the elephant in the room
I am 5’9″ (and 1/2!). I am very blessed by the fact that people always think I’m taller than that – perhaps it is my wonderful posture – but I am not.
The fitness charts say I should weigh about 173 pounds. That’s a little light for me. I still tread through the hood once in a while and I need enough weight behind my punch to make one of these young punks feel my power…before I run screaming like a girl.
But I digress.
180 is my happy weight, where jeans fit right and the girls hit on me in bars and other public places. Shhhhhhhh, don’t tell my wife. A few months ago I was was 205 pounds. It was fairly solid and I never lost my sexy, but t-shirts were getting tight, belts were buckled through the last hole and button-down collars were becoming hazardous to my neck.
I was overweight.
I diligently began watching my diet, increasing reps in the gym and training for an annual 10 mile run I began participating in the year I turned 40.
The pounds started coming off. Slowly. TOO damn slow really, so I enlisted some help. I asked Mrs. Megaphone to monitor my portions. She tried, but was not much help – she has a live-and-let live attitude and largely ignored the heaping portions of food on my plates. (SHE, by the way, lost 15 pounds last fall and KEPT it off! You’d think she could help a brutha out!)
But, again, I digress, for this blog is not about girls hitting on me or her newfound sexy, it’s about a get-together – one I went to a few weeks ago that was hosted and attended by some folks I care a great deal about. My family.
While there, I noticed some of them were having the same problem with snug jeans, belt buckles and shirt collars that I was experiencing. I intentionally began an open dialogue about calories in hopes that talking about it would aid me in controlling my portions. This was met coolly by the others, but they did engage. Each time someone grabbed a fried chicken leg or baked good we found ourselves wondering how many calories are in this? and really talking about our food choices for the day.
I was elated!
I felt like we were ALL working together, sharing space on the path to Healthy (it’s within walking distance if one looks past the mountains) and would all shout HALLELUJAH! when we arrived.
But, alas, it was not to be.
All it took was ONE person saying do what y’all want, but I’m gonna enjoy myself today! and others followed suit with a silent Here!, Here! Everyone but me – my skinny-ass wife ahead of me in the distance. I trudged on, alone on the path to Healthy. Only now it seemed SO damn far. And lonely.
And that’s what I want to share: it’s time for us as a people to stop ignoring the horrible eating habits we have, both alone as well as in a group setting. How much easier would it be if we continued and elevated the calorie dialogue?! Not to crucify one another, but to promote healthy diet and get on the path together. For some reason it seems to be something black folks just refuse to talk about and I say that’s plain silly. Let’s talk about diet, fat content and caloric intake openly, lovingly and as a community!
Only then can we avoid becoming the OTHER elephant in the room.
can you help me get back where I belong?
Yo, excuse me – you got a second to help a brutha out? My name Nigga and I’m kinda lost. A few days ago I was mindin’ my bidness hangin’ out wit my crew – da rappers, bitches and a bunch of otha niggas – in the rap videos where we kick it and all of a sudden I found myself out here, in mainstream media. Now don’t get me wrong, brutha like me can go anywhere he want, but between you and me I don’t belong out here and to tell you da truth, I don’t really like it.
Now you pro’ly wonderin’ how I got out here. I don’t blame you, dat’s a good question. Believe it or not, some white dude pulled me out here. I know, I know, dat sound crazy, right!? Some nut named Phil Mushnik dat write for da NY Post. He was talkin’ bout how the NJ Nets is trynna move to Brooklyn and Jay-Z designin’ the logo for the new team. I guess he ain’t like the logo cuz he started talkin’ bout if dey let Jay run dey marketing dey might as well call the team the NY Niggas. Can you believe dat!? Why he gotta bring my name in it? My name ain’t got no bidness on no team logo and he ain’t got no bidness draggin’ me outta my videos and into this BS.
