#50 // Ahmad Jamal “At the Pershing - But Not For Me”
I knew his lady had left him. Of course it wasn’t him who told me. Our mutual friend did. They were closer. I didn’t know her well. Met her a few times. That was about it. I didn’t know much about her or them. Just that they were together for a few years and she’d recently moved out. And I heard that he wasn’t taking it too well. He’s going through it right now. Going through it. That’s the catch-all phrase men resort to when we don’t want to use the words we have to describe anything that’s painful or confusing. Often both.
He was sitting on the couch when he told me. I don’t know if you heard. Yeah, I heard. I was sitting at the table. There was about 10 feet between us. I don’t remember much else he said. But I do remember him crying. And me not being able to look at him. I just listened to him cry. A broken heart. Shattered pride. I hope I said something meaningful, at least something helpful. Something that said I cared, that his feelings mattered, that I too know what it’s like. Because I did. But I probably just said sorry. As if it was my fault. I was 10 feet away but I was much further away.
I don’t know why I couldn’t at least sit next to him. It’s not as if I’d never put my arm around my teammates when they dropped the pass, threw an interception, struck out, hit the ball out, missed the shot. But that was sports, one of the rare spaces where men allow each other to express their whole range of emotions. Because in sports there are winners and losers. The gray area is where we struggle. The crying made me uncomfortable. Which then made me annoyed. Damn, why’s he gotta cry right now? Right here? But I was really annoyed at myself. At my inability to console a male friend.
Lately I’ve been thinking about my male friendships. Not my male friends. But my friendships with men. I used to think that a good male friendship meant just showing up when asked with no questions asked. Like when you helped each other move. In my 20s, for a week I played video games until 2AM with a friend whose girlfriend had moved out. I just showed up. I did my part. I spent time. I gave. Wasn’t that enough? Today I hear songs about friendships by men and they sound so bitter, disappointed, and jaded. I’m amazing and you suck. Seems to be the theme. And everyone claims to be able to relate to them. Are so many of us disappointed in our friendships? Damn this song captures everything I want to say but don’t have the courage to say! Fellas, when’s the last time you’ve thought about the quality or the health of your friendships with other men? I only have about three male friends I talk about everything with. That’s probably a good number. I imagine most guys only have one. If so lucky.
Sports. Women. Music. Maybe movies. Definitely TV. That’s what most guys talk about to each other. I don’t drink so I’ve never gotten together with a bunch of the fellas for happy hour to shoot the shit. My idea of what kind of conversations take place there is formed by my consumption of media. That’s where you bitch about your woman and then confess to having an affair? I hear about my male friends going through it second-handedly but I rarely reach out. He probably needs to figure some shit out on his own. Makes me feel better to think like that. Then they tell you that they’ve felt really alone lately. Rarely do we confess that we felt lonely. I don’t even want to mention the times that we laughed behind our male friends back for going through it. I want to think it was because we couldn’t talk about it.
But it’s the other way too. Whenever I’ve gone through it, I’ve rarely reached out to my male friends. Even when they’ve asked how I’ve been, I probably lied. Why burden them with my issues? Everyone’s got their own. So we turn to our girlfriend fiancees wives lovers and they become the bearers of our deepest fears, frustrations, disappointments, depressions, and resentments. And we pray that they never share the real us with anyone. They have to extend and carry out our pretending that everything is cool, bro. You know me. Always. Don’t tell anyone the other stuff tho.
I’m trying to get better. If a male friend seems a little distressed, I try to send a text. Checking in on ya. Keep it simple. Try not to get preachy. I don’t have the answers. They may not even have the questions. But I know you’ve been going through something and I just want to acknowledge that I noticed. At the least.
And hey, if you’re reading this, if I could go back, I would have sat next to you on the couch and told you that you’re going to be alright. That everything’s gonna be alright. And that hopefully one day we can look back on this with a bunch of our guy friends and laugh about how you cried on the couch.
We won’t be laughing at you tho.
Instead, we’ll be laughing at ourselves, thinking about all the times we cried on the couch.
Alone.
And privately hoping that we won’t have to anymore.
#49 // Charles Mingus “Let My Children Hear Music”
Lately been in a funk. Wondering if I’m allowed to be there. Or if I’m only allowed to keep the funk to myself. Smile. Grin. Everything is everything. You know me, baby. Cut down on social media. Deleted the apps off the phone. Had to admit that I was addicted to the rush. Can’t FOMO if I don’t know what’s going on. Don’t feel the need to show off my life all the time. Cause you probably won’t like what’s going on some of the time. Not that it should matter. Cause my goal is not to be an influencer. I tell silent faces that I want to do work that matters. Hoping that it resonates. But may be right now is more important. The moment. Is what matters. Tomorrow’s not promised. Then you’re at tomorrow wondering what happened to yesterday.
What did I do with my time here? A crisis deferred or delayed? We were promised greatness and we patiently waited. Greatness isn’t us. It’s in us. Why we so afraid to let it out? The world is so ugly. But we are the world. Not just them. But us too. This is almost 40. What have I done? What haven’t I done? I had goals. I shared them. With my friends, family, strangers, and co-workers. They believed in me. Always knew you would. They said. Still think you can. They said. Got the arrogance to think that I could have done it better than those who did it but lack the confidence to do it. I had a vision of how my life would be. When things didn’t work out, I said, hey, that’s OK, just roll with it, that’s life. (Hold up, I just changed all the “you’s” in this paragraph to “I’s”. Can’t be a coward to myself forever.) You’ll be fine. Just enjoy the moment. Don’t beat yourself up. I try not to think about that anymore. So now I think about not thinking about that a lot more.
Thought love was supposed to easy. Natural. Like breathing. C’mon let’s stop talking about it already. If you have to talk about it all the time and think about it all the time and work on it all the time then well, that ain’t love baby. Used to mock self-help books and therapy. Until I realized I couldn’t do it all on my own. Acceptance of my comeuppance. People who tell you you don’t need people be the loneliest and the neediest. Don’t need those people. Had a hard time understanding my friends who were “going through it.” Then realized that they were simply growing. Changing. The sarcastic male dismissal of anything emotional. As we age our physical strength depletes. Need to lean on our minds and hearts more. But we treated them like leg days at the gym. Neglected. Infrequent. Now desperately trying to make up for lost time. Ain’t no fresh pressed juice cleanse for that.
Gotta stop comparing myself to those who don’t even know I exist. Dad told me once. I’m not disappointed in the grade if that’s the best you could do. I remember that one. Can’t remember the last time I gave my best. Life stuck in drafts. Too scared to lose so I don’t even play.
Wasn’t always this way. A fire burned. Youth. Lit. Didn’t care what or who I burned down. You were all coming with me. Sometimes it gets hard to see through the smoke. Responsibilities force you to turn it down some. And the fire alarm goes off. A supervisor tells you to simmer it down a bit. Choose your battles. Can’t fight the world. Although the younger me thought I could, that I should, that I would. I saw my father get burned by the institution of higher learning he gave his life to, that we gave our lives to. They didn’t even watch. They ignored the fire away. He mentioned it. We never talked about it. I hope he wrote about it. “I could relate,” he said about Brad Pitt’s character feeling like he was unfairly let go from of job in “Tree of Life.” That’s when I knew he hurt. I don’t remember what I replied.
It will be different. Believe it. Will it. Stop worrying about the likes and views. Life is not a metric. Tell your truth. Even if the whole world calls you a liar. Believe in the uncertainty and the unknowing. Even if that uncertainty is unknowingly you. Believe so strongly that they call you crazy. They laugh and mock because it unsettles them. Get uncomfortable until it’s no longer so. Then do it again. Tune out yourself. Especially the you who says can’t all the time. Block the noise so that you can bring the noise.
Big egos used to bother me. Or was it people with big egos who used to bother me. Arrogance disguised as confidence was off-putting. It seemed to go against everything that I was taught from an early age. We before me. Be a gracious loser and a gracious winner. Sportsmanship. Act like you’ve been there before. Be respectful of others. Don’t draw attention to yourself. For a long time I wanted to and tried to believe that those were the ways.
As much as I couldn’t stand braggadocious behavior I’ve been accused many times of having a big ego. I don’t know what the formal or scientific definition of ego is but everyone who accused me of having a big one was correct. My smug, dismissive, unimpressed, nonplussed looks, gestures, and words came from my big ego. And it upset people in my personal and professional life. Perhaps I was just too cold or too stone and not demonstrative enough during times when people needed affirmation. Which seems to be all the time now. It’s fun to sit around and shit on everything and everyone. It makes us feel like we’re greater than everything and everyone. For some folks not being impressed by anything seems to be the default and permanent state of being. Like it’s a lifestyle.
It takes a lot to give it up, to clap, to acknowledge that someone did it greater than you could ever have or be greater than you could ever be. When I read, hear, see, or watch something that blows me away, that gives me pause, I am humbled. I don’t even know if I’m using that word correctly anymore. But yeah I feel like, damn, why am I even going to attempt to do this thing when this person is so much better at it than me? That’s my ego talking too. It’s hurt. It shrunk. I’m conceding to the greatness. One day I want someone to feel that way about something I created.
