4:09: Just Give Up

Although quietly stated, it echoed throughout the room.

"Seriously, Just quit," she said.

I started opening my mouth to give her my retort but she silenced me before the words could even leave my mouth:

"Don't give me that 'I can achieve all things' speech. I am sick of your comparisons to Michael Jordan. Frank, this is just not for you."

Her words stung me. My fractured pride began to show on my face a bit. Starting with my eye brows shifting up like the magma turned lava, blasting through the top of the volcano. The ash surrounded the room in the form of embarrassment and rage. Before I could even form any retort, any defense I said the first thing everyone says at a loss of words:

"Just shut up," I shouted proudly, stalling until the next sentence would arrive from the heavens, yanking me from the awkward tension in the gym. It never didn't arrive. It might have if she didn't start talking again.

"Frank, look man. I know you love basketball, but its not for you. I am just trying to save your time. You invest entirely too much into something that's not working for you."

I went ahead and used my Michael Jordan retort anyways:

"Michelle! Jordan didn't make his high school basketball team. He practiced nonstop. I bet he heard the same kind of comments. 'Just quit. You suck!' But he persevered. And that is the kind of message Jordan stood for. Working hard and achieving. No matter how grueling the obstacle may be. If the heavens hold you down, you gotta go Atlas on 'em"

She laughed. It was the most painful, piercing laugh. It burned. I really felt what I said and she mocked it. I felt trivial. She realized what she had done to my spirit a few moments later. Perhaps it was the watering of my eyes and the stillness of my body that gave it away. But she realized the pain and tried to make amends.

She got quiet and said, "Frank, I'm really sorry. I know this is important to you. I didn't mean to hurt you."

I tried to respond as if she hurt me but I was too embarrassed to pretend. My emotions could fill the entire empty gym. So I vented:

" Why the hell do you think I can't do this? What makes you think that I can't develop the skill, ever?"

She humbled her self and said, " I don't know. You're right. I have no clue. You could become the next Michael Jordan. But let me ask you something."

She walked a little closer and put her hand on my shoulder and smiled. I wanted to punch her. I really did not feel like being touched. She continued. "When do you think its a good time to give up a dream?"

I wanted to laugh. It was an absurd question. I thought she was really going to ask me something that would really open my eyes or change my way of thinking. I quickly, without a single thought, chuckled and responded.

"Never." I stared smuggly with an impeccable ego, swelling, swelling and swelling some more at the same speed as my ear to ear grin.

"Frank," she said politely and without any condescension, "Jordan knew when to quit."

I was immediately afraid of what she would say next. I knew exactly where she was going with her argument. Before she even began to explain herself, my ego had packed up it's things and returned home in my shrinking head, like a family picknic, spoiled by stormy weather. Oh did it storm.

She reminded me of Jordan's one year baseball career. I didn't even listen to her words because I just knew. The worst part of knowing that you're wrong is when you realize it too quickly and then experience everything you just heard in your head, out loud by a friend. I started listening again after she told me Jordan's stats.

"Frank," she said calmly and sympathetically, trying to protect my ego, which worked, "You can become the next Jordan but how much time do you have? Time is so important, Frank. I am afraid you're wasting it. We're in college now. You didn't even make the team in high school, or you're freshmen and sophomore years here at the university. You're a junior now! Just give up. You are so talented at so many other things. You're a master chef, you write tear jerking poetry, and you are technologically inclined. Yet, you have NBA dreams. There are people in the world that can only play basketball and rely on that to in life. You are really not good at it but have other talents. The last thing you should do is ignore your other talents and waste your time. Its the most important thing you have."

After that day, and a few more days of an awkward air between Michelle and I, things went back to normal. I was too proud to quit immediately so I played it off over time. I didn't bring up tryouts this semester because I didn't go. I had less basketball conversations and made more Computer Science references. No to mention I started having secret meetings with my advisers, who were helping make some last minute career paths changes. Then, eventually basketball had fallen off the face of my world.

My whole life I was told to never give up. But I guess I misinterpreted the meaning.

Giving up goals is a part of life. People change, so do dreams.

But giving up hope, not believing you can achieve anything, is what people should avoid.

You can beat the odds, but you can't beat Time.

