Ellipsis

I have learned. . .

To see the beauty. . .

In everyone’s world. . .

In everyone’s heart. . .

Lies the majesty of life. . .

And love. . .

And kindness. . .

If you allow them to show it. . .

I have seen the miracles. . .

That makes pain seem shallow. . .

And laughter seem deep. . .

Wide water’s seem narrow. . .

And crevices seem insurmountable. . .

And they are all one. . .

And the same. . .

Coming from the same source. . .

That is. . .

Life. . .

I am. . .

A believer. . .

That what I have. . .

Is what I have to give. . .

And not keep to myself. . .

It wasn’t given to me. . .

To own. . .

But to share. . .

With those whom are far. . .

To those who are near. . .

And dear. . .

To me. . .

To humanity. . .

To life. . .

To love. . .

It is truly a magical. . .

Place. . .

Thing. . .

I have seen. . .

I never want to leave. . .

So I must. . .

Build a home. . .

Here. . .

And learn. . .

To breathe. . .

Between every word. . .

As if to give. . .

What I say. . .

Life. . .

And meaning. . .

My ethereal self. . .

Acknowledges. . .

My universal self. . .

We are one. . .

We are you. . .

We are me too. . .

. . .

7 Wonders of the World

View from my hotel room in Kuala Lumpur of Petronas Towers

Question: How many of you know what the 7 Wonders of the World are?

Okay, some of you may have gotten correct and some of you may not have.

Here’s my next question: How many of you know what the 7 Wonders of the world will be as of 07/07/07?

If you tried to guess, chances are you’re incorrect. Technically, no one knows, but maybe a few committee members. On July 7^th, 2007, the 7 Wonders of the World will be announced in Lisbon, Portugal.

This n7w website will give you the opportunity to vote for what you believe should be the new 7 Wonders of the World.

Whether you care about which 7 spectacles make it in the final selection or not, it still would be cool to do a little background study on each of these places and come to understand the rich history within and what drove each civilization to build these structures.

Here are two must visit websites for information on these wonders:

• 7 Wonders of the World
• All World Wonders

Of the 68 wonders listed on the second site, I’ve visited 7.

• Empire State Building
• Statue of Liberty
• Sydney Opera House
• Taj Mahal
• Red Fort
• Panama Canal
• The Petronas Towers

Considering, it’s a very unimpressive list, I know. But I am interested in visiting as many as possible; some don’t exist anymore so would be impossible to see. I’ve got a lot of work to do!!

Busy Day

I had a busy and exhausting day at work. I couldn't wait to get home to rest. I sat my laptop bag down by the front door of my house. I opened the door and as I walked in, I sighed. Just a few more minutes and I will be home. I kicked off my shoes and undressed. Standing there in my boxers, I lied down in my bed and closed my eyes. 2 minutes later, I was home, locked behind the doors of the deepest recesses of my mind.

I can't recall what I thought about, but I felt safe. These worlds, even when dangerous always feel safe to me. I trust my mind. I trust the places my mind takes me. . .the depth, the challenges the non-nomenclature. I trust that in my subconscious, a knife to the abdomen does not mean death for me, but is probably a metaphor for something deeper and more profound, like, like I’m a pushpin attached to the surface of the earth and I can’t move because pushpins can’t move; they stab. And though I am the pushpin, I am also the earth of which the pushpin stabs, kind of like stabbing yourself in the abdomen. . .yeah. And the metaphor? The metaphor is that as long as you’re strong in mind, you can never die. . .perhaps.

And yet, I can’t help, but feel that there’s work to be done when I go to sleep. Sometimes, I feel like I wake up more tired than when I went to sleep. And I’m not tossing and turning all night. My subconscious has just had a very busy night placing my metaphysical in this world afflicted with detachment disorders; they do just enough to keep us all detached from one another. Keep us from realizing the potential of a world community not angered to see one man go down in order to see yourself rise. Whose they? You know. . .they.

