Excerpt from the Novel, “The Prince of Brown: A Fictional Memoir” by Arthur L. Jenkins

In The Prince of Brown: A Fictional Memoir, Arthur L. Jenkins delivers a raw and deeply human portrait of resilience at the intersections of Blackness, queerness, and survival. Told through the eyes of Denzel Davis, the narrative spans generations of tragedy, family secrets, and rebirth—from the violence that shaped his ancestors to his own struggles with identity, love, and mental illness. As Denzel navigates the worlds of academia, incarceration, the ballroom scene, and self-reinvention, he confronts the dual burden of invisibility and hypervisibility faced by Black queer men.

What begins as a story of trauma evolves into a powerful meditation on healing, artistry, and the dignity of difference. Jenkins weaves grit with grace, illuminating how one man—descended from both suffering and strength—reclaims his story and crowns himself the Prince of Brown: an emblem of endurance, truth, and the beauty that emerges from survival.

Excerpt from Chapter Three:

My mother left my father many times over the last twelve years, taking us with her in her struggle to become independent. When she returned home to Ed for the last time, she finally wised up. She was the one with the children, and she needed the house. So, she played the game and returned to Ed. She enrolled in a university for a certificate and license program in Ultrasound, Radiology. As she neared completion, she filed for divorce. It didn’t take long to get him out of the house – just a matter of months. She kept the house, and with her new education and job opportunities, she was able to care for her family. One day, when I came home from seventh-grade, Ed was gone. We called him Ed, not Dad, to his face; that’s what he answered to. He was never really a father. Although he lived in the house, he was emotionally absent. I don’t remember a single moment he spent with me or Dalia. He was a deadbeat and a functioning alcoholic. It didn’t take long for my mother to meet someone new; she moved him into the house. When Ed found out another man was living in the house, he came around to fight. I watched as the two men seemingly tussled for my mother’s affection. In reality, it wasn’t affection Ed was after; it was pride. He was bothered not so much by her new relationship but by the fact that another man was benefiting from his home, his money and his work. He didn’t care that another man might be a bad influence on his children; he was simply concerned with his own pride. Needless to say, he lost that fight, leaving defeated with his head down as he walked back to his mother’s house.

The man my mother got involved with turned out to be a drug addict, addicted to crack cocaine. I would find little empty vials all over the house. I wouldn’t have known what they were if it hadn’t been for my friends pointing out the used vials on the sidewalks and joking about the situation. After all, we lived in a big urban city. My uncle also played a role in my knowledge of drugs. He would blatantly display his drugs for sale, taking inventory of how many vials of crack he had or packaging them for his customers. He didn’t care who saw. He was almost proud, as if it was a real job.

“See, the key to get more product is the way you cook it. You put more baking soda in it. You get more rocks like that. It’s all in the cut. When you hear it crackling after you cook it, you know it’s done. When you smoke it, you want it to have a cracking sound,” Michael stated, showing off his drug knowledge. He leaned back, confidence oozing from him as he shared this tidbit, as if he were an expert in a specialized field.

“Why are you showing me this?” I asked him.

“So you know how things work. So you can be a pro,” he replied jokingly.

In that moment, I realized this was all he knew. He was skilled at it, but that didn’t change my opinion of him; if anything, it only made it worse.

My mother’s boyfriend had little to offer her in terms of financial support or career advancement, so he provided his masculinity instead. He kept her car serviced, remodeled the house, and offered her companionship. I learned how to perform various tasks around the house by watching him closely and mimicking his methods. In that regard, he was quite skilled. I believe my mother was attracted to him because of these qualities – things my father either could not or would not do. He was the opposite of my father and, in some ways, a better person. If it weren’t for the crack cocaine, he might have been a half-decent person. He had a massive collection of VHS movies. I watched movie after movie. I would spend days immersed in his collection, losing track of time as I devoured each film. I learned about sex from his porno collection. It was the first time I could learn, watch, analyze and participate in solitary sexual activity. That’s all he had to offer us as kids. Having an active male presence in the house, regardless of the circumstances, was beneficial because I was learning from him. I observed how a man behaves and how he should treat others – lessons I never learned from my father. I never received anything from him at all.

My mother and her boyfriend had many arguments, and I witnessed most of them. I never knew what they were fighting about; I would come downstairs and find myself caught in the middle of their conflict. Sometimes, the arguments escalated to violence, but it wasn’t her boyfriend who became aggressive; it was my mother. As sweet as she could be, when she’d had enough, she would not hold back. To me, it often looked like her boyfriend was the one attacking her.

