Why I Never Committed Suicide
"Not me, I think I'm gonna stick around. I've just got to find out how this movie ends. And as I stumble through the mystery of this life, I'm gonna keep on trying to find a friend."-- Randy Stonehill, Weight of the Sky

The questions come every once in a while from students and adults alike: Why suicide? Why not suicide? What stopped me from ending my own life? What advice do I have for them not to end theirs? They are intriguing queries, to say the least. Suicide is a great presence; a distressing assassin to some, while a hopeful potential for others.

Simply stated, death is fascinating; scary, but most certainly intriguing. Our mortality has had philosophers and the daft, queens and peasants, atheists and saints hurling theories about our physical end. Are we just dust? Is there an afterlife? Will we be remembered? Will I be remembered?

My first memory of death happened when I was seven: my grandmother died. Her death did not deeply affect me, though she was in and around my life from birth. A year later I would experience another death that would certainly shake me. It was August 2, 1979. I had just finished taking a shower, and heard the heart-stopping news: Thurman Munson, the great Yankee baseball catcher, had died in a plane crash. I fell into a stupor. How could he be dead? Death doesn’t happen to someone like that.

Within minutes, I heard the outside door open, and my brother and our next door neighbor, Rosanne, were coming in to tell me the news. Unfortunately for me, I had just finished taking a shower and I was completely naked. I panicked. I knew that within seconds they would be in the same room in which I now stood. I darted for my bedroom and crawled under the bed; there was no time to dress. Of course, Rosanne and Roy thought that I was playing some reinvented game of hide-n-seek. I wasn’t. While I hid, they sought, eventually finding me screaming under the bed because Rosanne saw me naked. I never was or have been as embarrassed as I was in that moment. I was completely terrified! Not only was I still processing Munson’s death, but now I had to deal with the humiliation of my next door neighbor seeing me as a wet, dangling mess. Death and sex were forever entangled, and my mom promptly took it upon herself to inform all the relatives about this charming incident. Needless to say, I was none too pleased.

After that incident, I don’t remember thinking about death too seriously until my teenage years. My initial reflections about suicide took place around age 14. I don’t remember any specific details concerning this topic, or any real precipitating crisis at the time, but I sense the circumstances around these ponderings dealt with more of my existential need to comprehend my existence. Furthermore, suicide was a subcategory of death, and by age 15, I was thinking about death, daily. I was intrigued by the mystery beyond; I was captivated by books and movies about death; I enjoyed visiting cemeteries (in my later teenage years, I even attempted to take my first girlfriend, Amy, to a graveyard for our first date); I was entranced by the death of relatives and family friends. Death, in truth, occupied more mental space than sex ever did in my teenage years.

Suicide became more of a focus the day I found out that Marc P. died. I was 15. He took a lethal amount of heroin and kissed a few rainbows in his final monologue. Of course all the adults wanted us (or perhaps, themselves) to believe it was an accident, but Marc and I were close enough our freshman year for me to know that it was a suicide. His smile and contagious laugh could not mask the sadness that existed in his ghostly piercing, blue eyes. I was shaken, stunned, angry, yet, obsessed with his exit, and in some ways, quite possibly, I am still gripped by his death. His voice haunts me, for he was one who got away.

It wasn’t too much after Marc’s death when I started thinking about my own demise, but initially, not through suicide; rather, I held this romantic and altruistic view of my death. I was certain I would die in sleep or be murdered like some of the great social leaders before me, and this, undoubtedly, would take place before I turned 25. I remember how assured I was about dying young. I didn’t crave this, but, much like clairvoyant abilities, I sensed this anticipated truth through every fiber of my being.

These thoughts went on and off through my freshman and sophomore years of high school. I was involved in a lot of stupid stuff at the time, creating havoc and idiot moves everywhere I went. It was my freshman year when I started burning down parks and wooded areas; it was in my freshman year when I kissed Tricia R. – she was the first girl I ever kissed, and she worried if I would be a good kisser because I was black; it was in my freshman year that I would steal liquor out of neighbors’ garages; it was in my freshman year that I resumed shoplifting; it was in my freshman year that I was drinking and chewing tobacco; it was in my freshman year when I started to feel really lost. Then my freshman year moved into my sophomore year, and more of the same continued, with a few additions.

On many nights during my sophomore year, I would sneak out of my house, running wild in the neighborhood, stealing people’s mail, starting more fires, drinking alone, smoking tea, sniffing glue and gasoline, and trying to get lucky with some girls.

All these activities added to my depression, and suicidal thoughts were in the background of my mind. I felt empty. Life appeared to have no purpose. In my heart of hearts, I knew that I would not commit suicide; I came from a religious home, and suicide, in my thinking then, was always a one-way ticket to hell. However, on the night of April 25, 1987, I had snuck out of my house and I had gotten very drunk, and when I came home I prayed to God to never allow me to wake the next morning. I was desperately disenchanted by the life I had created. I went to sleep, hoping I would die in that peaceful land of dreams. I couldn’t pull the trigger, slice my wrists, or hang myself, but the urge to subsist was a distant memory; I wanted death.

I awoke the next morning tearful, incensed, and still drunk. It was Sunday, April 26, and my life was about to change. Before going to church, my parents often had a morning worship time where all of us would pray together. For the most part, these were a drag, both then and now, but on this morning, I was a trembling mess. I wailed out to God praying that God would either give me all of God or none of God. I promised that I would submit to God’s will for my life, if God would take these voices from my mind, from my soul.

God answered my prayer.

There was a major change in my life; yet, from time to time, death has made a request for my company, and in my senior year of college, I almost gave in to that ridiculous clanging. During this period of my life, I was dealing with what one 17 year old boy had done to this 11 year old child. Up until then, I thought I was fine, but one of my sociology teachers put a word to what had happened to me: molestation.

Only by the strength of God and friends did I survive that phase.
I’ve battled some depression for chunks of my life, though I’ve never taken medication for it, nor do I think I ever will. When I look at my family history: mother, father, brother, aunts – I see that the mark of depression rests heavily in my genes. I know that within the last 13 years my brother has battled alcohol, sex, and drug addiction, and quite possibly some undiagnosed mental illness. Yes, the drug addiction garners the most attention, but my clinical sense believes it is a tangled web, not a dangling rope.

My mother has been on both anti-anxiety and antidepressant medications, and my father, within the last seven years, told me about wanting to cash it all in when he was laid off from work. This was the most shocking of all. My father, a big, strong man wanted to end it all. He felt humiliated by life and its injustice. Thankfully, because of his faith in God, perhaps the thoughts about family, he stuck it out. We’ve never spoken about this impulse since the first time he nonchalantly mentioned it to me. Finally, one of my aunts is bi-polar and has spent many years on medications and in hospitals.

What has made me not commit suicide? Very simply: God, family, friends, and my instinctive belief that I serve more people by being alive than I would by my death. Will that ever change? I can’t say for certain. I knew in college that it was my sister Joy that kept me alive at times. She is 11.5 years younger than me. She is my baby, though now grown. I knew in college, especially my senior year, that she was the most important reason for me not ending it all. I also knew had anything tragic happened to her at that time, I would take a step away from this life, and perhaps never return.

What about now? I think about my daughter. I think that if something tragic were to happen to her, something that ended her life, would there be enough good (in friends, family, and God) to make me want to continue? I pray that I will never have to answer that question.

For now, I know that suicide has not even remotely called my name since 1993, and for this I’m thankful.

Is it still Sectarian Violence?

Everyday when I read the news headlines it is inevitable that I will be confronted with the ugliness of what is happening in Iraq. All the lies that have been told to us is beginning to become clearer and clearer in broad daylight. Is Iraq really better since we entered that country several years ago? Even the rote utterances of those who still support our perpetration in Iraq, sound dimwitted, at best. And in case you're unaware, the argument goes something like this: "How can you criticize the American government? Is not Iraq better off without Saddam? How can you even argue about taking out that dreadful dictator?"

Allow me to answer these questions, and perhaps to present another series of questions. Yes, Iraq, in general would be better off without Saddam. However, the more important question is this: Is Iraq better off with America's invasion? The answer to this question is even more intriguing: no!

The lengths that this current government have gone to support their mistakes is confounding. I'm befuddled by the disaster that we have labeled the "War on Terror". Has not terror increased by our presence? And this crackpot label: Sectarian Violence . I hate to disappoint you, my friends, but this is a Civil War between the Sunnis and Shiites within our war on terror. To give you a better picture, it would be similar to us fighting the American revolution against England while having the American Civil War between the Confederate and the Union, mixed, for good measure, with the Great Depression. Now, doesn't that sound scrumptious?

