Trying To Keep My Little Girl Off The Pole

I expose my 7-year-old daughter to as many things as I possibly can. We go to the Museum of African Diaspora together, and she has already been to several readings and open-mics. The girl paints, creates music, plays soccer, and loves math. Like all good fathers I try to be as supportive as possible. Even though her mother and I split several years ago I have always been a consistent presence in my little girl’s life. This is mostly because of my love for her and my strong desire for her to one day be a successful woman but it is also driven by an uncontrollable fear. I want my daughter to be talented and I want my daughter to be artistic but I do not want my daughter to become a stripper.

Over the past decade no institution –besides the penitentiary—has come to symbolize the failure of African-American father’s more than the strip club. Stripping is big business in every American city but it is even more lucrative in the Southern United States where a disproportionate amount of blacks either reside or send their children to Historically Black Colleges and Universities to be educated. There is a whole subgenre of hip-hop music made specifically for strippers to dance to; Pop Lock and Drop It, Rock her Hips, Shake it Like a Salt Shaker, Back That Thang Up, and a dozen other booty worshipping songs that cause me to quickly change the dial every time my daughter is in the back seat. “But I like that song Daddy,” she often says. “Well I don’t,” I tell her. At least not with her in the car I don't.

The role of the stripper in society has been reinvented in the modern-era which adds a whole different dimension to my worst parenting nightmare. No longer is the stripper’s pole reserved for the neglected, tragically beautiful, young lady who grew up in foster care. Instead there is a huge cross-section of sisters who find themselves flinging their bodies from the stainless steel sphere and landing in a perfect split. There are graduate students, daughters of the bourgeoisie, former high-school athletes, and aspiring entrepreneurs all collectively making it clap for crisp new bills. Alas stripping has become a completely socially acceptable profession.

Not that I have anything against these women. I honestly believe that it takes a tremendous amount of swagger for these ladies to dance naked in front of total strangers as if they were dancing alone in front of a mirror. So many women have extreme insecurities about their bodies that it is somewhat refreshing to see females shake it with pride. My only issue is that I am scared that the incessant stream of black women dancing half-naked in music videos, and on billboards, in magazines, and in low-budget hip-hop movies, will force a whole generation of girls to think that is their only option in life.

No longer will young African-American females want to win gold medals like Dominique Dawes and Gail Devers. They won’t know that they can go to outer-space like Dr. Mae Jamison or make millions of dollars by starting their own business like Madam C.J. Walker. Instead they will think the only way they can get rich is by catching a hand full of bills thrown to them by some drunken rapper who was gracious enough to “make it rain” all over their once sacred bodies.

Needless to say I do not want that for my little girl. I want her to defy societal expectations and choose her own path. I want her to be socially outgoing yet ferociously independent. I want her to be proud of her culture while at the same time being aware that her people need her help. The last thing I want to do is fail like so many other black men.

Sometimes I close my eyes and I am haunted by the fact that every stripper had a daddy once. It is oh so troubling.

-YB

She's Really Gone

                                                                                October 30, 2011

She spoiled me, but I didn’t realize it at the time because I’m so spoiled. She would be there for me first thing in the morning or during the dusk—it all depended on when I called her. I treated her like the cold floor beneath my feet and now that she has disappeared the void she has left is immeasurable.

I know I could have her over if I put in enough effort but it wouldn’t be the same. What I loved about her is I never had to sweat her. All I ever needed to do is send a text message and she would cling to me like a leaf to a tree. I thought that was so sexy. I have always been drawn to vulnerability and that’s my problem. What happens when that weak girl gets strong? When she gathers enough strength to leave your black ass? Then where are you going to go?

If I would have told that girl how I really feel then she would be here right now. But I didn’t so now she will never know. I take an enormous amount of pride in my stubborn ways. If only this pride would console me the way she did.

Damn she’s really gone.

-YB

Oakland's Finest

October 30, 2011

Police in my city have made world-wide news for brutalizing peaceful protestors and I truly hope that no one is surprised. After all we are speaking of the same police department that served as the foot soldiers for the unlawful dismantling of the Black Panther Party. Therefore should it really shock anyone to discover that a young man can survive two tours of duty in Iraq completely unscathed only to live in Oakland, CA for less than a year and have his skull fractured by the police?

