The occasional stubby-finger typo is understandable. The incessant use of all caps is annoying. But if all you do is botch up the English language on the regular, you may fall victim to unfortunate missteps ... such as the one created here without that ever important space between words.
So, please - at least do a cursory review before you hit publish.
Thank you.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4: The Mask
The crying had to stop. I knew it did; certainly, I couldn’t grow up and be a grown man who cried all the time. But I needed another coping mechanism. I didn’t exactly know the right terminology then, but I knew I needed something. Something outside of my family, because my family could never understand. My mother wasn’t what I would call motherly, and so I needed something that would make me feel like someone was taking care of me. I remember telling my mother one day that I wanted to go to church.
She sent me with a neighbor to a Catholic mass. It was grueling. I sat through the service and found it empty – not the church, because it was full of people. But the place was missing something. There was no one to connect to and that’s really what I needed. So, although I was sure that church was the answer, this particular church wasn’t.
One day, I was looking out of the front window and saw a blur of color run across the street. Now, this doesn’t happen often in the residential neighborhoods of New York City. It was definitely different. It was a clown. Clown suit, face paint and all, running across the street and disappearing into the backyard. I went to investigate. (Did Steve King move in down the street?!?)
With some trepidation, I walked down the street and into the backyard where IT went. When I got back there, I saw rows of chairs, a lectern and a microphone. I was welcomed by two ladies who explained that they were having a church gathering. For kids. Hmmmmm, I thought. Ok. So, I stayed – and met Mr. Scriptures, the Gospel Clown.
For all the ridiculousness it sounds like, several things are important here. First, they were glad I was there. Second, it was actually kind of fun. Third, I was a nerd and was totally given, even at 10, to the notion that knowledge was power. So, I stayed and met tons of new people – and of all the people on my block that showed up that day, I was the only one that kept coming back. And there I began to construct a new family, new friends a new life where no one knew I was really a confused little boy that cried all the time just to get attention.
So, with all this newfound attention, the crying itself actually stopped. I think that’s what convinced my parents to let me continue to attend this church – they figured it was good for me. And to a very large extent, it was. The good things to say that were buried deep within me began to surface because people actually began to listen. I learned to sing, I learned lots of Bible and found my first real girlfriend.
I really liked her. We held hands and all and she made me feel good, special. She thought I was the cutest thing ever and I really thought she was pretty. And I began to think that the confusion was lifting – I really liked this girl. It didn’t matter to me at the time that the confusing fantasies about boys never left or subsided; all that mattered is that I really liked this girl, I didn’t have to kiss her because it was strictly forbidden in church and all the confines to that puppy-love relationship made it just perfect for me.
I really loved that church. For a while, I would attend in the winters and disappear during the summers because there was so much else to do around the neighborhood. That became an issue in that church because I needed to be more consistent. Well, I had to give that some thought – but the reality of my life was that I was living a duality. Another one.
Not only was I hiding my attraction to the same sex, and learning to stifle it away and not deal with it … I was developing relationships with a church family who didn’t know anyone in my biological family … and my biological family never went to church with me and didn’t know my church family. There was no cross-contamination there for me. My parents let me go to church because it kept me off the streets and I was maturing, growing out of the crybaby phase. And my pastors began to feel like I was their kid and treated me as such.
The real me was buried down deeper than before. I wasn’t trying to deal with anything, so I wore this crybaby image for a while and let it go for this devout Christian image. But even then, there was the real me – that only the people at school knew. I had a trunk full of facemasks that I interchanged at will. And everywhere I went I fit in perfectly.
Except when I was by myself.
Remember the guy who bought me a ring? Well, what's very interesting about that situation is that I never told him my real last name. I don't remember ever telling him it was Martinez, but that's what he thinks my last name is. In fact, just a few minutes ago, he called me and said, "Hello Mr. Martinez. How are YOU?"
It took me a bit to compose myself so as not to laugh uproariously into the mouthpiece - and no sooner did the call end did I text Jaded to tell her what happened. Her response, in classic JADED-JACK vernacular?
ME MEOOOO!
Right then and there, I realized I had found JACK's last name. It just HAS to be Martinez. It *must* be.
And so it shall be.
-JACK Martinez
This promises to be a long post. Longest ever I’ve written. And if you choose not to read all the way to the end, I understand. However, if you live in Indianapolis, I hope you stay the course.
Whenever I have explain to people my upbringing and how life was for me as a kid, I am usually met with some version of, “I don’t know how you survived it.” But the reality is that it was my life – I knew nothing else apart from it all and so it was my normalcy. Only in hindsight do I recognize the dysfunction. At least I wasn’t like my friend across the street whose crazy ass grandmother would beat the fuck out her in broad daylight, once with a telephone cord and another time with a broom, for all to see and admire. I felt at the time that it wasn’t that bad.
I remember my first semester of college at a predominantly White, rural University. I really didn’t go into it expecting any type of culture shock, but there it was. I suppose if you anticipating it, then you can’t really term it “shock,” but whatever. It wasn’t so much in how I felt as it was in how I was treated. It was underlying, never overt, and hard to pinpoint or describe. But I knew everyone thought I was different, that my music was odd (at the time I was into old Spanish ballads – as in from Spain) and I was actually pretty sad a lot.
The more I got to know people in that Fall of 1993, I found myself dismayed a lot. When I learned that MANY of my fellow freshman had never even SEEN a Black person in real life, I really didn’t know how to react or feel. How the fuck do you get to be 18 and never SEE a Black person?!? I couldn’t comprehend it, coming from New York City and having attended a High School of 5,000 that was 1/3 Latino, 1/3 Black, 1/3 Asian. I went from a place where less than 5% were White to a place where less than 3% were minorities. And it took me a while to settle well into that environment. But, you know what – I did it.
