Farewell, Grandpa

It was May 22nd, a Tuesday.

I happened to be moving into my lodging for my summer job

when my older sister called me.

My mother called me the day before

informing me that my grandfather suffered a stroke 

and had been rushed to the hospital.

I expect the worse and received it as my sister sobbed through the hard news.

I stood in the kitchen of my new apartment practically unmoved,

both physically and figuratively.

Once we finished our short conversation,

I retrieved a shot glass from my belongings,

poured myself a shot of the Southern Comfort I happened to have on hand,

and toasted to the memory of my grandfather - the southern gentleman that he was.

I returned to Newark, NJ the Saturday following,

much earlier than I attended on arriving,

but something compelled me - perhaps the need to support my family.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't regret it;

my grandmother, mother, and sister were perpetually stressed making preparations for the wake, funeral, and arriving extended family members.

I don't like my extended family.

I barely know my extended family.

I don't care enough to get to know these older relatives that I see once a decade

recalling that the last time they saw me I was "this high."

However there are a few members of my extended that I enjoy seeing,

but it's most likely because I see them at least three times in a decade

and have grown to cherish them.

But all of this is best left for a different post.

My grandfather's wake turned out to be fairly emotional.

My mother cried as she expressed her love for her father, 

using their trip to and from my graduation as a comparison 

to the drives they embarked on when she was younger;

my sister allowed her face to once again become wet 

while explaining he was a father figure 

in the absence of her own father during her childhood;

even my niece turned away from the microphone

before she could share her seven years of knowing the man.

Tears rolled down my check through the sweat 

pouring down my forehead each time,

but it occurred out of sympathy not empathy. 

This lack of personal emotion 

stems from the little interaction I shared with my grandfather.

The most time I spent one on one with him 

was the day we spent installing my mother's new floorboards, 

and it was hardly a bounding experience. 

It was more of a "let's get work done" moment 

that led to a shared since of accomplishment.

Being a handyman was one of his many traits acknowledged during the wake

along with his fathering-nature, firm religious beliefs, 

support of others, and business management skills.

But his most referred to quality was his silence.

Perhaps this is why we never grew close.

I myself am a fairly quiet man unless spoken to first;

even then, I'm quick to fall silent again and go about my way.

But if the organist at my church can consider him a father figure,

why can't I feel some emotion over his death?

These past few days I've randomly reminded myself, "He's dead."

That phrase kept repeating itself, growing in regularity once I saw him in the casket.

I kept looking to my grandmother as she sat directly in front of her dead husband

seemingly unmoved but more likely attempting to hold strong for the rest of her family.

She'd been with the man for 55 and a half years.

There were photos of their time together 

spanning from their wedding day to my graduation.

Thinking of them apart made me cry most of all.

I think the fact that he died so soon after my graduation is what freaks me out the most.

Here's a timeline of events:

Saturday, May 19 - I graduate and we eat together as a family

Sunday, May 20 - My grandparents and mother ride back up to NJ

Monday, May 21 - He suffers a stroke

Tuesday, May 22 - He dies

It's almost like he wanted to make one last appearance before he died,

as if he wanted me to know he was proud of me

though he didn't say it explicitly while he was down in Baltimore.

I should add that my grandfather was the first man in my family to hug me regularly.

It started when I went away to college;

the first time I returned home, he gave me one of the awkwardest hug of my life.

It was the first time I remember him hugging me - let alone as an adult.

I didn't know how to take it, but I learned to take it as his unspoken love for me.

My sister and cousins can speak about their experiences with my grandfather,

but me being the youngest of my generation in the family,

I never got to partake in grandpa's stern but silent discipline

or being dragged to church every Sunday as a child.

I felt jibbed in a way; I still do.

So what can I do now?

I squandered the possible times I could have spent knowing my grandfather.

I had to learn from the funeral's program that he was born in Alabama, having always thought it was Georgia or Mississippi.

I knew from pictures that he was involved in the service, but the program informed  me that is was  the Air Force he served with for three and a half years before being honorably discharged, but for what I have no clue.

Though  I knew they had been together for 55 and a half years, it was during the funeral that I figured out my grandfather was 19 at the time of the marriage. But now I'll never know how they met or how he knew my grandmother was the one for him.

Now he lies in a tomb of sorts on the sixth row awaiting my grandmother to join him.

I should take this as a sign to spend as much time 

with the two grandmothers I still have on this Earth.

