The Fragile Man

January 1, 2012

I never loved her but I was smitten by her vulnerability. I became addicted to having her cling to me, overwhelm me, text me all throughout the day, and give me more attention than I could have ever anticipated. I pretended to be upset with her. I convinced myself that I could no longer put up with her insecurities. I told myself that she was too unstable and that I needed to move on, but how does a man move beyond himself without leaving this earth?

Doesn’t everyman want his woman to scream his name? Is there a man alive that would be morally opposed to being the center of his lady’s universe? Don’t we expect that? Isn’t it true that every obsessive text message and late night voice mail from an unloved woman can be considered the brick and mortar of a fragile man’s ego? The structure always falls down. Reciprocity is old and decrepit. We are living in the era of self-absorption.

I love to hate getting random text messages from that crazy woman. I love it even more when she refuses to let me go. A man doesn’t need flowers, jewelry, or compliments to make him feel special. All he really needs is a woman who won’t leave him alone so he can look down on her instead of addressing his own weaknesses.

-YB

.....On Muses

December 30, 2011

Mixing it all in shows amazing resolve or rather one must show amazing resolve in order to successfully mix it all in. All of the fear, all of the embarrassment, and all of the weakness. Put that all on the stove, heat it up, and pour it in a cup. Don’t wait for it to cool down either. Just put it straight to your lip and let it burn your mouth.

That’s what good art is. Good art is irresistible yet painful and it is so irresistible because it is so painful. When something hurts so good one can’t help but to share it with everyone; “Have you seen that movie, have you watched that play, have you heard that song, when are you going to that exhibit? The one that almost made me cry. The one where the artist tortures herself for us.”

We suspend everything to be engaged. No time, no space, nobody else in the room with us. No clothes on our bodies, no make-up on our faces, and no lotion on our skin. No brush against our scalp and no comb through our hair. The only thing that matters is the only thing that counts. We see the projection of our souls against the wall, on the stage, or rattling the speaker-box and we remember that our individuality is not specific only to us. Our isolation has been connected to another being, and our overwhelming sense of loneliness has been transformed into so many brush strokes on an open canvas.

-YB

Pause

12/24/12

It’s a tragic thing when a writer no longer trusts an empty page. Recently I’ve let a lot of creative thoughts disappear instead of running to the nearest piece of paper and writing them down. In those moments when I was on I used to text lines to myself and get them on my laptop as soon as possible. But at present I have allowed space to come in between myself and my passion and I’m not sure what it is. I mean it’s not writers block. Maybe it’s just a pause. Perhaps I need to freeze my dream for a little bit in order to analyze it and make sure I’m doing what I can to make it tangible.

I wonder if this happens to anyone else.

-YB

Ms. High Sadity

 

December 20, 2011

I was sitting there in my favorite Chinese food restaurant being judged every second. Snide comments were made on my choice of entrée, my sense of humor, and how loud I blew my food. It got so bad that I lost my appetite. I was so annoyed by the woman who sat across from me that I honestly considered throwing my won ton soup in her face. It had the potential to end up like a bad episode of the show Blind Date but I kept my composure. I made solid conversation with her until it was time for me to go. I walked her to her car and told her to take it easy and wished her good luck in life. After that first date I never returned her texts or called her again.

It’s fascinating because I spent a whole portion of my adult life thinking I deserved to marry some high-class chick who went to private school her whole life and never lived in the ghetto. I used to think that’s what I was striving for. In retrospect I have never been more wrong in my life. I have always had serious problems with people who are condescending in nature. It doesn’t matter how pretty or accomplished a woman is, if she has a nasty attitude I don’t want to be around her.

I still can’t believe that woman. As educated and successful as she was in the end she was socially retarded. She has no idea how to treat a human-being. And though I haven’t kept in touch with her I can bet that she is still very lonely. It’s ironic that a person could put all of their energy into establishing a career and lose their ability to have positive interactions with everyday people. If that’s the price that one has to pay to make it to the top then I am completely ok with struggling down here in the hood. I guess it could be a lot worse.

-YB

Feeling Grinchy :-(

    December 19, 2011

     There’s nothing like Christmas time to remind me that I’m broke as hell. I mean it’s not like I could ever forget with my good for nothing hot water heater that blows out every other day and the suspicious partial power outages that disable half of my lights and my television for hours at a time. I know I live in the hood and the reality is that well—people in the hood tend to be broke. I’m not ashamed of this fact and I haven’t allowed it to make me stagnant either. I’m still working hard while trying to get a hold of that one missing piece of the puzzle that will land me a full-time job with benefits. And of course I’m still passionately pursuing this writing thing. But meanwhile it really sucks to see dozens of commercials about I-phones, I-pads, Cadillacs, and a bunch of other crap I can’t afford. It tends to stress me out a little bit.

