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.