Hereto forward, several incidences in my life stand out re: subject issue.
• When I told my mother that I wanted a car, she accused me of becoming too Americanized. Apparently, whatever I had done having learned to fit in among my peers at college was distancing me from my own culture. And my mother was more than happy to scold me for it, because my expectations had change. By this point, I had begun to see the dysfunction in my upbringing and chalked it up to the nature of being a first generation American.
• The head of the minority student office sat me down one day to tell me that it must be interesting to be such a light skinned minority because I could fit in with Whites easily until they realized that I was Latino and then it would become a little weird. And that I could fit in with Blacks because I was a minority, but there would always be the issue that I was light skinned and perceived to partake in White privilege. “How do you feel about that?” he asked. I hit the ceiling and told him he was crazy and left abruptly – but the reality is that he opened my eyes to a fact that I was not then ready to face … the fact that he was right.
• My roommate of three years tried to tell me that the apartment that we shared was his. It was a big argument – but it ended with him mocking me for thinking it was just as much my apartment because I could go to the minority student office and “nah nah nah,” he said shaking his neck. My roommate was White (I’m sure he still is) and I can honestly say that my being Latino was not even an issue in my head during this discussion – I froze. I totally just didn’t know what to do. I simply said, “you know what Dan – I can’t believe you just went there. This conversation is over.” And I left the room. Eventually that day, unable to express the type of frustration I was experiencing, unable to release it and unable to fix it … the tears welled in my eyes and I had to just cry it out and let it go.
• My boss in Indianapolis takes the cake. My first week in that office, I put up a picture of a Jazz scene, you know the ones where all the figures are black shadows dressed in ethnic clothing and some play instruments and others dance in skewed poses, with a picture of my then girlfriend and I. He walked into my cube, bent over and stuck his face up against the 10” X 6” picture frame, inspected it for a while and then left. He never said a word.
• The same boss, when I had lost some weight and bought new clothes, told me that I was dressing sharp lately. “Lately?” I asked. And he said, that, well, I had always dressed well but that lately I had put a little “salsa” in my wardrobe. He meant the dip, not the dance.
• Yet again about the boss … he was wont to walk around the office whistling the theme to the Mexican hat dance … and when walking by me one day, I pointed and said, “The Mexican Hat dance.” I expected to bring it to his attention and hopefully make it stop … instead, he threw his hands over his head, snapping his fingers and danced a circle around me as if I was the sombrero. And then he kept walking down the hallway. I stood there and just watched him leave … I totally forgot what I was up for .. and turned around to see that another coworker had witnessed it and looked at me like he was crazy. He is.
• Same boss – he used to tell me that when Castro is ousted that he was going to take me to Havana to sing in night clubs and be my manager and that we would make millions. Of course, I’m not Cuban and I felt like he wanted to pimp me or something.
These are just the highlights and I bring these up because a very good friend of mine told me recently that she and others have had a hard time with this character I’ve invented, JACK. What struck me is the following:
• My blog isn’t even pro Latino – it’s anti-White
• Which one is the real me? The me they know – or JACK?
I struggled with this for hours after that call – the idea that I am a racist. And since then I just accepted that to some extent I am – in that the experiences above, and many, many others, have impacted my world view as a Latino, a Latino with bi-racial kids. For the sake of protecting myself, I do just try to accept that my “Latinoness” is an issue for people – and when I find that it’s not, it’s a relief. That has been much easier for me than assuming that my ethnicity doesn’t matter in this country and then finding myself with those vacuous feelings that I cannot describe well … with those feelings that hurt me really bad and having to pretend they don’t … when I encounter head on the fact that it does. To that extent, the real me is somewhat racist, I suppose.
It’s caused me to put up a wall and become very observant of and thoughtful about people. I don’t trust too quickly, but I will engage in pleasant conversation with everyone. And the wall is usually it’s thickest when I deal with Whites in business, especially Presidents. Can you image why?
The thing that really bothers me right now is that the two people that had this conversation about me are so close to the top of my list of favorite people that if they were to disown me, I would be a mess. Yet, how would I feel if they started blogging about those damn wetback Latinos that aren’t worth anything but to scrub their toilet?!?
So, I get it – I know how you feel. All in all – the reality is this … I don’t in real life discriminate with a broad brush stroke (unless we’re talking about people in power in corporations – then I discriminate against them all) … and this is because my life has taught me how to spot a racist … it’s akin to Gaydar. I can spot another gay man without a problem and I can’t explain to you how … I just know. It’s in way he holds his head up, in the way he walks, in that tiny little mannerism that only “we” can see. And so it is with racism – when it’s there, I can spot it.
For the longest time in Indianapolis, this issue never came up, and I can understand your frustration with the racial undertones to this blog. But the reality is that that is MY fault. My fault for succumbing to the same temptation as every other minority in Indianapolis and pretending it doesn’t exist. I did that … and it was part of my frustration with that city. My broad brush strokes on JGC do not apply to you – to the scores of people I know who do not possess not an ounce of the racism that causes others to, say … dance the Mexican Hat dance around a Latino.
I wish so badly that I could say that I’m not a racist because I have White friends. (That was supposed to be hysterically funny, btw) But there is a little bit of racism in my assumption that White people are racist until they prove otherwise, fine. But JACK takes every opportunity to exploit anything he can
even spotlighting Mr. Jackson as an asshole when he threatened to castrate our next President.
Or when I called “c” a damn Mexican
or wrote about Kwame and called him a train wreck
or just shook my head at ghetto bitchez
or called my daughter a little Heiffer
If there’s one thing I can say about JACK – it’s that he’s equal opportunity.
He's redundant and says some things over and over again, but when you sort through it ... it's an interesting, errrr, sermon
OK, so what if I blog about my school work? That's like two birds with one stone, right? I get to feed my blogger addiction and synthesize my reading at the same time!
