Something Like That!

Ok . . . Have you felt like you have missed out on something?  Married men often complain and say, “Yes!  On sex.”

If you asked any child under ten years old, they’d probably miss out on a treat, special toy, time with their friends or family.

When I listened to my uncles growing up, they’d tell stories about calling marijuana, rabbit grass; or other stories about “chasing the dragon.”  For all those old neighborhood heroin addicts they’d known growing up in school from back in the day, people said they were chasing the dragon because after hitting heroin, they spent the rest of their life chasing after that first high that never comes again.

But, that’s not it.  None of these really hit the nail on the head.  It’s surely not an addiction because you had to give it up hopefully sooner or later.  And, practicing and participating in that something does not necessarily cause all the hassle drug addiction causes.  Plus, you’re all grown up.  You can chase down friends, family, boxes of candy, and all you ever wanted.  No, this something is different because you ultimately have control over what you do, but something is still missing.

It is not some lost or unrequited love for another.  It’s not even the frustration you feel for being in a lack luster relationship.  No, it is more private and isolated to oneself.

I’m not saying that all the above is not important.  Rather, I’m remembering all those wonderful hobbies that we use to share with others.  Anyone whose taken a shop class, dance, art, music, theatre, or sports of any kind.  There is something we miss about those hobbies that may have at one point in our lives been more important than life itself long ago.  But, now, it is a past memory – seemingly so distant and easily retrievable when you have the mind’s eye to recall it.

For me, I could not ever really sing well enough to carry a tune far.  Tone deaf as I am, no possibility of recovery. Sports?  Well, I’m in ok shape – kind of rounded like a figure eight. High pockets on the bottom and party keg on the top – big butt and a watering hole for a gut.  Still, I do exercise and manage my weight relatively well.  I just cannot expect to have the body from back in the day. Truthfully, I’m feeling better about that every day. Ok, not really, still working on that, too.

I think drawing, painting, and sculpting with clay is what I’m missing. As beautiful as it might have felt to create what seemed like life itself, it also brought a considerable amount of pain.  The pure anguish that I felt concentrating on the most minute detail would take its toll. 

Unable to manage my frustrations through art or on the field in sports, I gave up my creative outlet to focus on any outside distraction that caused me a far less objectionable nuisance.  

So, after high school, I drew one last portrait for a girl that I thought I might love.  When she did not return my affection, I just gave up drawing all together.  I was fine with getting rejected.  My soul came through unscathed and buoyant, ready for the next opportunity. The unfortunate casualty was my skill for the arts.

Now, when I pick up a pen, pencil, or brush or place my hands in clay, I fumble at it, directionless and unfocused.  Like playing the piano, it seems my skill has run out.  I’d like to get back on top of it like riding a bike, but it feels awkward, clumsy, time consuming, and a formidable distraction from all else.

Then I thought, who else might be feeling this sense of loss?

This sense of loss is like losing a best friend who moved during childhood.  The memories seem so fresh in your mind with visions, scents, and sounds a buzz.  With the slightest disturbance, as if you had been awoken out of a deep sleep, brings you back to a self-conscious reality and the memory slowly slips away. 

You try to remember.  So, you write down what you can.  Yet, as you rush to find a pencil or pen, lost amongst the folds of paper, junk and misplaced shoes, the memory flies away as seagulls do. 

Flapping their wings, you are mesmerized, absorbed in the seagulls eloquence and sense of freedom.  

At that moment, the memory is finally lost.  You promise yourself that next time it happens, you will have something close at hand to write with.  

But, you never really remember.  Disgruntled, the feeling subsides for months, until the next time it comes.  

I miss that something in life.

Love is a risk

When it comes to relationships, I wish that I could say that I had some mystical insight that might give me or others a little bit of a bump to the head of the pack. Something that would give me the confidence that I have a perspective about something that is unique and special.

I watch romantic interludes in cinematic escapades offering a window into the hearts and passions of past loves, dispassionate characters junked up by clandestine events, or hapless memories with the hope that I can muster a better understanding. 

