Category Archives: Blogs

06.12.12
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The Pear Tree

When we become slaves to codes that make no sense life becomes unbearable to the senses and a part of us dies. Why do our passions need to be controlled? Why do so many people try to be gods on earth? Beautiful things will always be just outside of the honest man’s grasp. I could have tasted that fruit but I left it on the tree. How foolish of me. Now I must sit down in the shade and wait for that pear to fall on my head. It will never happen. So would I be wrong if I prayed for the wind to blow? Or would I be immoral if I pushed and shoved on its trunk until all the pears fell to the ground? I’m not greedy. I only want one. I suppose it will ripen soon enough. Its nectar will taste unbelievably sweet.

05.30.12
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Caves

 

Silence comes to me when I run from my own voice because I don’t want to be bothered with myself. I go deep to find peace. I once saw on a documentary that the first underground explorers of caves in America were black slaves because their master’s would send them down out of curiosity. The white men wouldn’t dare go themselves so they would send their slaves. On one occasion a slave was gone for a day and a half and his master assumed that he was dead however the man came back with a map that he had drawn which traced the route that he had taken and everything that he had seen while underground. Apparently that map is still used today.

I wouldn’t ever want to stay overnight in a cave because I’m terrified of bats but I’m sure I would get over that if my only other alternative was to work on a plantation. I think about how peaceful that day and a half must have been for that man. I wonder what he dreamed about at night and whether or not he contemplated ever coming back to Earth’s surface. Maybe while down there he yearned for all of the things that he thought he hated. Maybe he had children or a sweetheart that needed to return to.

I was once so bothered by the voices of others that I changed my phone number only to become immediately depressed because no one called me. I then forwarded everyone my new number. Misery is almost always a self-inflicted wound. Everyone can find happiness if you search hard enough for it. So many men women and children were enslaved but perhaps they were freer than their descendants. For they had one another and all we do is run.

-YB

05.25.12
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Notes jotted down on the Milbrae Train

I fear that I may be some kind of chauvinist or sexist because I always seek women for the sole purpose of escapism, which instantly overwhelms any potential lover with an expectation that she can never permanently live up to. So when she first raises her voice to me, or tells me about my inconsiderate ways, or reminds me that I am flawed—when things essentially “get real” then I run.

I just want to be high on a woman, I want to be enamored, I want to be enraptured, I want her to conceal me from the rest of the world should I ever break down and cry. I want to be ensconced by the idea of love but I never want to be reminded of the reality that she is a human being. And I don’t want to deal with the fact that love requires a lot of work. My heart is obdurate, my body is weary, and my soul is jaded.

Alas I do not wish to work. I want to retire at the end of each day. I want to lay my burden’s down. I want to bury my head in her bosom. I do not want her to say the wrong thing. I do not want her to tell me that I have said the wrong thing. I want to break down all of the beautiful potent lies, roll them with cigar paper, and smoke them until I hallucinate.

In my hallucinations I believe I am running forever in a race with no distance or finish line. I am winning and I am not getting tired. She stands on the sidewalk and gives me nectar to drink in a small paper cup as I pass. I drink it fast and throw the cup on the ground beneath my fast-moving feet. I run for her so she cheers for me. We share the glory of our first place position and we appreciate the roles that we play in one another’s lives to keep us here. We love the fame that comes along with success and we love each other. She understands that if I ever stop then we stop. The nectar tastes heavenly and we are forever victorious.

-YB

05.20.12
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What does it mean to be a misogynist?

             What does it mean to be a misogynist? Is it possible for me to love my dick and love women at the same time or are those two things mutually exclusive? I get involved in a lot of fascinating discussions with radical women. In more than one of these discussions it was brought to my attention that when a man is concerned about how many other men his girlfriend has been with then that makes him some sort of misogynist. I don’t get it.

I try not to disagree at the very moment that I am told this because I don’t want to be labeled a misogynist, but when the conversation ends it rages on in my head. I’ve also been told that when a man makes a reference to his penis as an instrument of power then that makes him a misogynist too. I still don’t get it. I mean shouldn’t everyone love every part of their body? Shouldn’t everyone want to feel powerful? Shouldn’t everyone be concerned about the sexual history of his or her partner? Or if not concerned then at least slightly curious?

Sometimes radicalism really confuses me; which is problematic because I’m sure most people would consider my political views to be radical. I believe that black people in America and most other parts of the world are systematically oppressed. I am a black man and I believe that there is a very real conspiracy to keep me powerless in my native land. I have been the victim of racism countless times and I have dedicated my life to doing my part in ridding the world of injustice, but I am a man and I am proud to be a man, which means that I am more than likely a misogynist—I guess.

After all I do listen to gangster rap and at one point in my life Soul on Ice by Eldridge Cleaver was my favorite book. I watch football and go to the boxing gym as well so does that automatically mean that I hate women?

It’s hard for me to accept my role as the oppressor and the oppressed. I understand that to many black women I represent “The Man.” It’s very sad but it’s true. There are so many black women that have experienced trauma at the hands of black men that they develop a hatred toward us that rivals the misogyny that they have absorbed over the years. I don’t want to be that guy. I don’t want to be the sexist dude that says; “I can’t be a misogynist because some of my best friends are women. As a matter of fact I just slept with a woman last night?”  I want to be aware and in order to be aware I need to ask questions. So what does it truly mean to be a misogynist?

Is there anyone out there that has an answer?

