Rapping for Whitey

Last week, with both a vein of sincerity and sarcasm, I asked my dear white friends (and associates) of Facebook what hip-hop/rap artists they found particularly appealing. Failing to describe rather I meant white people as a collective or an individual white person's genuine interest in a rapper worked to my advantage, as it yielded a wide range of responses.
 After a bit of cross referencing, consulting with friends, and the discovery of artists I had been putting of listening to, I have compiled a comprehensive understanding of what hip-hop whites enjoy.

The majority of input was supplied by young white males with a negro or two weighing in with their expertise of white-favored rappers.
However, I was able to attract two females to chime in.
They did not supply what a "typical suburban" girl might mention
as their favorite rap artist; instead I was given names the like of:
Tech N9ne, Kottonmouth Kings, Kold Kace,
Yelawolf, Big Krit, and Slaughterhouse
- all of which were not mentioned be any male commenter.
The appeal of most of these artists are their gritty nature and material.
While not registering with all of white America,
they speak to those who've been through some grimy shit
and can relate to the struggle of these rappers/rap-rockers.
Slaughterhouse is the only group that seems out of place in this category.
They have more of an against-all-odds hood storyteller kinda vibe,
but no one said there was a formula for what white people liked.
It's only implied.

A consensus among those who answered my call went along these lines:
white people love anything critically acclaimed, especially from an award show.
I have an idea for what they mean;
anything to help reassure me "mainstream" whites
listen to more rap than Flo-Rida, Sam Adams, Nicki Minaj, and Kreayshawn.
[which I already knew to be true].
Outkast received much more attention after Speakerboxxx/The Love Below
won the Grammy's Album of the Year title in 2004.
White people actually knew who Three 6 Mafia was
after "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp"
won Best Original Song at the 76th Academy Awards.
Sure, all artists receive an influx of fans after winning an award.
I got into Esperanza Spalding after she won Best New Artist in 2011 myself.
But no genre of artists sees as big a change in fans than Hip-Hop/Rap.
The hunger for more good rap music lies within most white people
unless they have a conservative vendetta against rap
like I have a liberal vendetta against country.
But that's just good ol' close-mindedness for ya.

When speaking of what rap music white people like,
you can't forget frat boys, bros, and stoners.
If a rapper talks about weed in at least 1/3 of his songs,
you can be sure most of that artist's catalog'll be on their iPods.
In my experience, I've found bros to like anything
with a hard beat, money-cash-hoes lyrics, and/or a completely ratchet rapper.
These artists have included 50 Cent, Lil Wayne,
2 Chainz, Gucci Mane, Waka Flocka, and Rick Ross.
Most of these artists are listened to more so for
their amp-ing up ability rather than their lyricality.
But I know plenty of blacks that listen to those type of artists as well,
and I judge them just the same.

For the sake of political correctness,
let's not call the majority of the white guys
who submitted their lists hipsters;
instead, I'll refer to them as white hip-hop heads or WH3s,
because in honesty that's what they are
- at least in this scenario.
The WH3 is not an uncommon creature
but however a forgotten one,
as they tend to lurk in the underground of society.
While this may sound like a hipster to you,
WH3s also recognize several mainstream rap artists
as worthy of their time and illegal downloads.

So what does the WH3 listen to?
A wide variety of artists actually.
They are hip-hop heads. Duh.
Like BH3s, they debate Biggie vs Pac, Jay vs Nas.
They know all the members of the WuTang Clan
(often listing The Rza or Ghostface as their favorite member).
They recognize Lauryn Hill  and Wyclef Jean as members of the Fugees
and not just a crazy chick who dropped one album
and the political/social liaison to Haiti.
They've seen Kanye and Lupe have better days.
They list Frank Ocean under hip-hop after
blogs credited him as the first openly-bi hip-hop artist.
And they know backpack emcees don't like being called backpack emcees.

Among the WH3s I polled,
Childish Gambino was listed the most often.
[Eminem being a close second. No surprise there.]
As a number one fan of Mr Glover myself,
I was tickled by that result.
His style of geeky rap-chic mixed with his frequent
"white people problems" and honesty makes him one of the most appealing rappers out now. [...no dickriding]
Other popular rappers with WH3s include
Kendrick Lamar, Mackelmore, and Immortal Technique.
All three of those artists appeal to WH3s in different ways.
Immortal Technique, I understand the least.
But again, this is why I'm not a WH3.

There are a number of rappers that mainstream black listeners aren't enthralled by
but seem to hypnotize a number of WH3s and other white listeners alike.
Tyler the Creator, Das Racist, and Jurassic 5 come to mind first.
It's been said that you'll find a ratio of 20:1 whites to blacks at a Jurassic 5 concert.
I've heard comments from other Afro-Americans that
Tyler is too dark of an artists for them
- the same people that enjoyed Eminem's Kim -
and Das Racist is too off-beat and kooky.


But of all the rap artists misunderstood by blacks and championed by whites,
Rhymesayers Entertainment ranks high up on the list.
Stand out artists from the Minneapolis-based label include:
Aesop Rock, Brother Ali, Atmosphere, P.O.S., and MF Doom.
Point blank, this massive collective of artists doesn't interest most black listeners because of their lyrical flow and subject matter that doesn't line up with the hood mentality nor the formulaic prosper into something more message.
There's usually a mix of political undertones or overtones with their music.
Other times, the metaphors are too nerdy or outta left field to keep up with.
 They're a group of artists comfortable with their underground nature.
Shit, MF Doom is one of the last artists in the game to wear a mask all the time.