More films focus on the meanderings of people feeling lost and hopeless, seeking out adventure in the arms of another. There are also priests cheating on their God, husbands encouraging insanity in their wives, humble and loyal men and women turning on their partner, an emotionally impotent yet equally impudent lover spreading their seed across to every lonely spirit, or any lost creature who hopes to find paradise in an unfamiliar wilderness.

The most upsetting piece to some of these wonderful cinematic features is at the point in the film when the hero or antagonist somehow or another realizes their misfortune, the dismal feeling of not getting it right. We spend the whole movie rooting for them to get away with it or horrified that they might get caught. We might identify with the characters because they remind us of our own misery, quandary, ambivalence, bewilderment, or a lop-sided love affair with love itself.

In the end, I am not sure that I come away feeling any more sacredly endowed with a calling or word from God that helped me have an insight slightly favorable for me to understand relationships more than the next. We talk to our friends, doling out advice sometimes and receiving perspective at other times. Momentarily, we see the whole situation through unfiltered sunglasses, motivated and appreciative of the world where we play the lead character.

Sometimes we seek out professional support and a language to explain and articulate how and why we feel what we feel. It is a great feeling to knock out the challenges we experience, getting to the point where lovers make up for their misfortune with unbridled love.

Having this gift of insight does not necessary lead to happiness. Cracking the code that makes a relationship work will not guarantee avoidance of an abject existence. Yet, I speculate that we seek perspective because it might relieve our burden even if only slightly.

We can just accept our reality as is without asking the questions, researching the doubt, or debating the merits of one person’s understanding compared to another. The risk is that we may never find an answer. It is quite all right if there is not anything more out there to be found. We risk failing and equally risk succeeding.

The good thing is that life is a risk either way. Life is one big risk. Riches and knowledge usually only keep risk at bay or sometimes they perpetuate the amount of risk one might experience. Something about that risk makes me smile because as long as I live, love will always be interesting.

Why Not Escapism?

Disclaimer - This is a strickly satirical piece that came out of some frustration with the political system.

In our convoluted political times where we have the traditional Democrats, Republicans, Independents, Libertarians, Green Party Advocates, Progressives, and all other manner of quintessential hobnobbery, I wonder if these political parties as there commonly referred to really respond to the needs of most Americans.

We have health care, which has eschatological implications for many, along with foreign affairs, the economy, job creation, green energy, education, and war. Each has significant meaning for most people across our globe. I'm not confident that our political process is adept at responding to our needs efficiently and effectively.

So, I suggest a new political movement that will capture the imagination, innovation, and immediacy of the issues many of us confront daily. Please join me as the newest members of the Escapist Party. Escapism allows us to maintain capitalism or socialist leanings, stretch across socioeconomic perspectives, and allow us to place the burden on the ones talented enough to make things happen. It also allows the great majority of us to go about our business of living without giving attention to bigger issues we actually are not prepared to manage.

I suggest starting the Escapist Party because it seems that is what we do best as we watch our shrinking bank accounts and rising interest rates overwhelm our senses. I see a vision of health care weighing us down like a fifty ton rock placed on our shoulders liken to Atlas buttressing the world's burdens. Escapism allows us to follow our fondest, most fantastical visions.

We are already experts and members but in name only. I see a party where we can have real fun, the liquor already poured and chilled, dues collected monthly from our paychecks, raised through political fundraisers, or lifted somehow out from our taxes. We can become card carrying members of the Escapist, debating issues on television with tough and cheek commentary that leads nowhere and solves few problems.

The real purpose of the Escapist Party is to allow us to live our lives content and confident in a world of our own making, devotees to literature, music, sports, film and television, pornography, drugs, internet, exercise, eating, sex or whatever is clever.

Instead of pretending we have time to attend meetings and stand in line to vote, we leave it to the good people leading our party. No need for elections. I'd much prefer contests like on American Idol or simple local votes from a Tribal Council as seen on Survivor would be quick and cheap. No need for ballots, avoid hanging chads or money for electronic voting booths; instead, we can call in our votes based on poise, great personality, good looks, which would be rated lower but still critical, perception of financial stability, and a hankering or proclivity for promising whatever we want or need.

