Gone Too Soon

By Stacey Patton

Last Thursday, July 23, hours before he died while on tour in Los Angeles, New York Times best-selling author E. Lynn Harris sent another one of his usual daily updates on his travels and little notes on the little intricacies his life.

He wrote: “Ok Facebook family send prayers up.  I’m off to my meeting with one of Hollywood’s most powerful ladies.  Got the suit on and the new scent I purchased yesterday and I’m ready for my close up.”

I and 3,845 other “friends” of the late author did not fathom that less than 24 hours he would be dead at age 54.  Like so many other fellow authors, readers, and millions of fans, I was shocked when I received word of his passing.  As I read media reports, pored over photos on his page, watched and listened to old interviews, I thought about that Langston Hughes poem “Casual,” which begins “Death don’t ring no doorbells.”  Death doesn’t care about our schedules or our future projects.  In the end, all us writers will have left, is our words – the stuff of our literary legacies.

Some time ago, E. Lynn and I had exchanged messages about writing potential pieces for The Defenders.  I even chastised him about missing a deadline for a tribute he was supposed to write in celebration of his mother.  In the days since his passing, thousands have flocked to E. Lynn’s Facebook page and left behind digital homages, prayers, and reflections on the impact and legacy of his work.  I simply wrote: “Gone too soon, Mr. Harris.”

In thinking about E. Lynn’s literary legacy, I have to place his contributions within an African-American gay male tradition that stretches back to the 1920’s.  That tradition includes other gifted gay and bisexual writers such as: Langston Hughes, Claude McKay, Countee Cullen, James Baldwin, Wallace Thurman, Richard Bruce Nugent, and Alain Locke to name a few.

While Harris did not write high-brow literature, his work reached the masses, selling over four million books during his career.  What he had in common with the greats of the Harlem Renaissance was his ability to reveal the complexities of black gay life and reaffirm the lives he represented through his work.

E. Lynn was part of a political tradition that challenged black and white homophobia and racism while simultaneously grappling with self-hatred, depression, and the down-low phenomenon. His perspective extended beyond social protest and engaged in universally human themes about identity, family, friendship and love. And he gave voice and visibility to gay men who are too often pushed to the margins of American life, and hidden or repressed within their own communities.

Stacey Patton is a Senior Editor and Writer for the NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund.

Opening Doors for Others

By Kevin McGruder

The sudden death of E. Lynn Harris, author of over ten best-selling novels, was a shock to me. As a member of the New York City-based black gay men’s writing collective, Other Countries, I understood that his success opened many doors for others.

Because E. Lynn’s success was made possible by novels that told “our”—black gay men’s—stories, many of us identified with him and his characters. We appreciated the visibility that he gave black gay life. But we also struggled with the popularity of his character, the “down low” brother, Basil Henderson.

In later novels, Basil eventually eclipsed Raymond, the openly-gay protagonist of E. Lynn’s landmark first novel Invisible Life. While we understood that the tension that a character like Basil brings to a plot drives a good story, we regretted that in real life, few wanted to talk about well-adjusted black gay men who really do exist—E. Lynn himself discussed the journey he had to take to become one himself.

We were also frustrated that, for all the attention that Basil and his antics generated, particularly among black women readers, there seemed to be little or no acknowledgment that hostility to black gay men in the black community is why men such as Basil make a decision not to be open about their involvement with men.

I did not know E. Lynn personally but I did meet him in the 1990s when I was executive director of Gay Men of African Descent, another New York City organization. By this time he was a bestselling author, but he didn’t seem pretentious at all. He seemed like a regular guy who had the drive to marshal his talent into a very successful literary career built on a foundation of great stories about black people. That’s a legacy.

Kevin McGruder is the former Executive Director of Gay Men of African Descent (GMAD), an organization providing education, advocacy, and health services to black gay men.  He is the co-owner of Harlemade, a Lenox Avenue gift shop in Harlem.

Miracle Man

By Daryl Miller

Millions around the world mourned when best-selling author, E. Lynn Harris, unexpectedly passed away last Friday while on a book tour in Los Angeles. It didn’t seem real. Our beloved E. Lynn taken away in his prime, with so many more tales left to tell.

Within hours, online social networking sites were flooded with sympathetic notes, anecdotes of praise. Which was no shock. Over the years, a lot had been written about E. Lynn. Pioneer. Literary entrepreneur. Award-winning storyteller.

All of that and more. But perhaps two words sum him up best: Miracle Man.

How else to explain him creating an unlikely, untapped genre out of thin air? Writing novels about down-low black men, the least likely of heroes, and watching as each new book catapulted E. Lynn onto the most prestigious bestseller’s lists.

His success was the stuff of dreams. If it hadn’t actually happened, no one would’ve believed it.

E. Lynn self-published his first book, The Invisible Life, in 1991. Keep in mind, this was almost fifteen years before the phenomena of “married African-American men leading gay double lives” hit mainstream media. His willingness to start this conversation was brave and unprecedented. Bottom line: E. Lynn had the guts to go where no one else would, even quitting his job as a successful IBM computer salesman to sell his first novel

from the trunk of his car, with publishers jumping on board only after his readers showed up in droves.

But E. Lynn had always made a way where none existed, following his heart, honing his God-given gifts.

His words were page-turning magic. He shined his light on the invisible, making it something we could not only see, but celebrate. Early on, he used his unique voice, his art, to open hearts and minds. He understood that the ability to hide who you are is never an advantage. Through his flawed yet endearing characters–Raymond, Basil, Chauncey–for the first time many were introduced to black men struggling with their sexuality.

We got to peek inside a forbidden world.  We watched his characters crash, burn, emerging scathed but stronger. And we all benefited.

Darryl Miller is a freelance editor and writer in Los Angeles.