The busy work that encapsulates my sleep is worth it to me. I don’t mind it because I’m building metaphysical worlds within metaphysical worlds. I’m building true, true knowledge to pass on to little boys and to little girls. Because someday, someone’s going to look up to me and it won’t be just because of my height. I’ll have to answer. I’ll have to answer to the circles. No one escapes answering to the circles. The circles that brought my childhood to some person’s adulthood, inextricably are the same circles that will bring someone’s childhood to my adulthood. And I don’t claim to know who or what that will be; I just need to be prepared.

So each night, I get real busy and spend my nightshift cogitating on the infrequent juxtapositions that show themselves while I’m awake. These juxtapositions that don’t mirror how life should be, but show us how life is. And I want them to all be one and the same. So each night, I close my eyes real tight like I’m about to dive under water and shut my inside in and leave my outside out. Even my breathing becomes minimal, all in an attempt to ensure the purity of my subconscious world. I dare not let the outside world into its world for fear that my subconscious might start to believe some of this reality that is happening to us today. Some days, I wish I could walk away. But I’m not built for it. Not. . .designed for it. Not. . .equipped to be that man that doesn’t own up to what he owes.

And after much convincing, I wake myself up and do it all over again. Longing for the time when I can come back to that sacred and safe haven and just be. . .me. What’s me? Well, I’m just a thought.

For 8 years, she went uncompromised. . .

Reflecting on a post written by Nikki on perception of black women on television, I have become deeply saddened by the prospects that perhaps, the world is not interested in positive portrayals of our black women; that perhaps, a troubled black woman makes for a more “realistic” and interesting story than a non-troubled black woman. That perhaps for black women, struggle = “struggle always” as oppose to struggle = “success.” What a disconcerting equation we’ve devised for ourselves, and furthermore, have allowed to be devised by the television producer.

But again, Nikki has covered these bases on her blog far more poignant than any way I could tell it or have seen it previously done. My point here is quite simple. I want to actually give praise and thanks to a particular individual.

For 8 years, this woman played the mother of Sondra, Denise, Theo, Vanessa and Rudy and a host of others not born to her. For 8 years, she was a lawyer who successfully made her way up the ranks to partner at her firm. For 8 years, she relished close relationships with her parents; with her husband’s parents; with her alma mater; with the doctors who helped her to bore her children. She attended parent/teacher conferences. She attended Church and sang with the choir. She cooked, cleaned and gave out healthy allowances. Her kids never begged for money for Jordan’s. And they respected her to no end.

I say all of that to say, thank you to The Cosby Show for the consistent and persistent, positive portrayal of a black woman on television; thank you Claire Huxtable; thank you Phylicia Allen and Phylicia Rashad!

Fwd: Fwd: Fwd: READ THIS!! (just me ranting, ignore me)

I’m sending you this forward
It’s original in text
So you won’t know exactly
What I’m going to say next
I want you to stop forwarding me
All of your stupid requests
To send out more forwards
‘Cause of some jolting behest
To save somebody’s life
Or a bad blow will be dealt
And if I ain’t praying for myself
I’m sure no forward will help
Don’t want to bother my friends
To get a million dollars from the Gap
And if Bill Gates was offering all that money
By now his pockets would be tapped
How many F-W-Ds in your subject line
Before you know to call it quits
Or do you feel it’s your sworn duty
To broker inbox crowding next
I have had it with the forwarding
No more sending your jokes of the day
Them ishes ain’t even funny
And that’s all I have to say
My request is quite simple
My experiences quite horrid
But please I beg you please
Let this note be the last forward

Notes from my Grandy-ma told by me (WIP)

History books? Ha! Fuck history books. History books will have you believin’ that in the 1930s, niggas were bungee jumpin’ from trees with no elastic in the rope. It’s terrible the way the truth is known and we still continue tellin’, teachin’ and preachin’ lies.

It’s a shame that with death comes the end of a true story. From then on, it’s no longer your story, but his story; his story that is up to interpretation. His story that is subject to finagling and change. It changes so much that it becomes history. History as we know it will never be our story. Only a fraction of the true taste remains in the flavor of the story; leaves you feeling disappointed and dissatisfied. . .kinda like salmon cakes with too much cornbread in 'em.