The Escapist - visionary, future focused, results driven. So, get in line. Point and click on line that is. Uhm, sorry. I mean, purchase your online membership with any credit or debit card. Go to http://www.getyourfreakon.gov/.

Disclaimer - This is a strickly satirical piece that came out of some frustration with the political system.

Just Another Black Face in the Crowd - Part 3

How did I get here?

Call my arrival at this current time in space of my life an act of God, self-imposed remoteness, enthusiastic adventurousness, foolishness even, or active participation in an ever-dynamic world. It seems less important to understand how I arrived in the situation I created for myself. Rather, I would be better served in learning from my ancestors who have blazed a trail to be respected and examined to identify cues for success.

A challenging aspect of building bridges for a better tomorrow, especially as you move toward achieving educational, economic, and professional advancement, seems to suggest greater cultural isolation. A colleague of mine talked about cultural isolation in a conversation as I came across him during a walk downtown. We greeted one another with handshakes and broad smiles. It was like seeing an old familiar face from grade school.

After not seeing him for at least two months, I mentioned, “It sure is nice to see another Black face.” He immediately joined in a jovial, slightly uneasy laugh at the simple truth. Immediately, we had a ten-minute conversation about our experiences in education and professional settings of increasing isolation. The final conclusion he made was that he had to accept the fact and manage the growing isolation by developing ways of negotiating these predominantly White situations as he pursues his career goals. Simply put, if you’re going to move up, you got to deal with Whitey.

Immediately, I thought about all the entertainers, politicians, entrepreneurs, military personnel, and service workers interweaving throughout the fabric of society. We are there, oftentimes, invisible to our counterparts, sometimes the beckon of light moving an organization into the next century. Other times, they simply get by, attempting to be very still and quiet so not to make any waves. We are there, present and not so present.

When our ancestors were waiting in the dungeons across the coasts of Western and Eastern Africa, I wonder what they hoped and prayed to God for, wished to see on the other end of a long ride through tribulation.

If I had to guess, they did not envision me sitting and working in our world. I doubt they had the foresight or torrid imagination to envision Black Americans’ life with the diversity and complexity we enjoy and muddle through each day. I also believe they wanted as any parent would want for their child to have something more than they had.

Modern events are not the first examples of Black peoples having a prominent role in stirring cultural expectations and changing norms in society toward growth and prosperity. In many ways, we are returning to our roots bringing with us what was bestowed to our ancestors many millennium ago. If I had to guess, our ancestors envisioned that their gift of hope would come to fruition, a passion for life would blossom, and the desire for a new tomorrow would burn aflame.

So, although sometimes the lone Black face in the crowd, my face is part of a series of sojourned faces throughout time, out of Black Africa, across the four winds scattered across the Diaspora. I am never alone.

Just Another Black Face in the Crowd - Part 2

The following day after working to clean out old emails, fixing up my desk, and filing away notes and other papers, I got ready for a Christmas party at a couple’s home. The couple is an especially nice couple. The husband works on the professional golf circuit. We met while each of our daughters’ attended their first gymnastics class. We had known each other nearly a year and our kids played well together. The husband is White and his wife is Mexican American.

As we drove to their house, every warning sign had gone off. But, I ignored the signs in the interest of enjoying the one night rarely without the kids. As I arrived at the party, every image of good American fun dashed through my head. Each image was very familiar - White picket fences, barbeques, beers, talk about work, tasteless jokes, unfamiliar faces, questionable music taste, and uncomfortable moments of silence. I could manage all those parts of the event. I mean, with free food, drink, and a night out away from the kids, it was simply priceless. But, damnit, I could barely suffer a night as the only Black man at the party, again.


I’d been there before at work, professional conferences, graduate school, driving through certain neighborhoods – it was a condition of living as an educated, Black man, living in a White world. Still, come on! Not another night sitting with White people, laughing and smiling politely, internally wondering how the hell could I get out of the situation.

