This Treehouse is For Boys only!

I was 12. That's the last time I saw him - or what was remaining of him. Having experienced so many firsts together, it never dawned on me that he would be the first to die and I would be the first to watch him deteriorate. For some reason, that "first" was never considered. Yes, we were kids - I thought we'd live forever. A part of me still holds to the idea of immortality - even though I get a rude reminder of my impermanence every time I have a close encounter with death (or his offspring, sickness). Nevertheless, the day I walked up to that casket and saw his greying appearance, thin fingers, and sunken face, my innocence was raped - taken from me quicker than I would compartmentalize. We were protectors of the treehouse, a safe haven for our Power Ranger toys, comic books and fruit snacks. NOBODY else was allowed in. We would talk - to each other - over each other - for hours uninterrupted, save dinner or lunch time feeding. When he died, I never returned to the treehouse. I would only secure it, making sure no one could get into it or that  no one would be able to threaten its existence.

We were just kids.

See, these were the times where children were allowed by adults to stay children. Taboo topics were kept among the conversation pieces of adults while children were given imaginary license to be and do whatever they wanted. Talk of leukemia was as familiar to me at that age as was sex - nonexistent. So when he died, I got the typical "God needed him" or "He's an angel now" speech. And yet, I resented him for leaving me. My best friend had lied; we wouldn't be friends forever.

Fast forward 15 years. [Reflecting]

On this Christmas day, I look back at how I have responded to this loss. I have accrued a good bit of prosperity due to hard work, intelligence and grace. Because of this, I've attracted a great bit of people in my life that have become "friends," both fake and real. Folk who are yes men and women, saving their spot in my VIP section or party so that they could drink for free, behave riotously and have much to talk about the next day. I've asked myself over the years, "How many of you know my favorite food?" "What is my biggest fear?" "How many siblings do I have?" The majority of these people would get a righteous "F" as a grade in Johmyrin 101. Yet, I've kept them around because a part of me needed to fill that void.

Need[ed] - past tense

I have since grown up. I owe my best friend about 15 years worth of apologies. In essence, they have infiltrated the treehouse - or at least they've tried. I'm thankful nevertheless that I have made better friends, those who have added to the treehouse, instead of taking away from it. Theron would have appreciated that. Those others, I thank God for them as well. Moochers, back-biters, nay-sayers, bobble heads - all of them. I've learned as much from you about what real friendship is as I have from the blessings that have entered into my life.

I'm thankful this Christmas day - as I am everyday. I'm still growing, being very careful about who enters into the Treehouse. I pray that this next phase of life brings me great joy and more true friendship!

Merry Christmas

Absence makes the heart grow fonder

It's always been an obstacle for me to say, "I miss you" - until now.

I've poured myself into so much, seeking gratification from guilt and hiding in the fears of my own talent. Had I just taken a minute to think, reflect. I only needed one minute to become that child again, unexposed to men and women who make themselves kin to the brutal realities of life's bad side. Somewhere, in the crevices of my mind - those spaces between thought and action, one might call stillness - I've searched all over for you with no compass to guide me.

I've been using a map all this time. With its landscape of possibilities, I've been walking in that desert for 25 years, with the smallest amount of mana to sustain me. Body beaten, mind run down, and soul searching, I saw a star shoot across the skyline of my soul - leaving behind a trail of brazen gold that laid a path that inspired my journey. The more gold I picked up, the tiniest flashbacks started to return. My eyes opened a little wider, my nose accepted the smells of intrigue. I was in a familiar place with only a few steps taken.

In front of me is this child, a reddish-golden haired lightly sanded skin-toned 7 year old whose appearance caused me the greatest tears. He smelled of my grandmother's downy drowned sheets and the slightest hint of baby powder. His head had not quite caught up to his ears in growth though it was variably bigger than the rest of his body - MY body. I looked into his greyish-brown eyes and saw myself. I had  neglected me - forgot what makes me happy, what was true to me. But that little boy knew. So we sat, had a conversation, where he walked over, picked up things and started using them, mixing them, breaking them. He showed little concern for getting dirty or taking a chance that might end in nothingness. It was the exploration that meant the most to him.

Somewhere, somehow, I lost that fearlessness. So wrapped up in my next degree, accomplishment, and success that I had forgotten what God had infused within me at birth - a love for change.

I carry this kid on my journey now. He whispers in my ear every now and then to tell me when he feels like he is fading away. When he does, I know that my truest self is dying by a decision I have made. I'm thankful for my reconnection. I have missed him. I have MISSED me. I have MISSED my passion. This rediscover of self has open up the floodgates for me to love hard, take emotional risks and maybe one day MISS HER.

No longer will I walk around chasing other people's expectations for me. That little boy wants to play and I won't do anything to stop him.

Lights at both ends of the tunnel

Never can say goodbye
No no no no, I
Never can say goodbye

Even though the pain and heartache
Seems to follow me wherever I go
Though I try and try to hide my feelings
They always seem to show
Then you try to say you're leaving me
And I always have to say no...


If only what I said mattered. If only my words could keep you here just a few moments longer. I want to say my goodbye. The same goodbye I refused to speak because the selfish part of me stood firm on the idea that God would never take you away. I was - special. Different. I did what I was supposed to do. I maintained a stature and lifestyle that were both pleasing to you and others. And yet, that just wasn't enough.

Revelation: There are no prerequisites for death.

I typed it. And, it seriously just hit me. I guess there's a part of me that secretly believes that my stay here is permanent. How do you reconcile something so universal/inescapable? Think about it. Philosophy speaks to the impermanence of knowledge, a craft filled with men and women who fool themselves with glorifying the process rather than the goal. And yet, life points toward a goal, an end. One which can NOT be avoided. One that can NOT be predicted. One that can NOT be understood. Yet we are all required to partake. In fact, we have all exited eternity for this stint of time only to be unknowing siphoned back at any moment.

Why give us:
smiles, laughter,
pain, anguish, sadness,
accomplishment, failure,
love, hate,
commitment, infidelity,
experiences, stillness,
passion, depression, purpose,

All for it to end?

I've done my best at coping. Most times, I put it out of my mind, along with the foolish sayings of many of the people who offer false comfort in times where loved ones have walked through that one way door. This was all God's will. Things will get better. You're strong enough to handle this. Pardon me. How does one make judgements on something about which we know so little. Maybe, utilizing knowledge as an avenue for clarity is the wrong approach. That's possible. But, what do I use instead.

At its least, this was therapeutic. I'm not afraid of the unknown. I just want to make sure that those I care about that have passed that way are okay as they reenter eternity. But I can't be sure.

Therefore, I'll continue to be a fool - and hope for the best.

Fallen Anjel

I am ready for love
Why are you hiding from me
I'd quickly give my freedom
To be held in your captivity

I am ready for love
All of the joy and the pain
And all the time that it takes
Just to stay in your good grace
Lately I've been thinking
Maybe you're not ready for me
Maybe you think I need to learn maturity
They say watch what you ask for 
Cause you might receive 
But if you ask me tomorrow 
I'll say the same thing
-I.A.


I've stared in her face, smelled the sweetest fragrance of her lips, devoured each word that glides off her tongue with a ferocity of a thousand hungry men - yet, she belongs to him. She is not property but a gift, his gift. And he is so blinded by possession that he has forgotten the blessing one can find in a gift.

Pity Party of One, Please. I'm not into self-loathing, martyrdom or deprivation - though at some point in this entry, I am sure to exhibit all the signs. Actually, I refuse to admit that I might be one of those disgusting people in this world whom God has set aside a true love. Okay, maybe they're not disgusting. And yes, I'm hating. But a brother's got to find a way to appropriately make sense of it all.

Since very young, I've been celebrated for my intelligence, good looks, athletic build, hair texture, etc. None of these titles (excluding intelligence) have I readily taken ownership of. However, if I amass these prescribed qualities into a recipe for romantic success, then a guy like me (or whom I have been told I am) would be a candidate for a love degree with summa cum laude honors. Yet, in the darkness of my home, the smallest whispers echo the loud truth: I am alone. And frankly, at 26, I need to make the decision to be really content with this or to be ABSOLUTELY uncomfortable about it.

I am THE friend. And while I appreciate that I have set myself up to be a trustworthy individual for others, the fact that I die inside whenever a female calls me a great friend shows that some part of my  tin man exterior is porous enough to feel the grief that lies in hope. I'm too old to play the "shut down" game and I will NOT use avoidance as a coping mechanism. Being confident about 99% of the things in my life is not good enough when I doubt my right to a gift such as this. Fuck TV and its depiction of love as some boomerang type of object that magically returns to an owner who takes a risk and throws it out into the open abyss. I haven't seen a return on my investment yet - so, either television is lying or I am truly damned. Scarily, I can't decide which of the two options sounds more plausible.

