Jon And Some Politics

Every day is an opportunity. This is the mantra of a survivor. What makes you a survivor?  Well, it’s existence, I suppose.  The problem is that every now and again, opportunity meets fate.  What do I mean by that?  Simply put: he had to die.  

Relax. No one was murdered.

I just had to kill that version of me; the me that walked to junior high school every morning seeking reparations through quid pro quo.  You see – same time, same place; every weekday – a boy named Sammy had to pay for the sins of his ancestors.  He and I were good friends; not best friends but good friends.  He had his life in the white part of the neighborhood, and I had my life in the black part.  That’s just the way it was.  Problems become logical over time.  That’s what institutional racism is:  a problem in existence so long that it actually makes sense to people.  

Anyway,  our different lives converged every morning at the corner of Westwood and Highland. That’s where Sammy and I met to walk the rest of the way to school together; all six blocks of it.  Conversations always started casually – television recaps, sports, school gossip: the girl in the class who kept the note I passed asking her if we could make out by the portables.  Next thing you know, we found ourselves three blocks down at Westwood and Berry.  

“Hey man, you know I’m gonna have to rough you up, right?”

“Yea, I know.”  

Bracing himself for blows, he contracts into his best attempt at covering both his chest and face simultaneously.  

But, there’s no brace for oppression.  

Jab. Jab.  Hook. Jab. Hook.  

Sammy lets out a few whimpers as my fist dimple his arms, chest, and stomach.  I usually tried to avoid the face.  I have some compassion.  

Actually, I have a lot of compassion because, after I retreated the punches, we went back to our walk as if nothing happened.  

“You done Alex?”

“Yea, Sammy we’re good.”

“Ok good.   So, Carey really kept the note? Shit! You’re in for a….”

For my entire 6th grade year, that was reparations – a quick pause to beat the shit out of Sammy.  

“He had to die. “

“Huh?….Alex, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I guess that’s my way of apologizing.  I’m sorry, Sam.  I shouldn’t have beat up on you like that every day. It was just wro…”

“Ahh Shit! What are ya gettin’ all sentimental on me, Alex? Fuck! Aye, bartender, get my buddy here another drink. He needs to loosen up.  Run into the guy for the first time in 30 years, and he wants to get all mushy on me! Get this man a drink now goddam….”

As I said, every now and then, fate meets opportunity.  Such was the case for this reunion between Sammy and I.  It turned out to be a different kind of opportunity than I imagined, though.  I pictured a plead for forgiveness mirroring that of the one I made to her as we lumbered through Prospect Park in the aftermath of a night gone wrong in a bar at the lobby of a haunted hotel atop the cobble-stoned roads of Meatpacking. An, “I’m sorry for the pain I caused” type of forgiveness.  But, then again, that was merely a case where the sexual was more disease than healing. And, no, not intercourse, but worse – the tension bred by just the thought of such an act.

What I found instead was a “let bygones be bygones” type of forgiveness.

“You know I never got to thank you for what you did for me, Alex.  You toughened me up.  You taught me how to take a punch, and I needed that….I needed it cause life is full of motherfuckers waitin to punch ya in the gut! Ha ha ha! Sure as hell is I tell ya….“  

He had to die.

But, mainly for selfish reasons.  Because what was supposed to be reparations didn’t provide me any healing.  I’m still in pain. In fact, I’m in more pain because I realized the part of him I wanted to weaken I only made stronger with vice versa for me.  

He had to die.

So, I put him in a pool. I pushed him from the rails.  I let him sink under water.  But, this time; the lady with the slip-and-slide that she kept to the side of the pool for the kids who couldn’t swim wasn’t there to reach down and pull him out in time.  

“Sammy, you mind doing me a favor?

“Sure, Alex. What do ya need, buddy?”

“I need a cab. “  

It’s a sweltering day in Atlanta. Hot; I mean hot! That type of torrid that makes you think the Devil opened his vents and let out a few extra flames and brimstone. Necks moisten. Collars blacken. Cosmetology structures unravel. Children complain to parents. Babies cry tears of lamentations. But, for an occasion such as this, it is quite alright.

“It’s our time!” “We un-ite!” “It’s our time!” “We un-ite!”

Today is that the dreams of Delaney, Garvey, and Malcolm shake hands with the visions of Douglass, DuBois, and King. And, a whole lot of folks have come out to see it. Millions! Black and brown faces from all over the world! Even quite a few whites scattered through the crowd like a few lone vanilla sprinkles on a chocolate cupcake. But, today is our day!

“It’s our time!” “We un-ite!” “It’s our time!” “We un-ite!”

The summer is sweeter than ever. A fragrance looms as if the trees turned to potpourri. The sun is fluorescent. And, the cadence of their voices are synchronized and strong.

“It’s our time!” “We un-ite!” “It’s our time” “We un-ite!”

Shhhh...it’s starting!

A short, stocky man the color of freshly brewed coffee steps to the podium. He begins to speak, but he’s interrupted by the demanding voice that is microphone feedback. He takes a moment and makes a few frantic gestures toward a place of which no one really knows, not even he. Sometimes technology is a leap of faith. Jesus, be an AV technician.

Providence solves the problem. The round man speaks again, his voice clear yet dry:

“Welcome to the First Presidential Inauguration. It is great to see that so many of you have come to join us here today in the red clay hills of Atlanta. I would like to take the time to thank Mayor...”

He continues with the bureaucracy of the ceremony. Officials must get acknowledged. Women wave. Men salute. Homage is paid. Status is reinforced. Sanity remains.

Speaker after speaker emerges to part words of wisdom and inspiration to the assembled crowd. People grow restless. Neckties come undone. Hats stay on. She paid good money for that hat. Black folks can’t never get out on time.

I mean, look at us now. Almost half a millennium in this country, and we’re finally getting a black President, even if it is William Freeman. I still think Robin Whites would do a better job. She’s Ivy-League educated, knows everything about anything, and you can tell she really cares about the people. You know they weren’t ready for a woman though--a black woman. Everybody acts like she was going to get sworn in and turn into Saphire or something. I guess we still got a ways to go. But, it’s about time.

