We have stopped listening...

He was a tall man. 6'2" at his highest. Though old age had riddled his spin in a bowed shape over the past 20 years. The richest color of negro black, this man held a young boy on his lap, who by contrast, one would imagine he shared no relationship. The comfort and joy found in the almond shaped, grey colored highlights of the boys eyes told a different story. He was indeed a relative - or, at least, perceived as one. The caramel colored youth sat quietly, as if he was pacified by this old man's heartbeat alone. Story after story, he told the boy - who sat in awe at the sounds his imagination created. Dogs barking, water hydrants pelting human flesh, grass been shuffled briskly under the feet of men and women looking for a better life. A smile connected this youth to the old man. He didn't know if the little boy was too young to understand the underlying messages of his stories. But, he told them still. At a minimum, he could tell that a bond was strengthened by his voice. That made the old man smile. 


I did understand, Paw Paw.

Not so deeply as I do today. But enough that I am forever grateful for having a reality that my very footsteps trod on grounds freed to me from 2 generations of separation from Jim Crow laws and institutionalized slavery.

And even I have gotten comfortable.

I've parlayed with the majority, ate at their table, lost myself in their fictitious "culture" of hamburger bun fantasies of the American dream. I stopped listening. I neglected to remember. I've done exactly what kids my age were taught to do. Hate myself enough to forget what truly matters.

At the age of 18, I made a life long commitment to Alpha Phi Alpha Fraternity, Inc. - the first intercollegiate fraternity for men of color and the official start of the negro civil rights movement. 7 young courageous men had the audacity to demand equality and support from the white majority while empowering other disparaged blacks to take ownership in a country they had built. Today, on the anniversary of Bro. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s holiday celebration, a local chapter of this same fraternity hosted a frat party at "The Frat House," a club that only 6 months ago upheld and enforced a policy that young [black] men with long hair were prohibited entrance into the establishment.

We have stopped listening.

But, I sit here blogging about it. I did nothing to stop it. I did nothing to educate those brothers about the party at all. So, I really am no better than those young boys. And yet, no other older black man (or Alpha, for that matter) said anything either. Steel has neglected to sharpen steel. This is why events like this persist. Boys with dreadlocks being asked to "step aside" becomes a policy that is accepted by not only whites, but blacks (like me) who don't fit the stereotype. Collective suffering has ended. I am no longer my brother's keeper. In fact, I've been saying "fuck you, brother - 'act whiter and quit causing trouble.'"

We have stopped listening.

I've specialized in self-hate for far too long. Civil rights for blacks is being threatened on a different front these days - and we have to be equipped with the necessary tools to encounter it. I share the same blood as my Paw Paw, whose body inherited permanent reminders of the cost of freedom and equity. I'm not exactly sure how to go about operating in the framework of society today - especially since I haven't honed my skill set to address these issues effectively. But I know what the problems are. My Paw Paw warned me of them 20 or so years ago. I owe it to him - at least - to do something.

I am listening.

Sometimes I cry....

I can't say what I just experienced was an epiphany. It was closer to a revelation.

I've been in love.

There. I said it. I guess, it wasn't until just now that I felt it.

It's amazing the places music can take you when you just sit back and listen. Eric Benet didn't just belt out a few harmonic notes. He made a written confession, where the sound dripping wet from his microphone was the only remaining evidence of the crime he had committed. And as he pushed through each note, I took ownership of an experience to which I wonder daily if I will ever partake.

I. MISS. HER.

I've moved on. Honestly. It's just hard for me to sit and stare at this computer screen 3 years later and think how hindsight has been my greatest teacher up to this point. It's frustrating.

Times like these I need a good mirror and razor, so that I can stare at myself and strategically cut away all the mistakes I've made in the past. The wear and tear of my immaturity show in the fatigue of my eyes. And while I know God does everything for a reason, I am worried that I may have messed up my one chance - at love.

I wasn't open or vulnerable enough. I wasn't warm or accommodating. I didn't text "I love you" when I felt it in my heart. I didn't think about her as much as she thought about me. I was a pissy little boy who was used to being catered to and I took complete advantage of that. Now, as a grown man, I hate that my timeline includes such point. It's interesting, though. Every other thing I've done in my life has set me up for this next phase. Well, everything except that. It seems like my goals for career and professional aspiration have fallen neatly in place. Emotional, romance, intimacy - these all tell a different story.

Since that relationship, most of my interaction has been meaningless. I don't compare other girls to her but I haven't looked a girl in the face and immediately felt what we felt. Had I only been humble enough to know the temperament of her heart, I would probably be married with kids today. But I foolishly fulfilled my selfish wants by entertaining myself with people I honestly couldn't care much less about. Fake "friends," fair-weather yes men and women have since occupied my time offering nothing more than a distraction. Fools.

Maybe my expectations of finding another like her are too historically based. Nevertheless, I need some rubric to measure from. I guess time will tell. One can never know. What I do know is this: I am praying that God send me love - whether it be staring me in the face or out in the world waiting to be found.

I need to write Mr. Benet and thank him. Though I am still unsure that I am entitled to love again, I at least have a starting point and a slew of lessons learned from the past. I'm looking forward with an open heart.

She would want that for me.

fin.