Just gonna stand there and watch me burn
But that's alright because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna stand there and hear me cry
But that's alright because I love the way you lie. 
I love the way you lie. 

Maybe I'm a sadomasochist, a glutton for self-imposed pain and heartache. In my most heartfelt reflections, I resent the fact that age has riddled my spirit completely incapable of managing matters of emotion. Its like a cancer has lain latent in my soul all these years only to spread its malignant microbes throughout my system at a time when I need to be sealed tight. I can't handle it any longer. I feel like I'm coward, hiding behind the mask of friendship (the same one I resent) so that I get time with her that is, at least, semi-genuine. That way I don't have to risk becoming dumb for her - in her - by her - though I want to. I'm wrapped in a paradox of my own creation and I remain only partly capable of freeing myself from this feeling.

I liken this experience to a prison visit. I stand behind the thin glass, my cool breath kisses the vibration of her lovely sound. I'm pressing my fingers up against the window trying with all my power to get that touch of reinforcement, the little sign I need to know she's in this with me. But sitting on the other side of that window is him. He's staring at her, but she at me. Yet, I stand close enough to be just out of reach. I am not even asking for full contact. I just want a sign. The smallest indication that I might be worthy - or worth what everybody's been telling me I was born to inherit -

love.

When I was 6, I would sit down and draw my future - myself as a grown man with a beautiful wife and four sons. Innocent though it was, I've held on to that hope. Unfortunately, I feel that my crayons have become ink pens or computer keys - every stroke symbolizing a step away from love and toward this contrived idea of success. That kid dies. Every single time I work toward a goal that I realize I have to enjoy alone, that little blonde headed boy certainly dies. Every 4 hour evening conversation purely between friends (that feels like romance) smothers that little boy under one hundred of the heaviest feathered pillows.

I've trapped myself in a maze. I can't or don't know how to escape. I'm a mess inside. Everyday, just before bed, there's an involuntary tear that meets the 'Amen' of my prayer as I rest my mind. Until now, I've thought it to be exhaustion. Now, I know for a fact that its sadness. I could ask myself the depressing questions I've bounced off friends: Am I not good enough? Have I dug myself an emotional hole of escape too deep to be rescued? But they usually yield the same answers as those reminiscent of my childhood upbringing. FUCK. Am I a child gone by the waste side?

These are the things I do know: I'm kind, considerate of others, confident, driven, passionate, and capable of transferring love - from my soul to another's. And yet, even with her and him out of the picture, I remain.... alone. So, it is me. Everyone's lied to me. But how can I reconcile this without feeling like an emotional martyr? The only way I can make sense of it all within the confines of my situation is this: I meet all the qualifications of a great guy but I was born to be alone.

If this is true, then I hate it. I'm not just exiting stage left on this one. I'm setting this stage aflame. This is not a life I can live forever.

And here comes the tears.

Jail Time

Originally, this was written on 50 strips of paper along a rigid table that, unlike most people, had seen my fullest tears. I've decided to give those pieces a body to encompass the soul from which they were begot. This is Jail Time. 


His head was tilted, anchored by a hand that seemed to carry the weight of the world; and yet, his long, dark extensions of fingers trembled beneath something much heavier - an idea not easily defined by the English language. So, for my purposes, I will call it guilt - systematic, institutionally catalyzed guilt. In the background of my observation, there existed the muffled sounds of sniffling, a choir of sympathy bellowing from dry, wooden court pews. These were the family members of the defendant, holding back disobedient tears, filled with shame, anger, confusion - and (weirdly enough) a small bit of hope. It was between these sounds that I found grief, having hid behind the wall where my emotion once lay. I did not understand the legal system. Another black boy convicted of a crime crafted by a system that reserved a jail space for him just as he exited the birth canal - just as I exited the birth canal Yet, I escaped this fate (thus far). This same prison cell he would come to call home - and his final resting place.

We had no choice. There was never one offered in the matter. He had killed in cold blood - or warm blood as was depicted over and over again by the mottled sequence of events that we jurors had to conjure up from gruesome pictures and half-truths. I probably won't ever be able to reconcile the 'why' behind this young man's decision-making. I could probably name a million reasons or excuses as to why and what got him to this point in making horrible choices, but there is nothing I can do to actually create order in places where a mess of disorder exists. The hopeful part of me thought about programs I could start to give young, black men options - better choices - or initiatives that promote healthy decision-making and reemphasize education. These ideas fled quickly at the loud screams of anger - piqued frustration begot from unanswered questions. Where were his parents, the schools, his family, or his church? What causes a seemingly good kid to make horrible choices? 

There's an odd smell that fills the room as my mind runs through options. Justice. Unfamiliar, yet kin. I'm made uncomfortable by the idea that I have to enact something that I don't truly understand. Justice, a remedy that occurs in hindsight, too late for everybody involved in any situation. Up to this point, a speeding ticket (that was later pulled) was the extent of my criminal history. And yet, I have to make a decision about someone's life - and use foolish justice as my only tool of recourse. In crimes this gruesome, there is only life til death or immediate death. Am I my brother's keeper? Should I extinguish a life so that society's failure of him is but a newspaper headline of memory?

This young man had completely lost - or cut himself off by his actions. The whole scenario reminded me of the feeling I would imagine a kicker to get when his field goal winning kick is two feet left of the field goal post. Nobody on the team wins because of his actions, but the team has to pick themselves up and try to do it better the second time around. I think we (I) chose correctly in giving him life imprisonment. I pray there are faculties and resources available to change foolish justice into saintly rehabilitation. Only time can prove that.

Uppity Negro

I wrote these words for everyone, who struggles in their youth. Who won't accept deception instead of what is truth. It seems we lose the game before we even start to play. Who made these rules? We're so confused. Easily led astray. - L. Boogie 

The canary yellow sun is out, heating up every square inch of the thick July afternoon. I sit in Starbucks, sipping on my caramel frappucino staring out of the translucent windows into the street internally complaining about how it just. doesn't. taste. right. My head then is redirected toward my computer - a thin, sleek macbook pro computer, no more than a year old. My eyes light up at the promise of free internet where there had previously been a requirement to pay. Though I'm a bit distracted by the churn of a coffee grinder aided in its serenade by an oversized grouchy blinder, the corner of my eye catches a glimpse of a sidewalk scene I will never forget. A young man, dark complexion seemed to be gasping for air as he stood awkwardly pressed against a police car that rested in the parking lot of the neighboring gas station. The young man's eyes would have revealed his age or the roundabout nature of his maturity, but his dreadlocks held tightly onto his face desperately obeying the humidity. Two cops, husky in size, pinned the young man down using what I think was reasonable force - though he was unarmed, smaller in stature, and for all intensive purposes, cooperating. Before I could develop an idea about the arrest (or what I assumed to be an arrest), I turned my head, sipped the poorly made frappucino, and began typing again. 

 damn.

I was a coward. I strategically hid behind my degrees - more the prestige than the paper itself - and the notion that "it wasn't any of my business." But as I look back and recall that scene, I now know that it was absolutely my business as well as the business of every other Starbucks patron. This young man was shown no love, compassion, or respect. More foundational than that, I should have been outraged that a brother, a HUMAN, was being stripped of signs of his humanity right before my eyes. Broad daylight, two against one - and yet excessive force and bullying seemed to remedy the situation. I doubt it. And yet, I sat more concerned about my minor troubles (and pitiful coffee drink) to truly be concerned.

Spirituality enter stage left. Walks over to Johmyrin. Stares him down.

I have claimed to be an Uppity Negro, infiltrating the bedrooms of white women at night and raping them with my intellect just long enough to gain their approval and disarm their wedded bedfellows. I've gained their approval and, in the process, lost an essential connectedness with the plight of those unable to live in both worlds successfully. My courage has been transformed to conformity, justifying my lack of exercise by the sly phrase "I can't help those beneath me if I'm on the same level as them." And though this saying is true, a crucial element in reaching back or paying it forward is constantly immersing oneself in the culture of the downtrodden. Majority culture, practices and habits have always and will always be readily available for my mimicking; however, I can not forget to truly understand the plight of the minority class by using a nonjudgemental heart and a loving spirit.

That's where I faltered.