There were times I picked up knives and baseball bats to defend her. He even broke the living room window during one of their heated altercations. However, it was too late for my mother; she was pregnant again.

Millie had been out of Byberry Asylum for several years. Mom and Millie had reconciled, and Mom was trying to help her by letting her stay with her. There were times when my mother would try to diffuse the tension during their arguments. Despite their reconciliation, Millie still harbored some resentment toward Mom. I had just turned twelve, and Mom made sure I had a birthday cake. She kept it for weeks after nobody wanted a slice, even when it started to go sour. But she refused to throw it away. As I was about to enter eighth grade, my mother wanted to remove me from the neighborhood junior high school. I had been cutting classes and skipping school, and the school had a bad reputation. My mother had attended that same school as a preteen during the era of street gangs in the late 60s and early 70s, and I think she still believed it was as dangerous as it once was. In any case, she enrolled me in an African-styled private school. Everyone there was African American, but the curriculum focused on African culture, blending South African and Nigerian traditions. We were required to address our teachers using South African titles: “Mathora” for female teachers and “Mathori” for male teachers, followed by their first names. As students, we were addressed as “Maruni” or “Maruna,” again followed by our first names.

“Maruni Denzel, what is the capital of South Africa?” my teacher asked.

“It’s Pretoria[MOU1] , Mathora Ina,” I replied.

“And what continent is Egypt in?” she continued with her questions.

“Africa!” the class answered in unison.

“Yes. It is not in Rome,” Mathora Ina concluded.

I found myself in class with the sons and daughters of professionals – lawyers, teachers, and businesspeople. This was a different social class of Black kids. They weren’t ghetto or ignorant like the students from my former junior high school. I didn’t realize it at first, but I was beginning to experience a sense of privilege that came with my mom’s new profession. She was slowly providing a better life for me and Dalia. I didn’t want to return to my old school or that old behavior. I missed no one from the past and was eager to learn.

In this new school, we studied Africa – the history, the culture, and the impact of Europe and America on the continent. We read books written by African authors and engaged in debates about contemporary issues. I always emerged victorious in those debates. Instead of basketball, we played soccer, and every morning we started class with a meditative, spiritual prayer. We focused on connecting with our chi, finding the link between our physical selves and the spiritual universe. They introduced me to art – drawing and painting. I quickly discovered my talent for it and excelled. I painted a portrait of my mother and created numerous sketches. I fell in love with the school and realized what I was capable of achieving. My head teacher encouraged me to pursue art in high school, so she began searching for art schools and programs throughout Philadelphia. The support and sense of community I found there were unprecedented; I had no idea places like this existed.

Last week, we were told to bring our swim trunks and bathing suits for today. The teachers didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t think much about it; I simply followed the instructions. To my surprise, we were going to the YMCA for gym class – specifically for swimming. I felt nervous because I didn’t know how to swim, and the YMCA was an unfamiliar place, which made me uncertain. Still, I was glad to get out of the classroom.

It was a warm spring day with the sun shining and a cool breeze blowing as we walked. The weather was perfect. We strolled through the heart of Germantown, making our way to Germantown and Chelten Avenues. The YMCA was situated in a building away from the corner. I had only been swimming once before, and that was during Boy Scouts. I was deeply afraid of the water and didn’t know what to expect. I was also worried about embarrassing myself in the pool. I wasn’t sure if they would provide us with instruction or simply let us do whatever we wanted. Either way, I felt anxious.

We were instructed to go to the locker room and change into our trunks. The boys filed in, laughing and joking, all excited about swimming today. As they began to take off their shirts, I found myself perplexed by their disrobing. Their thin, developing, wiry bodies caught my interest. It was the first time I would see boys’ naked bodies up close and personal. I skillfully surveyed the room, undressing very slowly and calculatingly. They pulled their pants off, then their underwear. I’ve finally seen it. I was mesmerized. I watched for the next boy. He pulled his pants down and then his underwear. I’ve seen it again. Then there was another one, and another, until they were all naked at one point. They stood there exposed for a few minutes, casual and relaxed, as if it were nothing special.

“Some of y’all dick-watchers. Y’all like to watch dicks,” a tall, dark boy said jokingly.

I turned my head quickly so as not to seem obvious. There was an overwhelming feeling of guilt, as if the tall boy was accusing and singling me out. To divert attention away from me, I quickly finished changing my clothes. By the time I looked up again, everyone was in their swim trunks. I was still aroused. It was erotic for me. A feeling I’d never experienced before. The boys filed out of the locker room into the pool area. I could not shake off what I had just witnessed. I had never had these feelings before. Of course, I’ve had some thoughts, thinking a boy was cute or being intrigued by the male bodies’ performance in my mother’s boyfriend’s porno videos, but not this intense. I wanted to touch them and explore whatever came to mind. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, but I began to visualize their bodies in my mind. I was becoming aroused and had to remain in the pool until it passed.