Before Occupy Oakland became an official part of the movement Oakland was already occupied by the boys in blue. I grew up in an impoverished underserved community on the East side of town in which a police station was built before we even had a grocery store to buy fresh food. As a matter of fact the very room in which I attended preschool in Eastmont Mall has since been converted into jail cells to temporarily house inmates on the way to county lock up. I’ve seen police brutality, I’ve experienced police brutality, and I’ve known police brutality for as long as my skin has been black.

So I see this young man named Scott Olson lying helpless in the street with blood streaming down his face. I see the cops continue to pump rounds of “Nonlethal” projectiles into anyone who is brave enough to cross the line in an attempt to retrieve him or offer him medical-aid and I think to myself; how vile, how disgusting, how typical of police in Oakland.

I must be honest with you all when I say that I am not a very well traveled man. I’ve never spent a semester in South Africa, or been to a convention in Spain. I’ve never studied in Iran either. However I always had a hunch that the police officers that I deal with on a near daily basis have got to be one of the most repressive forces in the entire world. Of all the places around the globe being “Occupied” I have yet to see a crack-down remotely similar to what took place in my town a few nights ago.

As enraged as I am about the whole situation, I can’t help but to feel just a slight bit validated and if you were from Oakland then I'm sure you would feel the same way.

-YB

The Plague of Quitting

October 25, 2011

I am fanatical about boxing. With that being said I am also a realist. Therefore I am fully aware that most Americans are unaware that the sport still exists, and probably about 25% of those who know wish that it didn’t. So it is for the oblivious masses of this country that I would like to briefly recount the latest fight that has made me sick to my stomach.

On October 15, 2011 a very decrepit 46-year-old fighter named Bernard Hopkins squared off against challenger and former undisputed champion Chad Dawson on pay-per-view. The fight started out very boring as the fighters felt each other out and made very little contact with one another. Then in the 2^nd round controversy struck as Hopkins, who has been known to be a slightly dirty fighter, missed his opponent with a right hand and proceeded to climb onto his back. Dawson then lowered his shoulder which sent Hopkins falling to the canvass where he would remain for several minutes complaining of pain in his shoulder. The referee asked him could he go on and he said no. So the referee—well within his rights—ruled the fight a TKO victory for Dawson. Only to have that ruling overturned a few days ago by the WBC who decided to rule the fight a draw and allow Hopkins to keep his belt.

The truth is that Bernard Hopkins does not deserve to keep the belt and he needs to exercise his option of retiring from the sport immediately. In boxing you do not quit—period. If Hopkins corner wanted to throw in the towel then that would have been acceptable, if the referee would have stopped the fight then that would have been understandable, however, a fighter is never supposed to quit.

We all know that there is a serious economic crisis right now so how can Bernard Hopkins get paid $1,000,000 to behave like a coward. I hate to say it but boxing is not football where time stops because a man is injured, it’s not soccer where faking injuries are part of the game, and it’s not basketball where fouls are called every time players make serious contact with one another. On the contrary boxing is not merely a violent sport but rather boxing is violence. It is controlled, trained, beautiful, pure, violence. Furthermore boxing is combat and if you quit during combat then you are as good as dead.

In the past fighters have finished fights with broken arms, cut, bruised, blind, and out on their feet, but they finished. Nowadays fighters quit all the time and people condone it [see Devon Alexander vs. Timothy Bradley earlier this year]. Journalists condone it, ring analysts condone it and then they wonder why every fight fan under 25 would rather watch the UFC than suffer through a telecast of the ancient craft of boxing. I’m sure college students equate boxing with the medieval sports of fencing and jousting.  I’m sure they can’t name the heavyweight champion of the world, and I’m sure many of today’s young athletes can get a man in an armbar but can’t throw a basic jab. It shouldn’t shock anyone that the younger generation has quit on boxing because boxing quit on itself.

Bernard Hopkins is not a champion. He was at one point but now his career is over. Boxing needs to make some serious changes before the plague of quitting gets any worse.