It is not sectarian violence; it is civil war, and we are unprepared for this travesty, and we were the fuse for this explosion. And I love the response of those who support or supported the war when someone like me points out this disaster. They ask the questions, "Well, what's your solution? Are you just going to run and leave?"

I love the idiocy of this response because it reminds me of when I was a child and I almost burned down my house. I was lighting fires under the house, and one of my fires went out of control. My mother smelled the smoke, and she came running outside asking me what I did. I looked panicked and she told me to get some water and put out the flames. I snapped to it and did just that: I put out the flames. Never for a moment did I think about adding more fire to put out the fire, and never for a moment did I turn to my mother and say, "Well, what are you going to do about it? How can you criticize me when you don't have a better solution? Things will still be burnt after I put out the flames! I'm seeing this through! Ashes or no ashes, you can rebuild it later, if you want." Could you imagine what my mother would have done to me?

I think the situation we started in Iraq is a lot like this situation. The pro-war components of this country are like me setting the fire, and the anti-war components of this and most other countries are like my mother, screaming for the mischievous son to put out the fire he started. Yes, things will be burnt, (you can't un-burn what has been set ablaze), but the house, in the end, will be saved. And finally, it is the son's responsibility to clean up his mistakes.

Oh, America, beautiful and troubled child, what am I to do with you? You have made my job so much more difficult. How do I convince the youth not to resolve their conflicts through violence when they hear their leaders promoting violence to end violence? Am I just a clankering bell whose tones are no longer heard or recognized? Must I resort to just silence and watchful prayer? By no means! I will not be like the zebra. For you see, when a zebra is attacked by a lion the other zebras stand around and watch. They do NOTHING! I am no zebra; my voice, in words, in deeds, is what needs to be heard. Violence begets violence.

There is a popular bumper sticker that says: Pray for our troops. I like this bumper sticker, but my bumper sticker says it a little differently: Pray for our enemies, then pray for our troops.

May we find peace in this coming new year.

Raising Saskia

I am raising my daughter to be the best
I am raising my daughter to be a feminist
to reject the masculine standard of normal
to resist referencing
a group of girls as "you guys"
I want her to break the trend
by naming her daughter after her name
and not some man's . . .
to keep her last name
or to throw it out and start all over
to see God's breasts through all the empty spaces and silences
of scripture
to know that Eve was smarter than Adam
(the wise serpent only wanted to break the best)
I want her to know the song of Sojourner Truth
because I am raising my daughter to be a feminist


I am raising my daughter to be powerful
before beautiful
she need not be identified only as beautiful
her beauty is evident
her power needs establishment
her name is her story:
Saskia -- protector of her people
Cordelia -- the faithful daughter of King Lear
she will lead other women
other men
to celebrate the power of all our power
I am raising my daughter to be powerful
I am raising my daughter to be a powerful feminist

I am raising my daughter to be the best

Hey! If you haven't read the blog that follows this one, please read it first. This is a series of replies and responses I've had with this group called PASE. They are a religious organization located in Western Michigan. They opposed my show before even seeing my show, based off of rumors. They sent out a letter to the parents in their community to band together and protest my show by not allowing their children attend school on the day I appeared.

I wrote a scathing retort, and I received a letter back from one of the members of PASE, then I answered him back. So, here it is.

Hi Mykee,

I appreciate your response and I do understand your concerns regarding our PASE letter. I want you to know that we agree with you on many points that are made in your show and do not harbor anything against you personally. But you must understand the frustration that we feel as parents who "give a damn" as you put it, when our schools continuously remove instructional time for pop shows on political correctness and diversity. And before I continue, I do owe you an apology for misinformation that I received about you, which was, that you were an atheist. This of course, lent itself to my further frustration as this is obviously not a mindset that is in tune with God. After reading your blog I will accept your response that you are a Christian. So for that misinformation, I am very sorry.

Now, regarding our frustration, we are becoming very weary of our schools placing the sanctimonious crown on their heads as the newly appointed judge of what is to be our children's correct view of society. And please don't take any offense, but who decided that Michael Fowlin was the answer for our kids? And what do you think would happen if we asked the school for a day to make a presentation on how to love one another based on what Jesus said in the Bible? We would be ridiculed and laughed out of the building. That's not fair. So what we are saying is, let moral and social topics be issues that fall under the domain of the home and the parents. Let the schools stick to reading, english, math and science, and keep their social agendas out of the process. And does what I just said mean that we do not embrace diversity in our schools and our homes? Of course not. All of the PASE parents abhor the bullying or mistreatment of any child for any reason, especially in schools. We all teach our children to reach out in kindness to those who seem to struggle in their school and social life. We teach them to act as Christ would in any situation. And many of us have homosexuals in our families and we have only had love and caring for them as well, and will continue to love them always. But again, this is a topic for the home and not for a school agenda. In short, we are just fed up with school boards that decide who can and who cannot speak to our children without any parental consideration whatsoever. So this reply may or may not give you a better insight into PASE, but maybe it will help you understand our frustrations. You claim that you have many miles to walk. So do we. And yes we will pray for you, pray for us too.

Thanks,
Rick

So, there was the PASE response to my blog, and now, here is my response, plus further thoughts, concerning this letter.

Rick:


Thank you for writing me back. I think you are correct about our parental responsibility to teach and instruct our children about these issues of diversity. However, I do not believe that schools are just relegated to math, science, history, etc. When I do my show I prefer to work on a three tiered system: teachers/staff, children, and parents/community. PASE does an important work when they teach their children, however, let's be honest, not all children live in PASE homes. School violence, racism, discrimination, gender insensitivity, and other issues are not sufficient to trust to the homes. Do you really believe that segregation in schools would have ended if the education of these issues were limited to the homes? Furthermore, you were a student once, and thus, you know that parents have a limited amount of influence on their children. The peer group in which the child travels can be a positive or negative influence reinforcing or dismantling parental influences. Where does the child, who has misinformed parental influences, go to find out how to properly treat other individuals, if not in school where that child spends countless hours for 13 years? And I know you will want to tell me the church, but the church has failed many of these same children. The church has forgotten how to love people who Jesus will never stop loving.


Through my shows, there have been individuals who have gotten the help that they needed. Through God's blessings, I have altered the minds of children who were contemplating suicide, homicide, and rape. Once, I was able to intervene in a situation where a child, who had detailed plans of his schools layout, was stopped from setting off a series of explosives. If I were into bragging, I would detail to you about the thousands of individuals who have opened up their lives to being more loving because of my show. Yet, it is not I who takes this credit. I am humbled that God has used me when I am not worthy. I am like Sampson, blinded because of my disobedience, yet, willing to allow God's grace and power to be shown one more time, even at the expense of my own life. This is my ministry given by God to do great and mighty things.


We must all remember: God transcends our boxes, our limitations. God works out of God's plan and God's design. If God needs a mule to speak his truth, he will use a mule; if God needs a [burning] bush, God will use a [burning] bush; if God needs a prophet, then a prophet shall be brought forth; if God needs a home with loving parents, then a home with loving parents shall be the forum; if God needs a school, then a school shall be the vehicle of God's message.

I have learned in my short time on this earth that just when I think I know how God works, it is then that God shows me how God works. I am constantly learning, and I thank you Rick for being a part of this learning process.

So much to pray for and about . . . and you will certainly be in these prayers, as I will be in yours.


with [more] understanding,

Michael

The slander of false minds
"Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds." -- Albert Einstein

I haven't written in such a long time. There are times when writing tends to be a heavy burden. I get stuck; words are only apparitions, they elude me. I am glad that this morning I am ready to write. I am fired up! Why am I fired up? I will get to this point shortly.

Firstly, I would like to tell you about my most recent trip and performances. I just got back from a trip in Michigan. I had some performances in the Grand Rapids area. I performed for all the freshman and eighth graders in the Grand Rapids city school. They were difficult audiences. That was Monday. Tuesday, I had two wonderfully delicious performances for Warner Norcross & Judd LLP, a law firm located in several cities throughout the state. I was really on for these performances, though I was somewhat anxious before the show. It was my first law firm performance, and I wasn't certain how it would carry over. After Monday's difficult performances, I was so happy Tuesday went well.

On Wednesday and Thursday I was in the Forrest Hills School district. I had four performances in three high schools during those two days. The performances themselves were wonderful! The students of this school district are a delightfully, passionate and compassionate group of children. I can't say enough about the teachers and administrators of this district, as well. They are trying to walk the talk. My hat goes off to them.

Before my first performance, I was informed by the principal at Eastern that there would be a group of parents in the audience to hear me speak. I stated that I believed this was a good thing. I stand behind what I do. I sensed that the principal was a little concerned about who these parents were, but I had no fear.

