These days, Jericho Brown is planning his laughter. Despite living through a pandemic, the last five months in the life of this Louisiana-bred, Atlanta-based poet certainly isn’t lacking for reasons to evoke joy, after all, he is the author of “The Tradition,” which earned him the 2020 Pulitizer Prize for Poetry—a historic moment in which Brown became one of two openly queer Black men to be awarded the prestigious honor in the same year. Much like his poetry, Brown’s laughter is infectious and unrestrained, soothing and measured, jarring and familiar; delivered with the intonation and cadence of a Kat Williams stand-up routine that leaves you bellowing over in laughter only to realize that he’s delivered a gut-punch that is simultaneously reflective and unrelenting. Jericho Brown is poetry in motion. He’s also in demand. One glimpse at the 326 text messages on his phone, many of which are congratulatory messages sent after his win, speaks to his impact on the world and the literary community. But despite the Pulitzer Prize elevating his career to unimaginable heights, Brown is embracing the journey and prioritizing laughter.

As Americans are laser-focused on the upcoming presidential election on November 3, there’s another local election that may have slipped under the radar for some, but like all down-ballot races, is equally important. Longtime Atlanta politician, Kwanza Hall (D-District 5), 49, a former member of the Atlanta City Council and a former mayoral candidate, is facing a runoff on December 1 against challenger Dr. Robert Franklin (D-District 5) after neither candidate secured fifty-percent of the vote during a special election in September to fill the District 5 congressional seat left vacant after the death of the late civil rights icon John Lewis.

The Reckoning spoke with Hall, who has been endorsed by Lewis’s son, John Miles-Lewis, about his campaign, his political platform, his allyship to the LGBT community, and his agenda for his short stay in Congress, if elected.

His smile was perhaps Rodnell Dominique Riddick’s most recognizable trait. Bright and toothy, with an inner brilliance that illuminated his whole face. Smooth chocolate skin, bold fashion sensibility, and an indefatigable love for Black men of size were other defining traits for the man most in Atlanta’s creative and Black LGBTQ+ communities knew as Dominique or Dom/Domo. Founder of both the Fearful Clothing Line and later the Tempting, Handsome, Intelligent, and Charming Kings Movement aka the T.H.I.C.K.

Your power is in your vote. The 2020 presidential election is shaping up to be one of the most important elections in the history of modern politics. And with voter enthusiasm at an all-time high and record turnout during the first week of early voting in Georgia, it’s imperative that voters are equipped with the information they need in order to successfully cast their ballot.

Picture it. Atlanta. June 23, 2006. A Black church boy sits in a room awaiting the results of a rapid HIV test. The seconds feel like hours and the hours feel like days. The clock strikes 3 p.m., he is now fifteen minutes away from embodying the stereotype of Black gay men living with HIV as an inevitability. His greatest fear is confirmed. He is HIV-positive. He is also given 90 days to live. But for Morris Singletary, 43, Founder and CEO of Pozitive2Positive, there are no tears, only the beginning of an awakening that would lead him to fight for his life and the lives of other Black same gender loving church boys living with HIV.

Victor Jackson’s father tossed his first pair of ballet shoes into the trash. It was a failed attempt to derail his son’s desire to study dance, restrict access to what he believed to be queer affirming spaces, and to suppress a noticeably burgeoning queer identity. It didn’t work. But that didn’t stop his minister father from trying, nor did it extinguish Jackson’s fire for an artform that would catapult him into his purpose. When Jackson saw his ballet shoes in the trash, which were purchased at Goodwill and gifted to him by his babysitter, he said he knew that he’d be solely responsible for finding ways to receive the training he needed and to create ways to learn and to lean into his passion.

“You know who I am and you know what I am here for. Turn up for Jesus and turn down for nothing!” Those who follow Elder Rahkel Henry, 44, on social media are familiar with this call to action that serves as the intro to several Facebook videos posted by the Atlantic City, New Jersey native to inspire her followers. During a recent conversation she confessed, “I know I’m real talkative, I can’t help it.” This is true, but what Henry doesn’t mention is that when she speaks, she always has a WORD that compels people of faith or no faith at all to sit up and listen, which as an African-American transgender woman in ministry, is a feat of epic proportions.

High above Goodfellas Pizza at the intersection of Spring Street and North Avenue in Midtown, stands a billboard featuring Jeremy Roberts, 31, accompanied by the words: “I Wouldn’t Be Here Without Grady.” Atlantans will instantly recognize the billboard as an ad for Grady Hospital, a long-standing health care institution that for decades has served Atlanta’s African-American community, including those who are uninsured, underinsured, and or living with HIV. Behind the smile and confidence that Roberts displays for thousands of commuters each day, is a story of a man living and thriving with HIV despite initially having his status weaponized against him.

