It's Beginning to Feel A Lot Like...

There are some very distinct things that make it feel like Christmas to me. One, is The Temptations' rendition of Silent Night. There are a lot of holiday songs out there, but this one is at the top of my list. I recall riding in the car with my grandma. She would always drive with the radio turned down so low that I had to press my ear close to the speaker so I could hear what song was playing. But if it was December and I yelled out, "Grandma, your song on," she would immediately turn the radio on full blast so she wouldn't miss that opening "Woooohooohooo." Hearing that song always seemed to make her smile. I love that memory. That's Christmas.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vFc7STuQF0U

Another is the wonderment of the Christmas movies. Now, we all have our favorites, and there are a lot to choose from. You may like the sentimentality of A Miracle on 34th St, or the hilarity of A Christmas Story. But my favorite has to be my favorite Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer. I think it's the most complete of all the Christmas movies. There's a rich and moving love story, a Rudy-esque underdog story, a tattered father-son relationship story; there's the independence-seeking dentist stuck in elfdom. It has everything. There's even a hot soundtrack! How didn't that win an Oscar?

Movies notwithstanding, like most kids, the biggest thing for me was the gifts. Each year was different. Some years, I would try to stay up all night so I could hear Santa Claus come in. Other years I would go to sleep extremely early so Christmas can get here faster. And it didn't really matter what I got. Of course, the more gifts the better. Some years were better than others. And there were times when Moms couldn't afford to get me the same things that the parents were getting my friends down the street. The youthful me learned to appreciate everything I got and to not compare my situation with anyone else's. It took a couple Christmas day smacks to completely sell me on that theory, but I got it. As I got older, the whole gift thing began to seem less significant. Maybe because I knew there was no Santa. Maybe because my sister came along and I was no longer the top priority for the family. But, mostly, it was because I was maturing. I began to understand that Christmas shouldn't be all about the gifts. I was fourteen.

Sooooooo, someone please tell me why the average American will spend somewhere around $1,000 this year on Christmas gifts. Now, this is the same America that has an unemployment rate hovering around 10 percent. This is the same America that is on pace for 1 million foreclosures by year's end.

I'm sure those three wise men weren't neglecting to pay their credit card bills so they can pick up that frankincense and myrrh for the baby Jesus. And conversely, I'm sure Jesus, Mary, nor Joseph looked at the wise men, sucked their teeth, and said, "Oh. Is this it? Umm...thanks. Thanks a lot."

We should change the name of this time of year from Christmas Season to Go Out and Spend Way Too Much Money On Things People Really Don't Need and You Really Can't Afford, But You Buy Anyway For No Apparent Reason Season.

So many people stress themselves out buying gifts they can't afford, often for people who don't deserve a gift in the first place. Parents feel inadequate. Children feel unloved. Relationships deteriorate. Families bicker and brawl. Over what? Christmas gifts.

I see people "making" themselves buy gifts all the time. No one should ever have to talk themselves into buying a gift for someone. If you can't afford it; don't get it. If you really don't like that person enough to buy them a gift; don't buy it. If you don't know the person enough to figure out if they'll like the gift or not, then why the hell are you stressing over buying them a gift anyway? If anything, get them a gift card and keep it moving.

One thing I've realized over the years is that a gift does not say "I love you." As I've gotten older, my family rarely gets me anything for Christmas. And I'm pretty sure they still love me.

Let's get back to those feelings that Christmas use to give us.
Back to the feelings of hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows on 80 degree days.
Back to riding your new bicycle for hours, hoping the thugs down the street wouldn't steal it from you on this first day.
Back to being happy with a football or a cassette tape or a Michael Jackson t-shirt.
Back to playing with your cousin's toys as if they were your own until he got mad and you got into a fight for a few minutes, then your uncle broke it up and you were back friends again.

This Christmas, Kwanzaa, Ramadan, or whatever, enjoy your loved ones, appreciate your blessings, and drink some hot chocolate.

And yeah, if you can't find the Temptations, then listen to this little gem. It's at the top of the list, too.

I'm Not a Hater, But...

Okay. Let me start this off by making one thing perfectly clear: I AM NOT A HATER! People use that term quite loosely these days. Anybody that isn't in love with what someone else does=HATER.

Note the following "hater" scenarios:
#1

Friend: Hey, D. I just spent $200 dollars on these vintage canvas Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers. Whatcha think?

Me: Two-hundred dollars? They look like regular twenty dollar Converses to me.

Friend: Aww, man. You're just a hater!

#2

Cousin: Yo, did you see that new Jackie Chan and Jet Li movie? I loved it; it was great!

Me: Naa, I like movies with more dialogue and storyline, and I can't understand a word either one of those dudes are saying.

Cousin: What? Man, why you hatin' on Jackie and Jet? I bet they'll kick your ass!

Me: You're right. And I'm sure I can beat them in a debate.

#3

Friend: Yo, see shorty over there?

Me: Yeah, that's Sheila.

Friend: I hit that last night!

Me: Word? You might wanna go get yourself checked out; the word is that she might be infected.

Friend: Man, you probably tried to talk to her. Stop being a hater!

Just because you don't like something doesn't make you a hater. Am I an onion-hater or a mayo-hater? I just don't like them. Actually, I do hate onions. But I digress.

I said all that to say this: Who the hell made Steve Harvey a relationship guru?

Please, someone tell me how he has risen to the level of expert on all things love-related? I read his first book, Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man. Okay, I read the first chapter, the table of contents, and a few other paragraphs. But that was enough to get the gist. I wasn't incredibly impressed. It's not like some of what he said doesn't make sense; that's just it, it makes a lot of sense: common sense. I guess people just have a need to hear things they already know. Maybe it's just me, but I wouldn't rush to buy a book that told me a bunch of reasons why I shouldn't walk into oncoming traffic.

But his book became a best-seller and he became an authority on love. Women started taking the words from his book as the GOSPEL TRUTH. You would have thought that God was sitting at a small table in Barnes and Noble drinking lattes and signing copies of HIS (or HER) book.

Now, Steve admits that he is not an expert on love, but that he is an expert on men. Therefore, in his book, he speaks for ALL men and gives women the decoded version of what mean think about relationships, love, etc. So, naturally, because he speaks for ALL men and women want to know what ALL men feel, they read what he has to say. Especially since it's usually difficult to get it from the man they are actually dealing with.

But, hold up! In my dealings with women, I often tend to generalize according to my past relationships with women, including the women in my family. But when I do, I always get, "Mmmph...I am not every other woman! I am my own person. I have my own unique genetic code. Check my deoxyribonucleic acid!"

So, if I can't generalize, and sometimes my generalized comments are dead on, how can Steve Harvey generalize and you swear that it applies directly to me? Hmmmm. Check my DNA!

You know what? Maybe I am hating. Maybe Steve Harvey's position as one of the kings of comedy makes him an authority on things like this. I heard Cedric the Entertainer was writing a diet book, and D.L. Hughley was writing a book about how much he loves white people, especially white Republicans. And I'm sure there will be a posthumous release of a book on public speaking by the late, great Bernie Mac.

After the success of his first book, Harvey has a new book, Straight, No Chaser: How to Find, Keep, and Understand a Man. And I'm sure that a comedian with several marriages and divorces under his belt is the perfect person to help women with this.

I could put my feminist hat on and say that these books are just another example of the misogynistic, ultra-male perspective being showered down on women telling them how and who to be. But I won't go there.

But I will say this, these books tell women how to act and think in order to get a man. The women I know would cringe at the thought of a man telling them how to act or think, but every man doesn't host a morning radio show.

I think I should I write a relationship book. After all, I'm a man and I know some other men. Plus, I've dated women and I've known some other women. What else do I need?

My book would actually only be a relationship haiku:

You must know yourself.

If not, find yourself.

Always love yourself.

Common sense, right?

If you don't think so, I won't call you a hater.

Time Flies

Okay, I'm off of my soapbox for a moment. I'm simply going to talk about the one thing in the world that makes me smile ALL the time. The one thing in my life that seems to have no flaws. The one thing that I want to bottle up in this very moment in time and not allow to go anywhere or change in any way.