Idle chatter breaks out over the voice of a woman speaking at the podium left nameless by the impatience of the crowd. The chant revives itself. Words get many chances at life if they’re powerful enough.

“It’s our time!” “We un-ite!” “It’s our time!” “We un-ite!”

The chants are an amalgamation of a collective story; the convergence of individual, personal, and solemn encounters with life--love and pain, doubt and hope, progress and setbacks. For many of the people gathered on the lawn of Centennial Park, you could see it in their eyes. Pupils speak in morse code, even the dilated.

Their stories are what makes this moment special. Their stories brought them here where we all stand today, and they will share this moment forever. Tell me that’s not powerful! Sharing something with people you’ll never know? Or knowing millions for a moment? Imagine strangers as relatives but only for an instance in time! So, if history allows this moment to live forever then they will always be my people--even the sprinkles I suppose.

Even this group of college-aged kids over by that fountain. A girl dresses in all retro. She exudes a vintage vogue: big sunglasses, high-waist pants, indigenous accessories. A young man with the group follows suit: wayfarers, leisurely-worn white button-up, thrift store Levi’s. The irony of the so-called progressive youth: so current that they’re not at all.

A slight pan of the crowd reveals a man standing feet away from the kids. His clothes are tattered; his body splotched by earth; and the putrid, locker room gym-sock and molded collard green odor he omits slightly isolates him from the crowd. He has a stern jaw, solemn lips, and beady, bloodshot eyes.

Through those eyes, he had seen it all, he’d lament if you held your nose long enough to meet him. He was a journeyman, relentless in his travels--so persistent that some kid in publishing, fresh out of college and looking to make a name, pushed the nomad’s travel notes through to print: A Walk Across America. Now, here he was at the

Inauguration. He truly wouldn’t miss it for the world, huh?

“It’s our time!” “We un-ite!” “It’s our time” “We un-ite!”

The coffee-colored man returns to the podium. He excites the crowd with Buffer-esque mentions of the main event. He recounts the life and success of a man, rebuilding the legend brick-by-brick: humble beginnings in a small desert town outside of Los Angeles, raised by a preacher, public school educated, student-activist at Berkeley, non-profit affiliate, gauntlet relationship with executive boards. Then, there was perhaps his biggest accomplishment--work done to create the Black State.

William Freeman and Robin Whites led the movement toward what we see here today. They were the dynamic duo: Freeman the activist and Whites the legal mind. While Whites led the writing of the Constitution and the negotiations with the United States Government to sort out the logistics of the Black State, Freeman led the efforts to mobilize black people around the new plans.

Because of Freeman and Whites, the United States agreed to recognize black people as its own political group. They created a black Congress - Senators and Representatives that responded to the needs of blacks in their areas. They carved the path to the impossible: nationalism in an integrated America. The next major stop on that road was the election of a president.

Naturally, Freeman and White received the most nominations. So, they ran against one another. They traveled all through the Southern states and to the major migration hubs where they debated, ate at black restaurants, met with black business owners, spoke at churches, and appeared on local hip-hop, jazz, and gospel radio stations.

Because of the relationships established through grassroots organizing, Freeman edged out Whites in the election. He found a way to appeal to a wide range of constituency groups within the State, even some of the radical nationalists who thought the Black State still wasn’t enough. He captured the black churches. While he lost

the black college students, he galvanized the black working class. And, he somehow managed to receive a slight majority among black women. The system still makes them think they need a man.

“It’s our time!” “We un-ite!” “It’s our time” “We un-ite!”

A lanky man with sandpaper-shaded skin emerges to the podium. He wears a black suit and a slim tie. Designer glasses sit atop his slender nose and cover his hazel eyes. His face is smoothly shaved and his hair curly and slightly grown.

He pauses in front of the crowd. Their chant changes.

“Free-Man” “Free-Man”

The crowd stretches as far as his eyes can see. His heart beats fast - as fast as his celebrity and responsibility have grown in the course of a few months. A drop of sweat permeates his skin and slides down the side of his round, yet cadaverous face. Maybe, it’s the heat.

“What kinda boy don’t close his eyes?!”

“One that don’t believe in God! That’s the kind!”

Such was the exchange between two elderly black women congregating in the corner of the sanctuary speaking in the language of exclamatory whispers that make sense only within the confines of a sacred place.  And, he could hear every word of this not-so-discrete lamentation, of which he was the subject.

His name is Timothy, but everyone called him…

“….Junior! He thuh kind, girl! He got thuh devil in ‘im!”

“…don’t say that…that ain’t right…he a good boy.  Just keep pra…”

“prayin for him?!? He went down to the alter that Sunday, and pastor prayed for him hisself! Seemed like it only got worse after that!”

She was wrong.  Things actually got better that day.  Fore, it was on that day – during that specific prayer – that Junior earned his salvation; that Jesus Christ himself rescued Junior from the Devil.

Junior’s new spiritual home was an amazing space.  Sometimes salvation can be the most beautiful form of chaos you can imagine. No divine or natural order. No limitations.  No hierarchy.  No royalty. 

So, he figured, why assume the posture of worship? Why bow? Why close your eyes?

Why not look God right in the eyes; speak to him like a man?

…”what? Young Brother, God is not one of your little ‘home boys,’ alright. You need to bow before his presence and WOOOOOOORSHIP the Lord! Hehe…don lost yo mind talkin bout some ‘speak to him like a m….”

His pastor just didn’t understand.  He himself had facilitated Junior’s deliverance, but he could not accept what Junior made of his Faith.  But, could you blame the old man? What kind of man believes in Chaos?

The kind that finds devotion during the syncopated sounds of the praise-in-the-making known as “choir rehearsal.” Voices orchestrated along the lines of notes carol, but once a voice veers from the path, the Director vetos performance. 

Then, the magic happens.

Tongues discord.  Piano notes swerve. Drums ramble; their symbols swivel and shake like jazz hands.  Together, these deviations form the sound of anarchy; of nihilism; of imperfection – failure.  And, that sound is the gospel of shortcomings; of humanity.  It is His gospel. 

