Author Archives: RP

09.03.11
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A Breath of Silence

September 3, 2011

It’s very rare that I get a breath to breathe; that I get a chance to completely relax. I’m not exactly sure what I mean by that but I keep thinking about this moment I had a few years ago. I was at Yosemite National Park with a lady friend walking a rather boring and unchallenging trail, but we kept on it until it became secluded and isolated. We kept on the path until it led us to an abandoned stable which had been almost completely reclaimed by grass and vegetation. It was there that the trail ended and gave way to total silence.

There was no sound of speeding cars coming from a freeway in the distance, there were no other people talking, we got no cell phone reception, and there weren’t any birds chirping either—the only thing that we could hear was our own breathing. I have never experienced silence like that; not before that moment and not since. It was almost overwhelming to be engulfed so suddenly by something that I didn’t even know existed. It took me a few minutes to let my guard down enough to appreciate what I had stumbled upon. Then of course once I realized that I had discovered peace I didn’t want to leave.

I found myself in the throes of a powerful silence that made a mockery of everything that I was raised to respect. As adolescents we all dreamed of driving big expensive cars with loud engines and a pounding sound system. As little boys everyone wanted to have the biggest voice on the playground so that he could tell everyone else what to do. As college  students we were expected to make connections with influential people in order to network and make a positive change. The idea was to join the team that was making the most noise so that one day you yourself would be heard.

It was wild because all of the politicking, all of the networking, all of the set claiming, all of the turf banging, and all of the pledging that people become so obsessed with felt like a whole lot of noise pollution as I stood there in perfect silence. I was content with hearing only the faint sound of my own breath and the breath of the woman I was with; and everything else, including the shouting of my memories during that moment, struck me as being excessive.

-YB

08.31.11
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A Different Kind of Summer

August 31, 2011

Summer is just about over, which is funny because I barely realized summer was here in the first place. I haven’t taken a vacation, I haven’t gone camping, I’ve still had to pay my bills, and I’ve still had to handle all of my responsibilities. Life for me has remained exactly the same and perhaps the worst part of the equation is that I’m not even mad about it. Hell, I didn’t even realize how dull my summer has been until I found out that I had Monday off of work because of Labor Day. I was like wow, Labor Day is here already.

I guess life as a grown up can be that was sometime. It’s kind of funny when I think about what the month of August used to mean to me and my loved ones. Back in the day when we used to get so drunk we would cry for no reason. Back when we would ride the strip until 4:00am looking for the sideshow. Back when it was mandatory to have a pocket full of phone numbers by the end of the night. Back in the day when I used to actually look forward to eating at restaurants like Jack in the Box and Denny’s. But time most definitely moves in a hurry and time moves for a reason.

I really enjoyed all of those moments but I don’t want to relive them. When I was younger I did everything I wanted to do. I took all of the chances that I wanted to take and I survived. I had fun and I got through it. This summer was all about moving on while staying put.

-YB

08.30.11
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What is Real?

August 30, 2011

I’ve wasted so much time obsessed with what I can’t do that it’s hard to believe. I have been so consumed by the trap that I was raised in that I don’t even think of freedom as a viable solution. I no longer need anyone to oppress me because I destroy most of my own dreams before they are ever even conceived. The mind can be a terribly wretched thing when it works the wrong way. Can anyone ever truly be inferior to another person? Can anyone ever really be hopeless? How often is a human being ever actually trapped? Even in prison a person can still dream. A person can still read. A person can still compose timeless letters. A person can still be in love.

 

I see men on the streets of Oakland, Berkeley, and San Francisco talking to them selves. I saw a friend of mine at the gas station by my house a few mornings ago looking beat down by life. I said hello and he asked to pump my gas. I was utterly crestfallen but I allowed him to do so. We talked. It was awkward. Even though I’m broke I gave him money. He smiled. I drove away and I vowed to never go back to that place again. A lot of these brothers appear to be too young and too strong to be out on the streets. The problem is that each one of them believed the hype. They believed that there lives were really hopeless and that their minds really weren’t worth holding on to.

 

I have staggered before and I will stagger again. At times I feel too jaded to shine and far too content with just getting by. It’s a proven fact that life can be very cruel and malicious but what other options do we have. If we are not living then what are we doing?

 

YB

08.28.11
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Move the Crowd

August 28, 2011

I had the opportunity to share some of my work at a reading last night. It was just a few small pieces that I had written while in self-imposed exile so I didn’t really think too highly of them. And this is not because I thought they were poorly written or inadequate. It was only because I didn’t know.