My father's mother is dangerously close to her end as it is.

But in all honesty, it's hard for a distant grandson to suddenly change his ways.

As much as I know I should, it's a struggle to even force myself to be in the same space as them - let alone hold an actual conversation.

But at the very least I can try.

My grandfather would have wanted me to.

If I ever want to be half the man he was, 

I have to at least start with that.

Word.

Champagne Popped

And just like that, ladies and gentlemen, I am done with my undergraduate career.
Granted, I still have ten days before I can walk across that stage, reach out my left hand for that fake diploma, shake with my right, and wait at home for my actually degree to come through, but dammit, the time to celebrate begins now.

It's been a long five years
but I'm glad it's finally over.
Now comes the fun part: uncertainty.
More on that after I actually graduate.

But as I type,
occasionally sipping from this bottle of Andre,
allow me to tell you what's been up with me since March.

Originally I planned to blog three times a week -MWTh.
We all see how well that worked out.
I wouldn't call it lazy.
I just didn't find a need to blog necessarily.
April wasn't busy at all;
this semester in general hasn't been busy.
Calling it my easiest time at Loyola would be an understatement.
Between my light class load and "eff it, I'mma do me" attitude,
this is the first time and a long time that I've felt like myself.
My mind is clear; I'm happy. Life seems fine.

If you're wonder what I mean by my "mind is clear,"
I have a blog I've been debating for a year that might finally see the light of day.
No promises on that.

Speaking of other posts in the works,
I haven't forgotten about my painted nails blog;
I think about it almost everyday.
There's also the one about the drag show....
You can expect the rest of the Discovering Race series in the near future as well.
I stay up thinking about those.
With this summer coming,
I plan on hitting a lot of the tasks on my list.
I almost have less than a year left to complete it.
This fifth year kind of derailed a few of them,
but I'll be doing as many as possible.

You can expect my hiatus to continue until I graduate.
However, I may be able to take care of 1 or 2 tasks
when I go to Dewey Beach in Delaware for my senior trip.
Only time can tell really.
Until then my friends (and associates).
Word.

FIW Posts: Words from a Guest

Through the magic that is this week
I have acquired... an indentured servant if you will.
More on that later tonight.
Prepare yourselves, my dear friends [and associates],
for the first guest blogger on the Wacko Monologues ever!
Here to present his views on Loyola theatre and myself,
I'd like to introduce to you all Matt Rosenthal.

~

Hi Everybody,
As Charles just said, my name is Matt Rosenthal and I'm his freshman servant for this second day of FIW. Right off the bat I'd like to apologize if this isn't the most well written entry, as I'm new to blogging. With that being said I guess I'll offer my take on Loyola theatre.

Coming from a Catholic all-boys high school in Baltimore City, I was instantly surprised how much one could get away with in college theatre. I acted all throughout high school, and all of the plays/musicals that were done were pretty average in terms of raunchiness. Some stage violence, maybe a use of the word "damn," nothing special. However when I got here I felt a great sense of freedom. Sex, violence, there's not much that can't really be done on the college level. Secondly, after being cast in "The Rimers of Eldritch," I immediately noticed the sense of camaraderie within the cast and crew. The high school I came from was dramatic to say the least. The cast was always split into at least two parts and didn't really agree on a single thing together. This isn't the case here. It's everyone together and although there may be some disagreements, most if not everyone, would step up if one man or woman goes down. A great example of this is the last show of "Titanic" when one cast member injured himself 3 scenes into the show. Instantly everyone stepped up their game and we were able to finish the show, with people filling in for him in scenes and others taking his lines. That's a sign of not a few good friends, but a family. With Loyola theatre, I truly feel like it's a family.

Now onto my companion for the day Charles.
I see Charles as my mentor/idol here at Loyola. When I was nervous and freaked out on my first call with Event Services, I looked at Charles to give me help, since he was the only person I knew pretty much. I see the way he carries himself and I try to mimic it. Charles has his own sense of style and confidence about himself, a characteristic which I can only hope to try to attain in the next few years. It's also one of the reasons I picked him for my impersonation. I'll be honest and say that I didn't give it a whole lot of thought, which is something I dearly regret. I took a quick walk back to my room and started to realize what I had forgot to include in my impersonation. From this blog, to jokes about Events Services, and especially the way he dances. When I woke up this morning and read the impression post on here, I was instantly frustrated and got kinda down. I hate disappointing people and to disappoint someone I look up to made it 10x worse. I wish I could spend more time with Charles, cause I feel like I could learn a lot from him. I also wish him the best of luck in the future and hopes he visits sometime next semester.
Well I better get going, it's been an honor and a pleasure to be the first guest writer on the Wacko Monologues and an honor to be Charles' servant for the day.