So, why did I feel the need to write this post?
As a negro pointed out,
if a white person asked the reverse of this, they'd be pointed out as racist.
To my defense, a white friend pointed out I was "already a raging racist."
I admit to this, but only jokingly and objectively.
I compiled this list earnestly to see what White America listened to
and was given a list of 70+ rappers (a few joke submissions, albeit).
Because honestly, there's no rapper that doesn't have white fans.
This is the United States, population 314 million with more than 72% being white.
You cannot succeed in this country without appealing to a white market.
Well, I take that back.
You can't succeed on a GRAND scale without appealing to a white market.
White people listen to everything.
When I went to a Big Sean concert at a small venue in Baltimore
right before he blew up, close to half the crowd was white.
If anything, there are artists who don't intrigue black people at all
and they will thrive just swell.
I point your attention back to the Jurassic 5 concert reference.

Moral of the day to take with you into other aspects of life:
at the end of the day, it's not the color of the skin; it's the taste of the character.
Mmmmm. Delicious.
Word.


For your white people liking rap music needs
be sure to check out Manik Music
Don't worry, they rate other music, too.

We Like (Baltimore) Sportz

By this point in my blogging career,
I hope most of you have come to realize
I give little attention to sports.
However, in light of the past five days
I feel I need to make a confession:
Baltimore's sports teams are growing on me.

When I arrived in Baltimore five years ago
you couldn't have told me this day would ever come.
I lived in a city that housed a national hockey team (NJ Devils)
and a minor league baseball team (Newark Bears).
Sure white people from North to Central Jersey came into town
for the Devils' games making the native "urban" folk feel displaced
to the point of considering jacking a fool or two -
I plead the fifth on having such thoughts -
but no one really cared if they played well.

New Jersey also had the Nets for a while,
and I followed them halfheartedly while Jason Kidd was on point,
but once Jay-Z showed interest in them, I displayed the opposite.
By Tri-State principle,
the Knicks, Yankees, Mets, Jets, and Giants are our teams too.
The Giants more so than the others because they PLAY in NJ.
But having more than one franchise in a sport
makes it difficult to pledge brand loyalty,
let alone feel sorry when they lose.

Coming to Baltimore
where there are two home teams to root for adamantly,
I wasn't sure how to take it.
In high school, each guy at the lunch table would be rooting for a different team
leaving you to wonder how in the hell a kid from Jersey
end up liking the Kansas City Chiefs or the Oakland Raiders.
In Baltimore it's a consensus of Ravens, with a few seldom other fans in the mix.

Even the Orioles,
as sucky as they've been the past 10+ years,
have managed to hold on to fans, and their $5 student tickets - that could be finagled into front row seats with the ease of walking down to the plate - helped them gain a few more.
But with the success of the Orioles this season,
Baltimoreans rushed back to Camden Yards to watch the return of a team despite the spike of ticket prices.

Watching their last series against
the Yankees this year was conflicting for me.
I had never been a fan of the Yankees, let alone baseball.
If anyone asked who I rooted for in high school, I'd say Mets.
Geographical loyalty urged me to rally behind the Yankees,
but my heart told me to wish the Orioles well.
Every victory against the Yankees made me smile.
Actually, the pleased faces of the fans around city is what made me smile.
All that orange, it can't help but brighten up your day.
The week after the Orioles caught their final L that fateful Friday
was one of the purplest I've seen yet.


The Ravens, I must say, have always been on my radar.
Ever since my first year of Fantasy Football three years ago,
I knew their defense alone was a problem for other teams.
With the acquisition of Joe Flacco and Ray Rice in recent years,
they've been a true team to contend with.
It helps that Baltimoreans have embraced them with open arms since '96 after the Colts left them for Indianapolis in 1984.
It's almost as if the lost of a team made them appreciate
their next football team even more.
Having a phenomenal defensive player like Ray Lewis
that has stayed with them to this day helps strengthen
the bond between player and team even further.
That man is literally the backbone of the team.

My heart broke alongside the city's during last year's game
against the Giants, lost by a field goal at the very end.
It broke yesterday when it was confirmed Ray Lewis
would be out for the rest of the season along side Lardarius Webb.
For a team to be so good and fall short every year, it's frustrating.
But the thrill of the Ravens possibly going to the Super Bowl once more
is enough to carry the town of Baltimore on til the next season.

So as the weeks carry on, I hope to see the Ravens continue to crush it.
Never mind their defensive being on my fantasy team.
Consider this post my official resignation as a New York sports fan
and my first day as a true purple and orange Balti-moron sports fan.
I want to be part of a franchise with a true sense of community and fellowship.
Caw.
Word.

74) Help 3 people become better writers

I know it doesn't seem like I've been keeping up
with my 101 Tasks in 1001 Days challenge, but I have.
Just because I didn't write about them doesn't mean they weren't completed.
For instance, I've gone to the beach (45), climbed a tree(61),
worn a shirt without a saying or logo (65),
and even hooked up with a white guy (81).
Writing about them just seemed too personal or not interesting
enough to relay to you all through a proper post.
But I figure you guys have gone long enough without an update,
so let's dive into this one.

During my days as a undergraduate yearning for a degree in Writing,
I discovered something while I enjoyed
my lunch in a minority dominated facility.
A fair amount of the students disliked or struggled immensely
to write coherent papers for their classes.
To my bittersweet satisfaction, I found that
many of my white classmates had the same problem.

As a mere Writing major, I wasn't exactly sure how to help my fellow man.
Sure I had critiqued other Writing students' work,
but how could I convey the importance of word choice and cohesive arguments
to students that didn't even enjoy an intro to creative writing class?
Luckily my junior year I interned at the Writing Center on campus
and realized there really wasn't a difference.
It just required patience (which was occasionally needed
when dealing with other writing students, too).

Usually when I helped students with their papers,
they just wanted a better grade.
But I knew I needed to teach them how to write.
Otherwise they wouldn't only just come to me for each new assignment,
they'd be unable to write up a proper report
for whatever job field they would eventually enter as well.