I am reading right now about the retention of adults enrolled in literacy or 'adult basic education' (ABE) programs. Qualitative research suggests that the Field Dependence of this set of the adult education population is extremely high.
Field dependence refers to self esteem, and where your overall sense of well being comes from. That is, if you are highly Field INdependent, you don't rely on other people for your overall sense of well being. Conversely, High Field Dependence refers to the need to have the affirmation and support of OTHER people in order to maintain self esteem and sense of security.
So, in short - folks that don't finish high school, or that obtain a GED, will likely have low self esteem and would rely on the affirmation of others in order to feel a solid sense of self. The studies suggest that the field dependence of these adults is similar to that of the average 10 year old. This gave me serious pause.
The research plainly says that more research is needed to understand the relationship of race and social class with field dependence-independence in ABE settings. And then I hit the roof - WHAT?!?!
"there are some findings that African-American and Hispanic learners tend to have higher levels of field dependence [than normal]" it says.
I gave it some thought - is the "we-ness" in our respective cultures to blame? I'm fucked in the head about this. Unless research tells me otherwise, it's about social class in my book. It's not about race - aside from the fact that Blacks and Latinos are disproportionately represented among the poor and lower middle class. So, a correlation based on race without any regard for social status will piss me off.
This has less to do with our ethnicity than it does with the fact that society is wont to ignore the poor and forces the poor to rely on their support systems in order to live life. THAT causes high field dependence - not the fact that's I'm Latino, or Black by injection.
I can't tell you how aggravated I get when I have to face the fact that the great majority of the studies out there have been researched without regard to the economic conditions that impact my people. I'm tired of it. And I'm more fired up now to GET this fucking masters degree and announce to all these elitists, "ya bitchez gon' hafta move over ... JACK'S HERE!"
Thanks for listening.
Carry on.
OK, I know I said I wouldn't post (although before my "homework cometh to me" post, I published five more to go live at a later date), but it's 6:30 am and I'm making this a quickie.
Did you listen to the radio show? OMG, did I have a blast. There's tons of good advice given in this segment amidst the hilarity. Don't be shy, click the link and listen in ...
(no, seriously - click the damn link)
I think we did ok - definitely a step up from that FIRST Monday Musings show where they were all serious and shit ... bbbboooorrrrriiiiinnnnggggg.
I jest - Jaded's work is bar none.
*smooches* (as she says)
No sooner than I tell the lurkers that there's a contest for those that comment on my blog (with Boris as the prize!) than I post this blog about the fact that I need to kind of, um, focus on my studies.
Folks, I'm two classes shy of graduating with my masters degree. And I was two weeks behind - got caught up and am still two weeks behind. How the fuck does that happen? I tell you how that I happens - you blog daily, read a dozen other blogs too, and don't do a fucking thing for a class that tells you right in the syllabus, "this course requires a substantial amount of reading."
And let me tell you - this bitch was NOT lying. She's a masochist - I'm certain of it. And she slammed my last paper because it wasn't in an academic voice and the APA style was all wrong. But I used the template from one of my final papers for another class .. and I got a 100% on that paper. So, whatever - fine! I'll redo it and relearn YOUR way of doing this.
That's the way life is anyway - new boss, new way of doing things, no questions asked. Fine.
But I need to take a station break for one week so I can read all the shit this bitch ass professor assigned us - rewrite my paper - post the assignment I didn't do yet - give feedback to my classmates on the assignments THEY'VE posted, etc. etc. etc.
Oh, did I mention I am teaching a 2-day course next week? And that I need to review the material because even though I just taught the course last month, I don't want to appear rusty. God forbid I stand in front of the room and begin with, "Hi, My name is JACK .... which one of you is JADED? F$%K it - I don't care. One Man's Opinion, blah blah blah - everyone's got one. Just sit there and take notes in your Baby Daddy Diaries while i prove to you that I"m just a happy go lucky bachelor who's not shady, just fierce. And if anyone of you mumble over there talking about 'look at this nigger,' you gonna find out about the world as I see it."
Because ya' mother fuckers' blogs is the only shit I been reading and ya' are seared on my brain like blogger took a branding iron to the soft tissue beneath my skull and erased everything else known to me. I have created a few posts for the coming week, though not daily, and will do Monday Musings with Jaded as promised and then I'm spending the rest of next week in my stupid, bitch ass text book about social research, even though between you and me .. that's what the fuck BLOGGING is!!!
Shut up - JACK can rant too, carajo!
Carry on.
In the still of the night
as I gaze at the ceiling
shadowed by the moonlight
that peers its way in
though the slats in the blinds,
I toss around in my head
all the figures I see
as if they were clouds
puffed into recognizable shapes
in amazing ways
about a brilliant blue sky.
But the somber shades of grey and black
exude a meloncholic peace
in that they appear harmless
but have been drained of the vibrancy
of the crisp, cool day
my mind wishes it can conjure up.
But alas it cannot
create a happy image
like of smiling, frolicking lovers
wading in cascading fountain waters
with pressed slacks rolled up
to the buldge of the calf
and fancy shoes dangling off of delicate fingers.
The figures that appear
while I lay there in bed
do not smile
they maintain stoic faces
that mock me as I stare;
There is no fountain here,
no brilliant blue sky -
there is no lover here,
just me by myself ...
until the morning dawn overpowers each shadow.
But, oh, if I can't right now
make out a dingy pair of shoes.
JACK
And I absolutely adore this ... it makes my top 5 favorites posts of all time. (Jaded recently introduced me to another that ranks up there with this one - I will soon post a blog with a link to all five of my favorites - but later)
I realize that for every one of my readers who comments, there's another one who passes by announced. Sometimes I wish I could know who they are, wish that you would comment just so that I can understand the true efficacy of my efforts to keep my blog.