There was no teacher that put a big “A” on the paper that I had expressed myself upon, and there were no passersby who stopped in their tracks while I was writing it and told me what a gorgeous piece it was. No, there was nothing close to that; these children were born deep in the country with no midwife or witnesses present to confirm their existence. Therefore there was no way of knowing whether or not they would be accepted by their peers on the first day of kindergarten down at the schoolhouse.

I stood there nervous as hell in front of about 30 people behind a microphone that was set up just a little too high for me. The reading was being held in an art room in the somewhat gentrified but still very hood Mission district of San Francisco, CA. The space is very loving and the people present appeared to be positive and nurturing but I was still scarred—scared that I would stumble over the words written on the page before me, scared they just wouldn’t understand, and scared they would tease my babies mercilessly about their country accents and their strange ways.

I got over it.

Then shockingly enough when I spoke they listened, they laughed, and they were engaged. Yes, I had moved the crowd. And when I say moved the crowd I don’t mean I made them “Throw their hands in the air/ and wave them like they just didn’t care,” I only mean that for that small five-minute interval they followed my words. They could feel them, they could see the images I had created, and on some level they could relate to them.

It was such an exhilarating moment for this writer to know that I had not toiled in vain. To know that the craft that I have sacrificed so much to learn how to do is still appreciated by a select few. When the event was over a stranger who was in attendance approached me. He looked me in the eyes and said; “Hey that was good stuff.” I gave him a generic response about how I was glad he liked, but he wasn’t having it. “No,” he responded to me slightly annoyed. “I’m serious that was really good stuff.”

I smiled and took a few seconds to soak it up.

“I really appreciate that,” I told him.

God bless my little country children. They made me so proud.

-YB

08.21.11
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Feeling Good

August 21, 2011

There is nothing like heading outside early on a Sunday morning and letting the sun touch your skin. I have grown to appreciate going on morning runs. When I workout first thing in the morning with crust in my eyes, bad breath, and dry slob on my cheek from a good nights sleep it enables me to recognize what’s really real. Way too often I become caught up with my own appearance, and my own hardships. It’s a shame that my vision can be so easily clouded by issues that aren’t nearly as significant as I allow them to become.

Yesterday my daughter scored her first goal in soccer and although I couldn’t see it due to my day job I’m glad I had the opportunity to share the elation with her as soon as I got home. Also today I will be able to attend the very popular Art and Soul Festival in Oakland, CA. It’s always a beautiful, eclectic scene with an array of local dancers, musicians, artists, and singers. It’s truly a blessing that I will be able to attend with my family and hopefully see other friends in attendance that I haven’t seen in years.

The thoughts that come into my mind while I’m running in my beat up old running shoes and old sweat pants can be very uplifting. On this Sunday morning I’m feeling good. On this day I feel like a champion.

-YB

08.18.11
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Forward Motion

August 18, 2011

It used to be so much easier to take chances when consequences meant nothing. It seems like just yesterday I had no fear of failing anything and now it’s almost as if I’m afraid to try. It’s only the big things that make me hesitate. You know the tasks that require long-term commitments, or for me to open up for an extended period of time.

Repression is a beast that we have all learned to live with. No matter how uncomfortable it makes us it’s very rare that we let everything out. It is an unfortunate fact that we nurture our pain like we nurture our children until it becomes unbearable. We only deal with it when we have no choice and I am no exception. I would like to change however. I need to take that chance.

-YB

08.17.11
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The Ones I Lost

August 17, 2011

At this very moment I lay on my couch with a pillow under my head thinking about all of those lost pages. All those sheets of paper that I’ve balled up, torn apart, and thrown away. All those deleted files. Out of all those half written stories, plays, and poems that I couldn’t bear to finish what if I made the mistake of throwing away the wrong one?

Writing is such an isolated undertaking and I’m sure if I had the right person looking over my shoulder while I composed a story and whispered into my ear that it was amazing before I got the chance to hate it and tear it to bits, then my life would be completely different by now. But there are no cheerleaders for obscure writers. There are no groupies that like our hip lifestyle. There is only the writer by his lonesome and if he does not believe in himself then he is left with nothing but an aborted thought and a thousand pieces of paper scattered about the ground beneath him.  

-YB

08.15.11
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What has become of us?

August 15, 2011

Early yesterday morning I had the opportunity to listen to Mr. David Starkey, a white British historian, speak of black culture invading London to the extent that “The whites have become black.” Starkey further elucidated that the rampant materialism and embracing of a gangster code of ethics during the recent riots in that city was due, at least in part, to the proliferation of hip-hop music.

It was a very intriguing point of view that I hadn’t heard before. I’m not here to disagree with Mr. Starkey because at present I believe it would be counter-productive. After all I don’t think he was trying to be racist, overly simplistic, or malicious. All he was doing was speaking his mind based upon the bleak images of black people that he has been exposed to via the internet, television, and radio.

