Lost in the Details: Notes on the Murder of Trayvon Martin

March 15, 12

It’s amazing how technical some folks get about the law when a young black man is murdered by a white police officer. What is even more amazing is the asinine things that people say when a fake cop, whom for whatever reason is allowed to carry a real gun, kills a young black man.

Let’s use the most recent case of George “The Jackass” Zimmerman as an example. The Jackass was a rogue volunteer captain of a Florida neighborhood watch group before he decided to use deadly force on 17-year-old Trayvon Martin. Apparently this wasn’t your average neighborhood watch group that The Jackass was heading. It was not by any means an organization that encouraged community members to sit on their porches and document suspicious behavior, and it for damn sure wasn’t about planning neighborhood movie nights.

George The Jackass decided to follow Trayvon because he looked “suspicious” while he walked down the street with a bag of Skittles to take back to his little brother. Now I’m not sure why this is, but for law enforcement officers (and wannabes) the word suspicious is synonymous with black. I suppose it’s the American way.

At any rate The Jackass decided to confront Trayvon who was visiting his dad for NBA All-Star Weekend even though when he radioed it in to the real cops they told him to stand down. I guess he just couldn’t resist the opportunity to put a young black man in his place—which from a historical perspective, most white men can’t.

From that point on the details are sketchy as of right now. But we do know that The Jackass was bleeding from his nose and the back of his head. And we do know that Trayvon was killed by a single bullet wound to the chest. Mr. Jackass has not been charged with any crime because…well he’s white.

People really trip me out in these kinds of situations. I’ve seen the extremely ambiguous self-defense laws in Florida cited several times in this non-case. I’ve also watched the news media casually bring up the fact that a few homes in that Florida neighborhood had apparently been burglarized in the months leading up to the shooting. I even saw one journalist report that Zimm—uhhh I mean The Jackass was very well liked in the community.

Oh my god. So what!

An unarmed high school students was shot to death by a man who is supposed to be making sure elderly women aren’t mugged on their way back home from the grocery store. He’s supposed to be armed with binoculars, and a walky-talky, OK pepper spray at best. So why the hell is he toting a damn 9mm pistol like he’s in 50 Cents entourage? It’s the most ridiculous thing imaginable.

It’s just as bad as when Oscar Grant was shot in the back and killed by a BART cop.  BART is routinely one of, if not thee, safest rapid transit system in the country. So why does a BART cop like Johannes Mehserle need a gun in the first place? The main difference between that incident and this one was the Oscar Grant murder was caught on videotape, but unfortunately it didn’t matter. People watched the video of a handcuffed man on the ground being shot and scratched their heads and said; “Well he does seem to be resisting a little bit. I mean look at him squirm. He’s being belligerent. And on top of that it was New Year’s Eve. I’m sure those cops were having a long day.”

It was this kind of not so subtly racist rhetoric that landed Mehserle a sentence of less than one year for killing an unarmed man in front of dozens of people. And it is this kind of thought that justifies The Jackass not being brought to justice after murdering an unarmed teenager carrying a bag of Skittles.

The general reaction to the tragedies of Oscar Grant and Trayvon Martin prove that American racism has come a very long way since Jim Crow and the K.K.K.  Just like medicine and technology racism has advanced. It is no longer out in the open like the word “nigger” but rather it is hidden in details like the word “suspicious.” Evil folks don’t hide behind sheets and burn crosses anymore. In 2012 they make up titles and get permits to carry guns so they can continue to kill with impunity and be supported by a society that will never admit that they are enabling these racist psychopaths.

Racism is in the details these days. It’s in the questions that people have and the doubt that is cast over whether or not it’s actually wrong for an unarmed black man to be murdered by a white authority figure.

Because we all know Trayvon instigated the situation and why was he wearing that “suspicious” looking hoody. And as for Oscar Grant, he had drugs in his system and he had gotten into a fight earlier that night. I mean I’m not racist but I just don’t know. It seems a little suspicious to me.

Meanwhile Oscar Grants daughter Tatiana will never really know her father and Trayvon Martin’s parents will never hear their son’s voice again.

Black men continue to be gunned down like animals while we scratch our heads and ponder about silly little details.

-YB

An Ode to Individuality

March 11, 12

The human species is most beautiful when it is alone. When we have no political affiliation to taint our views, no educational institution to taint our thoughts, and no families to hand us identities at birth that we should be seeking to find for ourselves.