Junior sits on the first pew in the middle of a sanctuary empty sans  the members of the choir and the band.  He was the only child of a singer or player who wanted to come to these rehearsals. They function as everything a kid dislikes; they last for hours, provide you no attention, and discuss things you are yet equipped to understand.  Yet, there he is – eyes wide open - slain in the Spirit. 

Its ten years later, and Junior has fallen from Grace.  He hasn’t been to church in months; hasn’t gone consistently in five years.  He sees no use for weekly worship and the blind hubris of the Believers. 

But, she takes him back to his days of Salvation. 

“What do you believe in?”

Socratic thoughts turned words rolling off the tongue of a woman anxious about everything; everything but the answer to the question she poses so casually.    

Dialogue is such hard work.  They don’t call it “making conversation” for no reason.  Human interaction must be created; crafted; engineered; honed - and, if lucky, set free.  So, in a chic restaurant folded across the chest of downtown Atlanta, GA, tucked neatly underneath the stars that held tightly to the answers we recklessly seek, she asked a question in hopes of setting him free. 

"I mean....spiritually"

“What do you mean?”

Junior is a master at deflection.  Questions are shields of defense.  Answers are but weapons of self-destruction.  Details.  Specificity.  Yes, live life in the grey area! He forged a world of his own in which incompleteness made sense; where ambiguity brought a certain reassurance; a sort of sanity. 

Chaos. That is what he believes in.  It’s what he always believed in.  Dysfunction; Discord; Disaster.  The Holy Trinity. 

“You know…in terms of religion…are you Christian, or….?”

Just as she pressed him further, divine intervention occurred. Jesus, be a waitress in a short skirt anxious for a smoke on her next break. 

“…ahh finally! The food is here!”

“Yes, the turkey burger; that’s mine.  She had the salad. “

As she reaches for her fork, he steals her attention and movement. His lips mouth words over the food. 

“Did you just pray?”

“Yes.”

“Do you always pray with your eyes open?”

He took a bite of the turkey burger. Swallowed. Let out a slight smirk.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“I ain’t never seen a miracle.”

This was the distinct thought running across my mind as she told her story.  We were in an ornate bistro that sat in the lap of a luxury neither of us could really afford at the time; embodiments of the young “progressive”; ascending to lives of accomplishment and stability.  But, for the time being, we were bounded by the “process” aspect of adulthood.

At the table, she welcomes us into her memory.  We could almost feel the embers of the flames leaping from under the hood of a Mercedes Benz parked at an old gas station lying in the belly of an old southern town; an old town haunted by the shackles and chains from a past free of freedom.  You see, when she was 15, she told us, Ellie’s parents were out of town for the weekend.  Brazened by her newly acquired learner’s permit, Ellie decided to grab the keys, pick up her best friend Addy, and go for a ride. 

 Addy, filled with teenage excitement, channeled her enthusiasm into curiosity. “Girl, where we goin?”

“I don’t know,” said Ellie hesitantly.  The thrill alone had placed the key in the ignition and started the car.  Changing the gear from “park” to “drive”; stepping foot on the pedal; turning the wheel towards Addy’s house – these were moves made in search of not a place but catharsis.  For a teenage girl growing up in the oft forgotten suburbs of the urban countryside, the body changes much faster than the city.  In fact, the city remains stagnant in a way that becomes painful for an adventurous youth.  But, driving a car?  That’s excitement.  That’s change.  That… is healing.

While Ellie absorbed the moment, epiphany suddenly struck Addy. “I know! Let’s go to the Miracle!”

“The Miracle? Why would you wanna go down there?”

The Miracle was a teen club down in the city. No, not a club, a shack; a shack where heavy bass shook the wiry pillars holding up a jagged tin roof;  where stray dogs sat outside atop trashcan thrones; where marijuana smoke was but a majestic fragrance.  The Miracle was the cathedral for the 16-year-old boy who throws gang signs.  For at the Miracle, the Crip; the Blood; the Vice Lord or Gangster’s Disciple – he is god.  He is creator of his hood, his turf, of a law that he alone abides by, of his own destiny filled with jail cells and graveyards. 

Yet, despite being known for the cosmological presence of the young gods, they called it the Miracle because of her.  Mama Miracle was the name she went by, and the Miracle was to her a home.  She merely opened up the outhouse at night to give the kids in the neighborhood a place to go and have a good time.  She started the Miracle when her son, Buck, was in high school.  A local football star, Buck would regularly invite other kids back to their house after the games to hang out, usually drink and smoke.  By Buck’s junior year he’d have a whole crowd of folks following him on Friday nights.  So, Mama Miracle decided to just open up the outhouse and supervise.

Mama Miracle had just one rule.

“Na, ya can smoke or drank or whateva ya wanna do, but aint gon be no fightin, na ya hear?”

Sure enough, anytime conflict arose, Mama Miracle stepped in to intervene.  Her first action was usually to force apologies.

“Boy, gon and tell ‘im you sorry! Don’t be comin’ ova here wit no silly mess like that! You know betta than that!”

But, sometimes conflict could not be resolved and expulsion occurred.

“Uh uh! You gon get the hell up outta here! Ion know what you thinkin’, baby, but it ain’t goin’  down like that here. Uh uh, not in MY house it ain’t.  Gon and get ya lil narrow butt up the street!”

Despite her conflict resolution abilities, Mama Miracle was a pariah - a vigilante, especially to those “uppity negroes” out in the suburbs.  Those doctors, laywers, and engineers living out past the city limits all passed to one another utter dismay towards Mama Miracle. 

“Another one of the kids got shot messing around at Miracle’s. Damn shame.  That’s what happens when you have an irresponsible adult around those kids like that.  What they really need…”

The black middle class scolding is quite familiar to Ellie and Addy. Their parents – doctors and real estate agents, respectively – had given many a sermon as the nightly news played in the background during Monday night dinner.  For years, the two girls feared the mention of Mama Miracle and her place.  But, with Ellie’s parents out of town, here they were - driving down the two-lane interstate highway on their way to Hell’s kitchen; on their way to the Miracle. 