Only if my ego would let me. I’ve had several conversations about ego lately with different sets of people. My belief now is that you need a great ego. You need arrogance. It’s the fuel to be great. And when we see other people express it, it makes us uncomfortable. As soon as someone claims to be great, acts like they’re great, thinks like they’re great, we’re ready to shoot our arrows of insecurity through their armor. Sometimes it feels like we enjoy tearing down more than we enjoy building up. Why does someone else’s confidence bother us so much? How does Kanye’s Tweets about himself affect my life? Don’t we want our heroes and icons to be audacious? Why do we have this need to be able to relate to the greats? Is it so that we don’t feel as bad about our lack of comparative greatness? Why do we want our superstar athletes who are the best at what they do, some who are the best to ever do it, to act humble? I know a lot of cocky folks who aren’t good at anything. Can you imagine if you were considered to be one of the greatest to do whatever it is that you do? How would you carry yourself?
Those who create real change, like the type of change that affect culture, they have massive egos. I’m convinced. I don’t have the stats and studies to back it up. Zuckerberg, Miles, Jobs, Tyson, Jordan, Prince, Musk, Ali, Branson, and every rapper you’ve ever quoted. Every startupreneur claims to be changing the world or revolutionizing an industry. Self-appointed visionaries and trailblazers. And let’s get this out of the way, claiming to be humble, especially on social media, is not humble, it’s arrogant. The humble brag is worse than outright bragging. At least the person proclaiming to be great has the guts to let it hang instead of the coward bragger who does something so that others will tell them they’re great. When you’re loud and cocky they will hate. But history will be kind to you. The longer you stay with it. The older you get. The people will look back and praise you for the same thing they hated on. Especially sports. Look at Ali, Deion, and we’re all seeing it with Kobe now.
I don’t want to bring anyone down to my level. I can proclaim that someone is great. Watching a cocky celebrity who is great at what they do fall apart doesn’t bring me any of their greatness. It’s not like there’s a greatness piñata and when they crack we can scramble to grab some. When Ronda Roussey got destroyed people were overjoyed, felt that she needed to be humbled since she was acting too cocky. Too cocky? One of the most dominating MMA fighters ever. The best female fighter of all time. The biggest star of MMA. And we wanted her to act like Mother Theresa. Not going to get into the gender thing here but clearly we have a bigger issue with women expressing their greatness than we do with men. Hi Serena.
Keep your head down, focus on the work, and the attention will come. I just want the work to speak for itself. We want to believe that. And maybe in other cultures that works. But not here in America. Especially not in a big, crowded, bursting with talent city like New York. We tell others to be humble for our own sense of comfort. Greatness is uncomfortable. It’s abrasive. It’s loud. It’s disruptive. It’s not quiet, it’s not sitting in the corner, it’s not well-behaved. It’s polarizing. You either hate it or love it. It forces you to feel something.
Like I said, I didn’t always think this way. I used to hate Mayweather. Then I started thinking about why I hated him. And why I hated other brash people. And like so many things it was due to my own insecurities. If I could put down other people and their work so easily why was someone who was actually great at something proclaiming that they were great bother me so much? I don’t blame social media for all of society’s ills. It’s just enhanced a lot of our own personal weaknesses. And it encourages us to judge others. Liking via tapping a screen or clicking a mouse is a gesture rooted in judgement. But that’s another topic for another day. Now if someone is claiming to be great and their work truly sucks, well, then it is our duty to call them out on it. Who knows, maybe it will make them greater? Or perhaps we need to take a second and think about why we think their work sucks. Cause maybe it’s us. Not them.
First post of the new year. Guess it should be special. Have more meaning. Time to proclaim something grand about myself, my life, my hopes, and my goals because it’s a new year. I do miss buying a new calendar. That helped make things feel fresh. The physical act of taking down something physical and tossing it and replacing it on the wall. No tear marks under that photo or painting. In our house it was usually a free calendar from a church or a grocery store. We’d usually grab a few and give them away to other Asian families. And sometimes we’d receive them. Immigrants exchanging free calendars to mark our shared passage of time in a common foreign land.
I never wrote out my goals for the new year. Maybe that’s why I feel like I didn’t achieve anything when a year ends. They seem to work for a lot of people. My Lady’s got one and I see her checking it and think that’s kind of cool. Then I go back to whatever time wasting thing I was doing before I noticed her checking it. Thought it was all about taking it one day at a time, being in the moment, no past, no future, just now. But when I used to run a lot I’d have an idea of how far I wanted to run and I’d set a final spot where I wanted to end my run. So in a way I set goals of distance and location. Most of the time it was a restaurant in an unfamiliar neighborhood. There’s no better way to immerse yourself in all the richness of diversity that New York has to offer than to run/walk through various neighborhoods. I never didn’t get there. Sometimes it would take longer than I wanted it to take but I got there. And when I did, I rewarded myself with a festive meal from a local spot serving food that wasn’t easy to find in other neighborhoods.
Maybe I don’t set goals because I’m afraid I won’t meet them. It’s one thing to let someone else down but to know that you let yourself down is a private shame you try to hide but carry with you everywhere, into everything, and onto everyone. It’s where our frustrations, disappointments, judgements, and anger stem from. Can’t be mad at them for your personal failures but can’t let them know that you failed yourself so be mad at them instead so that they can’t see that you failed. Hurt others because you hurt yourself. Failure is a harsh word. I know. But isn’t success a hyperbole? There’s levels to this shit. I know. Is it a fail if you learned something in your attempt to succeed? What if you completed your goal but it sucks? What if you think it’s great but no one else does? What if everyone thinks it great but you think it sucks? What if no one notices? Some people never talk about what they’re working on. I understand now that it could be painful for them to talk about it especially if people keep asking them about it every time they see them. I used to think it was always better to let it out into the universe. As if the universe is so concerned about your project more than others.
Yes, I know the saying, the greatest failure is not trying. Good job. Good try. Try again. Dust yourself off. Speaking of dust, Ziggy Stardust died today. Bowie was 69. He’s the age my dad is now. I think about my parents every time someone famous dies who is around their age. I can’t imagine them dying now. They bring it up once in awhile. Casually drop it into a conversation. Mostly about arrangements. I try to change the subject. But I know it’s something we have to talk about before it becomes too difficult for them to talk at all. Especially as the oldest child, especially as the son. Does that matter anymore? Mom says she forgets things once in awhile. I’ve only witnessed it once at Kroger’s. We laughed about it later. But when it happened, I got frustrated at her. That was my immediate reaction. I’ll need to work on that. I rent movies about older people for them and they seem to enjoy those. Even the ones about people losing their memories. If you set a goal to never forget will you remember forever? Or will you forget that you set that goal? I still remember my grandmother not remembering me when I visited Korea. Boy did that hurt. She just looked at me with a blank face. I was a complete stranger. I understand a lot of people experience this. Perhaps it’s more gradual with them. Don’t know if that makes it easier. I’d like to think it does.
So set a target. Try to hit it. What if I miss? Try again? Or set a new target? How do I know if my target is right? Aim high? Or aim low? Who will tell me? I often think about my hike on the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu in Peru. I’d look up at the hill, see the top, it looked so far, so high. I knew we’d have to get there. I’d set my eyes on the goal and walk towards it but all I kept thinking was damn it still seems so far. On the second day I decided to put my head down and just look at my feet. Concentrate on my footing. Of course I’d look up once in awhile, look around, take in the scenery. But the less I looked at the top the faster I felt like I was getting to it. I’d walk for awhile then look up and would be feel closer. Recently I commented to Phil that I admired his ability to never track of where he wants to go. And even when obstacles present themselves he figures out a way to work around it. Maybe a different approach. Maybe a different time. But he doesn’t let it go. It’s something I struggle with. I spend a lot of time thinking and researching and studying and laying it all out. And if I don’t get the results I’m looking for at the moment of presentation then I shut down. It’s hard for me to get started up on it again. I want to get better at it. I want to get better at the work around. So I guess that’s a goal. And just cause my head is down doesn’t mean that I don’t have direction. It’s just a climb.
I don’t think it’s supposed to easy. It doesn’t happen because it’s hard. We admire people who make things look easy. Effortless. And we envy them because we can’t seem to even get started on things that’s burning us up inside. But often we see the finished product. We see the game winning shot. We rarely see the missed shots in practice. We all agree that it takes dedication, hard work, time, and pushing yourself past your limit to achieve greatness in the field of sports. But what about in the world of art? Or creativity? How do we show for that? Where’s the behind the scenes video?
Some of the pieces I write on here really flow. Like I don’t stop typing. Other times I’m sludging through them. But like most writers know the hardest part is just starting the damn thing. It’s not like I don’t have the time. We all have the time. It feels great when it flows, like something else is driving it. But man when I get stuck, all types of feelings kick in. I want to quit. I hate every word I type. I feel like anyone who reads it will think that I’m a sham. Then I think well I guess that means that I care. Caring doesn’t seem to be in these days. It’s all I don’t give a fuck what anyone else is doing or what anyone else thinks of me or what I’m doing. Sounds like a lonely existence. The worst part of creating something is the empty silent room. Hello? Nothing? Hello?