I don’t like crowded streets and I have an extreme disdain for people who cannot go out in public without being surrounded by a crew of other people. I can’t imagine being that openly insecure as an adult.

There is nothing more enticing than the sound of a woman’s voice that enjoys going to the movies alone and doesn’t need to gain the permission of five other women before she allows herself to become intimate with a man. There is no doubt in my mind that this woman loves herself. Even if the world does not appreciate her, she appreciates her own individual power to make moves in the world. As far as I'm concerned there is nothing more endearing than this brand of awareness.

-YB

I Can't Stay Away

3/10/12

This past Thursday, after nearly a year away, I found myself back in the boxing ring sparring with another fighter. The kid I was working with was very inexperienced. As a matter of fact it was only the 2^nd time he had sparred in his life. I took it easy on him but at the same time I didn’t patronize him. I landed a few good shots just to let him know that we weren’t having a tea party.

I was very sloppy. My timing was off and my distance was atrocious but it felt good to be back on the main stage. You can only hit the heavy bag for so long until it becomes extremely boring. You can only hit the mitts for so many rounds until it becomes a farce of what an actual fight is like. When it comes to training for a boxer nothing is more important than sparring and there is no greater adrenaline rush. I can remember the very first time I sparred I was dead tired after two rounds but I was high for about a week. Now two years and four amateur bouts later I suppose I’m still trying to chase that first high.

I’ve become a fight junky; a functional boxaholic. I guess we all have our things. I don’t smoke, rarely drink alcohol, I don’t drink coffee at all, and I refuse to take aspirin unless I feel like I’m about to die, but there is something about the boxing gym that I can’t stay away from. I feel like the gym is the realist place on Earth where people don’t engage in passive aggressive behavior, and everyone says what they mean, and if you got a problem with it then there is always the ring. If you think your bad you had better be able to prove it and if you say you can fight then you had better really know how because you will definitely get knocked out.

What I hate about adult life is you spend half of the time restraining yourself so that don’t wind up in prison for beating the hell out of your boss, significant other, coworker, annoying person on the train, etc. At the gym, on the other hand, you can try to smash a man's nose into his brain and when the round ends he’ll have no hard feelings because he was trying to do the same thing to you. Ahhh, if only life could always be so pure.

I love the craft of boxing. I love the smell of sweat and pine-solve that permeate the air (depending on what time it is) at my gym. I love having the ability to make a another trained fighter bleed, I love the pain in my neck after I’ve been caught with a clean shot, I love my “fight family” at the gym, and I love the way my hands look in my wraps as I shadowbox to the music being provided by KBLX. Boxing is my vice, boxing is my passion, and boxing is my love.

-YB

A Rant About the Recession

March 8, 12

     I’m 30-years-old and still living like a college kid. I’m eating cup o’ noodles and microwave chimichangas for dinner every night and I’m always broke as fuck two days before payday.  I have absolutely no disposable income. As a matter of fact I can’t even afford Netflix. It’s a serious problem. I get so disappointed at times. I did everything that I was supposed to do. I stayed out of prison and got an education and I’m still barely making it. I’m hella mad at the establishment because I’m not established. I feel like I missed something crucial. Like there was some secret note passed around that everyone read but me. I feel really confused and helpless. I feel lied to.

-YB

Giving juvenile offenders a second chance at Oakland's Youth UpRising

Note: Here is a piece that I recently wrote for a local online publication.

The Youth Uprising Social Enterprises complex at 8711 MacArthur Boulevard in East Oakland serves as an oasis of positivity in an otherwise destitute and severely underserved community.

On the ground leading up to the front door of the 25,000 square foot facility are the words “KNOWLEDGE OF” in multicolored letters, which intersect with the word “Self,” spelled out in solid black print.

On any given day there is a multitude of youth from the ages of 13-24 who are strongly encouraged to be themselves in the facility. Youth Uprising is home to a recording studio, dance studio, computer lab, skate park, basketball court, restaurant, media center and is still growing. The atmosphere at YU is the furthest thing from stressful for the young people who attend and it is even further from the sometimes-hopeless attitude that seems to permeate the air right outside its doors.

This is why since October of last year, Youth Uprising has been successfully running an Evening Reporting Center for juvenile offenders. The Evening Reporting Center, as Youth Uprising President and CEO Olis Simmons explains, is based on a national model, but it is the first of its kind in Alameda County.

