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.