I’m working on trying to get messier. Trying not to worry too much about making sense or having structure. I’m good at structure. I’m good at making things click and run. I do that as a “job.” Sort of. Not sure if I’m even good at that but organization is easy for me. But that other part, tapping into my subconscious, pulling out all the dark stuff is what I struggle with. I want to work on tapping into that. I saw a fellow writer post a photo of himself crying after he finished his recent play. He said he tapped into a painful part of his memory and life that he’d forgotten about. I mean isn’t that the shit that people resonate to? Everything feels so fucking safe these days. Our need to be liked just results in a bunch of cool things that get a reaction of “Cool.” Next. But what’s that thing that made you put your life on pause and say holy shit! That thing that made you feel. That moved you. That thing that you thought about the next day. Confusion is OK. Not getting something should be fine. Being challenged should be cool. Challenging too. As long as it’s from an authentic place. And my how that word’s been bastardized by the advertising industry who ruin everything that’s good.
Art. Who decides? Who determines? Is originality important? Been talking about those things this week. Challenging myself to explore myself more and push myself more. Doing for the sake of doing is good but where’s the growth? Shouldn’t we be turned off if they say something was “easy.” Why are we so afraid to admit that we busted our ass on something? Is it so that we can cover our ass if someone says they didn’t like it? Hey, yeah I didn’t try that hard. I didn’t want to spend too much time on it. I just wanted to get it done. As a kid, I used to love jumping off things. I need that back. Now I admire anyone who’s trying and willing to put out something into the world that’s just waiting to shred it to pieces. I feel like no one will like it. I feel like no one will understand. I feel like everyone else is doing it. Why do we care so much about that? Being yourself, creating by yourself is a frightening thought to so many of us. So instead of doing it we rip others apart who are doing what we want to be doing. Being crushed is a great way to learn how much you want something.
I know I come off like a confident guy. What’s that? You say arrogant? Fair. Cocky? Hey now. And I wonder if I’m more honest on here than I am anywhere in my life. Like everyone else I get distracted. Social media sucks me in. I binge watch TV shows. I watch a lot of movies. But I read more books this year than ever before and that may even include college. Like most of us I got a lot interests. But lately I’ve been letting go of the idea of pursuing a lot of them. I want to focus back on writing in one form or another. I don’t believe that you can be great at a lot of things. There may be some people who may think they are but I’m talking great not good. Like so great that you created a piece of timeless work. Like so great that you changed the way people viewed things. Like so great that you changed something forever. There’s too many choices now. Had lunch with Paul Beatty earlier this week. He still has no cell phone. I explained to him that I met My Lady on Tinder. I explained it to him. Told him about TV shows he should watch. He asked how does anyone keep up with all these things. When Kobe announced his retirement Noah wrote on FB how he’d never met anyone so focused on being the greatest at one thing. It’s not cool to just do one thing now. Renaissance men are praised. What else you working on? To be totally obsessed and possessed on just one thing probably seems boring now. Especially when it seems like everyone can do anything. Has anyone not thought of getting into photography, DJing, or painting of some sort? And no knock on you if you pursued that. Especially if opportunities came a knockin’.
She says that I’m always on social media. It’s made me think about why I’m on there so much. Is it to pass the time? Is it so I can be up on everything when it happens? It’s not like I go to group dinners where I need to participate in conversations on the hashtag or outrage of the day. Is it so I don’t feel left out? Let’s not forget my Feedly feed that I’m constantly reading. If you’re into the whole energy thing it makes sense that I’m not getting the work done if I’m spending my energy just following streams of mostly useless information and thoughts. We spend so much time reacting instead of acting. Hard to paint a picture when the paper’s scattered all over the place. I know I probably repeat myself in these posts. It will be fun to read them in a few years. Will I laugh? Will I be embarrassed? Will I care? Will you?
I’ve got a secret. Something I’ve never told anyone before. You promise not to tell anyone? Promise? I’m only going to tell you. Don’t say a word. Do I have your attention now? Why do we have secrets? Why do we keep things to ourselves? Why do we only tell some people some things and never tell other people the same things? We speak out and speak up and demand for truth and honesty. Is “transparency” still a buzzword? Or has the buzz died down now?
I used to take a lot of pride in being blunt. You want an honest opinion? Sure, I’ll give it to ya. Raw. ODB. You might not like it. It will likely hurt. And you may shake your head and say, “I can’t believe he said that.” Not only would it hurt, a lot of times it pissed people off. Well, don’t ask if you can’t handle the truth. I could have delivered it differently. I could have cushioned the blow. I could have jabbed you the whole round. Instead I want for the killer left hook. KO. Not technical. 1st round. But that’s who I was and that’s why you came to me so you got what you were looking for. In the end, I can stand on my truth and honesty. If you want a fake hug, go to that guy.
I don’t know if truth means right. I don’t know if honesty means best. I know all the sayings you know about those things. Set you free. Best policy. All that stuff. But lately I’ve been second guessing my stance on that. I’ve been questioning a few recent decisions to speak up and speak out. I used to think that if you shared, if you opened up, it would lead others to do so. It worked in my interview days as a journalist. Share a little bit of myself and they’ll do the same. Of course the audience matters. Can’t expect everyone to react the same. But when there’s no reaction at all. That’s when you start second guessing. And that second guessing cripples you, freezes you into doing nothing. Trust your gut. Act on your intuition. Hear me?
Watching Aziz’s “Master of None” I’ve thought about all the secrets my parents bare. And I’ve thought about why they choose to keep them hidden. It’s not like I ask. I don’t know if they’d tell me. I think they would. Now that we’re all older. I don’t know what buried secrets do to a person’s development. I don’t know why when we’re going through things we tend to run inside ourselves. Why don’t we trust that those who proclaim their love and support for us will provide those things when we do open up? We’re afraid to be judged. Please continue to look at me the way I’ve worked so hard to present to you all this time. It’s because we’ve equated vulnerability, especially as men, with weakness or even anti-man, which we’ve equated with feminine, which we foolishly equated as bad as if we were not raised and reared by strong women who went through more than anything we can possibly imagine. Those who know me know how cruel and insensitive I can be. I will mock a weakness. Dismiss an insecurity. Question a pain. But that says more about me and who I am than them.
People come to me with their pain. I’ve always made people comfortable to confide in me. Give me 10 minutes with anyone and I’ll get their life story. Maybe it’s because I ask questions. I’m just a curious guy. But there’s that saying about a cat too. So is curiosity a bad thing? Well, mind your business. So why do we read stories about a curious monkey when we’re young and developing? The contradictions of who we are is what makes us who we are. You think animals contradict themselves? Like a lion tells a cub that violence is bad and then goes and kills their food? Or is that just a human trait? People share with me. They trust me. In confidence. There’s a contradiction. We have a need to protect ourselves, to create an emotional cocoon, to always exude an air of confidence of I have my shit togetherness so that the world won’t tear us down. But why does the world want to do that to us? The world of course being us. My bad. Back to the contradiction. We have a need to protect ourselves from others and we have a need to share with others. And these opposing needs are in constant battle. Fears, doubts, frustrations, regrets, past, present, future. We feel free when we share. And sometimes we feel vulnerable.
I used to think that men shouldn’t be that way. And there’s a part of me that still feels that way. I don’t know where I got that from. I’m working through that. At least I’m trying to. I’m not going to get it right all the time, Love. Please don’t give up on me. I’d like to think that I can just switch it on and off. But lately I haven’t been. I opened up. Got nothing. Then I retreated. Like a coward. Everybody got their own shit. Nobody wants to deal with somebody else’s shit. Can’t you see everyone’s too busy enjoying their lives? Just look at your phone. It’s not like I ran away. I was still there, present. But only physically. A shell. Pour yourself out. Empty your soul. Who’ll replenish? It’s an eco-system. I eat. You eat. We all eat. Feed each other. Share. Before our secrets eat us up. And there’s nothing left on the table.
Still thinking about purpose. Or rather why. I once asked why in a meeting after someone presented an idea and that person went off. Why, why? Do we need a reason? A justification for the things we do? Think? Want? Hate? Love? Or is the action enough of the why. So I started thinking about why I write these. They’re just straight from the top thought flows of whatever may be on my mind that day. When there are big gaps between these posts people ask me, “Why haven’t you been writing?” But now I’m asking myself, “Why am I writing?”
I started these posts after a meditative writing class that was recommended by my screenwriting teacher. She told me 30 minutes, non-stop, no editing, let it all out, first thing in the morning. It was a challenge. I get why people do the 30 day challenges now. There was a goal. A task to tackle as soon as I woke up in the morning. Recently single. No kids. It was my only responsibility to myself. I haven’t taken the time to go back and see if my writing has changed. Not even sure if it’s been a year yet. Maybe a little longer. I never really thought about the why when I wrote. I never thought about an audience. I just assumed I had none. I wrote freely. I expressed anger, doubt, frustration, insecurities, and hopefully hope. I reminisced and I looked forward. It was the only place where I felt like I could be all those things and not be judged. Not shut down. Not discouraged. Not encouraged. Sometimes we just want to express. Throw a rock in the ocean. Not for attention. But just to do it.
