Punched By An Angel

I've only been punched in the face once. It was by my brother, as I threw water in his face after I lost a game of basketball. I might have been 10. I have never been the one to initiate a fight and sometimes I have been the one to shy away from one. It's not that I am afraid to throw hands in the unlikely event someone's face will receive them, it's just a waste of my time, normally. There was always so many things to do as a child at Carver Middle: practice for All-District tryouts, reading for book club AND general pleasure, baking brownies for my classmates and my crush(es), figuring out a sick playlist for my neighborhood jogs. Completely swamped all the time with little time to waste something that would get my nose broken, or worse, suspended. All of the Randalls and Malfoys and Jo(h)ns more than likely came from a disfunctional family, and younger me didn't want to add $4.99 for an icepack their child would have needed after they were trying sqaure up my Jonathan "Juve-NYLES" Whiting. But as I got older the energy to scrap unveiled itself. It was this energy I had felt a few times towards my teammates in high school when I sincerely wanted to take someone's head off. The feeling of -violence- rose from the seedlings of anger that had been planted, but I had never given it sunlight. I did have some sort of fury but truly did not want to fight. Not the type of 'oh you didn't let me into the club because the men-to-women ratio' sort of fight; I am too old and not-stupid for that. I wanted to fight against the patriachy, discrimatory housing practices, my own insecurities, Michael Buble Christmas songs. Of course there comes an anger when someone doesn't wear their mask even when prompted and I want to take a brick to their five-head but I digress. Anywho anyway, anything that got in the way of my happiness or anyone else's prosperity needs to halted and reflected and modified. Yes my job is in education but it is everyone's duty to teach and everyone's duty to continue to learn. From the 6 year-old butt sniffer to the 86 year-old butt sniffer. The amount of times I have been harassed by security or police or white people in general, they're not receiving a black 'n' mild Jon anymore. the issue of me not wanting to fight is not there anymore. I may be a full-time teacher, yoga instructor, and in grad school but just like Booster Gold, I will make time. My ancestors have powers, having to deal with all this boo-boo that's been put in their way. You best believe black people did not have wait to have their powers until December 21st, 2020. They were amplified. Oh. One more thing. Yes, if needed, I will slap a buster or two when needed. Rest easy Tiny Lister 

The Master

I started running one morning. It was a Tuesday, I think. So it was 5-mile intervals. Everything always hurts, and I am always tired or confused. My body, mind, and soul have continued to grow and expand, sometimes at an exponential rate at times. 1 foot down, 1 knee up my arm pumped, one arm straight. I recall the dramatic knee pains that left my left knee shattered and almost useless in sophomore year in high school. I still had yet to figure out what had left me almost severely crippled. I recalled my speech impediment that halted any cyphers I was to join in on during pep rallies for marching band. I hurdled over a dead cat, bloated on the side of the road. I've longed for the opportunity to show the full extent of my intellectual knowledge and physical prowess to own self but to no avail. There's so many external factors that people my age deal with: societal pressure through social media accounts and such. Using those sort of underlying themes from Myspace and Instagram and sometimes LinkedIn, I wanted to become the greatest person I could be. The real J.O.D.Y. I've always wanted to show myself off to the 1st grade version of me, so I can be like "look at me" to me Even getting my M.A.T. in Secondary Science or my RYT 500 won't mean much to me; will just be another notch on the belt. I want to be 'The Master" in everything, always, all time. I want to learn how to dance like Josephine Baker and fight without fear like Nawi. I want to be The Master . On my own plane of existence, of course This doesn't have anything to do with titles or ranks anymore. I was done with that years ago. If I were Sicily and I baked bread like my hands were crafted by Young Jeezy then that's just what I do. Forever. And always. I want to make great bread. I hit a stop temporarily, unsure if a car could see my reflectors as I peeked around a stop sign. They did not. They barely ever did. I want to become a great yoga teacher. I want to be a great science educator. I want to be run really really really fast. I want to entertain and bring joy to people's lives. I want to learn every single hobby and skill and trait and quirk of everything, ever. Why would someone not want to live their life to the fullest and make themselves full of joy and happiness by delivering top tier work? But what does that mean to someone like the boys who reminded me I was stupid and a faggot everyday in grade school. What reference boy point does an 11 year-old boy have to ensure the world doesn't hate him, his skin, his mind...what reference point does a 27 year-old man have to know the world doesn't hate him, his skin, his mind... But who I am kidding, there's always a reference point. There was Freddy Adu then there was Kyle Massey and now there's that one guy off of Instagram. There's always someone who seemingly exemplifies these traits then ultimately fails to impress the world. If only they ate more cornbread when they were a kid. I had continued running and shuffled to the next song,

A Bass Clarinet and Microwaved Totino’s

I rarely did I get in trouble growing up as a kid. It wasn’t really my tempo. I received a demerit once in 7th grade for forgetting my notebook and bawled my eyes out for 10 minutes until my teacher just told me to forget about it. The priority from 5th grade through the rest of grade school was to do the best I could but with minimal effort, so I had enough time to play video games. That’s it, cut, dried out, and laid out ready to sell on the market. That’s not have school works though apparently. Reminiscing on this past school year and my reentry to teaching had brought up my intentions and goals from when I was 13***. During in-person school I got pushed , shoved, insulted, teased, berated, cursed at, embarrassed, belittled. And I always wondered why? From 7th grade through high school I made my best efforts to not sit in the lunch room. The only time I met the principal (unless being acknowledged for being black and mild to win “student of the month”) was when the security guards thought my “FUBU” shirt was a gang-affiliated shirt. FYI it was the shirt Ludacris’ “Area Codes” video. But I had to consider, would Jon aka Nyles during during middle school and 1 year of high school fair well being online ? Consider the following: 1. Parents whooping me for the thought of failing a class (check) 2. Stable internet connection (well I used to use dial up for my Nintendo DS Lite so semicheck) 3. The intrinsic need to do well to do well and being able to read independently (check) 4. Shutting the frick up and getting my work done so I can go play Metroid Prime Hunters on my DS Lite until my godmother called, making me lose my connection? (Double check) I don’t think it’s fair to assume that it would go smoothly. Just a reminder of why the kiddos are even here in the first place. All the pain and tragedy that is going on isn’t fair. Some parents are right around my age and have been getting their butts handed to them. Some kids can’t even get food unless they get to school. I had all those resources growing up, so it is easy for me to sit and here and just flex because I just wanted to sit in the library and do homework before I got home. At the same time I have a lot of faith in kids, as I have to since I teach 7th grade. I want them to do well and succeed and no amount of takis or positive reinforcement or Tim Duncan school promos are going to help if they don’t have the right support system. And for now, I’ll be their Dollar Tree version of Ms. Frizzle

