Monthly Archives: June 2013

06.15.13
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What if Tupac was a father?

“June one-six seven-one, the day/ mama pushed me out her womb and told me ‘nigga get paid.’”

Sometimes I wonder what kind of father would Tupac be if he were alive today. If he were still on this Earth then Father’s Day 2013 would have marked his 42nd birthday. It’s difficult to conceive because he was so youthful when he passed away. He was rambunctious, vilified, and enlightened but seemingly lost. He often times performed shirtless and indulged heavily in drug use. Yet he is also America’s last ghetto hero.

No black man since Tupac Shakur has been completely comfortable both in the hood and on Hollywood movie sets. No artist since Pac has made outrageous behavior seem so relatable. Everyone has an opinion about Tupac because everyone feels like they knew him.  One either worshipped his words or was repulsed by them—with Pac there really was no in between. However the fact that we often times fail to internalize is that when Tupac was assassinated that night in Las Vegas he was only 25 years old, rich, ridiculously famous, and without any children.

In Essence he only had to look out for himself. Imagine though, if he would have had a son. Would he be all right with teaching his growing boy how to live a thug lifestyle? Would he have smoked so much? Would he have been as abrasive? Imagine if Tupac would have had a daughter. Would he have ever made another record like “All about you?”  Would he refuse to ever say the word bitch on a track like Jay-Z did once Blue Ivy was born? How would having a child impact his black male psychosis and the many references to suicide that he made on his albums?

“I smoke a blunt to take the pain out and if I wasn’t high I’d probably try to blow my brains out.”

Tupac definitely would have had one more fear of death in addition to being reincarnated and that would be the thought of missing his children grow up. One can assume that this responsibility would have caused such a compassionate young man like him to slow his life down considerably. Perhaps his fatherhood would have ultimately caused him to return to the activist roots instilled in him by his mother Afeni Shakur. Maybe he would have begun to transition his burgeoning thug nation into a political party designed to destroy the depressing inner-city circumstances that he bemoaned in his music. He may have even started to slowly abandon the ghetto mentality that he so often celebrated. Can you imagine how impactful it would have been to see Tupac posing for pictures on the cover of magazines with his beautiful black family as opposed to merely showing off his tattoos and jewelry?

The tragedy is that we will never have an answer to any of these questions because he was taken away from us so soon. We never got a chance to see him settle into himself. We never got to see him mature and we never got to see him as a loving father. We can, however, safely say that if he put as much energy into fatherhood as he did into his music then being a good daddy would have been the most powerful trend of all the trends that Tupac started. As is, all we can do is mourn the man whose music continues to influence the world on a daily basis 17 years after his unfortunate demise.

RIP Tupac Shakur

1971-1996

-YB

06.12.13
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Notes on Mortality

I read an article from the New York Times today about the ill health of the most beloved figure in the history of South Africa, Mr. Nelson Mandela. According to the article he is very near death. A reality that has caused mixed reviews in the nation that he once ruled. While most people are praying for his health to improve at least one woman has accepted the mortality of the former leader; “It is not easy, but we must think of his pain. He has given us so much. He deserves to rest.” When I came across this statements that was made by a 30-year-old South African woman it startled me a little. Her thoughts are so contrarian only because they are so real. When we agree to resuscitate those who no longer have the desire to live and when we refuse to pull the plug, are we really doing it for them or are we being selfish?

 

If we really believe in heaven after earth then why are we so reluctant to let our loved ones go to paradise? My grandmother suffers. She’s alive and she remembers us and we can still kiss her once smooth but now prickly brown cheeks. We literally keep her alive. We make sure the medical staff at the convalescent home where she lives knows that we’re there and those of us who practice medicine make sure that she is getting optimal care. It makes us feel good when we put them in check. After we make sure they change her catheter and increase her dosage we feel like we’ve done the right thing. The only issue is she no longer wants to live. She’s expressed this to us in very plain terms. She wants it all to be over. We disregard what she says. We disregard the words of the wisest woman we have ever known— our mother, our grandmother, our great-grandmother—because we feel like she no longer knows what’s right. This only causes her to slip further and further into depression.

 

As a society we have been taught that to save the life of an individual is an outstanding deed, however, often times we fail to realize that some people don’t want to be saved. Don’t they have that right? It is a sin for a person to take his or her own life but the bible does not frown upon those that merely allow death to happen. In the case of my grandmother— who used to care for me everyday before I started school. Who taught me the most basic lesson of being a black man in America; “When someone hits you then you hit them back?” Who drug me along with her throughout the entire county of San Francisco on Muni, BART, and on foot—I think our main impetus for not letting her pass on is we don’t want to feel sad. We don’t want to plan a funeral. We don’t want to lose the center of our family. But what about her? Does her opinion of her own life even count anymore? Isn’t it wrong of us to disregard the suffering of another human being so that we sleep better at night?

My grandmother has lived nearly 90 years. She’s perfectly content with the impact that she’s had on this world but we can’t let her go. Even though she is mortal we seem to want her to live forever.

Is it ever ok to just let a person die?