I’m aware that a man of his academic stature should have done more thorough research before he spoke so ill-advisedly to the entire planet, but the point I’m trying to make is that most people don’t. The vast majority of people in the world make assessments based only on what is presented to them, and when one considers how black folks are portrayed in the media this reality becomes extremely problematic.

In addition to this issue there are also a couple of local bay area rappers who just so happen to be white females (I won’t say their names) that have caused major controversy over their refusal to stop using the word nigga in their rhymes. They claim that they were raised around black people all of their lives and that’s how they talk. Although I believe they’re trying really hard to be disagreeable for the sake of record sales, the truth of the matter is it’s a lot bigger than that.

For almost this whole day I’ve been sickened by the thought of what has become of our race. At some juncture in time we became walking, breathing sources of entertainment instead of human-beings. We lost our dignity during the middle-passage and along with so many thousands of bodies thrown into the sea, we never got that back.

It bothers me to know that blackness is manufactured, marketed, and consumed by the masses. Which means that we seem to have very little control over what we actually are. Anyone can listen to the right records, dress in the right fashions, and use the right slang, and be transformed into a black person. Because we all know that being black is cool, being black is fly, and being black is so desirable—until the police need someone to victimize that is. Police brutality always separates the real black people from the imposters. Contrary to what David Starkey said no white person wants to be black like Oscar Grant or Mark Duggan. Please believe that while being black is fun it’s definitely not worth dying for.

Yet so many people have died in order for us to live. There have been so many Medgar Evers’, Patrice Lumumbas’, Bobby Huttons’, and Malcolm X’s. There have been so many hardworking, humble, righteous social servants that have been murdered for representing black people in a positive way in the past 50 years alone that I can’t even count them. So why is it that these people have not come to define what it means to be black? Why is it that in times of woe everyone seems to forget what these individuals stood for? It’s strange how these brilliant people are always depicted as anomalies as opposed to general representations of black resilience and self-determination. I wonder how that came to be? I would like to know if that’s our own fault as black people for not teaching our young properly, or is it part of a grand plan to systematically oppress us? Or maybe it’s both.

-YB

08.13.11
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Free

      

August 13, 2011

 

Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to be free. At times I take for granted my ability to go out on a date, or buy ice cream, or go see my daughter play soccer. The other day I crossed the San Rafael Bridge and saw the huge ominous structure that is San Quentin State Penitentiary clinging to the otherwise beautiful California coast. It was a bit of a mood kill to say the least. I thought about all of my loved ones that have languished in that institution for years at a time. Then I thought about my cousin who I wish was still in San Quentin but who, unfortunately, was bused 400 miles south to Chino.

You know everyone has got a story and some of them are sadder than others—his is very sad, but then what can I do? It seems kind of shallow to be grateful that I’m not in there. Even though that’s exactly how I feel it almost seems like I’m pointing my finger at him saying; “I’m glad it’s you and not me.” It’s an indescribable feeling when you literally grow up with a person and he winds up trapped in a cage while you’re free to roam the Earth.

It’s hard for me to be grateful for my freedom because I would rather share it with him like we used to share brushes, doo-rags, bicycles, and candy bars. I want to somehow, maybe magically, liberate him but that is something I can’t do. Even when he is free he won’t be free.  And I mean that in the same way that my mind is not truly free right now.

YB

08.11.11
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Leaving the Plantation

August 11, 2011

 

               I woke up this morning with the strong urge to flee. A few hours later I was in the small coastal town of Cotati, CA watching cows graze in peoples’ backyards while admiring bodacious redwoods that grew in a perfect row along the center divider of a main thoroughfare. The air was clean, the atmosphere was chill, and the town was welcoming. No one there knew that I was running from something, and if they figured it out they weren’t bold enough to ask—which was perfectly fine by me.

                My hometown of Oakland and I have an extremely ambivalent relationship. While I love the town (as we natives affectionately call it) for inspiring me to be a great person, forcing me to persevere through some very hardcore circumstances, and teaching me to be proud of my cultural heritage, sometimes I hate it for being so ugly. It really worries my nerves when Oakland puts all of its weight on me and makes me feel trapped. As much I have tried over the years I haven’t yet forgiven the town for taking the lives of so many young people who could have turned it around if they had a fair chance. Oakland is merciless.

                It’s definitely not a place for the weak. One must be very strong to make it out of the town in one piece and absolutely no one makes it out unscathed. For these reasons I reserve a great deal of respect for my city. Oakland gave me heart and I will never forget that but every now and then I need to get off of this plantation. This time it was Cotati, maybe next time it will be Madrid.

Yeah Madrid sounds nice.

-YB