Introduction

I know the anger that lies inside me like I know the beat of my heart and the taste of my spit. It is easier to be angry than to hurt. Anger is what I do best. It is easier to be furious than to be yearning, easier to crucify myself than you, than to take on the threatening universe of whiteness by admitting we are worth wanting each other.

Tongues Untied,
ed. Martin Humphries, London:
Gay Men’s Press, 1984
July 5, 1994

In blessed exasperation I ask myself, Do you want the abstemious life God’s givenyou, or do you want to regresto the baneful existence that characterized your life prior to recovery? Invariably, I answer, Yes, I do want the new life God has given me. Despite life’s punches below the belt and regardless of their extremity, I can now abscond psychologically from what used to be chronic images of a
permanent knockout taking place in slow motion. There is no visible battle here, as far as I can tell, no single opponent anticipating my being given the 10-count. However, the emotional shifting from left to right in order to maintain my equilibrium have produced outward reactions during days gone by that were anything but beneficial. In the space that exists in my search for self-identity and purpose, I cannot help but ask myself another question: Is this better? The answer to that question goes the same way as the first issue, and holistically speaking, each bromide brings me to a point where I again review my existence on this planet. Why is it important for me to do this? How often does this mental inspection of past and present decisions, mistakes, aspirations, remedies, hurts, triumphs, and failures occur?

This review takes place frequently, say, three times a week. My reasons for doing this are simple; it’s life saving. All of this brings me to the task of putting this series of mental reviews and inspections
down on paper. It is in many ways inspired by the 12- step recovery method of writing down the extent in which my life became unmanageable nearly five years ago. I never undertook that particular assignment, which was a requirement for all new patients in the private psychiatric hospital I had
voluntarily checked myself into during the summer of 1992. At that time I was asked to trace my experiences as they related to my life being out of control, a procedure referred to by one of my four group counselors as the First Step. For three days I drifted in and out of consciousness, physically
dazed and unable to recall much of my past. Several times I was momentarily brought out of this
residual stupor by the sudden outbursts of one of the other eight patients that were scheduled to spend the next 30 days with me in a sincere effort to ameliorate our respective lives. My First Step, never materialized during my stay in the hospital.  Perhaps I may not have truly believed that I could sever the use of chemical substances including alcohol and cocaine. Chaotic would have best
described my life before recovery, or so I thought then.  Today, I know by way of personal reflection, that my life was indeed unmanageable. Also today, I am taking that First Step toward meaningful recovery. I am writing down the extent to which I sank into the abyss of unshakable self-loathing, terribly low self esteem, and an overwhelming, sometimes suffocating fear of personal and professional failure. This crucible in the written form took many seasons to complete, if such a process is ever really complete. Yet, intermingled throughout these seemingly day-today reflections is a consistent determination to cling to my faith, and that through faith, the horrific anomalies that skewed my vision have indeed been peeled away to reveal all the attainable possibilities that make life more bearable and truly worthliving.


July 10, 1994

I’ll be 36 years old next month. On the following February 3rd, I’ll have another birthday
according to the recovery timetable. I both instances,
living this long as a single
black gay male in Houston,
Texas, has presented and
continues to foster unbelievable
personal and professional
challenges. Chronologically
speaking, I sensed a difference
in my attraction for males
rather than females when I was
about five or six years old. To
be sure, I did not act-on these
feelings, even among my
neighboring male peers, some of
whom I was very attracted to. I
could however, imagine and
subsequently live a life of
mutual love and desire and
friendship in my head. Some 36
years later, some of the very
best of my personal experiences
with men have taken place in my
head which infers of course,
that I have yet to engage in the
basic exchange of mutual love,
of being needed, respected,
cared-for, listened to, and
wanted, by another physically
healthy, mentally sane,
spiritually enthused
self-actualized black gay man.
Being at a point in my life
today where I measure
desirability in a potential
life-mate in terms of the
various levels of substantive
dynamics that can be brought to
the relationship-table, I can
understand more clearly why I
previously sought-out diverse
ways to artificially anesthetize
myself. This understanding does
not however, explain my
addiction in those areas of
choice. My substance and alcohol
abuse and the levels of my
indulgence by the time I went
into recovery was most
profoundly related to my
overwhelming feelings of never,
ever, finding a secure and
mutually loving relationship
with another black gay man. This
anxiety was also coupled with
the perception of another
personal deficit: professionally
and academically, I was going
nowhere. Together, these factors
weighed down upon me so heavily
that they created physical
manifestations such as rapid
heart rate, insomnia, stomach
cramps, and a feeling as if
someone had hit me very forcibly
in the middle of my chest. I was
embarrassed and frightened by
these feelings, which I dared
not share with anyone and I was
humiliated by the fact that
somehow I thought, is what it
feels like to be a loser in
life? These episodes of thoughts
and physical manifestations
started to occur in my
mid-twenties and continued into
my early 30s.