My family.

I don't mean the hundreds of unnamed or forgotten people that you just happened to be connected to in some random manner. Nor do I mean that folks that you only see at weddings, funerals, and family reunions. Nor am I talking about that not-so distant relative whose house you hate going to because you're scared to sit on the couch or eat any food that you're offered due to all of the roaches you see crawling around.

No, I'm talking about the four most important people in my life. My four ladies.

Of course I'm talking about my niece, Na'Zyia Kamarria Williams. If you know me, you know that I'm in love with this little girl. But I'm also talking about my sister, mother, and grandmother.

They mean so much to me that I have their initials, A.T.T.N., engraved on the ankh that lays on my chest, close to my heart. (Insert AWWWWs here.)

This past week, two of my ladies experienced birthdays. My niece turned four years old and my grandmother reached an amazing seventy-one years.

Their birthdays made me think, made me reflect. I tend to do that. Let's start with Na'Zyia.

The crazy thing is that I remember when my sister, Na'Zyia's mom, was just four years old. Hell, I remember when she was born, ending my wonderful reign as an only child.

The day I found out that she was pregnant was surreal. This same little girl whose hair I'd plaited and diaper I changed was now going to have a baby. I had the typical father-figure/big brother reaction. It was some sort of mixture of anger with disappointment, more disappointment. When I use to bounce her on my knee chanting "jimmee jimme jaa mama", I had so many plans for her. (That actually was initially "Joe Namath and John Matusak", but she heard differently and requested it often.) She was going to be a world-renowned doctor/lawyer/architect/singer/dancer/world-changer. Now she's busy doing her damndest just being a good citizen of the world and a great mother. Applause, applause!

It's amazing to see my niece at four. I'm searching for the PAUSE button. It seems like just last week that I was seeing her for the first time. And it seems like just yesterday that I was encouraging her to take her first steps, while she was more inclined to stay entrenched in some surfer-like position, afraid of what might come with that next step. Now, the fear is mine. I worry about what might come with that next step. Just as fast as these four years arrived, I know that equally fast will arrive the big girl bicycle days, followed by the first crush days and the...let me stop. I'm getting light headed.





I try hard to play a significant part in her life. I don't want to miss out on 'those' moments, those special moments that no picture or facebook post could ever truly capture. I don't want time to fly away on me.

But time has seem to fly away. My grandmother is a fine example. Like I said, she just turned seventy-one. Now, I don't know what your grandma's seventy-one looks like, but my grandma's looks like weekly dollar store and Walgreens shopping coupled with arthritis and religious Wheel of Fortune watching.

My grandma and I are extremely close. I am the first of her 35, 42 (I don't know, I lost count) grandchildren. In fact, I consider myself her seventh child, especially, given the fact that my uncle is only a few years older than I am. Growing up, my grandma was my rock, my friend. When Mama was working multiple jobs to make "IT" happen, I was being spoiled with Mahalia Jackson serenades and sweet potato pie spoon-licking.






When there was no one else for me to talk to, there was my writing and my grandma.

But seventy-one. Damn!

The Grandma I grew up with was never going to be seventy-one. She was always going to be that "Dang, that's your grandma? She looks my mama's age" grandma.

While she's far from incapacitated, she has slowed down a bit. I don't envision her hopping on the back of motorcycles anymore. It seems like just yesterday when she was. She's always been a hilarious, compassionate, and caring person. She taught me how to laugh at myself and others, and the importance of being "good".She has not only been in my entire life, she has been a significant factor in creating the man I am today. (Thank or blame her.)

I got really sentimental in what I wrote in her birthday card, and, of course, she cried. Again, PAUSE button, please.

But in life there is no PAUSE button. If only it was that easy. Forget the Staples EASY button, give me a DVR remote for life. So, I can pause and replay those moments that I never want to leave.

But that doesn't exist. Time DOES fly and we can do nothing to stop it. We can only maximize those moments we're given. So, I say, take a moment to press that imaginary pause button today. If you have someone(s) special in your life, take a moment to bask in the now with them. There will never be another right now.

Be like me: hug them, kiss them, pinch their cheeks. My grandma loves it! Listen to their stories that they are so passionate about but make no sense to you at all, and love it! There's going to come a time when you'll long to hear about unicorns and tea parties.

No matter your religious or spiritual beliefs, you have to agree that LIFE is a precious gift. I may not know why we're here, but I do know that we must maximize the time we're given.

My niece is my princess, and my grandma is my queen. If someone finds a way to make time stop, leave a comment on this page. I need them with me, always. (Resume the AWWWWWs.)

La Vida Loca

Recently, Ricky Martin of Living La Vida Loca fame, appeared on the Oprah Winfrey Show. I didn't watch the entire show; I just saw some of it while in the barbershop. The fact that my barber had this on his 40" flat screen seemed strange to me, but that's beside the point. There were excerpts of different men who applauded Martin for "coming out". To them, he served as an inspiration and gave them enough strength to "come out" to their inner circle of family and friends.



Let me start by saying, I'm not gay. Even though my friend, Alexis, tells me that even the most heterosexual individual is bisexual to some degree, I can't ever recall having any attraction to another man. Yeah, I've seen a dude and thought, "That dude has a nice body." But it was more of a comparison to me; I was trying to see how my body stacked up and what I needed to do to get to his level. I didn't want to wake up to the scruffiness of his beard.



And I'm not homophobic, either. Growing up, I was. I think most people I knew had a negative feeling towards gays. Between my peers, most of my older male relatives, and the church, I lived with the idea that homosexuality was a sin and anyone involved in such actions were, in some way, subhuman.



Going through public school, there was always the little boy that preferred to stay with the girls during recess instead of playing football with the boys. You know, the same boy that smacked his lips when he talked and played with Barbies and Cabbage Patch dolls. Truthfully, I played with Barbie, too, but that was only to give my He-Man, Optimus Prime, or Hulk Hogan action figure a love interest. (G.I. Joe was too small for her.) As we got older, that same little boy became the teenager that tried out for the cheer leading squad. His clothes seemed to fit a lot tighter and the lip smack was now accompanied by a neck roll and finger snap.



You knew he was gay; you heard the rumors about him. And as a straight teenage boy, the last thing you wanted to be accused of being was gay. So, you stayed away from him. Snickered at him and joined in with the rude remarks. You might not have been the ringleader, but you were definitely in the circus. You had to be, or they might think you were like him.



That was me. I wasn't the one shouting "fag" as he walked by, but I was the one tapping my friend and pointing. I stayed that way until my freshman year of college. Halfway through my first semester at the University of Florida (GO GATORS!!!), a third person was thrown into our already cramped dorm room. His name was Scott. Scott was an ordinary white guy, a little more Brahms than bong, but normal, nonetheless. He didn't even seem to mind being thrust into the room with two black guys. We got along great. It didn't hurt that he worked at Red Lobster and would bring home bags upon bags of those Cheddar Bay biscuits.



One day, I came home from a weekend trip to find Scott alone in the room. He was talking on the phone. As I entered, he seemed startled and nervous; it was obvious he had been crying. "Mom, Darius is here. I'll call you later," he said as he watched me drop my duffel bag.



"What's up, man? You cool?" I asked, knowing that he wasn't. He paused for a while and just blurted it out.



"Darius, I'm gay!"



I sat there for a minute, confused. It was almost as if I didn't understand what he was saying. Then I comprehended it, but didn't quite know how to process it. He didn't remind me of any of the gay guys I knew. He didn't bring a set of dolls to litter his bed. He didn't paint his finger and toenails. His voice was deeper than mine. It didn't add up.



All I could say was, "Oh. Okay, cool."



He broke the awkwardness by saying, "Don't worry. I'm not attracted to you."



Just then, my ego kicked in and brought me back to that moment and out of my daze. He let me know that he'd never really been attracted to any black guys, but that he could see how someone would be attracted to me. I felt a little better.



I had questions, and I asked them. He was willing and relieved that I wanted to know so much.