***The picture is showing me at the age of 13, celebrating my best friend’s 14th birthday party***

101 Ways They Call You The N-Word

They cheered when he won. Chanted too. Cried tears of joy. Laughed. You would have thought they had just won a Vince Lombardi trophy. Would have thought someone just got down on one knee and proposed in the middle of a skating ice rink. Everyone stopping to stare at the lovely couple. So much energy, so much constant energy, (Apologies, I didn't even somewhat re-read this for edits!) I mean I cried too. You would have thought I was a Squirtle on how hard I cried. And I am a beautiful crier, as elegant as Michael Jordan with the right-left switch back in '91. I had so much energy. So much energy I ran for 5 miles at 10pm on a Tuesday night. Can you imagine having your friends tell you how racist their parents are and then just not correcting them? These are people who may hire me or at least insult me before they fire me. Correct them every single time, like how I correct myself when prompted. That was a few years ago when I lived in racist couple's garage in Portsmouth. I remember they were racist because on how they cried when he won and how quickly they asked me to leave because I repeatedly insulted their president. I wasn't trying to be rude, it's just my coworker had told me "he would have killed me if I was Trayvon and he was Zimmerman" about two days after that election. I remember when he told me, it was so natural; like the same tone and confidence when you order a Zaxby's Club from Zaxby's. Almost effortless. I am fast forward two months later, a property manager sued me for $6,500 in rent, after I refused to be pay $650 in rent for two months. Not that I know much about housing discrimantory practices, but the tub above mine fell threw my own tub. I had to shower at planet fitness. I wished the roaches would chip in on rent, they were running up my electricity bill. My coworkers at the time ranged from a white guy who just graduated Tech to some other guy who graduated from UVA and I didn't like talking them. Like never ever. They spoke of all these political issues and such like it didn't directly affect minorities. It was, uh, disgusting. They spoke about Flint like it was a tissue filled with wadded-up gum. They spoke about the school "which I eventually ended up working at" as though it was discounted Skechers. Like those people who do mission trips to remote parts of the world to go do selfies but aren't allies for anyone who doesn't look like they shop at Target exclusively. Excuse me, I believe it's Tarjay, I am not sure of where politics began and but I do know that people talk with a little bass in their voice when they are wrong. Especially when they are super duper wrong. It's weird right? Some people be backpeddling like Aaron Glenn when they're wrong, straight off into a cliff. Some people will throw them a rope but they start digging a hole like they are diglett, wondering why everyone is "attacking them". If someone says you offended them, it is not up to you to decide if they're right. It is up to you to shut up and listen, Terry Crews. And sometimes it is too late Carolyn Bryant. I wonder if that is why I love horror films so much. It's almost satire on how I think I'm the protagonist of my own movie and that I will not be the first person to be killed in the first part of the movie. THe intro is all nice and go-lucky and heart-warming then everything gets taken away from me. Because someone and some curse, yadda-yadda and I'm that missing kid from the flier or taken from my family unexpectedly. I was minding my own business, now some demonic spirit has recarnated itself into my body and now I'm somehow the bag guy off of what someone else did. Funny, right? Right?

10 Things I Hate About Jo(h)n P.

I am one of those people from my childhood that secretly hope their bullies are slightly inconvienced for the rest of their lives. I am one of those people from their childhood that would be too afraid of thunder and lightning and go sleep in their brother's bed then went the bed. I am one of those people from their childhood that only believed in two main ideas: hate and fear. Everything else was secondary or tertiary. Love, faith, friends, family, hot pockets, education, bass clarinet, video games were the foundation of my life back then but the feelings . Well based off of my childhood journals, that is how I came to this conclusion. My childhood journals started when I was 7 and I wrote in different ones, on and off until now. It seemed liked I was afraid that people would not like me so I would bake them goodies, help them with classwork, play with the one kid no one cared about, etc. From my writings it seemed like I did not enjoy these tasks, at least as the intentional way I do them now. I also despised the way people seemed to hate one another, it seemed like a waste of energy. Hearing my family argue, hearing how much people do not like each other, hearing kids from my childhood call me any name they could think of. Reading through my journals I, like I do but not so much now, try to find a reason behind everything. "Why would they do something that I told them that makes me feel bad over and over again?" Jo(h)n P. wasn't the meanest person I encountered during my childhood but the most consistent. From 3rd grade to 9th grade, he found some way to make me, his 'friends', his teachers, and his own family feel bad. I remembered he would do these awful things and I would read everyone's reactions to his actions. They were just...disappointed. Like when he stole my bike and blamed it on his little brother and I had to go to his house and ask his mom for it back. When he would make my 8th grade World Studies teacher roast because he would not stop talking during tests. Being the first person to call me the 'n' word and being the only person I have attempted to punch outside my family. I am not in the energy to dwell on things and somehow also not the one to forgive people. Me and him had the almost identical titles and he was making me look bad. Whether it be running XCountry or living in the same neighborhood or being in the same classes or being in the same band, why would I ever accept mediocrity from someone Jo(h)n? So being the healthy adult human man I am at the age of 27, I take all of those childhood insecurities and negative energy and put it to a ball of rubberbands and put it as my foundation. All of the laughs and cries and police harrassment and miles ran and cocoa butter kisses and matchmaking on Halo 3, I through it into who I am, put some soil on it and use it to help me grow. Along with Jo(h)n P. Without him I wouldn't have learned how to manage energy or deal with growing emotions or interact with humans who are hollow casts. I am not going to be able to eliminate those terrible things that happen but I can remember how many wonderful things came out from being bullied and harrassed in my childhood. Maybe fear and hate do not motivate me quite as much but it still there. Without him or Thomas B. or Edward P. I would be this big mass role of cotton candy all fluffly and naive. Now I am just cornbread,

Life After Blackface Pt. 2 (Revised)

I think it's important to note that I feel almost everything. My foot striking the pavement when I run, the saxophone melodies off of Jay-Z's American Gangster, my Papa's excitement when I pick up the phone, the gaze on the back of my neck when I enter specific stores, etc. With that amount of feels, there comes an amount of cares. I know I am using that word incorrectly, please give me a minute. On average, the most average person interacts with trillions or ka-billions of molecules every minute of every day. That's the most mayonnaise, basic, carbon copy Joe-Smoe just existing in any space on this planet. This person more than likely ignores most of these interactions between single and compound molecules because in all actuality, who is going to intentionally interact with a ka-billy-jilly-ion particles every single minute. Who would care? Now does Jody interact with all the oxygens I breathe per minute or sodium chlorides I consume at every meal? Heck naw. What am I, a psychopath? Do I think about interacting with those molecules? Heckers nopers. Do I look like a 7th-year senior on a trust fund at Penn State? Do I feel even one atom? I don't think so. When I meet people I tend to put them into 2 categories. A human or an empty vessel. I interact with numerous people so often, whether it be through teaching kiddos, teaching yoga, telling people not to touch me, Zoom sessions, graduate school cohort, etc. I think I do snap judgements and it's not fair of me. But also being fair is subjective. People doing pro-racist things whether it be disacknowledging BLM or doing blackface o supporting the orange or not udnerstanding sarcasm (I have a point, let me finish!) just throws me for a loop. I think I am a nice guy but why do people take their mask off to seize? That's brain neutral energy, Sometimes I am drawn to a certain energy. But sometimes I am always draw a certain energy. It is as though that energy immediately needs to be handled and maintained properly even if that energy has literally no connection or tie to me. And what happens when a battery is powering a flashlight and runs out of chemicals and molecules and such to power this source of illumination? What happens when you're supposed to be the light to guide souls to a beautiful-land but runneth out of wax? Where does the candle get its wax when the wax maker hasn't shown up to work, but the candle still has to light the way? I don't know And I don't know if wax maker is a word,

Father of The Millennium

No one in the entire world could emulate the joy I had when my family moved from Hopewell, Virginia to Chester, Virginia. You would have thought 6 year-old Jonathan had won a lifetime supply of Tostitos. I was ecstatic, enthusiastic, energetic, ergh, and ebullient. I thought we were rich. I mean I had my own room and my own bike, who were you to tell me otherwise?