I've wrongly bought into this idea of success - as empty, misunderstood, and wrongly contrived an idea it is. Success, as we know it, mandates a form of sell-out mentality. We must lose ourselves in order to gain access into those locked bedrooms of opportunity. Instead, we should strive for greatness. Being great demands reflection and constant questioning of dogmas. We don't buy into the status quo but we recognize it for what it is. Being great forces us to infuse our humanity into our daily practices - even while we innocently sip drab coffee in a local cafe. Greatness calls for us - for me - to take my deepest disapproval for the mistreatment of my fellow man and act in love on their behalf. To ensure that wrongs become sustainable rights, and that my brothers and sisters of all races treat one another in a spirit of greatness.

I'm ashamed that I sat and did nothing to help that young man. I pray that God has found grace on him. But rest assured, my actions from here on out will be those linked to the hearts of my fellow man. I am no longer an Uppity Negro. Forget that.

I am a Great Negro.

fin. 

Who saves Simon?

Some nights I cry out in agony from the imaginary scars left behind by the weight of the cross I bear on a daily basis. Some of the suffocating teachings from my religion have taught me to be emotionless - to suffer in silence because pain is only temporary. 

I beg to differ. 

I'm different. I slipped into this world on the heels of destiny with fate holding my right hand hostage just long enough so that it would be estranged to my left. There were some subtleties that were written elusively between the line that separates my first name from my last. I am not exactly who they said I am. 

My back has always been strong. This part of my creation was purposeful. Because I wasn't Jesus carrying that cross. Though like him, I would inherit a world that hated me, loved me, felt indifferent toward me. Yet, my fate was more likened to Simon, the Cyrene. I have a cross of my own and yet I am constantly beckoned to assist in carrying the load of others. 

I won't complain - yet. 

I imagine this life to be an uphill experience, a dirt road where barefoot men, women, and children trample up the rocky side of a steep mountain. Each has a cross paraded on his/her back. Each cross is a different size, made of a different type of material, and varied writings are etched on the surface to give life and acknowledgement to each person's struggles. There are individuals however, who seem out of place. They carry two and three crosses at a time. And I weep for them. 

And yet when I take a step back to see the entire landscape, my tears seem to have more reason. I see individuals on the sidelines taking breaks on the journey while select nomads bear the full load of their crosses in the interim. It looks almost like punishment and yet no one as much as gives notice to their staggering footsteps, broken posture, or sweat ridden bodies. 

Correction. No one notices me. 

I've been taught to help others - unfortunately at the expense of my own progress. False teachings that are outdated, enabling and unproductive. Who exactly saves Simon from his plight? No one. I'm not concerned with how fair life is. As I said, I'm different. I can deal with the cards I've been dealt. But I am frustrated at the idea that life may never present me with tools to alleviate myself from the load - even occasionally. 

C'est la vie, some might say. Again, I disagree. If I'm stuck with the cards, I would like to at least know how to play the damned game. 

As they went out, they came upon a man of Cyrene, Simon by name; this man they compelled to carry his cross. Jesus told his disciples, "If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. - Matthew 27:32; 16:24

Raining while the sun is out.

I've been standing on the edge of these Blue Mountains, allowing the thin, crisp air to whip across my face. My arms tremble with terror. I am unsure if the salt I taste is derived from the innocent sweat that cascades across my mouth or if it is a fear induced savory flavor used as a mechanism to distract me. My heart flows with a beat matched with that of the cracking waters hundreds of feet underneath the cliff on which I stand. 


I want to jump. I have before - when time was kin to the shadows of vagueness. I look around. Others are taking the plunge without hesitation. Aim. Shoot. Fire. They are propelled over the cliff and soon dissipate into the delicate low-lying clouds. Its a freedom my body has forgotten, a chance I am hesitant to take. And yet, I have to jump. 


Finally, I muster up enough courage to do it. My feet nervously slide across the pebbled ground, right slightly in front of left. I refuse to look down. It is the jump that is necessary.... and frightening. Now or never. Courage deep inside finds a key to free itself. I am ready.  Closer and closer to the edge I step. Closer and closer and...


I jump. I actually jump. 


But something went wrong. I open my eyes to see those same clouds in front of me. I am not immersed in the waters below. There is no cool sensation of achievement. My shirt has been snagged. I can't breathe clearly and my arms are too restricted to allow decent air flow. I can just turn my head to see what has gripped me so tightly. 


It is my reflection. 


I've felt this way for years - unable to take myself to a place of risk, emotional risk, that is. I can vaguely remember times as a child when I would cry, sometimes out of pure bratty rebellion or some spoiled developed tendency. I can even recall temper tantrums, disrespectful outbursts, the deepest, sickest laughs and the most sour feeling of heartbreak. I was a 'well balanced' child who understood that emotion was natural, normal.

Unfortunately, I also remember the day where I made the decision to never cry again. Inspired by a sequence of events concerning my father, I decided it was a foolish expression that was unbecoming of a boy like myself. Not necessarily a sign of weakness, but I equated it to the act of elbowing the table surface at a formal dinner affair. Simply uncouth. It was a strategic decision - for my functionality and survival. But what it also did was set me up for future instability. What I did not expect from this initial suppression was the bandwagon effect it would have on all my other emotions. It was an exodus and I became a hollow shell of a person.

Recently, in the most unlikely of places - a quaint Uptown lounge, I realized the error in my assumption about emotion. In reality, they had never abandoned me. It was I who abandoned them - or so I thought. Sitting between a cigarette vending machine on my immediate right and a large neon light adorned jukebox on my left, I reunited with those old friends. Still foreign to me, I was met first by sadness and depression. They materialized through tears. Tears I could not hide from the afternoon crowd who slipped in for a friday libation. Only seconds behind them was hope. Faultless, simple, quiet and yet powerful. Hope.

Many other emotions (or variations of them) flooded my body quicker than Katrina waters. And I've since become a playground of emotion - a bit of rain while the sun is out.

I don't really know what this means for me developmentally but I am thankful that the hollowness is slowly being filled up. Maybe I can experience true love, the kind that people always talk about. Actually, I know I will. Hope just nudged me in the side.

Intro.

Devoid of an essential ingredient

He's yelling at me with the simplest tears running down his face. Mouth agape - terribly. The passion of his voice could possibly shake the room. And yet I can not hear one sound.  I'm looking into his face, see his mouth moving, gather from his brightened red skin that he is over the edge with emotion. And yet I still can not relate. He's angry, bitter, sad and yet - hopeful? Somewhere in the dry space of time between his cries of despair and the stillness of my silence, I sense that he hasn't given up. If that were the case, he could simply walk away. That isn't the case. So, I begin to form the words to the phrase, "I'm sorry," but...

I wake up.

It wasn't until this morning that this dream's reflection in my mind's eye depicted me as a father being chastised by a son who's emotional stability was never satiated by the ripened fruit of a well-rounded, emotionally balanced paternal figure. Not too far fetched a reality. I, indeed, still cower at the thought of genuine hugs from others or kissing - the most immature of emotional expressions. My father never gave this to me, therefore, the receipt of such expression makes me infinitely uncomfortable - or at least it did. I've realized (held on to hope) that my socialization is always reversible, my synapses can always make new, more creative connections that allow me to grow, change, evolve.

Then it hit me: I was never the father in my dream.

I had been the son all along. Not as some excuse to lay back with some satisfaction because I was indeed the victim instead of the culprit now. But what was crucial to my understanding of the dream was that I realized my potential to stand on both sides of that emotional divide. I was the son looking at myself become a dispassionate father to myself. For so long, I've blamed my father's emotional absence for my current treatment of others. I have given him 100% of the responsibility in feeling that he could have stepped outside of himself and become vulnerable for me, his son, his pride. And yet, I type with tears in my eyes. I can't change him. The little boy whose hope I could sense in my dream was telling me that all along, as his soul bellowed out the softest songs of hope caught in the innocence of that glare. I was never hopeful for changing my father - but, it's not too late for me.

One of my fears has been my ability to destroy those things that I build up. Specifically, relationships. Because of my periodic emotional vacancy, I have sought fulfillment in temporary solutions like sex, drinking, riotous activity. But what happens in the long run? When I have to sustain emotional stability for the good of my own flesh, my offspring. I refuse to be a father like mine in this regard. I need that essential ingredient that will prove the masses wrong - "the sins of the father befall the son." I'm ready to break this curse. And I am not exactly worried about where to start or how to start it. I just know that I can't stare at myself in dreams any longer, playing both roles.

Victim and Culprit. I choose neither.

Chosen

A young girl, 22 years of age, sat nervously in an abortion clinic. The sockets of her almond shaped eyes had dried completely from her earlier down pour of emotion. She had finally decided that this was the right thing to do. She didn't want another child, the older would turn 8 later that fall. The pale blue seat cushion of her chair was an uncomfortable one, worn from just a few years of wear and tear. She had butterflies in her stomach. There was an air of insipidity that crawled up the wallpaper of the clinic and the cries of young children for food was good reinforcement for her decision. She was going through with it and there was nothing anyone could say to change her mind.

