Diversity Rules Magazine

20 Diversity Rules Magazine April 2017 Robert Kingett is a gay blind journalist who is the Author of Off the Grid, Living Blindly without the in- ternet. He ac- tively contrib- utes to blogs, magazines, and newspapers, alongside speaking about such things as video game accessibility. He has received the Professional speaker's workshop award and has been featured on NPR for his advocacy I can't stop gaping at my sent messages. e number seems to rise without a reply every day these days. I look back at some of the older messages wondering when I made that first introduction. I spot some mes- sages dating back a few weeks ago and even more still a few months ago. I look at my dating inbox to see if I missed any replies. I never have. I don't think that I will, either. I go hunting for new dates anyway because I hope that I will spot someone who I have not assaulted with my genuine nature. e browse page fills up with so many familiar profiles; I feel like an expert on every one of them. I know that Tommy corrected a spelling mis- take on his page a few days ago. One that he had up there for years. I know that George updated his favor- ite books after I suggested a few to him because one of my suggestions appears there. Still, I hunt for someone new. Maybe it's because I am desperately hunting that I don't hear the beep. It's an earcon that tells people that they have a new message. When I look at my inbox, though, again…there's an unread message. It's from a guy I messaged months ago. "Hi!" it reads, perhaps with a sigh, perhaps not. "I'm Jamie. I'm sorry it took so long to get back to you, but I was debating if we were going to be a good fit, even." I value his honesty more than anything, and I begin to compose a novel about how I don't know what I am even looking for anymore because people are afraid of genuine behavior. So, if he didn't want to date me, go out with me, or even talk to me, that I'd appreciated it if he just blocked me and moved on because all I want at this very moment is a hug and for someone to tell me I am special, even if it's not true. His reply comes back quick as a flash. He says he val- ues my honesty. He says he doesn't get a lot of replies because of his height; he is six foot six and his skin. Apparently, he's black. I guess I will just have to take him at face value. We continue to send novels to each other. I tell him about the dance party I attended where I swung my hips with such vigor that a hurricane manifested in downtown Chicago. He explains he missed the disas- ter because Netflix kept his attention that night. He was watching House of Cards. We reveal how lonely we are and how we have nothing in common with one another. He hates intellectual conversation and loves small talk, and I don't understand his love of bugs and ants. He doesn't like my voice, and I don't like his. Still, we pour our hearts out to each other on the phone and through email. Neither of us knows why. Soon after a heated exchange over the phone, one af- ternoon, I ask him if he can come over and we could argue in person about something. To some people, this seems wildly bizarre, but I have always been a blue traffic light in a world of green and red traffic lights. Nothing is normal to me anymore. When he says that he will visit me in my apartment, I am elated, not ter- rified that a man who towers over me is going to be in my apartment all alone. My blue traffic signal can't stop pulsating with anticipation. He arrives at nine that night and bends over to hug me. Even though I can't see him or what he looks like online, I picture him as a Denzel Washington clone. His height doesn't quite fit my mental image, but I figure adding a pink traffic signal to my arsenal won't The Strange Comfort By Robert Kingett

• Cover