But I suppose I can appreciate that I'm but a spec in the overall scheme of blog-things, like a grain of sand on the expanse of a coastline. And that humbles me enough to invite sand artists over and pay them to practice their craft to highlight the fact that CARAJO - I'm pretty!
(I haven't posted a blog for laughs in a while)
So pretty that I shouldn't be overlooked like some damn seagull relieved herself all over me and some lifeguard placed the beach garbage can square over my face (mmm, lifeguards). I refuse to be an innocuous blogspot blip ...
Towards that end, the following change takes effect immediately:
He's offering himself to the one who comments the most on my blog in the next 30 days
Carry on
Today, my daughters other front tooth fell out. I barely remember what it was like losing my baby teeth. I have two memories of it as a kid:
1) In Kindergarten, I had a loose front tooth. I was showing my classmates that the fucker was loose as hell. However, I learned that you should never, EVER do this in the South Bronx. Here in the midwest, my daughter tells me, your friends sit around and try to predict on which day your tooth will come out. But, not in the South Bronx. Jorge made a fist and punched me dead in the face. I was stunned, and immediately just wanted to cry. But I spit my tooth out, and he said, "see!" And we all ooohed and ahhhed at how smart Jorge was. In fact, I thanked him.
2) I was at my aunt's house in Puerto Rico - maybe 4, maybe 7. Those were two of the times I went to PR. I told her that my tooth was loose as hell. However, I learned that you should never, EVER do this out in the Puerto Rican country side - because the next thing I knew I was laying back in some rattan chair with one end of a long ass piece of thread tied to me tooth and the other end held tightly in my aunt's fist. It hurt like FUCK - and she pulled so hard that my tooth went flying through the air and landed clear on the other side of the room. We all heard the "tink" of the tooth on the tile floor. Even Fifi. That bitch ass dog took off running after of it and my aunt had to fight that dog to get my tooth out her mouth.
But it's not like that anymore. One word: Anbesol. After my daughter sank her teeth into some fried chicken grandma made, the tooth was hanging only by a thread. And my daughter was wigging out. I felt so bad for her, bendito - she kept saying, "but I wanna eat!" (And who can blame her when grandma done made some fried chicken and cabbage. mmmmmm - cabbage)
So, we went to CVS, picked up some anbesol and numbed the gums surrounding that tooth. With a Q-tip (soaked with more anbesol) I began to massage her gums and when she least expected it, I pulled the tooth out. She jumped for a minute, but then we inspected the tooth and all was well. Without her front teeth - the fried chicken thought it had a fighting chance. But, alas, the incisors and a child after her grandma's cooking .... it was a wrap.
And now the tooth is in the box in my closet and a dollar under her pillow awaits my princess in the a.m.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4: The Mask
The crying had to stop. I knew it did; certainly, I couldn’t grow up and be a grown man who cried all the time. But I needed another coping mechanism. I didn’t exactly know the right terminology then, but I knew I needed something. Something outside of my family, because my family could never understand. My mother wasn’t what I would call motherly, and so I needed something that would make me feel like someone was taking care of me. I remember telling my mother one day that I wanted to go to church.
She sent me with a neighbor to a Catholic mass. It was grueling. I sat through the service and found it empty – not the church, because it was full of people. But the place was missing something. There was no one to connect to and that’s really what I needed. So, although I was sure that church was the answer, this particular church wasn’t.
One day, I was looking out of the front window and saw a blur of color run across the street. Now, this doesn’t happen often in the residential neighborhoods of New York City. It was definitely different. It was a clown. Clown suit, face paint and all, running across the street and disappearing into the backyard. I went to investigate. (Did Steve King move in down the street?!?)
With some trepidation, I walked down the street and into the backyard where IT went. When I got back there, I saw rows of chairs, a lectern and a microphone. I was welcomed by two ladies who explained that they were having a church gathering. For kids. Hmmmmm, I thought. Ok. So, I stayed – and met Mr. Scriptures, the Gospel Clown.
For all the ridiculousness it sounds like, several things are important here. First, they were glad I was there. Second, it was actually kind of fun. Third, I was a nerd and was totally given, even at 10, to the notion that knowledge was power. So, I stayed and met tons of new people – and of all the people on my block that showed up that day, I was the only one that kept coming back. And there I began to construct a new family, new friends a new life where no one knew I was really a confused little boy that cried all the time just to get attention.
So, with all this newfound attention, the crying itself actually stopped. I think that’s what convinced my parents to let me continue to attend this church – they figured it was good for me. And to a very large extent, it was. The good things to say that were buried deep within me began to surface because people actually began to listen. I learned to sing, I learned lots of Bible and found my first real girlfriend.
I really liked her. We held hands and all and she made me feel good, special. She thought I was the cutest thing ever and I really thought she was pretty. And I began to think that the confusion was lifting – I really liked this girl. It didn’t matter to me at the time that the confusing fantasies about boys never left or subsided; all that mattered is that I really liked this girl, I didn’t have to kiss her because it was strictly forbidden in church and all the confines to that puppy-love relationship made it just perfect for me.
I really loved that church. For a while, I would attend in the winters and disappear during the summers because there was so much else to do around the neighborhood. That became an issue in that church because I needed to be more consistent. Well, I had to give that some thought – but the reality of my life was that I was living a duality. Another one.
Not only was I hiding my attraction to the same sex, and learning to stifle it away and not deal with it … I was developing relationships with a church family who didn’t know anyone in my biological family … and my biological family never went to church with me and didn’t know my church family. There was no cross-contamination there for me. My parents let me go to church because it kept me off the streets and I was maturing, growing out of the crybaby phase. And my pastors began to feel like I was their kid and treated me as such.