Ellie parked in the grass next to the shack. They could hear the heavy bass beat of southern rap music grumbling past the thin walls.

“Are you sure you wanna go in there?”

Addy, takes a gulp to try and swallow the fear being shown by a racing heartbeat.

“Yea, girl! It’s gon be fun! Let’s go.”

The two girls walk into Mama Miracle’s, and a few heads turn to give them the look of unfamiliarity.  The shack was accustomed to “regulars.”  All strangers must be vetted, especially pretty girls drenched in the scent of middle class suburbia.  A couple of boys that went by the names of Mook and C-Moe, respectively, did the honors. 

 "Where y'all from?“

"What school y'all go to?”

The interrogation made the girls uncomfortable, but they valued the initiation. 

“Aye you wanna dance?”

“You smoke?”

“You drink?”

When in Rome, do as the Romans. 

All of a sudden, a loud clamor broke out and bodies smarmed around two young boys standing in the stance of confrontation.  A gunshot rang out, and the crowd quickly dispersed.

Ellie grabbed Addy and jolted as fast as she could out of the shack and into the car.  As the Mercedes peeled off of the grass and onto the street, eyes in the neighborhood gazed with solemn stares.  Ellie raced to get back on the interstate, but as she sped, she spotted a boy walking across the street.  She veered right to avoid him, but while she missed the boy, she could not say the same for an oak tree standing tall on the side of the road. 

The girls quickly eject from the car to check the damage.  The front right area was horribly dented. 

“Oh my God, what are we gonna do?” Fretted Addy.

Ellie paused for a moment in shock as her 15-years-of life started flashing before her eyes.

“Aye fool it’s a benz ova der!” Bodies started emerging from the night towards Ellie, Addy, and the car.

In panic, Ellie turns to Addy, “We….we just gotta get home!”

The two girls hop back into the Mercedes.  Ellie quickly drives the car back onto the road and heads toward the highway. 

“Oh my god! I think the car’s on fire!”

Quickly, they pull over at a gas station in a small town between their suburb and the city. 

“We need some help! Do you know anything about cars?” Ellie shouted frantically to the man working the cash register.

He jogs out and sees the care inflamed.

“Look like ya car on fire…”

Frustrated by the man’s statement of not expertise but merely the obvious, Ellie grew frantic. “Ahhhhh!!!! Let’s just get home, Addy.  If we can just get home, everything will be ok.”

They get back in the car and race home against the spreading flame.  Ellie drops off Addy at her house and jolts back to her own home right after.  The flame subsides by the time she arrives, and she parks the car back in the garage. 

Her parents returned the next day, and when they saw the car they were outraged.  However, after punishments were handed out and speeches of disappointment given, the family embraced the safety and good fortune.

“I’m really just glad you’re ok, Ellie.  Just looking at that car I don’t know how you’re still alive.  It’s some kinda miracle. “

With wine and oysters decorating the table, Ellie finishes recounting the memory in the sweet blend of laughter, embarrassment, and pride that only such a story can bring.  To her, it’s a story of rebellion; of danger; of freedom.  She finds solace in her date with adventure, and I admire her for that; I am drawn to her through that. 

It’s because I, too, have looked to danger for healing.  I ,too, have run from a shack in Hell’s kitchen, fleeing for my life.  I ,too, have been set on fire. 

But, I know I’ll never share my story. No, at least not the way Ellie just did. 

Why?

It’s because in my short life I’ve seen quite a bit.

But…

“I aint never seen a miracle.”

I discovered him in the lobby of the convention hall floor hidden within a crowd of the Mighty, uniforms strapping him to a chair.  I wasn’t sure what was happening. What was clear, however, was that someone was becoming insane. Yes, I know, but let’s pretend for a moment in time that insanity is something that can be reached and sanity is merely an object of which we let go.  After all, given the situation it’s only fair that we pretend.  In his eyes, that’s what we’re doing anyway; that’s who we were regardless – pretenders. 

  The security personnel and police officers surrounded him.

  “Get your fuckin’ hands off me!”

  He resisted.  Three men held him down while two more strapped his arms to a paramedic carry chair. They rolled him through the lobby toward the door. 

  “This is discrimination! This is discrimination! You’re RACIST! Take a video of this! Put it on Facebo…”

  His words fade as the Power takes him away.  His voice, to the ears of the crowd, become as torn and ragged as his clothing; filthy; outdated; unwanted.  Restricted atop the wheeled bed he was Hester at the scaffold.  Yet, as he screams for freedom, he is also, in that moment, Grandison waving from the steamboat. 

  As if nothing happened, the convention reconvenes.  Name-badged necks traipse from conference room to conference room stumbling over ambition, hubris, and celebrity; bracing their falls upon the handrails of sanity. 

  At night they let go of the rails and submit to inhibitions.   Drinks flow.  Hugging arms swallow bodies.  Jocose conversations harvest.  Varlets become the responsible.  The distinguished are but impish people. 

    It turns out that his name was Book Man, the fellow they carried away.  His real name was no longer known; as forgotten as the air a man breathes.  All that remained was what many saw as a moniker but was in his eyes a patronymic – an identity passed down from the ancestors.  No, Book Man wasn’t his nickname; it was his pedigree; his cosmology. 

  Years ago before these conventions and things; before we could vote; before we had any reason to convene, he used to drive an old tan truck up and down these very streets outside this convention center; the very streets he is now rolled down with body tethered.  He paraded these streets doing one thing; passing out books to folks in the community. 

      Douglass. Whitman. Faulkner.  Dubois.  Hughes.  Wilde.  de Cervantes.  In almost Santa Clausian fashion, he ‘d reach from to the truck bed and deliver a classic to a doorstep. 

  Why?

  He started out as an instructor in the local elementary school.  He had a love for teaching phonics.  Well, one year he came across a student that, for some reason, he just could not teach to read.  He tried everything; pairing him with a kid in the class who was excelling, after school tutoring, meeting with this parents.  Nothing worked.  Book Man grew extremely frustrated.  He was devoting hours on end to a child who was making no progress whatsoever.  