Wishing peace, love, and good music since 1993,
Matt Rosenthal

~

...what, I'm not crying. What are you talking about?
Good job, Matt. Excellent post.
Word.

FIW Posts: The Art of Impersonating

For one odd reason or another,
a certain group I'm involved in
held a night of upperclassmen impersonations.
Overall the freshmen and other newbies renditions of their elders provide hilarious.
However, a few managed to fall flat,
one of which happens to be the lad who portrayed yours truly.

Out of all the freshmen,
I expected him to do the best job of doing me.
We knows me in two different areas of my campus life. I had him over half an hour ago to inform him how he failed me.

For starters,
he didn't talk but mumbled the whole time.
Yes, I have had struggles with my speech impediment in the past,
but for the purposes of an impersonation
he should have moved pass that obstacle in a comical way
and proceed into a hysterical monologue
that involved various aspects of my life.
He harped on one topic only: one of my mishaps with a boy.
To top it off, his portrayal was the shortest of all the acts.
I wanted more bang for my buck.

In his defense, my standards were very high.
A lad two years ago annihilated me with his rendition of Charles Clark.
He managed to include this blog, the various men I had hit on,
and he managed to copy a drunken dance of mines nearly perfectly.
Also his make-up and wardrobe were more on point.
He actually managed to steal my clothes his year.

In the past, some impersonators may have gone too far,
spilling a bit more T (truth) than necessary.
There have also been people who are too sensitive.
But this year all seemed to be fine.
All jabs were taken in jest with the best of spirits.

But I will say this.
The lad who impersonated me isn't done yet.
I have something in store for him tomorrow
that you will all be able to witness.
I am is master for the next 23 hours after all.
Word.

Queer Offspring

A couple weeks ago, I used Facebook to creep
on a guy from high school who has a kid now.
The little guy has to be at least two.
That freaks me out, man:
the thought of people I know having kids.
I went to an all boys high school,
so teenage pregnancy wasn't really a thing.

As a queer, I consider it lucky that I can never have an unexpected child (unless one of my sisters die and I'm charged with taking care of their seeds but perish that thought).
Still, the idea of kids is a weird thing in general. No matter what, a third party has to get involved.

Back in the days when I thought I was straight, I was dead set on having three boys:
Charles Montgomery, Maverick, and Vincent.
Don't ask me why I picked Maverick;
I was a weird kid, all right.
And I feel like my first born would be pretentious,
so Montgomery fits as a middle name.
But now there's like a 66% chance the kid
wouldn't be related to me when I am ready to be a dad
and that blows my high.

There's always the option of the whole sperm mixing thing
but I have a feeling I'm going to end up with a white guy.
It'll be clear whose kid it is.

So now's the time I ask myself: do I really want kids?
Does it really matter if they're related to me?
I feel as if I'd really have to be ready for a kid in my life
to accept an adopted child.
Otherwise I'd always be thinking, "You ain't mines,"
and that's not fair to them.

Before I can even have a kid, though,
I need a husband or partner
or whatever they'd want to be called.
I really don't care either way.
As long as I get to call you mines
and I'm yours, I'm happy.
I'm a romantic like that.

I wonder how NPH and Burtka operate.
I feel like they're every romantic gay male's role models right now.

As a queer who's only had one boyfriend ever
I can see myself at 35 still waiting for a mate, let alone a kid.
I somehow doubt most adoption agencies
allow a single man/woman to take care of a kid.
Even if they do, it'd be an even harder battle
for a single gay guy/gal to adopt.

Would a woman be willing to carry a baby knowing
I'd be the only one taking care of him or her?
Even with a partner of my own,
I feel she would want to be involved.
It came out of her;
she's bound to be emotionally attached to some extent.
To be honest, I couldn't raise a kid by myself.
I don't see myself being anywhere near responsible or selfless
enough for that anytime in the near future.

I suppose in a way that answers my question.
I mean, obviously I don't want a kid now.
I'm only nearing my mid-20s;
there's too much responsible yet reckless living I have left to do.