Kind of like being black, but not wanting to be black. Not wanting to associate yourself with the deviant culture that represents our race; our complexion. I mean, we couldn't have always been this messed up could we? Behavior is learned. That means someone taught us this shit. Who in the world depicted such a decrepit view of Black Americans that we have learned, nay, accepted that this is how we should be? How we should be toward each other?

Well, that's history. And if we don't find a way to pull ourselves out of His Story and back into Our story, then history textbooks of the future will tell His Stories about the extinction of us.

And so then what’s to become of us? Stuck in the muck and mire of false absolution. Meaning even those who do well are to suffer the same fate of the overall race. It’s sad to think that this is the path. It’s not the path to salvation, but a path; one which we have accepted. I can no more forego the taste of acknowledged existence than I can piss on flowers to water my garden. Everything dies in the end. There’s no life in waste. Reckon I know better than most, that the interpretative stance on life and living is that one is not the other. Life is what we have. Living is what we do. But beyond that, once born, life is no option; living is.

And well. . .I’ve had life and I’ve had living. I lived for my God and for my family. And tain’t nothin’ else important but them there two. I set in motion, the wheels that say each one of my kin generations will be better off than the last. If I did little else, I worked hard enough for that. So my history will never be forgotten, because my history as told by my future kin, only gets better with age. Like the seeds of a dandelion, each time one of my kin travel further away from South Carolina, they’re taking with them, a piece of me further away from South Carolina. So you see, I’ve been to many more places than South Carolina. That’s how I knows it.

Me Stew

10 parts Leo and 5 parts July
8 parts insanity and 4 parts fire
3 parts unity and 6 parts hue
A huge pinch of brown with a little bit of blues
3 hints of shy and 20 stalks of black
7 sprinkles of a little this, 6 of a little that
5 curds of attitude, 3 sections of uplift
10 drops of triumph, 1 brain-full of resist
Oration of Martin, bluntness of X
Defiance of Frederick with Medgar Evers’ text
206 bones, lots of nerves and sinew
1 beating heart, a combination of all of you
1 slice of humble pie, 13 scoops of struggle
Infinite pieces of cogitation, 1 veil to juggle
1000 cups of love, one black mom’s prayers and plea
This is what it took to make a stew out of me

Lutha. . .

Goodness gracious, what a great memory!! Let me tell you about something I thought about today:

On my way home from work, I put on Luther Vandross’ greatest hits album and turned to “Since I lost My Baby” on my iPod. The melody hit me like a ton of pastime; or perhaps bricks as the colloquialism goes. I closed my eyes with a smile on my face and at that moment I was sitting on my couch at Ditmas Ave. Brenda Adams brushed by my body on her way to the kitchen with her hands in the air dancing and singing to the song. As was customary, I found myself at the record player DJ’ing my mother’s favorite Sunday ‘dinner making’ songs. The smell of garlic and Lawry’s seasoning salt rose to the sky. Well maybe it was just the ceiling of our apartment, but I was so overwhelmed by the moment, it got me feeling like my place was the world; so overwhelmed with the feelings a son at that age has for his mother. She was God incarnate to me; or at least god-like. And nothing got the heavens singing halleluiah like Luther playing in the living room.

"The bad boy's singing!" What they singin’ about, Ma? I asked customarily. “Nothing you need to know about, Jara, now come cut up these vegetables!” That was her reply with that beautiful smile on her face. The one where she’s half smiling, half biting her lip. It was the most beautiful smile in the world to me. So enchanting. And most of all, I loved it so much, because it signified that whatever our problems were. . .whatever my mother’s problems were, was not so important at the time she smiled that smile. It was at that moment, you could call me a record player, because whenever she got in those moods, I took mental snapshots of all that was going on and I’d try and prolong the sound, the visual, the activity, the smell, the conversation for as long as I could hoping that continuously recreating this moment, I could permanently banish the problems right out of our lives; wishful thinking for a kid. However, those were happy times.

Now for those of you who don't know, there's no good time like a good time with someone you truly love. No video game, no vacation. No celebration, no nothin'. This is what I had; this is what imbibes my mental. A time real gentle to the memory. Gentle to me. It’s the type of memory that softens a hard pillow when you're trying to sleep at night. And you fall back on this memory to make you forget how terrible your day was. Back in it.

