Story Time: Cab Relations

The lights whizzed by as they were consumed by the darkness around them. I was unable to make out the street signs, even from my window seat. Nate sat next to me, and Kip was next to him staring out his window. Their roommate, the birthday boy, was in the front with the cabbie. For a kid celebrating his 20^th birthday, you’d think Titus would be a little drunker on our way out, but he chatted the cabbie up like he was on his way to the office. The driver was Indian, if I remember my accents right. He seemed like a decent, honest man. I wondered how often the man drove his cab this late, gathering bizarre stories. His tall beige turban intrigued me as well.

On our way towards the bar, we almost hit a couple walking across the intersection. As he left the scene of the incident the driver said, “I hate black people. They always walk in front of my cab when I have a green light, they can’t drive, and when they’re in my cab, they’re loud and don’t tip! Not to mention, they are lazy.” He seemed to quiet down but then added, “And they always stare at my turban. Do I stare at them in their dingy doo-rags? No. I don’t. Black people infuriate me.”

            Titus looked back towards me and laughed. Obviously the cabbie didn’t see the black kid get in last and sit right behind him. “Yeah, don’t you agree, Greg?” Titus asked me. Of course what the man said could be said for some of the black people in DC, but they were still stereotypes. I didn’t fit any of those stereotypes other than the fact that I don’t tip. Reserving funds was a must.

            I passionately wished to respond and challenge the small minded immigrant, but the night was young and getting kicked out of a cab was not on my list of fun activities. So I played along and said, “Yeah, I hate those damn niggers. They’re no good.” I always joke about my race, but if any of my black friends heard me say that, they’d probably excommunicate me. Not because I agreed with the racist cab driver; because I said nigger around white folk. But for me, comedy always came before political activism. Mom never did think I had my priorities straight.

            My companions laughed for a bit, soon falling silent. I continued to stare at the man’s turban through the greasy plexiglass, wondering what might be under it. It was as big a mystery as what his wife looked like under her burqa – maybe bruises and scars he gave her. Why did he smell so strongly like curry when it was well after dinner time? How did he end up driving a taxi for a living? How did he end up in this country for that matter? He couldn’t have been a first-born American; he didn’t sound it.  Within seconds my forehead succumbed to a burning sensation.

            “Greg, you alright?” Nate asked. “You’re scowling.” I raised my cold hand to my face, attempting to distribute some of the heat. I didn’t talk for fear of my own unpopular remarks slipping out; instead I flashed my friend a reassuring “everything’s gravy” smile. Returning my gaze to the window, I saw our destination to the left. Good. I needed to drown my frustrations.

28) Stop falling for straight boys (for the most part)

Hi, my name is Charles, and I like straight boys.
At least I used to.
It's been a long time coming but I think I've finally kicked my habit.
Now, I have no doubts my attraction for the unattainable still lingers,
but I promise I'm better now.

For as long as I can remember, I've liked heteros.
It's actually how I realized I was gay.
Often in high school I would look at a guy I didn't know
and say to myself, "I'd like to be his friend."
Little did I know I meant to attach "boy" to the last word.

It didn't stop there.
My freshman year of college
I repeatedly hit on one of my straight friends
until he started to ignore me and being in the same room with him became awkward.
It made me recall one of the rules I established
my freshman year of high school when I thought I was straight:
I can be cool with a gay guy as long as he doesn't hit on me.
I have since realized that this is a ridiculous stipulation of who to associate with.

But even my first straight rejection didn't stop me from chasing after other guys.
Once... I can't believe I'm telling you this.
I obviously won't say who, but at a small get together my freshman year
a guy I had a crush on compared members with me in front of everyone.
That threw me off and misled me like no other.
I later chalked it up to white guys being way more comfortable with their sexuality,
at least that group of white guys. Love those guys.

Another pivotal moment in my hetero perusing career
is the night a friend drove me home from a party.
A year and a half prior, I heard he experimented with a gay friend of mines.
By this time, I was a senior and decided to live life with no regrets.
So I cracked a joke and kissed him on the lips.
He pushed me off and I could only laughed as I got out and walked to my apartment.
This instance taught me that not all people who've had a same sex experience are LGBT, quite an important lesson to learn if I do say so myself.
Luckily we're still friends. He's a good kid.

