The Table I Set But Never Get to Sit At

Basquiat-inspired art meets Black actor truth: the table Hollywood set without a seat for me—50 years, still waiting for Law & Order to call.

Today I woke up in my room and started the coffee—warm and perfect in this weather that's starting to chill, autumn finally remembering its assignment. I did my morning gratitude and meditation like a good theater actor who's been to enough therapy to know that spiritual bypassing is still bypassing, but grounding is survival.

I sat on my bed reflecting on an audition I had this week, scrutinizing my work like I was the casting director, the producer, and the network executive all at once. Albeit line flubs? Did I tell the truth? Was I too much? Not enough? Too Black? Too gay? Too experienced to play eager? Too eager to play experienced?

The voices were starting their daily performance—that Greek chorus of doubt that shows up uninvited and overstays its welcome.

But something in my spirit said stop. My therapist would be proud. So I decided to let it go like Elsa from Frozen. But I digress.

When the Universe Has a Sense of Humor

I turned on my TV, and the universe—that petty bitch with impeccable timing—popped up Law & Order.

Let me tell you something about Law & Order: I have a complicated relationship with that show. Actually, scratch that. I have a toxic relationship with that show. The kind where you keep showing up even though they never call you back. The kind where everyone you know has been inside except you.

I am the only theater actor in New York City who hasn't booked Law & Order. The ONLY one. I've been on The Blacklist and slayed—gave them Emmy-worthy guest star realness in my one episode. But Law & Order? With its twenty-five seasons and counting? Standing at 50 years old myself, I barely get called in.

Is it the lack of gay characters they write? Am I too gay for a show that seems determinedly blue-collar and straight? I've had some queen-as-hell, beautiful, talented friends on it—Billy Porter, Nathan Lee Graham—but not me.

Hmmm.

The Dick Wolf Dream

I always dreamed of the day Dick Wolf would find me—not in an audition room where I'm trying to prove I can play straight enough, but in that mythical way casting directors talk about "discovering" people, as if we haven't been here all along, working, training, perfecting our craft while they looked past us.

In my dream, Dick Wolf says: "We're writing this detective. The first Black male openly gay detective on the show. He won't be classified by his sexual identity—he'll just be a detective who happens to be gay. Regular. Human. Complex. But if we do a backstory episode, we'll reveal what it's like to be a gay man in a straight world. Subtly. Honestly."

This is my dream.

Or do I have to write it myself? Does anyone know Dick Wolf? If so, will you tell him my Black ass is sitting here, 50 years around the sun, waiting for the dream to come true?

Ha.

The Universe's Answer

Anyway, I decided to watch Season 25, Episode 7. I think it was a message from the universe—divine intervention dressed as basic cable.

They were introducing a new Black character to the season. Straight, as far as I could tell, because of course. British actor David Ajala joined the cast. After looking him up, I rolled my eyes so hard I could see my ancestors.

Because I am sick—and I mean sick—of Black British actors (no offense, but also yes offense) coming over here and taking work away from American Black actors with the chops, the training, the lived experience of what it means to be Black in this America.

I digress. That's a blog post for another day, another rage.

But listen—David Ajala is fine. Whew, Lawd, he can get it. All of it. Every last bit.

I digress again.

When the Writing Surprises You

His work was great, but what impressed me more was the nuance of the writing. When did Law & Order start dealing with race in such a layered, intelligent, unflinching way? I was shocked. Gagged, even. So much so that I had to pause the episode, come to my computer, and write this.

They wrote this new detective in such a real way—flawed and complex and whole in Episode 1. Not a stereotype. Not a token. Not a "very special episode" about racism. Just a Black man navigating a world that doesn't always make space for him, doing his job, being excellent, carrying the weight without the show needing to announce it with a bullhorn.

It felt fresh. Honest. The kind of procedural writing that understands subtext, that trusts the audience to see what's not being said as loudly as what is.

Now my Black ass will be watching Law & Order again.

Bravo to whoever is on the writing team. Are there a ton of Black writers now? Or have they been there all along and I've been missing out, too bitter about my own exclusion to notice the work getting done?

Based on what I'm seeing on my screen, it seems like the former. It feels like someone in that writers' room finally understands that Black characters can be written with the same complexity white characters get by default.

I will watch now. You should too.

Who would have thought? Law & Order. The show I was boycotting until they gave me my guest star—or better yet, my series regular.

The Return

But I guess the Blackness in the writing and David Ajala—British, yes, and still taking American Black actors' work, yes—but also undeniably talented and sexy AF, broke my boycott.

I'm returning like a prodigal son to a home that never wanted me in the first place. Coming back to a table I was never invited to sit at, pulling up a chair anyway, watching the meal I helped prepare but didn't get to taste.

That's the thing about being a Black actor, a gay actor, a Black gay actor in this industry: you spend half your life waiting for doors that never open and the other half watching people walk through them, wondering if you should be bitter or grateful that at least someone who looks like you made it inside.

And you watch anyway. You celebrate anyway. You keep auditioning anyway.

Because maybe next season, they'll write the gay Black detective. Maybe next season, the phone will ring. Maybe next season, Dick Wolf will remember my name.

Or maybe I'll keep watching from my bed, coffee in hand, gratitude practice complete, meditation cushion still warm—a boycott I couldn't keep, a dream I can't let go, a love letter to a show that doesn't love me back but finally learned how to love people who look like me.

And maybe that's enough.

For now.