  Then, one day something told him to try the Lord.  So, during the after school tutoring session, Book Man just sat a book in front of the kid and left him alone for half an hour.  Upon leaving the room, Book Man went to the teacher’s lounge, poured himself a cup of coffee, put his head down, and prayed for the boy.

  When Book Man returned, he found the boy sitting at his desk gazing at a page in the book and sounding out a word.  It was the most progress he’d seen in months! The boy then started asking him questions about words and sounds.  Slowly, the boy was learning. 

  So, Book Man stuck with the Lord.  Every day he did this same thing.  He sat a book in front of the boy and went away to pray.  Like a charm, the boy kept bringing questions to Book Man, and his reading improved. 

  This progress moved him so much that he wanted to try it for the entire community.  Maybe the Lord could work such a miracle for all the kids in the neighborhood.  So, he started buying as many books as he could. He’d load them into the back of his truck and pass them out.  For years, when people saw that old tan colored truck come down the street, they knew who it was; they understood what was happening – Book Man. 

  Book Man, himself, became obsessed with his calling.  He started missing meetings and ultimately all of his after-school obligations so that he could pass out books.  Eventually, the elementary school fired him, which, among other things, made it difficult for him to keep buying books.  So, he started stealing them from wherever he could: stores, homes, offices – no book was safe.  He became a vigilante; an outlaw. 

  Book Man would get arrested.  He would go to prison.  He would spend the next two decades in and out of state custody.  He became a pariah; a social ill.

  And, today he stepped foot into the political convention for reasons we’ll never know, yet alone understand.  Then again, maybe his goal was a bit simpler than we think.  Maybe his only mission was to show us who in that lobby was actually insane. 

1. Patience is often a necessary displeasure.

2. Weaknesses are the only aspects of yourself that you can use to make yourself better.

3. Real change starts small.

4. The hardest person to listen to is usually yourself.

5. Having faith is a lot harder than people make it seem.

6. Half the battle is just believing in yourself.

7. There's a certain kind of knowledge that only time can teach.

8. You can learn from anyone.

9. Across the world, we as people have more similarities than differences.

10. Laughter is a lingua franca - a universal language that everyone can speak and enjoy.

11. When you wish for something, think about everything bad that could possibly come along with that wish. If you can handle that, then it's for you. If not, then wish for something else.

12. You can be both the genius and the fool in any given day.

13. Every time you do something you leave that version of yourself in that moment.

14. Your accomplishments sound a lot better coming out of other people's mouths.

15. You can't be afraid to talk about your failures.

16. Like it or not, money matters.

17. One of the most difficult things to do is to get a large amount of people on the same page about something.

18. God is the most perfect version of self.

19. Politics is a contact sport.

20. Confidence at equilibrium is magical.

21. Often the hardest person for you to know and understand is you. 

22. The game of basketball is a microcosm of life.

23. Any sort of substantive change starts with culture.

24. Family are the people who will love you no matter what, even when they themselves aren't sure why they still love you.

Celebrations are the closest men get to the afterlife. Lips boast smiles behind the raised glasses clinking to the sound of accomplishment. Patricians wrap arm-in-arm for photographs. Networks are clinched fists of power; the potent blend of solidarity and dominance. Servers politely interrupt with offers of ornate foods meant to satisfy the appetite not of the stomach but the eye. In these moments, we are gods.

“Excuse me, sir, would you like a caprese bite?”

The small voice of the succourer drowns amidst the current of chatter created by the mighty.

“Oh my God, I haven’t seen you in months! How was your trip to…”

“I have this new project idea that sounds a lot like what you’re doing. Let’s get coffee next…”

I fit perfectly into these crowds. At least, that’s the lie I shove down my throat like a mother does vegetables to her young son. Truth is, my soul kicks and screams as I get dressed for these extravaganzas. Temper tantrums erupt inside my belly as I lock in the buttons of a custom-fitted dress shirt across my chest. My spirit knows what the neck tie means: torture awaits.

Why is it so bad? I guess because as a child I used to make-believe that I was a grown-up who no longer had to play “make-believe;” that I could say what I want and feel; that I could be unfiltered – honest. So, these moments, like bills, are a harsh reality of adulthood that makes us bottle our nostalgia; laugh and cry at our naivety from yesterday.

What keeps me sane is the fact that I love that I hate it here, whether I admit it or not. I loathe the conversations with people I’ll never really know about things that will never really change with respect to people we all fear. We fear them because they are what we would be if we were not on the rooftop of a fancy hotel swapping business cards over tapas and wines I secretly pride myself in not being able to pronounce. We would be facing the reality we merely debate. What are to us now ideas and ideals would simply be “today.”

I can’t stand it here, and if one more person tells me who I absolutely have to meet, I think I’ll…

“…Excuse me, sir, the gentleman over there says to inform you that we are about ready for you to share words. A Mr. Alexander will give an introduction and then the floor is yours.”

Oh…uhh…thanks. Thank you.

I glance over to Burnett, my campaign manager, and give him the Ok. He returns the gesture with a wink and a smile, as he steals a moment from a conversation he’s having with a group of elegantly dressed older women.

Moments later, Alexander steps onto a platform set up next to the disc jockey. The medley of timeless celebratory jams pause and this dark, stately man steps up with nothing behind him but metropolis and in front of him - everything. He begins the protocol.

I need no introduction. He remembers me before this whole thing started. I haven’t changed. I stand for what I always have. They knew something like this would happen. It was my destiny.

He recounts my accomplishments: education, service, publications, jobs and positions, and appointments. They make me who I am – a dignitary of some sort.

“So without any further ado…”

The crowd erupts. Hands clap. A few tongues whistle. Chants permeate.

I walk up to the stand. I shake the hand of Alexander and execute the obligatory hug that follows when two black men show respect towward one another. I glance across the rooftop and take in the faces of the people that will soon become favors. Then, I find her within that crowd. I make eye contact, and she smiles. I return the favor to let her know I received the signal.

I begin.

