Klay, Author, New York City

photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
photo by Kevin Truong
Klay, in his own words: “(Being gay means) God. Juxtaposition. Freedom. Being. Spirit. Difference. Strength. Fluidity. Infinite. Privilege. Essence. Joy. Power. Responsibility. Royal. Love. Gratitude. Treats. Sun. Resurrection. Simply. Enough.

A general challenge is probably being a double minority—black and gay. When experiencing forms of discrimination, it’s very interesting having to figure out if my blackness or gayness is too much for some.

[Laughs]

A success? Let’s see. There is probably not too much that I could not handle as a result of the above challenge. And, with that, in the form of various disparities, it makes you feel extra special, beautiful and free, when you are simply comfortable in all that might be separating in the US, in general.

The thing that makes me, or others different is the unifying glue that educates, strengthens and calls us to live out the fullest expression of who we are.

So, everyday is a celebration of sorts.

I’m not sure I can speak for the varying communities of community within the life of gays in NYC. It’s such a vast canvas that it cannot be described in one sentence or platform, if that makes sense.

Nonetheless, in my experience, I would say that the community in New York City is selective and separate in a lot of ways, in terms of race, class, and socioeconomic status. Then, on the other hand, you have communities where everyone is completely different from each other—race, class and the like is not of importance.

Either way, there’s no judgment. I think we instinctively gravitate towards who we are comfortable with.

I do not really have a (coming out) story—more so, thoughts:
(An excerpt from my book, There Is Only Plan A—A Journey Towards Self-Discovery and Renewed Purpose, Chapter 9)

Dear God,

I have a secret.

Shhh…conceal it inside.
Shhh…inhalation from within….
Shhh…don’t release the wind…the wind of destruction, separation, and pain…the dressing that covers the bruise of disclosure…the asylum that protects it…your secret.

You’ve moved violently through your limited days, resisting the beast that dwells in your soul…the monstrous fiend of biblical times that hounds the streets of Corinth.

Rock hard feeling…sentiment and sensation pursues the visual physique of the mortal that provides nourishment to your palate of fascination.

Heartbreaking discretion and dutiful murmurs of rejection irk the creature that usher screams inside your body of containment.

Never-ending bliss, lifelong nurturing, sexual aggression, and soundless pain bequeath your heart of embarrassment.

Whispers. Stares. Judgment. Confusion and hate remain in the swagger of your damaged stride. But you gently whisper….

Shhh…conceal it inside.
Shhh…inhalation from within….
Shhh…don’t release the wind…the wind of destruction, separation, and pain…the dressing that covers the bruise of disclosure…the asylum that protects it…your secret.

Mind warp. Twilight Zone. Panic. Protection is found only in the respite of solitude and spiritual regulation from the universe of hallucination. Tender prayers and heartfelt tears of freedom hide the beauty of your shadowed silhouette.

The end. Help. Smother. Your restless nights add maturity to your adolescent body of past perfection and crumpled linen to your hills of collapsed smiles.

Beg. Kaput. Future. The walls of Jericho have finally tumbled down. Armageddon has inaudibly pierced the small crevice between your lips.

Furtive. Hush-hush. Covert. It’s finally out. Ancient times are no more. Contemporary art hangs from the gray wall. Picturesque visions of Black and White surface. Immortal quietness no longer dwells within your clandestine spirit.

Numbness. Fear. Hope.

Shhh…conceal it inside.
Shhh…inhalation from within….
Shhh…don’t release the wind…the wind of destruction, separation, and pain…the dressing that covers the bruise of disclosure…the asylum that protects it…your secret.

(Advice I’d give to my younger self) You are—and have always been—and will forever be, enough.”

One comment

  1. jem

    Wow! Not just a writer but a poet too. Love the nuances and undertones that make up who you are. Very special, very precious. Thanks for sharing. A great inspiration.

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