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,