I was depressed at the start of second semester. I had made friends, gotten a 3.1 my first semester, and was having fun, but deep down inside, I hated myself. I got up every day and still wasn’t the person I wanted to be. I wanted to have the friendships and the good grades and the parties, but as a gay person. Not as this guy who was petrified of having sex out of fear that someone would find out. I was depressed without even knowing what depression was.
So, I essentially gave up. Gave up on going to class. Gave up on coming out as gay. I was empty and feeling nothing. During that semester, I got a part-time job at Ruby Tuesday making decent money. When I would get home, I would meet up with Baron and our friend Syd, and we would go smoke weed and play basketball. I was smoking up to three blunts a day, working, partying, drinking, and not going to class. I was what one would call “smoked out” and it showed.
By the end of the semester, I had failed two classes, passed one, and got an Incomplete in another. My GPA dropped below a 3.0, and I lost my scholarship. That summer, I called my mom and told her that I was thinking about coming home, for good. I thought I knew what she was going to say: “What time do you need me to come get you?” But she didn’t. She talked to me about how I had to tough this one out and figure it out on my own.
That summer gave me time to refocus. I had always been smart. I had always gotten good grades, and I honestly had forgotten how happy good grades made me feel. I was so concerned that first year with finding myself while outside the constraints of home that I lost the parts of myself that I liked. I liked being a bit of a bookworm. I liked being considered the smart person in the room. These weren’t things I should’ve been straying away from.
I got back to school that next semester more motivated than ever to correct the wrongs of the one prior. The first was my weed habit, which had grown out of control. Purple haze, as it’s called, was my favorite vice. The weed made everything less real. All the depression, the anger I was feeling. The weed also allowed me to be in the room with others who didn’t care that I was hiding my sexuality. It was my masculinity coping mechanism. All the hood boys smoked, and so did I.
I significantly cut down on the weed smoking from daily hits to only once every few weeks. Being high all the time wasn’t my thing anymore. Nor was I chasing the environments that involved it. I wanted to have control over my vice, not let it control me. My days became pretty simple after that. I would go to class in the mornings, go to work at night, and come home. Do my homework and repeat. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked for me. I got to still be MJ to the crew, George to the campus, and me to myself.
Then one day I was walking toward home and I could hear this loud commotion going on in “the Square,” our common area much like what folk may call a quad. It was the spring of 2005. Spring was always an important time on HBCU campuses because of the Divine Nine. The Divine Nine represents the nine Black Greek Letter organizations founded on the principles of Christianity, chivalry, friendship, sisterhood, brotherhood, and the overall fight for Blackness. Some of the greatest leaders in modern Black history were members of these various organizations. Becoming a member was essentially like becoming campus royalty.
I had been keeping my eye on a particular male organization I wanted to join, that a friend of mine happened to be in. As I walked toward the crowd, I realized there had to be at least 700 students circled around the newest initiates of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc. The Square went hysterical. People were cheering and screaming. I didn’t know what I was watching at the time exactly, but I was mesmerized by it all.
The crowd got loud as the girls marched through the Square, all locked up together with arms under one another’s shoulders and their chins resting on one another’s backs. They marched to a certain spot in the Square and then the Dean—the person in charge of the organization—told them to stop. The older sorors then requested that the crowd get quiet.
The Square was a redbrick patio area that sat directly in front of Henderson Center. Henderson was a two-floor building that housed our nurse’s office, the cafeteria, some admin offices, and the bookstore. During campus parties in the Square, the brick walls would literally “sweat” as the liquor came out of our pores while we were dancing.
“UNLOCK,” the Dean commanded.
The girls stretched out across the Square shoulder to shoulder, arms in front, elbows to the side of their hips, all facing the crowd. I stood and watched in amazement. The girls waited until they were commanded by their Dean to speak to the campus. Once the Dean made her command, you could hear the Ace (the first person in line) speak out to command the rest of the girls to speak.
“SISTERS! SPEAK!”
“Greetings to the Ladies of DELTA SIGMA THETA INNNNCCOORRPPORATED.” The sorors of the organization responded with cheers.
