my blog manifestos, all this sweat and blood and digital ink—and wants to produce the story that matters. My Sex and the City. My Girls. My Golden Girls. The version where the protagonist looks like me, loves like me, survives like me.

This is the most honest thing I've ever said, and it feels like standing naked in Times Square during a blizzard. Vulnerability cuts deep as any blade, and my first instinct is to run—run through the trees screaming, with the weight of history heavy around my neck. My ancestors carried burdens I can't even imagine, and here I am, laying my dreams bare like offerings on an altar that may never acknowledge them.

Let's be real—nobody's reading this anyway. Four views a post. I'm desperate as desire itself, working in service to something I can't name, trying to love myself in Trump's America, screaming into the void while hoping something screams back.

But those archetypes? They're ready. Ready for the Black queer man in the city to claim what was always ours—the right to be messy, complicated, worthy of stories that matter. I write from this apartment where dreams go to die or transform, confessing to the universe, to God, to anyone listening:

This is my dream. My goal. My gay revolution.

I want to give up all the time. The tears come in waves—hope and despair dancing together like lovers in the dark. I stop. I cry. I hope. I dream. I stay. I continue. I fight. Then cry again. Wondering if this is what courage looks like: showing up anyway, bleeding anyway, dreaming anyway.

The boy sits in darkness, his fingers dancing across keys that spell out revolution in 12-point font. Outside, the city breathes its restless breath, and inside, dreams take shape in the blue glow of a laptop screen. He thinks about love—the kind that saves you and the kind that ruins you—and wonders if there's really any difference. Tomorrow he'll wake up and do it all again: the writing, the hoping, the refusing to disappear. Because in a world that wants him invisible, existence itself becomes resistance. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to build something beautiful on.