So look, if you could help me get back home I would really ‘preciate dat. I’m sure you seen where I’m from, I just don’t know the way. Tell you what, just point me in da direction of any street corner where a bunch of fools that ain’t about nuthin’ are hangin’ out – I’ll be good there if you don’t know where da videos is shot at, but I just can’t stay here. Ain’t no place out here for niggas – don’t Phil know that? I even heard dat when people was aksin him why he would say something so stupid he was like, If Jay-Z can say nigga why can’t I?
Cuz you educated, fool – you supposed to KNOW better!
You don’t see Jay and Kanye on Nightline or 20/20 bringin’ me up, do you? Naw, dere’s only two places you ‘posed to find me – in rap lyrics or on the street corner. If the rappers know dat why don’t dis Mushnik dude? Man, I’m startin’ to get mad about this. Ain’t no sensible person ‘posed to be bringin’my name up in no proper publication or to prove no damn point. I just wanna get back to where the bitches shake dey asses, I drive fast cars, it rains money and I ain’t gotta defend whatever foolishness I do! Is dat too much to ask?
Oh, I’m sorry to lay all dis on you – my bad. Look, I’ll tell you what – forget the videos and the corner for now. Just tell me where I can find this Phil cat. Can you do dat for me? ’Den, after I whoop his ass for gettin’ me out here I can jus’ find my way back on my own.
it’s gotta get better…right?
I recently found myself texting one of my buddies – a particularly good friend, in fact. I was texting him about “Us”, me and my wife. Rather I was texting him about our problems. This friend has known me longer than most and I have found that over the years I’ve come to lean on him, bend his ear if you would, when my wife and I go through foolishness.
Which is more often than I care to admit.
This “leaning” can, and usually does, take place at a bar, or can be a simple communication via text. Either way, we both use these times to vent about our issues with the opposite sex, specifically our significant others. As I happen to be a few years older, he often seeks my advice and guidance on matters of manhood, the heart and wine – hey, what can I say, we Renaissance Men (said in my Ebonics voice on purpose). This weekend was one such time.
So advanced is our complaining, that we no longer really even feel the need to go into what exactly the spat or quarrel was about. We simply say the things we know full damn well we’d better not say to their faces, but with broad general strokes, thereby painting a picture each of us can easily relate to. As I stated above, I am the elder of us – I am also married, with children and 13 blissful years under my belt with my long-haired oppressor (luv you, honey!). He, on the other hand, is a relative rookie and is still feeling his way through life and all things related to coming of age. So it was with a chuckle that I read one of his messages to me as we traded texts about the arguments had over the weekend – him with her, me with my wife.
It’s gotta get better he wrote.
I could hear the pain in his text. The hope, the belief, the prayer in his spirit that his words be true. I responded honestly. I know no other way.
Noooooope. The same problems will stay…
There, the cold hard truth was out, but I wanted to say something to hold on to, to inspire him and give him hope, slim as it may be.
…but they can be minimized.
Obviously this begs elaboration, so I will share with you in-depth the pearl of wisdom I gave him (and get myself in trouble in the process). One of us in the Megaphone marriage is a weeeeee bit defensive, always has been. There was a time the other didn’t know how to handle this and, Oh, the fireworks that could be seen from afar! We’d fight for hours, mornings, an entire day or whole weekends! Whole blocks of time have been lost in our foolishness, in no small part due to the fact that the other person – I assure you, innocent for the most part – is a tad impatient.
That was years ago.
However, these days one of us is no less defensive and the other (the good guy) is as impatient as ever. But the difference is we KNOW this about ourselves now. Being aware of our shortcomings has helped us out greatly by enabling us to come to grips with them. Knowing that a particular someone is going to take something (anything it seems at times!) I say out of context has allowed me to train myself for these moments. So when it happens, not only do I not take it personally, I have ways of combating the crisis and find a resolution sooner. MUCH sooner than it took us years ago. Now conflicts are resolved in minutes to hours versus the days to weekends we used to lose.