“It’s based on the notion that juveniles who are low to medium risk are better served in the community than they are [in jail]," Simmons says. "The chance of changing their trajectory in life is increased when we provide a community base, a hub and a builder of positive social capitol for them.”

The center also can be seen as a mandatory after-school program for youngsters who have been found in violation of the law. In order for them to maintain their freedom they must report straight to Youth Uprising after school where they must stay until 8 p.m.

This relatively new installment of YU has four major components that have contributed to its success in keeping black and brown kids out of juvenile hall:

• Culturally relevant meaningful activities such as art, sports, music, etc.
• The consistent presence of caring adults so they know that some people will always be there for them.
• They all have dinner together.
• And all the youth who are part of the center get a ride home.

This formula has already changed the lives of several kids in the program. At least one who started out going to the court mandated Evening Reporting Center, finished out his term, found out that YU Lead (a youth leadership program also at Youth Uprising) was looking for young people to serve on their youth advisory board, interviewed and landed a spot on the team. He is now “like a rock star in YU lead. [He] speaks up and takes initiative and is like exactly what we would want from our children,” Simmons says beaming with pride.

The Evening Reporting Center, specifically, and Youth Uprising, in general, serve to fulfill the void that was left by the crack epidemic, the AIDS epidemic and the mass departure of blue collar jobs from Oakland. Although these issues may take several generations to fix when you walk into Youth Uprising you get a sense that the young people of today are definitely headed in the right direction. YB

A Powerful Photograph

March 2, 12

The power of a photograph should never be underestimated. I was on facebook today when I was tagged in a collection of pictures posted by a close friend. There were 3 photographs all taken around the time we were 19-years-old. In one of the photographs I was sitting on the top of a mustang with the nappy beginnings of dreadlocks in my head. I was surrounded by friends; a couple of them were looking away, and at least one of them was throwing up his hood. It’s a very nostalgic shot. It’s really tender and it’s hella East Oakland.

But it was another picture that overwhelmed me. It was the one of my cousin and another dude taken during lunchtime. We were seniors and the photograph depicts my cousin being his normal goofy self with his braided leather belt hanging down in between his legs touching the concrete like an elongated penis. Behind him is a row of our potnas standing on a bench. Everything was so chill. Everyone was so oblivious, and life was so fresh.

This was about a year or so before my cousin had his first child, and before he caught his first case. It was before he lost his first athletic scholarship and his second. It was before schizophrenia and before the penitentiary. It was, in essence, before we were old enough to truly fail.

When I saw the photograph I turned by computer off and I let a few tears flow. He was such a kid back then. We were children. He was a star athlete, a goofy dude, and one of the realist, most genuine people I have ever known.

His father used to get drunk and tell stories about when he himself was little and some of his other siblings were mean to him and kicked him out in the cold because he used to pee in the bed and my mother would come pick him up out of the snow and put him in the bed with her.

He is my cousin therefore I cannot recall the first time we met. For all intents and purposes he has been around since the beginning of time, as I know it. But now he’s become unraveled and it hurts. It hurts him and it hurts me as well.

That picture brought something back that is gone forever. Even though it’s lost I guess I’m glad someone took the time to capture it. It’s such a powerful photograph.

-YB

My Two Days

February  28, 2012

Last night I was helping my daughter with her homework. It was a writing assignment in which she had to describe the appearance of her room. After reviewing the rough draft I told her to tell her reader where exactly the things in her room are located instead of just saying they are in her room. For example; Instead of saying you have a map of the world in your room say that you have a map of the world hanging on the wall above your bed. She took my advice and wrote what I thought to be a stellar piece. That was yesterday, today I had to give her back.

Specificity is the focus on small things, the ability to pay attention to details that the average person may not notice in order to positively affect the story at large. I only have about two days a week to spend with my child and I spend a significant portion of that time at work. I know that I am positively affecting her life. I know that I am going against the odds as a black man who chooses to handle responsibility and be a father. Yeah I know all of that stuff. I hear it all the time and that’s great. But it’s hard to feel like a father when the court gives you no more that 48 hours to be a parent. It’s hard to adjust to not having any real say in her life outside of what I say in those two days when I’m with her. It’s hard to not feel depressed every week when I kiss her goodbye and she goes to her real home.