5:38 am: "The Letter They Found On Time. However, Too Late."

They found the letter 2 days after they found his body. It stated as follows:

Dear Reader,

It hit me the moment I got married. I realized that one day, the woman I loved the most, the one I chose to invest emotion, experiences and time into will one day leave this earth. I looked around the wedding ceremony seeing kin pouring every ounce of their happiness into the two of us. I remember wanting to be among them, showing my support with smiles, ear-to-ear smiles, rapid clapping and pats on the back. Everyone was living in the moment except me. Some nights, I feared that I would wake up and feel an empty cold pillow to the right of me. Perhaps the months following her funeral or hours after her passing.    Our honeymoon was not the peak of my depression, but it was definitely the close to the climax. The night we made the cliche love all newlyweds do, I cried. I pretended it was because I was so happy, but I was afraid of the next day being further from the day we were born and closer to the day we will pass. When our kids born, I relapsed on the depression that, for a short time, abandoned me. I spent 25 years being a paranoid father: waiting for my children to accidentally choke on a coin and tearing up when they left for their friend's house when the sun was past set. Phone calls in the middle of the night from my children calling from their dorm rooms just to say "I love you" had me certain they were being held hostage by murderous rapists. However, even then was not the peak of my depression. By the time my grandchildren had turned 7, my paranoia had finally subdued. The grandchildren would run around with sharpened pencils and I did not scream. In some cases, I even joined in on the action, giving the game names like "Pencil Wars" or "King Pencil." Actually, my wife had become the paranoid one. Its ironic how much personalities rub off on you after years of being together. Living together. 

The peak of my paranoia was when my beloved wife came home from work one day and asked me where Donna was. Donna was our first Dog we had when our kids turned 13. We surprised them with Donna one evening after they had complained for 7 or more years about not having a dog. Our kids were far to irresponsible enough. Unfortunately, the dog ran into the street about a month later and was run over by our neighbor during the night. It was pretty sad and a little awkward for about a few weeks after that. My wife had developed Alzheimer's. It was the biggest slap in the face by death. I became a very angry man for the following year after our doctors confirmed her conditions. I was mad at the world as well as myself. I had allowed myself to focus obsess over death and I had let my fear dictate and spoil important parts of my moments in my life. I know all the cliches about death being a part of life and counting my blessings. Our family was death-free for so long, I felt like it was Death's way of getting back. People felt the need to remind me to remember all the good times, forgetting that the reason the "good times" were good become of her. I would be remembering these good times alone for the rest of my life. I am expected to watch myself be forgotten. 

As I think back, my most tragic mistake was my lack of appreciation. I spent too much of my life living in fear of death, preparing myself for the worst situations that cannot be prepared for. I hid from situations that make a person, a person. There were just not enough times I lived in the moment with her. She must be the one that feels alone. I made her feel alone. I should have joined her in the moments. But I will join her now...She'll meet me there. Somewhere in our memories.

Live.

The message was found in the bedroom two feet away from his body. Next to the alarm clock.

I wrote this at 4:30. Make it Matter, Please.

He cleared his throat and repeated:
"This is the last stop. I won't say it again!"
Without words, I got out of my seat.
I walked down the aisle at my own pace.
My own pace did not please the bus driver.
It was obvious by the way he sighed and glared
through the rear view mirror. I pretended to fidget
with my MP3 player. There was nothing on it.
I erased the memory before I left.

I stepped off the last step of the bus, which meant way more
to me than it did the driver. For him, it was the farewell of a nuisance.
For me, it was a  July 20th 1969.
I didn't have 500 million viewers. I didn't need them. I didn't want them.
The bus began to drive away and I felt my last chance leaving with it.
I ignored it of course. I didn't even turn around to watch it.
Its a bad omen to turn around. Pillars of salt and whatnot.

The fear and anxiety didn't surprise attack me
until the bus's engine was completely unheard.
I realized the only thing I had was a bag.
It contained deodorant, underwear, toothbrush, Shampoo,
a book, two pairs of jeans, 4 T-shirts and a brush.
I forgot toothpaste.