After all Jesus Christ was a humble dude who wore sandals and normal everyday attire so how has it become customary to celebrate his birthday by spending all your money on designer clothes at some overpriced department store? I don’t know it just all seems so lame to me. Everyone is lost and no one seems to care. The worst part is that I am a huge part of the problem. If I had a few thousand dollars to blow on presents this year I wouldn’t even be composing this piece right now. I would probably be at some bar downtown with Christmas decorations in the window drinking with friends and buying brandy and eggnog for some chick because I like her smile. Oh the hypocrisy of it all. Why must Christmas be about complete and utter excess? How do we rise above this foolishness?

Wow I feel like the Grinch and Scrooge rolled into one. I need to get a grip, LOL.

-YB

Frontin' On Jesus

December 7, 2011

I’m feeling stressed—so stressed in fact that I’ve taken to reading the bible and calling on god in the middle of the day. Not that this is anything I’m ashamed of but I am a bit concerned about my relationship with god. When my life is at its lowest points I pray, I fast, and I live with the Holy Ghost inside of me. On the contrary when everything is swell one could argue that I’m an atheist because I act as if god isn’t even there.

I think about those people in my life who only call me when something is wrong or they need some kind of help. I think about how shallow and inconsiderate they are, and then I think of myself. When it comes to my religion I am they. This is what troubles me more than anything else right now. This is something that I need to address.

-YB

"Anybody Can Get It"

December 5, 2011

The only advantage of feeling like you have no control over your life is that you never have anything to lose. I’ve seen the video footage of 3 young men who on November 28^th shot 8 people at the filming of a music video in West Oakland. The most seriously wounded was a 1-year-old boy who was shot in the head. He is currently in critical condition at Children’s Hospital.

A few nights ago on the East side of town there was a shooting involving 3 cars in which no less than 50 rounds of ammunition were dispensed. A man’s head was grazed by a bullet and an 86-year-old woman was cut by shards of broken glass. Thankfully no one was killed but tragically anyone could have been killed. It’s hard for me, even in my most nihilistic of moods, to fathom some people’s disregard for human life. In my mind I see a 19-year-old young man with a pistol in his hand and a hood tied tightly to his head. His only thought is; “Anybody can get it!” From ages 1-86 it really doesn’t matter to him.

Perhaps it’s the thrill of it all or maybe it’s the hopelessness. I can’t be sure. I don’t know what it takes to bust a gun into a crowd of men, women, and children who are only trying to enjoy themselves. It could even be the strongly held belief that your life really isn’t your own. That because you were born in the sewer of society living dirty is all you know. I suppose it could be a variety of reasons but in the end it doesn’t matter.

What matters right now is a 1-year-old boy is fighting for a life that he has barely gotten a chance to enjoy and an 86-year-old woman has been traumatized by automatic gunfire from young men who are probably young enough to be her great-grand children. Nothing is sacred in the ghetto. Not the wisdom of the elderly, the purity of 1-year-old babes, or anything else that may fall in between.

-YB

Lost and Broke

November 23, 2011

                My hot water heater keeps blowing out and I ain’t gone lie, I’m way too educated to be this broke. To be such a well read man and still have to resort to taking a cold shower is almost unbearable. When it gets really hot or really cold ants march through my kitchen in full force as if they don’t know I have a Master's Degree. Sometimes they make it into my room and bite my flesh at night like they don’t see my degrees on the wall. It’s all so pitiful.

                Not that I’m trying to solicit pity but a little respect would be nice. My living conditions are so substandard that I am honestly considering moving into a library. That would really be amazing. Occasionally I dream about going to sleep reading a book while using another book as a pillow. A dozen dictionaries would be my blanket and my lady. I would be enraptured by words in every state of being. Then I suppose a hot shower wouldn’t matter as much. Nothing ever matters when one is lost in literature.

                Lost?

                So many of us have lost our way. We have allowed the academics to lead us astray. For in life you can’t find the answers in the back of the book. All of the important information isn’t in bold print either. So much time has been wasted and I have learned to cherish everything that can’t be applied. Imagine a little boy with all the book smarts in the world but no common sense. Now try to imagine him being successful. Can you do it?

-YB

The Trials of Fatherhood

November 22, 2011

I remember when my daughter was a baby of about 11 months and I had to go to court to see her on a regular basis. I ended up having to fight the system as hard as I could to get two days a week for visitation. I can recall doing everything I possibly could to not only never miss a date when it was time to pick up my child but also to never be a second late. And I realize now just as I realized then that the main reason for my dedication was the constant fear that if I ever went over a week without seeing my child then she would forget me and I would soon be replaced.

