"Public Outrage Over Karl-Anthony Towns’ Celebrations Questions Societal Norms"

My first dance was with my father. I placed my bare feet on his work boots, much to my mother’s dismay, and let his steps lead me into motion. Hand in hand, we turned circles in the kitchen as Al Green’s *Love and Happiness* marked the start of my relationship with movement.

The second time I danced was alone—and it would be my final time for years. With Seal’s *Kiss from a Rose* playing from my stereo, I held myself and swayed in my room, unbothered by the mirror reflecting me entirely. I moved freely, the way my father had taught me. The moment ended when my stepmother appeared in the doorway, her bare foot still pressing down on a roach she had just crushed.

“Why are you so damn gay?”

The question wasn’t curious—it was an accusation, a verdict. From then on, happiness had to be justified before it could exist.

Years later, in another place, I stood at a sink, rinsing blood from my hands after fighting off an attack. I wasn’t just washing away the stains—I was trying to erase any trace of uncertainty about my identity as a man.

This story reflects what happens when boys who move naturally are forced to fear their own instincts—and what it means when men like Karl-Anthony Towns are ridiculed for refusing to suppress theirs.

Doubt, sensitivity, and the impulse to challenge expectations are often stripped away from boys, particularly those of color in tough environments. Masculinity, it seems, demands violence as a shield against tenderness. Even laughter had limits—it couldn’t sound too light, too quick. We learned to slap backs instead of clasping hands. I didn’t understand the contradiction at first, but I spent my teenage years trying to disprove my stepmother’s words.

Since leaving Minnesota for New York, Karl-Anthony Towns, once the top draft pick, has faced mounting pressures. In a city where media attention never slows, judgment spreads instantly, amplified by endless online chatter.

Towns is learning what occurs when gentleness is penalized, when perceived difference makes someone a target, and when public figures unwillingly become symbols in debates over manhood.

The word zesty, a coded take on old insults, clung to him. It followed him through games, interviews, and on-court celebrations, making him a punchline for those quick to scorn what they couldn’t name.

Hilton Als, in The Women, remembers being called an “auntie man”—a Barbadian term for a queer man, spoken with both mockery and recognition. For Als, the label was a weight and a perspective—a way to grasp how male femininity disrupts convention. Towns, through his mannerisms and voice, struck that same nerve—not by declaring anything, but by refusing to force himself into the narrow, joyless version of masculinity others demanded.