-YB

06.10.13
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This is Distortion

 

I thought about someone else the whole time I was with her. It doesn’t make any sense. The young lady who stole my attention isn’t more beautiful, or more dedicated, or more sophisticated. She is only more appealing because she is someone else. My mind runs faster when my body is still. Contentment can be so elusive. Happiness can appear to be so frightening when you’ve made peace with your own misery. When loneliness becomes your most inseparable friend often times you find yourself fighting on his behalf. Trauma from bad relationships can lead to emotional suicide and emotional suicide will always result in self-sabotage.

 

In a strange rearrangement of expectations the perfect lady can become a complete nightmare. Then one seeks to make her imperfect by all means. It is only then that a man can truly love her. Only when the subject of his passion is placed solidly underneath his foot. Only when she becomes weak enough for his love to become visible. He can still make out her image in the ripples of the tide. Her face is less clear but her heart is more tangible than it has ever been.

 

This is distortion.

 

-YB

06.06.13
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On my 9th year of being a father

 

I recently paid for my daughter to go to a very cool summer camp and I suppose I should feel good about it but I don’t. I mean I do feel good about it. I feel great about her going to summer camp and having the opportunity to swim, hike, fish, and sing goofy songs but I’m not the least bit excited about the part where I pay for it. I know that being a good parent is all about sacrificing but sometimes it’s painful.

 

In my 9th year of parenting I’ve learned that wanting the best for my child and wanting the best for myself are almost always two opposing ideas. I would like to be able to go to the bar during happy hour and buy a group of beautiful black professional women a bottle of champagne, I would like to go on a shopping spree and tear the mall up, I would like to stunt for just once in my life.

 

But stunt for what? And stunt for whom? Alas, I realize that for the first 22 years of my life my main goal was to impress females. To dress in a manner that begged them to pay attention to me. To put myself in the places that I knew they were going to be, to convince them that I wasn’t as insecure as I always felt. But now, in my 31st year on this Earth, I understand that the only female’s opinion that truly matters is that of the one that was born unto me. When I am stressed I always keep her happy. I aim to liberate her consciousness on days that I feel as trapped as my brothers in the penitentiary. I love that little smart mouthed girl and I hope that when she is an adult she will be able to appreciate all of the daily sacrifices that are being made in order for her to have an amazing childhood.

-YB

06.01.13
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Holding it all In

Forgive me. I’ve been going through one of those phases in which I do everything in the world except write. I mean I’ve been bringing work from my job home like everyday, I’ve been going out way too often, I’ve been doing my laundry regularly, I’ve been working out six times a week, and I’ve been spending way too much time on social media (honestly I’ve checked my Facebook about 12 times while writing this).

I haven’t been journaling, my manuscript is somewhere deep inside my thumb drive collecting massive amounts of digital dust, and of course I haven’t been blogging. I did host a reading series on May 18th entitled “Soulful III: Revolutionary Dreams” which was massively successful, but other than that I’ve been void of all artistic expression. I’ve had several super-dynamic, poetic thoughts that have popped into my head but I haven’t had the composure to actually sit down and write them out of my consciousness.

A man was killed by the Oakland Police this past Wednesday, the date was 5/29/13 and I had strong feelings about how the story was unraveling. Apparently the man had a gun and he, as well as the other occupants of his vehicle, was being pursued by police. At some point they all jumped out of the car and flea on foot. One of the men got into a confrontation with police and wound up dead…end of story. I wanted to write about how bizarre it all appeared to be. I mean, either you’re going to run or you’re going to shoot. It always seems like the Oakland Police Department is guilty of murdering those who are running. It’s just kind of strange to me. I was going to write about it but I decided to post the article on Facebook instead.

Then I saw a groundbreaking Cheerios commercial, which featured an interracial couple and their biracial child. The commercial is centered on how the little girl tries to rid her father of future heart disease by dumping a box of cereal on his chest—it’s amazing. Not only because the content is amusing but also because it features a freaking interracial couple. Wow! That is something that rarely ever happens within the confines of the multi-billion dollar behemoth that is American advertisement. But of course people just saw it and hated on it. I suppose these are the same people that believe their evil side-eyes in restaurants, and movie theaters are going to stop interracial couples from loving one another and procreating—yeah right. People can be so self-absorbed and disconnected from the general urge of humanity to elude all of societies expectations that they waste their energy hating what they can never change. This was another topic I was going to write about, however, by the time I got back from work the blogosphere was going nuts over the commercial. I felt like I didn’t really deserve to put my two cents in because I’m not biracial nor am I in an interracial relationship. So I just read about it, commented on it, and kept my mouth shut.

Then there is the whole thing about me being 31 years old and therefore losing every trace of my metabolism. As much as I work out I still feel like a fat ass because no weight is coming off. I’ve gained about fifteen pounds since my amateur boxing days. Maybe the people who I run into on the streets can’t tell but I sure can. It’s wild because the older I get, the more I need to work out but I can’t because I don’t have the time due to work. Work sucks! At any rate I was going to write about it but I was busy sweating it out at the boxing gym trying to lose 10 pounds for the summer. I have also sacrificed my beloved brownie bites until further notice because each time I eat one it goes straight to my hips.

So yeah there you have it, a fist full of excuses as to why I haven’t been writing lately. I guess the next logical thing to do would be to make a commitment to incorporate writing back into my daily life and I promise that I would do that but I can’t write now because my clothes are done drying. I have to get up and fold them immediately. See ya next time.

Peace,

YB