At A Moments Notice...

I have a dream my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. ~ Martin Luther King, I Have A Dream

Last night I recieved an e-mail from a gentleman who had just recently completed my novel I'm On My Way. In the e-mail he stated:

"...Your writing style reminded me of E. Lynn Harris. He too wrote about light skinned characters with light eyes. He made the reader feel as though light-skinned people were prettier and more successful than his darker brothers. Dio happened to be the character that had his own successful business, he also had a man that happened to be a model. None of his darker brothers had it better than him."

Immediately after reading this I grew frustrated; not entirely by what was said, but by yet another issue my people will never, ever overcome: the all too important issue of color. I wondered if he (the reader) noticed how much praise I showered on Michael and his chocolate brown skin. I wondered if he noticed how I purposely tried to avoid the stereotypes typically afforded the light versus the dark? Yes Di'ogenes had a much more successful career than anyone else but this was not predicated on his skin color, but rather the choices he made in his life. His decision to place his job above all else almost pre-determined his success. The same could be said about Sean [who, for the record, I did not mention color], ended up being a very successful V.P. at H.A.N. Records. The more I thought about the readers comment, the more I realized his comments had to be based heavily on some injustice that had been done to him. Maybe, I reasoned, this young man has been the victim of black on black racism, a crime rarely talked about in our community...but one we've all fallen victim to.

A few years back while walking the streets of Manhattan I happened upon a street vendor selling books. Always one to stop and browse I soon noticed a book titled, The Color Complex: The politics of Skin Color Among African Americans. The title caught my attention, but it was its promise to unveil the hidden prejudices among black people that sealed the deal. All my life I had been a victim of black on black racism: I was (and still am) dark skinned with full lips and, if I allowed my hair to grow in full you would most definitely notice my "not-so-good" crop of wool. I am after all a black man with black features, both a gift and a curse.

I would be a liar if I said I have not found myself staring in the mirror wishing my skin were lighter, my hair better, and my looks more you know, light-skinish. I have fallen victim to wanting to be other than I am. And each time I find myself there I wonder why? Why isn't being me good enough? Why isn't my brown skin and full lips good enough? Why am I not revered when I walk in a room like my light-skinned counter part? Why am I cute, and he phyne? Why am I looked over, and he looked for? Black is beautiful, so they say. Yet I find it extremely difficult to find that beauty that has not been tainted by the more popular belief: white is the fairest of them all.

In a society where we have been discounted by the mainstream through blackface, Jim Crow and the United States Constitution is there no wonder why features that appear somewhat [used on purpose] normal and/or acceptable around blacks suddenly becomes mortifying around whites? Is it true then that once we realize our beauty is not like theirs ours almost always dissipates? It is terribly sad, but true: so many of us apologize for our looks, and long for ways to hide what we feel others will not approve.

Until the 1960s most Black women, and some Black men, regularly straightened their hair. It was rare for a Black woman to be seen in public with unprocessed hair, and those who dared risked the ridicule and even chastisement of close friends and family members. When the Afro became fashionable during the sixties, it was radical in more ways than one. It not only associated the wearer with the politics of the Black Power movement, but, for women, it also signaled the abandonment of the hair-straightening products they had been conditioned to use since childhood. The Afro eventually went the way of all trendy hairstyles, and by the mid-seventies most Blacks (although not as many as before) had returned to processing their hair. ~Excerpt from The Color Complex

The issue of color in our community is a deep rooted one, one that cannot be remedied overnight, or fully thought out in one post. But it is one that should be brought out of the closet and discussed at length. If for no other reason than to realize much of what we know and feel about color is not our fault. It is the result of years and years of conditioning that unfortunately has affected our most intimate of thoughts.

So it seems beauty does matter!

One of the recurring questions or should I say comments I keep receiving regarding my novel is the physical descriptions of my characters. I have been told by some, accused by others, of creating characters that are way more beautiful than your typical bruh/sis walking down the street. Though I have attempted to explain my theory: beauty is in the eye of the beholder, thus depending on who you ask even someone like Mike Tyson is to-die-for, I have still been hit with: "but that's not me you're describing".

So needless to say I began to think perhaps I had in fact done something wrong. Maybe, I reasoned, my characters are unreal and far from the common beauty so many of us say we want or possess. *Sucks teeth loudly* Yeah fucking right. I am convinced most of the people who complained about my descriptions have serious issues with the way they look. While writing I'm On My Way I made sure I did not over exaggerate the physicality's of my characters largely because so many other writers tend to do this. Instead I sought to describe them through their personalities. You get to know all of my characters personally before you even learn their physical attributes. I did this for two reasons.