He explained to me how hard his life had been. He told me about the feeling he had when he was as young as four years old. Feelings I could relate to because I was sneaking onto little girls' mats during nap time in nursery school. He told me of the guilt he felt for feelings he thought were wrong. The pain of trying to force himself to be with women, when that was far from who he inherently was. He told me of his spiritual conflict; his parents were ministers and often preached of the "abomination" that is homosexuality. We talked for hours that night and for hours on many more occasions.



Scott was my Ricky Martin. He opened my eyes. At that very moment, a veil of ignorance was lifted from my eyes. My perception completely changed. I was no longer that kid that didn't want to be seen with someone because of their preference, I was now that young man who would walk into the movies or the grocery store with my friend, no matter who he was attracted to.



There are still somethings that I really don't want see, and somethings that make me slightly uncomfortable.



Scott moved out shortly after "coming out" to me, but we remained relatively good friends throughout college.



Sitting in the barbershop, watching Oprah was a seminal moment for me. Sitting in the bastion of masculinity, I was transported back to high school. I wasn't the one calling names, but would I be the one to snicker and nod my head or would I say something? In the comments of Ricky Martin and the other guests, I could hear Scott. So, I said something. Not as much as I could have said, but I said a lot more than I would have at an earlier stage of my life.



Being a black man in America, I know a lot about prejudice and discrimination. People constantly categorize me just by looking at me. But I am extremely proud of who I am and can't imagine having to live a life denying myself simply because others don't think it's right.



Don't we all simply want to be able to be who we are? Black or White. Christian or Atheist. Straight or Gay. Not being able to do that...that's La Vida Loca.

Vindication!!!

True story, but the names have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty.

An early 90s eighth-grade classroom. The students in this Algebra 1 Honors class are all the cream of the crop of their middle school. The red-headed girl in the corner with freckles is an accomplished violinist. The Asian Boy ignoring everyone else is already trying to decide between a few Ivy League schools. In the middle of the class jotting down raps in a notebook is Cute Chocolate Boy. Cute Chocolate Boy recently transferred to this middle school, therefore, he is an unknown commodity to teachers and students. He's made a few friends, Circle Head and Lanky Indian Kid, and the girls seem to be intrigued by his newness. However, many of the teachers have yet to be swayed by his intellect and natural charm. One teacher, especially, seems to have it out for him. It's his Algebra teacher, Ms. Should Retire. Ms. Should Retire sits angrily behind her desk, peering at each of her students. Class doesn't start until she takes the ten or fifteen minutes she needs to sip the coffee that has painted her teeth the color of her soul.

On this particular day, the class has finished the lesson on factoring and everyone is just kinda doing their own thing for the last fifteen minutes of class. Cute Chocolate Boy walks over to Skinny Jewish girl and gets a piece of candy. On his way back to his seat, he notices the test that they were supposed to take at the end of the week laying peacefully on Ms. Should Retire's desk. He contemplates for a moment, but he knows he doesn't need it, so he walks away. A few minutes later, class ends and everyone leaves.

The next day, as Cute Chocolate Boy enters class, Ms. Should Retire stops him.

"Hello, Cute Chocolate Boy. I have a question for you," she hissed through her darkened teeth between sips from her thermos.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied quizzically.

"Did you see a test on my desk yesterday?"

"Naa."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes...I mean, No. Yes, I saw it on your desk when I was walking."

She leaned in really close to him, placing her heavy paw on his shoulder. He could hardly breathe through the cloud of caffeine and cigarettes.

"Do you know what happened to it?"

"No!"

He pulled away from her so he could look directly into her face and understand what she was saying.

"Well, Cute Chocolate Boy, the test was on my desk yesterday and it's not here, now. Now, I'll turn around and you can walk away. And if the test is on my desk, no one will get in trouble."

"Are you saying that I stole your test, Ms. Should Retire?" he asked with enough volume that the entire class stopped to listen. Even Asian Boy stopped working in the Calculus book he'd checked out from the library to check out the action.

"No. I didn't say that."

"Well, that's what you're insinuating," he snapped back.

Her face dropped. The classmates gasped and looked to each other for clarification.

"What?"

She didn't know that Cute Chocolate Boy had been reading the dictionary almost everyday since he was five years old.

"I didn't steal your test. I have an A in your class. Why would I steal your test?"

"You know, it is very serious offense. I'm gonna have to write you a referral."

He sucked his teeth and gave an indignant smirk. He looked around the class and started to figure out what was going on. Besides Circle Head, Cute Chocolate Boy was the only Black kid in the class. And Circle Head had been there for three years and fell in line with whatever the teachers said. Plus, the other kids had told of how Circle Head's parents came out to the school and beat him in front of the class because a teacher told them that he didn't turn in an assignment. So, everyone knew that he didn't want to face that embarrassment again.

Though he was young, Cute Chocolate Boy had read and experienced enough to make a deduction.

"You're a racist pig!" he shouted. "I'm going to the office."

As he walked to the office, he realized that he might have given away his upper hand with his last statement. But he didn't care. It was the NWA he'd been listening to and The Autobiography of Malcolm X he'd been trying to read. Even as he grew to become Handsome Chocolate Young Man and Sexy Chocolate Grown Ass Man, he would always have an issue with holding his tongue when he felt he was being wronged.

Once the office received the referral, they called Cute Chocolate Boy's mom at work. Damn! He hadn't thought about that. Once that realization crept into his mind, his head dropped into his hands. The next thing he knew, he was awakened by a slap to the back of his head.

"Get up," Mama said as she snatched his arm.

They walked into the Principal's office. Sitting at the table, chatting, were the Principal and Ms. Should Retire. She began to go on and on about how she was certain he'd stolen the test because one of her best students told her. And she lamented on how offended she was by his accusation of racism.

Mama let her speak for a while, then she put her hand up to stop the spiel. She turned to her son and looked him in his eyes.

"I'm gonna ask you one question. And you already know what I expect from you, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did you take that damn test?"

"No, Ma, I didn't."

Mama turned to the principal and Ms. Should retire and said, "Don't you eva call me from my job for some nonsense like this! My child is a good student. I think he has an A in your class. You didn't call me to tell me how good he's doing, but you call me because some other student told you he stole a test? You've gotta be kidding me!"

Cute Chocolate Boy smiled as his mama chided his now sworn enemy.

"Ma," he interrupted. "She embarrassed me in front of the whole class. I think she should apologize to me in front of the whole class."

Mama agreed and so did the Principal. They all walked down to the classroom. As they entered the door, all the students scattered to their desks. The teacher that was watching Ms. Should Retire's room met them half-way with a stapled stack of papers in her hand. The top page read Unit 4 Test. She said that a student found it underneath the teacher's desk.

Cute Chocolate boy smirked. Mama peered at Ms. Should Retire whose chin had dropped to the middle of her chest. The Principal shook his head then "cleared his throat".

The apology sounded like Guy's Piece of My Love or Eric B. & Rakim's I Ain't No Joke to Cute Chocolate Boy. He not-so humbly accepted her apology and aced that test. The rest of the year, however, was quite contentious. He had to nearly walk on egg shells because Ms. Should Retire was waiting for the moment to pounce on his slightest discretion. But she never got the pleasure.

Moral of the Story? I don't know. Whatever you want to take from it. I just wanted to share.

Say What You Mean and Mean What You Say

I remember being a kid sitting on the living room floor on Saturday mornings, watching a parade of my favorite animated people, animals, and woodland and underwater creatures. Sprinkled in between the Smurfs and Captain Caveman, there would always be something educational or a moral tidbit for us youngins'. My favorite was always Schoolhouse Rock. I learned what a conjunction was, that three was the magic number, and most importantly, I learned how a bill becomes a law. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEJL2Uuv-oQ

But there was one PSA that used to come on that stuck with me. It's a little sketchy as far as the details go, but the chorus of the song echoes in my mind. "You tell one lie, it leads to another. So, you tell two lies two cover each other. Then you tell three lies, oh brother. You're in trouble up to your ears!"