Let me take this time to say that active male LGBT allies trick me up the most.
They're so rare; I believe unicorns to be more real than they are.
Luckily I've met one that treats me with great respect,
makes gay jokes that are tasteful and doesn't go over the line,
and attends LGBT events whenever he's available.
Yes, I've lusted after him once or twice,
but I recognize his heterosexuality.
He's my favorite mystical creature.

But he wasn't the one that set me straight, pardon the pun.
I worked with a guy at my school over the summer
that everyone swore was queer
even though he had a girlfriend.
So one drunken night, I professed my love for him
and he gently let me down.
I started to sob as he walked away.
I know, I didn't expect it either.
Apparently I really liked the guy.
Usually when something like that happens
I stop talking to the guy and just act awkward.
It's not the best strategy and it stressed me out,
but that's how I operated back then.
So I see him the next day, and all goes as planned.
But the day after we're back to our usual antics.
I really appreciated that.

The following school year I met his girlfriend.
She was nice... but I still plotted to get her out of the picture.
Yes, I was one of those gays that fantasized of the straight guy leaving his gal for me.
I've written a poem and a short story about it.
I had no shame.

However, I've known the two of them close to two years now.
I have no doubt he's been aware of my feelings for him.
Perhaps she has as well.
But they're both extremely friendly to me,
occasionally inviting me over to hang and catch up.
Our friendship has shown me that I can be friends with a straight guy I like.
A crush that I thought was true love for over a year
blossomed into a genuine friendship that includes his girlfriend.
And I only realized this last week.

Being so fresh off the lust for straight guys
I wonder how long I can keep from fooling myself
I'll run off with one into the sunset.
Since high school, helping a guy realize he was gay
or at least being a straight guy's experiment
has been my deepest fantasy.
I realize now that no true happiness will arise from that.
That's my key, and I hope it keeps the door
to myself realization unlocked.
Word.

On Looking Suspicious

There just seems to be all kinds of f**kery occurring in March.
By now, we've all heard about the death of Trayvon Martin
and the possibly most likely racist self appointed head of the neighborhood watch who shot him.
Here's an article if you haven't.

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.

As usual, I avoided looking into the situation
because I knew it would only infuriate me and I like having pleasant days.
But these sort of things always find their way to me.
Today in my writing seminar,
we talked about the massacre of 16 Afghans -
which is another very important issue and discussion.
Of course, a relation was made to Trayvon and we talked about it.
Midway through the conversation, the topics racial profiling and suspicion arose.

I avoided adding my two cents in the conversation,
being the only kid of color in the room,
forcing me to have an internal dialogue.
I realized what I was wearing: a red and black plaid lightweight hoodie,
black shorts, red Chuck Taylors, and an ironically outdated red fitted cap I found.
I realized where I was: a extremely white campus where topics of race and discrimination are avoided by the majority.
I realized the person I was molding myself into: a self-proclaimed black hipster who knew how to interact with Caucasians and educated black folk, while gained the trust and respect of said individuals.
It was at this moment I became aware of what I was doing: becoming as far from "suspicious" as possible.

It's hard to pinpoint if I actively set out
to accomplish this as a high school graduate
and consciously forgot my mission along the way,
but I wouldn't put it pass myself.

Still to the best of my abilities,
I can't escape the feelings that I don't belong.
Whenever I walk through a predominantly white neighborhood,
I still feel the need to tread lightly.
I utterly refuse to run through such neighborhood.
Actually, I wouldn't run pass a cop car either.
No need to give them any reason to berate me.

In light of the 9/11 attacks,
you would think white would target middle easterners instead.
In fact, I remember jokes around black neighborhoods
wishing such would actually happen.
The reality of the situation is that
the terrorists are not on our soil but overseas.
Whereas African-American hoodlums are a prominent issue here.

Am I saying stereotyping as such is acceptable? No.
Do I propose anything to fix this issue? Yes,
but such a theory deserves sharing with other and feedback before becoming public.
What I will say is this.
To this day in the 21st century,
I am still cautious about being a black man in America.
I do not deserve such a terror to haunt me.
Yet I fear it may loom forever over us.
Word.