Fatherhood can be a very unforgiving enterprise. It is very common for people to spend their whole lives hating their fathers without ever making an honest attempt to empathize with him. It’s a role that has become dispensable in society. In most cases having a healthy relationship with ones father is seen as a luxury as opposed to a necessity. At times when I would go to get my little girl I would read the faces of the people in the house where she lived and they would all say; “Why are you still coming here? How long are you going to keep this up?”

American households no longer know the function of a father. Fathers have become the appendix of the family unit, particularly when a couple splits up. There is no law in place that says a woman must allow her children to see their father. A father must go to family court and in the state of California he must pay upwards of $400 to start the mediation process. I’m sure most people can’t imagine how degrading it feels to, in essence, have to save up to buy your own child. I do believe this is was what caused Huckleberry Finn—the protagonist of Mark Twain’s most revered work—to experience an epiphany regarding the institution of slavery. It occurred after he discovered that his good friend Nigger Jim planned to work hard up north so that he could earn enough wages to eventually purchase his children who were still in bondage. Ultimately Huckleberry Finn who in so many ways represented the American conscience began to see that despite the popular opinion of the day and alleged biblical verses that justified the practice, slavery was in fact very immoral.

I wonder about the emotional shortcomings of a fatherless culture. How limited is the future of a people who fail to appreciate half of what brought them into existence?

-YB

Notes on Planned Parenthood

November 21, 2011

In my limited travels through a handful of American ghettos I’ve noticed one very conspicuous consistency, and that is the presence of Planned Parenthood. Whether it be Oakland, Portland, Atlanta, or Los Angeles I find it interesting that some of the most desolate and underserved communities in the entire country somehow manage to attain a Planned Parenthood. Because of this fact in some of these neighborhoods abortions have become more accessible than fresh produce. It puzzles me. But I guess when it comes to the hood businesses are set up to control the population rather than to serve the community.

These are the kind of thoughts that keep me up at night.

-YB

MISS UNDERSTOOD

 

November 16, 2011

                 I once dated a woman who liked to wear a brown dress with the words MISS UNDERSTOOD written in bold white letters across the front. She was a really cute young lady; really provocative, and fast in her ways. She irritated me but she inspired me as well. I only got to hang out with her two times before our lives blew us in different directions. I think about her from time to time. Every now and then I Google her name to see what she’s been up to; what new art she has made, how she’s wearing her hair, and to check out the latest degree she’s working on.

                This girl was a real strange kind of beautiful. She was the kind I was never able to figure out. I am convinced that if I would have dated her consistently from then all the way until now, she would still be a sensual puzzle that I could never quite put together. But whatever we had fizzled out and it fizzled out quickly. I know for a fact she never thinks about me. It always feels slightly uncomfortable to know that someone has impressed upon your life 1,000 times more than you have impressed upon theirs. It’s like that awkward moment when you see someone from your past and you are excited to see them, only to discover that they either don’t remember you or don’t really care that you’re alive. Then you wish that you hadn’t even said anything at all.

                I once saw the young lady a few years after I met her walking toward a BART station in Berkeley, CA. She didn’t say hello to me. I wonder if she ever got a chance to read these words would she speak to me then.

-YB

What is Abuse?

 

November 13, 2011

What is abuse? The word really baffles me at times. I mean lately I feel as though abuse is the most abused word in the English language. And I hate to say it but some people are just addicted to it. In the same manner that drug addiction is a disease I believe abusive relationships can be a disease as well.

I got a call from a close friend a few a nights ago who told me that she got into a dispute with her boyfriend. The same boyfriend who always verbally berates her and the same boyfriend who she always manages to go back to. Oh yes and this is the same friend who is absolutely always in an abusive relationship. But this time something appeared to be a little different. The tone of her voice sounded as if she was high. Not high on drugs but high on adrenaline. She reminded me of how fighters sound at my gym after they’ve sparred for the first time, and of course that’s what happened. Her boyfriend flipped out and hit her which is something that a man should never ever do, but at the same time when she told me the story it got complicated.

In real life domestic violence situations are always puzzling which I find to be totally irksome. If abuse in the real world was as clear as how Ike Turner abused Tina in the movie “What’s Love Got to do With It” then I would be a considerably less tormented soul, however, this is never the case. She told me she became suspicious of him dating another woman and even though she has seen at least one other guy while they were together she decided to confront him about it; at his home in the projects, with his two little sisters and mother present, in the middle of the night. He responded by asking her to leave which she refused to do. Instead she decided to tell him about some guy who she “almost” slept with the previous night.

Now at this point in the conversation I began to get nauseous and I’m sure you are too. I was finding it hard to conceal my contempt for her atrocious judgment. And I never want to blame the victim but it was difficult for me to restrain from doing so because I care about the victim and don’t want to see her in that situation again. It’s troubling because my friend is an educated, highly articulate, young poetess. So I can never understand why she puts herself in so many bad spots.