This little jingle has stuck with me all my life. Besides the beatings I got for lying and the fact that lying reminds me of my dad, who I want to be nothing like, that commercial is a reason I don't lie to this day. Did everybody else run to the bathroom or go to pour some more sugar on their Rice Krispies when that one came on? Because lying is so rampant these days that it is sickening. People lie just to lie. Just because their lips can form those particular utterances of untruth, they do it.

When I was a kid, my biological father, whom I would see by happenstance, would promise me that he would come and pick me up so we could have some "man-to-man" time on such and such a day at such and such a time. So, being the naive and hopeful kid that I was, I believed him. So, on such and such a day, usually a Saturday, I sat on the couch all damn day waiting for him. He would never show or call to explain that he got a flat tire, was held up at the gas station, died...nothing. Now, he knew damn well that he wasn't coming in the first place. But something inside of him "forced" him to bullshit me. Why not just say what you mean? "Son, I'm a deadbeat. I don't really know when I'm gonna come and see you. It may be next week; it may be next month; hell, it may be next year on your birthday. Hold on. When is your birthday, again?"

As a kid, I may have been devastated, but I wouldn't have been so severely scarred. Because of him, I still don't do well with expectations. I wait for good to happen before I admit that it might. You give me a million dollar check, I won't be excited until I cash it, get the money in my hand, spend it and get a receipt. Then, maybe then, I'll crack a smile.

I guess lying has its benefits. In the short run, it can be very advantageous. But in the end, it's better to be truthful. It may hurt someones feelings. It may scar someones fragile ego. It may get you slapped in the face or the windows busted out of your car. But lying will be ultimately worse.



But it's not just blatant lying that's an issue. People often imply something that isn't exactly truthful. Actually, I'm a culprit of this one.

Have you ever been in a conversation with someone, brief or extended, and they said something that sounded like:

"Arrrgeueh zummel febreeze em el"?

Your response should have been, "Excuse me, sir. But I have no idea what you just said. Can you please repeat yourself?" But instead you say something like, "yeah, yeah. I feel ya", or you smile, nod your head, and say "mmm hmm".

Why do we do that?

And while we're at it, I'm gonna put my aunt on blast for a second. She once set me up with this girl. I asked her how she looked.

Her response: Oh, she's cute; she's cute. She's a really nice girl.

What her response should have been: Oh, nephew, remember that time when you were little and we went fishing? You caught that blow fish with one eye; it scared you and you started to cry. Well, that's what she looks like. But, she's a really nice girl.

Why not say what you mean and mean what you say, Auntie?

Imagine if we all were forced to say what we mean and mean what we say. You know, like Jim Carrey in Liar, Liar.

It would get a little hectic and there are sure to be a few casualties of truth, but wouldn't the world be a much better place? Think about the things we would have heard from our politicians.

JFK: Yeah, so umm, Jackie. I have a little something to tell ya. You know that lil' chippie in the movies, Monroe. Yeah, Marilyn. So, urrruh...I know her. Yeah, I know her really well. Like David knew Bathsheba.

Clarence Thomas: I'm a ca-ca-ca-ca-crackhead and I love me some hoes!

Clinton: I did have sexual relations with that woman. Several times. What man is gonna turn down oral sex? And it was at work! Do you know how exciting that made it? If it was just in a hotel or something, like the others, I probably wouldn't have done it. But in the Oval Office? JFK can't compete with that. I hope housekeeping cleaned up all of the spots.

George W. : I have no idea how to run a country. And hell, I have absolutely no idea what WMDs are. All I know is WWJD? And he would blow those sand nig...

Imagine that.

How about relationships?

Woman: Honey, do I look fat in this dress?

Man: Hell, yeah! Why would you even ask that question? You sit around everyday eating chicken parmigiana and cheesecakes waving bye to me as I'm going to the gym. Then you wanna stuff yourself into a dress that looked good on the skinny mannequin in the store, but it took you twenty minutes and an abundant loss of oxygen from holding in your breath for you to squeeze it all in. So, I must say that you definitely look fat. I still love you, though. Just not as much as I did before.

At least she'd know what he thought and wouldn't go out with her friends who would talk about her to each other but compliment her on how good she looks.

Everyone should just be like the little girl I encountered in the 3rd grade. I confidently sent her a note. You know the note.

Do you like me? Circle YES NO or MAYBE.

I sat and waited, dreaming of the fun times we would have riding our bikes together. When I got the note back it, not only had she circled NO, but she added some words of her own:
"HELL NO I DON'T LIKE YO BLACK ASS! YO UGLY SELF BETTA LEAVE ME ALONE!"

I may have been hurt and not liked what I read, but at least she said what she meant and meant what she said.

P.S. - Years later, when chocolate brothas came back in style, she changed her tune. Too late!!!

Et tu, Brute?

Friends!

How many of us have them?

Friends!

Ones you can depend on!

...you can look it up again and again, but the dictionary doesn't know the meaning of friends.

Those are the immortal words of the legendary hip-hop group Whodini. I've always loved that song. Whenever I would hear that song, my shoulders would get to bouncing, my head would start swaying, my arms would begin to move as if I was on stage as a part of the group with a tight sparkling suit and wide-brimmed cowboy hat. I would rap all the words:

Homeboys through the Summer, Winter, Spring and Fall And then there's some we wish we never knew at all. And this list goes on, again and again. But these are the people that we call friends

But it's not until recently that I started to reassess those words. See, I've always kept a small circle of people that I call friends. There are people that I'm cool with. There are people that I kinda like. There are those that I tolerate and those I don't entirely hate. Now, I can be friendly to all of these people, but that doesn't make them my friend. The majority of my friends are old school. We have memories of being middle-school kleptomaniacs stealing boxing gloves out of sporting goods stores. We can laugh at the memory of me tossing a basket of ketchup drenched French fries in the face of a rude bowling alley employee. We have recollections of college days that I dare not mention in this post. (People have real jobs now.)

And while it takes me a while to truly trust someone, I felt that 10, 15, 22 years might be enough. Well, some events that transpired recently have caused me to question those seemingly unbreakable bonds.

I should have listened to Shakespeare. He told me all about friends in Julius Caesar. I mean Julius' best friend Brutus put that final dagger in his back. And Othello...oh, Othello! Othello's boy, Iago, whom he trusted, cased him up something awful. And the scary thing is that you never really find out why Iago was so evil.

And like Othello, I trusted these friends, these allies, these confidants to no end. But much to my chagrin, they treated me like they didn't even know me. Better yet, they treated me with anger and contempt: total disrespect.

And disrespect is not usually tolerated. Just ask the guy with hot fries in his face at the bowling alley. But I guess my reaction to the infraction was kinda like being a kid and your uncle hitting you really hard in your chest or your mom putting all her might into that last swing of the belt. You wanna scream. You try to make the sound come out, but the only things you can produce are breaths and ugly faces. You squirm and move and a single tear traces your cheek. You want to, but you can't speak. You wanna play hard and take it. But it hurts too much; you can't fake it. But you can't respond the way you want in your mind; you just endure the pain until it subsides. (My bad. Unintentional poetical tangent.)

Because I didn't expect it, it cut me deep. And had it been someone I didn't call my friend, my boy, Marlin, might be using his Florida Bar card to come get me out of the County.

But I've matured and realized that the beautiful lady we all know as Karma will take care of things.

And, from this wonderful situation, I've learned a couple things.

1. To paraphrase JT Money of the Poison Clan, "Put shit past no one." I doubt if I'll ever be completely caught off guard again. Unless I find out tomorrow that my mother is a lesbian devil-worshipper. That might get me.

2. Even between friends, you have to sometimes be ego-centric. As friends, you think that you should be more selfless. Well, in situations like mine, that selflessness left me by myself.

3. Whodini is still one of the hardest hip-hop groups to ever do it. The Freaks Come Out At Night, One Love, Big Mouth...classics!

So, I'm not saying that you shouldn't trust people. I'm not even saying that I won't get over how dirty they did me. I am saying...REMEMBER JULIUS CAESAR!

I Rise, I Rise, I Rise...

Question.

What is the one poem that every black person in America, no matter the age, region, or socio-economic status, is all too familiar with, even though they may not know every line?