"Ms. Brimmer!" The nurse emphatically called. The young lady rose to a conservative height of just under 5 feet. She wiped her long, brown silky hair out her face, straightened her blouse and began her walk to the nurse's desk. 

"Okay, ma'am. All your paperwork is complete. We'll need your payment." The young lady opens her khaki colored wallet, a similar color to that of her pants, and begins to write a check. "Who do I make it out to?" she asks nervously. "Oh. ma'am I'm sorry, we don't take checks." The nurse points to a largely printed white sign with CASH ONLY written in bright red letters. "Oh Lord! Okay, well... I'll run to the bank and get cash. I'll be back." 

The young lady turns around, embarrassed, and walks out the building. 

Luckily, she realized that the bank was just a couple of blocks from the clinic. Convenient. She began to walk quickly and half way down her route, an older woman waited at a bus stop. "Oh look at you! What  you havin', a boy or girl?" The girl responded, "I'm not sure ma'am." "Well, whatever it is, its gon' be a blessing. If you keep it up like you do yaself, then that baby's in good hands," the woman proclaims. "Thank you ma'am," the young girl replies in surprise of the comment. 

She continued on her route to the bank, withdrew the exact amount of cash and started back on her journey to the clinic. But the journey back was a difficult one. The young girl started to think of names for the baby, what its eyes would look like, how it would smell. Her pace began to decrease. The walk became longer and longer. Inevitably, she reached the ramp of the clinic. She wasn't sure about her decision anymore. A sequence of thoughts ran through her mind. How will I afford this baby? I'm so young; I just don't need this. I wonder if it'll have my smile. How will the.... "Shelita!" She was interrupted. The young girl looked over into the street to see a familiar face leaning outside a cherry red Volvo sedan. 

The man exited the car fully. He stood 6 feet tall and was athletic build. He was adorned with a gold medallion chain having his initials incrusted in diamonds, reflecting the suns light on the red undertones of his caramel colored skin. "So you gon just kill my child, huh?" He continued, "You don't give a shit about what I think, do you? You were just gonna kill my child and not tell me." The young girl's face moved from a brown color to the apple red of embarrassment. "Shelita, get in this car..Now!" 

At the same time, ladies started to exit the clinic to see what the noise was. In order to end the embarrassment, the young lady quickly headed back down the ramp, walked briskly to the car, opened the car door and got in. She never thought to return to that clinic again. 

On November 29, 1983 at 7:36 am in Hotel Dieu Hospital in New Orleans, LA that baby was born, a healthy baby boy. His father would name him Johmyrin, after a godbrother he would never know. His mother tagged on Joshua to remind herself that this child was chosen by God, prevented from destruction of selfishness and gifted with God's unique purpose. On that very day, she gave me back to God. 

INTRO.

To My Beautiful Wife...

I've contemplated time and time again, exactly what I would say the first time I met you - assuming I haven't already. To imagine that God gave you to me and I to you way before we were formed in the womb is a thought too vast and caring for me to comprehend. Its a love, I'll never understand. Sitting here, under the radiant sun, thoughts of you cascade through my mind. I don't know where to begin or end, but I know you're out there, waiting to be found, cared for - loved. 

I wonder. 

I wonder about your eyes, their color, shape, and how they open up to reveal your soul's intention. The tambour of your giggle - begot from my smooth caress of your most ticklish spots. The way your hair blows in the wind, touched by only the softest of butters and creams. 

I wonder.

I want to know how you smell after a day's stress has settled into your spirit - or do you make the heat of a hard day disappear with a glass of the sweetest wine. How does your cooking taste - even on days when we have no inspiration or appetite to stomach a home cooked meal. What types of flowers invoke the most genuine smile from you and do you like them delivered to your office at random times. 

I wonder. 

Where your most sensitive spots are - can I touch yours as you touch mine? How you write the letter "J" on love notes, those pick-me-up letters that remind me of that first day we met. What style of shoe makes you moist. hehe. I'm sure you'll like a variety of kinds.

I wonder. 

Marveling at your lips, I want to know how soft they are, what gentle words glide off their sleek surface, what color lipstick you wear when you're mad at my foolish ways. How do they speak your spirit's passion, your soul's care, and your heart's love? 

I wonder. 

I wonder how we'll look when we grow old together, what names we'll debate over for our kids, who we'll pick as the Godparents, and how much we're willing to spend on our trips away from our "rug rats?"

I wonder. 

Will we be buried side by side? Will you outlive me? Will our love survive the change of time? 

I wonder. 

And then, I look over my life and see how God has always looked out for my best interest and I know - you'll be everything he needs you to be for me and more. You'll be my rib. 

My beautiful wife. 

Across Enemy lines

I can't do it. I CAN'T DO IT!!!!! We were just boys. Innocent. Sneaky. Playful. Free. And yet, our roads diverged. His into something fast and quickly rewarding. Mine - well, you know my story. And now, today I get the news that he is dead. Gone. Killed. Shit, murdered...over material foolishness we will not take with us into eternity.

Its as simple as a text message. He's dead. And yet, this isn't the first friend this has happened to.

Its taken a toll on me. Because, when I think about Michael, I can vividly remember us growing up side by side together. He was no different than me. We both had the same potential, opportunities, and exposure to resources. And yet, he lay in a morgue at this very moment - blood spilled for a retaliation wrought on material stuff that  loses values quicker than we can buy it.

This is where I get frustrated. To be perfectly honest, I'm not that sad for his mother and family. Michael had been rumored of taking lives himself. And while, I am not a champion of retaliation, there is a lot to be said about karma in its purest form. He lived by the sword. Nevertheless, my feelings are those of frustration. Taking an honest inventory of my feelings, I would have to define these feelings as annoyance, loneliness, and anger. See, Michael's death represents so much more than just another Black boy killed over foolishness, though that is exactly what it was. For me, however, his death sends me whirling back to childhood faces that I can now place in one of three locations: prison, the grave, or some hourly job.

The shit is real.

When statistics say prisons are being built today to house half the black babies born yesterday, I can finally, clearly see why. The ratio for my childhood friends and I has tipped significantly in the prison/dead direction rather than the other way around.

So where does this leave me?

I could be selfish for feeling this way but I refuse to apologize. I feel alone and I'm upset about it. I'm the only one left to bear a burden of success that should have been spread among a neighborhood of healthy, young black boys. My cross now feels ten times heavier, making me feel, in turn, more desolate, removed... alone. Someone once told me, the higher you go in education, the more people you leave behind. IS THAT REALLY TRUE??? I already struggle to stay connected to the plight of my students but I'm truly afraid that the one thing that has to give in my pursuit of happiness will be my mental attachment to reality. I don't want to be a part of the phony Black Intelligencia who have mastered the craft of selective amnesia to avoid a nightly ritual of "tylenol pm'ing" in order to get decent sleep.

Maybe I'm overreacting. But today, I fell like I am the last of my kind. I can't go home and talk about my college life with anyone. No cousin in my immediate family can relate to a story about a dorm party or college program. There's no one in my age group who owns their own home, car, etc. I am ALONE.

And I know there are thousands of young, black dudes in my boat - lifting the same oak cross everyday as they take steps toward their future. But I have not met them. Not yet. So for now, I feel -

alone.

Revelation

What would you do if you knew what you were destined to do for the rest of your life? If you knew how your existence was going to change the very direction of the oceans? If you knew how your influence would shift the very path of so many others? How would you respond to this?

I've heard a whisper. The sweetest, most gentle sound - as clear as an Egyptian summer evening but as powerful as the whipping winds of a category 7 hurricane.  It was as if someone or something knelt down from the heavens and planted the most gentle kiss upon my ears. And in that kiss I found revelation.

Its funny how some people go their whole lives just existing - going from day to day doing no more than living to pay the bills. Okay, maybe its not funny. It's probably horrible, at best. But this is the reality of so many. And while I feel like "favor aint fair," I still wonder why God chose me in the womb (before the womb, I'd bet) to be a change agent in this world. I think back on 16 year old Martin King, Jr. He would just be starting college in a world dipped in the seediest waters of hatred, bigotry, and discrimination. Next, I turn my attention to a not-so-impressionable 20 year old Hindu man name Mohandus Ghandi - whose courage against a monopolizing nation cost him his life. Then my mind shifts to 10 year old Jesus of Nazareth, a Jewish kid who was destined to hang out with the low lives of the world, do miraculous works, but then be betrayed by those he called family. Now, I'm not pompous or conceited enough to believe that my level of impact on this world will be of that magnitude. But to think that God may have a servitude of that caliber waiting for me simply sends chills running down my spine. I'm unnerved by the possibility.

