Before You Got Here

He said he got the hog maws, chitlins, collard greens, catfish, smoked turkey legs, ox tails smothered, suffocated, and strangled in gravy,

She got the homemade potato salad with the raisins in 'em with the Tostitos from Dollar General

And you wonder why someone may get cursed out so pleasantry and elegantly on Big Ma's back porch.

Momma' ain't raise no fool, but your momma is an astronaut and her head looks like a Psychonaut

Got elbows crisper than Uncle Leroy's 2 piece from Popeyes

Hey, I don't blame you I haven't been the same either since Jett Jackson died

And you wonder if she changed, but that's just the top layer

You was who you was

Before You Got Here.

I gotta' go to twerk-and-work at 6:53, because they little brown kids need a role model,

So why I'm STILL standing in the middle of a FedEx Kinko's on Christmas Eve.

But I ain't no buster, I still pulled up my sleeves and all I ask you is to call me when you get home.

She did Call, and she said "I HATE YOU JODY" 

See How You Fly

"When I couldn't move, you showed me how to crawl. When I could walk, you showed me how to run. When I could glide, you showed me how to fly." Now see how they fly, from the mountains of Zion, roaring down the hillside, along the county lines, through Dollar General alleyways and flyways in the Mississippi where I saw Bobo and them earn their wings earlier than expected but were always accepted, But the King is dead, the tostitos are crumbled, and they tried to clip my wings. I howled that day for 3 summers and 4 winters, waiting for my chance at the throne and my seat at the table and I hobbled to Valhalla on one knee over 38 countries and 8,000 miles. I told them I was a humble knave, traveling along the piedmont for the past 13 years. And they told me "no" at the door like they worked for Fedex Kinkos. "No, no, no, no, no no" NO. I shook hands with Yahweh, consumed the blood of Christ, etched my body with ancient images, and I saw how they flew! I have done the spectacular and watched all 5 seasons of Living Single. What do you mean "no" I met the Oshun and she supplied with the ether and new bag of only a few crumbled Tostitos at the bottom. I asked "why" , they asked me "why would they let a knave fly" I told them "I can" They told me "if you can fly then you're not a knave. Walk first. Then Run. Glide. And THEN show me how YOU fly, King."

I Love You Too, Jo(h)n Whiting

 "Who am I becoming as a teacher?"

I love talking about myself. I mean I love talking about myself. I am a black man, college educated born from a middle class family who loved me who always seems to have something new to reflect on every two seconds. And it is lovely because I have been unpacking “who I am” since I was young JODY. But throughout middle school, the grade I have been teaching since 2017, has opened up a magnitude of suppressed memories and feelings throughout my entire life. More specifically, my career as a teacher.

I was a “B+” student in school; I did my work at a fairly high level, I loved to read, loved to learn new things, loved that I had two, hardworking college-educated parents, loved to earn and give respect to my teachers and colleagues. I was bullied higher than average in reference to my peers, as I attributed to my geeky yet shy personality. My middle school was a nice pool of diversity, with mixed socioeconomic status and sociocultural differences (until a new school opened up years later, making it a low SES). My friends included a band geek, basketball player, low achieving student, book lover, a physically handicapped friend, and mentally handicapped friend. Not plural but all singular, as I had one of each. School was good to me and I reciprocated those feelings.

I began journaling privately in 7th grade, as I started to find my identity amongst my peers. I loved talking and reflecting about everything in that journal.  I played basketball, loved reading, loved playing my bass clarinet; I loved doing hobbies. My parents continuously (somewhat forcibly) encouraged me to follow different pursuits and numerous activities and I even have somewhat of an interest in. I liked them but not necessarily loved them. But I wanted to know the how of everything due to my eagerness to try new things and learn new things from my peers.. This was an ideal that is now extremely important and relevant to me as a 27 year-old, as my amount of interests only increased as time went on. 

