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.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, October 4, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
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.
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.
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