Some men can’t deal with the trauma of having their parenting rights dictated to them and honestly I can’t blame them. I can’t say I never thought about checking out of the situation. It’s strange because everyone wants to judge absentee fathers but no one really wants to understand them. I mean how cruel does a system have to be in order to make a man want to leave his children? How is it that fatherhood has become so dispensable in the court of law? I don’t know. I try not to think about it. All I try to do is make my two days count.

-YB

Notes on Muhammad Ali's 70th Birthday

February 26, 12

I was on the treadmill at the gym last night when I just happened to catch a scene from Muhammad Ali’s 70^th birthday celebration on one of the plasma screens. It was a star-studded event with everyone from Sean “P-Diddy” Combs, to Evander Holyfield in attendance. Everyone seemed to be having a great time. Everyone was jovial and lively everyone except for the birthday boy himself who was confined to a wheelchair due to pugilistic Parkinson’s.

A lot of people who claim to be boxing historians will swear that Ali is the greatest boxer of all time and I’m not here to dispute that. What I do have a problem with is people who have never set foot in a boxing ring holding Ali up on a pedestal as the type of fighter that young fighters should try to emulate.

Let’s face it Ali with all of his speed, charisma, power, and originality took way too much punishment in his career. It’s never cool for a heavyweight champion to invite 200-pound men to hit him at full strength until they themselves get tired. Muhammad Ali is a very intelligent man but that is a very poor strategy, which is evidenced by his inability to talk right now or walk on his own.

I know people loved Ali for what he did outside of the ring as much as what he accomplished within the ropes but it’s not OK for us to say that someone like Floyd Mayweather will never be as good as Ali because Floyd has a defensive style. It’s not ok for fight fans to criticize Andre Ward and Chad Dawson for their unwillingness to have their brains beat in to please a crowd that doesn’t even regard them as human beings.

As I looked at Muhammad Ali shaking in his wheelchair I saw a champion who gave all that he had to the sport that he loves so dearly. But I also saw a man who should serve as an example of what young fighters should avoid at all costs. Boxers need to keep their hands up in the ring, develop a solid defense, and once you retire then you need to stay retired. Remember that even when the crowd chants your name they do not love you, all they really want is blood.

When all the cake has been eaten, the stage has been cleared, and people take off their fancy tuxedos and elegant nightgowns to go back to everyday life the champ will still be in a wheelchair. Above everything else, I think that’s very sad.

-YB

Smile

February 21, 12

        Consider all the factions that pull at you everyday. Think about all of the people in your life that are constantly shaping and reshaping your identity. Everyday you are torn between where you are and where you want to be. You are conflicted by the person you thought you would grow to become and the person who you have become. And you must spend every day bleeding your soul to pay your bills while trying your best to make time for your real passion.  Think about all the unnatural positions in which your mind, body, and soul are contorted into on a daily basis. Now ask yourself what, if anything, is keeping you from falling apart. Once you’ve done this I want you to find that thing and worship it, kiss it on the cheek, say thank you. Life is so hard but it could be a lot worse. Smile.

-YB

The Departure of Sleep

Another sleepless night when no one can bring me peace; not Marvin, not Nina, not Nneka, not Sade. I’m not in the mood for texting or talking, nor do I feel like facebooking or watching television. And I can’t say I want to write as much as I am instinctively drawn to do so.  

Whitney’s gone and I still haven’t found the words to express myself.  Maybe if she were alive then her voice would be the one to put me to sleep. But she’s gone and the thought of her just brings me more pain. It’s insane how we get so attached to those we have never met. There’s so much chaos in the world. So many people come and go that it’s hard to keep your balance. It’s now become even harder for me to go to sleep.

-YB

Running

February 13, 2012

I’m an avid runner. On average I run about 5-6 times a week. I hit trails, run around Lake Merritt, or spend about an hour on the treadmill. Running is so second nature to me that it wasn’t until very recently that I began to ask myself what exactly am I running from. I mean of course I’m trying to stay in shape and speed up my metabolism a little, which at the age of 30 seems to want to stand still. But I feel like it’s deeper than that.

For example I write to express feelings that are impossible for me to verbalize and I box to blow off steam, however, my reasons for running 5-8 miles a day is something that I don’t have a complete answer to. Perhaps it’s a mixture of both. After all I do blow of a lot of steam when my feet are rhythmically pounding the pavement and I am outwardly expressing my desire to reach the finish line, but really why am I so compelled to run. I’m not training for a marathon and I’m not a slave.