My dad was an intimidating man. 6'3, built like a UPS truck, and had a calm/demanding presence about him. Almost all of my friends were plain afraid him growing up. I don't think anyone ever gave me a valid reason. Maybe because he didn't smile much or act like the black version of Phil Hartman. But most of my friends didn't deserve a smile from him.

My pops had the task of being a husband, brother, son, game warden of 2 sons, and whatever the heck Denzel Washington did in Antoine Fisher. I was always in awe of him, as he worked in the medical field and had to navigate filling all of these roles while being a black man in the south from the 50s through 2000s. And of course had to figure out whatever I was doing. But that's a lot of technology, a lot of assassinations, a lot of hugs and kisses and people and moving. And not only did he roll with it but he modified himself every decade to at least try and understand what was coming at him next.

The connection between my dad and I was never clear to me. I knew he loved me a lot and whenever I called out "Dad!" he would say "Yes, son?" and he had back no matter what. Whether it be me quitting the basketball team senior year or me needing to bounce off ideas about relocating or coming out to him, he processed things and let go of ideals that were obsolete. 

But sometimes I did not know if he liked me very much. Maybe it was for the same reason my friends wanted to hide under the covers when he came around. I know to this day if my 60-something father who is a cancer survivor and I got into a fight, I will revert back to when I was 8 because I still have a fear that he can whoop my hind-parts. But it is vital to understand my father and I have these talks to work on our relationship and we have these check ins. This is essentially who I want to be and if we have an issue, we have known each other for, like, ever, so we are going to figure out something. The last thing I ever want from anyone is to feel like they are in the dark.

To my dad, I was always be Jonathan. To my dad, I will always be his son.

2.82

I graduated with a Bachelor of Science degree from Georgia College (formerly known as Georgia College & State University) on December 15th, 2015. I majored in Environmental Science with a concentration in geography/geology. My coursework includes hydrology, hydrogeology, ecology, agroecology, independent research on groundwater contamination, chemistry, blah, blah, science. 

Upon completion of my courses, I received a 2.82 GPA, about 80-82 average or a B- scale. Now, do I believe my intelligence over 4.5 years is a B- overall as an adult? No. Did I believe that during my undergrad program? Duh. Let's dive into it,

College is hard. It's probably the hardest thing I have done since pretending I care about Tyler Perry movies. To me, I was an intellectually sound Jonny and I could comprehend things at a high level when my interest was strong enough. And the strong interest in science was such a huge deal and it was overwhelming what one could do with a degree in environmental science. It seemed like the opportunities were limitless. 

All of the times I badgered my peers for study groups, worked in your underground geology lair, stood at my professor's door clutching my marked up tests, asking graduate students about how to fix our broken spectrometers that are always broken, taking mental breaks at permaculture farms, nothing can take away from how beautiful everything was during that time.

Freshmen year wasn't the greatest for me, as I navigated the regular party scene, sleeping in a tiny room across with some yt dude I never met before, and my low appetite to do either one of those things. I went out every once in a while and tried to be social but did not care much. I was most notably known for going to the library at 3pm on Fridays and renting out every DVD from the circulation desk.

My school was tiny, so minute that I knew who was going to be in my class and who to sit with for labs. In my junior and senior(s) year, my 3 professors for (all) my upper level courses knew of me and I felt they did not believe in me. For my senior capstone when putting "eradicating invasive plant species on federal land" was dulled down to "mowing lawns"and got rejected by my advisor, I was not in the best of modes. Sometimes I think they saw me as a custodian, my side job in school. Of course nothing wrong with being a custodian but there is something wrong with someone who doesn't want to be seen as a custodian who is trying to become a hydrologist.

 But during those formative years and post-formative years, it took intentional minutes to convince myself I am smart enough and that I am an extra-ordinary negro. Sometimes I wish my professors sat and talked with me but there was never time for them to get to know me over lunch. I knew all about them, I wanted to emulate them. Just a little. As I became older and (sort of) wiser, I realized that I have my own path and own intelligences that may not show up on the stat-sheet. That may be a reason teaching has come to fluid to me and why my graduate program has been so much smoother than undergrad and why I pride myself off of helping students reach their full potential. Even if they think they're only Drew Gooden. You may not be LeBron James but I would like them to carry themselves like they are. Ya' know?

A Little Fear of Thunder & Lightning, Part. 3

When I was in preschool, I didn't like being touched. At all. Unless it was my mom. Not dad. Not auntie. Not grandma. Not other grandma. Not a 19 year-old super senior in high school. Maybe my brother because he was strong and helped me climb things.

Ironic, as I was reading in my second grade journal everyone was fond of touching me. Hug. Grab. Kiss. Pull. Toss. Smack. It wasn't that I felt afraid at first, I (relatively) knew everyone and felt comfortable around them. Just not that comfortable. So at an early age, I didn't understand the power of the word no because folks didn't oblige. They reverse uno'd that word and said "no" to me saying no. Then a little fear came, like I was helpless. Like a fish out of water or Nick Cannon saying words out loud.

Why wouldn't anyone listen to a preschooler? 

Why would anyone listen to a preschooler?

As I got older I would be dumbfounded by rejecting a plethora of affection by tweens but was still coerced into dating Brendas by whoever I would let coerce me at the time. I guess no in middle school was like Cambodian Riel, pretty much useless. My inability to grow a backbone and lack of identity didn't help, as I slouched my shoulders, stoic arm swings, and feigned smiles. Maybe if I angle my body, plant my feet, and defiantly put my hands on my hips? Like a Nubian Superman,

"uh, na"

As many folks, friends, family, and foes know my brother was significantly bigger than me throughout my life. Even now I rather try to wrestle and hogtie a feral hog than grapple the Sasquatch. But my brother was my #1 protector, friend, partner, arch-nemesis, ladder, ogre, etc. So when he wasn't physically there, I didn't manage well. I couldn't escape his shadow, he's like 6'7. Even though he routinely was there during my childhood I was afraid. My title throughout elementary, middle, and high school was "Lil' Wayne" due to me being little. And the brother of Wayne. When he was not there or wouldn't let me sleep on his floor, I couldn't deal with a light-bulb going out, much less a little bit of lightning.

For a certain amount of years from retaining my memories in preschool at the age of 4 to my bodyguard/Tostitos-eater leaving for the institute when I was 14, there was a huge lack of "manliness" in my stature as represented a few paragraphs back. Reading those words in my journal when I wrote this kind of sucked, sucked something fierce. How was I going to manage becoming a superhero if I couldn't even stand up to flute players trying to pull my hair? Even if I have a different interpretation of what "manliness" is to me nowadays,

Of course the whole parades of bats and Jo(h)n didn't help me to find any type of courage. Maybe if thundering and lightning didn't casually threaten to take me away to Morgan Freeman's dads house dozens of times a year, I would be the CEO of Tostitos by now. Maybe I would stop romanticizing the villainy. Maybe I could listen to the sound and see the lights of fireworks without pulling the covers over my head,

Weak In The Knees

I was running this one time.