But the irony in revelation is the revelation itself. I know that those chosen for greatness have to die - their sacrifice mimics that of Christ - for there is no sin committed that the world has not witnessed before. In a world where individuals hate what they can not understand, and will quiet difference by death, I feel like my plight may have to be the same.

damn.

Guess we'll have to wait and see what the future holds. I feel the future, though. Its like a sun bathing experience where my naked body is washed in the coolest rays of the sun. It feels cleansing.

So, today I stand bold telling the Lord that whatever this call is, I am answering in obedience. Lead, guide and protect me. I can do it no other way.

Bits of me

I was young. So, at the time, I pieced together a project quickly that (strangely enough) would have meaning far beyond what I could ever imagine. I had recently applied for a job with residential life at Loyola and we were given instructions to make some sort of physical demonstration that represented the totality of our being. HA! Impossible, right? Well, not exactly. I joked around for a while, then came up with a simple idea. A single dot in the middle of a posterboard. Later, individuals with whom I had come in contact over the years were instructed to write their names around the dot - in whatever fashion they would like. The names swirled colorfully around that dot and almost looked like they blossomed from the dot itself. 

My explanation: I was the dot and every name that surrounded me had affected my life in some form or fashion. They had changed me, added to me just a little bit more than what I was before. So no longer was I a dot... I was a soul who had come in contact with the influences of so many other amazingly creative, wonderful, eccentric souls.

Almost a year later, I looked back at that dot and those names and asked God, "Why?" Why did he allow me to encounter so many different types of people? I know the answer now.  For some reason I always find clarity at 5:00 am. But a few hours ago, I pondered this question over and over and over again. I became that Junior in college once more, questioning God about things I should have simply sought clarity on.

Recently, I feel like there are a few names to be added to that circle of names around the dot. One name in particular holds an extremely special place in my heart. Usually, I try to avoid feeling strongly for anyone, even in a platonic way. But sometimes, I can't break a good feeling. I love just spending time. The sweetest kisses belong to you. You make me laugh through the simple comedy of your innocence. I like to sit and gaze into your eyes, see your smile and watch your face glow when you're excited about something. I can't shake the feeling because though we are friends, I want you near me in the lowest and highest of times. (okay, back to the topic at hand)

See, I've learned the answer. I see now why I have so many names growing out of the dot. Why some names are brief, quickly written and unrecognizable. Others, bold, set, and permanent. See, no matter the length of time - God has placed these people in my life for a dual reason. They were sent to inspire, uplift, redirect and chastise me. But in the same breath, I look back at the circle and see that I have dually touched the lives of every single person in that circle. My words have comforted most. My hands have helped some. My ears have been the quiet listening tool of others.

All this time, I thought I was just on the receiving end of this relationship. But God, in his classic tone, shows me that relationships are two way streets. The building is just as important as the bricks that its composed of.

I'm thankful for the lives that have touched me and those I have touched in return.

I won't complain...

Last night I said it. I'll probably say it again. You've probably mumbled the words as well... "I don't feel like going to work." Today, as I listened to the radio on my drive to work, I heard the insane statistics of how many Americans are out of work at the moment. Thankfully, Louisiana falls 13th in unemployment rates, but it is still a startling jump from the rates we experienced a decade ago. Kinda put things into perspective for me. I've been fortunate enough to not have to experience such a loss in income. Yet again, favor has been placed in my life. But I do pray for the thousands of folk who are in that particular storm.

Missing You

I'm putting on my Doctoral robes. The fresh scent of anticipation is wet on my nose. I can even feel the heat of the stage lights warming my brow as I cross the threshold into this next stage of my life. The crowd's loud applause serenade my confidence and yet, I look down to see no one. There are thousands of seats and, in them, are faces that are blurred to my best recollection - zigzagged spots emitting sound but not connected to souls. And then, there, to my surprise, I see her. She's been there the whole time, silent and serene. Her smile of pride letting me know that she is most proud. Proud that my living hasn't been in vain. Proud that I have upheld her teaching. Proud that I haven't lost myself or my past in the sea of degrees.

Then her clear, beautiful brown face begins to fade. She doesn't wave goodbye. She doesn't blow a kiss. I need something though. Something to keep me. Something more than her smile to let me know that I am really making her proud. I've never truly cared about anybody's approval except hers. I need... Then, she disappears. And as she leaves, the blurry images become more defined - a crowd of insignificance. I don't even notice that I have received my degree and sash.

I wake up. Tears streaming down my face. I miss her. There's no other explanation. I simply miss her. My grandmother, Agnes Enola Brimmer. So rarely do I talk about her or think about her. But she's always in my heart. It's times when I'm about to reach a milestone in my journey that I think strongly about her and how I wish she could be in the audience - showing me how proud of me she really is. I feel like parents have an obligation to do so. But grandparents come from a different place of love, care and support. Hers was so genuine and I miss it. Even as I type I'm reminded of her sweet potato pies, the days we'd sit and watch soap operas when I was sick from school, the random presents she'd buy me for my academic accomplishments. I just miss it. Man, I really miss it. And to think, as she laid in that hospital bed breathing her last breaths, I was too afraid to say 'goodbye' because I didn't want her to think I had given up on her; she'd never given up on me. But now, I wonder if she knows I miss her and that I love her. I keep working hard to show her that I want a better life. That I honor her through being the grandchild who continues to reach bigger and better goals.

A part of me knows she's proud - but the young boy inside wants his grandma back. I hope to give her a big hug one day in the future. Until then, these dreams will have to suffice.

When did you become ENTITLED?

I teach. And in the midst of that, I try to inspire people to like (or at least appreciate) what it is they're learning. And yet bundled into this package deal of teacher-student reciprocity, I find that there are areas where I am at a complete loss of understanding. There's a disconnect between how I interpreted school as a teenager and how they view it today. In high school, it was never a student vs. teacher mentality - at least not in my mind. I was made to feel like ownership of my education rested in the hands of many different stakeholders, but more specifically, me, my family, my teachers, and my community members.

In a recent conversation with a student, I felt like this disconnect became more apparent than ever. The student seemed to blame me for grades he had earned and thought there was some unfairness there. The reality of the situation is that he failed quizzes connected to reading assignments because he failed to prepare appropriately. Completely his fault. (I never once received a phone call, email or text seeking help but he did text to complain.) In quiet prayer and reflection, I had an epiphany that worries me tremendously. See, when that student spoke, he wasn't just representing himself. No, not at all. But what he did represent was any and everybody who has ever shown signs of staggered growth. It inspired me so much that I sought to observe individuals in my life who showed signs of staggered growth - I, myself, was included in this.

Some interesting re-occurrences started to show face as I took that quiet step back.

Accountability. I worry about this area the most. Because I always felt connected to my school work along with my teachers, there was never a time that my poor performance was not connected to a reason I wasn't ready to fully accept and correct. My students rarely read their text books or seek extra help and yet they are not ready to accept that these bad study habits are not conducive to high performance in my class. Rigor becomes an alien concept. Blame is tossed around. And artificial guilt is imposed as a mechanism that will get students grades to magically change. But who changes the student? How can we draw the invisible line that connects student habit to performance. Reading before class is NOT enough. Looking only at the bold words is a basic study skill. I often times ask myself how will they respond to professors in college. [troubled thoughts]

Attitude. One's disposition toward school can no longer be flight or fight - some contrived survival mechanism where students just want to get out. Was there some change in the last 8-10 years that makes students believe that teachers are enemies and not accomplices. I was taught the importance of connecting with your stakeholders. Some students today simply separate themselves from their teachers. When will education be demystified? I guess this is why when students see teachers outside of school it is any experience similar to an alien sighting.

Use of Resources. Is it a societal mentality or one particular to procrastinating students that causes them to ONLY access tutoring, study sessions, review materials, etc. within days of an assessment? Whatever happened to spreading your work out. Or seeking the internet and other mediums of assistance to help you uncover the challenges one has with content? I keep my phone number on my board along with my email address and I can guarantee that I only get phone calls or texts from 2% of my students - and those are usually the night before an assessment.

These were the top three areas of concern. Parents and community members need to be concerned. These are the individuals who will be applying for jobs on the local and national front. These are the individuals who will be applying to colleges in a very short amount of time. Interestingly enough, these are the adults you work with today. I applied these situations to the work place and we can all identify with people who suffer from a lack of these important 3 qualities on the job. Usually they are not with the company very long.