Now I think I write to express all those things above. In our get-more-likes-press-a-heart-button culture we want to put our best selves forward all the time. It’s like every photo and every Tweet is our very first date. We want to impress. And after we impress we want to keep impressing and we want to over impress. We don’t want to lose likes. We don’t want to lose followers. We want more and more. It makes us feel good. It makes us feel relevant. It’s our reward from the world that we matter. That’s why when people see me they ask if I’ve been traveling. Maybe I travel a lot. Don’t feel like I do. Especially when I compare myself to some of my friends. But when I travel is when I post the most photos on social media. I want you to know that I travel to all these cool places. Makes me seem like a man of the world. Even if I’ve never been to most parts of the world. That’s the reality. The sociality is that I’m always away. Because life away is always better than life present. Even when you live in a city like New York. I post less now. Take less photos. Care less about the likes. I used to. Didn’t we all at some point? Doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying life. Doesn’t mean that I am either. Just means I’m not posting as much. People read a lot into social media activities.
I come here to share the things that I don’t or can’t on social media. We’re complicated. Emotionally and mentally. As much as I want to think that I’m a simple man like the man that I thought my dad was for so long, I’m not. And neither he is. He’s simple in that it doesn’t take much to make him happy. I envy that. I wish I was that way. I’m working towards it. Trying to get rid of things. Trying to possess less. Trying to buy less. Trying to see more things as luxuries and less things as necessities. I want more to want less.
There aren’t many places for men to express ourselves. I don’t mean the hyper-masculine machismo things. I cringe at some of the stuff I see on social media expressed by men. I’m sure some cringe at some of the stuff I Tweet too. I haven’t been able to unfollow them tho. I’ve always been fascinated with the way people think. And social media is a great place to get a piece of that. A piece because it’s only that, it’s rarely the whole. Especially the younger guys, I think, was I like that? And if I was, thank God there was no social media then. You know what, I probably was like them. I used to put a lot of value in my ability to date or even be seen with certain type of women. To the point that in my 20s I was known as that Asian dude with beautiful brown women. I hesitated even writing that. It felt weird to write that. But that’s the truth. That’s who I was. Access to music industry events was my calling card. Vibe Magazine was my business card. Some of my male friends’ girlfriends’ joked that they didn’t want them to hang out with me because I always surrounded myself with beautiful women.
I watch rap videos differently now. Am I mature? Or just old? These guys need all these half-naked women shaking their asses to make them feel powerful, to make them feel like a man, to show the world that they are the man. Meanwhile the whole song is about how they can’t find a good girl and how all the women they meet are hoes. Not that being in a rap video makes you bad girl or a hoe. It’s just strange signals being sent out. It’s probably been this way forever. But just now I’m able to process it. My lady asked me if I was a feminist. A few years ago I would have said hell no. But now maybe I am. Or close to it. How do you know?
Like most guys I always thought feminist meant hating men. Kind of like how white folks are cool with you being against racism but ain’t cool with you being Pro-Black or anything Pro-specific to a race. The word made me insecure. The word would automatically put me in a defensive stance. Not even defensive. Full attack mode. I would come out swinging. I’d like to think that I’ve grown in that regard. You can thank the intelligent, strong, beautiful women I’ve fallen in love with over the years for cracking my fragile male shield. They paid the price for it though. I fought like hell not to change. You can ask my current Love. I’m still fighting. Sorry Love. Why am I fighting tho? Should I even try to answer that? Should I even think about that?
I write now to show the opposite side of the social me. I want to show the messy and the ugly. If I’m cocky on social, I want to show the vulnerable on here. I got over 4,000 followers on Twitter. I have no idea why. I don’t know if I’d follow me. I’m such a mixed bag. But that should be OK. That’s what I like about myself. Am I allowed to say that I like certain things about myself? Are men allowed to say that? Are men of color allowed? I want my writing to be like the B-Side. The slow jams side. The side that maybe people never got to after the A-side. But you could always revisit the B-Side. The die hards always swear the B-Side was better anyway. This ain’t the remix.
Been lacking a little purpose lately. Been feeling like I’ve just been going through the motions. Just trying to be busy by being busy. Clocking in. Clocking out. Maybe it’s because my 39th birthday is coming up in a few weeks. I don’t make a big deal about my birthday anymore. It’s usually right around Thanksgiving. This year it’s right on Thanksgiving. Plus my family’s not big into celebrations. Though starting this year I’ve made it a point to visit my folks in Little Rock on their birthdays. It’s on my mind that soon there won’t be too many opportunities left for us to do that. But right around my birthday time I do find myself getting into a bit of a funk. I can’t remember when it started. It definitely wasn’t my 20s. I was too busy throwing birthday parties for myself then. I think I decided to stop having them on my 30th birthday when I took out my close friends out to dinner. A birthday now just reminds me that time has passed. A year gone. Already. What did I do? What did I get accomplished? How did I change? Did I grow as a person?
Maybe that’s it. The marking of time passed. Lately at the end of the work day I’ll try to think about what I got done. What did I work on today? Especially as the days get darker earlier. Or the weekend comes and I think about what I completed that week. I remember going to watch Sister Souljah speak at Ithaca College when I was in high school. I remember her saying, “If you didn’t get what you needed to get done during the week then you don’t party on the weekend.” That stayed with me. Twenty five years later we follow each other on Twitter. We had some colorful exchanges about Korea when she was there. I have no idea how she found me. I’ve never read any of her books. The other day My Lady Arletis and I were watching old music videos. TLC’s “Red Light Special” came on and as we were laughing at Boris Kodjoe’s feathered boa I said, “I can’t believe that was 20 years ago.” She paused. “That was 20 years ago? No way.” Yes it was. 21 to be exact. Time flies. Does it? Did it for my boy Shane who spent 20 years in federal prison? Probably not. Does it mean for the last 21 years Arletis and I spent our lives living fully and living fast? What does that even mean?
I’ve been thinking about why I haven’t been writing. Visited Ithaca a few weeks ago with Arletis. Met up with my childhood friend Alexis. He encouraged me to write. Talked about how my pieces in the school paper and magazine in high school would shake up the students. How they all went straight to my columns when they came out. I was such an angry kid. Sad too. Because I didn’t fit. Didn’t know where to fit. I’m happy there are more stories coming out about the immigrant experience. As I get older I’ve been thinking about how complex it was for us to figure out who we were. Adolescence is tough enough. Being an immigrant becoming an adolescent in a foreign country can’t be told in just one story. Until now we’ve only been allowed one everything. But we layered man. Plus I grew up in a small college town. And I’m still learning about my hometown’s complexities. I grew up in Ithaca and then went to Cornell University in Ithaca where my fellow Ivy League students put down people from Ithaca as “townies.” And back then I never thought they were referring to me. Because I’d made it out. Or is it made it up?
You see Cornell sits on a hill. And as you go down the hill you realize it’s a different world. The people look different. People live hard lives down that hill. It’s a world that I was shielded from when I grew up there. I hear my childhood friends who still live there share their struggles with me and I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel bad for them or feel bad for me because I left. Even now when I go back, even though my parents no longer live there, I feel out of place. I’m from here, just like you, I feel like saying. But I know people down the hill don’t look at me as their own.
It’s a strange feeling to not feel like you have a home base. Ithaca was for a long time. My parents bought their first home when I was in college. I didn’t grow up in that house. We lived in two apartments before that. Now they live in Little Rock. When people ask me if I’m going home for the holidays. I tell them I’m going to visit my parents. It’s not home. Mom and Dad, I don’t want you to feel bad when you read this. I don’t blame you for any of this. None of it is your fault. I know you guys did whatever was best for our family. And nothing was easy. I have no idea how you did it. How you hid all the pain and suffering from us.
I’ve moved around a lot in New York. It’s given me a taste of different neighborhoods and cultures and every experience has been rewarding in their own way. My latest neighborhood is a little less inspiring. Although I can already feel it changing. I see the people moving into the building. And I wonder if the old residents see me in the same light. Do they not want me here? Or do they see me as one of them? Don’t worry I will not claim this as my home. But I won’t disrespect it either. It’s just temporary. As temporary as 12 months can be. 12 months is a year. I’ll be 40 right around this time next year. 12 months. Hopefully I’ll feel more settled then. But isn’t settling bad? Folks always talking about never settle. Folks always talking about never giving up. But I wonder what they’re going for. What’s the goal? What do you do when you achieve that? What happens then? Is money the goal? Fame? Putting people on? Early retirement doesn’t sound fun to me.
I see more of my folks moving to LA. I get why. I see folks moving to more purpose or cause related work. I get why. But maybe without everything that came before it, whatever it may be, it wouldn’t feel as good. Without the brutal winters in NY the sun in LA isn’t as warm. Without all the soulless mindless work that paid you lots of money the feel good heartwarming work that pays you less couldn’t happen. So what’s my next step? What’s my next risk? My gamble? Applause to folks who don’t make it seem easy. And if it is easy for you then maybe do something else. As for me, I’m just trying to get home.
How’s my writing? I haven’t written in five months. First post since May. Has it gotten better? Can you feel the rust? Do I need to warm up? Stretch? Meditate? Or maybe I need to read more articles and books about how the most amazing people do the most amazing things and I can just copy what they do so that I can achieve amazingness. Or is it greatness that we’re after? We wouldn’t want to work on anything or pour our hearts into something that no one would like, right? Or is it about not caring if other people like it and doing what we love and as long as you love it and your parents say “Good job” then, well, you’ve done your job.