Thank you, Alexander. To all the esteemed leaders here tonight – Mayor Scott, Representatives Walker and Roberts, Senator Parham, and all others who serve this community in any capacity – thank you for being here tonight and supporting me. To my family – my beautiful mother, handsome father, and beloved siblings – I would not be here without you. This moment will be forever indebted to you.

To Jeff Burnett, my campaign manager, I thank you from the very depths of my soul. You truly are a genius, and you made this arduous process such an enjoyable one. We have been through so much over the past year. I am blessed to have you as a shoulder on which to lean. Thank you.

And, last but certainly not least, I thank all of you. You stuck together. You fought. You organized. You made your voice heard; resounded across the hills and valleys of our home. This moment belongs to you, and for what we did here today, you now belong to history; to eternity; to the ages. Thank you. You have made me far more proud than I have you. That I can guarantee.

She couldn’t blame me.  No matter how hard she tried there was no way she could blame me.  We both know if she were a man she’d have done the same thing. 

  I’m a man. I like sports, beer, and power.  I like to know how much I can get away with.  I like to conquer stoplights when the yellow switches to red; run it.  I like the woman with the perfect body, who overlooks the imperfections of mine.  I was wired this way.  I’m a monster.  Not your average monster.  The most brilliant of fools. 

  I thought I met the girl of my dreams in an old dusty classroom on the 2nd floor of my idol’s mansion.  She had skin like boiled tea and hair like bush branches.  She raised her hand and said some shit about Audre Lord.  I love a woman that’s postmodern; post-structural; post-yesterday. 

  “I mean is that really political, though?”

  She would have had me at “hello.” 

  But, we don’t really speak to one another in these kinds of spaces.  We merely talk at each other….

  “…piggybacking off of what the brother there is saying….”

  Our minds are caught in a thumb war. I stare at her because I know her already.  She’s just like that mistake I once made.  She knows she’s another mistake in the making.  Yet, she still loves me. 

  “All I do is give you kisses. That’s gotta count for something!”

  It does.  Every touch is a mere morsel of sand dropping into an hourglass. With so much sand still left to drop, we’re careless.  We make mistakes and destroy them.  We play God.  We are gods…until we try to flip the hourglass.  That’s when we, with bravado, ask the cosmos to do us a favor. 

  “So I hate the fact that you can be an asshole at times, but I’m pretty sure I’m ready for you to come back now.”

  She bothers me for small things that don’t really matter like: long hugs, a man’s scent, and feelings.  Emotions are so bounded by time.  They come and go as the winds under the old pine tree where the dark-skinned girl with the overall shorts and matching burets clamped onto her plaits passed me a note one day back in 4th grade. 

  “You funny lookin”

  I never got the joke. 

  Ever since, I’ve been trying to understand that moment.  I’ve been on a tear making every woman laugh.  Making every woman cry.  Making every woman question herself in hopes that someone can explain the joke. 

  So, naturally I brought the question to her at the next seminar over a discussion of “essentialism.”

  “…but what is blackness?...and what does it mean to be a woman?....”

  She went on some long tangent about black women marginalization during the 2nd wave of the feminist movement.   She dropped a few lines from bell hooks and Patricia Hill-Collins.  She told the class – the world- that there’s no such thing as escape.  There’s no such thing as freedom. 

  She said that for me.  She could tell by the bags under my eyes my soul was merely a runaway slave trapped in the shackles of the life that should’ve been spent with the girl from the Inland Empire who drove the Mitsubishi Eclipse her parents bought her for her graduation.

  She could tell by the calluses in my hands that I had been crawling in the night to flee the wrath of the girl from Washington D.C who moved to Los Angeles without much of a plan; just the determination to be a star.

  Mother, forgive me for I have sinned. 

  She couldn’t blame me. 

It had nothing to do with his birthdate. His annual was actually in March – same time the tornados come.

They said his head was the size of November. So, that’s what they called him: November.

Nicknames were a sort of ‘right –to-passage’ in the forgotten plains of the countryside. Sometimes they made sense. Other times epithets were more oblique; pointless; without direction; acephalous.

So, November had no choice but to take hold of his identity; reclaim it on his own 14-year-old, black terms; a country boy’s despotism. Ebony hair balkanized between fade and fro. Puberty’s stochastic nature left his body awkward and inchoate. Yet, he was an isomorphic face resembling the gods.

He was November.

But, it was July when he let go of the clamp on the lawnmower to wipe the sweat from his brow. Took a walk over to the porch where his mama left a cup of lemonade for him to drink in hopes of him staying cool. He drank fast to counteract the terseness of the ice quickly melting in the summer heat.

As he sat the cup back down he heard…

“’November!”

“Oh, hey, Bug! What’s going on?”

Her real name was April, but everyone called her bug. No one really knows why, not even she.

Bug was a beautiful girl; wiry in build but boisterous in voice; the embodiment of the spirit of Jezebel right before Jehu’s orders were carried out; a princess – nothing less; nothing more.

“Nothing…Yo daddy got you cuttin’ the grass again, huh?”

“Yea he payin’ me tho”

“Oh yea? How much?”

“Don’t worry about all that. More than what you got.”

“You don’t know what I got, lil boy!”

Her neck began to roll. Once he realized that he’d pushed her button, he became more fetial.

“Yea you probably got all the money, huh? Let me hold a couple dollars.”

She took the bait. Converted in an almost Lydian fashion.

“How much you need?”

“All of it!”

“Boy, stop!”

He laughs at the over-exertion that takes over her face to show dismay.

“Hey I’m bout to walk up to the sto’ in a minute and get some candy. You want somethin’?”

A Simple question she poses effortlessly by way of hospitality’s graceful touch.

“I tell you what. I can TAKE you to the sto’ once I finish this grass!”

“Take me in what?”

“My car! What you mean ‘in what?’”