And nothing can disturb this feeling, not even the shame of having to go to the tenants next door to ask for a cup of sugar. I hated having to do that; extended pantries as I like to refer to them. Because there was very little interaction otherwise. . .at least between the parents. I was too young to understand this activity as anything else other than not having the money to get what we needed. I would later grow up to know differently, but back then, to ask for a “handout” was not the move.

"I wanna be loved. There's nothing better than that” . . .”Jara, go turn that up!”

I never really liked Gregory Hines. He always had this pompous, egotistical look on his face. Maybe it’s just the face of a tap dancer because I see the same look on Savion Glover’s face. Plus I hated the movie White Knights starring him with Baryshnikov. But there was something about this song that made me change my tune about him. Truth be told, I should have always respected him. He was hustlin’ Hollywood trying to tap his way in to money. . .in to mainstream. But from what I remember, he was always a supporting role.

My mom uses her butt to bump me out of the way as she pours the scalding hot water off the potatoes that will be used for making mashed potatoes.

I guess, no matter how much better than Fred Astaire he was, like Bojangles, he'd never be Fred Astaire, if you get my meaning.

“A chair is still a chair. Even when there's no one sitting there.”

If you grew up as a child with a parent who listened to Luther then I shouldn't have to explain to you that by FAR, this is the most profound love song ever recorded. If you grew up immediately after the era of Luther Vandross, then there's a strong probability he was present at your conception singing grown folk lullabies that had nothing to do with falling asleep while in bed.

By no stretch of the imagination could I say I had the model family growing up. But I’ll be damned if no matter where I was, if mom was there too, my apartment didn’t feel like a home. And that was my biggest take away from this song. Furniture doesn’t mean anything. Asking me everyday how my day went, meant everything. Asking me to see my spelling tests and graded papers meant everything. Giving me a curfew meant everything. I lived in a home because as Luther says, “I had someone there.” Brenda Adams. And though I know the context of the song is a bit off for a mother and a son, but as the only man in the home, there were plenty of days that I couldn’t wait to get home to find the one woman I knew loved me unconditionally.

My car jolts to a stop and I’m broken out of my trance. I turn my iPod off, but leave my smile turned on. For the past couple weeks, he has made his way back into heavy rotation.

I find it only appropriate that I end this blog with the following clips. Enjoy! Thanks, Noey, for sending this to me!

House is not a Home





Superstar

Dream-state

Some days I fall into a dream-state and think about late Spring in Harlem. If I could click my heels together 3 times and be anywhere in the world, it would be sitting out on a porch watching people walk by. Smoking a clove cigarette and sipping tea. I have my sunglasses on staring up at the sun with my eyes closed listening to the bass line of “Umi Says.” Mos Def’s voice feels so liberating to me.

I open my eyes and look down at the back of my hand. A smile comes over my mouth in approval. There are many, many more days than not that I am extremely happy to be the complexion I am. I am proud to be the struggle that I am. I am proud to be the health that I am. I am proud to be the person that I am. I am happy to be the thinker that I am. I am proud that I have learned that the “Game” can be switched off, if only I can locate the places where that is safe. And I smile again.

I think about my family and my friends. I think about afros and firecrackers. Speeches and peach cobbler. I think about my favorite spades partner and wonder what she’s up to. I grab my phone to give her a call, but decide against it because I don’t want to stop the satisfaction this current thought is giving to me. I think about a point in time when I didn’t care that kool-aid wasn’t healthy for me and it quenched my thirst like no other drink; especially that orange or purple.

I think of the 7 train out to Shea stadium to watch the Mets. Particular happy moments were when my mother got tickets when Doc Gooden was pitching and I could put a guarantee on the fact that she’d get the seats out by right-field so I could watch my hero, Darryl Strawberry do anything.

I think about cartoons that felt like cartoons. Alf and Galaxy High and how much I hoped high school would be just like that. Transformers and G.I. Joe. Pound Puppies and Gummi Bears. I think about when I was young and played with my sister’s big dollhouse; didn’t have to worry about what people thought about that then, it was natural.