-YB

Chains of the Mind

October 20, 2011

                I’ve been thinking about barriers a lot lately. Sometimes I feel as though I put so much energy into keeping myself in the same place that if I were to just ease up slightly then I would be an overnight success. I’ve become so guarded over the years that I would imagine my heart looks something like the outside of a maximum security prison; if only I could see it.

                I could go anywhere I want to. I mean literally, I have the means to travel but I don’t. I stay here as if something else is going to happen. As if I’ll actually meet someone new while I stay in the same spot. No one has ever treated me crueler than I treat myself. I can’t blame anyone else for me being where I am right now as opposed to where I should be. I shouldn’t waste any energy hating who I can’t see. I look at myself grow older every day.

                I have salient thoughts about those few righteous women who I have known and I curse myself for not plucking them up when I had the chance. Those utterly perfect women. In the end I couldn’t handle them. At some point I found it to be too painful to reciprocate their love and so I escaped into me before I gave away all that I had. And now I still cling to those same emotions. I fear that my heart has become obdurate and my soul is all but trapped inside my flesh.

                Everyone speaks so highly of dreams yet very few are willing to suffer for long enough to taste them. I could release myself if I really wanted to. I could create dozens of flawless manuscripts if I only put in the work. The work, the work, the work…. I know that I am the only one hindering my progress. The only question is why. Why do I torment myself? Why do I hate on myself? Why do I put so much effort into keeping me down?

-YB

Work Sucks for an Artist!

October 17, 2011

                When I was a senior in high school I worked at a movie theater and I hated it. There was something extremely traumatic about having to sweep up the spilled popcorn of the girl you had a major crush on while she was on a date with the captain of the basketball team. I couldn’t wait until I went away to college so I would never have to work in that pissy place again. Now over ten years later I have a much better job as an educator; molding the minds of young people, changing society one child at a time and blah, blah, blah—to be honest with you I hate this job too.  I realize now, however, that it’s not so much the gig that I hate as much as I just have an extreme dislike for working.

                Just in case you were wondering, I am fully aware that it is a recession and I should be grateful to have a job at all. And for the first week or so I was very grateful but now it’s just lame all over again. It’s not the daily tasks that bother me so much, nor is it the students. What I find to be so unbearable is the hierarchy. During my adult life I have had an impossible time dealing with people who feel as though they have the right to tell me what to do. It just really annoys me. I mean supervisors, coordinators, leads… often times the fake titles become too much for me to stand. And the extent to which people internalize these titles can be downright laughable at times. But then again maybe it’s me.

                 I must confess that I have always been an odd ball. Even at the movie theater when we were getting paid minimum wage I remember some people trying to make a career out of it. I have had so many jobs in my life—some a lot better than others—and I have always managed to mentally check out of all of them. I never cared. They always tried to brainwash us with that propaganda of being a family whether it be the movie theater, the grocery store, the restaurant, the electronics store or wherever, yet they always fired people for bogus reasons. I never bought into that trash, not even as a teenager.  

                My obligations in life are pretty simple; I work to keep a roof over my head and I write to stay out of the psychiatric ward. But if I had to choose between the two I’d rather be homeless with a pen in my hand and less than a penny to my name.

-YB

Brief Thoughts on the Occupation

 

October 12, 2011

                It’s easy for me to forget that I’m a writer when I’m at my job working all day. It’s easy for me to let my best thoughts evaporate into the idleness of my mind. It’s easy for me to become blind to beauty. The world is dramatically shifting all around me; therefore I cling to employment so I don’t lose my balance. But then again maybe I need to be pushed down like a wooden domino. Perhaps I should allow myself to get swept up in all the change.

                Lately I’ve been wondering if I have become a bit of a hypocrite because I only write about my radical ideas as opposed to running out in the street and screaming about them to whoever is listening. It’s been several years since I’ve participated in an organized protest. It’s been equally as long since I’ve collaborated with like-minded luminaries. I’m concerned that I have grown to rely far too heavily on the tactic of guerilla warfare that is my writing. It may be time for me to join the disenchanted masses.