How Poetic: Pardon My Ignorance

After going to the Andrea Gibson reading last night,
I was inspired with 3 good ideas for slam poetry.
Since I failed to flush any of them out yet,
here's my first attempt at slam poetry
written about two years ago.
Enjoy.



Pardon my ignorance, however blissful it may be.

I’ve yet to become enlightened in affairs of such air and flare.

It bursts bright at my sights.

Where are my shades?

Ah, my pair of trees,

guard me from these foreign ministers

so sinister in their ways.

They wade in tainted holy water,

attempt to bless me falsely.

Yet cautiously, I bet like a beggar;

I give it no chance.

I’ll live to dance another day,

no way to die,

much rather I’d fry.

But I am no chicken,

no last name like Dickens,

but I spin tales so tall,

they seem as feathers 64 feet high.

Flock to them, dare not block them.

They form not as opposition but as propositions like 8.

All for rights, for all rights, rights for all

to adore me a more.

Love for myself high on a shelf,

unreachable by anyone else.

Fact rather false.

Wrong turn on route 22

and ended up rather untrue.

So blue above the garden of reason.

But please, pardon my ignorance.

One Last Day

Writing 31 days straight is challenging,
so I asked for suggestion for posts
@Babe_raham on Twitter suggests:
Starting now, you have 24 hours to live. What do you do? #thoughts #prompts

Using an hourly breakdown seems the best way to go about this.
To help me get in the mood,
I'll be listening to this song on repeat until I'm done.

7PM
Write a blog detailing what I regret about my life, what I'd do different, but why I'm glad things happened the way they did.

8PM
Attend Andrea Gibson poetry reading/LGBT discussion at my school to bask in the brilliance of another writer.

9PM
Walk around Loyola, stopping at each building I've lived in or experienced memorable moment in before walking off to the Roland Park area to eat a Subway meal. Instead of leaving after ordering my sandwich, I stay to talk to the female sandwich artists whom have grown to know me as a regular. Also, I'd like to see if any of them have a crush on me for a silly ego boost.

10PM and 11PM
Walk to a close buy liquor store and buy a bottle of Hennessy and Absolute Citron: the former because that's what Kanye got drunk on when he accosted Taylor Swift, the latter because they support the LGBT community and a featured regularly on RuPaul's Drag Race.
Keep a promise and walk to a room full of wonderful ladies to watch the Muppet movie as I generously share  my booze.

12AM
I leave the room where I've spent many night on their futon and visit friends I haven't seen much this past year, offering them a shot during their studies if they would like. 5-10 minute max in order to see most people before they go to bed, because people are more reasonable about sleeping than I am.

1AM
Wrap up spreading good cheer, walk to the park across from a building on campus. Think about texting every guy I've wanted to hook up with, but decide not to contact. No need to leave a guy traumatized knowing he was the last person I slept with.

2AM
Go back to my room and spend time with my roommates, distracting them from their homework. Continue to drink, and beg one roommate to play his guitar as we sing songs that make us laugh, cry, reminisce, all that jazz.

3AM
Continue with the prior hour's activities until they decide to fall asleep.
Think about all the friends I have not on campus that I won't be able to see before I past and cry.
Contemplate posting to various social media outlets that I don't have long to live, but decide to keep it a secret in hopes that it's not true.

4AM to 8AM
Pace my drinking as I watch 2 movies I wanted to see before I die illegally online.

9AM to 12PM
Sober up as I attempt to write the best 2 poems/short stories I'm capable of producing in hopes of leaving some kind of writing legacy.

1PM
Attempt to have lunch with the first person who accepts from my walk earlier in the day.

2PM
Visit teachers I never got to know personally on campus because I was too afraid or unsure of how to approach them outside of class.

3PM
Skip my Music Fundamentals test because I'm supposedly dying in four hours. Spend the hour polishing my writing from the morning.

4PM and 5PM
Go to my service learning and spend the last bit of my energy being a mentor to middle/high school aged actors/writers. Feel good about myself.