They conversed about the validity of November’s offer. It was known by the two adolescents that he was not old enough to drive legally – yet alone own a car. Turns out, he was talking about his father’s old “work car;” an old –model Oldsmobile that November’s daddy – an industrial worker by day and insect repellant sprayman otherwise – kept parked at their house unless he used it for the latter occupation. Known more intimately as “ole Ed’s work car,” folks had tremendous respect for such a car that battled with time, showing off the wounds to prove it; tears and stains on the seats, particles and sticky substances that go beyond identification, depleted carpet on the floors of the front seats; faded color streaks on an exterior painted once upon a time; scratches and dents – a car’s scars and scabs.

Eventually their words of exchange subsided, and November went back to complete his task of cutting the grass. After he finished, he ran in the house, quickly washed himself, and put on his favorite outfit; those jeans with the crease and the shirt with the collar. His mama told him it makes him look “upright.”

He saunters on across the street to Bug’s house to get her. She comes out in pants and a shirt quaint enough to keep her class but attaching to her body in a way to make it clear that puberty had shown her good graces.

“Aight let’s ride, Bug!”

He led her to the car; the passenger’s side of Ole Ed’s work car. He opened the door for her. Young chivalry – make of it what you will.

He reached down into the open compartment underneath the radio, passed an assortment of old receipts and papers that amounted to trash, freedom, and all that lies in between to grab the key to the car which he knew his dad, Ole Ed, kept pinned to the side within the hole area. November put the key in the ignition, put the car into drive, and invited motion into their young lives.

The Dollar Store was only a mile away but to a couple of youngsters lusting after the rush of the road, the car ride was like a trip up the Pacific One Highway as the Sunset on the tail end of a Hollywood love story. And, just as the big stars do in the movies, Bug and November, they needed a soundtrack. He turned on the radio.

“I swear this song comes on every time I get in the car!” She said.

“What? You don’t like it?

“It’s not that. It’s just…

…I mean I…

….it’s…

….I don’t know what I’m trying to say!”

Embarrassment squeezes a half-hearted laugh from the pits of her belly. From then on awkwardness and the music co-rule the air inside the vehicle.

November drives with the precision of an over-attentive amateur. He makes complete stops at all stop signs; signals well before his turn, drives no faster than the limit. Anxiety enables safety to consume him.

Every car that passes scares him. He wonders if it’s Ole Ed, or his uncle, or his aunt, or his cousin, or their friend, or their neighbor. He knew his daddy would kill him if he found out he was out in his car without him knowing. So, every encounter with a car felt like a round of Russian roulette. Pull the trigger. Another unknown face. He lives onward.

Eventually they make it to store. Bug gets out to get the candy. He waits impatiently.

“What’s taking her so long?

What is she doing in there?

How long does it take to get a pack of candy?”

He taps the steering wheel as he talks to himself; temporary insanity is setting in.

“Alright, I’m about to go in here and see what’s taking her so….”

The car door opens and closes quickly

“You miss me?”

The sight of Bug now sitting in the passenger seat and smiling soothes him, but he gives her a hard time nonetheless.

“What were you, buying the whole store or something?”

“Nope. Just Airheads.”

“I ain’t never seen nobody take that long cause of some Air…”

November restarts the car as he lambastes her more. The two head back to their block; nervous; wishing to make it home before the grown ups get off work and have a chance to come home and detect mischief.

They get home and everything is peaceful and quiet. They rush out of the old car and into their respective houses, only stopping for a momentary hug and exchange of departing pleasantries. November went to his room and sat on the floor staring at the wall listening to his heartbeat like a Zulu man’s drum.

That night November had dinner with his family as he always does. This time, however, George came over to join them – a long time family friend who worked as a city policeman. He loved to tell the family the local chatter down at the force.

“I got a call a few hours ago saying a couple young kids robbed the dollar sto’ and drove off with over $300.”

“$300? Are they crazy! Boy, them kids gotta be stupid as can be!” Said Ole Ed between bites of his neckbones.

“See the problem is these young folks lack guidance. They wanna do eeeeeeverything illegal; stealin and killin and stuff. Don’t make no bitta sense!”

“You feelin aight, November?”

Last night, I attended a forum on education featuring LA Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa and LAUSD Superintendent John Deasy.  Hosted by UCLA's Luskin School of Public Affairs, the school's dean, Frank Gilliam moderated the discussion and spiraled into to the hot-button issues of the the Mayor and Superintendent's Super-Pac-style reform efforts.  

What did we learn? I think it's evident that both men are extremely passionate about the issue of education; they hear the criticism; and they have been responding vehemently through various means -  mainly taking on the California Teachers' Union and reforming suspension and expulsion policies.  

What are they missing?  These men came off particularly ideological, especially Deasy.  They framed their issue with the teacher's unions as an 'us vs. them' 'we're right/they're wrong' issue.  While most progressives interested in improving education see teachers' unions as impediments to better schools, we must also remember their purpose: to ensure that a group of folks who do not fit comfortably into a labor market do not get clipped even harder, in terms of wages, than they already are.  This is by no means reason to place our kids' futures in jeopardy, but it is not irrational to consider this perspective.

Mr. Villaraigosa believes that "education is the civil rights issue of our time; it's the democracy issue of our time."  

Mr. Deasy claims that he's "agnostic on reform."  

These two statements capture my sentiments about education and why I've made education policy a central tenet to my research in political science.  To understand education as a civil rights issue is to see it as something that should be endowed by our very existence as citizens in this country.  To be agnostic about education is to acknowledge that we don't have the answers and should remain on the hunt for solutions.  Education, thus, is about equity, collaboration, and accuracy.

May our leaders continue to act accordingly.  

As those of you who follow me - or just know period - already know, I have been following the local mayoral election here in Los Angeles for a couple of months now.  I've visited forums, and I've had personal conversations with all but two of the candidates (Kevin James and Emanuel Pleintez managed to escape from my amateur-esque journalistic scrutiny).  And, from all that I've learned about the aspiring mayors, and about the city of Los Angeles as well, I give my endorsement to City Councilman Eric Garcetti.  

To keep this short, I respect Garcetti as an intellectual and a visionary.  I genuinely believe that he has the desire to turn Los Angeles into an even greater city than what we already have.  I think the only question is whether or not he will actually have the political will and capital to get it done.  Garcetti has big dreams and big goals, sometimes too big, but I think that, if elected, his shown pragmatism and the limits of the office would settle him into the leader that Los Angeles needs right now.  