                At present I don’t know what to make of the occupation of big cities across America. I mean I know I agree with just about every homemade banner and sign that I have seen (raging against unemployment, corporate greed, bailots, etc), and lord knows that I support drastic change in this country. I just feel like something else will need to happen in order for me to be reeled in. Forgive me for what I am about to say but when I see footage of the unrest; I see a lot of white boys with bull horns. I see white guys leading chants, and blocking freeways. I just see a lot of white males— period. All of this makes me wonder whether or not we can we really call what is happening around this country a revolution if is led by the world’s most privileged demographic.

                I am not trying to be overly simplistic nor do I intend to come off as being too caught up on race but this is what’s making me hesitate. This is what keeps me wrapped up in my own occupation instead of jumping head first into theirs.

-YB

Success

October 7, 2011

I never know how I’m feeling until I start writing, which goes to show how truly numb I have become. What good are feelings anyway? There is always something to be depressed about and there is always something to be happy about, it’s up to each individual person to decide which end of the spectrum they would rather live on….Well isn’t it?

It’s amazing to me how mankind can spend billions of dollars probing outer space and analyzing rocks from the moon when we know so little about what happens in our own heads. People master the art of suppressing their own emotions in order to thrive in a culture that fails to acknowledge the human spirit. Everyone wants to stand upright, get a high quality education from a prestigious school, make a lot of money, get married, and die wealthy. The whole notion that there is a formula to success always struck me as being preposterous. After all how can one develop a formula for something as ill-defined as success?

Success is happiness; therefore it can mean a million different things to a million different people. The man who walks down the street mumbling to himself while pushing a shopping cart may be experiencing complete internal bliss while the wealthy man with a mansion on the hill may be suicidal. A major problem with western society is we value the worst ideals. How can we thrive as a people if we place the pursuit of capital above the pursuit of love?

A few years ago I read a book entitled; Bombay-London-New-York by Kumar. The book is a kind of literary autobiography that also speaks on the Indian Diaspora. During one nostalgic passage Kumar writes about the good old days in the Indian country when—and I’m paraphrasing here—, “A man could look forward to dying in the same house that he was born in.” I can’t exactly tell you why but to me that is peace, that is fulfillment, and that is success. I can’t imagine anything better than to be able to have it all end where it all began with your grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and children all around you. When it is my turn to perish I want to go out surrounded by love so that all of my descendants will be assured that capital is ultimately irrelevant, and then hopefully they wouldn’t be tempted to die for something that doesn’t really matter.

-YB

Shame

October 4, 2011

Shame on me for lying down with a woman who I hate simply because I knew that I could. I despise her apathy as well as the abundance of inherited ignorance that she flaunts so carelessly but she was there and I was weak. It becomes funny when one thinks about all the immorality associated with manhood; how we are raised to honor conquests over love, and how we are always willing to risk everything for what we don’t need.

Shame is what I felt when I realized that the game that I used to live by is a complete and utter distortion of what’s really real. Shame is that look of disgust that soiled my face when the original player that I once idolized asked me for a dollar. When I saw that he was homeless, addicted, and lonely. He had no hoes on his arm, ragged clothes on his back, and no roof over his head. This is what happens to those who never learn how to love.

The rain pours outside my door with great consistency indicating that autumn is upon us. I look out of my window and wonder what it will take for me to unlearn all of these selfish practices.

-YB    

Don't Believe the Hype

October 2, 2011

I love Michael Jackson and I miss him dearly. With that being said I also know that the conviction of Dr. Conrad Murray will not bring him back. I must say that I’m a bit dumbfounded by the trial and the emotional frenzy that is taking place right outside the courthouse.

I don’t know what it is about our society that makes vengeance mandatory in situations where it makes no logical sense. The truth is that Michael Jackson was a very wealthy and powerful man who was addicted to the drug propofol. He felt as though he needed it to sleep. Several other doctors prescribed propofol for Michael Jackson and if Conrad Murray refused to do so then Michael would have simply hired another doctor.

As I listened to the radio yesterday I couldn’t help but to notice hearing some of my favorite MJ jams on almost every radio station. I was elated to be able to groove to all of these songs on the way to work— especially Billy Jean— until I thought about why they were suddenly put into heavy rotation on the radio playlists. Capitalism is about making money by any means and I believe the sole purpose of this trial is not to seek justice but rather it is just another example of corporate greed, brainwashing, and manipulation.