Apparently, these parents belong to a conservative "christian" fundamentalist group that is rather active in their community in blocking or yelping about any issue they feel may destroy the fabric of their belief system. In general, this action is commendable. Parents who "give a damn" are needed desperately in these times. I applaud this general behavior. However, if this behavior is conducted out of ignorance or fear, I have zero tolerance for it. I've dealt with my share of annoying skeptics. We've had discourse, and at times, some intense verbal confrontations, but I don't back down with truth. I love the confrontation that makes them look at their self-righteous behavior; I delight in watching their toes curl, if their attitudes are one of discord, not unity.

I slightly altered my show to drive in some specific points for my critics. For instance, I started off the show by reading random selections from this book called "One Child". I was completely random and only read one sentence from each page to which I flipped. After doing this, I asked the audience to tell me what the book was about. Of course, no one had the right answer. I told them that it would be near impossible to understand what the book was about without reading the entire thing, and that just pulling from the bits and pieces of the story, does an injustice to the whole story. Then I said, "You will do my show an injustice if you do not watch and listen to the show in its entirety. Do not sit there and pick and choose what you want to see. See my play in its entirety."

After my show, a dissident mother approached me to ask about a critique I had made on Amazon.com about a book called Seeds of Deception. Obviously, this had little to do with my show, but like all fickle and cantankerous people, she did not need to focus on what she saw; it gave her great pleasure to pick a fight based on her own agenda. It was much more fun for her to get a clarification concerning a mistype in my critique than to deal with the show itself. In short, in my critique of the book, I used the word, "hate-mongrel" instead of "hate-monger" in my description of the author, an innocent, yet fascinating, mistake, but one which probably kept this mother up for nights on end. (And as they say in Texas, "Bless her heart. She's precious.")

As she approached me, her minions remained off in the distance to watch their fellow pharisee at work. I informed her that she did not own a corner on God, and that my attack on the book was not an attack against Christians as she was inferring; my critique was against hateful and misinformed people who claim to be followers of Christ. I informed this woman that I was a believer in Christ, a red-letter follower. I told her that I believe in Jesus' words and deeds. She countered by telling me that she believed in the whole Bible, every word. I asked her if she believed in an eye for an eye, and she stated, "Yes." I then informed her that the Jesus she believed in said that he came with a new law to love your enemy and turn the other cheek. I asked her if she remembered reading that verse as well. She had no answer . . .

In any case, I left somewhat annoyed after my interaction with this woman. I allowed her to get to me, because my attention was split between this woman and the dear students who wanted to speak with me. I was applauded by staff members at this school because of my handling of this malignant dissenter.

But this was only the beginning. The next day, a friend of mine sent me a copy of the letter that was sent out to all the parents of this specific school prior to my arrival. It is to this letter I would now like to address my retort. But allow me to share the letter this delightful, slanderous group called PASE sent to build their case against me. After sharing this letter, I will separate the fiction from the facts, and the facts from the slander.

Hello PASE supporter, We are writing to inform you that Forest Hills Eastern High School is going to utilize an entire school day to promote diversity and political correctness to our children this Wednesday October 11. That means none of the students will actually be attending their classes but rather, they will be escorted to a school wide assembly that is being presented by Dr. Michael Fowlin. Michael (also known as Mykee) will be using his singular skills to encourage kids to raise their level of tolerance for others, and their cultural differences. On the surface this appears to be a wonderful idea as we don't know anyone who would be in favor of mistreating anyone due to their culture or ethnicity. However, these events are rarely presented in the spirit of brotherly love or the selfless advancement of the human condition. Instead, the intent will be to propagandize your children into a belief system that has everything to do with political agendas and beliefs that are counter to God's instruction. The goal is that by the end of this wonderful "Day of Diversity" your children will be inspired to tolerate, believe, and accept any bizarre notion that the world may wish to impose upon them. This will include the embracing of the homosexual lifestyle, and all of its agenda, as well as many other offensive notions. Of course those who may feel uncomfortable with this line of teaching, and either question it or flat out reject it, will be quickly labeled as intolerant, backwards, and my personal favorite . . . narrow minded! We ask that you please help us put an end to the continued barrage of senseless, imposed, political correctness that is forced upon our students in the name of diversity. We urge you to keep your Eastern High School student home on that day to let the schools know that we are fed up with this agenda. If you cannot keep your kids home, have them wear a white shirt as a symbol of their independence from this topic. If you wish to educate them on how to love their fellow man just remind them of how much Christ loved us and then have them love others likewise. It's just that simple. Please contact Principal Laberteaux, you may reach her . . . and ask about the content of this program in detail. You may also want to ask her how much of our taxpayer dollars are being spent on this event. Please act on this and help make a difference in our schools. Please forward this email or contact your like-minded friends at Northern and Central as well. We understand that Mykee will be paying a visit to those high schools too. Thank you for your support. Please continue to pray for our students and our school leadership. Sincerely, PASE Group

Allow me, if you will, to address this letter directly. You, my readers and friends, get a peek into a private letter made public. I am writing PASE, and if you don't follow the religious overtones, read between the lines and understand the message I send.

Dear PASE:

I had the most interesting opportunity to read a letter sent out by your group to the parents of Forrest Hills Eastern. I was somewhat perplexed by a number of assertions made in the letter. It seems as if you wrote a letter about me and what I do in performances without ever seeing the show for yourselves. You sent out the letter on the 8th of October, but my shows were on the 10th and 11th. An unfortunate mistake, on your part, I'll grant you that, but, a forgivable error. Readily forgivable, if what you were saying had truth strewn throughout, but this was not the case. What was more surprising is my understanding that you may be Christians. This was shocking to me! As a believer in Christ who is in exile, I tend to remember a number of verses that address slander and slanderers, gossip and gossipers. Here's a couple of them: I Corinthians 6:10 and II Corinthians 12:20. Remember them? Still, this was only a general concern. Allow me to be more specific about what really irritated me. I will now break down that wonderfully, false letter you constructed, and explicate what is true. By the way, your letter was distributed to many of the parents in your community. My retort is being distributed internationally. Why? I just felt that your letter was symbolic of a much greater problem I've seen in recent times, and my response needed to reach the masses, not just some fearful, hate group. Are you ready? Let's go.

You wrote, "On the surface this, [bringing in Mykee Fowlin], appears to be a wonderful idea as we don't know anyone who would be in favor of mistreating anyone due to their cultural or ethnicity." Is this really true? You don't know anyone? Hmm . . . interesting. I would suggest that you stroll through the hallways of any school in America; peek at governments, including ours, all across the world; listen to the conversations that you and/or your friends may have about certain "individuals" (e.g., Mykee Fowlin) or particular groups (e.g., homosexuals). Mistreatment starts in the verbal arena and the spreading of lies, and not just in the behavorial sphere. Q: What made Hitler great? A: His ability to tell a story. Even he knew the ills of disrespect start with verbal assault. People support mistreatment all the time. They give justifications, but they support it. In fact, if you have read or listened to the news lately, you will know that our government has just passed legislation to legally mistreat people with coercive techniques (i.e., torture). I won't belabor this point any further. I am counting on you to get the point.

You also said that rarely these programs are presented in the spirit of brotherly love and the selfless advancement of humankind. Are you kidding me? This IS what my show is about, but of course, you wouldn't know that if you haven't seen my show. Perhaps, you would benefit from actually speaking from a position of intelligence, not ignorance; I have 1000s of letters to support how I've furthered brotherly/sisterly love and the advancement of humankind. Where is your data for the opposite? What evidence are you bringing for the lies you spew, the slander you purport. Shame on you for this. Shame on you!

"The intent will be to propagandize your children into a belief system that has everything to do with political agendas and beliefs that are counter to God's instruction." Then you went on to ramble something about my show's goal: making students accept bizarre and offensive notions. I think you got Michael Fowlin confused with the PASE Group. Unlike your group, my show is not slanted to support some political group, but it is there to decrease violence, increase inclusion, and to lower the disrespect that is formed when people are afraid of differences. Moreover, the only thing that is bizarre and offensive is the existence of a group who utter slanderous, infertile diatribes that leave mold infested residue that has the stench of freshly spewn vomit. That, my friends, is what is offensive and bizarre. I could wax poetic for days on end, but why waste my talents in this letter. Instead, allow me to give you and my readers the evidence of what my show is, thus rendering your words, your organization, and your perverted version of Christianity as pointless and debunked.

Here's how my show commences. I open up speaking with the audience. I vary what I say during this part, but the general gist is to warm people up by encouraging them to be like a moth, not a goldfish or zebra. In short, the moth moves closer to light during its time alive; the goldfish has a 30 second memory; zebras stand around and watch when a fellow zebra is attacked. Or at times, I will get the audience to talk about what they have observed through their hand proclivity (i.e., right-handedness and left-handedness). I will then draw some conclusions about these ideas. Nothing earth-shattering with these revelations, and most certainly, no little bolts of lightening striking me down.

