In the "cool black guys’ manual," there are a couple of moves of which I am particularly fond. One is the palm against the wall lean while hovering over the girl as she rests against said wall. It is a panty drop move no doubt. A guy I was attracted to in college hit me with it the first time I saw him at a club. The move didn’t take us anywhere because I had to tend to a drunk friend, but I was optimistic that another opportunity would present itself.
It did weeks later in the school cafeteria. He and I were walking to the tray alcove to return our dishes. When we were done, I made some comment and in response, he pushed me against the wall and crowded my space. It was the wall lean move to the next level! I should have been so aroused. But, out of nowhere, a streak of panic ran through me and my instincts took over. I punched him and we stared at each other awkwardly until I hurried away.
I debriefed with my best friend later and his assessment was quick and brutal. “See? This is the thing with you. You are attracted to this aggressive black male posturing, but when faced with the reality of it, you don’t want it. You are going to have to get to the root of your stereotypical characterizations of black masculinity if you want to have healthier interactions with these men.” I felt like he was doing the most with that unsolicited analysis. I was just looking for sympathy, so I buried his commentary where I place other information I am in no mood to process, never to be pondered again until seven years later when I watched the season premiere of Insecure.
I was not a huge fan of Lawrence during season one. There was nothing to really dislike about him, but he was not particularly endearing either. I hate that apartment they lived in, and in that cramped and drab space, he could always be found sitting in the midst of it, looking equally as scruffy. And there was the issue of his mannerisms. It was clear that Issa and Lawrence were good friends, but their intimacy took away from his cool points.
When Issa mocked Lawrence for responding to her question like a prostitute, he channeled his best Monica Calhoun in The Players Club and replied, “It’s a job.” I laughed, but also grimaced at the ease with which he slipped into that effeminate space, even as a joke. When he stood in front of the mirror, practicing his interview questions and turned to look at her with wide hopeful eyes while asking if he sounded ridiculous, I said, “Awww,” at his vulnerability, and thought about how much he looked like a little boy, so different from the man that Daniel was.
In the season finale when he tosses Tasha down on the bed and rides her from the back, I thought, “Oh snap, where has this Lawrence been? We can do something with this man. Yesss, Lord!” I was already to see how the “new and improved” Lawrence would thrive in the second season.
But Lawrence is not thriving and I am grieving for him. Season two begins with him and Tasha wrapping up a sex-filled weekend. Lawrence has completely affected the cool black man posturing from the half-smirk of a smile (careful to never let a full grin escape), to the virile, but emotionally detached, sexual performance. I stared at Lawrence and saw every black man that I grew up around and none of the man I had gotten to know in the first season.
Lawrence is playing the role: the cool black guy role. To play it well, he has flattened himself, removing all traces of the pure emotions that made him a dynamic human being. Watching him perform, I felt convicted. Isn’t this what I wanted? Isn’t he attractive and sexy now? I could feel the shame rising in me. My friend was right. What I desire in theory as it relates to black men is what I abhor in practice. And it is particularly damning because I only have this criteria for black men. Lawrence of season one is very similar to Ben Wyatt from Parks and Recreation who makes up half of one my favorite television couples. What I celebrate in Ben, I found repulsive in Lawrence, simply because I hold black men to a higher standard of masculinity.
In an intellectual discussion, I am the first to point out the ways that hyper-masculinity is destroying black men. It is frustrating to see how my enlightened principles are no match for my internalized biases. I want to be better than this. I want Lawrence to be better. I want him to win this battle against the stereotypical expectations we, as a society, place on black men. I understand why he has returned to the performance and how the role services his need at this point in time. He needs to feel good about himself and on some level, he knows that Issa was bored with him, so he has tucked himself away in a safe place and is hiding behind a persona that's both comfortable and popular with the female sex. In the short term, it is a smart plan, but I hope Lawrence realizes that he cannot stay in that place. If he continues to engage in this static performance of identity, he will lose himself, and I am not certain that he will be able to find himself again.
