Being fourteen and hopelessly naive about most things, including myself, I was captivated by Diamond. I had known hardly any black kids at my predominantly white junior high. His forceful personality, his easy use of profanity out of earshot of teachers and prefects, and his casual acceptance of me as his roommate bowled me over. Combine that with a keen intelligence and the physique of a Greek statue, not to mention that he seemed destined to be a starting varsity running back, and Diamond was like a demigod who allowed me, a pitiful mortal, to enter his sphere. Within a week, I was infatuated with the guy.
That my infatuation could be considered in any way homosexual was my secret fear. To be labeled gay at an all-male school was the worst, most devastating blow that could be leveled at a student. Being called a pussy just made you weak, and cocksucker was just another, harsher word for asshole, but being called a faggot was to be cast into the outer darkness.
To say categorically that I was not and am not homosexual, and that I did not harbor any such inclinations toward Diamond or any other student at my school, must come across as me protesting a bit too much. I can only say that it’s true. I didn’t lust after Diamond—I lusted after his attributes. I wanted to be like him so I could shut down any potential bullies with an angry stare, and conquer girls with all the rough ease of a 007. As I was nothing like Diamond, I could only gaze at him and hope that somehow some of his Diamond-ness would rub off on me, transforming me overnight from an awkward, metal-mouthed beanpole into a cocksure Casanova.
This did not happen. Diamond, as I’ve said, was cut like ancient statuary, whereas I had a concave chest and arms like rubber bands. In the bathroom, where we showered four at a time, I’d glance surreptitiously between his legs, wondering if what I’d heard about black males being well endowed was true, but the truth was that Diamond seemed, like everyone else I showered with, pretty much adequate, while I would peer in disgust at the wilted carrot between my own legs. (Jay “Beef” Organ, whose massive organ swiftly became legend, was the exception. “Boy’s hung like a cable car” was Diamond’s own assessment.) Even the tight cornrows sweeping across Diamond’s scalp seemed to mock my own limp brown hair.
Ever hopeful, I continued hanging out with Diamond. I tried to listen to his music, a funky mix of Tupac Shakur and Wu-Tang Clan and Digital Underground, but I secretly preferred my old classic rock CDs, putting on my headphones and surrounding myself in a sonic fume of Led Zeppelin, the Doors, and the Rolling Stones. Diamond’s quick wit proved even harder to copy, and I usually just resorted to profanity whenever a clever response was called for. “Yeah, well, fuck that” became my stock phrase until one day Diamond told me that I was going to be tagged Fuckhead for the rest of my life unless I pulled my head out of my ass and got my motherfucking shit together, dig?
All of this took place in a whirlwind of classes and study halls and sports—I was on the “Cub” soccer team for third formers—so that we were often too busy for any real introspection. What free time we had, we spent trying to improve our position on the social ladder, or sleeping. So I didn’t realize that my clinging to Diamond, eating with him at every meal, or trying to copy his every move, could be viewed as annoying, or that he might find my constant questions and assumptions about him offensive.
I remember asking him once about girls and making some inane comment about how I’m sure his dance moves would “floor the bitches,” with an intended sexual pun on floor. He looked up at me from his desk. “What, I can dance ’cause I’m black?” he asked.
“What?” I said.
“You heard me,” he said. “It’s a black thing, right? I can dance, I can ‘floor the bitches’ because I’ve got a higher level of melanin than you do?”
I stared at him from my upper bunk. “What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked.
He pointed at me. “See, that’s another thing,” he said. “You got to cut out this cussing shit all the time. ’Cause it’s old, and all it does is make you look desperate. I cuss ’cause it’s who I am. You do it ’cause you think it’ll make you look tougher. Which it doesn’t.”
I was stunned. No one had ever so openly laid bare my insecurities. So I went on the offensive. “I want to go back to the part where you called me a racist,” I said.
Diamond’s eyebrows went up. “Nobody called you a racist.”
“Yes, you did,” I said indignantly. “You said—”
“What I said”—Diamond leaned forward in his chair, stabbing his finger in the air for emphasis, as if he were impaling his words—“was that you were suggesting I can dance well because I’m black, which I was trying to point out is a racial stereotype. So happens I can dance well, but that don’t make the stereotype less bad, is all I’m saying.”
“So I try to give you a fucking compliment and now I’m, what, some kind of bigot?”
“Man, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Uh-oh, better watch your mouth, Diamond,” I said. “Somebody’ll think you’re just trying to look big.”
We went on for a bit, insulting each other and becoming loud enough that John Cole came down the hall—it was a few minutes before lights-out—and told us to knock it off or we’d get stuck with demerits. We went to bed, still pissed at each other. The next morning, Diamond got up early and went to the weight room. Then he came back and showered and went to breakfast, all without saying a word to me.
After he left, I sat in our room and realized with horror that I had made precious few friends other than him. There was Trip Alexander, a tall, reserved boy from Dallas who played Cub soccer and was in my English class, but we didn’t socialize much outside of class or the soccer field. Miles Camak was in my biology class and liked the same music I did, and we’d swapped a couple of CDs. Everyone else in our class was either a brief acquaintance, a stranger, an undesirable, or someone who was friends with Diamond and simply tolerant of me as Diamond’s roommate. I determined to start making some new friends and marched to breakfast as if on a mission. I sat with Trip Alexander and spoke with some other kids in our class, and was surprised to find how easy it was.
Later that evening, Diamond apologized to me. “Didn’t mean to come off so strong, man,” he said. “It’s just that the work’s harder than I thought and football’s kicking my ass. I mean, I’m kicking it right back,” he added, with a grin, “but it’s worn me down a little, got me frazzled. We cool?”
I nodded. “Sure,” I said, “I’m sorry, too,” and gave Diamond a fist bump. But deep down I was still angry at Diamond for how much influence he had on me. Looking back, I realize I was mad at the wrong person.