Often times I’ll tell myself that I’m going to spend a whole day writing and the next thing I know I’m on some trail deep in the hills hoping local coyotes don’t smell my sweat and decide to attack me. I don’t know. It’s kind of bizarre. It’s like when I’m running with my I-pod blasting I feel like I’m floating through my own self-contrived galaxy.  It’s definitely a form of escapism; yet I wonder why I need to escape so often. Like this one story I’m working on. It’s very personal but instead of sitting down and cranking it out as soon as I look at it I put on my sweat pants and my sneakers and head out. Lately I’ve been feeling like a shot fighter who sees his opponent’s mistakes but can’t capitalize on them by letting his hands go and throwing a punch. I fear that I’ve become too guarded to be an effective writer. Instead of molding my issues into art I just want them to go away. It’s like I really want peace but I’m no longer willing to fight for it, or in my case I’m no longer willing to write for it. So I run.

When I was a boy I was led to believe that only the most cowardly of men publicly display their emotions. Now that I am a man I feel like a coward for not being able to express what makes me human.

I need to stop running.

-YB

On These Sad Days

February 8, 12

                Is writing still my passion if I have to force myself to do it? With all the thoughts in my head, all the drama from work, and al the stress of my daily life you would think it would be so easy to pick up a pen and allow my soul to flow through it. I’m stuck somewhere. I’ve been running away from my writing like so many other men run away from their responsibilities. I still have ideas but lately I’ve been lacking the motivation that it takes to get them down on paper.  Waiting on a muse I guess. Just waiting on some perfect goddess to come inspire me, to save me. Typical. One would think that an education might make me different but I’m the same dude from around the way.  Substitute the campus library for the street corner and you got me. And ain’t no fanciful words gone pay these bills. I feel like I’ve come a mighty long way to still be standing in the same place. On these sad days I just want to disintegrate into dust and be blown away just to say that I’ve been somewhere else.

-YB

I Wonder

February 6, 12

I remember how I used to stare at her while she looked away

It’s funny how confidence always overpowers shame

Before I learned by limitations I thought I could have her

I used to think that I was that guy before I realized I was this one.

I’ve never been a big dreamer

I’ve never allowed myself to get lost

I’ve never been able to believe that lie

I’ve never been able to visualize what separated me from him.

I can’t recall how it all became so confusing

Pain remains consistent and violence is inescapable

It hurts to be aware of who you are

I wonder what happens to unrequited love

I wonder if it will ever come back to me.

YB

Scream in Silence

February 2, 12

I don’t know why it’s so hard to let go. Why is it so hard for me to trust people? I envy newborn babies who grab the fingers of strangers when they place them inside their tiny palms. If only relationships could remain so pure. I still can’t figure out how to give a woman everything. I barely give enough before retreating back into myself. My soul cries like an infant left alone in a strange place.

I remember a mother once told me that her infant son cries for hours but no tears ever fall because the tear ducts take about a week to form underneath the eyelids. So the baby would basically just scream until someone got him.  Babies are wise even if they are undeveloped. I do believe men are over developed and severely out of touch with their humanity.

As a child my uncles would only cry when they had too much to drink. Then they would fight one another shortly thereafter to redeem themselves. Now that I am the age that they were then I rarely if ever drink. My tear ducts remain unused and I pay for that. I pay for that with my inability to let go. I pay for that with my insistence on not giving everything to her so that I can save some for myself. And then I scream in silence as loud as I can until she leaves.

-YB

Grappling with the Suicide of Don Cornelius

February 2, 12

Believe it or not I try really hard not to judge people. I realize that judging another human being can be a sign of both condescension and insecurity on the part of the man who is judging. I do try to show empathy and understanding to my brethren who have gone astray and most of the time I am successful, however, when a situation like the suicide of Don Cornelius comes about it becomes very difficult for me to keep my opinions bottled up.

Suicide really bothers me. I am aware of mental illness as I have been affected by it on more than one occasion in my life. I know about the daily struggles to survive as well; I just have a hard time respecting a person who takes his own life. I can’t imagine what it’s like to a 75-year-old man living every day in isolation, pain, and anguish but I also can’t imagine quitting—for I am a fighter and fighting is all I know.