During a run to get a beer, I returned and was reminded of my romp previously wondering about the lonely Black face in the crowd. I realized that I was just another Black face in the crowd. Me, Dr. Black Consciousness! Where’s the revolution? How could that happen? Like gas surfacing to the top through thick Mississippi mud, I recalled some familiar words.

I was nineteen or twenty working at Whataburger in Arlington, Texas, waiting for my opportunity to return to college once I made enough money. A young White female coworker stood oddly comfortable with me passing the hours loading French fries into bags and talking about her previous night of drinking with friends. The uniformity of her voice blunted my senses. Nonetheless, I remember vividly her passing comment to me. Maybe she thought it was a compliment, a sign of appreciation, or a light to the end of the tunnel. I don’t know. She paused for a moment and said, “You know, I feel real comfortable around you. I really don’t see you as a Black person.”

What are you suppose to say to something like that? "Ah, shucks! Thanks ma'am."

I was not suppose to be that Black face in the crowd. I am the Black radical – opinionated, outspoken, a credit to my race, weary of kowtowing to White America, public enemy number one – a young, gifted, talented, educated Black man – America’s Most Wanted. Notwithstanding, I walked quietly to the bathroom, took a deep breathe, looked in the mirror and damnit if I did not feel mad as hell. I am that token Negro – the Black face in the crowd.

Just Another Black Face in the Crowd - Part 1

Back in 2003, I sat on my discount furniture, bought during the hay days of graduate school, and looked around my living room to see my collection of African art and literature as I watched an episode of The Cosby Show on TV Land. After a good late night laugh reminiscing school days, I continued channel surfing and saw several commercials with Lil’ Kim strutting her stuff, packed in white cotton and far more conservative than I have become accustomed. Then, I see the D-O-double G, Snopp Dogg making a cameo followed by spots for The Wayne Brady Show, Whoppi, The Tracy Morgan Show, and My Wife and Kids. I looked around some more and eyed my collection of Outkast, Mary J. Blige, Sade, Prince, Jay-Z, India.Arie, and Marven Gaye CDs.

These observations triggered my recollection that for first time in the Billboard Top 100 history Black artists performed each of the top ten songs. There also was a variety of events showcasing our wonderful intellectual, economic, athletic and artistic accomplishments coupled with the presence of powerful officials like former Secretaries of State Colin Powell and Dr. Condoleezza Rice. More recently, we inagurated Barack Obama, our first African American President.

In contrast, on TV, movies, billboard and magazine advertisements, I have noticed a pattern. It is far from a scientific examination of the real world, but I saw in Old Navy and AOL commercials something that has been a mainstay of my young existence. I can’t remember the first time I recall noticing it. Maybe it started when I saw Lieutenant Uhura (Michelle Nichols) on Star Trek, Isaac Washington (Ted Lange) from The Love Boat or Diahann Carol as a young widow with a small son in Julia. As a child of the seventies, shows including Sanford & Son, That’s My Mama, Good Times, What’s Happen!!, and blaxploitation films with well-known icons Jim Brown, Pam Grier, and Richard Roundtree among others were permanent fixtures in my mind.

Throughout childhood and as a teenager, several images were gathered, safely tucked away, frozen in time, back in my memory banks. Some of my fondest memories come from watching Willis and Arnold (Different Strokes), Tootie (Facts of Life), and Emmanuel Lewis on Webster. Like many Americans in the 80s, I witnessed the Michael Jackson tidal wave – the first African American to have a video play on MTV. I took special interest in listening to Prince. Although Prince’s uniquely androgynous sexual appeal starkly contrasted the growing urban rap/hip-hop movement, unlike Michael Jackson, Prince always had the backup of being a ladies man. Michael Jackson and Prince had the common allure to attract both White and Black audiences.