I am doing what I can and getting the backlash from it. I guess a part of me is worried that I could potentially raise a child who gets sucked into this attitude of entitlement. I suffer from it at times but I am at least conscious of areas I need to improve upon.

I think this was just a venting blog. hmm... any suggestions?

Three Days of Sickness

I sat here complaining about my body ailment when in essence I should have been thanking God. The old Baptist church songs speak of praising God through the good and bad times. And now I know exactly what they mean.

Sickness has a way of putting a lot of things into focus. Who your real friends are. Who you can ultimately rely on. Who hasn't lost their sense of personal care and concern in a McDonaldized society. These are all key components of my perspective that I have come to truly value. But people are fickle, capricious. So I wasn't surprised that the people I check on in their times of need are not the ones I heard on the other end of the phone. New friends and acquaintances wished me well, which was refreshing and reinvigorating. God has a funny way of showing me that he hasn't forgotten about me - even when I feel neglected. Remember my relationship with God mimics that of mine with my birth father. And as this is the model, it is easy to think that God above might be emotionally destitute like my earthly father.

I couldn't be anymore incorrect.

Healthcare. I have it. Unlike the vast number of Americans who are unnecessarily uninsured or underinsured.
Paid time off. Check! I can be at home still "making paper." The comparison here is too inequitable to mention so I won't provide one.
Bills Paid. The luxury and comfort of a home are major pluses. I pray so strongly now for sick folk who are homeless and desperate. God, please provide them with an alternative.
Support System. My parents and extended family are 15-20 min away. I know that this is a luxury I won't have when I move away after pharmacy school. So I am cherishing every single minute of this and Thanking God in the meantime.
Health. My sickness only lasted 3 days. Reports are saying the average right now is 5 days for most individuals looking to bounce back. But I've been working out, eating better, and getting my spiritual game up. These were all arsenal kept in storage just for a time like this. All have played to my advantage.

Off the top of my head, these are all things I almost forgot to appreciate. But I am standing here showing the deepest appreciation for my situation. It was an awakening and I am thankful for it.

With that said, off to post more. I've had a lot on my mind. And it needs to come out!

Black Men: Generational Disconnect

Our parents meant well. They didn't want us to struggle like they did. Their parents rose out of Jim Crow-isms, bigotry and hatred that most of us have heard about but would find ourselves the black pinata for any side-eyed discriminatory comment of a white man or woman. I don't have to give the history lesson, but its important for me to put this blog into context. Our parents got it hard, because their parents lived hard. We got it easy because our parents got it hard. Generationally, we've seen lighter times. But at what cost?

I remember how my great Uncle got up every Saturday morning, cut his grass, fixed something on his truck, brought my Great Aunt to buy groceries and still found time to enjoy a nice power walk around the block. He did this all while raising 4 kids, holding 2 jobs, and serving as Deacon at the church. He is still alive. His rituals haven't changed. And yet, the thought of this kind of life perplexes me. I am completely disconnected from him and his interpretation of "living life" but at the same time I feel as though I am losing out on some important ideologies. My context of history is found within the confines of books I read on black empowerment and historical surveillance. However, even still I feel disconnected and removed from the experience.

The cold, Post-Katrina night that I was stopped by the cops and harassed SHOULD NOT have been the defining experience that annotated the blackness of my existence in this novel of my life. But it was. I was no better than any other black man, upstanding or criminal. I was black. A black man. And unfortunately, as far as I know it, that's all I can grasp of my blackness. But recently I've been challenged to define my black "male-ness" in the context of a relationship. Going into the challenge, I knew I was at a disadvantage because at any given time in my youth I was only raised by one parent, be it my father or my mother - but not both. And not at the same time. Two doctrines that for the most part meshed well but the places they differed were drastic. So, how do I operate in today's society as a young black man looking to be in a relationship but not truly understanding the black experience? I know other black men struggle with this too. Especially when I think about my students whose frame of reference for black interaction rises out of rap songs and sports superstars. Tragic. But let's bring it back to me. I'm educated, self-aware and looking to grow, and yet, I am still searching for my "green card" of validation in the black world. My uncle gains his validation everyday that he exists and works and fathers and loves. But I don't know where to start. How do I support a family with no frame of reference for the 2 parent household? How do I lead a household like the black man is to do but show the love of my life the humanism and vulnerability that has been engrained in me from my mother? Where is the line of definition between the provider and the comforter? My uncle never has these questions - to my knowledge. He simply glides through his daily rituals unabashed by these concerns. But as I get to the age where I want to settle down, potentially start a family and/or commit myself to THE ONE, I find that I want to be on the starting line trying to weave in all these characteristics.

Mentorship is fine. I definitely have those. But usually they advise me on making academic and financial moves in my life. I am at a loss for guidance in the areas of Black Male-ness, as I have so affectionately and unfortunately come to call it. I see young black men go into relationships unprepared or underprepared and it sends a chill down my spine. I DO NOT WANT THAT. I have been in a situation where I've lost the love of my life. Now, I need to find that love again in someone new and go thru the motions of a relationship not having to feel insecure or inadequate in the tools of intimacy I bring to the table.

I actually feel better verbalizing this because I feel that other young black men are experiencing this. So maybe a reader can direct me in the right direction. Who knows, I may actually come out on top on this issue. Until then, I remain,

Confused and Single.

The Schizophrenia of Casual Sex

Human beings have done a damned good job of marginalizing the guy on the corner who, under the stench of many a sleepless night in front of a hotel garbage can, has developed a world within his own mind that is beautiful. violent, serene, and dangerous. You know the guy. The one who you cross the street to avoid. The one whom we can not quite look in the face for fear of attack. The one who talks aloud to no visible creature. The Main St. schizophrenic. He's the guy who PROBABLY once had it all - a stable family, nice car, decent home, financial solvency. And then, (we assume) one day he just "clicked" out and lost it all. In the most sorrowful parts of our hearts we wish he would get some mental health assistance, but this is usually overridden by our disconnectedness and unrelatedness to the "Crazy man" - a conjecture best fit for the bigotry of the 1960's.

We seem to find it easy to feel sorrowful for him but I am willing to go out on a limb (and maybe even bet a couple hundred bucks) and hypothesize that many of us live a self-sustained schizophrenia. Our bodies, minds and souls live in disjointed peace and harmony.

I recently read in GQ, an article that glorified cheating and casual sex. As I read what was a seemingly inspiring article for young, sexually active adults like myself, somehow I became disconnected from the praise the author was giving to his discoveries about one-night stands. As I am maturing and growing older, I find it harder and harder for me to have casual intimacy and then walk away unaffected. For years I lived like this, in now what I recognize as a schizophrenia. I gave many individuals a part of me, one of the most sacred parts of me and acted unaffected in the aftermath. So, exactly what was my revelation? Here it goes:

We know and recognize the existence of mind and body. One cannot properly function without the other in society. Brain dead humans and humans laying in comas are perfect examples of both - they just don't contribute anything to society. But the third portion of the human existence is the soul. YES, the soul. And while many dispute its existence, I know there is more to me than carbon and oxygen. Its the part of us that cries out to the rhythm of our favorite song. The tingly feeling above our eye brow that alerts us to someone watching. The part of us that is connected to every other part of this universe.

Without getting too philosophical, just ponder on it for a minute. Society tells us that girls are more prone to becoming attached because of the connection they have with their partner when having sex. I challenge this theory and know for a fact that girls and guys are connected to every person they've had sex with. When you see that other person, memories and feelings flood your mind. But to sustain a life where you walk away pretending you are unaffected, means you have perfected the "Crazy Man" mentality.

Don't get me wrong. I am not here to judge. But I would say that I applaud the Main St. guy more because he's transparent, liberated and aggressive about his beliefs. Most we can do as those who partake in casual sex is pretend we don't feel, dishonor our emotional attachment and swim upstream to our mental stability. I think its time we arrived at something less carnal and more aligned to the purpose of intimacy. We need to ONLY involve ourselves intimately with those we truly love and care for, which means we need to love and care for ourselves first.

This is just my charge to society. And please don't think for one second that I'm not starting with me.

Pulled in every direction at the same time

I'm 26. I'm attractive. I'm fun-loving. Got good credit. Hold wavering but strong beliefs. Amicable. I recently fell in love with onions and other  pungent foods. I work out. Drink a frappucino every now and then. And I have my MBA.

See, I purposefully left my degree or any mention of school til last because I have, so often, defined myself through what academic success I have rather than what qualities make up the totality that is me. Yet my educational goals have pretty much dictated my life. I've never openly admitted this but I am deathly afraid of being average. I've always been above average in the areas of my life. And now, I feel as though I would be leading a mundane existence if I stopped here. And education can get me out of the mundane and into the surreal. Ugh - but at a high cost.