6PM
Lock myself away in my room. Look at my 101 Tasks in 1001 Days and force a single tear to roll down my face to laugh at how cinematic I'm being in an attempt to brighten my last hour on Earth. Write a short letter expressing my love for all of my family and friends, mentioning "I'm sorry I didn't let any of you know I was dying today, but they were simply too many of you." Write a special thank you to my mom for her support and dismissing all are minor difficulties with each other.

6:55PM
Simply write, "Thank you all. I love and appreciate you. Farewell" on my blog. Unlock my door, position myself on my bed, and attempt to fall asleep before an unannounced flatline occurs.


One usually imagines a much grander last day on to be alive,
but you wouldn't be able to plan it out.
You have 24 hours from the time some source lets you know what the deal is.
That's it.
With a realistic view on the situation,
I'd be very satisfied with if that was my last day.
Word.

Story Time: They Called Me Nigger

I remember looking out the window of my mom’s car on the way to school at miles of trees and farm land. The South was so different from New York City. I wouldn’t find a crowded subway anywhere near here. After twenty minutes, we arrived at St. James Prep, a private all-male Catholic school. My mom always preferred private schools to public: better education and morals, she said. I left the car without saying goodbye, my mind too focused on the day before me.

            The brick porch leading to the entrance was bare; we must have misjudged the starting time. Late for my first day of high school, what a way to start the school year, I thought. Entering the building, I searched my pockets for my class schedule. I walked through the empty halls until I found my homeroom, cracking open the door and poking my head in.

            “Ah, you must be Mr. Williams,” the teacher motioned towards me. “Please, have a seat.”

            As I took my seat in the front, the only spot left, I looked at my fellow classmates. There were only three other kids the same color as me. My middle school had been much more diverse. I wondered if this was how the population of the entire school broke down. I snapped out of my thoughts as the teacher introduced herself and told us that high school would be much harder than middle school.  We were let out at the bell’s ring. I didn’t bother looking for my locker just yet since I had nothing to put in it. Besides, I felt stares from other students while walking in the hall. Was it that obvious that I was a city boy?

            The same was true for my following three classes. In Algebra, there were two the same race as me; in U.S. History, there were four of us; in English, I was on my own. It wasn’t until lunch that I saw more than ten of us at a time. My people were all sitting together at a table in the corner. I was tempted to join them, but I refused to segregate myself. As I expected, the other tables were completely made up of the majority. I tried to put my anxiety aside as I walked over to a table in the middle of the cafeteria.

            “Hi,” I said as I placed my tray down. “My name is Taylor.”

            I was greeted warmly by a boy directly across from me. “Nigga, why don’t you just sit with da rest of da crackas in da corner? You know you want to.”

            I froze upon hearing “the word.” I had never heard it much at my old school. Maybe once or twice while walking around the city but never in school. I couldn’t believe he had called me one. I thought that was something black people reserved for themselves. “You’re talking to me?” I asked.

            “Yeah you, nigga. You see anyone else without pigment in their skin at dis table?”

            “N-no.”

            “Then get ya ass to da table in da corner, then!”

            I walked in shame to the table in the corner. I wasn’t aware that integration was a crime in the South. I took my place at the White table in silence.

            “Don’t let him get to you. I hear it’s like this with every freshman class. They’ll warm up to us as the school year goes on,” a red-haired kid explained. “My name is Rufus, but you can just call me Ruff.”

            “…Are you trying to make your name sound less white?”

            “If you want to put it so bluntly, yes. I’m attempting not to get picked on for my name. Do you know how corny and white Rufus sounds?”

            “I’m Lenny,” the kid next to me interjected. “You know, I heard that once we get to be seniors, we’ll gain enough respect from the black kids to actually start using the word ourselves.”

            “You must have heard a lie,” I told him. “No self-respecting black person would let you call him the N-Word.”

            “No, it’s true.” Ruff agreed. “My older brother graduated from here last year. He said it starts with us making fun of the black stereotypes anytime they joke about a white stereotype. Then we begin to call ourselves the word, first while no blacks are around so we can get use to hearing and saying it without cringing. Finally, our senior year, one of us has to be brave enough to try it out on one of them. Someone in the middle, no one too popular or unpopular. Once that’s done, we can come together as a whole class and use the word as a term of endearment.”

