Ian L. Haddock, 35, Executive Director of The Normal Anomaly Initiative, vividly recalls the strange dichotomy of his late mother, Valerie Walker, hurling anti-gay slurs at him. But as hurtful as her colorful language could be, she was steadfast in her determination to keep him away from the illegal drug activities and prison sentences that consumed the lives of his two older brothers in Texas City, TX. 

An effeminate Black queer child raised in a trap house with his mother and brothers, Haddock says he played football for a while to prove his masculinity. But he ultimately immersed himself in the Black church experience as one of two options given to Black boys in the football-centered Texas town as alternatives to the less desirable and dangerous elements chosen by many Black men in his orbit for survival. 

"I knew I was different," Haddock says. "Showing up as any part of myself as a young kid was very difficult because I was really smart. But I was bullied for being a geek. I was bullied for being poor and dirty, and I was bullied for being feminine." 

The bullying wasn't isolated to Haddock's experience with other students at LaMarque High School, where he attended. It was also a constant presence inside his home. 

"My brothers tried to beat it out of me," he says. "My mother tried to ridicule it out of me. When I was younger, I was very much in fear of my brothers. My brothers would fight my mama. They didn't care. It was a very abusive situation." 

Haddock tells The Reckoning that it was not uncommon for his oldest brother to "backhand" his mother. It was also not unusual for Haddock to perform masculinity in an attempt to shield himself from verbal and physical violence.

"I would try to pull it together a little more. I had a lot of girlfriends. I acted like I was promiscuous," Haddock says, although he hadn't begun exploring sex at the time. 

"My brother seemed to think femininity was okay as long as a girl was attached," he adds.  

As a teenager, Haddock soon found himself pursuing relationships with older men. But the unspoken truth about his queerness and attachment to the opposite sex was short-lived. One relationship, in particular, created uncertainty about his health, drove him out of the closet, and caused his mother and older brothers to issue him an ultimatum. 

"I was 16, and thinking, oh my gosh, I'm gonna die," Haddock says, after learning of his possible exposure to HIV by his then adult partner. 

Despite the overwhelming fear and reluctance to share this potentially life-altering news, Haddock says he took the risk of opening up to his mother. 

"I told her, and surprisingly, I fell in her arms, and I cried," he says. "It was probably my only time crying in my mom's arms, to be quite honest. She said to me, 'We'll worry about your bisexuality later. Let's focus on the possibility of AIDS.' 

But Haddock never identified as bisexual, nor did he mention the possibility of being bisexual to his mother.

"For years, that's how my mom came to terms with my sexuality," he says. "And once I found out I didn't have HIV, she was like, 'We're not gonna focus on your bisexuality. That's gonna pass. We're good. God saved you.'" 

But Haddock's sexuality was not a phase. And because of this, the door to the trap house he once called home closed for good the next time he walked out. 

"She and my brother gave me an ultimatum, 'You live in a trap house, or you live on the street.' And I was like, I want to be gay. So I chose to be gay," he says. 

‘I’m not good. I’m not great. I’m okay.’ 

It's been 28 years since Dr. Keith Green, 46, Executive Director of the Chicago Black Gay Men's Caucus, was diagnosed with HIV. Green learned he was living with HIV after organizing and donating blood during his high school blood drive. He says he can still hear his mother's reaction to his disclosure in his head decades later. 

"I remember her response to me very clearly was, 'You've been f**king with them fa**ots, haven't you?' 

The opposite of Haddock, who had temporarily convinced himself of an early demise from a disease he hadn't acquired, Green's HIV status was confirmed. And after becoming ill eight years into his diagnosis, he relocated from his native Chicago to Charlotte, NC, in preparation for dying. His relationship with his mother, which he describes as "not always terrible, but not always healthy," would begin a steady and unusual decline that often wavered between support and condemnation. 

"I was hospitalized for three weeks," Green says. "She took time off work. She spent time with me in the hospital, stayed in a hotel for three weeks, and then brought me back home and helped nurse me back to health." 

Green tells The Reckoning that initially, his mother was instrumental in helping him identify an infectious disease specialist and ensuring that he was connected to the appropriate care. She did this before establishing a pattern of support that led to microaggressions and then full-throated verbal attacks that Green says indicated he was only being tolerated as her gay son instead of being accepted. 

"She would make comments about things that needed to be done around her house that she would need a real man for," Green recalls. 

"She would meet friends of mine and say, 'You're fine. [Are] you gay? And he'd say, 'Yeah.' And she was like, 'That's a damn shame. What a waste.'" 

Over a year and a half, and without warning, Green says his mother would lash out for minor disagreements or nothing at all. 

"The first thing out of her mouth is fa**ot ass bi**h. And the first time it happened, we didn't speak for a couple of months," he says. 

Later, Green says his mother apologized profusely, even suggesting that she was possessed. 

"She was like, 'I don't know what came over me. Why would I say that? I'll never do that again.' And then a few months later, she did it again," he says. 

The months without communicating have now turned into a year. Green says he had to establish boundaries for his self-care and explained his reasons for doing so to his mother. 

"I'm not gonna allow you to continue disrespecting me this way because it has ramifications. It's not just you throwing words at me," Green recalls telling his mother. 

"A lot is going on in my life, personally and professionally, and it has an impact on my ability to focus and do my work and be who I'm supposed to be in the world," he adds. 

Green admits that it was difficult to cease communication with his mother, but he had to do so for his safety and protection. 

"Therapy has been instrumental in helping me to be okay," he says. "And I say okay because I am okay. I'm not good. I'm not great. I'm okay."

Although the relationships between Black boys and their mothers are portrayed as highly tight-knit, Green says there's often another reality. 

"I see it all around me, folks with great relationships on the surface," he says. "But sometimes the shit ain't nearly as good as it looks." 

Green tells The Reckoning that he realizes his mother's verbal abuse and unresolved issues are not about him. 

"I've grown to a place where I don't allow it to affect me, and that messes her up more than anything," he says. 

Still, Green says he's not closing the door on a future relationship with the woman who birthed him. However, a potential reunion comes with one caveat. 

"My stipulation for ever speaking to her again is that her therapist initiates the conversation because then I'll know that she's doing her work," he says. "And if that doesn't happen, then we are not speaking."

Go back and fetch it 

While the possibility of Green reconnecting with his mother is still an option, this year, Haddock is observing the tenth anniversary of his mother's death from diabetes complications. Estranged while she was alive, Haddock says the two were able to draw closer before she transitioned. Her death allowed him to put their tumultuous relationship into perspective. 

"Thinking back as an adult, I think she really wanted to protect me, but she didn't have the language or the tools, and it doesn't make an excuse for how she treated me," he says. "But at the same time, she just didn't have the tools to protect a young, Black queer man."

Today, Haddock remains disconnected from his older brothers. 

"I do not speak to either one of them," he says. "I've tried to reconnect with my middle brother. He apologizes often but never with any action. It is always with entitlement because of my perceived success."

In addition to leading a thriving Black LGBTQ+ non-profit, Haddock is the author of the newly released book "Kid. Man. Child." 

'I'm arguing, at least through the stories in this book, that success is really cyclical," Haddock says. "Your next level is not a higher version of yourself. Your next level is just a better version of yourself." 

Moving forward, in the spirit of Sankofa, Haddock and Green are learning from the past and applying lessons learned to become the best version of themselves. 

"You've got to go back to the child and pick something else up and take that with you," Haddock says. "I am constantly learning from my 10, 12, 15, 20-year-old, and now 35-year-old self."