Back to my point, every teen flick from American Pie and I Know What You Did Last Summer to popular TV sitcoms like Friends, 90210, and The O.C. have that lone, black character walking in the shadows, damn near invisible, virtually unseen or overtly obscene. In recent years, a noteworthy face of Sean Patrick Thomas, who starred in Save the Last Dance and Barber Shop, has become more familiar on the silver screen. Still, his first claim to fame was on Cruel Intentions, which made him the poster child for the infamous Rent-a-Negro.com and BlackPeopleLoveUs.com websites preserving the prototype of the token Black man whose non-abrasive mix of bold gallantry and sex appeal has been charming and anodyne to White American audiences.

As each of the aforementioned images raced through my mind, I wondered out loud late that night and formed a seemingly simple question: How does someone become just another Black face in the crowd?

Facebook and High School Reunions

As the years have flown by ever so quickly since high school, it has been a pleasure to hear from old friends and acquaintances from back in the day. In all honesty, it takes me a moment or two to recall their names. And, if I cannot recall their name, it requires a perusal of my high school yearbook to recall the faces.

The crazy thing is that most of my old high school friends look so different. I look at some of the pictures on Facebook, which is how most of us have reconnected, and say to myself, “I use to have a crush on her!”

Now, I am not trying to be critical or cruel by any stretch of the imagination. I have put on more than a few pounds myself and I do not have either the body or good looks of Adonis, Denzel Washington, or whatever god-like celestial phenom that people hunger after. Rather, I am surprised to see that some people have really let go.

You hear in the news that we are an overweight nation of lazy good-for-nothings falling behind the rest of the world in technology, education, finances, and all kinds of important cultural markers of success. I think it is normal to react to the news like a good American with a healthy respect and acknowledgment that we are not the best at everything; however, there is a natural, internal sense of regret and disappointment to find that maybe it is all true. Well, not all of it, but some of it.

My friends played sports, volunteered in student government, sang in the choir, danced at events, participated in acting, student groups, and even protested by walking out of class. We were an active group of little punks. We were sometimes naive and grandiose in our thinking at that time, but we only wanted what most high school people wanted – fun, excitement, maybe even a real chance at success.
Not that seeing a group of pictures and chatting for a moment or two really gives you the sense of what they have accomplished. Some of us are doctors, lawyers, teachers, servers, flight attendants, business people, and the sort.

Unfortunately, some of us did not make it well past high school because of drugs or some other series of serendipitous events that led to their demise physically, spiritually, and literally.

At the same time, those of us who did survive with our righteous minds intact, lucid and sanguine in a world that we call home, we at some point between the netherworld of the long past since forgotten and today, the sometimes brutal chaos of right now, said, “Fuck it!”

Not all of us! Just some of us gave up. I am surprised because they, a good portion of us, did not have that attitude during high school. We were care free and happy, looking for the next opportunity. Some of us also, including me at times, did not give a hoot and thought very little about the prospects of a time better than the present. For those who remained pessimistic about the future, then it makes sense for them to maintain that sense of doubt and a persnickety outlook.

I’m talking about the leaders and teachers for tomorrow who seemed to have given all they got to someone else. Changed too many diapers, arrested too many thugs, argued too many cases, and cleaned too much laundry and too many dishes to care anymore. We sometimes have given to our families, children, work, society as a whole, or whoever else out there looking for some tenderness, affection, or admiration without giving back to the one who sacrificed so much - to me, to you, to ourself.

You do not need to be in tip-top condition ready for the Amazing Race or in training for the tenth triathlon since recovering from whatever conquered addiction. No, I am not trying to say that at all. But, like the Otis Redding song, “Try a little tenderness.” But, please my sisters, brothers, and others, turn some of that same tenderness back to yourself.

Doctors say it all the time. Get a little exercise, take time away from the television, get away from whatever stress is out there. My high school friends looked happy for the most part, but I was simply disappointed because they did not look healthy. Some had the same hairstyles and dress in similar kinds of clothes. Others went from a size two or ten to a sixteen dress or a fifty-two inch waist in pants.

But . . . Wait a gosh darn minute. Let’s not even pick on the overweight!