Don Cornelius did extraordinary things for black-culture and he should be applauded for that. He represents part of my childhood as he does for millions of other people around the country, which makes it seem even more pathetic to me that he would end his life in this way. Suicide has always struck me as a very selfish act. I’m sorry but that’s how I feel.

In the end only the judgment of god will matter. The opinion of Youngen Black probably won’t even leave The Ghettosun. I hope that Mr. Cornelius has found peace and I hope that he will be forgiven.  I just don’t get suicide, I never have.

-YB

Notes on American Inner-City Education: The Worst Case of Black on Black Crime Ever Seen

January 30, 2012

Human avarice knows no bounds. People will get over any way they possibly can especially in these times of economic woe. For the most part I have come to take a natural attitude toward this reality but there is one realm of society in which greedy people always manage to piss me off.

The education of poor children is probably the biggest scam in America. So many agencies gain money from the continued failure of black and brown children that it’s disgusting. Thousands of grants are given to people who don’t care about children at all.They are unscrupulous individuals who couldn’t care less about the daily struggles of a teacher to inspire a child to read a book when that child has experienced more tragedy in 12 years than most people do in a lifetime.

Teaching is for broke people, they say. The real money is in educating teachers to teach toward standardized testing. In order to be successful one must look at children as if they are data, statistics, and ultimately dollar signs. Then and only then will you see the big bucks. Think outside of the classroom, think outside of love, and think outside of poverty.

The truth is that schools are a business that will always be profitable because people will always see education as a pathway toward success. And poor folks will almost always want better for their children. That’s why demagogues line up around the block to be the next superintendent for your nearest inner-city public school and that’s why today's entrepreneurs are choosing education over real estate because business is booming.

Trust me when I say that non-profits are very profitable and there is much more money in making promises to raise test scores in ghetto schools than there is running a beauty salon or opening up a liquor store.

What makes the situation even more disturbing is there are a huge number of minorities who are getting rich off of poor kids of color.  A parent whose child was victimized in the recent Atlanta test scores scandal described that situation as “The worst case of black on black crime ever seen.” As a person who has worked in the field of education for my entire adult life I don’t know if I can disagree with that.

-YB

A Fighter's Insecurities

January 25, 2012

Very strange things happen in a boxing gym; peculiar things that a person who has never been inside one would have a hard time believing. Like what occurred yesterday for example. I was moving around the heavy bag feeling real good. Working on my combinations while trying to adjust to having a new trainer when this very regal looking elderly gentlemen approached me. I saw him looking at me throwing my shots and I thought wow old dude must be really impressed. So I started throwing crisper more accurate blows.

So the guy, who obviously used to be a fighter, says to me; “Hey man, what are you about 140 pounds?” I smile and say yeah I’m about that. Then he shook his head in disapproval and said; “You need to get down to around 135,” and walked off.

That old son of a bitch! How dare he call me a fat ass. I spent the whole rest of my workout disappointed for eating one too many Oreo cookies the night before. I hate Oreos by the way. Every time I eat one it goes straight to my hips. And thus the great hidden secret of the boxing world is revealed. Boxing for all its hyper-masculine images of Mike Tyson knocking people through the ropes, Hagler and Hearns trying to kill each other, and Rocky Balboa drinking raw eggs at 5:00 in the morning, is the most effeminate sport in the world.

Men judge other men’s bodies constantly at the gym. Patrons say things like; “Damn you hella fat. How much you weighing now?” or “Damn you looking good. Do you have a fight coming up?” Sometimes I swear I’m in a girl’s locker room or a gay bar in The Castro district….Er erm, not that I’ve ever been inside either of those places I’m just trying to make a point. When people think about individuals that have poor self-images and low self-esteem they automatically conjure up a teenage girl starving herself to try to fit into a summer bikini but let me tell you, what a grown man puts himself through to make-weight for a boxing match is way worse. Let’s use this actual dialogue from my gym as an example;

“Damn how much you weigh now?”

“Shit I’m down to 150.”

“150! How you lose all that weight?”

“All I been eating is baby food and protein shakes.”

“Does it work?”

“Hell yeah look at me. I only got 9 more pounds to lose and I’ll be at my fighting weight.”

It’s an extreme problem. I find it to be very telling that a man is only allowed to be insecure in an institution where he is being trained in-depth on how to render another man unconscious. I also find it to be so ironic that a place can only be so macho until it begins to turn a little suspect. Like prison for example, the only place where societies toughest men can feel free to sleep with other men and not be judged harshly for it.