I had my two boys Astro & Snoopy, running on one of those warm yet icy mornings in Denver. Astro always pushing. Snoopy always having to be pulled. We had started on our route back, towards Holly Street. By that time, I had finished mapping out the entirety of Denver's city. So best believe I knew where I was going, at all times. Except for one time. We had come to a stop. Well I had stopped. Snoopy had stopped. Astro had stopped. But then Astro went. Then Snoopy went. And unbeknownst to me, I guess I was going too. 

I had been dragged along the pavement for 0.05 miles of our run, actually increasing our pace by 7 or 8 seconds probably. They had only stopped because they were getting choked by trying to drag a 200 pounds worth of Jon. Luckily I only lost a decent amount of skin on my elbow and  my face only got a few pebbles. I had looked up at them after my first dog sledding venture, and they impatiently sat down on their rumps, growling at me to stand upright.. Waiting for me to regain my composure.

Astro & Snoopy were two overgrown weimaraners that outweighed me by a few pounds. They were strong, intelligent, loving, and clumsy dogs. Astro was slightly bigger and actually pushed me to do 5:30 pace with him when alone. Snoopy just wanted to go for a walk and talk about what garbage he ate. Two of the worst running duos out of the 40 dogs I ran but they despised being separated. And who was I to separate two 100 pound dogs from one another?

It took me over 3 months to train Astro & Snoopy to turn at the right time. If we didn't turn at the right time, Astro goes at at right angle and Snoopy would go straight and I'm on the ground. Every morning I saw them, they clawed at the door ( I could literally hear them from inside my door trying to break down the walls to tackle me) and normally destroyed something in the house do to them being aloof.

But the two years I was their lackey I completed over 60 sessions, 250 miles, and unsolicited wrestle time of over a hour. I saw them twice a weak. They got excited every time my car even pulled up. They showered with kisses like I wasn't ever coming back. Until I didn't and for the first time in two years, on my last run, they tried to bite me when I tried to hug them. They knew. They knew that they were my best friends.

See How They Fly

I was walking downtown with you. Everything looked fuzzy and uncertain but that's why we were walking. There could had been a Bill Murray-sized fly and we wouldn't be able to make it out. The lights were hard to miss but only a gentle dim for people on a 3D plane. I don't remember everything we did during the years during our simple, semi-adult time together. But I remember I was elated, enraged, enthralled, emotionless, empathetic, and earnest towards you. It didn't matter right now, as I only had one word to describe for us at this particular moment:

Bubbles

I had saved it for a special occasion, as I had got down on one knee and popped the question. "Will you get a mac & cheese chicken biscuit with me?" She started enthusiastically crying as bats shrieked and flew overhead. And I didn't even tell her I was paying for it.

We had been dressed for the night out on the town; me in my Nike joggers, Doc Marten combat boots, colorful-filled bandanna wrapped around my receding hairline, and my favorite Captain America shirt. I thought I was so fly. You were wearing all the colors of red, dressed in silk and every necklace Jared has on discount. Along with a culturally appropriate headdress that flowed down past the cracks of the sidewalks and 9-inch stilettos. I told you that you looked like you just came off the farm, harvesting spaghetti squash, specifically. You cried but I lied and told you that you appearance was acceptable. You made me walk to downtown as you drove.

After the 11 miles to get downtown and not learning the superpower of flight, I arrived downtown, Cue Great Gatsby montage in a small, southern town as we painted the downtown Tostitos. The whole block and a half. As I told you once again, I don't remember a lot of that night beyond laughing, bubbles, and under-priced soul food. Willy Wonka was there too but he was pissed at us. Our legs stopped working and an invisible bed glided us to the rest of our destination back home.You were there and so was I, and that is all I needed.

But I remember the end. I never forget an ending.

We went back to my house. Your home was the barn outside. I told you to grab a soggy towel from outside after you finished your bath. I yelled about something-something from an open door as you yelled something-something back. Your image became distorted. You kept restlessly morphing into different friends, foes, frenemies, random people I met on airplanes I flown on, all in that same red dress. Your copy of Watchmen rested on the nightstand where I was calmly pacing back and forth. That was a lie.

The night aggressively turned into day and I had a feeling that we should leave. Or at least I should have. Your morphing ceased but it was still eerie. "Even for a dream" I softly spoke. I was still asleep and images came to and fro as I was unconscious but these weren't dreams. I sprinted towards the bedroom to turn on the blast shields. The alarm didn't go off. You were still gossiping as my screams filled the hallway. I painstakingly checked every single door, window, hole, crack and crevice to make sure we were sealed in. The front door was halfway open. We had entered from the garage door after our night was over. If you ever wanted to witness a black man spread his wings and leave the ground, pretend like you see me bolt towards that door to see how they fly.

I landed 2 feet away from the door, on my stomach. I fly whizzed past my head. James Wolk walked into the house, not Joe Keene Jr. "Come outside please" he said with an ear-to-ear grin. I carefully rose and followed him. I was half-naked. In my front yard numerous trucks, men, plaid shirts, and rifles greeted with warmly red attire. James had told me that the neighborhood had been doing well. And I wasn't allowed to be here anymore. I kneeled down replying softly replied "okay" and closed my eyes. James, not Joe, put his hand on my shoulder, relieved. He told me "thanks for understanding".

 But I didn't see black, all I saw was red.

New Breed by DAWN

Arrested Development Pt. 3

I looked across my room at my Nina Simone print. It's Nina Simone looking hopeful, enamored in some sort of blissful, full look at absolutely nothing. She looked like someone had just told her that life is going to be everything that she hoped for right as she popped out of Mary Kate. Her dreams looked like that had come true, and everything was going to be alright. Or maybe everything is everything.

The first time I had even heard of Nina Simone or her voice was a sample by Yeezy's "Blood on the Leaves"; in contrary to my print, her voice sounded angrily exhausted, deprived of energy, yet still stunning. Like she had been stripped of something that was rightfully hers. Like her child. Or her name. Or her identity. Or the ability to piss in your own toilet.

I have collected a lot of portraits and prints over the years. Star Wars regalia, self-portraits of myself, sci-fi stuff, other musicians. This one breaks my heart. Because this has shown so much of how much I dared to dream, how much I have been wanting to become bigger than myself. 

I am fully aware of who I am, trust me. I have spent a lot of time with him. Exuding and conveying myself in this light because it makes me feel full and whole. It makes people around me feel full and whole. Like a fat man at Krispy Kreme when the sign comes on. But that fat man is going to feel bad after that sign goes off. And I helped him feel okay to be fat even though he sort of knows it's not what he wants while I definitely know it's not the look. But I told him it was okay.

Except I didn't do any of that, ever. I never told him to keep eating. I told him to stop numerous times and showed him data. And he told me he wasn't happy this way. And I said cool here's what ya' gotta do. All of the time. Never not showed him what keeps happening. And then he asks "why am I obese and unhappy" 10 years later. It makes me feel like the paragraph before this one is true.

But then again, it is amazing how powerful and how strong I could be and many people I have effected by just walking down the street. I am the unstoppable force, parallel with the immovable object. I do not play, unless I want to win a game. And this is not a game to me. It never was.

