This is for Colored Boys Who Considers Suicide When the Ways of This World Were Not Enough. Goin Home As a child I often envisioned my own funeral. I would be laid out like some rich white woman, in a stunning casket, surrounded by pleasing flowers and poisonous people. Clocks would stop and stores would close in my honor. Colored folks would press their clothes and prepare tons of food for the service. White folks would dress in Chanel and Ralph Lauren. Flags would waver at half-mast and buildings would be veiled in black bunting. Traffic would be backed up for miles and miles, with highway reader boards flashing, "Funeral procession in progress: slow-moving traffic next 3000 miles." The procession would wind through the neighborhoods of all my enemies. My tormentors would be standing shoulder-to-shoulder, parade-rest. They would all cry hollow tears—tears that would sting their flesh, just as their words, actions and inaction's had stung my whole being. Some would come seeking a glimpse of the one they had persecuted. Others would come seeking absolution, but none would be dispensed that day. The confessional was closed—this was a day of mourning. A sign outside the church would read, "The decedent kindly requests that all ladies of birth and choice don hats." If some ladies had forgotten their hats or didn't own one, the ladies relief and women's auxiliary societies would make sure there were plenty to go around. Yes, hats big-big hats. The kind of hats that let folks know you command respect and most importantly waited all week to wear it. I hope that in Heaven boys like me get to wear hats. The music would be simple—nothing grand or ostentatious—that's what caskets are for. Of course I would have written my own eulogy. It would read, "This place just ain't safe for a dark-skinned sissy like myself, so I've gone home to glory to reign with my Lord—see you if you get there." The front pews would be reserved for the hired chorus of criers who would wail, wail like they did at Golgotha. The sound would be deafening. They would wail: So loud that it would drown out the voices of all the Black folks who'd told me I was not black enough because my parents were white. So loud that it would drown out the voices of all the White folks who'd told me that there were ******* and blacks; magnanimously reassuring me that I was the latter. So loud that it would drown out the voices of everyone who'd told me I was going to hell for kissing boys, and the silence of those who'd neglected to tell me I didn't have to kiss every boy who wanted to kiss me. So loud it would drown out the voice of everyone who had labeled me gifted, articulate or entertaining, all the while neglecting to see my frozen tears. Yes, this would be a day for wailing—at least for the hired chorus of criers. My wailing is done; I'm on my way home. And when I get there, I'm going to walk right up to the pearly gates were I'll be met by God Almighty himself. And I know just what he is going to say "Welcome home, my child; I hadn't expected to call you home this soon, but it just wasn't safe for you down there anymore." I'll reply, "You're telling me. But hey did you see my funeral? Now that was fierce.