What I am basically trying to express is that we’ve given up on trying to change the other (basically because we’ve both tried and failed), and have found that we have instead grown together. Obviously, we still fight and in all honesty the topics we spar over now are just as ridiculous as the ones we did 13 years ago – many of them are the same! But we are professional partners now – masters of the moronic. We are fully aware that we are fools and flawed and have taught ourselves to laugh at our foolishness when the dust settles.
So, no, it doesn’t necessarily get better…but if you are smart, blessed with a good partner and willing to put in a little work, YOU will get better. And isn’t that what’s really important in the end?
the flag of femininity
I’m a bit of a strange person. I have rules, regulations and personal edicts that govern my thoughts feelings and actions that normal people could not begin to comprehend.
For example, I like balance. So great is my need for it that if someone were to playfully smack me on the cheek (be it facial or backside) I feel completely out of whack if they don’t apply the same amount of pressure to the opposite side. Immediately. I will even request they do as much if need be.
Such is my hell.
Another of my strange oddities is my annoyance at women that ask me for help while waving the flag of femininity.
Let me elaborate before the ladies start throwing rocks at me.
I must start by saying that if I see a woman carrying a heavy box or cumbersome load it is my pleasure to offer to take it from her. As a man I feel that I am obligated and it is my chivalric duty. However, this changes greatly when a women looks at me like breasts have rendered her helpless and expects me to pick up a box or heavy load for her while she bats her eyes and reasons, “You’re a guy.”
My issue with this is twofold:
1) I am NOT obligated to pick something up because of my gender any more than a female is supposed to iron my shirt, wash my dishes or make me a sandwich.
2) More often than not, the woman has not even tried to lift said box.
The second is the bigger problem, but the reason actually crosses gender as it applies to men as well. I do not mind helping someone out if they need assistance, but how does one know what one can do if one hasn’t even made an attempt? I’m tired of women that claim they want equal rights, but want to wave the flag of femininity when it is convenient for them – which is usually when something is INconvenient for them.
So, to all my ladies out there that lift your own boxes, I say GOOD for you – you get it. You don’t expect a man to do anything for you that you can’t do for yourself! And to those that want to act helpless when anything heavier than a toaster is around, I say, get your ass in the kitchen and make me a sandwich while I get that damn box.
maybe not ALL stars..
I take my daughters (seven and eight) to basketball games. They like the sport, the arena, our seats and a lot of the expensive junk being peddled in the corridors. They recognize names like Kobe, Lebron, D Rose and Iguadala and the rest of the Sixers starting five (hey, we live in Philly), but that’s about it.
So it wasn’t met with much excitement when I suggested we watch NBA All Star events on a Saturday evening.
“What’s an All Star?” they asked.
“A group of the best, most popular players in the game,” I told them.
“We thought the Sixers were the best…”
…
“Shut up and sit down.”
They did just as the 3point competition kicked off.
“Who’s that guy?” they asked as the participants were announced. They recognized the name Durant and thought Love sounded vaguely familiar.
“Who’s that Chalmers dude – is he an All Star?”
I didn’t know how to answer that.
“Be quiet and watch.”
They eyed me suspiciously and I couldn’t blame them. I was relieved when it came time for the skills completion – every one of them a bonafide All Star: Tony Parker, Deron Williams, and Rajon Rondo all helped to restore credibility to my good name. We got totally sucked in as they dribbled their way up the court, around cones and into my daughters’ little hearts.
By the time they announced the slam dunk contest the little megaphones were just about all in.
“Is he an All Star?” they asked as Chase Budinger propped Diddy under the net for his first dunk (thank GOD Puff was there or they might have walked!)
“Uh, not really.”
As Jeremy Evans limbered up they asked, “How ’bout that guy?”
I couldn’t bring myself to lie. ”Never heard of him.”
I was losing my credibility quickly. They eyed me with mistrust in their beady little eyes. “I thought this was the All Star game…?”
I was trying to figure out how to explain why the likes of Lebron and our own Iguadala were dressed in street clothes when suddenly they, and I, went, “Whoa!”