Everything has come and gone, fought and retreated. There have been people who have perished for this while I sat down and watched, watched as I could have done something about it. But I chose not to because I had to make sure my resources don't perish because people need me. And if you don't think so, just ask them. And I don't want to talk about it, unless something is being executed. It's not a casual conversation or dialogue. It's gut-wrenching and it hurts when I speak about it those who somehow, somehow don't have a single clue. 

Well, look at what it has cost me even with me not participating. Everything. Maybe because it wasn't mine in the first place. 

New-New-New Apartment (rough draft)

I remember quite a few years talking to this lady in her later 'teens, flying from Denver to Atlanta. It must've been 2am in the morning, multiple flight delays, I was hungry. I had done my pre-flight stretches (I always sit 'Econ' on Frontier/Spirit) and was more awake than someone that wakes up in the morning who had synced their circadian rhythm. And she was kind of cute.

She discussed how godawful and terrible her life had been growing up in the prestigious Oak Hills, Nashville in her young adult life, drugs to drugs, men to women, moving from place to place, home to home, and ruining anyone's life who allowed her too including her loving parents, she admitted. But she claimed to have repent and finally settle in the rehab, for good this time. I asked her how many times she moved during from the time of her birth until now. She said 15. She asked me. I said 21.

--

The transition to Norfolk, Virginia to the metropolitan area of Denver, Colorado was the most gentle transition one could have. Leaving my high-paying job, destroying any chance of having a decent relationship with my ex, running up my credit card, not having any place permanent place to stay, and of course no job. It was probably the most important move of all. It was the only place I wanted to move to when I was in college, besides Atlanta. But I had and still have 200% faith that it needed to happen. I began to perfect my yoga practice, had free reign to run any and every time in the city, and I lived in one home for over a year, the longest time spent in once place since I was 14. But during my time in the midwest the details could have been more tight. Leaving my suitcase out in the middle my bedroom was psychologically breaking me and the inability to just go over someone's house and do nothing was heavy a strange yet relevant uneasy feeling. Everyone was "on-the-go" and it seemed like I made 100 associates for activities and 2-3 actual friends, who honestly had left or talked about leaving. 

--

Conyers, Georgia to San Antonio, Texas was (is, right?) found me in a move strictly to achieve my professional goals as an educator. It was the first time moving and having no desire to move. Georgia was and is my home, and I wouldn't have known if I never left for those 4 years. I rekindled and maintained friendships as well. Honestly it's not about where you live, it's only about who you're with. Plenty of times I exclaimed I would have stayed in Denver if a few friends and family were in the area. But the few months in Georgia, there was no reason that I didn't have to leave but plenty of reasons to leave. It's nerve-racking because this is the first area ever where I know absolutely no one and we are in a freggin' pandemic. But if someone offers you graduate school and a job then... 

--

Chester, Virginia to Norfolk, Virginia. First full-salary job. First time not backing down (professionally) from bullies. First apartment. First time getting a gun drawn on me. First serious relationship. My early 20s was a world-wind, mostly spiking in the area of the Hampton Roads. The 757 showed me literally what not to do in any sort of setting. The way I carried and conducted myself in that area was nowhere near the attitude or standard of any other area in my life. Everything seemed to be right in my face; whether it be bugs, my student's mothers, poverty, racism, lack of synergy. I never could fit in and build anything there. It was such a polarizing community and it made me wayward. I was going on a run and had to keep circling one block because the surrounding areas got me shook. My relationships with the people I loved made me feel comfortable sometimes but that place ate me alive and left me as crumbs. I hated the socioeconomic aspect of 757, even more than Hannibal Burress. 

--

But out of the dozens of places I moved, I've always appreciated the time and effort of living in those spaces. Moving to Texas also includes its firsts as well, but hopefully it'll include some lasts.

Cornrbead Colored Lightsabers

I know some humans who can  make you do whatever they want you to do.

I know a young alien who wanted to believe but couldn't.

I know a moon that could destroy a planet in three minutes.

I know a girl who didn't follow in her family's footstep.

I know some droids who had more heart than most humans.

I know a guy who had the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other and let both of them speak equally.

I was 9 when I saw my first space opera. It was filled with some white people and aliens and a whole bunch of crazy lights. I was mesmerized and filled with anguish, hope, betrayal, and an awakening. That trend would continue on for 17 more years, well, at least 17 more years. 

All of the games, movies, shows, plastic lightsabers, comic cons, metal lightsabers, 'Duel of the Fates' on repeat. The space wizards and shoot outs and improbable hyper-speed jumps and that-one-black-guy-per-trilogy-who-has-a-66%-chance-of-being-a-traitor had me by its force grip. I was hooked, or force hooked? I wanted to be a force wielder. I wanted the powers, death, despair, older chicks hitting on me, a long flowing mane, an ability to fly apparently every ship inherently, yellow eyes---a sword-shaped flashlight. It was all I ever wanted. At least I thought for a while.

I grew up, went to middle school then summer school then high school then college then early adulthood. I thought it was over after that boy lost his limbs back in '07. But it was only the beginning. As I got older, adults, adults showed up wearing robes, reenacting prominent battles, pulling open automatic doors without even touching them! How is that even possible?

I wanted to be that, I wanted to be a hero. And a villain. And an antihero. And a senator since it seems so easy. The powers were amazing but at the same time, I just wanted the honor to be apart of something huge. Yeah I want glitter to manifest from out my fingernails, but having all life work in unison and granting specific organisms the ability to manipulate an entire network of particles seemed attainable and believable. Maybe I can't bring down a cheese-shaped ship that's longer than a billion Tostitos but why not trust in the force? It's the basis of all my beliefs. Why can't that ideal mean something more than just what you find in a comic book or a tv show,

It sucks though because people like me haven't been represented well in something that has been so monumental in my childhood. I mean, even the aliens haven't had much representation (why are there SO many white people throughout all of these galaxies?!) but it's how I live my professional, spiritual, intellectual, and physical. Not as a man who is all good or all evil, but in the grey area until I receive 100% synchronization with wherever my opera takes me. 

My First Wife, Phở' jita Jones

I never told anyone about my first wife, Phở' jita Jones. Like the Mexican cuisine. It's okay if you butchered the pronunciation of the word, I mean her mother already did,

Her eyes glowed purely of ember and could increase a mammal's body temperature by 1 degree if you made eye contact for more than 12 seconds. Her arms were longer than Mr. Fantastic and she could pee and wash her hands at the same time if the occasion were to arise. She communicated in Spanglish; part Spanish, part whatever qualifies as speech in Dekalb county. The only black girl from the dirty south with a framed and signed picture of Paz Vega in her room. Right above her nightstand.

Hmm, what else? She brushed her teeth 2.78 times a day, never been on a cruise ship, got a C - minus in 6th grade because a chair got tossed and hit that one nice kid who everyone likes in the back of the head, she learned how to make hog maws when she was 45 even though she passed away when she was 23 but was born in the 80s, and doesn't think OJ did it. She didn't know how to dance and didn't want to unless Tweet was singing.

She was tall, like a ficus. She skipped college and became a full-time entomologist and part-time doula but only on Tuesday at 6:37 pm.