I didn't believe it, but there are actual grown men and women who don't know
how to write - or don't care enough to act like they know.
I've heard about and seen emails and write-ups they are simply atrocious.
It honestly makes me gag.

When helping these students, I took great joy in using a red pen.
Though it is overly daunting for a person to see their paper drenched in red ink,
I felt as if I channeled my prior teachers into help criticism.
Most of them found my critics helpful;
I like to think it's because
I never wrote "VAGUE" as a comment
- that in itself is vague.

Occasionally, if they needed help organizing their thoughts,
I would write a sample paragraph for them.
This, of course, led them to urge me to write the entire paper (for a fee).
However my moral high ground - and senior seminar professor
who was extremely paranoid of students finding "professionals"
to write their term papers - prevented me from undertaking the task.
They wouldn't learn that way, either.
Instead I wanted them to use that and a co-drafted outline
to lead them to the path of glory through well-written work.

A week or two after each session,
a student returned to thank me
for helping them earn a higher grade.
They would admit they still didn't like writing,
but they had a better grasp of it.

I dread the thought of becoming a teacher
- through considerably less nowadays -
so I consider this my contribution to the world.
Granted, teaching others to write could inadvertently
hurt my chances of finding full time employment,
but I'm a team player like that.
Word.

How Poetic: Truman Ego

As some of you may have guess,
this past summer was one of my driest writing periods
since I began pursuing my career as a novelist.
In hopes of curing this, I'm turning back to poetry.
I'm rusty, as expected, and would greatly appreciate
your feedback on this poem.
[If this doesn't pan out, I'll probably attempt
to assemble a post-college writing group or something.]
Thanks in advance/

~

What can be said of a seven year old in '97
who imagines his life to be the Truman Show
before he has any idea Jim Carrey could be a dramatic actor?
Purely over-imaginative?
Narcissistic?
But what child doesn't think the world revolves around them?
Even teenagers - and certainly a few educated adults -
still believe this to hold true.
But for a child to insist there's a camera hidden
near the vicinity of his night light -
because it needs the best lighting at all times
even if at the expense of a better angle -
requires at least a gallon of creative juices.
To him, it's a perfect example of how God always
watches over us - except he can shoot from any angle,
any time of day and have the perfect amount of exposure.
He is God, after all.

But who manned these cameras, the boy would wonder.
Who's so interested in my life? I must truly be awesome.
It doesn't take a montage or dramatic voice-over
to indicate the boy will develop an overgrown ego,
often playing to his fans he must have scattered across the globe
though he never manages to find a single lens
hidden behind a hanging photo or bundle of dirty laundry
 to reaffirm his celebrity status.

Unable to determine how captivated his television audience may be,
he takes his show on the road: first stop, school.
He fails to realize, however, that he is no child actor.
If his intuition is spot on, he's nothing more than a reality star
putting the prior casts of the Real World to shame.
Either way, watching him fail to impress a girl in his class
only to have her male suitor and best friend supply him with a wedgie
is much more entertaining while in the live audience.
Shortly after, the boy cancels his tour
and returns to a life where he is not necessarily the star.
Meanwhile a pair of graying angels chuckle at their grandson's short comings
as they take a break from eternal glory to enjoy one of their favorite programs.

Seeking Queer Companion

I fear I have a disorder of sorts
resulting in my inability to befriend (most) gay men
due to an overactive libido.
A true shame, I know.

It's basically the same principle that makes it difficult
for guys and girls to maintain a platonic friendship,
just suckier and more unfortunate.
You see, in addition to not having gay male friends
...I don't have any gay male friends - in real life that is,
but I'll clarify that shortly.

Sure straight women, lesbians, and straight men
can relate to different aspects of my struggle,
but nothing compares to being able to vent
your sexual and/or social frustrations
to a person who goes through nearly the same.

This is not to say I don't have gay friends. I do.
I just mainly only talk to them online.
There are a few I've met through social sites
- not those kind of sites (generally) -
who are awesome but live
in unfortunate [read: far away] places - like Canada.
There's also a good handful of gay guys
I have grown close to in real life.
However, most of these friendships either:

1. dissolve when we don't see each other often enough,
2. are maintained through online chatting and Twitter, or
3. escalate quickly into some sort of sexual act or awkwardness due to lack of interest and fizzle out into silence.

Some of you may wonder why I keep in contact
with gay men (seemingly) strictly online.
Simply put, it's better [read: safer] that way.
I don't feel the urge or requirement
of physical contact when broadband is all that connects us.
It's less of a distraction that way.
Bad enough I lust after straight men;
imagine how savage I'd be with actual gay men I'm attracted to.
Shit, sometimes I don't even want them yet
still find it hard to trust myself around them.

I just want a solid group of gay friends
like the guys in Queer as Folk or Noah's Ark,
is that really to much to ask?
Or maybe it's just too much for me to handle.
They did occasionally sleep with and date each other,
some holding stronger than others.
Is this the gay man's curse?
Are we not allowed to fellowship comfortably with our fellow queer
without the possibility of sex coming into play?
I honestly wonder if lesbians have as hard a time with this,
but my guess is not as intensely.

This has to be a case of extreme horniness.
Maybe I should be nurtured.
Or perhaps I need to learn to ignore sex
and focus on basic human interaction
like I pretend to prioritize when evaluating my personality.
Whatever the case, I need to get over it;
I'm long overdue for a proper kiki*.
Word.



*- A party including good music and good friends, held for the express purpose of calming nerves, reducing anxiety and stress and generally fighting ennui. May involve locked doors, tea, and salacious gossip. (Urban Dictionary)

Death Approaches

I dreamed I died this morning.

I don't recall how; I simply found myself sitting in the back of a church

looking upon my mourning friends and family.

It didn't seem as if many people had shown up, but it mattered not. Popularity doesn't count when you're no longer among the living.