The real me was buried down deeper than before. I wasn’t trying to deal with anything, so I wore this crybaby image for a while and let it go for this devout Christian image. But even then, there was the real me – that only the people at school knew. I had a trunk full of facemasks that I interchanged at will. And everywhere I went I fit in perfectly.
Except when I was by myself.
I'm all for gay marriage - or arbor marriage. I don't give a fuck. In a free country, you should be free to do whatever the fuck you want as long as you don't infringe on the rights of others. Seeing as how my marrying a woman didn't exactly impede anyone else's progress towards ANYTHING, I'm assuming it wouldn't matter to gulf coast that I got married up here in Chicago, even to a tree. But whatever. I know that wasn't this asshole's point, but it's mine.
Anyway, what's up with fools who want to fall in love so badly that they jump? From really high places. Like out of a plane, type of high place. I had my date this weekend, and it was lovely - it was a first date with all of the typical nuances of a first date with a few exceptions - like the fact that I stayed there with him all weekend. But anyway.
My real point is that he is totally looking for some ethereal, fairy tale love story - and I'm not the first to encounter someone like this. Don't get me wrong, I think it's sweet and in it's purest form just a whole lot of romance. But don't talk to me about all this shit throughout our first date. Don't tell me how if we went all the way, it would be too soon and that there's plenty of time for all that.
First - I never said anything about all the way. Obviously, aggression isn't your thing - my bayd. But I'm the type to back you up against the way and disrobe you before you even know I'm in the mood. And quite frankly, I need me someone who can do the same. Now, there's a time and place for all the long, drawn out love sessions - but seriously? NOW?!? I mean, I just only found out your real age like a few hours ago.
Yuh, yuh, yuh - some of you will say that if that was true I shouldn't be anywhere NEAR this arena. You go ahead and wait on the third date, or whatever. I'm not mad at you. Just don't look at me like I'm in the minority (AGAIN) with this one.
So, fine - I play along - I really do like his company. But the occasional demand to do things a certain way went from idisyncratic to quite the harmFUL habit. I wish I could list out the things he said I needed to do differently ... everything from my driving (nigga, if you don't like it put yourself out and jog. and be sure to keep up) to the way that I kiss. "I'm a have to teach you how to kiss me," he said.
WHAT?!?! I promise you JACK was in rare form. I was nice all weekend. I mean, he made that comment and all I could think about is the fact that he told me he's a great kisser and come to find out the mother fucker barely opens his mouth and his tongue lazy. So, whatever - I put up with it, all in the name of getting to know this nigga, and he wants to hand out instructions. Like he's a Hilti drill come right out the box. Funny as hell - especially from the nigga who told me several hours earlier that I'm passionate and he can tell from my kiss.
Ok, wait - wait - wait. Make up your goddamn mind. Either there's passion in here and you're all about slow, "romantical," passionate sessions ... or I needed lessons to figure out how to kiss you. My head spun.
At any rate, we missed each other on SO many levels. So, last night, I asked him if he was set in his ways.
"a little, yuh."
"a LOT"
*he nods*
I proceed to explain to him how I got this impression. And he not only acknowledges it but explains that since we're not in a committeed relationship, he doesn't see the need to compromise.
Ok, bitch - and I no longer see the need to spare your feelings, either.
And I proceeded to tell him, in great detail, about himself. And he didn't like it. Laying there side by side on the bed, I politely let him know why he came across as selfish and why everyone he tries to date "ends up leaving within a week" (his words).
He didn't want to have the conversation anymore. It's like I'm dogging him, he said.
You think so?
hmmm. weird.
I texted him when I got home - he said he really learned a lot this weekend. I sure the hell hope so.
Yuh - like, I'm not the one. "I got a engineering degree - moved with a company to DC - moved with them again to Indianapolis - just took a job in Chicago - manage to own a home and rent an apartment and take care of my kids and pay all my bills on time. By all accounts, I'm pretty successful. I'm not haughty with it, or boastful - but rest assured I don't need anyone to tell me how to do things. I got this." (the quotes because, as nice as I could, this is what I said to him last night.)
10 bucks says he sky dives with the next mother fucker too .... or with a tree.
Hi folks - I'm JACK. I said I wouldn't post pictures of me and especially none of my kids, but on this the 100th post - I figured I'd give it a shot. Some of you have been faithful readers for several months now and it's only fair you know what I look like - especially since most of you have pictures up of yourselves. But rest assured, this post will die VERY soon. I won't leave it up long because it defeats the purpose of anonymity.
I took this here picture the other day. I was on the couch and being lazy as fuck - and I wanted to show Jaded that I was on the couch. Amazingly, she replied with a pic of her on HER couch. That's where you'll usually find me if I'm not online, at work, commuting to and fro or hangin out with the babies. On the couch. It's so THE place to be. After I took the picture, I decided I really liked it - it didn't so much look like I was lazy. Those look like bedroom eyes, I thought. But I know my bedroom eyes - those aren't them. But still - I looka like uh man.
99 Bottles of JACK on the wall ...
I really can't believe that this is my 99th post. I think for my 100th, I will BRIEFLY post pictures of my and the babies for me reader's viewing pleasure. Just so you know who the hell JACK is. But they're coming down within 24 hours. I can't justify leaving them up there. So, get your trigger finger at the ready and don't let go of that mouse ... JACK and co. is comin ...
... Take one down and pass it around ...
Not sure if this is for real - but it's the talk of youtube. And I thought I'd share. If it *is* true, it seems we uh have a nigga in the White House either way. *gives Palin pound*
... 98 bottles of JACK on the wall.
Wait - has it been SEVEN years since the Twin Towers came down? Wow. I got a call from the ex-wife today telling me that the kids were asking why there were flags everywhere and she tried her best to explain it. And my son was like, "oh, I seen those pictures of the two planes and the building." Wait - he's 5. No one was explaining Pearl Harbor to me at 5. When I was 5, the world was a safe place where nothing bad happened.