One time I had asked her to marry me eventually but only when I learnt how to swim. She said she rather go to Arby's and replied with a hard maybe. I nodded my head and took her to get mango salsa and an indefinite supply of Tostito's. The only time I only ever saw her eyes turn to emerald was when they only had peach salsa. I thought that would be my last night on Earth. She conjured up Nina Simone to perform while my future ex-wife/potential baby mama set the discount aisle on fire with her pet Blue-Eyes White Dragon. $15,000 for the pet deposit was an absolute mess.

On our first date I had a nice lil' check so I took her to Applebee's like a proper human. Denny's is more of a luncheon sort-of-get-together. She asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up and I said me, but in 10 years. I asked her the same. On our first date in February 31st, 2016 and our last date on January 28th 2014 she said the same thing. Pulled me close by the collar, wrinkling my brother's over-sized Chap's. You know what that ficus lady told me? I don't remember to be honest. I'll let you know when I find that mango salsa.

"Guava Island" the musical by The Glovers was playing while I wrote this, doesn't have much of a connection to this post. But then again it does, 

The Story About You

The sun played hide-in-go seek behind the clouds with a long-legged lady not looking to find it. The lady had been scouring left-behind buildings, somewhere off San Pablo. Behind her, a miniature version of herself clung to her hip, disobeying the 6 feet rule.

Long-legged twiddled her freshly matte black finished thumbs together, looking through the windows of houses and businesses she playfully thought of renovating. She patted down her lengthy braids, pondering about the broken windows and decrypted roofs that may have held an ancestor of hers. The Little-legged girl kept the same serene eyes and other various subtle yet distinct facial structures as her gangly walking buddy. Almost as though they were the same person. Almost.

"Where are we going?" the little-legged girl asked for umpteenth time. The fire in her was replicated as well. "I'm hungry, and I didn't eat breakfast,"

The long-legged girl unintentionally ignored her, humming some song she couldn't remember from a family reunion. The song didn't appear to her but the memory of her uncle's dog snatching potato salad off the table made her silently smirk. She then remembered her cousins laughing at her huge shoe size, calling her "Baby Walrus". 

"That's a stupid name, do Walrus even have feet?" Long-legged muttered , loud enough for little-legged to respond. 

"I'm not stupid," she hastily replied. "You're the one who forgot the food in the car. Now when we come back, it's gonna smell like that stinky rice in the car," Making a gas face up towards her companion, almost stumbling on an overgrown branch.

Long-legged delicately caught little-legged by the wrist, as she resynchronized herself to walk upright again. Little-legged immediately and hopelessly tried to shove long-legged, as long-legged pretended to be hurt by the smaller human's flurry of gentle punches.

"Well you're a kid, you're supposed to be stupid. It's what the actual definition of being a kid is. So you can be stupid. Besides you left the food in the car!"

Angered, little-legged ran off into a building and slammed the door behind her. She aggressively yet accidentally yet assertively yet inadvertently tripped again, this time having scraped her left-lite leg against a piece of rusted rebar pipe, immediately wishing it was a piece of rhubarb pie from Rubicon's off of 23rd. The best/worst screen of all time quickly and loudly followed.

"AaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOooooaaaaaa!"

Long-legged glided into the seemingly ran down bakery-looking building, immediately spotting her little-legged bleeding from her left calf. "I told you to wear shoes when we go on hikes, and it's not safe to have your toes showing! You know you have to protect your feet, especially with all this debris. Come on, lemme just…" Long-legged unintentionally begin crying as well, trying to wrap out the badly injured leg with her Jean jacket

"But you're wearing sandals too," little-legged replied through mild-hypervenilated sobs. 

"Yeah, I kind of am wearing them too, huh," long-legged responded, giggling while wiping away both of their tears. First hers, then little-legged. "I guess we are both stupid. Let's go devour some chicken fries rice" as long legged propped herself back up, limping and holding her jacket against her own leg.

“If It Wasn’t For You” dictates the needing for one to not be special to one specific person , rather it explains the essential of one person

Life Without Cornbread Series #2: I Wanna Be Like Me When I Grow Up

After I begged my ELA teacher to let me leave class early to retrieve my bass clarinet, I hastily started my journey. 

From ELA to my locker to my old football locker to my band locker to funnel cake sale to home. Easy enough, right? Leaving early would ensure I wouldn't have time for whatever the debrauchery happening throughout the halls of Salem High School. My semester their had been filled with many unpleasantries: multiple thefts, bullying towards my Geometry teacher via the students, a couple of concussions from a short-lived football career, drug transactions, roundhouse kicks to student's temples via teachers, underage harassment, Hot Doritos breath, lack of trying, etc.

And then there was me, the gangily 5'11, 140 pound, 15 year-old who just wanted to make the Georgia All-State Band for bass clarinet and play Halo 3 on Xbox live. Heck, I'll take honorable mention. But Salem High School wanted to add some Sriracha to those plans. Expired Sriracha.

So as I said earlier, I had to get to my locker. Most people who knew or know me I kept or keep materials on me incase it hitted or hits the fan. Pencils, pens, paper, extra folders, snacks, water, extra reeds, I'm stocked. Do I remember to bring it to class? Let me finish,

I had arrived to my locker which was close in proximity to my last class. Luckily I typically do my homework expeditiously during lunch reluctantly. And I normally eat lunch as I'm walking from the checkout line to the trashcan. As I said, I like to game after school. And the football team isn't the kindest collection of folks sometimes, even when you leave the team after 1.5 months of getting your stuff pushed in. I'm fairly certain I spent most of the time sprawled out on the field, bleeding and crying internally. Just a couple of concussions.

These thoughts circulated in my head like carbon through the carbon cycle, as I found myself scrummigng around my old football locker, which I kept my other-other bag filled with gym-like clothes. Also where my Zune lived sometimes. Well , my Zune wasn't here, nor there, nor anywhere. How am I gotta walk home without listening to NERD's rock-rap album about being an adolescent by these 30 year olds? Tragic. 

I filed the complaint to a soggy gym teacher then scoot-scooted before the level-5 roasters came down. I can't even handle level-2 roasters. They're a lot more wittier than you would think, and I get embarrassed as easily as you would think. I left my gym-like bag in the locker room and carried on.

Okay, okay only two more stops. I'm moving right now. I wonder if Mac chewed up my fruit roll-ups from underneath my bed. Dang I was looking forward to that foot-long artificially flavored candy. As I ventured up the stairs, a group of students began crowding around someone. One of my favorite traits was minding my own business, especially when it came to fights. But fights love me. The whole crowd aggressively migrated to my walking path which was outside the terribly constructed circle. As I peaked up, I saw a slight glimmer of one the Offensive Coordinator from the varsity team connecting a roundhouse (I think it's called a roundhouse) to what I saw to be a student's greasy head region. I don't like running in the hallways, but this has to be a good reason. You have never seen a teenager swerve past the gym doors so elegantly. Okay, maybe one more peek...

As I said hey to my old band director who would be fired at the end of the semester for lewd comments made toward students which I could totally believe because he's kind of terrible , actually he is terrible but hilarious when he's not being terribleness, let's keep in mind I got to my band locker after 15 or so minutes from leaving ELA. I am a fast walker with the hip movements and striking the ground with the middle of my foot. Tom Bosworth would be proud. 