The fear of criticism. We run from it when it comes to our stuff but we sprint towards it when it comes to other people’s stuff. The idea that somehow that our opinions matter and that’s all that matters leaves no room for discussion and productive discourse. Especially if everything is lit, fire, cool, or trash. I always try to imagine a cool picture of a pile of trash that’s been lit on fire when I hear those words used to describe something. Maybe that’s what everything is now. Consumed, tossed out, set on fire, and we all just stare in enjoyment. It’s a lonely place to love something that everyone around you hates and to hate something that everyone around you loves. Especially with all the chatter. It’s tempting to want to join in on the fun of loving or hating something. Groupthink is surely a powerful thing that we never escape. No matter how much we say we pretend to not care about it.
What’s wrong about caring tho? When did that become not cool? The thing about people who proclaim to not care about what anyone thinks is that if people truly didn’t care about them then they wouldn’t have to worry about anyone caring about them. The people who care about those who proclaim to not care make them not caring relevant. We need people. We all do. We need people to believe in us. We need people to challenge us. We need people to support us. We need people to doubt us. We need people to understand. We need people to dismiss us. People drive us. They fuel us to go and they fuel us to stop. We like to think that we achieved things on our own with no help but that’s never the case. Trash and fire can both motivate us to move forward.
Lately I’ve become more aware of the way I criticize things. Why am I quicker to chop something down than I am to build something up? I physically cringe when I’m in a group critique of someone else’s work these days. Why do we spend so much time and energy pointing out flaws? This is a new thing for me. I’ve always been still super critical. I know I can be annoying to be around, especially when watching TV shows and movies. Just because I took a few screenwriting classes I think I’m some kind of expert and I have this need to exert my superior knowledge onto anyone in my sphere. And that’s what everyone is now, everyone is some kind of expert. Foodies, music junkie, film buff. Whatever else term there is. Everyone in my world seems to be a creative director of some sorts. Read a few articles, read one book, watch the same documentary that everyone else watched on something really specific, on Netflix. I really love it and I consume a lot of it so therefore I’m an expert and my opinion matters.
As the credits rolled at the end of “Sicario,” the girl sitting next to me at the theater said to her boyfriend, “This is the worst movie I’ve ever seen.” I scoffed, internally, of course. It wasn’t the best movie I’ve ever seen. It certainly wasn’t the worst. I enjoyed it. Very solid. But is she wrong to think that? Is it wrong for me to think that she’s wrong to think that? You can’t force your tastes onto others. There isn’t much I won’t eat but I don’t enjoy particular things like bitter melon and I’m not crazy about mushrooms. But I’ll eat them if they’re around. I’m sure there are plenty of people who will go on about the joys of bitter melon and mushrooms. And I’ll likely say that I just don’t like them. But I doubt I’ll say they’re trash or disgusting. I know, just words man. But words, man, infiltrate our lives, our thinking, our attitude, our outlook, affects those around us. The devaluation of words while trying to increase the value of our opinions is counterproductive. Too much of both. Think pieces used to mean more.
I appreciate the few check in once in awhile to ask me if I’ve been writing or why I haven’t been writing or people like Rey who remind me on Twitter how long it’s been since I’ve written. I am nobody. I can’t imagine the pressures famous artists feel. I can see why they run away or cave. To be asked all the time. When’s your next piece of work? Then I see My Lady. Making music for fun. For herself. Wanting to share her talents and works with a world that’s too busy setting trash on fire. The artist’s life, the creative’s process has been romanticized and packaged like everything that’s pure and painful. I’m certainly guilty of that. To tell people to do just work hard is flat and hollow. To tell people to just be themselves in a world at a time when celebrities are celebrated as authentic doesn’t take into account the real process—our shared struggle to accept ourselves so that we can accept others.
We all want the best. The best things. The best food. The best experiences. It’s embarrassing how many times I’ve Googled “the best ____” and “the best ____ in ___.” I’ve wasted valuable hours of my life researching the best. I think the most recent one was best bath towels. I wanted to get new towels for Her. The old towels were fine for me. But for Her I wanted her to use the best towels when she came over. I tend to hold onto things for years and years. I get that from my parents. My dad has a pair of Timberlands that are held together by duct tape. He said he just uses it to garden. Doesn’t make sense to him to get a new one. I made fun of him for it. Then I came back to Brooklyn and noticed that my clay incense hut is held together by three pieces of electrical tape. Yup, I’m clearly the fruit.
Not sure when I got obsessed with the best. Pre-Internet it was word of mouth and trust. I trust her taste in things so what she says is cool with me. A personal recommendation and suggestion was all that was needed. There were always critics. I became one later. Best of issues were helpful. You trusted certain media outlets or certain writers. They shaped our tastes. Of course I didn’t like everything that they deemed to be the best. But often they expanded my reach, challenged my views, and exposed me to things that I’d never experience on my own. I wanted to know why a particular album was considered one of the best of the year. What makes this so great?
Then the Internet decided that everyone’s opinion mattered. Everyone became an expert. It was blogs and comments then social media. Now it’s a bunch of noise. That’s what happens when you get older, everything sounds like noise. I’m a willing participant in the creation of that noise. I follow, favorite, like, RT, and Tweet. And in our never ending hunger for attention and LULZ we express everything in hyperboles. It’s either trash or fire. Every dish we photograph is the best thing we’ve ever tasted. Maybe I’m just jealous because my life isn’t like that. Imagine if every moment of every new day of your life was the best moment of your life. The best concert. The best shrimp. The best waiter. The best trip. The best song. The best movie. The best store. The best party. The best DJ. The best of the best. Only.
Cause that’s how we should strive to live. You deserve it. You earned it. You work hard. Go ahead. We’re bombarded with messages about bringing out the best in you. Here’s how you can do it. Just buy this first tho. Marketing and advertising feed off our insatiable insecurity of not being good enough. It’s the first day of school, every day, for the rest of your life. But what will they think of me? Unlock your hidden potential! You’re not living the life you deserve because you didn’t know you had it in you. Just buy these sneakers and you will be the best, like everyone else who bought the sneakers. I think about those science fiction movies where the best of the best people live outside of earth and the rest of the imperfects squander their lives on the decrepit lands of earth. Eat the best foods. Do the best workout. Wear the best clothes. Funny, just remembered I applied for a job at Best Life back in the day. It was a magazine for men by Men’s Health. It folded.
How can anyone sustain a life of only the best everything? Recently Tone said I deserved the best speakers because I was such a music fan. And of course they were expensive. I definitely spent a lot of time researching the speakers I did end up getting. They’re not the best, I’m sure of that. But they’re fine. Good enough for me. I do love music but I don’t make a living off it. I enjoy it. I like to buy a record here and there and listen to them. Rarely do I buy on sight tho. I usually look up an album to see if it has a good rating. Or if it’s one of the best albums by that artist. I always feel like a fraud when I do, especially at a record store where the workers and shoppers tend to be snobs. See, there goes that insecurity. Now if they have a listening station I’ll set up shop but if they don’t, yeah I Google. I’ve written about it before but I get a thrill from finding the bargain. The retro Sansui receiver I bought for $40 at a thrift shop in North Little Rock where the owner wasn’t sure if it worked or not will bring me more joy than scouring the Internet for a $500 receiver that’s considered the best receiver of all time.
The best shouldn’t be so easy to attain, so easy to find, so easy to Google. Best has been cheapened. And I partake in it, way too much. Yelp. Tripadvisor. Best of listicles. I click. I need to ask more, engage. Ask, what’s the best place to eat around here? Then just go there. Not look it up after they suggest. Why even ask? I never ask waiters what’s the best thing to get. I ask what their favorite dishes are. You’ll probably get different answers. The best thing they suggest may be things that they’ve been trained to push. Who decides what’s the best? What happens if you don’t like what everyone’s decided is the best? Oh the disappointment. The dramatic letdown you feel after watching a really good movie that everyone said was the best movie, ever. You feel like life cheated you. The world conspired to lie to you. They’re all laughing at you. So of course you think it was the worst movie, ever. Because it wasn’t the best movie, ever, like everyone else said it was. But we’d never admit that we’re affected by what others say or think because we have our own standards. Sure, we need to feel special, precious, and unique. In our common search for the best.
As for the towel, I ended up getting Her a better version of the last towel I got for myself. It’s prettier, handmade, got little tassels on it. And of course it had a 4.5 star rating on Amazon. Of course it did. But it’s not the one that comes up when you Google “best bath towel.” Those were more expensive. It’s not that She doesn’t deserve them. Of course She does. We all deserve the best. But not just in things man. That’s easy. But rather in ourselves and each other. That’s the best. And also the hardest. An Un Yelpable Life.
First dates are weird. Maybe dating is weird. But first dates, we feel the need to put on this air about ourselves. What should I wear? Should I get a cut? What cologne should I wear? Where should I pick to go? Do I need to pick a place that she will think is cute? What if she doesn’t like cute and needs trendy or fancy? What if she’s been there before? There can be a lot of thinking that goes into that first date. Maybe it’s easier for other guys. I hadn’t been on a first date in awhile. Single. Again. Same girl. Some of her shit is still here. She’s been too busy protecting dreams with her new guy. I’d hung out with some folks in between the first break up but I don’t think there were any official first dates. Besides I’d known them before so there was a familiarity there. But like a real first date with someone who you really don’t know? There’s pressure to that. Who do I want her to think I am? What impression am I trying to make?