Suddenly the urge to see myself in the casket possessed me.
I crept down the aisle
ignoring everyone om the sides of me.
I needed to know how stiff, how much darker
I appeared as a soulless lump of clay.
However when I reached the casket,
sheets lining the innards were all I found.
I looked up to spot no picture of myself surrounded
by a reef of beautifully arranged flowers.

The only thing to conform it was my funeral
was the congregation that tripled in size
when I turned around, filled with familiar (but mostly blurry) faces.
[It's hard to take in that many images even within a dream.]

I searched for my family, none of which sat in the front pews.
They were instead replaced with classmates I hardly talked to
in yellow graduation gowns.
But behind them sat my mother, my sister, and various other
close relatives from that side of the family.
My mother and sister were able to see me, and we spoke,
though the details of the conversation escapes me
for that is when I woke.

I've been a semi-firm believer that death strikes in threes.
As I've written before, my maternal grandfather passed back in May.
What I failed to express to you all, and even myself,
is that my paternal grandmother passed in July.
Perhaps I had become partially unmoved
by death after my grandfather's death
or perhaps it was because she had been showing signs
of reaching her end since his funeral.
Either way, it should be known that I miss her.
As with my grandfather, I didn't spend nearly enough time with her.
And as with him, I am disappointed in myself.

All who's left now is my maternal grandmother,
and though she has with case been depressed
since her husband's death, I doubt she will be
the one to complete this trio of death.
For a time I feared it would be my mother,
gone before she completed her new set of goals in life.
But in the back of my mind, I believed
it would actually be me to die next.

Rather it be by vehicular accident or stray bullet
or natural disaster or a lack of physical health,
I never pictured myself living for long.
As a child, I looked at adults and couldn't picture myself older.
This was more so in the physical sense:
my skin winkling and sagging,
my hair balding or graying,
my stomach getting fatter.

But in my teenage years,
it became more of a maturity issue.
I couldn't see myself ever becoming a proper adult.
Sure I saw myself as a novelist,
but I saw no means of actually aspiring to greatness,
no day job that I would be happy with or fit in.

It's weird. Most people hold on
to the ignorant belief that they're invincible
for as long as possible, and here I was
already imagining my own death.
Now I have a wake to go along with it.

I think this fear is what has crippled my will to write.
It halted the honesty I held with myself.
But I think this dream may have shaken me back to life.
For my progression into adulthood's sake, I hope it has.

So, my fellow young adults,
don't let the fear of death (or failure)
ever hold you back, because you can either
be the guy who did nothing until his dying breath
or the fellow who fought his way through life to death..
Word.

Attired Suspiciously

Listen, I know I'm slacking again.
So to appease you all, here's the final essay
I submitted for my writing seminar [dated 4/28/12].
Enjoy.

~

Unintentionally, I sat down to write this accompanied by Skittles and tea. Much like my tea bag, the United States – black and urban communities in specific – continues to steep in the wake of the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman case. While the public fear the open discussion of this tragic event will fade like that of Joseph Kony, the case lingers in most of our minds forcing us to talk about it even when a story about the massacre of sixteen Afghan citizens crosses our path. Any form of tragedy will always make us reflect on that which affects us, personal or as a nation, the most. It’s an unsettling chilling sensation.

            Yet as cold as I feel this overcast April afternoon, I don’t feel the urge to don a hooded sweatshirt to completely recreate the Trayvon image, even in the privacy of my own home. I refrain from engaging in such activity out of habit – the practice of not dressing suspiciously. Through the years, there have been far too many instances of a black person, more specifically a black male, looking suspicious enough to justify a beating or murder with a very slow legal process following, if any at all. It's enough to terrify a young black man, certainly enough to scare me.

            Who’s to say that the attacks on blacks in the past are due to how they dress? Certainly even black men who dressed in suits were watched just as closely as those who didn’t in the 1960s. However with the changing times, the dress code of the standard African American male has shifted in various directions, some appearing more trustworthy or nonthreatening to our white counterparts than others – especially to those who choose to live in gated communities with “like-minded residents who seek shelter from outsiders and whose physical seclusion then worsens paranoid groupthink against others” (Benjamin).

            By and large, music and movies heavily influences the dress code of a generation. Thusly, hip-hop and R&B contribute to the way many African-Americans dress. An example of this is during the start of gangster rap in the late 80s to early 90s. Embodying the thug culture of the time, it would seem clear which gang (if any) a rapper affiliated with by his clothing – usually red for Bloods and blue for Crips. Aside from color, many rappers and even male R&B singers wore loose fitting clothing. One purpose for this was to easily high any concealed weapons they might have on their person. Much like in the wild, making yourself appear larger is a smart tactic for warding off potential foes. With these things in mind, someone from another culture may easily frighten, assume the worse, and strike first before they can be harmed themselves.

            Baggy pants are also a popular trend among those in urban communities. Though often worn beltless, some wore a belt to appropriate the right among of sag to their pants as opposed to securing their pants around their waist. Many believe this fashion statement evolved from prison culture, where the inmates are not allowed belts causing their pants to sag. In a sense, those who wear their pants in this manner are preparing themselves for the future. As the saying goes, dress for the job/part you want. Obviously, not all black men – and even the few black women – who sag their pants are future criminals, but there are some outside the culture will perceive it as such. I had a white friend tell me that his grandfather said to him, “Oh you wear pants like those niggers?” when he sagged his pants. He changed it to “non-whites” after his wife yelled at him.