-YB

05.16.12
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Open House

I went to my daughter’s open house last night with her mother and the little girl was so excited to have both of her parents in the same room at the same time. She showed off everything that she has done and we saw all the progress that she has made. One class assignment stood out to me. She was asked to write a sentence about her parents and she wrote; “My mommy takes care of me and my daddy shows me what to do.” Apparently our roles are very clear to her. I don’t know how to feel about her written response but a good part of me feels sad. She never asked to be born into a broken home. We both give her so much love but I wish we could give her unity.

-YB

05.14.12
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Very High and So Low

 

 

On Saturday night I felt like an artist but today I just feel broke. The ups and downs of chasing an ever-fleeting dream are very pronounced. I was so high a few days ago. I shared a piece of a story that I have been running away from for five years the other night. The story is fictional but the emotions that the protagonist experiences are completely autobiographical. I had a hard time approaching the stage. No matter how many times I rehearsed those few pages, I still sat in the crowd nervous as hell before I was welcomed to the microphone.

 

I didn’t invite any of my family or friends. I didn’t post anything on social media about the event. I wanted to do it alone. The story is about a man who is dealing with a tragedy but even more tragic for him is that he is asked to speak publicly about what he is dealing with.  He must express his emotions verbally and I was there in that café on Saturday night to do the exact same thing.

 

I was scared. I was the only black man in the room and that’s how I wanted it. I didn’t want anyone else in there that would be able to gage the magnitude of the situation. I wanted every comment afterwards to be a disconnected one. I didn’t want to be felt, I just wanted to be heard.

 

I got caught up in my reading. I got into character and played a little bit with vocal intonation and dramatic pause. I read the piece as if I was coming up with it on the spot. I felt like I was that character, in that place where he was, in front of the people that he knew, and I felt that way because I was. If an artist can catch the Holy Ghost then I did. I never got happy in church but I got happy on the stage in front of all those foreign faces. And when I was done they paid me heavily with applause. They paid me with praise. They asked me if I had a card. I do not but I will order some soon.

 

The performance of a writer is bizarre because all you can do is read to your audience. You can’t tap dance or sing in a falsetto. You can’t show the audience your photography or allow them to marvel at the aesthetic beauty of your painting. All you have are your words.

 

I shared my words and they listened. I got really high. I left and went one way while all those in attendance went another. That’s the way I like it. I was a real literary performer. I was a pure artists, an expert storyteller, a gifted individual, but now it’s Monday. The show is over. The curtains have closed and I am one of a hundred million other people forced to work at a punk-ass job that I hate just to keep the lights on.

 

I was so high and now I’m so low.

-YB

05.10.12
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A Conversation Between a Black Girl and a White Girl at the University of California at Berkeley

WG- Hey, hey [waves frantically in the face of black girl who is speed walking across campus]. Don’t I have that literature course with you?

 

BG- Yeah Professor Nanda’s African-American literature course, how are you?

 

WG- I’m ok. Kind of swamped but I guess that’s normal right? Ha, ha, ha.

 

BG- [Fake smiles]

 

WG- So where ya headed?

 

BG- I’m heading home.

 

WG- Where do you stay? I never see you in the dorms.

 

BG- No I stay at home. I’m from Oakland.

 

WG-Oh my god girl shut up. I’m from Oakland too. I’ve lived in Montclair like my whole life. Where in Oakland are you from?

 

BG- I’m from the East.

 

WG- Oh ok. Where? I mean I hear that part of town is pretty big.

 

BG- I grew up on Parker. Kind of close to Eastmont Mall.

 

WG- Eastmont Mall ewe. Are you serious? You mean over there by Planned Parenthood?

 

BG- I don’t know what’s in the mall. I don’t hang out there [Irritated].

 

WG- Well yeah there’s like a Planned Parenthood inside off the mall [laughing].

 

BG- Really? How do you know that? [Stares into WG’s eyes].

 

WG- [Stops laughing. Turns red. Is ashamed].

 

BG- Sorry but I have to catch my bus. See you in class [continues speed walking to the bus stop].

YB

05.09.12
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Clotheslines

I remember clotheslines. I remember when we had a washing machine but no dryer. We had a basket full of clothespins that used to sit by the back door. My grandmother used to have a clothesline too. I remember her pulling me down the street when I was a little boy. We were rushing back too her duplex so we could hurry and get the clothes off the line because it was beginning to sprinkle.

On sunny days everyone’s laundry would be hanging out to dry; the bed sheets, the bras, the jeans, and the T-shirts. There were very few secrets in the communities of my childhood and there was no such thing as poverty. Nothing felt better than wearing a crisp shirt straight off the line. Sun dried shirts smelled better too. I love to recall my beautiful past. Memories redolent with the sweetest kind of affection. I would have stayed in that place forever had I known.

YB

05.07.12
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On Aging

 

My body is slowing down. I have to run for much longer than I used to just to stay in decent shape and I have to take a prolonged break from boxing because I believe I am developing tendonitis in my left elbow. I get tired earlier and every Saturday night instead of looking forward to partying I get excited thinking about who is going to be hosting SNL. My daughter is now old enough to tell me not to give her a goodbye kiss on the cheek in front of her friends at school and I really hate most contemporary music. I’m old as hell.

It’s wild because there was a period in my life where I couldn’t imagine myself being 30-years-old. I didn’t think that I was supposed to make it but  I most definitely did. A few years back I remember visiting my grandmother in the Bayview section of San Francisco. This was back when she was able to take care of herself.  She spoke to me about pain in her joints, traumatic memories, and forgetfulness. She told me; “You know what I sure ain’t what I used to be. I’m getting old but that’s ok because you know what; if I wasn’t old I’d be dead,” and then we both started laughing.

When I think about my grandmother I know I have no real right to complain.

-YB