However, major events were
taking place in my life during
those turbulent years. During my
senior year in college at
Southwest Texas State
University, I quit school and
enlisted in the United States
Navy.  My decision to join
the Navy was based primarily on
two factors. First, and perhaps
foremost, I felt I had nothing
else better to do with my time.
I’d run out of money to
continue my education and my
parents, now divorced, did not
have the funding to support my
academic pursuits. Secondly, I
had built model ships as a kid
and read countless historical
narratives of naval warfare,
particularly accounts of
Japanese and American naval
strategies in the Pacific Ocean
during World War II. After I’d
joined the Navy and completed
Basic Training at Great Lakes
Naval Station, I rotated to a
surface unit (ship) home-ported
at Naval Air Station-Alameda,
which is located across the Bay
from San Francisco. While at
Basic Training I had to complete
a duty preference document known
as a Dream Sheet.
This form had a map of the world
on it and indicated all the
locations where U.S. Navy
personnel were stationed. The
sheet gave you three choices for
a duty assignment and I put San
Francisco down three times.

When I finally got my orders, I
had to complete some specialized
training at a Navy A
School located at Fort Benjamin
Harrison, Indiana. Upon
completion of that tour, I was
ordered to report to my ship in
Alameda. I was home, or so I
thought. Living in San
Francisco, even on a sailor’s
pay, invited countless
opportunities for good living.
The Golden Gate Theater
presented many memorable.
productions of which The
Lady and Her Music,
starring Lena Horne is perhaps
my most special memory. I saw
that show seven or eight times,
and I even got to meet British
jazz diva Cleo Laine and her
husband/musical arranger, John
Dankworth, while waiting for
Lena at the stage door. I saw
blues singer Etta James perform
at a club called The
Boardinghouse, on two
successive nights and was given
special recognition by Ms. James
on my second visit with a kiss
right smack on the lips after
taking her bows. I attended two
Liza Minnelli concerts during my
tour on the West Coast. The
first took place at the Golden
Gate Theater and the second
concert was held at the Concord
Pavilion, some miles outside the
city.

In addition, I also attended a
performance of Evita,
at the Golden Gate Theater, and
I went to the Bread and
Roses Festival, at the
Greek Theater in Berkeley. Talk
about bizarre. People were
smoking pot out in the open,
dancing in the aisles, and
drinking liquor out of plastic
containers. It was my first
experience with a venue of this
type and the list of performers
seemed endless: Maria Muldoir,
the Chamber Brothers, Etta
James, Van Morrison, George
Duke, Angela Bofill, Mose
Allison, B.B. King, Joni
Mitchell, Herbie Hancock, and a
brief appearance by Robin
Williams.

I saw jazz vocalist Etta Jones
with saxophonist Houston Pearson
at an Oakland establishment that
featured live jazz
on one side of the venue and a
Chinese buffet on the other
side. Great food and exquisite
dining experiences often
unfolded before my eyes during
my stay in Northern California.
Asparagus in mayonnaise at Café
Sport; Kajoons Chinese
Restaurant’s on the peninsula
featured Tea Smoked
Duck, and a favorite entrée
of mine called Dragon and
Phoenix which consisted of
deep fried jumbo prawns sautéed
with fresh vegetables in an
oyster sauce. I also enjoyed the
smothered spare ribs at
Lady Esthers, in
Oakland, and I was fortunate to
have enjoyed all of these
experiences accompanied by a
platonic Navy buddy from the
Bronx, along with an
ever-present bottle of Seagrams
V.O.


I lingered a while on the San
Francisco peninsula before
finally leaving the West Coast
completely in late 1987. I
brought back to Houston an
eagerness to see old friends and
places from my childhood. It had
been nearly nine years away from
the city of my birth. I also
brought back some habits and
memories from experiences that
did little to alter the feeling
that somehow on several
different levels I had failed in
San Francisco. The habits
remained the same as far as my
daily consumption of V.O. was
concerned.  Although I had
been discharged Honorably from
the Navy, I still could not get
over the feeling that I just
could not make a go
of things on the West Coast. I
remember that I had been exposed
to Canadian Whiskey since early
childhood. Mom had a decided
taste for Canadian
Club Whiskey; in fact, it
was her trademark beverage. 
However, new to my list of
habits was powered cocaine,
first introduced to me in large
quantities by two brothers who
also happened to be art dealers
and who owned a lovely gallery
in the fashionable Bay Area
suburb of Burlingame, where I
once lived for about three
years. I was not alone,
figuratively speaking, in
Burlingame.

Anger
Is What I Do Best
By Roger Ward

Published: December 1998
Copyright: Roger Ward
U.S. Library of Congress Catalog
Card Number: 98-94112
ISBN: 0 – 96669056-0-1


About the Author

R. Ward received his Masters Degree in American History from the University of Houston in
1995, and his Bachelors Degrein Social Science from Chapman
College, Orange, California, in
1985. He served as an Enlisted
Journalist during a seven-plus
year tour with the U.S. Navy
during the 1980s. Ward presented
research papers at the 1994
Texas State Historical
Association Annual Meeting and
the Southern Conference on
African American Studies also in
1994. Ward is a native of
Houston, Texas