I take another drag of my clove cigarette and blow smoke in the air. I smile because the smoke starts to take on the form of church hats. My mother’s collection of church hats and my Grandmother’s collection of church hats. And all the church-hatted women standing in the veranda of the sanctuary at the Presbyterian Church sharing recipes for baked beans and honey ham, looking like a garden full of flowers with all the colorfully rich brims atop their heads. And it reminds me what I liked about Church as a kid.

My heart begins to flutter a bit faster. From my heart’s beat, I pick up a rhythm in my head. The rhythm becomes a melody and I start freestylin:

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Check it
I beats rhymes, check that
No I beats time
Gotta feelin that this life
Is too genuine
My ghetto’s a ballpark
And I’m ridin the pine
Out enjoying the sun
But leaving the game behind
I sign. . .or co-sign my blackness
My nappy headed mind sees
Life and reacts to this
Simplistic view of what it is
You and me
Got white folks believing that
Black's the thing to be
So I sit on this porch
While my mind climbs trees
Swinging through the branches
Like it’s a monkey
And I see, that the intolerable
Nature of grown-ass men
Has me feelin like I’m left
A void within
‘Cuz I’m without
And I talk ‘bout
Being better than the rest
But I dare not travel that route
That. . .ah, ah, ah, ah

I pause and take a sip of tea, because I realize that my mouth is as dry as that freestyle I just kicked. But I smile nonetheless, because why not? Why not smile? Why be angry? Why be discontented and settle for being contented? I take a deep breath and savor oxygen. I’m feeling rebellious though at current, I’m doing nothing that is deserving of this adjective.

I take another pull of the clove and fade out. I’m now in a dreamscape as my body slopes back on the steps reclining in the best way possible against a set of rigid, concrete steps. At once, my metaphysical self, stands up leaving my body behind, just laying there. It stretches and yawns and begins to peruse its surroundings.

Nothing out of the ordinary to record for the sake of my dreams, so it steps off the porch and walks down the block. Though my metaphysical self can’t see, it uses recorded values of my physical walking self to know how far to go to get to were its going. Monochromatic magic, it reads the code in colors and knows its happy greens from its mellow blues. A tree grows in Brooklyn, but a black soul grows in Harlem. Refinement of my people nourishes my metaphysical self as I continuously think of. . .better places for us all. Location-wise and otherwise.

. . .to be continued. . .someday.

Venting: Absurd. . .

Today, I saw absurdity that usurps all things absurd before it. As I was walking to the pantry in my office, a director blocked my way. He was pacing back and forth and not paying attention to what was in front of him or behind him. Said manager was staring into a blackberry reading his email. What’s so absurd about that you ask?

That idiot was pacing back and forth in front of his desk where his work laptop is located!!

Sit down and get the hell on, playa!! Nobody cares that you have a blackberry, dude!

It's in the numbers (just playing around a bit)

I once knew twice, that three times a lady, four me was frivolous, so I pled the fifth about my 6^th sense that 7 is golden. And an 8^th of who I am, 9 times out of 10 is real. So I sit on top cloud 9 giving 8 reasons for why 4+3 equals you and me or seven (spiritually). With nothing but a sixpence to my name, I attempt to buy 5 more minutes than I have time four. 3 of which I plan two give to you; the only one for me. It’s in the numbers.

Love To Be Had

Crazy days
Lazy days
Door keys lock the world out
At the end of the day, we shout
"Weekend's here"
"Glad you're near"
We catch a second wind
Work work's done, but "us" work begins
Briefcases in the foyer
Bodies tangle, show my love for ya
My arms envelop you
You are my package too
I deliver to myself
This kiss is to our health
Another week gone by
Another weekend high
It is time we spend relating
Our union, no more speculating
We undress and get ready for us
Running water calls to unleash our lust
We lay into one another
Bodies smellin like bath water
Engaged in each other
To each other
I hasten to call you, "my dear"
Whenever you are near
Not showing ownership
Showing compassion, that's it
As we face each other
And I lick my lips
Pardon
I lick your lips
Understanding what brew
I got cookin below deck
Give it a few secs
Your love below's wet
And my sail is setting
And together we'll travel the waters
Deep
My boat, your ocean
I've got a notion
Maybe relationships ain’t so bad
When there's love to be had

First Blogs

So at random points in time, I always go back to my very first blog to see what started it all. Going into that blog, I knew that I wanted to write something special that signified me at the time of its writing, but also looked to express my path; a link from the past that speaks to where I’d like to see myself go.

