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Once one begins to examine the reality of these bodily based categories, one finds stories of experiences, stories by which these realities were created [Massey, p. 85].
You can't be black and gay … I mean, I won't be, it's a choice. Which? Both? Together?
I don't know [Conversation with “Karnett's Boy”].
Last year Karnett's light-skinned, curly-haired, green-eyed boy walked into my class. He was cute—exceptionally cute—a hands down, forefrontin-a-Benetton-ad, stop-him-in-the-hall (as several women did) and-hand-him-your-telephone-number cute. But for him, such cute had become not so cute. Like Karnett, he called himself black. Unlike Karnett, no one else did—until they were sure, until he told them.
A scholarship student at a prestigious white, single-sex boarding high school, this cute boy had engaged in the casual homosexual play endemic to the school and felt “stuck.” Now in college, he was attractive and attracted to women and men, and was dating women exclusively, but the memory of his homosexual play was replaying