One. Though we often hate to admit it, we are a shallow society. It is not enough that a person possess all the things we say we desire while searching for a relationship, he/she has to be physically beautiful too. Not just beautiful to us, but to our friends, families, co-workers, etc. He/she has to walk a certain way, talk a certain way, and if he/she happens to be gay fit a pre-defined stereotype: top/bottom, femme/aggressive, masculine/straight-acting. One of the prime reasons some of us can't find a love is because we're not looking for a relationship as much as we are a type...or as I like to refer to them: a gimmick.

Two. As a reader I rarely get the images some writers use when describing their characters, and that frustrates me, especially if they use an entire paragraph to do this. Maybe I'm not imaginative, or maybe, just maybe the person they're trying to describe with the almond eyes, regal neck, thick cinnamon complexion with freckles scattered about just doesn't click. I'd much rather some of them explain their characters personal characteristics than their physical characteristics, except of course when it comes to sex.

But I digress.

All of this comes on the heels of yet another conversation with yet another person about how beauty should not be a factor or rather a major factor in our lives.

Enter the real world.

Literally. This season it seems er'body and their mother is talking about the real world. Now I know for a fact there has been a gay housemate every season since the show's inception. It's a staple, sorta like the token blackie. But it seems this new guy Karamo is behind all the ooohs and ahhhs. Is it because he's black. No. Is it because he's educated. No. Most of us don't care jack shit about that. It's because he's a handsome, masculine, non-finger snapping black man that could very well be the boy next door. A boy apparently some of us would not mind sopping up with a biscuit. You would not believe how many comments I've heard and read about ole boy and his revelation on the season premiere of the Real World Philadelphia. Or how many people are eager to tune in this week, and every week thereafter just to see Karamo do his thing.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know some of you will swear you're watching it because it's history in the making. (bullshit) Or because you're a reality junkie. (bullshit) Or because there was absolutely nothing else on television. (bullshit) But y'all can't fool me. I know like me you love a good piece of eye candy. I know you wanna see what the ass looks like, or somehow get just one good look at his print (I know some of you got the tivo ready), or maybe even see what type of guys he gets into...and it seems only right. Because after all, we're ordinary plain Jane folks, and well, guys like him, they're just fiction. Right?

"I'm not trying to create an image, I'm just doing what I do best..." ~Faith Evans

Every once in a while I reach back into my collection and dust off a set that at one time or another defined my life and/or the era. Today I reached back and pulled out my girl Faith.

From the very beginning she was expected to fail. Charged with marrying the Notorious B.I.G. to further her musical career and riding the coat tail of one-time friend and collaborator Mary J. Blige, Faith Evans had her work cut out for her when she burst onto the music scene with her self-titled debut album Faith. But true talent always perseveres…even if the public per se, ain’t feeling you. Beyonce anyone?

It has been said Puffy first discovered the one time Fordam University student while working on the critically acclaimed My Life album, by Mary J. Blige and quickly offered her a recording deal. Shortly thereafter her album was released and steadily crept up the charts until finally landing platinum status thanks in part to the singles You Used To Love Me, and Soon As I Get Home.

But of course one would expect more from a singer, songwriter and arranger who before landing her own top ten hits helped artists like Usher, LSG, Christopher Williams and Mary J. Blige define their signature style. And she did not disappoint. Her debut album is the type of set you put on and walk away from, no need to keep the remote handy, or program your disc player to skip certain tracks as not to disrupt the mood. From beginning to end she delivers the goods ever determined to bring the listener deep into her psyche where her mix of hip-hop influenced tales of life and love are like no other songs you’ve ever heard.

I love Faith, primarily because I never tried to compare her to anyone else. She is in her own right an artist to be reckoned with. A talent, I might dare to say, that has yet to be fully realized or appreciated. An artist I look forward to hearing from, because I know much like Anita Baker, she will never disappoint.
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Album: Faith | Label: Bad Boy | Released: 08.29.1995
Standout tracks: No other love | Fallin' in love | Ain't nobody | Come Over | Soon as I get home | All this love | You used to love me| Give it to me | You don't understand| Don't be afraid | Reasons
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I have this problem. My nose won't stop bleeding. For like the last six or seven months I have been plagued with constant nose bleeds. Some far worse than others. You would think the site of blood trickling down my nose would send me scurrying off to the doctor, but nope. I'd rather sit around and diagnos myself. Sick huh?

I don't know why, but like so many other men before me, I hate going to the doctor. Always have. I'd rather die than find out what's wrong with me. My nose has bled three times in the last four days. When it first began I thought I was anemic, since the epidemic runs in my family. Now I'm starting to think perhaps it might be high blood pressure since I devour large quantities of sodium reguarly. That above all else frightens me. I can deal with anemia...a few iron pills and the condition practically takes care of itself. But High Blood Pressure? Dang. A stroke could paralyze me. And hypertension could kill me.

I don't know. Maybe I should go to the doctor instead of asking everyone around me what they think it is.

Damn. Decisions, decisions, decisions...