I still find what I wrote intriguing because I can look at the words and understand some things about myself during the time of that writing:

• I was hobbiless and in dire need of self-expression
• My job had become a bore on my soul and stripped me bare of my creativity, or so I thought
• Overdue. . .it’s amazing the things you could get done if you did those things that were just long overdue
• Time. . .inaction multiplied by time equals regrets; personalized formula, but never has a formula been more simple for me to understand, adhere to and avoid its effects
  
• Ownership. . .I always stress that the only thing I own is the information to my past. From it, you can deduce many things, but no individual meeting me for the first time now, would never know me, because you’re missing the most important and developmental part of me. I am a culmination of all of my mistakes, successes, and just plain judgment calls. To meet me and immediately say you know me, frankly, is an insult. Oddly enough, this gives away some of the ownership and perhaps rid myself of any control freakishness too. Emphasis on the word “perhaps.” :-)

It is clear that something drives us to these things. . .these blogs. There is an outward pouring of our soul’s vision on to these pages and it gives us all a stronger glimpse into what motivates; sometimes its fear, legacy or lack thereof, excitement, do-gooding or loneliness. Self-expression, insomnia, attainment or spiritual alignment. Whatever the case, we’re all here sharing our thoughts, feelings and emotions with one another through these magical tongues turned keyboards. It is truly a gift.

So let me start off by saying to all of you bloggers, thank you for sharing your gifts. Thank you for opening up and broadening me. Getting me to say, “Ahhhhh, I remember.” Forcing me to stampede down roads less traveled and explore forgotten territories. Special shout out to Setta B. who brought me to this place called BlogSpot.

Second, my intent is to go to everyone’s first blog entry and comment, as I think it would either further strengthen or weaken my argument above about the first blog. Either way, I will become more knowledgeable because of it.

I Can't Cope

I can't cope with the fact that there’s no hope tomorrow. I'm so wired, no wonder every morning I wake up still tired. I've battled with the demons and most days, it seems they've won, ‘cuz every day I live life like I'm staring down the barrel of a gun. It’s insane, that this humanistic disdain for the illusions that these smoke and glass mirrors feed our eyes through contusions; we losin’. And any day now our world’s gonna bust, spontaneously combust and all surface areas will begin to rust. But it’s a must, that I convey this message to you today. We pray, only before our heads we lay. . .down, but we should be praying while we’re awake because we need God’s protection then too. I flew, over the coo coo’s nest, but found no eggs at rest. They must have found their way into my breakfast frying pan, which is absurd because I’m still claiming vegetarian. I travel this land like a nomadic man, can’t sleep because I’m still searchin’ for home. So I roam and I traverse, but I know that I’m well versed in the droves of the wretched and cursed, who don’t know if they’re coming or going like a swarm of lotus. Before this poem starts to coalesce and make sense no less, I’ll end it so you can have it and search for your own meanings. In case you’re confused, don’t take this as demeaning it is simply designed for you to play verbal Sudoku. I purposely left out some of the real understanding for you. . .to insert your own and create your own PEACE of the lyrical puzzle.

Being Whitney Houston Brown

I was listening to The Bodyguard soundtrack the other day (don't ask). I became completely saddened by the thought of where Whitney Houston's voice was and where it is now. This woman could bring people to tears with her voice a la her rendition of the National Anthem.

It is a sad commentary on the power of addiction; addiction and over-indulgence. I promise not to become so enamored with something that I cannot exist without it.

What if. . .