However, I look forward to the day I find a guy to settle down with.
And if by some (likely) chance he doesn't want kids at all,
I'm patient enough to wait him out until he does.
That's what dogs are for, right?
Word

79) Blog for an entire month besides February

Hooray for me!
The end.
Word.

Naw, I'm joking. You guys get more of a finish than that.

I have to say, I did not think you guys would enjoy the revival of this blog as much as you did.
Then again, you all complimented it
before my posting became sporadic.
In any case, I just want to thank you.
Without you, I wouldn't have as much drive to write.
It's always flattering to know someone admires your work.
I'll see what I can do about keeping my ego in check.

Before going on this month long stint,
my work was suffering.
But this was basically P90x for writing.
I feel confident that I have a gift (of sorts).
I am a writer; I have no doubts about that now.

Some of you may have noticed I didn't post on St Paddy's Day.
It wasn't because I was drunk.
It was because the majority of you were.
I don't write to an audience that's not paying attention.
That's my excuse, and I'm sticking with it.
Besides, 30 days is a month about half the year.

A note about the poems, stories, and essays featured this month.
Yeah, those were basically my fill ins for days I felt too busy or uninspired.
Like my regular posts, some where more popular than others.
In a way, I'm glad I occasionally got lazy.
It gave me an excuse to put out my actual work.

So, what's next?
Welp, I'm taking a break, but it might not even last a whole week.
I still have a lot of posts I want to write.
Topics from hip-hop, sexuality, and race as usual.
To be specific though,
there's a post about Drake I've been sitting on since the fall
that desperately needs to be written before it becomes any more irrelevant.
There's also my Discovering Race series I need to continue.
I don't care if those are popular.
They're more of a self-discovery exercise I'm sharing with the world.
I can almost predict catching flack for one of them, though.
Suppose we'll find out in the coming months.

Again,
thank you for helping me make this month of blogging a successful one.
And don't forget to give me suggestions for post.
I have a box that yearns to be filled.
....yeah, I know what I wrote.
Ok, my dear friends [and associates].
Til the next one.
Word.

A Fashionable Post

My school is having their fashion show tonight,
so allow me to write vaguely today.

Most people know I own mostly funny t-shirts.
Some wouldn't consider that fashionable,
but I like to think of it as an off-kilter style sense.
I like to think I match well with the 3 cardigans and 3 hoodies I have at my disposal.
I could do better in the shoe department though.
Owning only 6 pairs of sneakers and 1 pair of dress shoes might seem modest,
but they are all over 1.5 years old.
My pair of Tan Air Forces have been with me for almost 5 years now,
and my blue Chuck Taylors have been around since freshman year of high school.
I just didn't actually wear them til I got to college.

Ok, so maybe I lack a certain gasp on appealing apparel.
I still have out-dated button up shirts from high school in my closet.
In my defense, I haven't worn them in at least a year... I think.
My 3 polos hardly get any play.
Same goes for the few dress shirts I have.
And like a true young man, I have one black suit, and the suit alone.

Now I'm depressed.
Now I'm realizing what a first world problem this is.

This is such a directionless post.

Can I just say I'm glad flannel came into my life,
as much of a hipster or lesbian that makes me?
I probably hated it in high school,
but it's such a go to option for me now.
I only have 4, but that have been good to me.
Especially you, blue and orange flannel shirt.
You are my favorite.

I'm not the only one that sees people walking down the street wearing something you like and want to snatch it of them right?
The only reason I don't is because I'm black
and doing such would reflect poorly on my race.
[insert appropriate emoticon and/or IM acronym]

I'm also know I'm not the only one that wants to tackle anyone you see wearing something you own, especially when you have it on the same day.

This is why I can get into shirts with nothing on them.
Anyone can own a plain red shirt or a lavender v-neck.
I need Uncle Sam pointing and saying "I want him" on my clothes.
Thank you.

Occasionally I think about wearing a dress.
You girls get to have all the fun.
This is probably why I have a slight urge to do drag.

Remember super long white tees and Jerseys?
Yeah, I never got into them either.

Snapbacks?
No thank you, sir.
I wear fitted hats I found on the bus
with a clear statement of irony.
Yeah... I didn't get into fitted caps while they were popular either.
I have a straw fedora that I adore to the death of me now, though.
I also have a collection of beanies from high school
that I revived because... yeah, that hipster thing again.
I'm such a poser.

Welp,
I think I've reached today's quota.
You guys have a good day now, ya hear?
Word.