Damn. And I thought I had issues.

So this weekend a couple of Sdot's long-lost cousins from Indiana decided to pay him a visit, to do some shopping, catch a bite at Juniors, and take in a Broadway play or two. Last year they visited around the same time, but seeing as we had just moved into our spot hours earlier I barely spent a moment with them. A brother had major unpacking to do. This year things would change. Practically settled, I was actually looking forward to the Saturday jump-off Sdot had planned in their honor.

Lights. Cameras. Action!

The first two and a half hours everything went as planned. His family arrived, the drinks began, and all was fine. They talked about New York and its stark differences to Indiana, their family and how neither of them really knew they existed, more history, the future and blah, blah, blah, blah.

"Ummmm, who made you all's bed?" Felica asked, after having passed our bedroom several times.

"I did." I remarked, proud of my handy-work and eager to know where the conversation was heading.

"Damn! Were you ever in the army?"

I laughed, because I knew my moms was somewhere smiling. "Nah. I just like things neat."

"Neat is an understatement," she chuckled, "it looks like a museum in here." Suddenly, as if on cue, her sister Chantel rushed passed us, jumped on the bed, ruffled the sheets and tossed the neatly arranged pillows to the floor. I gagged, and for a second felt the fire rage inside of me as I desperately tried to understand why the hell would someone do that.

But I'm working yall, remember? Instead of feeding the fire I accepted what happened as a simple life lesson: shit happens, get over it. As a perfectionist the act of destroying my perfectly made bed triggered quite a bit of frustration in me, but as a realist I knew and understood perhaps her act was targeted to help me confront my everything must be perfect demon, thereby forcing me to deal with a little unexpected chaos. It worked. I looked at my pillows scattered across the floor, and let it go. After all, it was just a bed.

"Damn Chantel, why'd you do that?" Felica's boyfriend Simon asked amazed.

"Because it was too neat!" She responded stretched ever-so-carefully across my bed. "And it aggravated me."

"Well I think it's cool to see brothers taking care of themselves." Simon said. "My place is neat. And its good to see theirs is too."

I nodded because I too like to visit my brethren and find their shit in place, it says something of their character and upbringing.

"I hear you Simon," I remarked, "we brothers are doing it for ourselves."

"What?" Chantel asked jumping to her feet. "You brothers are doing it for yourselves??!!" Her question left little doubt that a battled leered just beyond her words. "That's part of the problem," she sneered, "what's up with you brothers doing it for yourselves?"

I knew where she was going. I felt it. But I praying, "please God no! Don't let her go there! Don't let her start this shit in my home! Please God, please!" But before I could complete my prayer...

"The reason I can't find a man is because you brothers," she hissed pointing at Sdot and I, "are doing it for yourselves."

All I could do was inhale, count to five thousand and listen to her explain why an attractive, educated, successful woman like herself could not find a man. She had numbers, charts, pamphlets and er'thang to support her case. And when she felt she couldn't win on her presentation alone, she brought in the weapon of all weapons: the bible. "Show me in the bible where it says a man can be with a man, and I'll leave you alone."

I collapsed on my unmade bed. She'd gone and done what religious zealots have done since the beginning of time: used the bible to defend their radical beliefs.

"If man was meant to be with man, woman with woman, then there would be no you, you, you, you, you or you." She said diligently pointing to every person in the room.

Damn! How the hell do you compete with that? How the hell do you say you're wrong when clearly no two men, or women can bring forth life on their own free will. How do you reason with someone who clearly sees your life, and its many decisions as a mistake? How do you convince someone you are not the reason why they're single? Or that your decision to do you is precisely that: your decision.

I'll tell you how: you don't. I spoke my peace. I spit my knowledge. I dropped science. I even spoke the word. But if one's mind is defiantly made up, and is determined to blame you and the rest of the world for the condition they are in, there is nothing you could do but pray they find their way. I used to believe I was sin, and that I was born in sin, and that my whole life would be lived in sin. Just like I used to believe I had to convince white people to see me as an individual instead of a color. Or every security guard in the world that when I walk into a store I am indeed shopping, and not stealing. I cannot control how people see me, or even how they attack me. But what I can do is control how I react to their shit. I am not a criminal. I am not a nigger. And I am not sin. I am Christopher David, born to a man and woman, sent here to live my life without apology, or grief, or the belief I have to be what some else wants me to be. And if anyone has a fucking problem with that, then tuff.

"People, you can never change the way they feel, better let them do just what they will, for they will, if you let them steal your heart from you..." George Michael, Kissing A Fool

Ah-ight people, so I'm working. Doing the type of shit I hate doing. But doing it nonetheless. So you might be hearing more from me--but be forewarned, it's not all going to be pretty. Though some of you I've met seem to think I'm one of "those people" you know, the ones who seemingly have all their shit together, but I assure you I am not one, and I truly doubt if any of them even know my name. Grounded I am. Semi-self-assured, yeah. Together...well...