Think about it.
You've heard it in movies. Maybe you were compelled to read it in English class during Black History Month. You've seen seen a hundred way-too-grown eleven year-old girls in Sunday dresses schashay knock-kneededly across stages, snapping their fingers and twirling their hips while reciting it. Ahhh...now, you know. What else could it be?

Still I Rise, by Maya Angelou, is a classic piece of literature that addresses the resilience and pride of a people that have been continuously oppressed. This powerful poem suggests that even though someone, or a group of someones, has been looked upon with scorn, that they can walk with their heads held high because there is a greater spirit that is within them. Powerful stuff, right?

Of course. Even if they say you're not good enough and get upset when you behave as if you're not only good enough, but better than they ever imagined, don't let that keep you from continually rising: rising above oppression, contempt, and doubt.

This poem is an anthem for confidence and self-realization.

So, my next question is: since so many love and appluad this poem, why do they behave like those antagonistic oppressors in the piece?

Basically, I'm talking about haters. Not your run of the mill haters that litter the verses of every rapper's song. I mean genuine, real-life people that seem to get angrier with each second of your happiness. I'm talking about people that shine when they find out that things aren't floating smoothly on your end. I mean the ridiculous people who would prefer that you walk with your chin in the middle of your chest instead of your helad held high. Damn them!

I've been told on more than one occasion that I'm arrogant or conceited. I've always disagreed. I simply say that I have a healthy dose of self-confidence and a high opinion of myself. And why shouldn't I? After all, I am the hope and the dream of the slave. Aren't I?

In elementary school, 90 percent of the fights I was involved in started off just like this:

A nice, well-groomed, curly-haired and chocolatey little boy is walking down the hall. Then, out of nowhere, a few menacing figures appear. One of these disheveled hooligans growls, "You thank you cool, huh?" or "Oh, who dis nigga thank he is?" And the ensuing brawl usually results with the cute one on the receiving end of blows from the few less fortunate ruffians. But, still I rose.

But even today. People tend to get upset at my level of confidence.

Does my coolness upset you? (I replaced sassiness with coolness. I've never been sassy a day in my life.)

I do have to admit: I think I'm cool as hell. But it's not that I try to be; I think the combination of my DNA and specific factors in my upbringing put a sort of Billy Dee factor in my blood. It's kinda like a cool evolution. Only the suave survive. I now some other cool people. But some wear a facade of cool that you can see right through.

The way I walk and talk seem to upset some people. I must admit, my walk is special. I don't even remember where it started, but I remember people commenting on it during the 5th grade awards assembly. And even then, I had parents making slick comments about me winning a bunch of awards. "Why he winning so much?" "There are other students out here, you know." "I took off of work to see somebody else's child win everything?" How you gonna get mad a kid because he's a better student than your child? You should be mad at your child for not doing better or yourself for not motivating your dumb ass kid like my mama motivated me.

And I'm sure that this blog may be interpreted as another example of the size of my ego. But what did you expect?

Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, weakened by my soulful cries?

Too bad. Because like the Phoenix from the ashes; like the constant price of gas is, like what high heels do to asses,

Dumb Da-Dumb Dumb!

So, an interesting thing happened on the way to creating an amazing independent film. We had to deal with people!!!

Writing for me is definitely a labor of love. I'm very passionate about it, and like most people, if I'm passionate about something, I put my all into it. But with writing, the only people I have to deal with are the ones in my head. And while they can get annoying and scary sometimes, I'm usually able to handle them.

However, adding real live human beings to the equation entirely changes things. It's kinda like making a sandwich. Imagine some fresh, warm multi-grain or wheat bread patiently awaiting succulent slices of turkey. You place the poultry perfection on one side, followed by juicy tomatoes and fresh Romaine lettuce. On the other side, you spread just enough mustard, regular or the honey variety, then add a slice of cheese or two. Perfect, right? Then, imagine that someone walks up and piles two heaping spoonfuls of mayonnaise right into the middle of your sandwich. After you beat them down, you'd just stand in awe of how what once was so beautiful has become a monstrosity. Adding people to the mix is like like listening Marvin Gaye's Let's Get It On and right when Marv's about to lay on a "oooooooh, baby", the DJ mixes in the infamous Brrrr, from Gucci Mane.



We've come across all types of people trying to do this project:

• The shady business owner who wants exorbitant amounts of cash for us to use his venue
• The nothing-on-their-resume divas who don't understand the concepts of independent
• The unprofessional actor/actresses that simply disappear from the project w/o saying a word. (Damn, if you don't want to or can't do it, cool. Just let a brotha know!)
• And the adults that come to audition that seem to only read books with pictures in them
  

One of the major things I've learned from this project, thus far, is that the rumors of the U.S.'s shortcomings in education are grossly understated. People can't read. And it's funny and sad at the same time. During the casting, when the potential actors had to read lines that I wrote, I had to bite my tongue while listening to them fumble and stumble over simple sentences and words like fruition. That word has three syllables. Oh, sorry. Syllables are the distinct, I mean different sounds that are in a word. The word is pronounced froo-ish-uhn, not froo-shoon, or froo-tee-yun.

It was hard sitting there and trying to keep a straight face. I am a pretty decent actor, but people that truly know me know that my face is window to what I'm thinking. I had to pull out some Sydney Poitier skills a few times.

Some people were nervous and I get it. And there were a couple of words that might have been new for some of them. Okay. But damn, my seven year-old cousin, Brandon, could have done better than a lot of them.


It's no wonder that U.S. students ranked 32nd out of 35 countries surveyed about positive attitudes toward reading. Somewhere along the line we stopped reading. Growing up, I learned a lot from Sesame Street and The Electric Company, but they supplemented my learning. Today, many parents depend on the teachers entirely too much and allow Nickelodeon to do what they should be doing. My mama kept my face in a book.

So, that leads to me to a serious question: How dumb can we get?

If you watch TV, you'll think that there are no limits to the depths of our dumbness.

I tell those I know who watch that bastion of intellectuality, Jersey Shore, that they are probably losing ten brain cells for every minute Snookie and The Situation are on air.




Who's to blame for proliferation of ignorance?

The parents? The teachers? The media?

Absolutely. Undoubtedly. And definitely.

So, do we just shrug our shoulders and say, "Since all of those things are stacked against the kids, then there's just no hope for them"? If so, then we doom, not only them, but our own future.

But what can you do? I'll tell you. Go and mentor or tutor a kid. It can't hurt. Maybe you can help make their dreams come to fruzyun. And I highly doubt that you can make them any dumber than they all read IS.

...Lest Ye Be Judged

As he walked out to the cheers of his adoring fans, I mean followers, I mean, parishioners,, Eddie Long pensively paced the stage, pounding his chest seemingly in an effort to tell his congregation, “it’s all good.” Never directly addressing the specific allegations against him, he referenced Bible scriptures that talked about the persecution that the righteous have to go through. The biggest cheers came when he stated, "And I will be back her next week," refuting rumors that he would step down as bishop of his megachurch.

If you don't know, Bishop Eddie Long, pastor of New Birth Missionary Baptist Church, just outside of Atlanta, is being accused of sexual impropriety with four young man who were members of his church and ministry.

When this news first came out, people were shocked. But why?

Oh, because he's a pastor.

And because he is a voice of staunch opposition to all things homosexual.

And I guess because he is well-respected community leader and advocate for uplifting individuals.

Or maybe it's because he drives a car that costs more than I've made my entire life.

I don’t get why everyone is up in arms over this situation. He’s just a man. Yes, he is in a position of shepherd to a flock of ‘believers’, but ultimately, he is still a man. We have a tendency to elevate people beyond human being status, and when blemishes appear, it's hard for some people to believe them.

For instance, you may never find a bigger Michael Jackson fan than me. Let me rephrase that.
you may never find a bigger SANE, not willing to commit suicide because I don't want to leave in a world that MJ isn't in Michaled Jackson fan than me. But even I had to admit that there was something a little shady about Mike's affinity for sleep-overs with pre-teens.