Apparently, his teacher at the daycare has a 9/11 book. Why the hell does the lady in charge of the fucking FOUR YEAR OLDS have a 9/11 book in the house? Seriously?!? I mean, I have a nice, neat collection newspapers and magazine from September 2001 for this express purpose - to show my kids. And THIS bitch wanna drive me to drink for real.
take uhn dwmn psssh it 'rind
I really don't have time to waste. I've already met someone else and I have a date on Saturday. We're going to see the new Tyler Perry movie at 11:30 AM. Ugh @ AM. I'm not you average morning person. Anything before noon is really annoying. But whatever. We've talked and texted every day this week and Jaded already gave him his nickname: Ashy Larry. So, AL and I will finally meet on Saturday. Stay tuned for more.
A quickie about how annoyed I am that this government is trying to convince me an economic recession exists only in my head.
Well, so the last dude I was interested in decided that he wasn't ready. I was bummed for about 48 hours, and then decided that's about all the time I was going to give him. I have this "thing" about giving people any portion of my life. And when I've given enough, I have a mantra. "He can't have not one more iota of my life." And so, with that - I let him go.
No sooner than I do - I come across another intriguing online profile. I've grown accustomed to the grotesque opening remarks from men online. "What you get into?" "You fine - let's meet up." One time, I got an offer for $500 to have sex with a dude, based on my picture alone. I was mad as hell - as if I'm a cheap ho. It'd have to be at LEAST twice that.
Another dude asked me to meet him in the parking lot of the local mall so I could blow him while he drove around town. As "tempting" as offer as that was - I was gonna have to pass. As in ... oooohhhh yyyeaaaahhhh, but no.
At any rate, this guy I'm talking to doesn't broach any of these subjects. As a matter of fact, I noticed he viewed my profile and didn't send me a note. So, I sent a very simple - thanks for stopping by. He responded saying he didn't 'say' anything because I only had one picture up. I was like, um ok - but I assure you that's 100% me. I posted a few other pictures, listed them as private and allowed him access.
Now, they are all face shots (I used to say head shots, but you can understand how that caused confusion) because I'm certainly not putting all my business out there. For as crazy as I am - I still feel that there are some things I keep on reserve for Mr. Man. (Notice I didn't say Mr. Right). Now, that's not to say that I don't appreciate the fellas who DO post pictures of their manhood all over cyberspace. Because I do. I'm just not one of them - nor do I really want to be.
All that said, the ensuing conversation is actually pretty decent. After several hours of emailing back and forth online, we exchange numbers and I go off to shower and pack the car to prepare for my three hour drive.
I spent about two hours of that drive talking to him. And it was really nice. Then I spent another three hours on the phone with him into the evening. Amazing how you can always have shit to talk about at first, but when you're in a relationship for 7 years (*cough*PF*cough) - there's nothing to say really. But I digress.
The old JACK would be planning a wedding by this point. But, alas, I've learned that the person I have in mind exists solely in my mind right now. I perceive him framed in my own expectations and until we meet in person and I allow him to be who he really is, then I can begin to adjust the HIM that exists in my head so that he mirrors the HIM that he really is.
So, for now - I'll accept that he's putting a smile on my face today. And smiling does me good.
But thinking this jobu is the answer to all my wants and desires is just setting myself up to be let down. And seriously, didn't I just give the last nigga 48 hours of my life? Yuh, I did.
And now every bit of me is for me right now.
We'll meet in person this weekend - until then, I got tons of shit to do.
He's a sweet baby. Really, he is. He's so happy, just happy. He didn't cry all day. But I kept him visually stimulated - we went to the mall. Now, while I am Puerto Rican, I'm pretty light skinned and at first blush, I'm usually mistaken for a white dude - especially since I have light brown hair. If you look really good, you'd notice the dark features, but most don't.
So, there I am walking around the mall with my 6 and 5 year olds, who are brown skinned and this little 5 month old who's Kunta black. I got a lot of looks. The one that got me was the one from this dark skinned indian/asian looking woman, who looked at me, then at the boy, then at me, then at my kids ... and then smiled. I didn't return the smile.
Navigating the mall, crowded with the Saturday regulars, with three children is a fucking mess. Now, don't get me wrong - my kids are well behaved. They stick to the rules and don't wander, lest they get they get beat THIS close to Jesus, but still. The entire time, this 5 month old was wide-eyed and not a peeo out of him. And he loved it when I kept jammin that straw full of Strawberry-Banana smooties into his mouth. I wondered if he would get a freeze headache, so I kept giving him more. But the greedy little bastard just kept sucking the straw dry. Aw well - I tried.
When I lef the mall - I had a bag of clothes I bought me at Macy's (holy HUGE sale in there), a king sized comforter set my ex mother-in-law wanted me to get for her, a bag from the Disney store ... and my daughter's hair was flat ironed and diva-ish. Oh, and the fucking baby bag.
While in the salon - that kid was the star of the place. He smiles and laughs heartily at anything and there's something about the hearty laugh of a 5-month old that women just love.
I bathed the little fucker when we got home, thinking it would wear him out, but no. The little bastard didn't fall asleep until the drive back to his father. What. The. Fuck, Man! Whatever - he'll sleep for his daddy.
So, that's my Saturday. Ahhhh, the life of the single dad. I know - you're jealous. Don't hate.
People I really miss:
Luther Vandross
Everytime any song of his comes on the radio, I get sad. I remember the day we lost him, I texted my cousin about it because there never has been a greater Lutha fan that her - and she thought I was kidding. I wasn't. A thousand kisses to you, Lutha.