This is a brutal world. Down right evil at times. I doubt if any of us are truly together. Presumptuous, yes. Truthful? Well...

It takes a lot to do you without weighing the options of everyone you know. After all you don't want to do something stupid because then, they're all gonna judge you, and make you wish you had never been born. Why just ask Bennedict Arnold. Years later we're still here, judging and hating the man for what he thought was best. Oh well, scratch that idea.

My man George Michael hit it on the head with his classic Kissing A Fool. "You are far, when I could have been your star, but you listened to people who scared you to death, and from my heart." Then he sealed it when he said, "you'll never find peace of mind, until you listen to your heart."

Half of the time man I think my heart is a fool. He's always telling me to do shit, say shit, be shit I know others could never---would ever understand. So I laugh at him, tell him to shut the fuck up, and do the things my mind says is better. But my mind usually wants what everyone else wants, and not necessarily what's better for me. Funny huh. But true.

So I'm working. Working hard. Day and night. To get to a place called happiness. I've used contentment for too long and I'm sick and tired of him and his stagnant attitude. There is more to life. More to me. And it's about time I greeted them both with wide open arms.

When you really think about it, relationships suck--especially the really good ones because they always seem to force you to look at the shit you don't want to look at, or haven't had the nerve to look at. Good relationships make you nervous, anxious, and at times down right miserable. They don't allow you room to breathe, or adequate time to come up with excuses for your over done habits. Good relationships demand you come correct, or don't come at all; and most of us (believe it) would rather not come at all. Who wants to be confronted on their shit? Especially if you've grown rather comfortable with it? Even moreso if you've grown comfortable with it. The shit, my shit, our shit becomes a part of who we are--and how dare anyone not deal with it!

And so I guess the statement: "This is who I am: take it or leave it!" finally makes sense.

The shit is funny! In so many ways we'd rather be miserable than change our debilitating habits. We'd rather lie and say we're fine just the way we are, than admit the way we are is causing our life not to work. Revelation: Happiness is not a science, finding ways to hold onto things that aren't working, is.

Where this is coming from I don't know. Where it's headed I'm even more unsure. In the past this would have bothered me. I've always needed to know where things are, and where they're going, primarily so I could control it. But I have to stop that and move beyond my control dramas and peacefully allow life to be.

In truth I've always had problems with relationships. I often see myself as a giver, and everyone else as a taker. That may be the case, but then again it very well may not be. I think for the most part we all see ourselves as victims of life. I believe we see life as this force that has its way with us, fucks us over then leaves us for dead. I believe much of our time is spent wrestling with life eager to gain the upper hand as if therein lies our power, our destiny, our truth. But I truly believe life has no desire but to fulfill its self. It is after all, what it is. Nothing more, nothing less.

Alas change is upon us again. And like so many others, my piscean brother included, I question what lies ahead and what it will do to my relationships. Relationships I cherish; relationships that mean every thing to me. But like MLK I can't worry about that now...I've got work to do.

I don't know about you, but for me 2004 has been one ole' year. For a while I'd thought perhaps my moms really did hit on something when she said: "if it ain't one thing baby, it's another".

Like many people I expect the most from my life, which typically translates to: the good. We all want the positives, and if we had it our way we'd have them rain down from the heavens; because for so many of us this is what we have expected from our lives. We expect things to work. But not just work, we expect things to work the way we want them to work; and when they don't we fume.

I'm one of those. I fume. I yell. I scream. I ask why. Why me? Why this? Why now? I've been fuming all year. Go back and check some of my previous entries. Many of them are filled with aniexty about the way things are/were/should have been. In my heart I don't want to be a fumer. I'd much rather accept things for what they are, learn the lesson and move the fuck on. But I get stuck. Stuck in the moment. Stuck in the situation. Unable to move passed the hurt, passed the pain, passed that uncomfortable fucking lump stuck in the middle of my throat. That's when I realize that I'm not taking care of Chris. That I'm not being real with myself, or the situation. Life is not supposed to halt you or stop you from producing; from being the best you could be. Life is more, so much more, but somehow in some unbelieveable way I always seem to make it less.

I've been gone for a while. But I've been going through it even longer. In truth my year has not been chaotic because of what others have done to me, but because of what I've done to myself. I chose to stress the shit. All of it. I chose to let others dictate my moods; to determine my worth; to place me in a box. Me. I did that. The question now is: what am I gonna do about it?

From the moment I heard Pink's M!ssundaztood I connected. While some blasted her for switching teams, I praised her for speaking my heart. Don't let me get me became my mantra, because I knew all too well the words she spit. I am a hazzard to myself, and I'll continue to be one until I stop with the bullshit and get with the program. Because I deserve more. So much more.

Here's to turning this year around.