Rev. Duncan Teague’s visit to Atlanta in 1984 was supposed to be a short-lived two-week vacation to celebrate his college graduation. Now nearly 40 years later, Teague is among thousands, if not millions of Black gay men who have migrated to Atlanta in search of liberation, freedom, community, and themselves. It’s a common thread that connects those who have taken the bus ride of faith from their relatively small southern or midwestern towns, often with no concrete plan and very little money, but with an overwhelming desire to become fully realized human beings in a city that is often both romanticized and demonized, yet affords Black gay men space to simply be.

In the wake of the grand jury’s decision and public outrage, The Reckoning collected statements from leaders and community activists in Atlanta’s Black LGBTQ community to get a sense of how local thought and movement leaders are grappling with another Black murder at the hands of the state going unpunished.

New York City based poet, writer, and first time filmmaker Kamaria J. Hodge could have let fear and inexperience stop her from stepping into the director’s chair, but not only would that have been an affront to her gift as an artist, it would have deprived the world of the beautiful gift that is “Bill & Robert,” the short film that serves as Hodge’s directorial debut and is scheduled to make it’s Atlanta premiere during the virtual Out On Film Festival kicking off on September 24.

Bisexuality is real. Black Bisexual men exist. Andrew Gillum happens to be one of those men. The Reckoning is providing a platform to three openly bisexual Black men to amplify their truth and to take control of a narrative that has historically been steeped in misinformation and bias, and told by everyone but the men who live it.

Anthony L. Williams, writer and director of the 2017 independent feature film “Thicker Than Blood” is placing Black gay characters at the center of his work and challenging audiences to move beyond any stereotypically held beliefs in search of the truth in love that binds us all.

Black gay relationship counselor and psychosexual therapist Machel Hunt tells The Reckoning that he is “on a mission to have every Black gay man in Atlanta in therapy.”

The Reckoning spoke with two sets of Atlanta Black gay dads who are raising Black boys to discuss how Blake’s shooting has impacted the conversations they’re having as a family about police brutality, social unrest, and surviving in America when the color of your skin is perceived as a deadly weapon.

We all remember where we were when we heard that song for the first time, or when we saw that music video or read that book that changed our lives. For many Black gay and same gender loving men, coming across a piece of literature that centered our stories honestly and authentically was the equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack, and when we found it, we often had to steal away in the dark of night to not risk outing ourselves. In a fictitious world created by authors who saw our queerness as an asset and not a liability, James Earl Hardy and his magnum opus “B-Boy Blues,” which is celebrating its 25th anniversary this year is one of those authors.

For decades, members of the Black LGBTQ community have collectively converged upon the ‘city too busy to hate’ to experience a sort-of Black queer utopia that some would argue is unique to Atlanta Black Pride—a rite of passage; escapism from the rigid structure of corporate America, or the confines of living in a small conservative town rife with intolerance and religious bigotry. If it were any other year, the need to escape to celebrate with the community would likely be encouraged, but this is 2020. The impact of the deadly coronavirus pandemic has brought life as we once knew it to a screeching halt—well, everything but ‘Atlanta Black Pride.’

I have survived being abused as a child. Physically by my father in the form of discipline because that was all he knew and called it love and sexually by a teenage cousin exploring the surge of testosterone while taking advantage of a younger cousin who was sensitive and “ different.” I don’t feel mentally or emotionally burdened by either situation.

In my walk from young adulthood to now, I’ve learned a lot about myself. Before landing in Washington, D.C. 24 years ago in 1995, no one told me how challenging that phase of life would be as I came to grips with accepting my sexuality, which was anything but a straight line.  I had no roadmap to figure out what was happening or how to navigate any of it. Back then, any literature that was black, gay adjacent that I could get my hands on, I read. It wasn’t until I discovered the works of E. Lynn Harris and James Earl Hardy that some of what I had been carrying around regarding my sexuality started to make any kind of sense. As liberating as that felt, it was also terribly confusing.

When I was in my late teens, maybe seventeen or eighteen, I freaked out after spotting a gray hair on my head. My parents teased me mercilessly for days afterward, especially my dad who was the first to tell me that plucking the traitorous string would only bring more in its place. I ignored my dad’s warning and plucked the gray out of my head, becoming obsessively diligent in keeping my facial hair gray free. At the time, I didn’t think I had “earned” it. I wasn’t wise. I wasn’t working to the point of showing any signs of old age. Although, unbeknownst to me, I was stressing, Stressing out about somethings I wasn’t ready to face. And stress could cause grays, but at eighteen? Ridiculous.