I asked a few of my friends where I should go. Got a few suggestions. Some of my guys said I needed to go home, shower, and change. I think they were kidding. Maybe a little bit of truth. But I got tired of thinking. Not that I didn’t care. Of course I cared. But like I’ve written before, I’m trying to think less. Feel more. Not be impulsive but more balanced with my thinking and feeling. Too much of anything is too much. This is me. I wear camo army pants almost everyday because I don’t want to spend too much thinking about what I’m going to wear when I wake up in the morning. It’s not that I don’t care about what I look like. I think I actually look fine in those pants. They tend to go with everything. I’ve been rocking the double collars again. Brought that back from my look from ten years ago. Definitely helps with this cold ass winter. This is me, I wear camo pants. If she doesn’t like it, then she doesn’t like me. I know how to dress. I’m confident in that. But I’m not going out of my way to show you a side of me that’s less me. I want to show you more of me.
In the end, I picked the first spot that popped into my head. It’s one of my favorite spots in KTown. It’s not fancy. It’s homey. It’s comfortable. Warm. They know me there. They leave me alone. They don’t rush you. It’s not loud. The food is good. It’s not amazing. It’s a combination of all those things. I like nice, fancy things once in awhile. Doesn’t everybody? But not all the time. I don’t need nice and fancy all the time. Plus I’m too cheap or I’m whatever synonym that means cheap in a nicer way. If we go to a nice, fancy, four dollar sign restaurant on the first date you’ve just set the bar. How do you go back down from that? Hey, I don’t usually do this but here’s a preview to what it’s not going to be like if we keep going on dates. Unless that’s your thing playboy. Like if you got it like that and you only dine at Michelin starred spots, go for it. It just ain’t me. Hopefully, we can work up to that. What are we supposed to do on special occasions if that’s our usual? Get Daniel Boloud to shut down his spot just for us? I’m not living a Jay-Z video here. I don’t really aspire to either. And I hope she’s OK with that.
It takes a lot of courage to be yourself. Not the best of yourself but all of yourself. Hey this is me, all my flaws, fears, insecurities, and issues. Things I want to work on. We both laid it out. You still here? OK. Thanks for staying. Hope you enjoy the show. How are you going to build anything sound on a shaky foundation? Build something on a lie and the truth will make it crumble. I guess I put out this air that I got my shit together. In a lot of ways I do. In a lot of ways I don’t. The latter is the part that I don’t show. I’m working on that now. I never understood when my boy Chad would talk about the need to seek truth. I’d be like that must be some acting class shit that’s beyond my production based comprehension. But a few books I’ve been reading and other life developments have helped me understand better. Yeah, my truth. My honesty. First with myself, before anyone else. Speak up more. Don’t hold it in and let it fester and bubble up and explode later. This is how I feel, this is how I think, if you disagree that’s fine but let’s just get out there. Communication isn’t just agreeing. Progress comes from discomfort. There? Yeah let’s go there. We have to.
We went to my spot. The waitress who is always good to me smiled every time she came the table. It kept things calm and warm. Do you know how hard it is to get a genuine smile in this city? Date was great. She’ll probably read this and it’s quite early so I should watch what I say, even if it’s all positive. She asked to see my writing before but I was hesitant. I do reveal a lot on here. And I want to reveal more. See, there’s that fear of worrying what someone will think. I get why so many writers are reclusive. We talked for almost four hours. They left us alone. It didn’t feel like four hours. I can’t sit still for that long. I hate long group dinners. We revealed a lot. I’m losing my hair, I said. I took off my Stetson to reveal my receding hairline. She smiled, blushed, and said I like it. That gives you confidence to be yourself. I don’t want to pretend to be someone I’m not. I don’t want to live up to an image that’s only a part of myself. This is a package deal. Chef’s choice. Set menu. No a la carte. No Burger King. The menu will change though, can’t eat the same thing everyday without going crazy. You just gotta hope that they return, trust that it will be a familiar yet new experience every time in different settings. Fancy too. But most importantly you just hope that you both smile when you see each other. Genuinely.
You just pick up habits. And you’re not even aware but others can see it. They can tell when you’re about to do it again. They don’t say anything because you’ve earned their trust. But they know you’re doing it again. And they know how it’s going to end. You tell them it will be different this time. I know what I’m doing. Can’t you tell that I’m happy? Please be happy for me. I need your support. I’d do the same for you. I know what it looks like but you don’t see what I see. So they smile and nod. Tell you they got your back. Always. Just be careful. Gotta get that in.
There’s a part of you that agrees. You know they know you. But you’ll do what you’ll do. Like you always do. That’s what makes you, you. Stubborn. Hard headed. Thinking that doing the same thing with different people will lead to different results. Just haven’t found the right person yet is all. Or the people’s favorite: timing. The timing was off. That’s all. Never take the blame, never take responsibility, it’s their fault when things go bad, you claim it when things go good. You wanna tell them how you really feel. But you’re afraid of how they may really see you. You know when you’re all alone, sitting at home, and those thoughts and feelings that sink in and linger inside making you question who you are, what you’ve done, and what you’re doing? Those types of things. Should you share them? But what will they think? You wish you would’ve told them when your words mattered.
Everybody seems so perfect all the time. Their lives seem amazing. Every moment is a perfect Instagram. Every feeling is a famous quote. But you don’t know them. We never do. Honesty hurts. That’s why we hold it in. Are we being who we think we should be or who we think other people want us to be? Attention as the ultimate social commodity. Saw that on an Instagram post today. There are things you want to tell them. But you won’t. You’ll just think about it. And think about thinking about it. And if they tell you what you wanted to tell them, you’ll tell them that you’d been thinking about telling them that too. Why didn’t you? I didn’t want to scare you you’ll say.
We don’t remember the safe ones. We don’t remember the pleasant ones. The extremes we never forget. You want to think there’s more than what we see. What’s in there? What are you hiding? Secrets pile up in our emotional attics as we age. Maybe one day someone will rummage through them. And hope that they don’t think it’s all junk.
I feel the need to write something epic. Like at this very instant. Every word, every sentence has to be epic. I look forward to reading about your travels. A few folks told me that. Went to Portugal for a few days then to Zanzibar for a little over a week. When I was there I felt like I was gone for a long time. It was my second time in Portugal. The first time I don’t remember much. Was there for a BMW press trip and we stayed at the resort most of the time. I just remember it being warm and fresh seafood. This time it wasn’t as warm. Both trips weren’t really planned. Someone I knew was going to be at both. If you tell me you’re going somewhere or that you are somewhere that I’ve never been to and that I can come, I will likely join you. Because.
I don’t want to recap my travels. Tell you what I saw and what I did. That sounds like a class project for 4th graders. And I don’t know if I came back with some deep thoughts about the ways of the world and how things should be and how I appreciate the small things and how blessed we are to be able to eat whatever we want at whatever time in this currently big, cold, slushy city. That sounds like something white people do. They write books about it then they get made into movies. Mostly white women though. Think some guy got busted recently for lying about helping some kids with his charity or something. Also, I went to Africa and did not take any pictures with dangerous animals to use as my profile picture. And neither did I take any pictures with a bunch of kids. So did I really go to Africa?
Whenever I travel I have a sense of guilt, moral quandary. About being an American. But not being viewed initially as an American. I’m always Chinese to them. Mostly because Chinese are everywhere. Whenever I’m traveling and I see a big group of Chinese tourists making noise and rumbling through, I try to keep my distance. I don’t want to be confused as one of them. You probably think that’s some Asian self-hatred. If you’re not Asian and you haven’t traveled to another part of the country and seen the horde I’m referring to, you ain’t understand. In Zanzibar America was referred to as “Obamaland.” A guy asked me how many times I’d seen Obama in person. I said never. He said he’d seen him 4 times. In neighboring Kenya and in Tanzania. He was very proud of that. I’m getting bad at small talk. I think I used to be better. And when you’re traveling you have to do a lot of small talk. With locals who are curious, who want to sell you something, or who want to sleep with your friend. And then there are the other tourists. I didn’t run into too many Americans in Zanzibar. I was told most Americans don’t travel to East Africa. Since it’s so far. But Europeans, especially Germans be everywhere. And Aussies. The Italians run the island tho. Those who work in hospitality all speak fluent Italian. It’s a trip to see. I guess we’re supposed to feel a connection as foreigners in a country far from home. But I couldn’t feel it. I was probably resisting or refusing to see it. I wondered if people were running away from something or running to something.
Been trying to think about why Americans don’t seem to travel as much as Europeans. And I don’t mean travel as in go to a resort and sip of sugary drinks with little umbrellas on them. I’m talking like take months off and just backpack the world. I personally don’t know anyone who’s done that. I personally don’t know anyone who wants to do that either. But it seems like right of passage for Europeans and Australians. Is it in their blood? After all, they did travel, explore, plunder, and colonize most of the world way before us non-whites. Probably has more to do with their work life balance and time off from school and stuff. Met a dirty, stinky, bearded Australian who’d been traveling the world for six months with a bag and his guitar. His goal was to see as much of the world by bartering and not spending any money. We learned that after we agreed to share a taxi together. Don’t think I gained anything in that exchange. He asked me what I did for a living. I told him marketing. He told me sorry to hear that. Oh and he was writing about his travels for a magazine. Which is also marketing, mate.