Fast forward to my college years, the same amount of energy came up. Wanting to know how things work and how I could possibly make the world a better place through education. I wanted to hold that space for folks who may not have a group they belonged too because I couldn’t find one either. College gave me this platform to finally be a facilitator of information for anyone who wanted to learn. I was a part of running club, clean-up club, gardening up, environmental science club, dance club; anything that would prescribe me this piece of mind of me finding this identity. But as I people found these loves and passions in college, I became discouraged. How was I going to find what I was looking for and become this high-level professional adult in my career?

My teaching career started primarily due to me trying to figure out what I wanted to do post-college life.  All of these skills and talents I had and learned from working as a biologist, tour guide, recreational assistant, etc. had gotten me nowhere. I did not know what to do with my college education and my vast amount of knowledge and experience for someone who was 22 years-old. And I went into my first year of teaching, tiptoeing and I got exposed. Heavily. Terribly. I wasn’t a trained teacher when I first walked into a room full of 7th graders. I was a scared 12 year-old who used to get bullied by EJ and them boy and only talked to a bunch of weirdos. Whether I was 5’3, 130 pounds or 6’4 200 pounds, I walked into my first year of teaching 7th grade like I walked in my first year into 7th grade, as 7th grader. And I cried a lot those first couple of years I taught. Not because of the kids, mostly because I had an identity crisis. If I love teaching and love these kids and can’t teach these kids then who else is going to do it? 

  So I continued to teach without any regards to my emotions to a point I was gently asked to leave my career. The career that exemplified all of amazing attributes was exemplifying all my insecurities. I didn’t know how to talk to 7th graders, I didn’t know how to talk to my black 7th graders. It’s because I was the kid who talked to all of my teachers or read during lunch break. I was not going all in with little bit of gas but constantly going full-speed. All I had to do was push it to a gas station and gently drive off. 

The feeling of not being the best or not fitting in was a common trend. Yes, I had a wave and pool of friends but I only chose those outliers who helped me learn that specific skill. Managing and holding a space for groups of people became a talent I didn’t know I had until my current year in teaching, as my culture-setting for each of my classes is now beautifully executed. My family is a big deal to me and rarely do I like something but I always love something. The glory and pain of failure is a driving force for me. All of the teasing and isolation really hurt me growing up, especially from my black peers, especially from peers that I know are hurting as well. Sometimes I took it too personally but I always knew that if someone made even the smallest attempt to connect with me, whether it be as a peer or as a teacher, they were going to have a safe space to be in. Even if it was only for 5 minutes at the bus stop.

Where Dem Hoes At? Part 2

 

Imma' tell you something beautiful,

More beautiful than cornbread, fish, and collard greens

More splendid than iced tea on a Tuesday evening after a 10 hour-shift at the shipyard,

Everlasting like, like, like, like 'Tuck Everlasting' 

Prettier than Cassius Clay sashaying in a square Kinshasa

You thought you have seen an angel when Willow pulled up at a local Waffle House.

And a niggy was there,

He told me that he's not going to ask me again, "where dem hoes at?"

I told 'em underneath the kitchen sink

I left a note for ya'

7 in the bedroom, 12 in the living room

I heard some people like the Snake and some people think my hoes look Deliciosa

And they would die without me, especially when I sprinkle them with that miracle water and essential nutrients 

Some thirsty daily, some thirsty weekly, but they all wait in line and get the sprits when need be

Most of them androgynous like they Megatron, 

I got more on the way, but they're back ordered like bread and eggs when the Austin Powers out,

I like to keep a couple of them in the cupboard because they don't like being exposed to the elements Corinne Bailey Rae's,

Whispering 'em sweet nothings, so they know daddy love 'em, and they always give me some sugar

Like my nickname is booger.

Imma' tell you something beautiful and don't think about too explicit, thank about how ya' moms would feel.

But if ya' mom has some hoes, tell her to keep 'em trimmed!

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 

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?

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.