Mike was a man. Bishop Eddie Long is a man. A man who apparently likes taking teenage boys on trips around the world and sending them pics of him in bathroom mirrors donning extra-tight, spandex sportswear.




But hey, who am I to judge?

Judgement. Now, that's an interesting topic. That's what this entire situaton is about, judging. The same Bible that the bishop preaches from speaks at lengths of the dangers of passing judgement. You know, the whole speck in someone else's eye when you have s big stick sitting in yours. It also says, "judge not, lest ye be judged." And undoubtedly, that's what people are doing right now; judging. They see the preacher living in a mansion, driving expensive cars, flying in private jets, and wearing custom-tailored suits. They judge. They photographs that he allegedly sent to these young men. And they judge. They see his hair and wonder why Jheri curl makes wigs. And they judge.

Okay, maybe that's just me.

But the judgment being passed has supporters of Bishop Long furious. They want everyone to just be patient, let all the facts come out, and stop being so judgmental. Wow! That's refreshing.

Isn't it ironic that when faced with turmoil, people want everyone else not to judge them. However, whenever they have a chance they are passing judgment on every sinner, heathen, and hell-bound person they can find.

More ironic is that fact that the Bishop has long been a vigilant fighter against gay marriages and everything related, but here he is being accused of not only an abuse of power, but with boys. Why do most churches seem to be delusional about homosexuality? The same church that preaches that it's a sin, usually has a choir directed as straight as Little Richard.
But more importantly, why is everyone acting like there’s no homosexuality in the church?

Come on, anybody that attends a black church, grew up in a black church, or ever attended a black church, knows that they have questioned the sexuality at least one person in that black church: the choir director.

But that's okay. He needs love, too. Maybe this whole situation will be able bridge that divide. Ultimately, only Bishop Long and the Longboys know what or who went down on those trips. But these accusations could end up serving a greater purpose.

• Let it be a lesson to people of all faiths to stop deifying men and focus on a personal relationship with whatever deity you chose to or not to serve.
• Maybe looking at the whole person and not simply pick a part of him/her that we don't like or understand, then accept them with love. Maybe then the choir director will feel completely free as he leas the church in Blessed Assurance.

And as for Long's innocence. The Bible also says, "what's done in the dark will eventually come to light." Or was that my grandma?

Family Affair

Every once in a while, there comes a time when you look at things a little differently. You know, a light bulb goes off...an epiphany. I call it a Kick In The Ass(KITA) moment. More often than not, the moment comes as a result of a negative experience.

• I lost my job...damn, maybe I should try to be on time and actually do work instead of chatting on facebook.
• My wife left me...Oh, maybe it's not a good idea to complain about her cooking, sleep with her best friend, and leave dirty drawers everywhere.
• Doc said it's incurable...I should've worn a condom.

I had a KITA moment recently. My great-grandfather, Mr. Henry Brown, Sr. passed at the tender age of 98. Yes, 98. He lived through segregation, two world wars, and Soulja Boy. If a black man makes it to half that age he's doing pretty well. Pop Brown's legacy? Besides the principles of hard-work and faith, he left a family tree that sprouts over 380 branches. That's right! Between his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, etc, there are nearly 400 of us. Daaaaaaamn!

No, my KITA moment was not that I need to hurry up and get started on my family if I want a tree like his. One of my aunts has 23 kids, so she's well on her way.

My moment occurred while sitting at the funeral service, partially listening to the eulogy. I began to look around at my family. Those I knew and those I didn't. It was then that I realized how hypocritical I am. People that truly know me can say how much of a family man I profess to be. It's true. But I had to ask myself, "do you really show it?"

For the past year, I've lived less than 2 miles from my grandfather. How many times have I gone to visit? Once. Are there legitimate reasons? There are reasons, but they really equate to excuses. And while I often quote the phrase, "Don't make excuses, make improvements," I wasn't taking my own advice.

I would say that I'm busy, which is true. But everybody's busy, and nobody's that busy.

It's a natural thing to be self-centered. We HAVE to do this and we MUST do that, and more importantly, we WANT TO do these things. The question is, how important are those things. And how much time does it take to pick up the phone, share a hug, or say I love you?

So, as I sat in the funeral, tears dropping on my fitted lilac shirt that was so very smooth, I took out my Blackberry and started writing a poem. Sidenote: There were these gentleman behind me that were talking junk about me as I began to type on my phone. The old cat in with salt and pepper hair had a brief convo with the somebody's uncle next to him.

Old Cat #1: Man, some people got no respect.
Old Cat #2: No reverence. You gotsta have reverence.
Old Cat #1: This is a funeral, ain't it? Sometimes you gotta stop some things. Leave some things at home.
Old Cat #1: I don't know what's wrong with 'em.

So, I politely turned to make sure they were talking to me. I wasn't gonna fight this old dudes at my great-grandaddy's funeral. Hell, I'm sure they were my cousins or uncles or something. I just turned around to make sure they were talking about me. Well, one darted his eyes toward the minister giving the eulogy, never breaking his glance to acknowledge me. The other, #2, looked directly at me, as if to say, "Yeah, I said it? And what? Whatchu gone do, Youngblood." Youngblood turned around.

I couldn't tell you much of what the minister was saying at the end of the eulogy; I got lost in the words of the poem I writing to myself. the words I was typing mixed in with glances of grown men crying caused me to have to shield my Blackberry from my tears.

This is the poem. Read it. Maybe it'll be your KITA moment.

Yesterday's Promise
Darius D.
Written 9/18/2010 @ around 1pm, inspired by the legacy of a great man, Henry Brown, Sr.

As we sit and reminisce and tears fall down our faces,
We recall those dear moments, sweet times, special places.
Our minds travel back to the tender memories we shared,
But we inevitably focus on the times we were not there.
All of the missed chances to share stories, opportunities to show love
No matter what we did, it could never seem enough.
But let's not focus on the misses, but concentrate upon our makes.
And look towards tomorrow and not repeat our mistakes.
So, that mother uncle, cousin, sister or grandfather
That you say you'll call or go and see tomorrow,
When you're too busy with the oh so busy business of your own,
Take the time to make that visit, send that letter, pick up that phone.
Cherish those you love, be it family or friend;
Use this moment to show you love them; you might not get it again.

We Love You "Pop" Brown

On Goal Lines and Ground Zero

There are only a few things that bring Americans of all races, ages, and socio-economic statuses together and can equally divide them at the same time: SPORTS, RELIGION, and, POLITICS. This past weekend marked an unlikely mixture of all three entities.

Both college and professional football seasons commenced this weekend, much to the joy of millions of fans across this country. It’s weird. The passion for a particular football team has the ability to unite people that may otherwise be mortal enemies. A simple combination of colors or a school fight song led by some pimply-faced coed in a sweaty, non-hygienic mole or polar bear suit can cause the fellow who just got his car repossessed to high five and fist pump the repo man.



Look in any stadium stands, except maybe an Ivy League or MEAC game, and you’ll undoubtedly see the veritable “salad bowl” that America espouses to be.

But football season also serves as a great divider. Even I occasionally succumb to the madness that is football fandom. While I proudly bleed the Orange and Blue of the University of Florida Gators, a few of my friends made disheartening decisions by attending Florida State University. And though I know better, there’s always a bit of a divide between us when football season rolls around. Hell, my good friend, Alexis, put our friendship on pause because her USF Bulls, a grossly inferior opponent, was playing against UF. Good thing the game's over; we’re friends again.

Just like football, a person’s faith or political persuasion immediately aligns them with a million strangers. I was reminded of this during all of the fuss around the so-call Ground Zero Mosque.

On September 11, 2001, men claiming to be doing the will of Allah were responsible for nearly 3,000 deaths when commercial planes were hi-jacked and crashed into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. (Unless you believe the conspiracy theories.) This catastrophe seemed to unite all people in America for a fight against a common enemy: terror. Unfortunately, this fight against tyranny became an attack on all things Islamic.