If you had the opportunity to see 5 minutes ahead of your life at all times, would you take it? Would you avail yourself to always know the truth before the truth knows you? To always know the future before the present has an opportunity to sneak attack? Would you use this power for good or for evil? For personal gain? For sacrifice? Would you try to reverse the affects of on-coming danger? Could you ignore the excitement of knowing what you’ll get before you get it? The anxiety? If you saw that in 5 minutes, you were going to die, would you try and stop it? Possibly affecting the centrifugal force that is pulling you into situations you’re supposed to be in? Would you cower at pending risk and stick your chest out at pending reward? Would you live in fear of those 5 minutes or would you relish them?

If you had the opportunity to see 5 minutes ahead of your life at all times, would you take it?

JayGee Quotable L

Every woman wants to be treated like a woman. Trick is understanding what they think a woman is.

Baptized in Fright (unfinished)

Mingled stories of a religious Deity spills on my jacket and stains my lapel like the grape juice I drank in Church. Abnormalities beg for forgiveness as they ask to be just like you and me. The conquered and the conqueror ask to switch places hoping for greener pastures on the other side. Only to find out that the tango takes two and there are no other partners and as they've practiced the same dance, life reflects no more than a mirror image of itself.

You see, as a kid, I didn't always quite understand why people egregiously showed up to Church. "To feel bad," I used to think. And partly, that's true. But what we fail to realize as kids is the business of being an adult. It carries with it, a weight unsensationalized by the mind of a child.

And yet for such a simple task as creating both faiths in a parent and in a God, a child might not quite get what it is they must dedicate to the latter. Yet, He is there; He is always there. Emblematic or otherwise, you're taught to pay homage to the life and times (including our own) of someone or some power so great that He can bring you death, just as quickly as He brought you life. That is. . .Fear.

In the small town of Rock Hill, South Carolina, I was baptized in fright. It sounds more negative than it is. But there is a burden to carrying God around in you. I would never let my Grandy-ma here me say that, but it is true. As a child, if you did something wrong, you learned, quickly, the extent of a parent's punishment; verbal, physical or otherwise. As I got older and my potential for wrong-doing became greater, it was expressed to me more and more just how much, God don’t like ugly. It was frightening to know and learn the lengths a merciful God would go through to teach you a lesson; so said my Grandy-ma, so said the Pastor, so said the Bible.

Consequently, if you did the right things, you had little to worry about; little to fear from God. 'Cept as a child, you also have little knowledge of what's right. And if a sea of adults came to Church to be forgiven for things they may have done wrong, then what hope had we as children to get it right? An eagle-eye opener, for sure, for any adolescent being contemplating the extent of his future existence amongst the adults, let alone, amongst the Heaven’s. . .or if you were me, amongst the Cosmos as my studies of Benjamin Bennaker took me to far off, little black boy places. I digress.

So I say that I was baptized in fright because this is what I came to understand about my life as I knew it. My childish existence was one spent attempting to always be right or righteous by adults who, for better or for worse, could accurately assess my behavior levels and praise or reprimand me as they saw fit. I saw no one reprimanding them, so I thought it was odd that they would go to church to have a Pastor do so, in the name of an invisible, dead Man. As I got older, my knowledge of what's right had grown significantly; concurrently, so had my knowledge of what I could do that was wrong. And frighteningly, ironic enough, it is 'what's wrong' that oft times has the greater appeal.

That is to say, being frightened of the spiritual unknown is even greater as an adult, which then begins to lend credence to my notion of why I feel many people attend church. My assumptions may be wrong, or they may be spot on, but whatever the case may be' they are opinions, things I feel and have come to understand inside of me. The lessons I learned as a child, to be frightened of consciously doing the wrong thing, remains with me today. As we’ve gotten older, we’ve seen many a God-fearing individuals fall on hard times and it is then that we say to ourselves “that person must have done something wrong!” or “where was God for that person?” The answers, let alone the questions, lend very little solace to the daily situations at hand that at any moment have the ability to consume any one of us or all of us simultaneously.

My point is simply that the fright remains with us, consciously or subconsciously. Even those who do bad things are cognizant of the oft spoken of spiritual, after-death consequences of living a bad life. . .whether they choose to believe it or not is the faith. I won’t speak on my belief that we all live our lives into fruition for fear that I may spark a heated debate with some folks. I have given some background behind my “statement of personal fact” and I will end this blog, where it began:

I was baptized in fright.