            Just as whites have copied our culture and fashion trends, the black community has copied theirs. One of the earliest instances of this I can remember is Tommy Hilfiger. Originally worn by – and perhaps meant for – the preppy Caucasian community, African Americans latched onto the brand and made it their own in the 1990s. For a period of time, you didn’t amount to much socially or financially if you didn’t own anything with a Tommy Hilfiger logo on it. Eventually a rumor came about that Hilfiger went on Oprah Winfrey’s show and confessed he would have never created the brand if he knew black people would wear it. He has since denied the allegations, saying he’s never been on Oprah. There’s no video evidence or record of him every making an appearance on the show.

            However, the situation was parodied in Spike Lee’s film Bamboozled which features a commercial for Timmi Hillnigger, a white collar white man pushing his clothes onto the African American community to make a profit and keep them poor with a tagline of “We keep it so real, we give you the bullet holes.”

The purpose of buying Hilfiger’s brand wasn’t to keep it “real,” I propose. It was a form on integration, trying to marry different styles while not appearing as gangster. In a way, it was an attempt to look less suspicious by dressing white. However, this lacks any factual support at all. It’s much more likely that a hoodlum went to the nice part of the mall, saw a Tommy Hilfiger jacket, said “This is dope,” and contemplated stealing it when he saw how much it cost.

Tommy Hilfiger is no longer in fashion, at least not like it was in the 90s. Abercrombie, American Eagle, J Crew, and other brands similar to them have risen in their place. Preppy white students made them popular, fortunate black kids went to college with the previously mentions kids and brought the style back to the respective areas during breaks, and the sensation spread like wildfire. Though many rappers hang on dearly to the baggy clothes they’re used to, there are those who have begun wearing skinny jeans and tighter shirts. Thus young urban youth purchase their clothes in the same style.

One would propose that young black men dressing like young white men would make them less suspiciously looking, but it still isn’t necessarily true. Just as our clothing habits evolve, so do theirs. They leave us with last season’s look, alienating and incriminating us once again.

Personally, I’ve never been one for baggy clothes or name brands with the logo on their merchandise. I like to think I have a style unique to the urban community, with my ironic t-shirts and brightly colored beanie hats. I’ve always thought of myself as elite in that way. But there are still days when I’ll sport a hoodie. Though it is form fitting, it still makes me a black man in a hood. Earlier this month, I attempted to catch a campus shuttle on the side of the campus that is lined by a dangerous, high crime, poverty ridden, black neighborhood. Though the driver was black, he still hesitated to let me on before I removed my hood.

An event like that made me realize that profiling occurs no matter what you wear or who you come across. Just because I wear tight jeans and a plaid shirt while walking through a white neighborhood doesn’t mean I feel safe. I’m as nervous if not more as the people I see stare at me and wonder why I’m there. I realize it’s a fear that seems utterly ridiculous, but the death of Trayvon Martin proves that I have reason to hold on to it. Somehow I doubt it will ever leave me.

           

  

Sources

Bamboozled. Dir. Spike Lee. Perf. Damon Wayans, Tommy Davidson, Savion Glover, Jada Pinkett Smith, Michael Rapaport, Mos Def. New Line Cinema, 2000.

Benjamin, Rich. “The Gated Community Mentality.” The New York Times 30 March 2012.

Misener, Jessica. “Tommy Hilfiger Opens Up About Racial Allegations, Brand's Staying Power At 92nd Street Y.” The Huffington Post 12 March 2012.

Where Have You Been?

With June dead and gone,
that makes two months that my blog has gone completely silent.

Last you heard from me my grandfather passed.
It doesn't even feel like a month honestly,
feels like I just saw him sealed inside a wall two weeks ago.

But he's not the reason I stopped writing.
Honestly it was a mix of lack of motivation and work.
Those who have followed my blog for some time now are aware that June is the busiest month for Event Services at Loyola.
This is actually my last summer with them, so hopefully my favorite month becomes more enjoyable next year.

While I did return home most days completely drained from work,
I could have mustered a few brain cells to post a blog or two.
As usual, there's a long list of topics I wanted to talk about.
However, graduating from college (which I'll finally talk about this week) is what really did my writing career in.
Being a Writing major, you're assigned what you write;
sure you'll occasionally write a few things on your own -
which is what this blog was for me three years and running -
but after a while writing became somewhat of a chore.
Obviously I still enjoy it, otherwise this would be a farewell post
and I would be completely directionless in life.

I suppose what I'm saying is that I needed a break,
and a break I took.

I promised you all posts before I graduated.
Those are coming.
There's a lot that happened in May that I have lined up to discuss.
My adventures with job hunting is sure to rear its head eventually as well.

I would say expect a post tomorrow,
but I think it's best if we just continue to play it by ear for now.
Who knows, maybe I'll even post something later tonight.
Until then, read on my dear friends (and associates).
Word.

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.

Checker for Chubby

From a young age, I've been a firm believer
that big is as beautiful as skinny.
Never have I made fun of a fat person...
unless they started beef first,
then it's open season.
Shoot, I've even had my fair share of "big" crushes.
...no pun intended at all with that.

But there's something I've been wondering lately:
why is the idea of dating a bigger person so undesirable?
I understand the lust for a person with a fit physique;
they put in a lot of work (or have fortunate genetics) for their body.
However, pleasantly plump participants of the dating scene should be valid candidates for mates, too.

Traditionally speaking,
big women have naturally large posteriors and racks.
More times than not,
they're in proper proportion to the rest of their bodies.
Even more traditionally speaking,
flab was seen as a sign of wealth and prosperity
due to the lack of food for the common man of the day.
I'm thinking Louis XVII(?) era,
but I'm writing this too much on the fly to look it up.

I full support those who like bigger partners.
It is not a fetish.
The only time it goes too far is in the case of feeders,
assisting their partners reach ridiculous levels of fat.
That is true obesity.

Men are much more vain than women.
That's usually why you see hot women
with an out of shape guy.
They yearn for the inner.
Men are visual.
If it doesn't seem visually appealing, they want out.
Getting clowned by their friends doesn't help either.

