F*cking in Brooklyn

Love as a life or death experience.

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]

Negros, By Langston Hughes

Sweet and docile, Meek, humble and kind. Beware the day They change their mind. #EricGarner

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]

25K retweets and I've lost count of how many death threats. Keep reposting. #Ferguson #Racism #Progress

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]

When you’re born, you are given one intrinsic unit of worth.

In this life, there will be days when you are “freshly minted” and days when you are alone on a deserted street, crumpled up into a ball, lying in a puddle, pieces of you torn. No one is worth more or less than you, and nothing that happens so long as your heart beats and you draw air can change this. No human life–male, female, gay, straight, transgendered, black, white, asian, hispanic, physically challenged–is worth more or less than any other.

How we value life–any life, including our own–depends on how we relate to that life. This is the difference between intrinsic and relative value.

We value what we relate to. In this lies all of our greatness and all of our tragedy.

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]

Identifying invisible privilege as a symptom of the racism virus is important because it demonstrates how people who seemingly do no harm can still contribute to a harmful system.

As with infectious disease, while you may never personally show symptoms or be impacted negatively, you can still spread the pathogen. In other words:

If you’re not racist but you’re a racist apologist, you’re part of the problem.

If you’re not racist but you’re racist tolerant, you’re part of the problem.

If all of your social interactions occur within the bubble of invisible privilege, and you genuinely believe your advantages are purely the result of meritocracy, you’re not a racist… You’re a carrier.

If you exist inside a system that benefits you to the detriment of others, and do nothing to challenge the status quo, you’re enforcing it. The antibody for racism is compassion.

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]

Sleep used to be my lover. Blissful, uninterrupted Sleep, used to bless me nightly with her nocturnal visits.

That was before the divorce. Before Betty, before Tatiana, before Daphne, and long before Zara. Sleep set the precedent, having loved and subsequently abandoned me. Like others who followed in her wake, I clung vainly to the hope that someday, she’d return. In the aftermath, her wayward daughter rushed in to occupy the space she rightfully claimed as her own. I don’t recall giving her a set of keys, but Insomnia let herself in at will; coming and going as she pleased.

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]

I still don’t claim to comprehend the female mind any more than I understand irrational numbers; I simply appreciate them for their intrinsic beauty.

I probably know more about women than the next guy, but that’s because the next guy knows bupkis. Guy friends have often likened my friendships with the opposite sex to time inside an enemy camp, learning about them from the inside. What meaningful relationships with women have taught me is: they’re not the enemy. What I lack in insight, I’ve gained in compassion.

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]

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"Is that going to be ready in time for the meeting?” he snapped. I paused, just long enough to “placate” him.

Very carefully, I removed the blade from the exacto-knife in my hand, and placed it inside my mouth, between my cheek and gum. “During my first week of high school I learned how to have a conversation with a razor blade inside my mouth” I said, smiling. “I mention this only to say: your standing over me as I try to concentrate is probably not helping me finish this any faster.”

“If that’s your version of intimidation” he said, retreating to his office “it’s working. Call me when it’s done."

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]

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Let’s play a game. Name five black men with a net worth of over $100m. You’ve got ten seconds. Go.

Who’d you come up with? Jay-Z? P-Diddy? Shaquille O’Neal? Tiger Woods? Kanye West?

Now let’s play the same game, but with one minor qualification: Name five black men who aren’t professional athletes or entertainers, with a net worth of over $100m.

You’ve got ten seconds. Go.

Who’d you come up with this time? Alphonse Fletcher Jr.? Quinton Primo? Kenneth I. Chenault? R. Donahue Peebles? Ulysses Bridgeman, Jr.?

Congratulations if you recognize any of those names. Generally speaking they aren’t mentioned in “mainstream” media. If a rapper farts into the wind it makes the 11 o’clock news, but when’s the last time you heard an interview from the CEO of American Express?

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]

I bite her shoulder; our wordless signal of my intent to occupy the space inside her that belongs to me.

Her response is autonomic; she arches her back ever so slightly and curls herself into me. I hear her stifle a moan as we merge; everything about her is warm, welcoming; receptive. At least, that’s how it begins. Gentility, having enjoyed her time, excuses herself and makes way for her wayward sister, Frenzy. We’ve rolled; I’m on my elbows now, pinning her to the mattress; my thighs outside hers, whispering filthy things into her ear. Our sweet morning escapade has crescendoed into something more… frenetic.

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]

The problem with today’s racism is: nobody ever actually admits to being a racist.

Once, racism was men in hoods burning a cross on your lawn. It was separate entrances and separate water fountains and the back of the bus, and if people didn’t know their place it was okay to remind them who’s in charge. The great thing about those folks was: at least you knew where you stood. A man with a noose has clear intentions, about as easy to spot as a harvest moon on a clear autumn night. In a best case scenario, with a bit of discretion, you could avoid these people entirely. In a worst case scenario, you could at least defend yourself.

If overt racism is a noose, institutionalized racism is carbon monoxide: just as lethal but more pervasive and far harder to detect.

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]

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The next morning I woke with what could best be described as a sex-hangover.

My legs were wobbly. I was severely dehydrated, and convinced I was suffering from a magnesium deficiency. Still, despite all obvious manifestations, ego would not allow me to admit I’d been out-fucked. “Fluke” I consoled myself, as I consumed copious amounts of Gatorade in an attempt to restore my internal mineral balance. “Next time, I won’t hold back.”

I didn’t. And neither did she.

[fuckinginbrooklyn-blog]