Not Getting my Hopes Up

I had an interesting semi-self initiated confrontation last Sunday while exiting the left leaning, liberal stuffed, Whole Foods Market near where I reside. Whilst two friends, who also happen to be six foot plus African-American males, and I, walked to our cars, a White American lady crossed our paths and felt compelled to, I'm sure she felt, compliment us. "Wow, you three look like a basketball team," she said with a big ol' tofu eating smile on her face. Now in my forty two years, I have become quite armor plated to this kind of well meaning but blatantly racist commentary from sons and daughters of the establishment because of it's frequency. Most times I choose to continue on my journey to the store to get Kool cigarettes, Kool Aid, and a Jet magazine (I'm kidding). But in that moment, under that sun, in this racially charged election year, I said "You know Ms. that is racist. Why do we have to be a basketball team? Is that the best you think we could do?" I should have asked her if the three of us had suits on, would we have looked like three basketball players going to court? Needless to say, her flabber was gasted and though she did mumble an apology I know she didn't have a clue where I was coming from. I thought about attempting to expound on my statement but who's got that kind of time in a super market parking lot in Sherman Oaks in the middle of the summer?



I have never considered myself to be a radical, never wholeheartedly identified with the Panthers, or Garveyites, or even Operation Push, whatever it is that they do. I figured America was ostensibly founded by racist slave owners and racism is woven deeply into the fabric of the quilt that's supposed to be covering all of us equally, so just deal with it. But, since the day Mr. Obama began his campaign, until this very minute, I've heard way more times than makes sense "This election isn't about race, it's about experience and qualification and blah blah blah..." I actually heard this White father of my son's friend, who was the most anti-Bush, anti-republican guy in the country, until Hillary lost, say, "I want to vote for Barak but I don't know if he will keep the country safe," When I asked him what he thought Obama would do to suddenly make the country unsafe, he could not articulate it in any logical way. Didn't C. Reezy (Condeleeza Rice) come out and say she believed that Barak can keep the country safe? What more validation does he need? On the radio I have heard commentators who were again, up until Hillary dropped out, the most vehement anti-war, anti-republican people, who said on several occasions, we cannot let another republican in the White House under any circumstances. But, now say they don't know who they are going to vote for. They've said that they would never ever vote for a party that is not pro-choice, who would keep the troops in Iraq, and who would not support gay marriage but now it's somehow different. Is it the issues really White America? As my late Aunt Annie would say when somebody tried to pull the okey-doke during Pinochle, "Who do you think you are talking to?



There's a Filipino guy at my job who I want to shake the piss out of, not for anything that he's done, but for what he doesn't do. He doesn't acknowledge me; as a matter of fact he shrinks from me. He moves to the side when he sees me coming and stands ten feet away from me at the printer. I have never argued with, threatened, or mad dogged this man at a stoplight. I do acknowledge that if you ever watch the news, read the paper, or especially watch Cops, I can understand thinking that Black men are some sort of lowland gorilla/rabbit hybrid, but I've worked with the guy for seven years and have yet to car jack him or tag my set on his cubicle. I say all this to say that the residue of slavery still stains this country like blue berry juice on dentures and we, African-Americans have to deal with it every single second despite what any non-Black might believe. How many times have you been in a situation with one another Black person and something racist go down and you look at each other and shake your head? You know you could never explain what you're feeling, it's too much. That's why anyone who questions whether race is an issue in this election is either smoking space crack or has just been born. When ten percent of the population used to be owned by the other ninety percent, apparently it takes more than a century and a half to resolve the four hundred years of bondage. Apologies for slavery be damned, until the sons and daughters of both the slavers and the slaves can talk about what's really going on regarding race in this country open and honestly, America will always be banging its head against the auction block. The biggest test on race in American history will occur on November fourth Two Thousand and Eight. That will be the day when voters will close themselves away behind those little curtains in courthouses, libraries, and in my neighborhood the Staples, and see if race is really the non-issue in this election that many would try to have you believe. Judging by the Filipino guy in my office, I'm not getting my hopes up.

Pointless Post on Fatherhood

At this point it's hard for me to look at this picture and not cry. Hard because of the happiness on my father's face, hard because my father actually held me, hard because of the incredible potential in this picture. See, my father's been around my whole life. Been around like a guy standing outside an Army recruiting office who wants to go inside but doesn't know if he can sign up for such a long term commitment. My father knows me but he doesn't know "me". He doesn't know my left leaning geo-political views, doesn't know that I like Brazilian cinema, or that I always wanted to take a trip with him, anywhere. My father and I have never ever had a real conversation. We have never had a talk about sex, drugs, violence, death, or his love for West Philly bars and alcohol. My father has always refused to talk to me. I believe he'd rather throw a million dollars at me (if he had it to throw) than have an honest conversation with me about anything deeper than the Philadelphia Eagles. But, at least I know my father. That is something that unfortunately fifty percent of my friends can't claim. At least, I can call him and say hello. But, beyond hello do we ever really say anything?

This is my son Mingus and I. Needless to say he is my whole world. I believe I feel for him much as my father felt for me in the first picture. I believe my father wanted the best for me, wanted me to have more than he ever did when he was a boy. I believe my father wanted me to succeed and make him glow with pride. But where did it change? When did my father decide that I was too much work? When was that first night when he chose to stay out in the street instead of seeing me before I fell asleep? I don't know. He won't talk to me about it. I play catch with Mingus. I take him to swimming lessons and to soccer practice and I'm always sitting right across from him when he's getting his hair cut. I'm not saying that to get a medal. Like Chris Rock said some Black men want credit for what they are supposed to do. Not me, I do for Mingus because I am supposed to but deeper still, inside me there is something that compels me to be a father. There is a mechanism/impulse that will not allow me to not be there for him even when he doesn't need me. Maybe it's my subconscious driving me to make up for my dad's shortcoming or maybe it's my fear of allowing Mingus to grow up with me just hanging around, there, but emotionally inaccessible.

This is my father and I last Christmas. There are approximately forty years between the first picture and this last picture. Forty years of life between us. Forty years of potential left unfilled, like a Christmas present that was never opened. Our relationship now consists of short visits and shorter conversations on the phone. I live in LA and he lives in Philly. He has never been to visit me and I never expected him to. He set the bar for fatherhood low and managed to sneak under it. But I still love him. Love him like he was Cliff Huxtable, love him like he played catch with me, and encouraged me to keep playing the saxophone when I quit, or like he ever gave me any advice on what not to do. I can't blame him for who he is, can't blame him for what he didn't do, say, or feel. I mean I could, but what would it get me? This is a pointless post because I don't even know what I'm trying to say about my father, myself, or my son. Pointless because there is no advice at the end about what I learned or what this story could mean to you. But maybe, it's just good to get some things from the inside to the outside so you can move on.