Overall,
if you find a big girl or guy sexy
don't be upset with yourself.
Whether it be their confidence or size,
it's just something you're attracted to.

The Essayist: Boondocks Trinity

There was a time when I didn’t see color. It was beautiful. Those days in Newark, NJ during grammar and middle school seem so simple in comparison now. My best friend for the majority of those years was a Puerto Rican. He was one of the few non-black students in my school, but I welcomed him with open arms as my mother had taught me. It was only after I transferred during my 5^th grade year that I discovered that my friend actually held roots from Portugal. I had mistaken the Portuguese spoken in his home for Spanish.

Even still, I remained ignorant of race through my career at an almost entirely black middle school. It was not until high school that I began to see racial divides and tensions. Though the population was still predominantly black, there were decent amounts of whites, Hispanics, and Asian students. Before, the distraction of girls helped push racial issues to the side. In high school, there were no girls.  This factor allowed the gloves to come off. Slurs and jokes, ranging from race and social status to gender and sexuality, were thrown around freely even in the classroom.

The cafeteria was the perfect place to have free flowing discussions and to review popular culture and televisions shows. During the earlier years of high school, Chappelle’s Show was championed as the best show on television for its brutally honest jokes and sketches. It was popular because it delivered harshness with hilarity, the perfect prescription to a generation that hates to be lectured and wants instant gratification. I quickly began to admire Chappelle’s style. When his show ended on Comedy Central in 2004, a void appeared. It was an abyss created by the lack of a black voice exposing the problems in today’s society. In 2005, the space was filled by a new show on Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim lineup called The Boondocks. It became the new voice of the young black generation and my new inspiration.

I laughed uncontrollably at the world Aaron McGruder had created while appreciating the message that was almost hidden in each episode. It wasn’t until the show’s first season ended that I became aware that the show was based on the comic strip by the same name. I felt obligated, as a young black man who deeply wanted to find a voice to educate his peers, to immerse myself deeper into the world McGruder produced to bring his vision to light.

Having lived in a white neighborhood and gone to a white Jesuit elementary school in Columbia, MD, McGruder decided to attend a predominantly black high school (Henderson, “A.M. Biography”). He felt it necessary to connect more with his black community. After high school, he attended the University of Maryland to obtain “a degree in Afro-American studies” (“A.M. Biography”). According to Ashyia Henderson, McGruder’s The Boondocks first premiered on the Hotlist Online website in 1996, after which it appeared in his college newspaper, The Diamondback, until there was dissention between the school and McGruder (“A.M. Biography”). Still determined to have his vision shared with those around him, he began submitting strips to the popular Hip-Hop magazine The Source in 1997. Soon after, the Boondocks began running in newspapers around the country in 1998 after McGruder was contacted by Harriet Choice of the Universal Press Syndicate (“A.M. Biography”).

What makes The Boondocks such a stand-out strip are the characters that McGruder presents. The main characters of the strip are Huey, Riley, and their grandfather Robert Freeman, often called Grandad. I believe Huey and Riley may be based loosely upon Aaron McGruder himself and his brother Dedric respectively, although McGruder denies Huey to be his alter ego (Kang, “Down”). Much like the McGruder brothers, Huey and Riley are removed from the comfort of their black neighborhood in Chicago to a white neighborhood. They then struggle to adapt to their new surroundings in Woodcrest.

Having come from black schools all my life to a primarily Caucasian university, I find myself with a sense of displacement at times. I struggle as those around me don’t fully understand the workings of the world as I do. They don’t see the same undertones in the media or in day-to-day conversation. I can only laugh quietly to myself whenever a joke that would have flown freely in high school pops into my head while in my Theology class. Were it not for the few other black students on campus, I might find myself completely at the mercy of the white culture around me.

Of all the characters in the Boondocks universe, I connect with Huey the most. We both see the world through constant critique, never truly satisfied with its current state. He is as much of a radical and free thinker as the man he is named after, Black Panther co-founder Huey P. Newton. Freeman is also a play on the term freedman, used to describe a freed slave. However, Huey does not necessarily feel free; he believes his people still have a long way to go before they can truly advance as a race. He wants all his black brothers and sisters to succeed, just as I do. We both are looking out for the best interest of black people, even if means disagreeing with the choices our people make. He believes the government is to blame for many failures in America; conspiracy theories are his forte. He’s very preachy and rarely smiles. In one strip, Huey reads the newspaper, as he is a well-read individual. He sees his horoscope, which happens to be highly specific this day: “You will continue to fervently hope Al Sharpton cuts his hair so that he may be taken more seriously by the masses – the irony of which will escape you” (“All the Rage”, 17). Huey plays ignorant to the message, but the irony is that he too sports an afro and is often disregarded by those around him. Sometimes people just don’t understand the message you want to give them.

Huey and Riley represent the two extremes of the black community. While Huey is the revolutionary, angry black kid you can’t stand to hear, Riley’s character is almost so ignorant and stereotypical that you have to love him. He’s also a believable character because I have actually met people like him. He is obsessed with the street life and will do whatever he needs to remain true to his culture in the midst of suburbia. He often puts down Huey or completely ignores him. He is the kind of black person I love to hate, because they are the type most likely to embarrass the whole race and typically look for the easy way out. For instance, when Riley learns about presidential pardons, he thinks it’s his chance to get away with anything he wants. He even sits down to write a letter to ex-President Clinton to set up a relation until Huey interrupts to inform that only the current president can grant pardons. Riley then exclaims, “Great!!! Well, this is the last time I make an effort to participate in government!!!” (“A Right…”, 112). Stereotypical black people, like Riley, are only concerned with learning or helping when it directly benefits them. McGruder, Huey, and I all share a deep distaste for such acts of ignorance and selfishness.