My bass clarinet was a weird trapezoid complex box thingy versus the traditional style long-a-bus-seat  rectangular prism case. Nonetheless (or nevertheless?) it was an awkward carry. And I had promised my mom a funnel cake by Monday. It was Thursday. I could do this nifty manuever where I stuffed my bass clarinet in one arm and pulled out my wallet and pulled out the money with the other; trust me, they called me Juan Suave. Allegedly. 

And allegedly I put my wallet back in my pocket. Allegedly.

Any-who-zers as I trekked home my inventory included, a bass clarinet in one hand, backpack with inventory in it (two straps because I'm not a psychopath), and a funnel cake in one hand. Moving as quickly as humanly possible to my house. I thought I was the bee-kneez because I walked to school. Who is anyone to say I ain't? "This guy" I said woefully toward the ground, feigning a smile, and humming "Everyone Nose". Something caught my eye up ahead, traveling north on Underwood Road.

There was a car on fire along the sidewalk off Underwood Road.

A cop stood casually beside it.

A bundle of middle schoolers waved me over, walking down Underwood Road.

I crossed Underwood Road.

They crossed Underwood Road.

They caught up with me.

Asked for some funnel cake under the plastic wrap.

They begin pushing me.

I pulled one piece for the most median looking child of the bunch.

The cop told them to scram.

I nonverbally thanked him.

Or her I don't remember.

I got home.

Gave my mom the funnel cake.

She said thanks.

I said you're welcomed.

She asked where was the change.

I checked my wallet.

I didn't have my wallet.

I told her I left my wallet in my locker.

I went to my room.

I sighed heavily.

I got on Xbox live.

I invited Gorillasmash79 and gtownboi to my party.

Told them about my day.

Gtownboi said "dang"

Gorillasmash79 said "I took your Zune"

Life Without Cornbread Series #1: Because Im Batman

I love sharing stories about my childhood. I've always thought they were funny. But everytime I share them with people, they swear I had the most pathetic childhood ever. Well let me explain,

I wasn't the smallest kid growing up but I wasn't the biggest kid in the neighborhood. I wasn't the smartest kid in the neighborhood but I wasn't the stupidest. I wasn't the kindest kid but I wasn't the nicest. Somewhere in Chester, Virginia you would find me right in the middle. The median on a stem-and-leaf plot. Completely average. So I thought.

These next few blog posts will be a specific series on stories from me in the various neighborhoods I lived in as a military brat, and what many people have described as "sad" or "dismal" or "feeble"

These series of stories are called: 

Life Without Cornbread

One of the more tramautic events of my childhood included the precense of bats. Like the ones from Pokemon. Or Batman. Or Scooby Doo. They came from the attic. To gain access to the attic in my house on the corner, you had to go into the middle bedroom on the second floor, go into the corner of the middle bedroom which had a lovely set of stairs leading up to a space we used for storage. Christmas decorations, old moving boxes, old treadmill machines, bloodthirsty furry savages, etc.

These beasts had the torso of 8 tater tots stacked on top of one another and the wingspan of a sea-glider paper airplane made by a 3rd grader. The one kid who flung actual boogers at people. 

So every summer from maybe 5th through 9th grade, these Ray Charles-sighted-chumps would find a small hole into the attic, fly down underneath the door , and go into the middle bedroom. My bedroom. And of course, only at night time in which they would hit me in the face with a soft WAH-PAH. I would put the covers over my head and start crying like this can't be how I die, oh no! I didn't even play the new Nintendo DS Lite yet!

I would camp out in the backyard, sleep on the sofa, try to sleepover my friends house. Showering? Sleep schedule? My video games? All up on the second floor, and I couldn't go up there. They would eat the livinf flesh from my skin , well , I thought. I've seen Disney Channel. And remember, I overthink now as a 20-something. Imagine me at 11 or 12 years old. What do you think was going through my mind during the day at Vacation Bible School or Engineering Camp or Summer School or any place my parents pawned me off at for a couple of months? Those winged freaks took up rent in my headspace. I was the Demar DeRozan to their LeBron James.

We had multiple people come through to see where they were flying through and it didn't work. But already being a punk growing up, I couldn't take it. I was terrified going to sleep without a night light, missing a note in band class, or walking up the stairs without anyone home. I was just hoping this would make me into a caped crusader or something cool. Maybe fight crime with Alex and Adam and get ripped and leave girls on read when I messaged them on AIM. 

But all it got me was paranoia, overdependency on humans, lack of sleep, and the unquenchable thirst of unlimited TOSTITOS. Years later I mostly got over my fear by misnetting bats by the Tallahatchie River at midnight and going on solo camping trips. 

I would have appreciated doning a cowl and having a sweet Butler. But all I got were way too many wigs.

Unlimited Tostitos, Pt. 2

Do you ever just hear people say words out loud and you're just standing there like

"Nope."

I was listening to some comedian talk about "the older you get, the more you just spout of stuff you know nothing about" in regards to a regular conversation. For example I may ask someone who is the name of an actor in a movie, and I will get the runaround for 8 minutes in which most of the words are probably just a random sequence of sentences that have taken 8 minutes of my life. 

Because for a while I believed myself to be stupid, so I would eagerly await people to say words to me, all of the time. It was though I was waiting for little bit-sized bits of wisdom that I could enlighten myself with and be the next Nelson Mandela. Or Clay Aiken. 

But instead I received a lot of bit-sized bits of unseasoned trash. Am I eating trash? No. But listening to numerous professors in college saying incorrect facts or a mayonnaise amount of information helps me sift out the fecal matter. 

Can you imagine in that 8 minute time frame of me listening to someone say whatever, I could have created a blueprint for how to build a baby-sized space-shuttle? I could have created a cure for all the cancers. I could have won unlimited tostitos from a scratch-off from Food Lion. I could have took 10 seconds to google the actor in that movie (it was John Malkovich, duh!)

But instead I got this value-menu-Jonathan-Livingston-Seagull-probably-volunteers-to-picket-at-planned-parenthood-guy telling me about why Miller High Life is not only the "champagne of beers" but the "champagne beverage of all the beverages" and didn't even provide any scientific evidence. No articles from JSTOR or GALILEO or faux Wikipedia article.

As I may interject, as I am talking to myself, that most conversations are essentially useless. Unless we are talking about how to harness the power of unlimited tostitos, how is this topic helping us be better as people? 95% of conversation is small talk, and I have the faux Wikipedia articles to prove it. I'm a scientist, so I can throw out numbers and you won't fact check it. Believe me, I did independent research for my Hydrology classes. Nobody cares about where the numbers came from. *Wink*

Yes the phrase "constantly talking isn't necessarily communicating" always pops up in my head, but there are plenty of other talking points that help improve the human race, besides unlimited tostitos. (Reminder, I need to go to the store before they close!)

Here are a few constructive topics:

1. Did you delete your search browser lately?

2. What are your feelings towards the second season finale of American Idol?

3. Why aren't you trying harder, like, in general?
4. Do you not like to wear deodorant? 

"You Ain't Gotta' Lie" by Kendrick Lamar is the staple of this entire article. It's okay , you really don't have to lie!

Stepdad of The Year

I say this quite often, but I have to remember that I am not the villain or the superhero in everyone's story. I'm probably not even the comic relief or reluctant side character to aid in someone's journey.