Soon it was time to return to the locker room and get dressed. I made sure I was the first one in so I could watch the show again. The boys removed their trunks and dried off their naked bodies with towels. I was paralyzed with anxiety, aware that what I was doing was wrong. I realized I had only a small window to observe, so I tried to remain inconspicuous. Within minutes, the boys had dressed in their blue uniforms again and were ready to leave. For them, it was nothing; for me, the world had just shifted. I was the last one to exit the locker room.

Later that week, I visited Mom. Since starting junior high and becoming a little older, I felt there was no longer a need for her to watch me as closely as she had in the past. Nonetheless, I felt guilty for not seeing her more often. It was just Mom and Millie at home; Michael had moved in with his girlfriend. Mom wasn’t willing to let him stay and sell drugs from her house. I felt bad for Michael, but I had never really liked him. He was ignorant and had a jealous nature. He had dropped out of school in eighth grade, which left him illiterate. He quit because he had a learning disability and was bullied for his weight. It was sad, but I found it to be a poor excuse. I knocked on the door and waited for Mom to answer. She peeked out from behind the blinds.

“Tootie-Woot! You came to see me!” Mom exclaimed.

“Hi Mom. I wanted to come by and see you,” I greeted.

She opened the door and let me in, giving me a warm hug.

“How’s your mother? She at work?” she asked.

“Yeah, she still at work,” I replied.

Millie was in the dining room, sitting at the table, engaged in one of her continuous conversations with herself.

“Hi, Millie,” I greeted her, but she didn’t respond. She continued talking to herself, seemingly in a daze. It felt like her behavior was getting worse – she was not changing her clothes and had been defecating on herself. Sometimes, she would even go outside and walk around the block, holding full conversations with herself for everyone in the neighborhood to see. Mom noticed it too, but I knew that if I brought it up, she would yell at me and tell me to stay in a child’s place.

“Don’t mind her,” Mom said, making excuses for her. “She in another world. Just how she is.”

“Okay, Mom. I can’t stay long. Just came by to say hi and tell you I love you. I gotta go,” I concluded.

I exited the house, and Mom stood in the doorway, waving goodbye. I was worried about her – she was getting older, and it was becoming more apparent that she was drifting into old age. We had tried to get her to come live with us, but she was too proud for that. I worried about her being in that house alone with Millie. I was definitely concerned.

A few days passed since my visit with Mom. My mother seemed to be getting bigger every day; her belly was full and heavy. There were only a couple more months until her due date. She had separated from the baby’s father because his drug addiction had become uncontrollable, to the point where he was stealing things from the house, including my old G.I. Joe action figures, which he sold. My mother eventually kicked him out. As nighttime came, we settled in for bed. Hours passed, and it was late in the early morning when the phone rang, waking everyone in the house.

“Hello?” Susie answered.

“Susie? It’s Mr. Brown. Your grandmother’s been in a fire. She’s at the hospital now,” Mr. Brown said.

“Oh my God! I’m on my way there!” Susie screamed in panic.

She quickly jumped up, threw on some pants and sneakers, and rushed out of the house, slamming the door behind her. I knew something was wrong. Susie arrived at Mom’s house in five minutes, but the scene was chaotic. The house was still ablaze; the downstairs was engulfed in flames, and smoke filled Mom’s bedroom. Bright blue flames and thick black smoke filled the air, with flames pouring through the roof directly above her room. Millie was nowhere to be found.

Mr. Brown stood outside his house with other neighbors, all watching anxiously to see if the fire would be contained or if it would spread to their homes. Firefighters had arrived, battling the flames. Mr. Brown looked perplexed, his cigar hanging loosely from his lips as he scratched his head. When he saw Susie approaching, he reached out to hug her.

“Hi Susie,” Mr. Brown greeted. “This is just horrible.”

Desperate for information, Susie focused her questions on Mr. Brown, knowing he was the next-door neighbor.

“What happened?” she asked, struggling to hold back her tears.

“Well, about midnight, we smelled smoke. But we thought nothing of it at first; it wasn’t a heavy odor, and we thought someone might be burning some trash. So, I stayed in bed. Then we heard screaming, and we came downstairs to see what was going on. That’s when I went outside. Just then, your grandmother burst through the glass of her bedroom. Smoke was everywhere. She climbed out and ran across the roof to my window. That’s when I went upstairs, opened my window, and let her in,” Mr. Brown explained.