While the Freeman brothers are near polar opposites, their grandfather Robert Jebediah “Grandad” Freeman is a balance between righteousness and ignorance. Since moving the boys out to Woodcrest, he’s tried to provide as best he can for them, though he doesn’t always understand them. During a short succession of strips, Grandad attempts to connect with Riley through the use of rap songs. Riley can’t help but sigh as Grandad says such things as, “…Then there’s that T.I. boy runnin’ ‘round talking about ‘You don’t know me.’ But do any of us really know each other? …. And that’s all Bill Cosby is saying” (“All the Rage”, 79). On a separate occasion, he takes the boys shopping and offers to buy Riley three pairs of Air Force Threes because they’re 80% off when his grandson says he’ll only wear Air Force Ones, a popular expensive sneaker at the time. While he is helpful, Grandad is often selfish and self-centered as well. He’s very protective of his orange juice; it is a full day’s worth of vitamin C after all. Then when his cousins left homeless by Hurricane Katrina come to seek refuge, he pretends to not be home even with his cousins at his doorstep. Grandad is truly diverse in character.

As with any brutally honest cartoon, show, or program, The Boondocks received its share of criticism. One beef McGruder held was with BET (Black Entertainment Television). He had always disagreed with the way they represented the black race with degrading music videos and other generally bad programming; he also disagreed with their overall monopoly on the black television demographic (Henderson, “A.M. Biography”). In one strip, McGruder pointed out that BET founder Bob Johnson said his network “does more to serve the Black community” than McGruder does. McGruder then shows a signal panel of a black behind shaking vibrantly “in order to follow the fine example set by Mr. Johnson” (“A Right…”, 50). One a separate occasion, McGruder touches on the BET buyout made by Viacom and has Huey call Viacom directly and request them to fire Bob Johnson so that BET can begin to head in a new direction, towards more positive programming (90). I, too, have felt that BET shames the race in the way the network depicts black people. With the recent addition of certain reality shows, BET is worse than ever. Before, I would turn the channel from a show I was poking fun at whenever a white roommate walked into the living room, not wanting to perpetuate any of the stereotypes the programming might contain. Now I’ve stopped watching BET completely, at least until it gets its act together.

Perhaps the biggest controversy The Boondocks comic strip faced was shortly after 9/11. When everyone else shied away from placing blame on anyone or criticizing the president, McGruder held no punches. On the actual date, he was busy on one of his usual tirades, this time against actress Vivica A. Fox. Two weeks later, the strips McGruder wrote to address the issue ran in the papers. For this portion of the strip’s run, Huey and his friend Caesar, the only other black kid in the neighborhood, watch the news coverage. Most of the coverage makes fun of itself, but Huey will interject his opinion as well when necessary. Later in the year around Thanksgiving, Huey is asked to pray over the meal: “In this time of war against Osama bin Laden and the oppressive Taliban Regime… we are thankful that our leader isn’t the spoiled son of a powerful politician from a wealthy oil family… and uses war to deny people their civil liberties. Amen” (175). In response to critics asking about the comparison of President Bush to bin Laden, McGruder pointed out that he never explicitly mentioned Bush’s name in that particular strip. He went on to say, “If the reader reads what I wrote and thinks about G. W. Bush, that means it’s f****** true!” (Lemons, “Creator”). McGruder goes on to say that readers shouldn’t be mad at him for drawing connections they made themselves.

Just as McGruder did, Huey and I both started our own sort of publications. I have The Wacko Monologues, a blog that I use to voice my own opinion on topics from race, sexuality, double standards, and taboos as well as other various topics. I like to pride myself on the tagline “Insight and Humor” for they are the best duo of all time. I also try to omit names as often as possible when I recount personal events, much like when McGruder alludes to certain public figures in his strips. Huey has his Free Huey Report which he uses as a vehicle to criticize the government, pop culture, and anything else he sees fit. In the comic strip, it is joked that he only has 12 readers, more than half of which only read it to disagree with him. When he has his neighbor, Attorney Thomas Debois, read his issue, it is believed that Huey takes “too many liberties with the facts to call [it] a newspaper” (“A Right…”, 70). When asked why, Thomas responds, “Well, how do you know G.W. Bush smoked crack?” (70). Huey simply argues if it was that unbelievable that Bush could have ever smoked (70). This type of social commentary is what McGruder needed to be shed in the comic section of the paper, Because I Know You Don’t Read the Newspaper according to the title of his first collection of the Boondocks strips.

As mentioned before, The Boondocks is also a television program. The comic strip has since been cancelled, as to make things easier on McGruder. The series has come under the same criticism as its still counterpart, but the two mediums have their differences. The most notable difference is the lack of strong stances on politics. McGruder attributes this to two factors: the nine month delay between the writing and animating process and deciding to ease up a bit (Braxton, “He’s Gotta…”). Because McGruder decided to go with an anime style for The Boondocks, the show is sent to Japan to be drawn (“He’s Gotta…”). Such a lapse of time makes it impossible to be topical on a regular basis. Another notable difference is the reduced focus on Huey as the story follows Riley, Grandad, and even other supporting characters in their neighborhood. Huey always narrates the story, however, for he holds the insight. This is how the story remains his as he interjects his own views and opinions on the actions of others.

If The Boondocks has taught me nothing else, seeing race is beneficial. It has allowed me to view the whole picture. I can be sensitive to different issues and know when others are offending me or passing judgments they may not even realize they are passing. This is why I value Aaron McGruder and Huey Freeman as much as I do: because they are lights of knowledge in the darkness that has become our ignorant society.

Through Dark Eyes

I've becoming slightly crippled by expressing my feelings on a certain social issue that I'll probably expound upon tomorrow. The post I had planned today is too lighthearted/trivial for me to focus on now. So, as a consolation, here's a comic series I created for a class back in 2010 inspired from the Boondocks. It's obviously not as good as McGruder's work, but it's matches the mood I'm in currently.