After she says this the guy gets upset and slams her to the ground. She gets up swinging and then he socks her one good time in the face. She says after that she passed out on the bed and woke up an hour later to ask him for ice. He refused. She went back to sleep. She woke up the next morning to his kisses. He asked was she OK, which I guess brought her a certain amount of joy. A few moments later he took her car keys and said he needed to take his little sisters to school. I stopped her after that. It was too much.

I asked her what she was going to do. She said her home girl took pictures of the bruises and she filed a police report. I asked her the same question again and she said she didn’t know. She doesn’t want him in the system because the system won’t help him and she couldn’t say whether or not she was going to get back with him because she needed time to think about. I can’t remember anything else she said because I tuned her out. As smart as the young lady is she’s very stupid.

I just can’t comprehend it. In the past I’ve had a loved one put his freedom and his athletic scholarship on the line to violently defend the honor of his sister who was beaten up by her boyfriend only to see them walk in the house hand in hand a few months later at Thanksgiving dinner. I’ve also been in situations where I felt as though a woman was deliberately pushing my buttons in order for me to strike her and then she considered me to be less of a man when I did no such thing.

I know that there are countless people in the world who have abusive partners and it is something that we need to aggressively pursue an end to as a society but at the same time there is a contingent of people in this world who seem to find a certain peace inside the chaos of an abusive relationship. For some people who grew up in abusive households violence is to dating just as dinner is to a movie. I’m wondering is it still abuse if someone goes out of their way to make it happen or is it merely a perverse partnership only understood by a select few. I’m not sure I’ll ever know.

-YB

She Got Game

November 9, 2011

                It’s funny to me when I think about how fragile the male ego is. Why is it that we need to have our worth constantly reinforced? Don’t ask me why but while I was running today I started to think about former hip-hop video vixen turned author Karrine “Superhead” Steffans. Well I wasn’t thinking about her as much as I was thinking about her enduring legacy. Karrine is a woman who has had relations with everyone ranging from Shaquille O’Neal to Jay-Z to Ice-T then wrote a New York Times bestselling book about it only to bounce back and hook up with the likes of Bill “Politically Incorrect” Maher and Little Wayne.

                I’m sure many men out there would disagree with me but I don’t think she is still able to carry on public relationships with high-profile celebrities because of her well documented skills in the art of fellatio. I am convinced that Ms. Steffans greatest asset is her ability to make extremely insecure celebrities feel like they rule the world. After all she is a highly intelligent woman (I’ve heard her speak on enough television and radio programs, including Oprah, to figure that out). But even more importantly Karrine just flat-out has game. She knows how internally weak most men actually are and she uses it to get whatever she wants. The most hilarious thing about it is I’m sure that until the book came out every man she had been with thought they were getting over on her. Yeah right. Karrine Steffans is something like a pimp. One would be a fool not to give her props.

                Just like one must ask how is it that Don King can continue to sign binding contracts to top quality fighters after he stole money from every great fighter of the last half-century, one must also ponder how is it that Ms. Steffans can continue to lure rising young stars into the bedroom. People rarely apply the term swagger to a woman but in this case I think it’s necessary. I doubt if anyone in the industry has more game than “Superhead.” I respect her for doing her thing very well and without shame.

-YB

Autumn Chill

November 6, 2011

                The autumn chill has fallen upon us and the leaves have piled up on my porch. I would sweep them up—as the sun is providing a little warmth this morning— but I’m too lazy. I just don’t feel inspired at the moment. I don’t feel like quitting but I don’t feel like working either. I guess it’s going to be one of those dreary days.

                I wonder will I ever figure things out completely or if I’ll ever find the courage to be content. It’s so ironic that my body is so stationary but my soul is so restless. I hope that these two entities can reconcile before I die. It would be a dream to be completely at peace while living on such a war-torn planet. Or maybe I don’t want peace. Perhaps I have fallen in love with my own rage. Perhaps I enjoy the pleasures of falling for fallen women and all other things that are impure and detrimental to growth. Despite my shivering body under this thin blanket I think I secretly like the cold. I think I may be addicted to the idea of not knowing where I will find the heat to keep me alive.

                The clouds may burn away but I’m still just as confused as I was yesterday. I don’t know if I should find peace in knowing that the peace that I once pursued does not exist or should I battle all of my insecurities until I have arrived in the state of bliss. I have become saddened by an epiphany so the only thing left to do is suppress it. If I don’t acknowledge it then it is not there. It may as well be a pile of leaves that have been blown onto my porch. I’ll get to it one of these days.    

-YB

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