So, for those Angelenos voting on tomorrow, my recommendation for you is Mr. Eric Garcetti.

Recently, I've been breaking away from the PhD life when I have a few moments to spare and volunteering for Kate Anderson's LAUSD School Board Election Campaign. Kate has a vision for a more efficient and equitable public school system here in Los Angeles - a vision that aligns with what I would like every kid who steps foot in a classroom in the 2nd largest city in the country to have.  So, I ask that all West Siders here in LA come out and support Kate Anderson; let's make our schools better.  

God bless America but I miss Cape Town, South Africa.

I fell in love with a girl with a Great Britain accent.

I took her to dinner.

She ordered the curry.

We spoke of Fanon; you know-masks and shit. 

She invited me into a whole new world.

Malo:  "greetings." Zulus.

No shocker, there was more to them than Shaka.

Took their freedom from the Nether Nether lands

Fought with a rhythm.

Looked something like double-Dutch.

And this talk of childhood games brought the spaceship that is

conversation back to my world.

Black hands smacking. bass-less voices scream "down by the river"

Oh we took that from y'all, huh?

Or maybe we put it in the baggage we carried across the Atlantic.

The suitcases slave-traders couldn't see.

The backs of eyes tell lies. Shades are ultraviolet protection. 

And her shape is a devilish blessing.

Her hips are the subject in question.

Equestrian.

Let's begin.

Because she might be from a whole 'nother planet

but her lips don't seem so foreign.

Matter fact they even taste like home

But she says i breathe with a certain air of arrogance.

Taking things for granted like starbucks lattes, newspaper phone apps

...and tomorrow.

And she keeps calling me by this name that she made up.

A name that would probably make the X man see me as a mutant.

Words become a force field.

Love becomes not intercontinental but intergalactic.

So I give some bullshit story about how love conquers all

She laughs 

-Abraham Lincoln, Dec. 1. 1962

Los Angeles City Hall

Here I am.

  [deep breathe]

  I’m here again, back at the outskirts of love.  I left the city because of the same reason we all usually migrate: over-population.  If you can’t be the one when that’s all there’s room for, you pack your bags: load it with souvenirs from days and nights spent; add to the baggage of a heart well traveled.  I’m a Pullman port…

  “What can I get for you?”

  Um…I’ll take a small coffee. Light roast.  Leave room for cream, please.

  “Ok. Will that be all for you?”

  Yes.

  “Ok. That’ll be $1.44”

  “Debit or credit?”

  Credit

  “Thank you, Mr. Stitu…Stiutu…Sti…”

  It’s Stitution.  Justin Stitution. 

  “Oh…Sorry.  Thank you, Mr…Stitution.  Enjoy your coffee.” 

  No, thank you…[squints at name badge]…Sarah. 

  She blushes as she hands me the cardboard-protected paper cup.  I give her a spurious smile to diffuse the awkward moment we both just stepped on.  Human interaction is a fragile concept.  Psyches are both made and broken from seemingly simple exchanges of words.  If the pen is mightier than the sword, then the sharp iron has, by no means, any match for the tongue.

  I’m a Pullman porter.  Well, at least that’s what I tell them.  I had to leave the city.  There was no room.  I was forced out; black-listed; expelled.  I’m an expatriate.  I’ll always love that city; it will always be a part of me. 

  Fine, I’ll get it off my chest. 

  Damn, this shit burns my tongue every time; where’s the half and half?

  No, not that. Sorry.  Anyways, I’ll get it off.  There’s a story.

  So, I fell in love with a girl who had been eaten alive; swallowed whole. 

  By what? A monster, of course? What else devours a live human being?

  Just think about it.  I wasn’t there when it happened, but I’d imagine the sight was quite grotesque; a young girl resisting; fighting for her life as this monster overtakes her.  She kicks and screams; punches and whales; pleads and cries.  Yet, this beast, this ogre of a thing, opens its mouth and forces her down its throat.  May its intestines have mercy on her soul.  That damn city. 

  So, yea, it ate her alive.  When something eats you alive, you become a part of it.  When it moves, you move.  What it digests, you neighbor. It controls you.  That monster.

  Lucifer.  Who likes a lady of the night better than the son of the morning? He was born of the bright light from a rising star.  Ha! She was doomed from the start:  mornings, bright lights, rising stars.  Never had a chance. 

   Eventually, she made her way out of the beast’s belly; took the backdoor.  She exited with the stench of love gone sour: too much time spent in high temperatures.  Cool down, baby. 

  She felt like shit, and because of that feeling, she was hardened.  How did I know? You could tell.  Some nights the moon would stare at her, and she’d glare back; the wind misdirecting her hair; the stars undressing her with their eyes. Yet, nothing fazed her. Her heart was broken. 

  I glue it together. But, at the end of the day, it’s glue.  When a heart shatters from a hardened soul, the answer is not something that in itself cements.  The solution, is instead, a treatment I would never discover either because of mortality or fate—the type of decision that we leave to history’s burden.  Maybe that’s the reason I’m telling this whole series of memories; because herstory has a burden too. 

  Excuse me, can I get another lid.  This one won’t stay on?

  “Oh, yes.  Here, you go, sir? Anything else?”

  No. No thank you.

  So, what do you do when you’ve been hardened and broken?  My knowledge of Physics is limited. So, I’m not sure of the scientific validity, but from lessons of love, I’ve seen that this process turns the heart quite cold. Cold enough to make memories of passion become repellants; frigid enough to blind a lover from concern; brisk enough to make a woman call upon a hitman, a proven assassin:  Karma.  I hope they both burn in hell: the creed of a lover scorned. 

I know what you’re wondering now: what happened to the girl? I don’t know. You tell me when you see her.  I left, remember? I’m a Pullman porter. 

  “Hey Stits! Get your ass on this train! The passengers are about to board!” 

  I guess it’s time for me to go. 

  Damn, that was some good ass coffee.