When I go into characterizations I play the following characters:
Jermaine: six year old boy who has been called a monkey in class. He punches the other child and gets suspended for his actions.
Octavious: high school senior who plays football. He is the star running back going to college the following year on a full ride scholarship. He speaks about being the hero on the football field, but feeling like a fake on and off the field, because he is gay. He passes for straight. He states, "I wear a mask. I pretend to be straight. I date and flirt with girls. I have NEVER been with a guy, but I know who I've been attracted to since age 10."
Frank: a 23 year old guy who has been stopped by the police for being "different". He's white and gothic. He wants people to be aware about what really contributes to school violence.
Sabine: young girl (17) who is in her therapist's office talking about the imbalance of gender. She is bi-racial, as well.
Qwame: black student who does not fit into the black stereotypes. He wishes to be accepted for being himself. . . . and for being black.

I then insert a poem about date rape, very powerful, very moving. Of course, I am speaking out against rape, not supporting rape. Now, this may seem obvious, but I just thought I'd be specific about it, in case someone from your group would try to be sneaky enough to suggest that I was embracing rape. Now, wouldn't that be bizarre and offensive?
Tommy: a boy who has Down's Syndrome who wants to be accepted like other kids. He loves calling people beautiful and having people call him beautiful.
Jose: Hispanic/Latino male who talks about one teacher who saved his life. When he asked Ms. Garcia how she knew what to say, to save his life, her response was, "Jose, every child needs at least one adult who is going to make them feel like the most important person in this world, but if that child fails to find that one adult, that child will have the most difficult time at surviving. Jose, I am so blessed by God to be chosen to be your one adult." I know PASE, God must hate being given the praise for saving our lives. What a bizarre and offensive notion, huh?

Now, in between the date rape poem and Tommy, I speak to the audience about rising above the typical ways in which we hurt and respond to each other, then I let them know that they are inherently beautiful. Do you know where I got that bizarre and offensive notion? Check it out: Psalms 139:13-15. In case you don't have a Bible on hand, here it is:
"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place."
I then encourage the students to smile and say hello to 10 people they've never smiled and said hello to before, because it may brighten up a day or even save a life. Now, if I were being as ignorant as the writer of your letter, I could make that asinine leap to infer that saving someone's life is counter to God's instruction, but I am too wise to create this meaningless chatter.

So, what is this really about for PASE? Let's cut to the chase, it's about homodium. No. No. I am not speaking about the chemical homodium bromide. I am talking about the word that I made up. Homodium: an aversion or strong dislike towards homosexuals. How did I create this word? Well, it's a combination of homosexual and odious. Your PASE group is reacting to the rumors that I have a character in my show who is gay, and my character is telling children to accept the homosexual lifestyle and any other bizarre and offensive behaviors. Is that close to what you believe my show is saying? What about now? After some of you have seen my show, is that what you still think I was saying? Were you even listening, or did your homodium limit your auditory abilities? I hope for the former, but I am so afraid of the high probability of the latter.

The trouble with you, PASE Group, and others like you, (note: I am not referring to general blanket of Christians), is that you believe that your hatred towards homosexual people is ordained by God. And you tend to counter with the famous Augustine quote, "love the sinner, hate the sin." What you fail to acknowledge is that in my show I address homosexuality in orientation form only, (though I am certain we would disagree about homosexuality in general), not behavior. The Bible NEVER mentions homosexuality in its orientation form, and the nine verses you will pull to support your homodium is contextually unsound in discussing orientation. You don't have to approve of anyone's behaviors; we can agree on this. I am sure that amongst the lot of you, there are some of you married PASE members that have a rather uninhibited, peculiar, and randy appetite when it comes to bedroom tactics with your spouse. These behaviors, I would like to inform you, may not sit very well with other members of your outfit who, quite frankly, make Pilgrims look like harlots.

I understand your contention. It is one of jealousy. I am doing what Jesus did. I am reaching out to those who are oppressed; I am doing the work of a believer in God or Christ. And it is no shock that you slander my name and hate me. Was it not Jesus who said, if they hate you, it's because they hated me first? And I know with what you will feebly attempt to counter. You will say, "Jesus was talking about those in the world who hated him." And I say, "Yes, he was. And those who hated him the most, in the world, were the religious people of his time." It wasn't the poor, the down-troddened, the homeless, the harlot, the lonely, the sick, or anyone else who was rejected by the powers that be. No, it was the Pharisees and Sadducees who hated Jesus. They were the ones who accused Jesus of not being from God, of loving people they wished to hate. They were the ones who rejected him and called for his head. Let me ask PASE members, do you think the homosexual individuals in your district see the love of Jesus more through your actions, or through my actions? Do you see the gay, lesbian, and transgender students as Jesus sees them, as people, not titles? By your homodium, do you think that GLBT students understand better about Jesus' love after they've met you or after they've met me? I am not saying this to boast. I have so many miles to walk, so many issues to overcome. I acknowledge my weaknesses, but I do not deceive myself about what they are. They are shortcomings and weaknesses. In fact, I had to ask God to show me how to love the PASE group and others like you . . . God is still working on that one within me. Have you prayed for the same when it comes to homosexual individuals? When it comes to loving me?

Finally, I want to inform you about something in the overall attitude of your letter. Jesus had nothing to say on the topic of homosexuality, but he did have plenty to say about our treatment towards people who are oppressed, and he said much in line with blessings and curses. God has blessed this show that I perform, and God continues to bless me. Is it prudent for you to curse that which God has blessed?

In closing, I am reminded of a song by Bob Dylan that seems so appropriate right now. I will leave you with this.

Idiot Wind
Someone's got it in for me, they're planting stories in the press
Whoever it is I wish they'd cut it out but when they will I can only guess.
They say I shot a man named Gray and took his wife to Italy,
She inherited a million bucks and when she died it came to me.
I can't help it if I'm lucky.

People see me all the time and they just can't remember how to act
Their minds are filled with big ideas, images and distorted facts.
Even you, yesterday you had to ask me where it was at,
I couldn't believe after all these years, you didn't know me better than that
Sweet lady.

Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your mouth,
Blowing down the backroads headin' south.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth,
You're an idiot, babe.
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.

I ran into the fortune-teller, who said beware of lightning that might strike
I haven't known peace and quiet for so long I can't remember what it's like.
There's a lone soldier on the cross, smoke pourin' out of a boxcar door,
You didn't know it, you didn't think it could be done, in the final end he won the wars
After losin' every battle.

I woke up on the roadside, daydreamin' 'bout the way things sometimes are
Visions of your chestnut mare shoot through my head and are makin' me see stars.
You hurt the ones that I love best and cover up the truth with lies.
One day you'll be in the ditch, flies buzzin' around your eyes,
Blood on your saddle.

Idiot wind, blowing through the flowers on your tomb,
Blowing through the curtains in your room.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth,
You're an idiot, babe.
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.

It was gravity which pulled us down and destiny which broke us apart
You tamed the lion in my cage but it just wasn't enough to change my heart.
Now everything's a little upside down, as a matter of fact the wheels have stopped,
What's good is bad, what's bad is good, you'll find out when you reach the top
You're on the bottom.

I noticed at the ceremony, your corrupt ways had finally made you blind
I can't remember your face anymore, your mouth has changed, your eyes don't look into mine.
The priest wore black on the seventh day and sat stone-faced while the building burned.
I waited for you on the running boards, near the cypress trees, while the springtime turned
Slowly into autumn.

Idiot wind, blowing like a circle around my skull,
From the Grand Coulee Dam to the Capitol.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth,
You're an idiot, babe.
It's a wonder that you still know how to breathe.

I can't feel you anymore, I can't even touch the books you've read
Every time I crawl past your door, I been wishin' I was somebody else instead.
Down the highway, down the tracks, down the road to ecstasy,
I followed you beneath the stars, hounded by your memory
And all your ragin' glory.

I been double-crossed now for the very last time and now I'm finally free,
I kissed goodbye the howling beast on the borderline which separated you from me.
You'll never know the hurt I suffered nor the pain I rise above,
And I'll never know the same about you, your holiness or your kind of love,
And it makes me feel so sorry.

Idiot wind, blowing through the buttons of our coats,
Blowing through the letters that we wrote.
Idiot wind, blowing through the dust upon our shelves,
We're idiots, babe.
It's a wonder we can even feed ourselves.

We are all fools and idiots . . . the lot of us. May we all learn to listen to still, small voices.