How about those skinny-fat people out there smoking up a whole carton of cigarettes and dressing like who did it and left? The box hair cut, parachute pants, Gerri curls, high-top fades, high waist pants, skin-tight acid wash jeans with the bottoms rolled up, Kappa shoes (actually they’re making a comeback), Velcro tennis shoes, and boom boxes all went out with Purple Rain, Billy Jean, Punk Rock, Kid N Play, and The Cure.

Cannot leave out people who did not care enough, so they let their feet get so damn rough and scaly someone invented the Pedicure Egg to soften up those dry cracked heels.

Come on people! I love y'all, but damn, damn, damn!

Please do not get mad at me for stating the obvious. You know when you see someone looking clammy, out of shape, or not themselves, you are thinking, “What happened to you!”

Hell yeah, we got issues going on in our complicated and difficult lives. I wish that we would capture that bit of cheer from yester year and bring it to the present. Then, we might see those smiling faces, bright and glowing in those black and whites, sometimes color photos, from high school yearbooks.

We find that we are refreshed and avoid looking and feeling beaten down by a tough and unforgiving world.

If I Were a Rich Man

Have you ever considered the possibility of becoming rich? Of course you have. The problem is that most of us aren't even close to rich and probably are so bad with money it'd be hard to be rich. Ok, maybe I should say, I'm not that great with money.

Who said it, "Messing with my money is like messing with my emotions." Well, it is also true that I spend my money and throw it away like I do with my emotions.

You know that you are broke. I'm broke, too. Don't have enough money to pay all my bills. Trying to borrow from Peter to pay Paul. It is a real pain.

Had an opportunity to deal with a debt collector. We've been there. We get behind, maybe a little irresponsible, but high-minded enough to try to get back on track with all that one owes.

Back to the story - well, I call because I'm behind a little. Black folks always get accused of not paying bills. I grew up in a family of folks always barely getting by. Well, I'm in the same boat. Bills, bills, bills.

Behind on my bills, I attempt to reconcile these issues. After ignoring phone call after phone call, I finally got the courage to call them all. Most were pleasant, understanding, knew what it was like to be in my circumstance with family issues, emergencies, and admittedly, a bit of emotional spending on treats and other delectables that I could have done without but haphazardly pursued.

However, there was this one heifer that I was blown away by. Why do debt collectors act like its their damn money? Yes, it's their job. Yes, their position depends on following up and getting that money, making that paper. The economy sucks and you know, I brought this on myself. I should have been more diligent. Plain and simple, right?

Hell no. Debt collectors don't have to make it personal. Where in the research does it say acting like an asshole will get you what you need and want in America? Firmness, clarity, civility and good ol' fashioned common sense tells you to treat people with respect. But, maybe it is not true. Act like a real ass about almost anything and people seem to respond by giving you whatever to get you out of their face. Tired of you, tired of looking at your face, and tired of having to deal with assholes left and right. So, here. Take it. They'll give five dollars for you to never come back.

Now, there were three brothers in my head that day when dealing with this ignorant ass debt collector. The Three-In-My-Head are there always. First, WEB DuBois said, "You have the God given right to dignity and respect no matter what your circumstance." Brother Booker T. Washington then said, "Well, you did not do your duty. It's time to pay the piper. If you get bruised a little, it's you own fault." Finally, there was my old friend, Jack Johnson, first African American heavyweight champion of the world. Jack said, "Fuck you bitch. Kiss my black ass."

Thankfully, WEB DuBois, the high-minded intellectual and activist of the three-in-my-head and one of the founders of the NAACP, won out in the end.

I could not ignore the others. It was truly emotional for me. I even have residual angst from the conversation I had with that debt collector.

The truth is that the debt collector was negatively impacted as well. I could see it all over her face when I came in to pay the debt in person. I was not friendly but I was cordial and respectful. I made it clear that I would be contacting her supervisor, knowing that it probably would not make much difference.

Debt collecting can't be a happy position in these economic times. However, it does not excuse the non-sense they peddle out to others so they can keep their jobs and make that money. This is of course after collecting late fees, hiking up interest rates, and reducing the credit available to most people.

I do not have much patience for debt collectors and I wish my debt collector showed me the same respect and dignity that I provided her.