Evans dunked an incredible two basketballs at the same time.
The next dunk got them to their feet as the lights went low and Paul George became a human glow stick as he slammed one in.
Lebron who? Ok, maybe not. But for a few minutes we forgot about him, Blake Griffin and the rest of the ego-maniacs that often forget the weekend is for the fans.
The girls were mesmerized and we began hotly debating who we were going to vote for via text.
It was with great satisfaction that I watched Evans hoist the well deserved trophy…and a watchful eye towards my daughters with their beady little eyes, angry I hadn’t voted for glow boy.
They crossed their arms and stuck their tongues out as they headed off to bed.
As they went up the stairs the older one yelled down,”Great show, Dad, but next time pick the right guy!”
“Yeah!”
The little one is a bit of a follower.
I smiled knowing they would remember this night forever. So would I. They may have not been the All Stars, but they’d certainly made our night all stars.
2dg
I just wanna be the guy I was on the 2nd date.
Now, you might be wondering, Why not be 1st date guy?
Well, that guy was a chump. He was a little TOO nice, a little too charming and way too nervous. That guy wasn’t really me – he was best case scenario me. That dude was just happy to be sitting across from or next to a pretty girl.
He was a pussy.
Now you might be on to the next logical question, Why not 3rd date guy? Well, I hate to admit it, but that guy might have been a little TOO confident. I mean, let’s face it – by now I KNOW she likes me. And I know I like her. I’m already thinking about the 4th date, and the 5th and, Am I gonna see the chick with the dope place and the fat ass that wants nothing more from me than a good romp?…cuz this chick got me thinking about giving that up! 3rd date guy has waaay too much on his mind and isn’t really in the moment. He’s already in the future.
Tell you the truth, he might even be a bit of an asshole. No way I wanna be that guy.
I wanna be 2nd date guy.
2nd date guy is the one she fell in love with – charming, but not arrogant, clever, but not obnoxious. 2DG is funny without bravado and sensitive without being weak. He’s the dude you always knew you could be if you just met the right girl. He brings it with the rawness, but manages to be the perfect gentleman. His swagger fills the room like a vapor…and she’s definitely diggin’ it – she’s feelin’ him.
She’s falling for him.
2nd date guy is the closest to perfect that I will ever be.
If I can stay him, keep that magic, keep that swagger, she will love me forever…
And at the end of the day that’s what all of us really want, someone to love us forever…
I wanna be 2nd date guy.
circle of life
It’s been said that the older you get, the more you understand your parents, realize they aren’t the crazy people you thought they were when you were a child. In my case that just doesn’t ring true. I am just as befuddled by them in my 40s as I was as a teenager.
If anything, they might have gotten weirder.
For the majority of my adulthood I wondered if I would ever appreciate, understand, empathize with or even like them. In fact, the parenting style I’ve adopted for raising my own children is loosely based on the question, What would MY folks do?
Then I do the opposite.
For a long time I felt guilty about that. Then, one day, when I found myself at wit’s end with foolishness of my own daughters’ making, I had an epiphany…
It occurred to me that maybe parents are just like children…you will NEVER understand them, but you love them nonetheless (that’s why grandparents always get along with their grand kids so well, they are all out of their gourds).
That is when I realized that it’s time for me to accept that I will never understand my parents, nor them me. In fact, it is my JOB to drive them crazy (and my father often reminds me that I am quite good at it)!
During their lifetime I am not likely to stop screwing up, making mistakes and making them scratch their bewildered heads.
Just like I do with my kids.
All I can do is appreciate the fact that they love me despite my best efforts to sabotage that blind love.
And my kids will do the same.
Once I accepted this I really began to enjoy my parents like never before. I’m able to talk to them more freely and accept them for who they are – the biggest supporters I will ever have.
They are contractually obligated to be.
Just like me with my kids.