Joan of Arcadia

Have you seen this t.v. show that was cancelled a couple of years ago? Wow! I love it, but I'm not sure what it is that speaks to me so deeply. I kid you not, most of the episodes bring tears to my eyes. If you're not familiar with it, allow me to set the stage.

Joan of Arcadia is a modern day Joan of Arc, if you will. She directly sees and hears from God, however, she finds God to be somewhat of a pest at times with the God design. God has Joan doing activities that make no sense to her initially. She asks 'why' and God remains silent. Nevertheless, at the end of each assignment, Joan begins to understand the bigger picture. She doesn't always follow God's requests, and later finds out why that was not the best of choices. It's never like God is punishing her for not following God's requests; it's more about God seeing the entire picture and never wanting God's creation to suffer.

I am not doing justice to how things unfold, but I highly recommend this series to people who have spiritual interests or to those who enjoy creative stories. Huge on my list of recent favorites.

“Why can’t I call you nigger?”



Whether after performing a show, a casual conversation, or a heated dialogue, I will often come across an individual or group of individuals who will ask me for my opinion concerning the “N” word. Most often the question is posed by a brother or sister of the Caucasian persuasion: why is it ok for black people to call each other nigger, but it is not ok for me to call a black person a nigger without being called a racist?


I am somewhat fascinated by this inquiry. Recently, I’ve been in dialogue with a police officer in a large southwest city. He posed the question the other day: “Let me ask this why can a black person call another black person a nig*** ok and if a white person does it then it is racist.” I am writing this response to answer him as well as anyone else who may have this burning question.


There are a few issues at hand here. I will do my best to break down these issues on historical, cultural, and personal levels.


Historically, the word nigger was used by whites to “put” blacks in their place. It was and remains to be a harsh word which has been transferred into a common word used by people from all walks of life. It was used to emotionally whip blacks into their inferior social status. It was also employed to distinguish, to lessen, the value of the Africans stolen from Africa. One’s status amongst other blacks meant nothing to the white people who used the word. A successful black individual was always inferior to the lowliest white counterpart. The word nigger was used to justify lynching, rapes, murders, tar and feathering, hate, and oppression. Here’s what the “wiktionary” has to say concerning the etymology of the word:

The term "nigger" has taken on perjorative qualities as it implies not only darkness of skin, but a general lack of intelligence and sophistication. At the time of the word's origin, various English speaking North American settlers who set cultural standards considered black people fundamentally inferior and less civilized. The term is generally considered offensive to black people not only because it singles them out on the basis of their skin colour, but also, because of its origin, it carries connotations of slavery, inferiority and oppression.>br>

Up until the 1960s, the word nigger, amongst whites, was not even seen as vulgar, yet to blacks, it was a constant reminder of the wall of hate and oppression that blacks felt from whites. But when and why did this word start being used by blacks in reference to themselves and other blacks? This is the cultural piece.


Before I delve into the transition of the word “nigger” from the white population to the black population, allow me to share a story that may highlight its development. From when I was young, I played football. I loved it. Prior to high school, I was considered a talented, slippery running back. I could duck and weave with the best of them. In high school, I was also a running back, but during my freshman year, I had an experience that would forever alter my self-perception and skill set in football. During a practice, I had dropped a couple of passes. My coach immediately nicknamed me “Stone Hands”. From that point on, catching a pass became a monumental task; after all, if you have stone hands, how can you catch a pass? This name stuck with me throughout high school. Whenever a ball was thrown my way, my anxiety shot up and I panicked. About 90% of the time, I dropped the ball. Was I incapable of catching a football? By no means. But then, what was the problem? I started to believe in the pejorative moniker that was delegated to me. I was Stone Hands. I remember even joking about it as I ran down the field to catch a pass. “Watch out people here comes Stone Hands.” It also became the way that others, (whether they knew about the history of the name or not), would refer to me. I adopted that name and saw myself as that name after the habitual battering into my psyche.


It wasn’t until years later when I was playing a pick-up game with some friends that one of my friends made a comment about how of good a receiver I am. He said, “Man, you don’t drop nothing! You’re like Jerry Rice.” And in that instant, my palms started to sweat, my eyes darted, and my heart raced. I felt uncomfortable because I only knew myself as Stone Hands, but I had forgotten that memory for a little while. Not surprisingly, the very next pass, I dropped it.


But what does this have to do with blacks referring to themselves as niggers? As was stated earlier, blacks were referred to as niggers by whites. This has had irreparable damages on the psyche of many African-Americans. Blacks started using the word to denote a demarcation between each other. A black man calling another black man a “nigger” was an insult learned from their slave masters. It was initially a term of contempt, a suggestion, if you will, of one’s status within the black community. “I am better than you, therefore, you are a nigger and I am not.”


As time went on, the black community ceased this word for themselves, symbolically asking, “Why must the word that these slave owners gave us be used negatively?” And then the explosion of the word nigger, in the black community, began to happen. Even the spelling changed – nigga. It became a term of friendship, of comraderie; it was a badge to show how true to black one was. The more of a “nigga”, the more cool and tough one was.


Blacks have taken what was once negative and turned it into a mostly positive term. Granted, the term “nigger” is not devoid of the negative connotations even within the black community. In rap music, the term can move from a term of endearment to a term of contempt. “They is my niggas,” is a positive usage of the word; whereas, “Cuz I will kill a nigga, if he looks at me,” is a more negative framework for the word.


Certain blacks who use the word “nigga” see themselves as “niggas,” ruthless and representing some ideal of what it means to be stereotypically black. The thug, the real “nigga” carries weapons, sells drugs, and is the definition of “cool” from about age 40 down. At other times, “nigger” or “nigga” is used for poetic emphasis, as in “Nigga, please!” or Nikki Giovanni’s poem, “Nigger can you kill?” These are all examples of the cultural shift of the word.


Allow me now to address my personal feelings of the word. My sister Michele will call me on the phone, and usually her first words are, “Whud up, nigga?” I don’t find it offensive, because it is not offensive. When I call Michele I will say to her, “Whud up, Negra?” I use a variation of the word, but I personally have trouble using the word itself. It is for this chief reason why I struggle with most rap artists in the Hip Hop community. Psychologically, I believe it is damaging an already fragile psyche. I try to promote the words “Doc,” brother, sister, cuz, dawg, or homie. I am not a big fan of calling other blacks – “nigga” or nigger.


What is intriguing about all of this, though, is the mentality of whites who ask me, “Why can’t we call you nigger anymore?” “Why are we racist when we use the word?” It’s no more complex than this: If you are white and you use the word nigger, it is not a word of friendship or of loyalty. It is racist because it is racist. It is and will never be the same as when blacks refer to each other. I have to ask, “Why is it important for you, mr. or mrs. Caucasion to use the word?” Why are you jealous that blacks have made your hate benign? Blacks have turned what you set out as negative into something more positive. The serpent’s sting is no more. Why does this trouble you so? Why is it racist when you use it? Because you now whisper it in the dark, amongst your friends, in uncomplimentary fashion: “Them niggers,” “I hate niggers!”, “I don’t want any nigger babies in my house.” And on and on it goes.


To the police officer who asked the question, allow me to ask you a question. When you and/or your friends use the word nigger is it in a positive, friendly fashion towards blacks? It is racist towards blacks when whites use it because it belies the false presentation of equality and acceptance by the whites who use it. And please hold off from the “Eminem Factor,” the white individual who identifies with the hip-hop community. You do not belong to this group nor do you accept this group nor do you have kind words for these individuals. What I will say to this group of white individuals is find another word. Respect the history of the word and find another word to use. That simple.


I hope this answers the question.

Why I do what I do . . . Click on the link . . . Perhaps someday we will not have this sort of ignorance and racism such as this . . .

http://movies.crooksandliars.com/la_parish_dreadlock_hater_060705a.mov


Now, to counter that. Here are the lyrics to the chorus of a Catie Curtis song, Honest World. It's a moving and powerful testimony.

Some day we'll all be free
I can feel it, it's our destiny
Some day, I believe
Love will make an honest world for me

Some day we'll all be free
I can feel it, it's our destiny
Some day, they'll see the truth
and I will make an honest woman of you

Some day we'll all be free
I can feel it, it's our destiny
Some day, I trust
Love will make an honest world for us
And today, I believe
Love has made an honest woman of me.

Light is Overrated

Whether it be Christian ethics or moth analogies or near death experiences, I think light is overrated. And this is not a knock on light, in general, but just the presumption about how much better light is than darkness. I enjoy light; I do, but I also know the pain and discomfort of light; not all things that are lit are good.