I've given up a lot for my education - because I know what doors education can open up. The wise tales of old have come into fruition. "Go to school to make a better life for yourself." Well that's exactly what I want to do! I want to go to school and become a pharmacist - not for the money (though a comfortable salary is possible) but for the saturation of my interest. I need to be around folk like myself who are interested in medicines' effects on the human system.

But this seems to leave me in the gutters of love. I don't know how to manage a relationship and follow my passion. But I want a relationship horribly. I want to hold that special girl at night and kiss her on the back of her neck, whispering the quietest, sweetest nothings in her ears. I want to have someone there to share my money with, take lavish vacations with, spoil kids with... But being raised primarily by my mother didn't set a good precedent for me at all. I only know how to manage one-sided relationships. I'm weary of women because my mother was the best example of a great woman, and even still, she used her womanly tactics to make life what it needed to be. So where do I begin? Is it that I need to take a class or something? Brothers teaching brothers? Man, I just don't know where to start. And I refuse to get into something unprepared or underprepared, though I am sure there are ladies out there who will work with me. But is that fair to them?

There are no answers right now. But I just needed to vent.

That is all.

I'm not giving up ANYTHING for Lent

But I don't mean that disrespectfully. For years, I've felt obliged to start again, right around midnight as I left the cruddy streets of the French Quarter. For every fattening slice of king cake I ingested, every cocktail I guzzled, and for every derogatory term that glided off my tongue, I felt the need for a Lenten promise that would give my life the stability that it needed.

Until a few years ago, that is. I heard a priest confess in a homily his indignation with the idea of temporary sacrifice - though it was an honorable pact made with God. He said however, that instead of making God all these temporary promises, we could actually NOT give up anything! You can imagine the congregation's response. But, in my mind I found this intriguing. Fr. Jacques said we should try to weave in activity that makes God smile - the results would be longer lasting and the joy you get from doing these things would persist longer than 40 days.

I tried it back then and I've decided to be rejuvenated by it again. So, here's a list of things I had stopped doing that I am going to weave into my life FAR PAST the 40 day mark....

1. Pray for the people I had given up on - INTENSE
2. Recommit to my grueling work out, not just one that pacifies my health-conscious psyche.
3. Spend more time with my Godson!
4. RELAX - at least one day of the week.
5. READ
6. Give more hugs and kisses
7. Reconnect to a community service outlet

That about sums it up. And 7 is a great number of new activities to have.

Happy Lenten Season to all.

God grant me the serenity....

As I sit here, contemplative of this life I am currently living, the serenity prayers seems to ring volumes in my ears right now. I'm growing up - in my relationship with God, and this is the first time I have been able to really see that. As an adolescent, I used to break out in the worst hives, a clear sign that I was anxious for something to happen or a change to come. My body's way of responding to undue pressure and stress I placed on it. This was a clear indication that I needed to stop and force myself to calm down. And for most people this would be a simple task. However, I can remember it taking me more than an hour to actually see the hives disappear. How can a kid so young and innocent be so confused and worried about this outside of his control?

Well this carried over into adulthood, though my body's physical response is very different. Weirdly enough, a few months back I had a hives outbreak. And it literally scared me to sleep. When I awoke from the emotional fatigue, I prayed the serenity prayer:

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen.

What a difficult prayer to pray! For a worrier like myself, someone who is constantly processing events and outcomes, this prayer is almost mental/spiritual suicide. It casts me in a position to forsake a natural part of me, the faithless part. But, at that moment, I needed to be free of worry. 100% faithful that if God promised to take care of my problems for me, then all I needed to do was wait on him. Such a powerful prayer. 

So, as of 2010, I'm living each day in its appropriate context and taking the woes of life just for what they are. There's a song that says, "Weeping may endure for a night, Keep the faith and it will be alright - Trouble don't last always!" Well, I'm actually trusting that God's going to cause the increase in my life. I need him to do so. I need change. 

And so i will continue to pray that prayer because right now, it's all I have. I'm looking for growth in every area of my life so that I can rise above the issues and enter into this next phase with God before me. 

Till next time. 

WHO DAT!

Addiction to the Spotlight

My first stage appearance was at the age of 12. I made the conscious decision that I wanted to earn the $5 prize saved for one of the kids who could "second line" with the most heart - a daunting task for an introverted kid whose smile was once that only signal that I was even alive. Prior to this moment, I enjoyed being a kid who relaxed in the quiet recesses of my bedroom, reading and drawing and listening to the rain cascade across my window during those rainy summer New Orleans months. See, I was my momma's baby boy - even at 12 years of age. I stuck close by and only ventured out to explore the world in the safety of my backyard. But at this very moment, something changed inside of me. I no longer gave into the urge to hide or fade into the shadow of my mom's extreme personality. I wanted to dance. I wanted to earn the five dollars. I wanted to take a chance in the spotlight. So I did. My feet and body moved to a beat so drunkenly that I forgot about everyone watching me. All I heard were the yells and screams of applause. The room went dark leaving but the sounds of trumpets and tubas to paint a rich color of joy and happiness in my world. I was hooked. When I came to, I saw my mother's face. She wore a smile that only a son could want to see. She approved - greatly. And though she was shocked to see her "baby" perform, a part of her smirk showed that she knew this star was there all along. I had earned those $5.

I absolutely loved the attention however, something changed. There was a difference in me that I would not come to recognize until almost another 12 years had passed.

Over those years, I became calculated, purposeful and split. In times where I felt threatened to have to return to the shadow of some overwhelming personality, I put on my performing mask and became larger than life! I can remember everyone at prom being completely surprised that to see me center floor, "letting go." The class valedictorian, the nerd, the reserved football player... completely showing out. And then the applause came. It was like a high. I got dizzy with the euphoria of my celebration and ended the night a tired, sweaty yet popular mess. I couldn't have asked for better days.

But then we get to college. As I had matured, the spotlight did as well. No longer did I need the be center stage in a physical way but now my need for the spotlight had become something even more different than what I expected. I became everything for everybody - each person providing me with a platform to be their personal performer. I joined too many organizations and neglected myself in the process. They needed me... Only I could do the job they needed done. Or so I thought. I was stretched so thin that every part of me performed for everybody all the time and I gained nothing from it.

Well, Michael Jackson isn't the only star to pay a great price for extreme stardom. I got to a point where I collapsed. I physically collapsed. My body and mind were in disjunctive state where I tried to keep going but my career as a performer needed to come to a fast end. See, what I didn't mention is that being a performer means certain things: everyone drinks when you drink; your car is the designated vehicle - no one gives gas money and no one never asked to do so; you roll with folks outside of your income bracket to preserve the fake perception that you have it all - I mean, what pics could the paparazzi take if I wasn't "doing the most." Well, aside from the financial, spiritual, emotional and physical burden the spotlight can place on you, it is simply too hard a lifestyle to maintain. Something's got to give - and usually that something happens to be extremely important.

Well, I've learned my lesson and I have been spotlight free for the past 2-3 years. I'm on a 12 step program requiring that I love myself first and that I build priorities in my life that will chastise the activities with which I involve myself. I have learned to re-appreciate the reader, and artist within me. I have learned to build a balance between both parts of my personality so that I am not swayed in any one way. So here I am, a 26 year old paying more than the $5 I earned as a 12 year old - a hard lesson that I will take with me in these next 12 years of life.

The spotlight is nice but there's a reason that you stand in it alone.

A man distanced from God....

I am a poet with a limited vocabulary. The waters of my river run against gravity. I am consistently reconciling my thoughts in order to avoid insanity. I am a christian who struggles with his salvation. 

I've never known the truest love of my father. He's been a financial backing for me which has been great but I am heatedly envious of my friends who have their fathers as active participants in their lives. Mine loves me. I know he does. He was just never conditioned to express love so he does not know how. I inherited the backlash of this. 

America has oversensationalized the "single-mother" success story. And while I applaud mother's who can raise their children alone, I am a fervent believer that it takes two complete parents to raise a child. I find that even friends who are raised with both parents can have a father who is so dejected from emotional display that it feels like he really isn't in the home. So, how am I distanced from God and how does this tie in with the family unit? Glad you asked! 