I was standing toward the back of the crowd and was just tall enough to see over everyone. The sorority wore red and white, and all the girls’ faces were covered with masks. There were people in front of them, sending out orders. The girl at the front would hear the command and then pass it down to the girl at the end. She would make a noise to signify that she got the message passed down. It was like watching the most exciting game of telephone I had ever seen.
Each time a command was passed successfully, the girl in the front spot would command the rest of the girls on the line to speak. They would say some information in unison out loud to the campus. Each time they completed one call-and-response, they would move on to the next piece of information. It was so Black in spirit and connected to Black American culture. It was a performance, an extension of how Black folks always created their own spaces when denied access to society by white culture. We weren’t allowed in white Greek fraternities and sororities, so we not only created our own but made it our own, too.
All the students were cheering their friends on, balloons in hand with numbers correlating to the spots where the girls were standing in line. This went on for over an hour. I later found out that the event was called a probate—the introduction of new members into the sorority or fraternity. They “spit” information and history, stepped, and did greetings for the older sorors by rewriting the lyrics to popular songs and replacing them with words that spoke to whom they were praising. It was one of the most electrifying things I had ever seen.
During this same semester, I befriended a guy named Lawrence who was also in the same business program that I was in. He was short, darker-skinned, and one of the smartest people I had met up to that point. We had also been placed on a campus quiz team together called the Honda Campus All-stars. It was basically like Jeopardy! but against sixty-four other HBCUs across the country. They would fly us out every year to compete against one another in Orlando, Florida.
Me and Lawrence got close as teammates and eventually became really great friends. I remember our friendship being interesting because he was from Detroit, deep voiced, and very masculine. Yet my being gay NEVER came up in conversation. He would be one of the only people I befriended who wasn’t focused on getting an answer to that question.
As we got closer to one another, I found out that he was also part of a fraternity on campus—Alpha Phi Alpha. I would see him out and about with the brothers on campus or doing community service, and I quickly became more interested in what a fraternity could do for me. Masculinity—better yet, my lack of it—was always at the forefront of my mind. Joining a fraternity seemed like a win-win situation.
The fraternities were built on principles of masculinity. Lawrence’s frat had “Aims,” which were “manly deeds, scholarship, and love for all mankind.” Manly stuck out to me. It was a stark contrast to the femininity that the sororities presented.
I decided I wanted to join Alpha Phi Alpha. I had great grades, was good-looking (at least I thought so), and would be a strong addition to the organization, should I be chosen. I also knew, based on rumors around the yard, that networking had as much to do with getting on line as being the perfect candidate. It was about who you knew and how well you showed your interest through attending fraternity programs and making yourself visible.
I saw the fraternity as an opportunity to be in a leadership position, a part of a movement bigger than myself. I was also looking for brotherhood—the ability to bond with other guys in a platonic way. For me, a fraternity meant gaining the one thing I so longed to have: a masculine ideal attached to me.
Over that spring and summer in 2005, Lawrence and I would talk about it from time to time. But it wasn’t until the fall of 2005 that I finally expressed to him my interest in joining the organization. After that, I didn’t hear much about it so I just kinda let it rest.
Then one night at the beginning of the next semester, I got a phone call from an unknown number at about nine thirty. “Hi, can I speak with George, please?” a guy asked nervously.
“This is George.”
“Well, my name is Charles, and I think I am your line brother.”
By now I knew enough about fraternity life that I wasn’t sure if this was real or a prank. My heart sank. I had heard the horror stories about pledging and I wasn’t no punk, but I also didn’t want to be walking into a setup or an ambush. We talked on the phone for a few minutes, and then he gave me an address where I was supposed to meet him.
I told both my cousins that I had been called about being on line. They looked at me, shocked. I gave them the address and the phone number that called me. They told me to text when I got to where I was going and text when I was on my way home. This was going to be our system to make sure that I stayed safe.
I got in my car, nervous as hell. But I put on my good old trusted Anita Baker and headed to the other side of town by myself. I remember getting to the apartment building and standing outside. I called first before entering because, again, I had no idea if this was a prank or real. I still really wanted to be a part of the organization. But having heard about how people had been hurt and even killed from hazing, my guard was definitely up as I waited there. Eventually, one of the line brothers came outside to meet me.