Every summer I used to be a staff member at this camp called Anytown. It was an invaluable experience. Approximately, a hundred teenagers getting emotional and challenged on issues of diversity. Powerful! Wow! To watch these students move from a place of comfort into discomfort into a newfound comfort. You can't beat that experience. In many ways these students moved from darkness into light, and I can tell you, it was not a smooth transition for many of them. They had been so adjusted to the darkness most of their lives that light (e.g., the good, the right, the open) hurt them. Their lives were surrounded by people who live in the dark, and people who wanted them to continue to live in the dark. Light, to them, was the antithesis of what felt safe, what felt right.

Some of these delegates had a terribly difficult time adjusting to life at home. The light offered them -- fear, loneliness, confusion, and isolation. Some loss friends and/or family. Some traded in their time in the light for the darkness that had become all too familiar. The light caused pain; the darkness was welcoming.

The other day I awoke in the middle of the night. I had to use the bathroom. I had no difficulty navigating through my house without any lights. I saw clearly. Once in the bathroom, I turned on the lights, and was immediately met with pain, scorching discomfort. I was angry! I mentally shouted to no one and everyone: "Why must light be so bright?!?" I was angry at the light because it temporarily disrupted my homeostasis. I thought, "If light is so good, why does it have to be so painful?"

Within minutes, though, things became clearer. I felt more awake because of the light; more alive. The light enabled me to see my daughter's toy that was left on the floor. And though I thought I could see "clearly" in the dark, I realized that darkness uses shadows to mask its truest intents. Darkness hides those pitfalls that only light can show.

Still, it's not just enough to say, move to the light. Light is better. Light, like a fine seasoned scotch, needs time.

When I reflect on all my experiences, I realize that light is overrated because we do not allow time for the adjustments. We expect those who have lived and loved in the dark to readily embrace light. But are we not human creatures? Are we not built with both fight and flight instincts? In order to get others to be in light, we must be willing to give some a gentler entry -- a night lamp, a tinted color, or the best of God's creation: a dimmer.

The Bicycle Principle
A Personal Personality Assessment

I was seven, almost eight, at the time. Most kids in my neighborhood already knew how to ride a bike. In fact, if my memory holds correct, both my older brother and younger sister, Michele, knew as well. I was a late bloomer in bicycle riding. I just liked to watch. In many ways, I was frightened to get on a bike for fear of falling. I had witnessed the abrasions and broken bones of other kids in the neighborhood, and that petrified me. I wanted none of that, yet I desired to be like the other kids on the block, riding endlessly up and down the street.

Though I was frightened of falling, I studied the balance and control of other bikers; I was meticulous in my assessment. How does one stay on the bike without falling? What are the arms doing? What are the legs doing? If one is about to fall, what course of counteraction is taken? I studied and studied. And shortly before my eighth birthday, when no one was around, I picked up a neighbor's bike, set it on fire, and smashed it into a tree . . .
Oh sorry, wrong story. Allow me to begin again.

And shortly before my eighth birthday, when no one was around, I picked up a neighbor's bike, hopped on, and began to ride flawlessly. I didn't fall once. I was overjoyed! The moment I had anticipated, dreamt about, and imagined had finally arrived. Why had I waited so long to try riding? Riding a bike was so easy to my young mind. Of what was I ridiculously afraid? I'm not just a good rider, I'm great! Go Team!

And then to top it all off, on my eighth birthday, my father surprised me with a brand new Huffy bike. It was one of the best days of my life. I rode up and down that street, screaming with glee, for hours and hours. I am certain I have never been happier before nor since that day.

Years later, I began reflecting upon my experience of learning to ride a bike, recognizing that there existed correlation between that experience and the way I approach many situations, obstacles, or events. Learning to ride a bike was more than just a task I accomplished: it became the symbolic, subconscious schema I adopted to help me navigate through other challenges and events in my life. What were these principles?

For starters, I take calculated risks. I stand back and look at a given situation before investing fully into it. I attempt to weigh all the pitfalls and benefits. I am always asking myself if the harm is less than the profit. Is climbing Mt. Everest necessary? Do I really need to have my own small plane? Is there a higher chance of her rejecting me, if I ask her to dance? How vulnerable do I make myself in this relationship?

Everything is calculated. There are times in which I don't particularly like that about myself, yet, it is the way in which I operate the best.

I don't try things at which I am uncertain I will be good. I love the security of safety, yet, I do find that I can deceive people that I am a big risk taker. But in truth, I am a calculated risk taker.

Another principle of this bike story: I do it alone. For most of my life, I have walked my own path, on my own time. Unlike many kids in my neighborhood, I had no desire to practice riding a bike in front of everyone else. I wanted it to happen in my own time and pace. I am still like this. I march to my own drum, wanting to do it my way. I don't mean this selfishly, but I walk this road alone. Obviously, this can cause a great amount of discord when I am in a romantic relationship, but this is my life, and I need to do me.

I ride alone; I learn alone; and my greatest challenge is to learn how not to be alone.

I try to stay focused when I am performing, but there are moments when my mind begins to drift, and I think some of the most disparate thoughts; troubling questions of a disturbed mind. I don't apologize for these thoughts -- they are intrusive, and perhaps, it is my thoughts who should apologize to me. I decided to share some of these thoughts and questions with you, my readers. I ask of you only one thing: do Not send me more medication!

Why do men get the urge to pick their noses when peeing? If you look on the wall in front of every urinal, there are booger remnants on the wall. Why? Boredom? Competition? Inferiority?

Out of all of my performances, how many audience members have murdered or will murder someone? Have I performed in front of any future serial killers? Have any of them spoken to me after my show?

Why are we so afraid of each other?

Which audience member has the worst breath?

Will anything I say ever make a real difference?

How many people dislike me more after seeing my show?

Why does the word: Slinky: make me smile?

Why did it make you smile?

Will I die before my daughter is 18?

"I can't stand that gym teacher, playing with his nails, and whose head has been down the entire show. I should say something that will get him upset. Maybe he will want to fight me after the show, and I'll just laugh because I finally got to him."

I should be doing so much more!

If they only knew the real me; if she only knew the real me; I don't know the real me, at times.

How do I tell my mom about a marriage that will not last?

What is wrong with me?

The first thought I have in my head when I see a pregnant woman is: She had sex. (Although, thanks to modern technology, this is not always true.) Still, I think: She had sex.

Have I ever met an angel?

God keeps using me in spite of myself, and God is constantly putting roadblocks in my way when I want to do wrong. (And that, my friends, is sometimes very frustrating.)

I hope the afterlife is FUN and not just one very long church service, as it is presented by many Christian churches across America.

Will I ever learn Spanish?

Who will be at my funeral?

How many people are thinking about me right now?

I still love Fridays.

It would be fun and funny to perform for a nudist colony.

Oops! I almost said something really bad. Whew!

Oops! I said something really bad. Well, I'll never be invited back to this school.

"This woman hates me! I wonder if I can make her hate me more?"

Oh shocking! Another Christian who believes they're standing up for their beliefs by criticizing my football character. Ho hum! See all the stupid people . . .

Why is everyone staring at me? Oh, yeah, I'm performing.

I feel so shy right now.

Well, there you have it. Some of the thoughts that intrude my thinking before, after, or while performing.

Nothing to add in words right now...

Uggh!!! I have the most sordid love affair with words. She treats me with indifference, popping up when her time is right. I am the court's jester to her, a ragged nomad, a fool. I lust for her to be in my presence, but she declines and chooses to sing to me only when I am silent. Only when I am still. She only gives parts of herself. She embarrasses me with gifts of trite expressions, with 'umms' and circular atonement. Yet, I love her, though I despise her. She has wrecked my life and my other relationships. She lies as well as she displays the truth, and I am maddened by this. I will one day do to her as she has done to me. I will make a mockery of her existence, and cajole her only to control her. I will take her lust, turning it into trust or take that very same lust, and slyly with style, slide the 's' to the front of the 'l', and watch her cling to her exclusive confidence, enjoying the ecstasy of ribald men displaying a surplus of ignorance.

I just miss her today, that's all. I just wish she were able to titillate this vacuous ravine, flushing me with her almond scent. I want to covet her in silence and speech.

Haiku 202

skipping rocks on a

riverbed I discovered:

yes! yes! there is death

Poetry 133

when it flows like this

early like now, late like never

we laugh so hard

and never see the other laugh so hard

like when he said:

don't think i'd stop

like she said:

wouldn't stop you

and then the delivery was brilliant:

she bragged about vocal aptitude and altitude

sometimes i wonder

about it all

this now our now

that electric live tingling

the jolt, the admission of weakness

the pursuit of exhaustion

the melting of m&m's on mouths

not hands

sometimes i wonder

about life itself

my daughter sees the world as new

where laughter is the best high

and all things are bright and bold and raw

and how she repeats stories and words

and it's all magical to her

but how fragile she is in the end

and how i spend as much time worrying

as she spends laughing

and he and she is teaching me

not to stop laughing

to stop worrying

to just be in this moment

to love the Spring

to embrace and explore that May flower

being groomed in April

(wet flowers in May: lovely scent)

to touch all that is

bright, bold, raw

for even the prettiest of these flowers

will one day fade

This is What a Feminist Looks Like

Last night when I went out I wore a tee-shirt with these words imprinted on the shirt:

Feminism is the radical notion that women are people.

