Two Maxims

1. Yesterday, Tania and myself were performing in an elementary school in the Philadelphia area. There were three grades represented: 4th-6th. As I was perusing the audience, I took notice at how so many 4th graders have lost their innocence already. I started thinking about my daughter. She will be three in June. I felt panicky. Will Saskia look like some of these children so soon? Will all her innocence be faded by age 9? Six and a half years -- that's too quick. I don't have much time! Time is running out. I saw how much time I did not have.

The other day, I was waiting for a friend to arrive. We had set the time, and I knew I had three hours before he arrived. Three hours. I had plenty of time. I meandered around my apartment checking email, reading a book, watching a tv show, and just noticing how slow time was going because I had so much time on my hand.

Maxim: When you focus on how much time you don't have time will travel quickly; when you focus on how much time you do have time will move slowly. Focus on what you have, not what you do not have.

2. I went down to the deep south in North America a couple of months ago. I hadn't been to this particular state before, and I had some fear about how they would respond to me, because as a black northern fella, I have some deep rooted suspicions and prejudgments about white, southern males and females, and their reaction towards me. I thought I would be met with some obvious racism from these citizens; I was prepared. I was ready for my judgments to hold steady.

I'm happy to say, my friend lives in a large university town, and university towns tend to pull in a more liberal and open-minded atmosphere. This was true of this southern city. People were friendly, and genuinely so. They treated me kindly, without suspicion, and made me feel at ease. There was only one time that I noticed a different feel than my homeostasis. I walked into a restaurant with this lovely friend of mine, (who, by the way, I completely adore), and people stopped eating to stare at us, both black and white. Of course, I immediately thought it was because of how stunning my friend is, (which still could be the case), but the looks betrayed something else, almost as if people were looking at something very foreign. And they were.

Allow me to describe my friend. In the spirit of anonymity, I will call my friend GK. GK is white and her hair is blond. As I said before, I am black. In the deep South, I have noticed how few interactions blacks and whites have together, socially or romantically. The two don't mix as often as they do in the North. GK is a genuine exception to this rule. She doesn't describe her friends by their race or sexual orientation. This is also true of GK's best friend, who I'll code name, Trouble. They see people for people.

Nonetheless, outside of this minor staring incident, I felt happy to be proved wrong. I walked away from this southern city with less judgment. I learned that I shouldn't judge too quickly.

On Saturday, GK told me about a conversation she had with a peripheral MySpace person on her friend's list. He asked her, "Why did you come to the bar with a black guy?" She replied, "What?!" He said, "Why did you come to the bar with a nigger?" GK flipped, had a few choice words, and was restrained from hunting the guy down and killing him. Later, this same imbecile attempted to leave a message on GK's comment board with the following statement: GK is a nigger-lover.

I was stunned and speechless. This is 2007 and there are people who still use the word, "nigger-lover". It was laughable and almost unbelievable. For about 30 minutes, I kept thinking that GK was going to call back and tell me that she was just pulling my leg. She never called back.

I learned another lesson that day, and my trip to the South became a life's maxim.

Maxim: Do not be quick to judge; do not be quick to lose your judgment.

A Party invitation for Natalie Maines

"Just so you know, we're ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas." –
Natalie Maines, Dixie Chicks

Have you ever played the party game? It goes something like this – if you could invite 10 living/dead people to a party, who would you invite and why? On so many people’s list, Jesus, Gandhi, Mother Theresa, and Martin Luther King make the final cut. Not true for me, though, perhaps with the exception of Jesus, I much rather have the living at my party . . . at least this party.

In 2003, Dixie Chicks’ lead singer, Natalie Maines, while performing overseas made what seemed like an innocuous statement at the time, but proved to be a life-altering event for the group. Natalie said, “We’re ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas.” This statement was her outcry against Bush’s war instigation in Iraq. The Dixie Chicks did not realize that their measly words would cause such a tidal wave. There were many southern folks, particularly Texans, who were incensed by this sacrilege against a (self-professed) god-appointed president. Who did these chicks think they were? The intelligentsia of the southern community began protesting the Dixie Chicks in the most erudite manner. They burnt Dixie Chicks’ compact discs, held up signs telling the Dixie Chicks where they could burn (and we’re not talking about just in France), boycotted concerts in droves, radio stations refused to play their music, people made death threats toward Natalie Maines, and one classy individual came up with the stylish idea that Natalie should be strapped to a bomb then dumped over Iraq. Ah, the cream of the crop in America! I am ever so puzzled as to why other countries tend to hate Americans! Look how civilized and organized these people were.

The Dixie Chicks were branded as traitors for speaking out against a costly American mistake – (trickery at the polls in 2000 or the war in Iraq, you choose) – and they, in turn, loss most of their country music fan base. Was that really a loss? Do they really want their clientele to be of the mindset of potential murderers, obtuse tobacco-spitters, and blind sheep led by a blind shepherd? By no means!