And while Ground Zero is being reestablished, there have been many discussions about placing various monuments and memorials to the victims in that spot, but the possible placement of an Islamic community center two blocks away from Ground Zero has gotten all of the publicity. With that, the line was drawn in the sand again. Either you are against the center being built, or you’re for it. You couldn’t have an insightful and rational opinion. That’s like being an Ohio State and Michigan fan, or a simultaneous Miami Dolfan and New England Patriot enthusiast. It’s impossible. In protest to the center, which includes a mosque, a complete imbecile disguised as a Florida preacher threatened to burn the Koran. Really? He’s since backed off the threat, but come on.

Is this WJWD?

It’s amazing, but not really surprising, that this is even a debate. With noted intellectuals like Sarah Palin leading the charge, many would have the U.S. ignore its own tenets of freedom. I’m not sure, but I think I remember reading something about freedom of and from religion. If I’m correct, then if I wanted to build a church where I could worship cabbages, then I should have the right to.

Now, I understand some of the genuine sentiment regarding the whole situation. I think a certain amount of respect should be given to the victims and their families. There should be some sort of honorarium for them at the place so many lost their lives. They should show that from the ashes of terror rise bonds of strength. Building anything that doesn’t memorialize them and promote peace would be an injustice. But the fervor regarding this situation is unfounded.

First of all, there isn’t a mosque being built directly on the hallowed grounds where the Twin Towers once stood. It’s about two blocks away. Some say that’s too close. Oh, okay. How far should they go? Jersey? Connecticut? Oh, maybe they should just build it back in EvilIslamland. That is a country, right?

And like I mentioned before, it’s a community center. Yeah, there’ll be a place of worship there, but there’s also going to be a basketball court. I guess they fear someone might throw a lot of Allah-oops…I couldn’t resist.

It’s just like those commercials that DirecTV has been running to promote their NFL packages. In these commercials, fans of a particular team extol the virtues of their team and city while lamenting over the fact that their neighbors can watch and cheer for their rivals anytime they want. A waitress spits in drinks, snow gets shoveled onto someone’s door, a dog even leaves his mark in someone’s house. All of this happens because someone with a minority opinion and set of loyalties is close to the majority's territory and they don't like it.

Hmmm…

If I can maintain friendships after some of the historical battles between the Gators and Seminoles, then those who profess to be loving, caring Christians should be able to open their hearts and see the God in all people, even those from EvilIslamland.

Labor Day???

I eavesdrop a lot. Well, it’s not really eavesdropping; I just hear extremely well. As a writer, this “skill” is a tool that aids me in understanding people: the things they do and how they interact with others. It’s annoying at times, though. Sometimes I feel like Jim Carrey in Bruce Almighty hearing all of the world’s problems at once. Who wants to hear strangers trade STD stories?

The other day, I “overheard” a couple teenagers talking:
Kid 1: I’m glad it’s a three day weekend; feel me?
Kid 2: Yeah, for real. I’m tired of school already. What’s Monday? Why it ain’t no school?
Kid 1: I think it’s Labor Day or sumthin; feel me?
Kid 2: Labor Day? What’s that shit about?
Kid 1: I think it’s to celebrate when women be pregnant and it’s hard to have dem babies, so they go into labor; feel me?
Kid 2: True, true.

My first thought: These are some dumb ass kids.
Second thought: That’s some rather creative reasoning.
Third thought: No, I don’t feel you.
Forth thought: What the hell is Labor Day?

I consider myself a pretty learned individual. I tend to think I could at least make it to Jeopardy’s Final Round with $100 left. And you don’t wanna see me in Taboo. So, I know that Labor Day has to do with celebrating the work force and unionized labor; feel me? Ooops. But I still don’t get the point of celebrating Labor day.

Why the national holiday? Everyone isn’t in a union. Hell, how many people wish they had a job so they could get Labor Day off? And how about the percentage of the workforce that lose money by having the day off?

Really, isn’t the day just another reason to have a BBQ? I’m not complaining, because you can never have too many reasons to have BBQs. My friend has a BBQ every time his HIV test comes back negative. He hasn’t had one this year, though. I hope it’s just the economy.
Labor day was established in 1882 in support of an eight hour work day, as opposed to the 12-hour days commonly worked.

Other major events in 1882:
False teeth were patented.
Chinese Exclusion Act was signed, preventing Chinese immigration.
The real Hatfields and McCoys feud. Over a hundred people wounded and killed.
Blacks were being lynched at an astronomical rate.

Why are we holding on to this archaic holiday? Get rid of it. While you’re at it, get rid of a few more holidays as well.

Columbus Day – We should all celebrate him. He was should a fine, upstanding individual.
President’s Day – I don’t get it. Yeah, I commemorate a shrine to Washington and Lincoln on that day. No, I don’t just sleep until noon and go to the mall.
Halloween – After about 12 years old, anyone wearing a costume should be detained and evaluated, unless she’s a woman and the costume is extremely revealing.

Everyone always talks about the state of education in the U.S. Well, maybe if the kids were actually in school instead of always out for some bullshit holiday, they would know more. Feel me?

Oh, and I’ll wear white whenever I feel like it.

It Was All A Dream

August 28, 1963. On this day, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered what is widely considered the greatest speech of the 20th century. While the March for Jobs and Freedom had many eloquent and poignant speakers that day, Dr. King’s speech effectively encapsulated the heartbeat of an entire people and still resonates with pertinence today.

This past weekend was the 47th anniversary of that wonderful event, and it made me think.

Talking head, Glenn Beck, decided to hold a rally at the Lincoln Memorial, the same place Dr. King delivered his speech, forty-seven years to the day. Coincidence? I think not. I'm not going to give a lot of time to that, but it's funny that he was hosting a "Restoring Honor" rally. This is the same man who called President Obama a racist and Muslim. (Not that anything is wrong with being a Muslim). During Beck's event, Rev. Al Sharpton and others organized an extremely less attended event designed to protest the other and actually commemorate the legacy of Dr. King's speech.

And back to that speech. I personally love that speech. Whether you hear it or read it, it is an amazing peace of literature. The "I have a dream" portion was apparently improvised in the same Southern minister style that my grandfather uses, but the sections that were written rival anything put to paper.

Sidenote: Why do many preachers sound like they have asthma or some other upper-respiratory infection when they are delivering their sermon? I've always wondered that. That's why I never wanted to be a preacher. It sounds too painful.

His use of metaphor and imagery. The pictures of pain and persistence he painted. His use of allusion to everything from the Bible to Shakespeare to Greek philosophers flowed effortlessly.

My favorite section of that speech, while it is hard to choose just one, is below:

"In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men - yes, black men as well as white men - would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked 'insufficient funds.'"

I put it red because it's just that FIRE!!! Is this from 1963 or did someone just write this today?

The ability to take an embarrassing situation like getting NSF notice (I know all about it) and relating it to the failure of the government to honor it's own promises is evidence of true genius. Read it over a few times. It might lose you'll catch on.

Many of today's politicians hardly put their own pens to paper for the speeches they present. Same goes for many musical artists, even rappers. That's a shame. To be a rapper and have a ghostwriter is despicable. But...if you're a rapper and you need a little assistance, holla at your boy! The pen is deadly!

And another thing about MLK. Is it just me or was he one of the coolest dudes to ever walk the face of this planet? You never saw him rattled or shook. The cadence and tone of his voice made Billy Dee Williams jealous. Even in his mugshot, he looked as if he was ready to walk into a nice little jazz club or family restaurant or an alleged rendezvous. Now compare that to James Brown's mugshot.

One day, I hope to be half as eloquent, a quarter as cool, and have a fraction of the impact of Dr. King. That's my dream.

This Might Make Me Hurt Somebody and other Musical Musings

One of my closest friends, MG, is an attorney. He and I have joked about the possibility of me needing him to use his BAR card some day to come get me out of jail. Now, I am not a violent person. In fact, besides all of the daily rumbles in middles school, my fried-chicken incited dorm brawl in college, and the few post-university coming to the aid of friends fracases, I’ve rarely had to resort to violence. There have been times that I thought I might have to though.