I began realizing I had less than what I left behind:
Money, a nice home, friends, shelter, a garden,
a dog, a promising future, a few rows of shoes,
a few good books, a bunch of bad books,
lipstick, make-up, contacts, a good husband,
and a letter.

I can't remember what the letter said,
but remember what it meant to me.
It meant that I would be stressed,
worried, reckless, poor, thoughtless,
hungry, pissed and dead.

But I would also be free.
I had everything. I left Everything.
Everything was there
but I was not.

So I am not.

But I am.

And I am happy.

Black Elitism and discouragement: "Man, Ya'll so ignorant"

Education is a  useful tool and a dangerous weapon. An ugly truth, but a truth nonetheless.We have all seen education being used as method of separating, oppressing and attacking those who may not be informed on certain topics as others. In some cases, we have also been those people who have misused something that was passed down to us from someone much wiser than us. Remember when you first learned something interesting from someone interesting and went fleeting somewhere to mercilessly destory  someones ego.  Whether it was what season the Green Ranger arrived or the name of the first Vice President, we have all done it. Sometimes, it is harmless 1upmenship. But then there are those other times when someone with more experience than you comes along and pointlessly reminds you that you are imperfect, which in some cases is needed and well deserved. However in other cases, it is frustrating, embarrassing,  life-changing and discouraging.  What's gross is when individuals hold the education they have acquired over the heads of others who were not as fortunate to gain access to it and are aware of what they are doing. In the the 5 years I have been in college, I have experienced an annoying amount of Black elitism. Not the good kind. The bad kind. The kind that acquires knowledge and refuses to spread it and enrich the black community as well as the world. They would much rather rub and shower themselves in their egoism.

 I remember I was in 11th grade when one of my teacher's friends, a fellow teacher, decided she wanted to condescend to some one of lower experience. She picked me. We were watching some of the destruction  caused by 2005's Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. Somehow it affected gas prices and I did not know because I was not informed on the subject. So, being a student, I asked "how does it affect gas prices?"

and the teacher and one other student mocked me. The teacher started with an eyeroll and then said "...you just don't get it do you..?" She obviously knew I didn't get it, but she wanted to reiterate on the fact that I didn't know something that she knew. The student said "Man, even I know that," singing the pronoun in a way that implied that I should know more than him...whoever he was. Of course I knew they were overacting to something, but I remember not feeling good. I felt dumb and angry. Why should I be mocked for not knowing something like that? I felt like I asked something like "What the fuck is air?" 

What further grinds my gears is when teachers like her want to get on soapboxes and talk about how the black youth cares about nothing but Hip-hop, the internet etc. Of course these kinds of complaints exist in every community and we all roll our eyes at this. But what burns me up is that there are way too much discouragement in black entertainment and in general that makes a sport of point out the black person who doesn't know. Every other black comedian, political commentator and teacher wants to tell you whats wrong with the black generation today and laugh at their problems as if the previous generation was free of similar issues. Why not inform him/her rather than repel and intimidate them from engaging knowledge? 

I'll give you a better example. I was on Twitter the other day and read someone's comments about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I'll paraphrase for you, "I don't know why ya'll love Dr. King so much! He cheated on his wife!!! Ya'll are so ignorant." In all honesty, it's true. Dr. King cheated on his wife. I never liked holding an individual so high that we overlook his/her mistakes, so sure: He cheated. He was probably not that great of a husband. Now let me inform you who may not know what this status does not show is the whole story. J. Edgar Hoover, former president of the US, became the head of the FBI. The FBI believed King to be a Communist so they installed cameras and tape recorders in his room, finding out only two or three things: He was innocent, made JFK jokes and cheated on his wife, Coretta King. Check my bullshit to see if I am lying. Basically, not following Dr. King because he was ostensibly not a good husband is holding him to unfair standard. People make mistakes and discarding their wisdom just cause its hip is hurtful to you. So sure, you can present only one side of a story and school someone on being ignorant for not knowing something you just read on some smug forum and look like the world's biggest dick when someone humbly or arrogantly informs you one the whole story. Just realize that your comment leaves little ripples in the lake and does not disturb any universe whatsover.

So, this Black History month, regardless of what color you are, let's not be pretentious. Instead, lets inform and encourage. It's a celebration.

Villainy.