Jo(h)n Jonny JODY-heimer Jonathan-Schmidt

I was running, running, running,

Through the forest, forest, forest,

And it was pretty, pretty, pretty,

But then I saw Horace, Horace, Horace,

I love trail running. In college one of my preferred areas to frolic around was in Bartram Forest. It is a network of green & brown objects riddled with trails right off of US-441. Miles and miles of dirt, trees, rocks, and the occasional naked hippy*. One of those areas where somebody could fall asleep and wake up unscathed.

My favorite reason to run out in nature is to get a certain elation. I call it a third wind**. For background, second wind is what most people feel at a certain point of distance running. When your body switches metabolic processes. This form of anaerobic metabolism I speak of becomes that best friend at a bar who is down to play iSpy for a five hours.

But third wind. That’s when limbo presents itself to me. Time isn’t a priority nor is my body's exhaustion an issue nor do I care where I am going nor do I realize where I am. Or who I am.

I just run.

Did I mention, mention, mention,

That I stole from Horace, Horace, Horace,

He was a troll, troll, troll,

Who’s face was bleh, bleh, bleh

Loblolly pines served as inebriated High Overseers. The always physically imposing but essentially inept trees that make me rub my eyes to make sure Slenderman isn't chasing me.

Today was different. I did have a goal. Today my agenda had been clear that cloudy morning. To take back a relic my possession from the nasty, horrid-looking, disease-ridden, no nipple-having, mud-troll.

Once I mustered up my will, I crept up to a seemingly-lifeless cobblestone bridge. Tiptoeing up to the unprotected item, I made an unnatural noise and lunged for it. Once it pleased my fingertips, I fell childishly backward. The troll did not make one grunt, grumble, or mumble. 

Then I left.

I wove in-between the burnt timber as though I was Thomas Saint. My running shoes had become footprints, toes providing traceable footprints. But it t would take the troll a fortnight to catch me. That is if I were to stop moving. My bare feet trampled over stones, acorns, pine combs, red clay, smoldering ashes. The calluses on my feet were that thick to where I could have had a footbath at the crest of Orodruin. One foot, two foot, big toe, small toe. Rain drops falling off the tip of a leaf. Not on-beat but perpetual.

By the time the troll had consumed his late-morning brunch, I was already grabbing a pint at The Green Dragon Inn.

By the time the troll figured out his relic was not with him anymore, I was grabbing my fourth pint at The Tavern. 

648 kilometers from where the troll got hit.  And he screamed out to the heavens, I mean he screamed to where all the creatures and critters who had functional eardrums. My own ears caught his tone and along with the black muck in his pupils. It was as though he was sitting in the stool right next to me. 

My mind collapsed from my fugue state of strenuous activity. My mind quickly returned from Middle Earth back to Milledgeville, Georgia. I had run out about 3 miles from the main trailhead. I fell through the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th stages of limbo. My wireless headphones were at 0%. Somebody woke me up.

There were three humans in the cab of a modded pick-up truck. Belaying sayings that sliced to the air and rattled my endorphins.

"N*gger" is the title they believed me to be. I have over four names, they needed to try again,

 The trail route in Bartram I normally take had been washed out, so my running shoes, which had reanimated, hit the Vinson Highway pavement. Only for a few minutes. The action and reaction only took a few seconds. I didn’t yell back or throw a rock at their windshield. Maybe they were unaccompanied minors attempting a prank or maybe a white supremacist group or maybe some of my college associates. Maybe I could have even set myself up for an outdated slave joke since on occasion I run without Asics. But "maybe"is for the indecisive.

Whatever that maybe was, I didn’t have time for it. I had 5Ks to run.

I glanced back at that troll, troll, troll,

Who called me a derogatory term, term, term,

But I did not stop, stop, stop

Because I was not done running, running, running,

--

*A story for a different time.

**A third wind is a term I made up to refer to a euphoric feeling. In this state, I imagine a daydream sequence of me running in an imaginary environment. In for this fictional setting, I’m a hobbit running through The Shire.

Blood by The Middle East always captivated my mind, soul, and spirit to put me in an euphoric mood. No matter what the situation,