“Was she hurt?” Susie inquired, her voice trembling with concern.

“She was burned pretty bad. All I saw was red flesh. She was having a hard time breathing. It seemed like she had been trapped in her bedroom for a while,” Mr. Brown concluded.

At night, Mom would lock her bedroom door with several padlocks to keep herself safe from Millie while she slept.

“Oh my God!” Susie exclaimed, bursting into tears. “Where’s Millie?”

“We haven’t seen her. We don’t know if she’s still in the house,” Mr. Brown stated.

“Oh no!” Susie cried out, panic rising in her voice.

“Ella should be at the hospital now. They took her to Einstein,” Mr. Brown concluded.

Susie rushed to the hospital, but there was nothing she could do to help. Mom was in the trauma center and would be there for a few hours while the police searched for Millie.

Susie returned home, frightened and exhausted. Dalia and I came down to greet her.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” Dalia asked.

“Mom’s been in a fire. We can’t find Millie. Just don’t answer the door. I’m waiting for the hospital to call me,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks.

She went upstairs and immediately started calling family members. We sat there in stunned silence, shocked and scared, not speaking to each other. It was as if I had been anticipating something like this all along. We didn’t know the full history between Mom and Millie, but we knew that Mom had been afraid of her. A few minutes later, as we sat downstairs, lost in our thoughts, there was a knock on the door. Susie came downstairs.

“Don’t open it,” Susie instructed us.

“Susie! Susie! Open the door!” Millie yelled from outside.

“Shh, don’t say nothing,” Susie whispered urgently.

I ran to the window and peeked out. It was Millie, covered in burns and red blisters all over her face and arms. Her eyes were wild and her hair disheveled.

“She has burns on her arms, Mom,” I whispered back, feeling a mix of fear and concern.

Millie stood at the door for only a few minutes before she walked to the gate, paused at the walkway, and then disappeared into the night. We were all silent, absorbing what had just happened.

Days passed, and Mom was moved to the burns center. She was still alive but unable to talk; however, she was aware of what was happening around her. Susie took us to the burns unit to see Mom. She was wrapped in bandages and appeared swollen. My heart sank at the sight. We spoke to her, and she gestured with her hands, moving them over her belly and then up and down.

“The baby’s fine, Mom,” Susie reassured her.

“I love you, Mom,” I said softly, hoping she could feel the love in my voice.

“I love you too, Mom,” Dalia added, tears welling in her eyes.

“We all love you, Mom, and we’re here for you,” Susie concluded.

A few days later, Mom was gone. She had died due to complications from smoke inhalation.

Susie was heartbroken. They apprehended Millie and sent her back to the Asylum. This time, she was charged with murder. We found out that kerosene had been poured outside Mom’s bedroom door, through the hallway, and down the stairs. Millie didn’t want Mom to get out; she had finally succeeded in killing her. We could never forgive her for that.

A month later, Susie gave birth to Bryan. They say when one life fades, another life shines. Perhaps that was Bryan’s purpose for the time being. Maybe he came when he did to help ease the pain. Baby Bryan became a pleasant distraction for Susie, but it wasn’t the end of our troubles.

Michael moved back into Mom’s house, claiming it was his. Legally, it was now in Susie’s name, but that didn’t stop him. During the time he was there, he turned the house into a drug den. Drug addicts filled the burned-out rooms, smoking crack. I witnessed it myself, and it only intensified my hatred for him. He went as far as changing the locks so Susie couldn’t get in. Michael had no job, no education, and no money, so it was bewildering how he thought he could take over the house and repair it. He was mentally ill, but in a different way. His delusions seemed to convince him that he could simply claim what wasn’t rightfully his. Up until the age of eight, Michael had been unable to control himself and would sometimes soil his pants. Susie had to clean him up as if he were still a small child, which was utterly pathetic. Despite this, Dalia idolized him, viewing him as the coolest person she knew. By some twist of fate, he was arrested for drugs and sent to prison for a couple of years. In the aftermath, Susie made the difficult decision to sell the house cheaply and move on. The entire experience was horrifying for her and for us. We had been the closest family to Mom, and losing her, along with enduring everything with Michael, felt like enduring a true nightmare. Her funeral was packed with mourners from Virginia, New York and Philadelphia. She was well-remembered and deeply loved. I only wish I could have seen her when she was younger. Stories are told about the Morris sisters, and they certainly knew how to make an impression. Mom was cherished by many, and I regret not spending more time with her on the last day I saw her. The memory of her waving goodbye in the doorway of her house brings me solace.

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 [MOU1]Changed to Pretoria.