Think about it. Young men who have fathers that are very emotionally expressive and who model strong fatherly behavior are more likely to fully understand the love of a "male" God who wants and has everything good thing in store. And while my father is there financially, I consider myself a product of a single parent household. So to understand or believe that there is a man, a God who has my best interest at heart is like asking me to speak French to a Portuguese woman with the intention on her understanding me. Its difficult. I believe the church has missed it. We focus on "getting black boys off the streets" but do they truly understand that why these boys can find solace and peace as a part of a gang but not find faith in the love of a fathering God. I believe its a simple examination of an even simpler phenomenon. Fatherless boys are less apt to believe in a Fathering God because they have never had a tangible example to see as a model. At least that is the case for me. I struggle - Lord knows I struggle with this.  Sometimes it brings me to tears just to believe that a man could love me like God does. Its such a new feeling. Its fresh and invigorating and it makes me relieved to know that maybe I wasn't cursed with having an emotionally vacant father. But then there are times when I simply don't understand it. I can't wrap my mind around how or WHY a God would want to take care of me or love me or have high hopes for me because I am so removed from the environment where these are possibilities. I am not sure that I will ever figure it out. Or that I want to. But I do know that if I need to grow in faith and eliminate the distance I feel was innately created between myself and God, then I need to get to the root of all this. UGH!!! 

I can't wait to start writing this book. I need to examine this deeper.

Frustrated

I've been lied to. Or maybe some major details were withheld from me. However, either way, I feel as though I've lost someone's words in translation or someone has a vendetta out against my happiness. This is the deal:

Every since I can remember, I've always been told to "Go to college, graduate, and watch the world unfold before your eyes." So i took my mother on her word and did just that. And you know what, the old bird wasn't wrong... Or at least I thought she wasn't. See I have made some assumptions around the latter part of that promise my mom made. "...Watch the world unfold before your eyes" seemed to mean that if I built a stable life for myself, I would be guaranteed companionship and love and care. Well, I sit here today a 26 year old single man. I did my fair share of trolluping back in undergrad and the later years of high school. I dated several girls at the same time, broke many hearts in the process and fertilized an egg that only had a few months of life before his mother decided she didn't want to receive her degree with a "fat belly." Granted I was 17 at the time, so who knows how a kid would have affected my world. 

(Back to the topic) 

So where's my wife, house, 2 1/2 kids, and german shepherd? I currently have a condo and 3 degrees. Something went wildly wrong with that promise of a world unfolding. Maybe she meant, the world would unfold in the areas of monetary gain and social status ONLY. I would have appreciated it if she were more specific. Or maybe I've  interpreted that saying incorrectly - just looking for a scapegoat to hide my own personal issues with why I haven't become a domesticated human being, Ugh... I just don't know. I've prayed for understanding and all I get it this intense sense of loneliness. And as I step into school for another 4 years, this is the only thing I can foresee in my future - loneliness. AND IT HAS ME FRUSTRATED. Maybe I should let it go - let things take their natural course. But I am human damnit. I'm tired of being the guy who has to be so calm and rational about life, never truly releasing his sincerest feelings about what things are going on in his life. Well, I'm frustrated and lonely. And I have tried to put my heart out there but I feel like because I have been so stoic for so long that I behave like that 17 year old again unable to NOT get attached or fall hard. 

Luckily I was built from a different type of material... something strong, unique and resilient. I'll figure this out eventually. But right now, I just need to vent. 

Caramel dudes need love too. damn.

I wasn't built to break....

I've always wondered about my parents intentions in raising me like they did. In an attempt to give me an easier life, I now have a series of character traits that don't fit well into the scheme of true success. This is not to say that I am not appreciative of the life they provided me with. My mother was the absolute best example of tolerance and understanding I could have ever had. My father inadvertently showed me the importance of working hard, that the world will eat out your hand if its coated with the sweetest nectar of persistence. But still, these traits. Some people might call them flaws. I just don't see it that way. Nevertheless, there are ways of which I have become cognizant that feed directly into this marginalized behavior. For example, it took me a conscious effort to commit to being to places punctually. In the past, I just didn't give a shit. I would show up late - hours late and expect people to understand. This was until i found out that constant tardiness is rooted in self-image issues. I was conceited beyond belief. If they were my friends, then they'll wait. That was my attitude. But how backwards is that?! If I am their real friend, then I wouldn't make them wait. Too bad it took me all four years of my collegiate life to develop a true sense of care and value in others' time, thus alleviating myself of this trait. And there are others. Other traits that make me cringe at the thought - but most I carry out as a result of some personal philosophy I was taught as a child or adopted along the way without any redirection.

So in Alpha, we are told that whatever good qualities you want to have, weave them in. Start practicing. But what do we do with the qualities that don't fit into our success model? This is where I get deeply confused. I am not trying to perfect myself by any means, but if I am going to walk into this next phase of my life truly wanting to help others, then i need to have traits in me that can genuinely help manage this process.

Maybe I've put too much thought into this. Still, better off proactive than not!

My soul is made of water

At seven years of age, I recall standing on my back porch, looking out into the darkness of still overcast. A few droplets of the coolest water also softly nestled my tongue as it protruded from my mouth. I was an interesting kid. The thunder began to roar, upsetting the bushel of birds that nested in the crevices of my home's roof. They seemed to understand this better than I could. Then, it happened. Those droplets became more frequent and consistent, a rush similarly felt by onlookers who watch marathon races proceed through a certain area. I was intrigued. Fearful. Respectful. Amazed. Winds started to blow the trees in a wayward fashion while their leaves submitted under the pressure.

I can remember looking up in the sky and asking God, if he would honor my wish one day, to please give me control over the weather. Strange, yes? But in that child's mind, I understood that power rested in the quiet force that, if necessary, could change into a massive, untamed monster - but those times were seldom. I have felt a crazy connection with the rain ever since.

Now, as an adult, on days like this, my body starts to respond to the sultry psalm of peace and quietude sung by the rain and winds. I can't control it. I want to crawl up under my sheets and just listen to the sweet music created by this gentle goddess. So, that's exactly what I am going to do.

Good night. I have to honor the child inside.

One step too fast

An elderly man, having lived alone for many years after the passing of his wife, had an epiphany about his life and wanted to flee his farm. Beautiful bushels of the greenest trees adorned every acre of the farm land, bearing fruit in abundance during harvesting season. Cows provided him with ample milk and meat to eat while his foul was plentiful enough to build a balanced diet. He literally had no want. The farmer, however, sat discontent with his possessions. Everyday, the farmer would wake, adorn himself in overalls, and head out to the mailbox, which sat just down the beautiful bricked path extending from his front door steps to the farm gate. He would collect his mail and hurry inside to read the letters from several of his friends, who, in the past months, had begun to  mention excellent opportunities for buying newer, more sophisticated homes in the nearby city - this was fuel to the farmer's need for change. He felt it was time. His wife's death had placed him in a great depression and for this, he wanted to get away. But he wasn't sure that it was his time. Nevertheless, the farmer kept his daily routine and each day he crafted out a plan that would eventually get him to the big city. Finally, one day, looking around at his beautiful home, the farmer thought this was the time and soon he would make preparations to leave. That night, the farmer tossed and turned in his sleep, hearing his wife's voice begging him to cherish those things they had worked so hard to build. The farmer awoke in tears, afraid of what his next steps might be. Nevertheless, his early morning trip to the mailbox reignited his need for change. The farmer decided tomorrow would be the day. He would pack up his essential belongings and head for the city. And that was exactly what he did. 

While in the city, he ran into several individuals, most of low moral fiber who were really hungry for opportunity. All he really wanted was to buy one of those new "lofts" that was described to him by his friends in the mail. The loud noises of the hustle and bustle of individuals rushing off to work mixed with the putrid fumes that cascaded out of every window of every nearby restaurant and business - these all made him nauseous. He wanted nothing more than to return home. After convincing himself that this place was just a minute semblance of a much bigger, more beautiful picture, the farmer headed to a nearby park bench to sit and reflect on his move. It was here, in the solitude of his thoughts did he see the error of his ways. The farmer had imagined glitz and glamour of the city life when in reality he had fallen victim to covetousness. Everything that was painted in his letters were simply that, portraits. His zest for life rested not in the spaces of some fictitious canvas of opportunity, but in the sweet smell of magnolia that caressed the early morning wind. It had always been the little things that he enjoyed. It was in this moment that he realized that he was dishonoring his wife, running away from her memory rather than appreciating the great times he had with her on their beautiful property. 


The man wept, packed his things and headed back to the only place he could ever call home. 


Recently, I feel like I was that man. Simply foolish about wanting what others have but not honoring my own passion for life and the place I call home. Well, I am giving it more thought, praying about it harder. It seems as though I am being pulled into the city like many of my counterparts. The difference for me is that I have work to do while I'm here. I find that its not the decisions that are hard to make but the consequences of them that are hard to live with. Well, guess what? I'm living with mine.