Percentage-wise, looking at all the people in the entire world I've ever come in contact with, I am probably a NPC (non-player character) that is sitting on bench, not influencing the story at all. Maybe I'm innocent bystander #38 that gets ran over by a tween on their skateboard at 2pm at a crosswalk between the parkway and the greenway. Maybe I'm not even visible, like the headline of "Breaking News: Man Buys Radioactive Llama!" on some generic basic cable channel and gets bitten by it. And that's okay,

It does get difficult when I am meditating and not focusing. 10 unfocused, isolated minutes practicing ujayii breathing in a criss-cross position is a long time to be thinking about things that aren't of value or relevant to you anymore. Sometimes I think about all the kids I letdown over the last 4 years. I think about why I like to put the numeric symbol for numbers even when it's not grammatically correct. I think about why people talk to me. I think about unlimited tostitos. I think about how people would tweet about my death. I think about if I stayed and helped raise someone else's child and how I would be stepdad of the year.

But none of these things matter in the grand scheme of things. I am a person who has a self-proclaimed "purpose" and only tend to look back on things so I can learn from them and not repeat the same mistakes again. Normally. Things will happen the way they are supposed to and it is my job, nay, our jobs as humans to adjust as needed. Whenever something pops up, deal with, hide from it, it doesn't matter. Humans are adaptable, versatile, innovative...when we want to be. Whatever comes up it's going to steamroll you or you're going to roll with it. Or not, I don't know. I'm not a psychologist. Or reliable. Okay I'm pretty reliable. Wait, who's on first?

This blog post is brought to you by "Hello" by Jermaine Cole himself. One of his lines was the foundation of this entire entry.

Every time I think of the proverbial stepdad, I think of Steve Rogers. For NO reason.

I Asked God To Come and Get Me, But I am Too Uncool

Some of my favorite/worst memories of my childhood was waking up real early on Sunday mornings to go hear Dr. Lance Watson preach in Creighton. I would never have my hair combed by the time we would leave, so my momma would always drag the comb through my hair, almost making my scalp come off. Call it the first ever S-curl accident. Sometimes if we were a little early to get to church, me and my brother would get chicken biscuits from McDonald's. While we sped to church down 95 and across 64, listening to Momma Caesar I would steal my brother's hash browns for the extra saturated fat. There was this girl there at the 10am services, she had cornrows and braces like it was her first day out. She probably already knew how to shoot a stepback jumper, heavily contested. I never spoke to her, but she looks like a Jamillah. Oh, and there were a few kids from my school who went there and I would try to make eye contact but as soon as they looked up, I looked down. I always wondered where I got church shoes from. I felt like they always appeared and I never asked for them. I wish it worked that way for Gameboy Advance Cartridges. While we sat down, my momma would give me a crinkled dollar bill to hand-off to some old dude who smelled of moth balls. What was he chewing all the time? I always held on to the money plate longer than I needed too because it looked like his arthritis was starting to kick in. Whenever the music would play (there was a score for walking into the church to breathing in the church to squirming in the church to passing out in the church) I wanted to dance or any clap my hands. Never understood why I didn't do so, even to this day. It was a continuous struggle to get to church everyday but it was a spectacle when you got there. If I took one of my white friends with us like Adam or Alex, you would have thought we were watching a soap opera. Pastor rapping off bible verses, old ladies passing out, single mom's interpretation of snakes, drinking the blood and eating the flesh off of some dude you haven't seen but apparently is ubiquitous. And there were so many hats. I would be so proud to invite seasoning to their lives. And you swore you left refreshed and anew and accomplished as much as Nelson Mandela himself. You couldn't tell someone anything who just walked out of church, not a got-dern-ting. Saying bible quotes and giggling with your best friend named Brenda you saw twice a week. Once at bible study and another at the line at the Piccadilly's. The one at Southpark. Wait is it shutdown? Sometimes I would pay attention to the pastor to intentionally, like I would  be the next up there. Like Martin Luther or Allen Senior. T.D. Jakes would be my speech coach. Mase would serve as my financial adviser. Everyone from my 3rd grade class, family, and friends would be there. Screaming and hollering righteous and sweet sayings right up there at the pulpit, guiding someone to change their life. To see their mom or their kids again after too many years. God would tell me I was cool and said I had a seat with them at the gates because I was so cool for being patient. Jamillah would be there too.



Then I woke up.

"Unhappy" by Outkast has remained one of the songs played when I am normally, well, happy.

It Wasn't A Dream, It Wrulleeappen'd

Basketball will forever and always be in my life. Whether it be me as a little 10 year-old collecting any and every basketball card from the trading card aisles in Target; starting altercations during AAU tournaments because it was stimulating to me; or being in this whole separate community of potential JUCO all-stars that just wanted to waste time during those long summers in grade school.

Well let me be honest, I was never cut out to be a true basketball player. Yes I was mainly 6'2, 6'3 and had a firm muscular frame and Dennis Rodman-type caliber player, during most of high school but mentally I was out of it.

Basketball in high school for me was firmly about being accepted in a social circle. My first crush played on the girl's team, I wanted to be invited to parties, I wanted my brother (who was a D1 athlete) and dad to be proud of me, I wanted something to go back and relate to when I talk to other nigglets and my dad's brothers when we were just sitting around. And none of those things panned out how I wanted too because I honestly didn't want or need them to pan out in that way. I honestly had given up my dog so I could go hangout with people I don't even have as Facebook friends anymore.

But some of the more miraculous things happened from this sport. For years and years I recorded stats on every basketball player I could stuff in my little Jonny brain and would update them on my basketball video games on player's attributes and accolades. Surely enough, basketball was not the one thing my brother and dad wanted me to talk about all the time (of course we still gotta' talk our stuff). I met some of my favorite players like Ben Wallace, George Gervin, and Jeff Capel. I found my voice as a leader being the defensive anchor on my teams.

This seemingly simple-minded sport became a storybook to me, full of tales and heroes and villains. All of my jerseys, action figures, trading cards, ProAm games; missed dunks, completed dunks, game winners, broken ankles, broken bones, size-ups; long nights, long days, long weekends, long practices, long car rides...it is just a game. Nothing more, nothing less.

You may be born at a Level 98 Wizard basketball player or work hours and hours off and remain at a Level 2 Peasant basketball player. And if you are a Level 2 Peasant in basketball, you may easily enough re-imagine yourself as a Level 98 Wizard on an entire simulation made by other Level 2 Peasant basketball players that are Level 98 Wizard game developers.

Whatever happened on a basketball court for me was so impersonal and I didn't feel it on a spiritual or emotional plane at all. If I was getting after it on the offensive glass and pushing and shoving all of these massive players, getting dunked on by people 5, 6 inches taller than me, talking into their ear about their mommas', I turned that off instantly as soon as I put my slides back on. But you can imagine the culture that this game built that gives everyone dreams, hopes, stability, and a form of escapism. The passion that burns in their eyes, it may not burn in my mines.There was a passion of just trying hard and giving almost everything I had. If I gave everything I had to the game, what would I leftover for everything else?

Regardless, I will dunk on you.

"Basketball Jones" by various artists on Space Jam reminds me of the hoop dreams I never had,