We then walked into the apartment, where there were ten other guys, some that I knew and others I had never seen on campus before. That night we all got to know one another. Some were excited to meet me. Others were angry to have to catch the “new boy” up to speed. Apparently, they had already been meeting up secretly starting the semester before. Although they weren’t officially “on line,” they had been forming study groups to go over the information the brothers provided them over the holiday break. So, although I was added before the official start of the process, I was already behind on information I should’ve been studying.
Either way, I was excited. I was finally doing something that went against everything I had previously known. This was my quest for masculinity, and I was finally going to be able to prove just how tough I actually was. Masculinity felt necessary. I was attracted to it in other guys. Gaining masculinity almost felt like a form of self-love. I wanted to like myself. I wanted to be in love with myself.
We all bonded really hard those three months we were on line together (back then you could say that, now you have to say “membership intake process”). We were required to meet up regularly to go over information. Then present that information to the brothers on a regular basis. We don’t often talk publicly about what goes on in private settings, but I can say it mirrors many of the traditions of the past.
Before 1989, pledging was what we called “aboveground.” You would publicly see the boys and girls that were on line. They would meet up throughout the day on campus and follow the brothers in the fraternity and sisters in the sorority around. They would act on command for all on campus to see. It could even involve humiliation, but it was all part of the process.
Unfortunately, in 1988 a person trying to join Alpha Phi Alpha (the same frat I was interested in) was killed in a hazing incident gone wrong. A federal law against hazing was enacted to help prevent that from happening again—and most states have anti-hazing laws. But for the last fifty years or so, at least one person has died each year during a hazing in the United States, usually due to alcohol abuse. And these deaths have led to jail time, fines, and violations for all organizations and members involved. Thus my initial caution in meeting my line brothers and there being a potential pledge process involved—as everyone doesn’t have that as an unwritten requirement.
A movie came out in 2017 called Burning Sands, which depicted what the brutality of pledging could look like for those doing the underground process at an HBCU. That process depicted is true for many, and mirrors several of the traditions of the past. Although the movie didn’t give the full story, it portrayed some of the myths versus truths of the pledge process.
Throughout the intake process, we were starting to become more than just friends. We were forming a brotherhood, almost like a family. I never had a “clique” growing up. Joining the brotherhood meant I had a connection to these guys for a lifetime.
During that period “on line”—a term no longer used because of its hazing connotations—there were many highs and many lows. Much fussing and fighting and arguing, too. But we were all growing together. Some of us were hypermasculine while others weren’t so much. But for some reason, it didn’t matter. This was the environment that I longed for. One where my effeminate nature didn’t matter, and folks could see me for the person I was. I had found that in my line brothers.
Our intake process started in January with us learning information about the fraternity and meeting with the brothers regularly to go over it. We were learning all this stuff for several reasons. First, because we needed to know the history of the organization. Second, because in order to make it through national intake, we would have to pass the national test. And finally, because we were going to have to present much of this information to the campus in a show format that included stepping, and greetings to older brothers and sororities.
We went to national intake in March. It took two weekends and was an all-day affair both times. We met with older brothers from our advising chapter over the weekends and went over the same information that we had been learning for two months in secrecy. Because of the underground process, folks on campus knew what was going on but also acted as if they didn’t. After we all passed the tests, our probate was set for April 7.
During that time in between the national test and the probate, we had to speak with older brothers within our undergraduate chapter. This is a tradition that happens when you get closer to the end of your process. We were all practicing at my apartment one night when I had an older brother contact me and, of course, pull that same question I had gotten my whole life. He was on speakerphone when he shouted, “I heard you were a gay. We don’t allow that f***** shit in our chapter.” My first response was, “I’m not gay, big brother, and I understand.” He hung up the phone.
My line brothers stood there around me, quiet. I was mad. And when I get mad, I do what I always do. I started to cry. My line brother Gerald was the first to walk over to me. He looked at me and pulled me in for a hug. I broke down crying even more. “I’m so tired of being called that.”
The rest of my line brothers finally came over and hugged me, too. “Tough it out,” some of them said. “We have come too far.” They were right.