No but seriously I love boxing a lot. It’s just that I have a hard time getting used to hearing muscular men with tattoos talking to one another like a couple of women trying on clothes at the local department store. Before I started learning this craft I had no idea that fighters could be so insecure. So to all the boxers around the world I just want to remind you all to love yourselves. It’s OK to gain a few pounds here and there because your real beauty is on the inside. Be proud of who you are man. Be proud of what you look like.

LOL.

YB

The Agony

January 22, 2012

Wow, so now I must begin the painful process of putting my life back together after my favorite team was ousted from the playoffs. Just hours ago I was full of optimism and joy looking forward to the big game. Now all of that has been shattered by one field goal. It really pisses me off.

What can I say; the New York Football Giants played a great game. They marched into San Francisco and defeated my squad.  My major issue is now that the 49ers have lost I am forced to face all of the problems I have; bills piling up, my completely lame job situation, my wack ass hot water heater that has blown out yet again, high gas prices, bald tires, I'm feeling stressed out from all angles. Now I realize how much of an escape this football season has been for me.

My goodness loosing really sucks. I feel like I was actually out there getting sacked and fumbling punts. I’m so hurt right now. At times like this I wish I smoked weed, drank, and did ecstasy. I wish I didn’t have to face this agony. This is so dreadful and we were so close to the super bowl. I wouldn’t wish this feeling on my most hated adversary.

Curse you football gods! Curse you! You all don’t care about me, Alex Smith, or Patrick Willis. You all are unjust and obviously from the East Coast somewhere. New York Vs. New England for a rematch? You sick bastards! I’ll never allow myself to be led astray by you all ever again. From now on I’m going to start following more pure sports like water polo and curling. I’ll never feel let down like this again. I am no longer a believer and I will not be back.

YB

Soul on the Page

January 21, 2012

Can you imagine what it must have been like for Langston Hughes to wait tables at a restaurant full of people who didn't know that he was one of the greatest poets ever born? Can you see him humming the weary blues while he doses off on a New York City subway nearly missing his stop? I wonder if he ever seriously considered giving up. Perhaps he even  doubted whether or not the written page is the best place to put African rhythm. There were probably days when he thought about joining a band like everyone else.

Hard times for a black scribe.

I can't picture Zora Neale Hurston cleaning up some white ladies kitchen after she wrote down some of the most outstanding stories ever told. After she perfected the craft of creating  imagery with words, after she captured black vernacular in a way that no one has either before or since, after she immortalized her little colored town. What must it have been like to be unappreciated by nearly all of her black contemporaries? How must it have felt to have to walk through the back screen door of a white families house and clean their kitchen in the hot Florida sun? Perhaps she felt like her gifts to literature had never been accepted. Perhaps she died not knowing that she was supernatural.

They say that Ralph Ellison became unraveled when a young writer dismissed him by calling him an Uncle Tom to his face. The same people said they saw Richard Wright shedding many a tear when James Baldwin proclaimed that "Native Son" was one-dimensional. But they don't tell me whether or not they instigated. I'm sure that they did.

There must be something a little off about a person who decides to write a letter to entertain a man who is accustomed to having fantastical tales whispered into his ear. Abiyoyo and Anansi and the spider were just as rich before they were printed and published, but now the western tradition of book worshipping has been infused with soul. Open up a black book and you can see a nappy head and taste candied yams.

It's tragic that the great prophets of the written page struggled so mightily but what they left is divine. I'm so grateful that none of them quit before their voices were read.

-YB

In My Mind I Love You All

January 7, 2012

I always wonder what happens to the pretty faced girls that I see and admire but don’t have the heart to talk to. On this night I saw a woman with the right lips, the right skirt, the right complexion, and the right demeanor but I saw her at the wrong time.

It’s always the wrong time when a woman appears to be so perfect. After all I am deeply attracted to flaws. Yet I still wonder if that woman is thinking about me. Did I strike her? Was she moved? Or am I nothing to her—just another man passing by; just another potential failure? And as I sit here fantasizing about a perfect future with a woman who I have never met I realize that if I had spoken to her then I would not be writing about her now.

Mystery is an awesome muse. I would like to thank all the beautiful women I never talked to for inspiring me. And I hope that this piece lasts longer than any real life relationship that we may have had. For in my mind I love you all.

-YB