It’s no secret that even though the King of Pop is deceased his fans are still the most loyal on the planet. We know that thousands of them will flock to Los Angeles from all over the world and spend thousands upon thousands of dollars while in town, we know that millions of them will follow the trial by watching the news thus boosting television ratings on every major network, and we know that millions more will spend millions of dollars on MJ music and merchandising. American businesses will net a grotesque amount of money from this absurd trial, and all they have to do to get it is put a black man in jail for murder. Well hell they’d do that for free.

Pshhhh! It’s so ignorant. Please don’t believe the hype.

-YB

Notes on the Execution of Troy Davis

September 24, 2011

Troy Davis is dead and I must confess that while he was alive I participated in no protests concerning his execution date, I did not write one letter to any politician in the state of Georgia or anywhere else, and to be honest I barely stayed informed about his plight. I hate to say it’s because I have given up on justice but the truth is that I believe I have.

I put everything that I could into making sure that the police officer that killed Oscar Grant on January 1, 2009 was prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Johannes Mehserle killed Oscar Grant on a crowded BART platform, only to have his deplorable actions caught on a camera phone and shown on news stations around the country yet he still wound up serving about 9 months in jail. At the time of the verdict certain journalists and legal experts were claiming that we should be happy that the police officer was convicted at all. And that a police officer going to jail for such a thing as murder was unprecedented and therefore justice was served.

Unlike with the recent Troy Davis execution, during the Oscar Grant situation I did attend several protests. I did write a few articles that were published; I did engage in passionate debates, I went to town hall meetings, and I did stay informed about the trial up to the minute, but in the end there was nothing. I still haven’t recovered from the spiritual blow that was delivered by that injustice. I did not put my faith and energy into seeing that Troy Davis got a retrial because I cannot give what I don’t have.

When the officers who beat down Rodney King were acquitted we burned things, when Mark Duggan was killed we burned things, yes we riot, we fight, we are warriors, we have determination, we have heart, but we still do not have justice.

One thing I have learned to do is to choose my battles carefully. Troy Davis was put to death and that is a travesty, however, I can’t say that I feel let down. For as a black man I have come to expect this kind of thing to happen.   

-YB

Time

September 20, 2011

You can’t meditate forever. Sooner or later you have got to get back into the real world and deal with all of the temptation, all of the betrayal, and all of the pain. No one is going to be there to protect you from being hurt. For even recovering drug addicts can't spend their whole lives in rehab.

 But once you get to be a certain age it seems impossible to trust people completely. And when I say trust people I mean to have faith in their ability to assist you in the journey of life. And when I say you of course I am talking about me.

I am not as resilient as I would allow people to believe. Sometimes I need time to recuperate from a loss. So how long will it take this time? I honestly have no idea.

-YB

A Cheap Knock Out

September 18, 2011

It’s been several hours now since the welterweight fight between Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Victor Ortiz ended and I still don’t know what to make of it. I’m still very puzzled as to why Mayweather behaved the way he did in the ring tonight. I’m even more perplexed by the sheer volume of journalists and regular people who have justified his actions via social media.

I understand that Ortiz head-butted Floyd and it was one of the more vicious head-butts I have ever seen, however, I can not justify Floyd’s cheap knock out of Ortiz on a left hook right hand combination that followed. And hey I understand the rules; “Protect yourself at all times” but to feign as if you are accepting someone’s apology by giving them a hug then taking a quick step back and unloading on them is just trashy.

This is boxing. This is not a fight between two inmates in a maximum security prison, or between two drunken college students in a bar. As a fan of the sport I expect a fighter to have a certain amount of class, and I expect for one of the greatest fighters of my generation to show some professionalism.

Referee Joe “Fair but Firm” Cortez had already taken away a point for Ortiz’ egregious foul so I figured Floyd Mayweather, who was already seemingly well on his way to a unanimous decision victory, would appreciate his ruling and get back to work. But Mayweather failed me. He failed the sport of boxing and he failed himself.

I’m really disturbed by what “Money May” did tonight. Tonight he lost at least one fan.