People asked me if I was writing while I was there. I didn’t realize people cared if I wrote or not. Maybe it’s just small talk. Should I have been writing? Traveling is so personal. Everyone has a different experience depending on who you are and especially what you look like. Race. Sex. All that comes to play. There are privileges that come with that depending on where you’re at in the world. You can see the minds churn. Not Chinese. Born in Korea. From the States. New York. When I was riding the dala dala through the villages in Tanzania I wondered if any of the passengers had been this close to a Korean before. Sweaty, cramped, and uncomfortable we sat and looked at each other in silence with the same curiosity. They probably wondered what the hell I was doing. It’s OK, I was too. I didn’t even know where Tanzania, I had to look it up online. I booked the ticket a week before. Thank God for miles. All those flights to the exotic lands of Portland and Orlando finally paid off.
I have a hard time being still. I have no fantasies of living on a beach. I am not a beach bum. I can’t just sit and bake under a sun all day. Some people can. They love it. I think they derive powers from the sun and water. I was blown away by the nature in Zanzibar. Never seen terrain or water like that before. But it was so freaking hot. I got pretty badly sunburnt. SPF45 has no chance under the African sun. The sun was hurting me, my skin. I thought I was being a wuss but then a dude from Rwanda told me that he was in pain too which made me feel better. Guess I needed my pain to be validated. I had to force myself to relax which made me wonder if I was whatever the opposite of relaxed is. Too much thinking. Not enough epic. Maybe tomorrow.
Don’t know why we save things. Not talking about money. But things. Physical things. Digital things. Why do we save photos? Why do we save text messages? Emails? Clothes we haven’t worn since the first week we bought them. Maybe that look will come back in style. You know how things go in cycles. I’ve got books that I’ve had since college that I never read in college although they were assigned. Finally read one a few weeks ago. Breezed through it. Enjoyed it too. I’ve got stacks of records that I’ve probably listened to once. One year I listened to every record I owned. I still get rid of some once in awhile. Books too. A lot of them are gifts that people gave me. They thought I’d enjoy them. I didn’t. Guess they don’t know me.
I moved recently to a bigger place. From a Chinatown studio to a 2.5 bedroom in Brooklyn. Can’t tell if that’s moving up or not. During any move you stare at all the shit you’ve accummulated. Why do I have this Wu-Tang booklet from 2000? And you see things that you only see when you move. You stash them away. I don’t do storage. That doesn’t make sense to me. Oh I forgot I had this you think when you’re packing. Then you move to a new spot and say this doesn’t fit, I should get rid of it. Or you try to get rid of something and your girlfriend at the time says no keep it, I want it, I want those books. Even though she never looked at them the whole time you had them. Because there’s more room now. There’s more room for things. Stuff. Shit. Depending on who you ask.
I’m far from a hoarder. Far from a collector. Dad thinks I have too many sneakers. You only have two feet he says. Though he does enjoy the shoes I hand down to him. I have records but I don’t have some sick collection of rarities and B-side 45s. What’s that trendy word? Curated? Yeah I try to do that. For myself. Clothes? Almost everything I own hangs on one rolling rack. Ellington inspired me to do that. I never got into collecting sneakers. Mostly because I never could afford them up. Never bought a pair of Jordan’s. Maybe I wanted them but trained myself to not want them because I couldn’t afford them.
Accumulating things and putting them out for display has become a way for us to express ourselves. Selectively arrange the books you own and display them in the living room so that people can get a sense that you’re deep, sensitive, well-rounded, cultured motherfucker. Doesn’t matter if you’ve never read them. It’s branding. Yeah I do it. Someone’s bathroom says a lot about them. It’s not in public view. It’s one of the most frequented but the amount of time you spend in there isn’t long. Well maybe if you have a palatial MTV Cribs like bathroom. I do not. We spend time decorating a room so people can piss and shit while in a pleasant mood. For now the act of pissing and shitting is pleasant for me. When I get older I’m sure it won’t be as so.
Then there are the digital things and stuff. Photos from 4 years ago that are on your phone. Texts from your ex. MP3s of your boy’s mixtape from 3 years ago. They take up space too. I had to do a massive cleaning of my phone and laptop. Damn text messages and emails with attachments take up too much damn space. I purposely get the lowest memory possible. I don’t want clutter. But I still have those things mentioned above. Do people really go back and read all the text messages from their past? If so, what for? I don’t remember which movie it was but a character said that people only watch videos of their wedding when they get a divorce or when their spouse dies. When I run out of space I always think about getting more memory. But then I think for what? To have more shit that I’ll forget that I had? A few years back I lost all my music. I don’t miss them. Especially now when every song ever recorded is just a click away. I also stopped listening to music on my phone because that’s what record collectors do, right?
Memory takes up space. Digitally as well as mentally. We try to hold onto things, memories of our past. They change. We forget. We remember the things we want the way we want. Even the bad memories. We tell the story that we want. We want to remember things so we can learn. So we don’t repeat things, make the same mistakes, so we can get better. But like in “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,” we usually do repeat. One time when a relationship that I thought was It ended I reached out to my college sweetheart. Still my longest relationship to this day. My first real adult love. She’s the one who suffered from lupus that I mentioned in a previous post. I reached out to her to ask her about the way I was back then. I wanted to know if I was stuck in a pattern of making the same mistakes. She agreed to meet me. “You having a High Fidelity moment,” she asked. We caught up. Then I started asking questions. And guess what, she didn’t remember much. She said she was sorry but that it was a tough period in her life. She broke up with me soon after she recovered from some lupus setbacks. Light chemo. Hospitalization. I imagine alone time in a hospital bed will have you rethink your life. After the recovery, she broke up with me, and partied hard, she said. Drinking, smoking, hard drugs. All things that she knew she shouldn’t be doing, especially with her condition. I was looking for her to give me insight for my personal growth. But she’d taken steps to grow herself. Without me. And had to leave me in the past to achieve it.
But there I was still holding onto a memory. Or trying to dust off the memories in my head space. Filled with things. At times I’ve been accused of doing or saying things just for the good story. Bryan once asked me if I was really feeling what I was feeling doing what I was doing or just doing it because I wanted it for my story. This will make for a good story. Maybe one day I’ll share it on my blog that 30 people look at whenever I post. Things, stuff, memories pile up. You don’t know why you have them. Or if it even makes sense to make sense of it. Somebody will probably come along and tell you about yourself anyway. You know what your problem is? A lot of my mom’s stories now start with, “Do you remember?” I do most of the time. Sometimes I don’t. And I wonder why some memories stick and others don’t. Maybe we just don’t have the storage space. Or likely they’re buried somewhere and they’ll just resurface when it’s time to move.
#36 // Neil Young & Crazy Horse "Rust Never Sleeps"
Sometimes I’m afraid of what I’ll write. I’m afraid that what I write might upset or hurt someone. Sometimes I’m afraid that what I’ll write might upset or hurt me. Shock myself. Who are you man? Who do you think I am? Not who I thought I was? I also don’t want to write just for the sake of shock value. Or to get attention. There’s plenty who do. But what can shock anyone anymore? We’re so desensitized. We’ve clicked/read/watched every “shocking” link. Is it real? Is it a movie? How come the lighting and camerawork is so good in this raw video? Or maybe I’ll just write what’s right. Something that everyone will like. And approve. And that’s what will make me happy. Expressing things that other people but feel like they can’t is always appreciated. To swim in your own head can be a lonely and frustrating place. Especially if you have no outlet. You look at the pile of to-dos and wonder where you’re going to start and wonder how it got there in the first place. You just keep looking thinking that it will go away.
Not sure there’s a good time anymore. Just a bad time. Busy doing nothing. Doing nothing being busy. Men can’t really talk about hurt. It’s a sign of weakness. Fear is something that’s frowned upon. Have no fear! Fear is what makes roller coasters fun. It’s that adrenaline rush. It’s knowing that something could go so terribly wrong that makes us want to do it. But there’s a safety harness. We get strapped in. There are engineers who test it out once in awhile. Yeah there’s a few accidents and horror stories a few times a year but for the most part we know we’ll be fine. Love is like that. We go over a checklist and if someone fits most of our criteria then we’ll go ahead. Well, they gotta pass the physical before we sign them to our practice squad. How do they get along with the rest of the teammates? What will their locker room presence be like? But unlike sports it’s not like we get insight from multiple scouts, former employers, former co-workers, and experts who study their whole pasts. We go with our gut. Yeah I like her, your boys say. You seem happy. I’m happy for you.