To be honest, there was no point at which I was ever going to drop out or give up. When kids thought I wasn’t tough enough to play football, I proved them wrong. I had been proving folks wrong my whole life. Since folks doubted me because of my sexuality, I wanted to make sure that I went even harder than a straight kid under the same circumstances. I wasn’t there to be just as good. I was there to prove I was better.
Some of my brothers were hugging themselves that night, because they were suppressing their queerness, too. Together, we became a much stronger unit. I learned that no matter what happened moving forward, these eight men would always have my back.
Finally, April 7, 2006, arrived. Our fraternity was founded in 1906, and our chapter was established by a founder of the frat in 1907—making us one of the oldest chapters in Black Greek history. I was the seven on the line. In our fraternity, seven is the jewel number, because we had seven founders.
When we arrived on campus, there had to have been a thousand people waiting for us in that Square. We locked up under one another’s shoulders, chins on one another’s backs, masks on, and began marching toward that Square, or at least I thought. There was one last test to pass, of course. Our older brothers placed blindfolds over our masks. We then began marching, the Ace with his arm on our Dean’s shoulder, who now had to be our eyes.
I remember being extremely nervous. In addition to being nearly eighty-five degrees out that night, this was the moment we all had been waiting for. We marched until we stopped suddenly. My heart was beating really fast. I realized that we had fallen. “Deathmarching,” as it’s called, is not easy to do blindfolded. We got up and continued. We then walked down some stairs and around the corner where we stopped again. We were told to unlock and they took off our blindfolds.
In front of us was the light of Alpha. Like, literally the Alpha sign in lights. Everyone was hyping us up for the show. I felt more powerful than ever in this moment, even with the nerves and the sweating. Our Dean yelled to lock up one more time and out again we went. This time, our blindfolds were off and it was our final march to the show.
When we got to the Square, the crowd erupted. My Dean yelled for us to unlock and we did. I looked out in front of me and there was my entire village. My mother, Aunt Sarah, Aunt Munch, Uncle, cousins, Monique, Ivie, everyone. All yelling at the top of their lungs, “I SEE YOU, NUMBER SEVEN!!!”
I felt seen, not in terms of my sexuality, but in the sense that I was now at the top of a Black societal pyramid for once. I was no longer the kid worried about being picked last. I was no longer being forced into something masculine as a way to protect myself. I was defining my own masculinity. I was the center of attention for a good reason. People were rooting for me.
We went for almost two hours that night, putting on a show for the campus that included greetings, history, and stepping. Because of some bizarre thirty-minute rainstorm that came through, our probate started in the Square, then moved inside to a large room in Henderson Center and then back out to the Square. While inside, half the line unmasked and introduced themselves. Once back outside, we started at it again. Travon was standing in front of me, and I could feel my mouth go dry as fear ran through me. Despite this fear, I knew I worked too hard to mess this moment up.
When they got to me, the crowd went off. In that moment, it didn’t matter if I was queer to the older brothers who questioned it throughout my process. It only mattered that whatever they felt about me, I was tough enough just like everyone else. Black Greek life in our community has symbolism. It is a sign of how tough you are. That you “crossed the burning sands” and survived to tell it. They took my mask off and I popped out to address the campus.
“WE ARE GEORGE MATTHEW JOHNSON. WE ARE FROM PLAINFIELD, NEW JERSEY. WE ARE A FINANCE MAJOR WITH A 3.3 GPA. OUR LINE NAME IS KHALFANI, WHICH MEANS KING AND RULER. BECAUSE ALPHAS HAVE ALWAYS RUN THIS YARD AND WILL CONTINUE TO RUN THIS YARD.”
That night, I proved to myself that manhood isn’t a monolith. That there was a version of manhood, a version of “manly,” that looked like me. It would now be on me to become a reflection of Black queer people. I wanted to become the person that future Black queer folks could look to and know that their masculinity could be defined on their own terms. I went into it all chasing masculinity. I came out realizing that there was nothing for me to chase. That the only thing left for me to do was be this person, but in my full truth. It was time for me to begin letting folk into my sexuality and my sexual space while being a member of Alpha Phi Alpha, too.
It was time for me to define me.