-YB

Pride

September 16, 2011

….and then it’s like everything that I put in still wasn’t enough. I tried to humble myself for those cowards and I still wound up nowhere, feeling like a nobody. I changed myself to fit in yet I still remain an outsider. I knew from the beginning that the game was rigged but I stilled played it and now I have solid proof.

I’ve already felt the sting of the blow and tasted the blood that has flowed onto my tongue. We are much stronger than they will ever know. The average man would have crumbled beneath all of this weight. A normal human being would have taken his life with his own hand but not me, for I come from a very resilient bloodline.

I have never shown them any weakness. I would never allow them the pleasure of saying that they have institutionalized me. As a child every now and then a mouse or two would make its way into our home. They would move about frantically underneath my bed as I tried to sleep and, needless to say, it was quite unsettling. The only effective tool we had against them were sticky traps which are basically small plastic sheets filled with a layer of glue.

Every now and again when my siblings and I would check the trap we would find a tail, some fur, a paw or some evidence of a critter that had escaped but most of the time we would be woken up at 4:00am by an ungodly shriek. To this day the sound of a mouse on a sticky trap remains, by far, the most grotesque noise I have ever heard. I remember being utterly repulsed by those disgusting little creatures that would yell until one of us—mainly my older brother—would put them out of their misery with the bottom of a bucket. I refused to ever die that way.

If pride is a sin then the fate of my soul is sealed.

I will never beg them for entry into one of their wretched institutions. I will never live my life like a sucker and I will never die like a rodent.

-YB

The Happy Plant

September 15, 2011

On days like this I wished I smoked weed. I always admired my professional friends who were able to be really productive throughout the day and then come home and smoke an elegantly rolled blunt. It annoys me when I think about all the lies that were fed to me regarding marijuana when I was growing up. I remember being in the 6^th grade and thinking that if I take a hit of the joint one day then I would be smoking crack the following week. Now I know so many intellectuals, doctors, and even teachers that smoke weed its absurd.

What’s even more absurd is all of those over exaggerations actually worked on me. I was extremely afraid to smoke weed during the height of the peer pressure days (also known as high school and college). I never wanted to be one of those people who had to smoke at least five times a day and had ashy gray lips and no ambitions. Which is very ironic indeed considering the last three presidents of the United States smoked weed at some point in their lives, and two of the last three even admitted to doing cocaine.

Because of these truths lately I’ve been wondering if my anti-marijuana attitude is what has been keeping me from writing my novel. Perhaps if I puffed on the ganja I would sleep a lot more and stress a lot less. In these hard times everyone is looking for a miracle drug and I am no exception.

Mama never told me there’d be days like this; my god. I really need prayer.  

-YB

How Far?

September 12, 2011

Finding the time to do what you love can be hard but giving up on your dreams is harder. It’s refreshing to be able to create something in a world where I have very little control. My thoughts do me no good when they’re fully contained. It’s not as if they’ll ever go away so why not let them out systematically and creatively?

I just listened to Sinnerman by Nina Simone for inspiration. It’s probably the most powerful song ever recorded. In that performance Nina’s voice transcends words, rhythm, and melody. By the end of the record it sounds as if Ms. Simone herself has been transformed into a musical note.

I don’t know that I have ever been caught up in anything in my whole life as much she is completely absorbed into that piece; not in any relationship I've ever been in, not in the gospel, not in writing, not in boxing, or anything else I hold sacred.

I do believe that sooner or latter every true artist has to pay that price. At some point one must give up everything that one has ever had in order to get everything that one thinks he deserves. I question whether or not I’d be willing to put everything on the line for my craft. I wonder how far I’m willing to go.

-YB

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bn5tiuZU4JI]

Empty

 

September 7, 2011

I’m in need of a muse right now, but not a distraction. Lately I’ve been thinking the solution to my problem would be to sit down and write with a woman who I’m not attracted to. A stern but loving young artist who will force me to do what I think I can’t.

It’s crazy how I speak so negatively about women sometimes knowing that I love them so dearly. I love the beautiful ones, the ones that are hurting, the ones in denial, the intelligent ones, the women who are overweight, and the arrogant ones. And the whole time I just keep it moving. I no longer slow down for long enough to open up; I have developed the bad habit of running before things get too difficult. I run because I am scared. I fear that she will become just as deceitful, conniving, and untrustworthy as I am and it will break my heart.