Aah, allow those words to sit for a while . . .
O.K. what were your initial thoughts? What does that tee-shirt mean? Are you laughing or nodding in agreement?

When I bought the shirt I only saw one meaning (the intended meaning) for that shirt: people who are fearful of feminism or feminists should realize that all we want is for women to be treated like people -- equal footing individually and equal footing in relationship to males. That's the intended meaning of the shirt. I didn't think it was too complex, but last night proved to be an fascinating, yet troubling, experience on gender.

I had stopped by this restaurant called, "The Sushi Lounge". It's in Morristown, NJ. Great restaurant and great atmosphere. I frequent there a couple times a week. In any case, while I was there, the bartender read my shirt and started laughing. Then he said, "You got big [guts]. Any guy who wears that shirt is basically saying, 'I don't want to [hook up] tonight'." Now, outside the fact that I'm married, I thought that was a peculiar response. I was intrigued. I asked him what he meant by that. He said that my shirt was insulting to women. This stunned me, because I thought that I had read the shirt incorrectly. So, I proceeded to show my shirt to some women who were at this restaurant. Needless to say, their response was quite different from the bartender's. They were impressed that a guy would "get it." I explained the shirt to the bartender and he had an "aah, ha" reaction. Then he gave me thumbs up, but I'm only vaguely clued in as to what he meant by that gesture.

In any case, a thought hit me: do men, in general, read that shirt differently than women? If so, what can one learn about gender? And more importantly, does the interpretation of the shirt have any specific implications concerning how men treat women? I decided to commence upon a social litmus test, a gender experiment, if you will. I needed to know if these men at the Sushi Lounge were the exception or an overwhelming majority.

I was overpowered by the data. Every man that I questioned both at the Sushi Lounge and Famished Frog (another wonderful restaurant/bar) had a similar response to the bartender: they laughed and patted me on the back for having big . . . ummm . . . guts. I guess I shouldn't be floored, but I was. I realize that for the most part I operate out of my complete self, the masculine and the feminine, and more interestingly, most guys saw my shirt as an insult because they think that women are treated equally to men. Are you kidding me? I mean, o.k., I know the way guys think. I've been around them long enough to understand the mentality, but maybe I just didn't believe that the ignorance could be that severe.

Almost exclusively, the women I surveyed about my shirt, Got It. There were a couple of exceptions, and I have my theory of why they didn't get it. I don't think those women were evolved enough to see it, to understand the oppression of the system on women. One of the women who didn't get it has a rather illustrious reputation of promiscuity, of catering to the whims of awful guys. In my opinion, her eyes have not been opened. Men want nothing to do with her beyond a drunken night of ribald behavior. The other woman who didn't get it is a peripheral friend of mine. I think two factors played into her lack of understanding: 1.) she had been drinking for a long time and 2.) she stated how much she misses the idea of gender roles, of women and men knowing their place. She felt that in today's time this wonderful relationship between men and women was lost. However, she did concede that her former husband had believed in this old system, and coincidentally was abusive in his interactions with her, believing that she wasn't fulfilling her duties as a woman.

When I explained my shirt to both women, not only did they finally get it, but they liked it, almost with an embarrassment (perhaps with shame at not getting it), but they liked it.

I've been accused of being a sensitive guy, and always took that as a complimentary joke, but last night highlighted something that was more jarring than I ever thought: I don't think like the majority of males. On one level, that's comforting, but on another level, it certainly does not add to my feelings of connectivity with males. I am on a small island. I am a heterosexual male who thinks like a minority of sensitive guys, and perhaps, a majority of gay men.

Now, in all fairness, I think some of these guys would have understood my t-shirt a little more had I been a crew-cut, gender-bending, female. I think they would have gotten it . . . to an extent. They would have understood that it is not a joke, but some of these guys would have muttered such highly sophisticated statements as, "Feminist, lesbo dyke!" And then we'd be back at square one: THEY REALLY DIDN'T GET IT.

Oh, we have so many miles to go before we sleep . . . but I don't feel defeated. Education took place last night. Thought was triggered -- in restaurants and bars, nonetheless. It's a shame that we have to have words such as feminist and feminism to connote a state of being that should always be. I suppose religion and physical strength is much to blame for this absurdity, but the three largest religions all started off with the same understanding: And God created male and female. In God's image, God created them.

And that, my friend, is true masculinity and feminism at its best.

Since we're on the eve of another war, I thought it would be most appropriate to bring some humor to the gravity. When President Clinton had his affair with Monica I created a few jokes about the situation. It was a good time. The current president of the US did not do the like. He has remained solid and determined in his presidency. No distractions, except . . . when he speaks. Enjoy.


"The vast majority of our imports come from outside the country. " - George W. Bush

"If we don't succeed, we run the risk of failure." - George W. Bush

"One word sums up probably the responsibility of any Governor, and that one word is ' to be prepared '." - George W. Bush

"I have made good judgments in the past. I have made good judgments in the future. " - George W. Bush

" The future will be better tomorrow." George W. Bush

" We're going to have the best educated American people in the world." - George W. Bush

" I stand by all the misstatements that I've made." - George W. Bush

"We have a firm commitment to NATO, we are a part of NATO. We have afirm commitment to Europe. We are a part of Europe." - George W. Bush

" Public speaking is very easy." - George W. Bush

"A low voter turnout is an indication of fewer people going to the polls." - George W. Bush

"We are ready for any unforeseen event that may or may not occur. " - George W. Bush

"For NASA, space is still a high priority." - George W. Bush

"Quite frankly, teachers are the only profession that teach our children. " - George W. Bush

"It isn't pollution that's harming the environment. It's the impurities in our air and water that are doing it." - George W. Bush

" It's time for the human race to enter the solarsystem." - George W. Bush

Thank you, Laura for submitting these to me . . .

I am troubled by a consistent situation that I witness in many schools: Black males who have tuned out. Obviously, this is a sweeping generalization, but it certainly pertains to the majority of black males within our public school institutions with whom I've observed during my performances. It has been socially "cool" to tune out, to care about little, and to kill or die for even less than little. And what's even more distressing is the isolation felt by black boys who do care, who want to succeed, who [pardon the expression] "give a damn". They are a true minority, made to feel like ciphers, alone, ostracized from the larger black male community, and often criticized for being less black. They will come to speak to me after my performance while some of their peers just mock them for being weak, a punk.

Black is cool. Black is feared. Black is tough. Black is.

I go into many schools where the black males, specifically, and the black children, in general, will treat my show with more outward disrespect than the rest of the school population. This is not always the case, but it certainly happens more often than I feel happy to admit. And does it matter if it is an inner-city school compared to a more suburban school? Sometimes, yes, but in truth, I have found that black males in suburban schools feel as if they have more to "prove" in regards to their blackness, therefore, they will challenge me more overtly during my performance than inner-city blacks. Inner-city black males will tend to fake sleeping or really fall asleep even before I begin my performance. I was once in a suburban school where upon completing one of my characters, a black student shouted out "FAGGOT!" Now, granted, I had never before nor since experienced that same interchange, but I found it to be somewhat unsettling that it came from a black student in a predominantly white environment; I felt that it could only further some negative, cultural stereotypes placed on blacks. I worry that when this type of disruption and disrespect takes place, I am then viewed as the exception, the-"not like THEM"-insult put forth to positive blacks like myself; while the obnoxious black students are internally accepted as the general rule. But how did this all begin, and what are the factors that have perpetuated these insipid displays of shallowness?

Allow me to start with the school as a system; allow me to start with some positive observations. I have noticed that I have had much more favorable responses from black students when they are in a school system that 1.) will treat these students with mutual respect, 2.) are able to separate cultural displays of interaction from errant behavior, and 3.) embraces true diversity and inclusion.

I have been in school systems where before I've started my show, the principal or vice-principal will get up in front of the audience and cajole the student body with a kind firmness, interacting with them with respectful leadership. These principals do not punish cultural expressions of interactions, yet they foster an environment for positive behavior.