Without further adieu, please enjoy Through Dark Eyes.

Cruising Online

There is absolutely no shame in using online dating services this day and age.
If I remember the statistic correctly, 1 in 5 couples meet this way now.
So, allow me to portray my online experience to you.

I have never been too successful in the relationship area.
For the longest time, I was quiet
and had no clue of how to approach people.

Ok, that's not entirely true.
Up until high school
I found a girl to swoon over
and make her mines to some effect.
Attending an all boys high school
crushed what little game I had.
Then I figured out I was gay
and the difficulty level increased.
You remember my falling for straight boys post from last week.

In my whole dating career
I have had 1 girlfriend and 1 boyfriend,
both of which approached me on MySpace.
Things didn't work out for one reason or another, obviously.

When I got to college and made a few gay friends - all black -
they introduced me to a site called BGC: Black Gay Chat.
Go figure, right?
With it's blue layout, it was a dark and gritty place.
I stayed on the site for two years looking for a boyfriend
before realizing that "niggas ain't shit" from Newark to Baltimore.
The site was mainly comprised of black men,
but there were a few latino and "thugged-out" white guys.
More than half of the men on the site were on the DL.
By and large, they all just wanted sex.
After meeting with one in person,
I decided I wasn't down yet continued to look for shreds of decency.
It was a near fruitless search.
Don't get me wrong,
I had decent conversation with a guy in his 30s when I was 18.
We both agreed the age gap was too much,
so he acted as an elder gay in a sense.
I lost contact with him when I left the site.

About two years ago,
a friend of mine showed me a4a: Adam 4 Adam.
This site was a bit more
inviting and comforting with its orange theme.
There was more of a diverse crowd there,
though I was mainly contacted by black men.
The men there were more civil.
However, most of my conversations turned dull
once I figured out I had no real interest in them.
I met one guy in person that turned into a friend,
though I haven't talked to him recently.
There was another guy who I flirted with for half a year
before finally meeting in person.
We haven't talked much at all since the encounter.
I stopped using the site after that.

Now, for the past month,
I've found myself using OkCupid
after hearing a friend met his recent girl that way.
Their blue background gave me horrid flashbacks
but I do admire their matching system:
extensive amounts of questions to gauge personality,
detailed profiles to help introduce yourself,
and limits on how sexually explicit your pics can be.
I speared you the details of how many under the waist shots
I've seen from the other two sites,
but just know it's enough to turn a guy off.

I must say, I'm yielding next to no results from OkCupid, though.
Perhaps I'm expecting the trend of guys contacting me first to continue too heavily.
And while I am mildly upset, I'm shrugging harder than Kanye.
After being single for so long I've gotten used to it.
I've become such a solo artist that trying to sing a duet
seems like too much effort, and I can take it or leave it.

I'm sure there'll be that one to actually catch my eye one day
instead of a potential candidate to pass the time with.
Until then, I'm cooling.
Word.

Event Services Appreciation Post

Today's blog comes from a suggestion
via my very good friend and writing buddy
@Dry1313 on Twitter who simply wrote: Event Services.

For those of you who don't know,
Event Services is the department I work for on campus.
I've talked about them sparingly on the blog,
but I've never mentioned them by name before.
However, I'd like to take today to express my thanks.

I started working for Event Services May of 2009.
One of my roommates that year who worked for them
suggested I apply for a summer position
since I didn't want to go back to Jersey.
I have to say, the yearn to not return home
never yielded better results.

These past three years working for Events has been majestic.
I never realized how much work goes into
setting up and running a concert, lecture, or summer orientation
until I joined the team.
Granted, working those long hours
on mandatory calls all day and night Saturday
can bring even the happiest camper down,
there's always great coworkers to cheer you up.

That's really what this post is about.
I've made some of my best friends working for Events,
from a Theatre buddy I got to live with and grow closer with
to a guy who I share a love of video games and relate to emotional
to the friend I talked about in Friday's post
to my favorite white girl whose apartment I'm writing this in.
And of course there are many others who I'm glad to have met
and can't wait to see again.

While working during the year is cool, working during the summer is what I always look forward to,
maybe because that's when I start
but it's genuinely a great time
despite the hell we go through in June with freshmen orientations.
There are barberques and group "powwows" and much more bonding. It was during my first Events summer that I built a tolerance/taste for beer.
This can be seen as a good and bad thing,
but I just see it as allowing me to be more social.

Of course, from actually working as well
I learned a bit of leadership and responsibility,
especially over the past two years
with hoards of new faces coming and leaving our staff.
I like to think they mildly look up to me
like I admired the graduating seniors my first summer.

The thing I love most about working for Event Service
is that we basically are a family.
Even once you graduate,
you're always welcome to come back and work.
Ok, that doesn't sound as glamorous as I thought,
but trust me, it's a warm feeling to have.

The full timers on staff help foster this.
They're all charismatic and helpful.
A few of them I would even consider friends.
They're actually the only people on campus
I allow to call me Chuck.
It usually sounds ugly and mangled when others say it,
yet when they use it I just feel called to attention.
Even in the beginning when I didn't talk much,
I felt as if they got me.
I think that's part of the reason I stayed on staff.

For the longest time
I was afraid of my boss.
He is a fairly intimidating man;
he demands respect and pristine work.
But he also willing to crack a joke or two
when tensions aren't too high
or when an event is running smoothly.
I've even seen his compassionate side on a couple of occasions,
namely when I took a leave of absence around this time last year.
He assured me I'd still have a spot when I returned.
That's the essence of family I mentioned before.

Honestly, I don't think I could have asked for a better campus job.
I doubt any other student staffed department is as close-knit as us.
I mean, we live and work together over the summer;
you can't get any closer than that.
Word.