I don’t have any mirrors in my house and I don’t have a woman here either. I have a roof over my head, the floor beneath my feet, and nothing else worth mentioning in between.

-YB

Sacrifice

September 5, 2011

Entering my 7^th year of fatherhood I am becoming more and more concerned about this thing called sacrifice. I have been questioning what the word means exactly and how consumed should I be by my own daily sacrifices. I have been wondering to what extent, if any, should I allow the sacrifices that I make for my child to move me off of the path toward my dreams.

Sometimes I feel like I’m using parenthood as an excuse to not dive head first into my literary pursuits. I once read about the great writer Terry McMillan taking her infant son on road trips up and down the Pacific Coast while selling thousands of copies of the then selfpublished book Waiting to Exhale.  Also the award-winning author Toni Morrison once admitted during an interview that on at least one occasion her baby son vomited on her manuscript while she was in the process of writing. She went on to say that she did not get upset nor did she throw the paper away, she just wrote around it.

My daughter is far from being a baby so I can’t say that she’s impeding my ambitions at all. I mean yes I am working, going to school, and trying to plan for her future but so what. I can’t let that be the reason why I don’t do all I can to share my gift with the world. The only person holding me back is myself. Now I just need to figure out how to get out of the way.     

-YB

A Breath of Silence

September 3, 2011

It’s very rare that I get a breath to breathe; that I get a chance to completely relax. I’m not exactly sure what I mean by that but I keep thinking about this moment I had a few years ago. I was at Yosemite National Park with a lady friend walking a rather boring and unchallenging trail, but we kept on it until it became secluded and isolated. We kept on the path until it led us to an abandoned stable which had been almost completely reclaimed by grass and vegetation. It was there that the trail ended and gave way to total silence.

There was no sound of speeding cars coming from a freeway in the distance, there were no other people talking, we got no cell phone reception, and there weren’t any birds chirping either—the only thing that we could hear was our own breathing. I have never experienced silence like that; not before that moment and not since. It was almost overwhelming to be engulfed so suddenly by something that I didn’t even know existed. It took me a few minutes to let my guard down enough to appreciate what I had stumbled upon. Then of course once I realized that I had discovered peace I didn’t want to leave.

I found myself in the throes of a powerful silence that made a mockery of everything that I was raised to respect. As adolescents we all dreamed of driving big expensive cars with loud engines and a pounding sound system. As little boys everyone wanted to have the biggest voice on the playground so that he could tell everyone else what to do. As college  students we were expected to make connections with influential people in order to network and make a positive change. The idea was to join the team that was making the most noise so that one day you yourself would be heard.

It was wild because all of the politicking, all of the networking, all of the set claiming, all of the turf banging, and all of the pledging that people become so obsessed with felt like a whole lot of noise pollution as I stood there in perfect silence. I was content with hearing only the faint sound of my own breath and the breath of the woman I was with; and everything else, including the shouting of my memories during that moment, struck me as being excessive.

-YB

A Different Kind of Summer

August 31, 2011

Summer is just about over, which is funny because I barely realized summer was here in the first place. I haven’t taken a vacation, I haven’t gone camping, I’ve still had to pay my bills, and I’ve still had to handle all of my responsibilities. Life for me has remained exactly the same and perhaps the worst part of the equation is that I’m not even mad about it. Hell, I didn’t even realize how dull my summer has been until I found out that I had Monday off of work because of Labor Day. I was like wow, Labor Day is here already.

I guess life as a grown up can be that was sometime. It’s kind of funny when I think about what the month of August used to mean to me and my loved ones. Back in the day when we used to get so drunk we would cry for no reason. Back when we would ride the strip until 4:00am looking for the sideshow. Back when it was mandatory to have a pocket full of phone numbers by the end of the night. Back in the day when I used to actually look forward to eating at restaurants like Jack in the Box and Denny’s. But time most definitely moves in a hurry and time moves for a reason.

I really enjoyed all of those moments but I don’t want to relive them. When I was younger I did everything I wanted to do. I took all of the chances that I wanted to take and I survived. I had fun and I got through it. This summer was all about moving on while staying put.

-YB