I was recently at Trenton Central High School in New Jersey, a school decimated by gang activities and poverty -- a mostly black student body where the males are as tough as they are crude; a school where teachers, in the past, have given up even before the fighting began. Fortunately, they have a new leader who believes in the lives of these children, not just their test scores, but their lives. She embraces the true spirit of "No Child Left Behind" and it has nothing to do with passing some state test. Rarely have I met such a dynamic principal. She cares for her students like the majority of mothers care for their children. I watched her interaction with the student population, and she was firm, yet fair; loving, yet disciplined. Her students did not cower away from her, but were peaceful towards her, willing to do tasks (e.g., walking me to the auditorium, taking off gang related shirts) that she asked or enforced them to do. I mention this principal because she tends to be the exception of what I see in most tough schools. She told me it was simple, if you kept one thing in your mind: these children do not need a principal, they need a parent. She said to me, "Michael, if I treat them like a principal, I will lose them, but if I treat them like a mother, they will respect me." Unfortunately, like I said, she is the exception.

In many of our most difficult schools principals or assistant principals either embarrass a group of students or yell at the student body, threatening to cancel the assembly. Or on the other end of the spectrum of ill-fated interactions, I watch teachers who look for black children to fail, and then pouncing upon any opportunity to "correct" them, while other disruptive individuals (non-black) are overlooked; or these teachers are so terrified of breaking some unspoken PC barrier that they will allow certain black children to act the part of a fool without ever addressing it. I suppose that they are fearful, in this case, of being viewed as racist. Ironically, it is this overt, but oblivious silence which greatly magnifies these teachers' shoddy view of race and class. Some of my worse performances have taken place in schools where teachers seeing the disruptions have simply ignored it or aggressively attempted to squash it.

Now, do not misinterpret me, I am not solely placing blame on the teachers or principals, for the whole system is screwed up with the treatment of black males, and many black males are in turn screwed up with the treatment of themselves and the system. I certainly place responsibility on the disruptive black males as well. I do not just blame the system, because I have seen a number of tough, gang-involved black males who have been healthily broken by my show, allowing themselves to feel and process what they experienced. These individuals come up to me after my show vigorously shaking my hand and giving me a street hug. They have grown up in poverty on the streets or alone in a mostly white environment, but are willing to see themselves differently than just the stereotype. They often belong to the Hip-Hop culture, but they choose to focus on an essence of positiveness rather than the negativity, disrespect, or misogyny that coexists within the norms of Hip-Hop culture. Many of these males take to heart Jesse Jackson's mantra: "I was born in the slums, but the slums were not born in me."

I know as a black male, it is a thin tight rope to criticize negative aspects of my culture; I risk being scorned by the majority for not being black enough, for selling out. Michael Eric Dyson, a scholar for whom I have utmost respect, wrote a book specifically targeting Bill Cosby's criticism of the "tuned out" parts of the black community. Without getting too far away from the topic, I felt that Dyson's criticism of Cosby's criticism was somewhat misdirected, as I felt that some of Cosby's rhetoric was coming from an elitist, not a loving place. Here's a link to the book. It's a scholarly discourse worth reading, worth discussing.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0465017193/sr=8-1/qid=1144703869/ref=pd_bbs_1/002-7518100-5753614?%5Fencoding=UTF8

I am big on freedom and responsibility. I respect black males, even the disrespectful ones. I just desire change. I believe tuning out leads to more poverty, more violence, more isolation in the black community; more males who leave children fatherless; more failure; more desperation; more jail time; more followers instead of desirable leaders. I want to help black males to tune in instead of out. In short, I want to help them find a reason to give a damn.

"My ambition is to be more than just a rap musician. The elevation of today's generation, if I can make them listen." -- Tupac

Yesterday I performed at George School in PA. It is a Quaker school. The performance went very well, but I was more interested by what took place after the show. A sweet soul named Devan (sp) came up to me, visibly upset by a part in my show. She was upset by my portrayal of Tommy. Tommy is my character who speaks about his isolation from other children in his school. Tommy has Downs Syndrome. Devan was upset because she has a brother who has Downs Syndrome, and he is nothing like Tommy, but she was concerned that other students would see Tommy and think that everyone who has Downs Syndrome would act like Tommy. This caused Devan great distress. She came to me to express this frustration.

I listened to her's (and her mother's) concerns, remaining open and without defense to their pain. We had a fruitful discussion, one that ended with me reconsidering how I play Tommy. I will not do a complete make-over (I think), but certainly, I would like to make some adaptations within the monologue of Tommy. Right now as Tommy stands -- he's easy. I went for an obvious characterization of someone who has a more severe form of Downs Syndrome along with Autistic features. He is loosely based off of some kids with whom I grew up, along with a couple of Downs Syndrome kids I've come across in schools. My Tommy is not a fabrication in regards to the realness of his physicality, however, he is not a part of the large majority of today's children who have Downs. I realize that there have been vast improvements in regards to the treatment of Downs individuals. There is a sizable portion of these individuals who are mainstreamed in their classrooms, and who function well alongside their peers.

In any case, I think the greatest lesson I learned from Devan was in the healing nature of listening. Had I gotten defensive when Devan approached me, I promise you, the results would have been woeful. I knew I needed to listen and then to listen some more; she needed someone, no, she needed ME to understand and empathize with her concern. She wasn't attacking me -- or my show, for that matter, she was raising a legitimate issue, and I am thankful that I was able to listen and hear her. She walked away feeling heard.

My show's greatest changes have come through people who have challenged me not to make any character easy; at times, these voices were harsh and attacking, but I still listened to the messages within these criticisms, attempting to discern the fruit from the poison. It is not always easy. In fact, at times the changes that take place after such attacks are ones of defiance, upping the ante, if you will; pushing the envelope of discomfort even further than the original plan, typically resulting in a more dynamic performance than the previous ones.

On other occasions, I adjust my characters to another height, but in these instances, I am not fueled by the same annoyance or defiance as is true of the former case. I find myself in this second boat after my interaction with Devan, and I am happy to have the wisdom, the courage, and the serenity to discern between the two in this situation.

born from light
for Joe C.

the insidious judgment procured by feeble boxed minds
leaves me askew, dismayed
spiraled into disorientation
gasping, then choking on this same fury
a vindictiveness so godlike, so child-fueled
clawing and slashing
in perverted supplications
hoping to wound and gloat
and I concur: this venom is poison
good for nothing except the solipsistic fantasy of vengeance

but vengeance is His
and judgment is His
and I am His

frayed by this contention, but now restful
and recalling this truth:
the gloomiest of shadows is born from light

msf
3/28/06

I was asked to post one of my poems that I perform during "I am not the Enemy" and sometimes during my show, "You Don't Know Me . . ." This poem was inspired by a girl who battled anorexia. She was about 5'10" and weighed approximately 105-110 lbs. I met her at a poetry reading. Her poems were amazing, a cacophony of pain emblazoned with masked words that concealed truths from her life, so dark, so ominous you would believe that she came out victorious. I wrote this poem after she shared a poem about one of her demons.

Seven Times

Dedicated to all the girls and women who have said no

but were never heard.

He must've not heard me

he must've not heard me

though i said five or six or seven

times

no

And it was true

he did take me to dinner

and he did take me to a play

and it was true too

he paid

he paid

but

He must've not heard me

he must've not heard me

though i said

five

or six

or seven times

no

And upon completion of that play

ovations roared

and i cried tears of happy wonderful joy

and he wished to share the moment with me

on mountains overlooking

seas and cities

and i said "Yes!" most cheerfully

but

He must've not heard me

he must've not heard me

though i said five? or six?

or seven?

times . . . no?

And in his car i took silent pleasure

in tasting the desire held within his mouth

and he savored my excitement as well

however, contentment was not his cousin

and he placed his hands on my breasts

i became surprised,

but i remembered the bumper sticker: keep calm

because to him, he must've felt like the king

recapturing his castle

but when he placed his hands

on my thighs, moving his hands up my legs

towards my castle

i closed my kingdom with awesome strength

to guard what was solely mine to give

and said, "please please, no."

but

He must've not heard me

he must've not heard me

though i said five-or-six-or-seven times

no

And to him he thought i was a tease

and he believed that my no meant yes

but i know my no meant no

but obsession took the best of him

and indentions took the best of me

as he tore apart my panties

unbuckling his belt simultaneously
punching me, punching me, punching me

and forcing himself on me

while forcing himself through me

and "No!" I screamed

(i know i screamed)

but it was already too late

he had already entered through the gate

and i cried a voiceless narration

with the pain of thousands of generations
with the rage and terror

from the grave of every girl and sister and woman
in every nation

and i did say,

No

no no

no no no

no...

and yes

He did take me to dinner

and yes

he did take me to a play

and yes, i wore a short, short skirt

and yes, officer,

i wore a tight, tight top

and yes,

i paid
i paid
i paid

because

 

He must've not heard me

he must've not heard me

though i said five

or

six

god knows

i said

seven

times

No!