Michael Jackson (the Black one)
I mean, what the fuck is wrong with him. I've decided that Billy Jean was his lover. Butterflies was a good song and all, but it's just not the same for me. I won't give not one red cent to him by buying a CD or downloading a song. It's just principle, I guess. But I do miss it when he was black.
Bernie Mac
I just don't understand how a 50 year old man dies of pnemonia in Chicago. I'm convinced the doctors treated him like he was just a 'nigger' and who gives a fuck. I mean, it's not like he was in some small Haitian town where the witch doctor is all you have ... I seriously don't get it. But I loved him in the Oceans movies and few comedians could make me laugh like he did.
143
We don't see each other enough for my taste. I blame THE MAN. Stupid job won't let me take vacation until I've been there six months. Fine, I'll play by the rules. But we DO need to see each other ... and soon. We need to figure out how to make it just me and you so we can just run away for a night and disappear, do our own thing. No kids, no significant others .. just us. 143!
Heath Ledger
I'm not going to lie - I had no idea who this mother fucker was until Brokeback Mountain. It was a great movie, though. I do recommend the book, however. Interestingly enough, it's a short story and I read it in 45 minutes on a flight. I sat there in my seat and cried - something about that read got to me, even if it was short. But as The Joker! omg - I can't help but feel that he was on his way to FIYAH after that.SMH
Eddie Murphy, ala SNL
Dont' get me wrong, his stand up routine (Delirious) was fucking HYSTERICAL (my favorite was his aunt falling down the stairs. MY SHOE!) ... but I really liked those SNL days when he was on it. His parodies of Buckwheat, Mr. Rogers Neighborhood, James Brown ... there really is nothing like it anymore. As in SNL ain't got nothin on those days and neither does Eddie Murphy.
(I'm scheduling this post for several days from now while I figure out who else to put on this list. If I miss it and it posts before I get back, feel free to add more in comment)
I wrote this not long before JADED became JADED, and you can see why JADED became JADED and not JACK. (Aside from the fact that she already claimed the damn name - bitch.) I wrote this about some dude I met via the internet, whose face I have yet to see. Right - we never met in person, although we still talk even now after three years. In fact, we just had a text fight the other day because he pissed me off. I think he was still searching for an apology from that time TWO YEARS AGO when i asked him if he was HIV positive. It seems he didn't like my response - pssshhhh, I told him I wasn't apologizing for something I didn't feel sorry about and that my goddam right to ask. We didn't talk, errrr, text for like a week.
And it seems appropo right now since I got a call from him this morning finally owning up the the fact that he's not ready.
Your indecision
My mind absorbs the reality that
my heart has yet to accept
And here I go
yet again
experiencing the intangible
Feeling let down
And as I seek to splice
the disconnect within me
I accept
that it is me
who let me down
for believing it was you
who could answer my call
But I refuse to be jaded
I refuse to be jaded
I simply refuse
to give you the power
to determine my fate
to even have a say
in my destiny
I’ll rise again
Soon
Very soon
Sooner than ever before
And for the record, dear readers, I rose when I wrote this and I'll rise again.
And, as a side note, I'm watching you too, Mr. You Know Who You Are, still acting like you too good to comment on my blog. I'm not afraid to withdraw my endorsement. Just cuz I co-signed to this point don't mean I can't withdraw that signature.
*puts on shades and engages the side eye*
It all started great ... as usual.
And then the red flags came ... as usual.
Thing is I've been toying with the idea of him ever since the day I waited on that corner of the magnificent mile until he drove up and got into his car. It was absolutely a crazy thing to do, having never even seen a picture of him at that point ... but I had given my peoples all of his personally identifiable information (screen name, phone number, name, email address) so that they could avenge my death should I turn up bloated and floating face down somewhere in the Michigan River. And of course, my m.o. is to let the nigga know that people are waiting for me to get home and check in to make sure I'm ok and that they have his screen name. But nothing else. (tee hee)
At any rate, I was smitten that night, as the first post above will tell you. It was sweet how we sat there and talked and drank at the bar in the Cheesecake Factory in a booth, both of us sitting with our elbows on our laps and holding hands under the table. *sigh*
Wow, did I catch a fucking BUZZ that night. When I stood up, I was like WHOA. You know the feeling? Where you're sitting there not paying any attention to the three martinis you've just ingested on an empty stomach in 90 minutes and it's not until you stand up that you realize ... I should probably quit drinking now
Anyway - so on Friday, I'm tired of wanting more from him ... and of his saying that we're working towards an US ... but behaving as if there's not room for me in his life. So, I address it.
in classic JACK fashion.
I pretty much told him that he didn't have room in his life for me, that he seems to have busied his life with TONS of shit in order not to have to face his sexuality (you know. "yo, dude - how come you ain't got no girl, yo?" "ahhh maaan - i'm just so busy with all this shit, who has time!?")... and I'm not going to spend my days thinking about someone who isn't ready to make room for me in his life. Um, my exact words? "Shit or get off the pot."
I haven't heard from him since. I guess he got off the pot.
And here I am ... AGAIN ... feeling let down. This isn't the first time I've rushed it. But I just can't help it - I REFUSE, REFUSE, RE-fucking-FUSE to be in limbo anymore. No, I can't do it. I'm not committing any of my time to some nigga, and letting other potential suitors just stroll on by, if the nigga really isn't going to make a commitment.
Now I know that word is scary. But DAMN, life's too damn short ... if we're not together but you want to investigate it, and we're not having sex because we're still getting to know each other and you're showing NO signs of moving to the next phase .... then, let's quit the fucking games - I need my conscience cleared so I can go in peace and suck a dick.
Or two.
3?
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
For whatever reason, my faith had been on my mind. I know that there are thousands and millions, even, that find it hypocritical for a gay man to believe in Christ - I know. I know that there seems to be only an option to choose one or the other. But what is miraculous about the faith in JACK is that it still burns, even after all the church put me through.