1. The time the guy in the gym said to me, “I like the way you move,” while I was in midair working on my abs.
2. The time another guy in the gym butted into my conversation and called me a liar. Two major mistakes in the Darius Book of…well, just Darius’ book.
3. When I guy at my job confronted me about some nonsense at work as if the school bell just rang and he heard that I was talking about his mama. That one was close.

Fortunately, it has not gotten to that point…yet.

I think I may need his assistance very soon, though. I’ve been trying to fight it. I’ve prayed about it. I’ve meditated. Focused my energy in the gym. Gotten my green tea and honey on. Nothing’s worked. I’m gonna snap and it’s not gonna be pretty.

The next time I hear someone, especially a grown ass person, singing “This right here is my swag,” I am going off Mel Gibson-style.

If you don’t know, that is a lyric from Pretty Boy Swag, the latest offering from the lyrical genius better known as Soulja Boy Tell’em. First of all, I’ve always wanted to know who told him that a dependent clause without any punctuation makes a good rap name. But I digress.
People have varying musical tastes, I get that. Some prefer Luther Vandross to Marvin Gaye; some prefer Dean Martin to Frank Sinatra. Even you may favor Coldplay to Maroon 5. All of those are understandable. There are some things in my musical collection that others may question: the Carpenters and Eazy-E are in heavy rotation. But there has to be a line.

You may need to take a Calculus class or go read Macbeth after this, but here is a sample of the brilliant lyrics:

Get out the way
Pretty boy comin' thru
Me and my crew we swaggin in the room
Girls on me heavy 'cause I look so sexy
Yellow diamond shawty in the club straight flexin
I'm lookin' for a yellow bone long haired star
Thick in the hips come and get in my car
You party with a star we take off and go to mars
Pretty boy take off in 5.4.3.2.1

I sincerely apologize.

When I was a teenager, music was much different. Yeah, there were a lot of songs without much lyrical content. No one ever accused Luke of being Smokey Robinson, or Biggie for that matter. But there was a lot of good stuff out there.

If you need an example of that good stuff, check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agnKPLrG2E0

Nothing like a little Kool Moe Dee to restart your brain.

So, when the bureaucrats start barking about low test scores of American students and how they don’t stack up to their counterparts across the world, there is only one person on the face of the planet to blame: Mr. Pretty Boy Swag.

When I first heard the song, I thought it was one of those parodies that the morning shows do. So, I laughed. But when I found out that it was a “real” song, I laughed even harder. But when I heard the remix that features Gucci Mane, the laughter stopped. I immediately put Nirvana into my CD deck and drank some Pennyroyal Tea.

So, back to my future arrest.

You know how some songs that you hate begin to seep into your subconscious without you knowing? This song has somehow found its way into my brain and I want to dig it out!
If this blog happens to have no posts for 3-5 years, then you know that someone must have been getting’ their swag on and I snapped like a woman who gave up her successful career for her husband who later on cheated on her with her hairstylist and the gardener.

Oh, and one more thing.

We’ve had LBJ and JFK; how about KMD for president? Kool Moe Dee. I’m just saying. He goes to work!

NIG*A What?

As much as I don’t want to, let’s talk about Dr. Laura Schlessinger and her recent racially-charged tirade. If you haven’t heard, a black listener called into her nationally-syndicated talk show seeking advice on how to deal with the racist comments that some of her white husband’s friends used around and towards her. The esteemed “doctor” basically told the woman to stop being so sensitive because all the black comics on HBO use the N-word.

*Okay, for the sake artistic integrity, I will no longer use “the N-word”.

What she really said was that if you turn on HBO you hear all the black comics screaming, “Nigger, nigger, nigger.” Yeah, she said it. She didn’t say the N-word; she said nigger. When the caller expressed her shock and discomfort, the good doctor spewed the word about eight more times and intimated that because of her hyper-sensitivity, maybe she shouldn’t have married outside her race.

Hmmm…so many questions.
1) Why the hell was this woman calling Dr. Laura for advice of that nature? Does she not have any friends or family members that she can talk to about this?
2) What’s up with her husband? According to her, he just allows this sort of conversation to take place. Why are his friends so comfortable saying it in front of him? He must use the same language when she’s not around.
3) Why are we surprised that someone white says the word nigger? Come on, now. Is it really that shocking? Kramer said it!
4) And I guess the biggest question is: Is it really that big of a deal? This whole controversy has rekindled the vaunted “N-word” debate, and has everyone from Uncle Al Sharpton to the NAACP calling for her head.

Depending on who you ask, you’ll get a myriad of different response to that question.
Some people believe that the word carries such a history of degradation and belittlement that any use of the word should be stricken from the English lexicon. Others believe that by owning the word, this generation has grasped the power from the oppressors and has erased any pain it can cause. And still others could care less about any historical context and probably don’t know what the words ‘historical’ or ‘context’ mean.

You also have the nigger versus nigga conundrum.

My personal definitions:

Nigger: a derogatory term used to describe people of African descent. Usually used by racist or prejudiced persons, i.e. KKK, Guys driving monster trucks, or idiots commenting on YouTube videos.
Nigga/nigguh: 1) a term of endearment used primarily by blacks (in some case Hispanics) to each other. 2) a term that can be found an average of 12,419 times on each Rap/Hip-Hop CD.

I have been called variations of the word countless times in my life, sometimes by those I love and sometimes by those not so affectionate. When I was around six, my family and I were fishing from a bridge in a rather affluent neighborhood. Some guys pulled up behind me, pelted me eggs, and shouted “nigger go home!”

Recently, a childhood friend I hadn’t seen in a while greeted me with a hug and a “my nigga!”

Totally different circumstances but I completely understood what each one was. I’m sure the guys throwing eggs at me weren’t doing so out of love, and I know my boy from back in the day isn’t going to lynch me anytime soon.

It’s pretty easy to tell the difference.

At one time, the NAACP held a ceremonial funeral for the Nigger. In the light of Dr. Laura’s comments, a politician in Hawaii wants to add a bill that outlaws the word. I think these are complete wastes of time. If anything needs to be exterminated, it’s the mentality of inferiority that some carry with that word. No word can encompass the complexity of a people, so STOP letting this one define you.

The funny thing is that an art form that was created by black people has played an enormous part in how “we” view the word. It is used so freely in hip-hop that you would think it is the first name of choice in the black community. “I want you to meet my son, MyNig’a Jefferson.”

I recall, in my college days, being out with some friends of the lighter complexion. I would always laugh when the DJ played a song that my friends new. They would be rapping every word of the song until there was a nigger lurking in the lyrics to come. When that nigger approached, they would take a sip of their Goldschlager, suddenly forget the words, or just look at me and do some crazy thing with their heads.

“Ain’t nuthin but a G-thang baaaabay! Two loc’ed out [insert inaudible grunt or spastic head wiggle here] going craaaaazay!”

Did I think that they would have simply said it if I wasn’t around? Yes.
Did I think that made them racist? Not at all.

My biggest question is: Why do white people want to say "nigger" so badly?

The argument that is often heard, and that was used by Schlessinger, is that it’s so confusing when black people use it and don’t want non-blacks to use it. “You can’t have it both ways,” they shout. They seem so offended and heartbroken about not being able to use the word…in public. Yes, in public. I’m a firm believer that under the right circumstances, your best buddy at work drops an N-bomb with his friends ,when his favorite Lil’ Wayne or Young Jeezy song comes on, or if a black guy cuts them off in traffic.

Why isn’t there a clamoring by blacks for the right to denigrate Hispanics or Jews? Or since I hear some women referring to each other as bitches, should I not be allowed to the same?
Think about it.

And sure; there is a double-standard. Even if it is being said out of affection, there is just something wrong with a non-black person saying it. That's just life. I have a nickname that only my family calls me. I ask them not to refer to me by the name in mixed company. And if someone outside my circle hears the name and feels it’s cool to say it, I quickly correct them. They don’t throw a fit and protest. They accept it, call me Darius, and move on.

Question for you: How many times have you, yes even you, the most liberal, loving, all-accepting, Buddhist philosophy following, We Are the World singing person out there, how many times have you blurted a racially, ethnically, sexually, or socially offensive term in a moment of rage or fear?

I’m just asking.