The Dixie Chicks may have lost their country music fan base, but they gained a world of respect around the world, and they gained new fans. Like me. Natalie’s passion and heart won me over. I know what it’s like to fight against the norm; to be criticized for doing so; to be misunderstood. I know what it’s like to lose voices of support because the crowd can’t understand what’s beyond the matrix, what exists outside the box. I know what it’s like to feel scared, alone, and tired, but knowing that you must stand up for what you believe; you must sing truth, even when all other voices are fluctuating with nonsense. I know what it’s like to be told to just “shut up and sing” as if you are only a singer or actor or whatever it is that you DO. “Our life is more than our work, and our work is more than our job.” Shut up and sing? What an ill philosophy, a putrid testament to a tapered worldview. Sing, Natalie, and never shut up. Let your voice be heard, even if it means the sacrifice of your life. We shall live on. Remember this: obedient women have never been remembered in history! You, my friend, have lost bronze, but have been rewarded with gold.

If I were to have a party, inviting 10 people from the living and dead, Natalie Maines would most certainly make the list. She has made her bed and now sleeps like a baby. Thank you, Natalie, for showing fearful how truly to be brave!

Dear Natalie, I am having a party someday, and would like to formally invite you to come. I promise that the cast of characters at this event will be only those who have chosen the lesser trodden path. And like you, all have been misunderstood in some form or fashion. I hope you accept my invitation, and I look forward to meeting you in this or our next life. Please RSVP as soon as possible. Sincerely, Michael Fowlin.

sleep kidnapper

she’s a sleep kidnapper – that’s not a good thing

she leaves you pondering with fantastical reasoning

she is the precipitating smell of calmness before the storm

she disturbed my sleep for hours, leaving me without form

she’s a sleep kidnapper; she’s on her own time

she knows no man or woman to decipher this riddle

she is as original as history – and probably just as riddled

she takes her own time; kidnapping me into anxiety, not the sublime

she’s a sleep kidnapper; can’t be a good thing

i’m without form, she’s calm as the storm

riddling me with anxiety and the repetition of history

i’m left to ponder how this riddle of a woman disturbed my sleep

she’s a sleep kidnapper

and i can’t fall asleep

The Isolation of First Generation

In my recollection of the incident, I was probably 11 years old, and the time of day was most certainly prior to noon. What I don’t remember clearly are details such as: was I the only one present? Was this the first time my mother said this to me? Was this the last time? Grant it, these questions are somewhat superfluous to the issue itself, but it intrigues me that my memory only holds the words, not the context, of this personally momentous event.

My mother said, “I will not speak to you until your teeth are brushed!” At the time, her statement would have only a causal, seemingly insignificant, relationship to me. The implicit, “Go brush your teeth,” caused me to go and brush my teeth. This, in turn, would later increase my teeth-brushing compulsion and breath-cleanliness obsession. And then about a year ago, I began to painfully interpret this as my mother’s conditional love, despite her frequent protests of unconditional adoration towards all her children. And then, a few weeks ago, a new understanding arose; my mother was only passing on what had been taught to her: proper human beings should brush their teeth, first thing in the morning. This is not the American way; this is the Jamaican way. It wasn’t a preference; it was an imperative. My mother “shoulded” on me.

Most of my friends in America generally brush their teeth after they eat breakfast or drink their coffee in the morning. This is not the case with Jamaicans. Jamaicans brush their teeth first thing in the morning. I grew up with this standard, and I continue this standard today. (I’ve even taken it a little bit further: I brush twice before I eat, and once after I eat my breakfast.) But why did I interpret teeth-brushing as an indictment of my mother’s conditional love, and more importantly, what does teeth-brushing have to do with anything more significant than having white pearlies?

I love my mother. And, my mother’s love is conditional. However, teeth-brushing is neither a fair nor accurate example of this conditional status. I suspect that recently I’ve interpreted teeth-brushing as an example of my mother’s conditional love because I needed to understand my state of despair. Who really loves me? Do I feel loved by my mother? Where do I belong? These and other questions were plaguing me. But, I digress.

Teeth-brushing is a metaphor for what the experience of adaptation and assimilation must be like for many 1st generation children, including myself. We are caught in the vortex of two separate worlds, left on our own accord to decipher what things to keep, what things to file away, and what things get tossed aside. The burden of being 1st generation is a weight too often glossed over, yet, it affects the very core of all of us who are in this position. I am making a new path of what it means to be Jamerican. I do not completely fit in with Jamaicans, nor do I completely understand the American way of being. I am both, and sometimes I am neither.

I think about my 1st generation status as a symbol for all who have been forced to create their own niche within the environment in which they live; the individuals who willfully or unknowingly march to their own drum; the warriors who turned around to walk against the crowd; the despised poets; the fringed politicians; the fevered zealots and the nomadic sojourners; the women and men who have echoed the sentiments of harmony against all forms of oppression; the jazz musician in a classical band. Here’s to you – a toast – wherever you go and may be, for making my life what it is – less alone – and here’s a wink and nod with the knowledge that this path may lead to our own crucifixion or liberation; or maybe, just perhaps, a little of both.