I’ve never done the take your time thing. Like months of dating and courting. It’s pretty instant. Which doesn’t really fit the M.O. for other things in my life. I usually do a ton of research before I even buy an umbrella. A lot of it has to do with my former journalism days. A lot of curiosity as well. Not sure what you’re supposed to do. Isn’t love supposed to be an emotional, instinctual thing? Something that’s not supposed to be so calculated? Like some type of risk analysis situation like Ben Stiller in “Along Came Polly”? Just do it. Go for it. Head first. Gotta be all in if you want to be all in. Risk it all to have it all. You gotta be friends with your partner first, really get to know each other. I know some married folks like that. Known each other since high school. Been together since college.
How they stay together through all that change is baffling. Then again may be we really don’t change at our core. Do our wants? Someone asked me what is that you really want? Can people really answer that question? People really know what they really want? Really? Or are we just scared to admit what we really want? “Yeah but what does that mean?” a woman asked me when I told her that I was in love with someone. I didn’t have an answer. Some relationship expert who wrote a book will probably say that if I can’t answer that question then I really wasn’t. Or maybe love is so complex and complicated that it can’t be captured in a Tweet. Or in a Phuckyoquotes post. Or even in a movie or book. And like most things we focus on the great parts and the terrible parts while ignoring the parts that are neither. Because it’s usually those moments when we get restless. Emotionally, mentally, and physically. There’s that pile again. It hasn’t moved. Let me go have a look.
Wait wait, I changed my mind. Don’t tell me. I’d rather not know. Please don’t share that information with me. Don’t tell me your feelings. I can’t take that on right now. Because you’re asking me to care and caring is heavy. It comes natural to me. I wish I could dismiss your feelings of distress, fear, doubt, loneliness, and anger more easily. What’s that? You never thought that I cared? Why? Cause I didn’t react the way you wanted me to react? Because I didn’t show it the way you hoped I would? You’re probably right. I’m not too good at that. I internalize things. I’m a man. I’m Asian. Not excuses. Just reminding you. Wait, before you start on your rant about being a man and Asian culture, you know I cared tho right? And somehow that caring turned into me closing up even more, getting colder, and you saw that as me not caring at all.
When my younger sister was diagnosed with cancer in her mid-20s, I just ran away. I didn’t know how to deal with it. So I wasn’t there. I tried to behind being busy with work. I didn’t realize I was doing it. Later on we talked about it. She forgave me. When I broke down and cried sitting at a table at a cancer fundraiser. She said we all have our own ways of dealing with things. I cared a lot. I was scared. I hated feeling helpless, useless, powerless like there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t beat up my younger sister’s cancer. That’s what older brothers do for their younger sisters. I cared. That’s why I was scared. That’s why I ran away. But of course it would come off that I didn’t care. Dad sent me an email during the day at work about how he was feeling about the cancer and I was dismissive. Told him that I had so much to deal with and him sending emails like that really threw off my day when I had to focus on what I had to do. Dad, if you’re reading this, I’m really sorry. I was in my mid-20s. I thought the world I figured out revolved around me. Again, not an excuse. An explanation.
It’s possible that we don’t know how to care. Not caring is popular. I don’t give a fuck about you or anything that you do. That’s shouted over and over at parties. Celebrate life. By not giving a fuck. About anything. Except yourself. No one really teaches you how to care. Naturally we feel something when we witness things that resonate with us. That touches us. Yesterday me, Phil, Vinny, and Jocelyne were talking about songs that can make you cry. The talk started because I asked if Phil had ever cried at a concert. Automatically we associate crying with sadness. But tears of joy do exist. I don’t cry much. I tear up once in awhile. Movies, especially docs will do that. A really great sermon or the jovial big guy with the booming voice who sings solo at my church. I can remember most of the times that I’ve cried as an adult. Like real cry. We think that’s the ultimate symbol of caring. We say someone “broke down” and cried. I’ve had girls accuse me of not caring because I didn’t cry about something that they think I should’ve cried. Maybe I did. In private. I also don’t know what to do when someone cries. Are you supposed to hold them? I don’t remember what it was like for me as a kid. I got spanked. Hearing stories about my behavior makes me think I deserved it.
You argue. You get angry. You say things. Hurtful things. Things you regret later. They crie. At that moment you’re still angry. Do you go in for the kill? Do you back off? Do you console them? Do you apologize for making them cry? Did you make them cry? Are you supposed to care? It’s hard to convince someone that you care about them when they’re crying. A woman crying in public is one of the saddest scenes. Especially on the train. You have no idea what you’re supposed to do. Don’t want to be seen as the creepy guy trying to make a move on a vulnerable woman. You’re supposed to mind your business right? My ex used to tell them, “It’s going to be OK.” Never asked why they were crying. Guess it doesn’t matter. That’s not our business. But a little compassion. A little care. Sure, that’s free. It’s going to be OK.
I care. I care a lot. Sometimes more than I wish I did. I envy some of my friends who seem to go on with their lives with less care about things. Doesn’t mean they’re careless or cold. They just don’t let other people’s troubles trouble them. I don’t do that very well. Another friend of mine seems to carry the weight of the world with him at all times. The ability to feel things deeply isn’t something I want to discard. Oh shit, I feel something. I cut my big toe nails too short and sometimes I have to slowly pull it off. And it catches a piece of my skin. And it bleeds a tad. There’s a cool, breezy feeling there after. I feel like I cut my toe nail. You think it sounds sadistic? I don’t care. It’s like after a great workout and you feel sore, you feel like you really achieved something. I’m getting worried because I think my body is getting used to the 1 mile swims. Now I gotta go longer. Because I don’t feel the pain. Which means more time. Which is something we’re all after.
It’s Thursday. So that means TBT. That’s Throwback Thursday. It’s when people post old photos of themselves on social media. People who know us who didn’t know us then get a nice chuckle. Those who post fondly reminisce about the time period and the culture of that time. What sticks out to me is people’s personal style. Is “personal” redundant in that sentence. Should it just be “people’s style”? If you go back and look at someone’s past TBT posts you see how their look evolved and reflected the trends of that time. Of course none of us like to think that we were or are following any type of trend. Being labeled, placed in a bottle is something we resist and will argue against. Almost everyone ever photographed for street style fashion blog will say that their style is their own, even when all the posts the previous 6 months look pretty much the same. To admit that we were inspired by someone else’s look would mean that we were copying or biting. Do people say that anymore? Biting?
That’s the trick I suppose, to make people think that by donning a few pieces of clothing that was mass produced, marketed, advertised, placed in fashion editorials in publications, given free to celebrities and online influencers, you are creating your own unique, completely original identity. It’s a complex scam. And we all buy into it. I don’t know anyone who truly doesn’t care how they look. I know a lot of people who say they don’t care what others think of how they dress. I just do me. But they’ll spend hours looking at style related content online. When rappers namedrop brand names, they’ll go cop a piece.
Last week me and the guys were talking about how each person’s style has changed over the last 3-4 years. Then I started thinking about what prompts someone to change their look? Sometimes it’s a relationship. Being in love with a woman, as much as us men want to deny it, will change a man, especially the way he dresses. Not sure how much effect we have on the way women dress aside from the fact that they’ll sneak off with some of our pieces and make them their own. Sometimes it’s weight loss or getting fit. Which is very in among my peers in NYC. Clothes get slimmer. In every makeover featuring men they just put them in clothes that don’t drape on them. Sometimes it’s making more money. Make more money, look like more money. Walk into those stores that you never dared to step in and make the salesperson work for your money. Makes you feel like money.
Let’s see, what have my looks been? Used to be very hip hop baggy in the ‘90s. Timbs. Hilfiger. Nautica. Lot of Champion hoodies and sweats. XL. Size 36 pants. Football and hockey jerseys. Air Force Ones. Then onto Prada sneaker. Chelsea boots. Bold striped button downs. Sports coats with hoodies. Embroidered patterns. Been wearing camos since college. One year I decided I would only wear pullovers. No buttons. Bought a pack of black Calvin Klein T-shirts and they were the only T-shirts I wore. Swore of denim for a bit. I think one year I wore the same camo pants all year. Just pulled up the legs in the summer. Never got into streetwear or sneakers. Don’t tell the clients. Made in the USA has been the thing the last few years. Now I guess I have some type of worker look. The farther back my hairline goes the more hats I wear. But mostly camo Army hat and a Stetson driver cap. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I look like I’m trying to be one of those stylish older guys in Japanese magazines who wear only Levi’s from the 1900s. And then I’m like damn, I’m that guy now.
I suppose you don’t care about what my looks have been. I suppose I shouldn’t care that you don’t care. Or perhaps you do care and I care that you care. We all care. We just try to deny it. Judging is bad but we want to have a say in the way we’re going to be judged. And we’ll judge the person who’s judging us based on what we bought, put on our bodies, and how we put them on. When you spend enough time with a group people everyone knows when someone bought someone new. And there are those moments when one person in that group really tries to step out with a new bold look that they’ve been trying to flex and the group won’t know how to react. We all notice but don’t know if we should acknowledge by questioning, complimenting, or clowning. I don’t get too esoteric and metaphysical about fashion and style. Then again I’m not in it. I understand why someone would but don’t understand when they talk about it. Just seems like it hasn’t changed much. Not how we dress. Underwear. Pants. Shirt. Shoes. And then add some other things to it. I’m simplifying and fashion folks will tell me I’m wrong and that personal style and evolution has a greater and higher meaning. Both of us are probably right. Again, it’s a complex scam and we’re all participating.