See, there's a difference between being faithful and being religious. Religiosity is about being given to the rules and teachings of an institution, about doing things like going to church, giving to the poor, paying your tithes and reading the Bible. But faith? That's rooted deep within - either you believe, or you don't. Religiosity is behaving the way a church says you need to behave because you have that faith in you. But it has nothing to do with the faith itself. Nothing at all.
Therefore, make no mistake about it - I love the Lord. And I believe many things, which for the purposes of this post are irrelevant. I sit here instead thinking about the churches I've been a member of and remembering the ridiculous things I went through trying to deal with my sexuality in the church. I was convinced that it was wrong, depraved and that it would be my demise, sending me directly to hell. It took me a long time to get over that nonsense and sit comfortably in my seat in 1A, willlingly.
Here are the cliff notes, that will show up in-depth in The Evolution of Indifference:
I did everything I could think of to deal with the demon within me. And then, it hit me - this shit isn't just going away. And I got to thinking about how I was feeling. I was sexually frustrated, sex with my wife became like a chore, I felt contagious, was deeply depressed and was only a shell of the person I used to be before I got married. I was introverted, wanted to do nothing but sit at home and I was always sick - my immune system responded to my depression and if it wasn't strep, it was an ear infection or some other URI and the same with my then wife. The doctors' made a fortune off of us in those days. Yet, the "christian" thing to do was stay married, fester in my frustration (because I would never, EVER cheat - that's just not classy), and take it out on my kids for the rest of my life.
The divorce was imminent - and it happened. And part of the discussion was this: it does the kids no good for us to stay together and both be miserable when we can divorce and each be happy while we raise our kids. And what kid wants miserable parents? Seriously, it was in their best interest that we divorce. So we did. (Not that it was easy)
Look, having experienced first-hand the living hell it is not to accept my sexuality - there's nothing anyone can tell me that will convince me that it's God's will that I live like that. If he is the soverign, loving God I know Him to be - that's not what he wants for me. And if my sexuality is something that you can program right out of me, then it should be something of the past already, because I subjected myself to pastor after pastor and christian counselor after christian counselor trying to do just that.
Until, that is, I decided to take my brain back. I believe in God, but refuse to succomb to religiosity. That's what gay ministries amount to in my mind. My relationship with the Lord is just that - my relationship. It has nothing to do with you, or the church or the mail lady. It's between me and Him. And for the record, He and I be talkin' all the time. I be like, 'yo, Jesus whas gooood?' and he responds in kind. Because the Man totally speaks my language. And I'm sure He speaks yours too. He's good like that. And when I reach the gates of heaven, I'm a walk right through singing:
I don't post pictures of my kids - hell, I don't even post pictures of me! So, you can't see him on here. But my son turns 5 years old today. And I'm just so emotional writing this blog - oh how I love the shit out that boy. He's still my little boy, fits neatly in my lap and he's so affectionate. All in all, one of the greatest kids around. And, yes, I know I'm biased.
I have two kids. My daughter is 6. She's sharp as a tack and she's totally my little girl. I don't care how old they get. Although I refuse to PLAY favorites, I must admit that my boy has my heart. That's not to say that I don't love my daughter, but it's just the reality of life. They have different personalities and as such, I just get along with them differently. I don't apply any of the rules unfairly (they both have the same bedtime, both need to eat what they are served and I'll spank the shit out you if you talk back, disobey or otherwise refuse to acknowledge that I'm the grown up and you're the child) but I just love that SHIT out that boy. And it's his birthday so I get to focus on him.
Parents who don't acknowledge that they have a favorite, are delusional. It's just like having a bunch of siblings .. how the hell are you supposed to like them all the same?!? I just don't get it. But for what it's worth, I'm being honest. My son is my favorite.
I love how he is fascinated by trains, how he collects them, and is turning to start liking hot wheels too. I even bought him a Hot Wheels bike, even if he's not quite steady on it and rode it down the embankment into the woods that one time - no pain, no gain, I say. He is totally obsessed with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles right now, and The Power Rangers. I thought it odd because he's such a sweet boy and doesn't ever fight ...
... and then I learned that he's a little fuck face at school at times. LMAO - that's my boy. Jaded could tell you how we was like when we was at school (I love how I just said that) and my son is a chip off the old block. After Jaded and I tore it up at school all day, I would take my ass to work at the Christian Bookstore. LMAO - oh, my - how that boy is so like me.
And he's even shaped like me - skinny little dick ankles and when he eats to his heart's content, his little belly protrudes like I haven't fed him in months - just like mine! He's got skinny little wrists, like his daddy - and is cute as hell (like his daddy!).
He's got the cutest complexion - a shade of brown that is all his own, and flawless - unless he's scraped himself up somehow. His knees STAY ashy, no matter how much Pamlers Cocoa Butter for Ashy Skin I use. I've started to just squirt baby oil into his bath water so he's all smeared with it when he's toweling off. That helps in the summer - but in the winter? His legs look like drifting snow. And he never complains that he's dry or itchy or ANYTHING. He just lives life, enjoying it to it's fullest.
Papito - Happy Birthday. And I'm sorry, but Daddy is *not* buying you a Nintendo DS for your birthday. Like your sister, you're going to have to earn it. That's what happens when you admit to us that you want something THAT bad. Eventually you'll learn that - until then, hopefully we'll condition you to work for the things you want.
Just like our book says - Daddies are for catching fire flies ... You'll always be able to climb on a daddy - to lean on a daddy. And from now unto forever, you can always fall asleep on daddy. Because *this* daddy loves you more than words can describe, more than I ever knew love could feel like.
And, if it's alright by you, I'd like you to stay 5 forever. Thanks.