            “Oh, so the kid at the table called me the word as a term of endearment?”

            “No, he was disrespecting you,” Lenny clarified. “Blacks use it both ways. We can only use it in its positive sense.”

            “Right, using it negatively like they do will only end in a fight,” added Ruff.

            “God, I thought remembering math equations would be hard.”

            “Well, it’s kinda like math,” Lenny said. “The things you learn one day will be implemented for the entirety of your stay here at St. James. “

            “Oh, that reminds me,” Ruff leaned in close and stared right into my eyes. “Don’t use big words around some of them. They’ll think you’re trying to embarrass them.”

           

            I sat down at the table and peered directly into the eyes of the kid who told me to leave the table prior. “What do you want now?”

            “I want to be accepted for who I am, not the color of my skin” I paused for dramatic effect, realizing how lame and cliché I must have sounded. Then I finished, “nigger.” They called me the word, so why couldn’t I call them the same?  However, it took every fiber in my body to keep me from running out of the cafeteria.

            I should have ran, because just as the word left my mouth, the two kids sitting next to me grabbed my arms as the other lunged across the table. I don’t think I had ever been beaten so badly in my life. It was two minutes before anyone tried to break it up. The black teacher supervising the lunch wanted me to learn my lesson. I thought about telling the principal about his lack of intervention, but I didn’t want to get in bad with the faculty too.

            Apparently, I had stopped listening to Ruff and Lenny just as they were explaining the difference between the –a and –er forms of the word. It made a world of a difference, I realized now. Damn my proper grammar. As I laid in the nurse’s room, waiting for my mother to come in, ice on my right eye, I doubted that even if I had used the –a version of the word I would have broke down the racial barrier in the school. I would have to approach the issue with more subtlety next time. Maybe I could joke how the black kids had made me black and blue, that I was one of them now. I think I’ll wait until this whole mess blows over though. Enough insult and injury had been exchanged to last the week.

21) Attend a non-hip hop concert

I would first like to thank WLOY for giving me a free ticket.
My next thanks goes to my lack of competition for said ticket.

I went to the Dr. Dog concert at Ram's Head Live yesterday.
My friend Sam has their latest album on vinyl and has played it for me a few times.
They have a solid sound, but they didn't really stand out to me.
So why did I want a ticket?
Because a lot of my good friends were going and I knew it would be a good time.
It wasn't until we were headed to the venue that I realized I could cross a task of my list.

Why is it on my list at all?
Because I've actually only been to hip-hop concerts.
A few of them played with a live band,
but I felt that I needed to diversify my concert experiences.

And I'm glad I did.
Dr Dog played an amazing show.
I think they're a 5 piece band,
but they were 6 the day of the show:
2 guitarist, 1 bassist, 1 drummer, 1 pianist,
and 1 guy for tambourine and other assorted instruments.
The band has 2 lead singers that switched off songs.
The first guy was tall, dark haired, more attractive
and seemed like your typical lead in a rock band.
He wore sunglasses inside and everything.
However, I liked the short, blond singer better.
His voice was a bit more unique,
and he really got into the songs he sung.

The energy of the crowd rose each time he sung.
Speaking of the crowd,
it was a mix of hipsters and laid back kids.
Well... mostly hipsters.
Turns out hipsters smoke just as much weed at concerts as negroes do.
My group watched the band play from the 2nd floor.
It was cool looking down at them, watching the guys jump around.
The audience below stood and bobbed their heads for the most part.
We on the upper deck were more interesting, though.
During most of the second half of the show, we couldn't stop dancing.
The band jumped, and so did we.

There was no better instance of this than when Dr Dog
played what I believe to be their best song: Lonesome.
And yes, the short blond sung lead.
Because I actually knew the words to that song,
you couldn't tell me nothing.
I'm pretty sure that's when I broke my sweat.
My dancing was very bouncy and free flowing
whereas it's very structure and rhythmic at rap shows.
If you want to say I "white people danced" yesterday, I wouldn't fight you.

As I write this, I'm listening to their album
and catching flashbacks of the show.
I appreciate their sound a lot more now.
Thank you, Dr Dog, for breaking my rock concert cherry.
Can't wait to go to my next one.
Word.