Ah, the circle of life.
suit yourself (a letter to Common)
Dear, Common,
I found myself watching the Grammys recently (I say that with shame). At one point you appeared on stage to present an award. I was appalled to see you rocking a T-shirt (bedazzled, no less!), jeans, sneakers and blazer. I elbowed my wife and said, “Does he realize this is an AWARD show? He might as well be wearing a hoodie!”I’m sure you must be wondering why I’m surprised – let’s face it, young bruthas have been dressing down for this and other event for years, and I feel you. But I expected more of YOU. As a so called “conscious rapper” (media’s term, not mine), and in my humble opinion the best dressed/stylish rapper out there, I would have hoped you would have made a better apparel decision.
While I am actually not a fan of yours (sorry, a little TOO conscious – give me the head-bangin street stuff a la Jay-Z), I do admire your lyrics, style and sense of responsibility in the black community.
I’ll admit, the problem here may be that I’m old school, but I kinda feel that if you are attending an awards ceremony you are to wear a suit.
Period.
Performing? Rock whatever you like. But not to present…
I’m not sure you realize that you represent what IS the best of hip-hip, both lyrically and fashionably – we need brothers in your position to suit up when required to set the example for a generation lost in tight-ass jeans and sneakers (that can cost MORE than a suit!).
So many young men lack role models and are seeking them, whether they realize it it or not. Because of this it is important that your “social consciousness” not stop at the lyrics – you have to live it, breathe it and wear it.
So, while you may have the right to wear whatever you like, it is my opinion that you not dress as your name implies – like the “common” mc. How much cooler and socially relevant would you be if you decided to take the higher road and dress for the occasion!?
In other words, Common, I think you should suit yourself. Otherwise these kids are gonna be dressing like Kanye, or God FORBID, Lil’ Wayne. We ALL suffer if that happens!
Unc
In a few short hours I will bury the first of two uncles that died within days of each other.
While I thank everyone, both for sympathies and condolences already received as well as those yet to come, I assure you I am quite fine. The truth of the matter is we were not very close. It was only in death that I realized this and became racked with guilt. For days I wrestled with this feeling, reminiscing on the man he was, times we shared, conversations had…I was just coming to terms with it when I received word that yet another uncle was gone.
The process started all over again. This was too much for me.
The time came for me to look to the only people that could help me deal with this. My nephews.
You may or may not know that I have seven nephews ranging in age from four to nineteen. While I have a wonderful relationship with the older ones, I spend little to no time with the younger. I’ve always validated this by assuring myself that once they reached the age of fifteen that would change, that I would then be a force in their lives. I am just not the best person with little kids (sometimes even my own seem like strangers, but luckily their mom is far more loving than me). I found myself asking the seventeen year old if I was a good uncle while in the car as I drove him home from church.
“You aiight,” he replied that way teenagers do.
“What does that mean? Am I doing a good enough job as an uncle?”
He could only look at me with that goofy teenage grin. ”I like you.”
Sweet, useless fool. I had to seek answers from elsewhere.
What few people know is that I have another nephew - a grown man that has not an ounce of my blood in his veins. He is a twenty-something man the Lord saw fit to place in my life that I help out every once in a while. This assistance might be financial, in the form of relationship advice or just an ear to listen over a beer. Because of this relationship formed out of thin air, but as strong as any other in our lives, he calls me Unc. It was this nephew that I turned to for much-needed answers to the question that was beginning to eat away at me.
I asked him one day. I didn’t even mean to, but it just spilled out. What does me being your uncle mean to you? I held my breath as I waited for his response. And he blessed my heart.
I will tell you exactly what he said:
“It means a lot of different things. Someone who I can always talk to about anything. Non-judgemental, unbiased love. Not a brother or father that can be disappointed, but someone who always has your back. That’s why I call you Unc.”
He then apologized, certain that he had not provided what I was looking for.
He was wrong. And that’s when I knew how to move forward – to properly grieve and let go of my guilt.
I will call a man Uncle simply because he is a relative. I have no choice in the matter. But someone I look up to and respect, simply on the strength of him being who he is…? Someone that gives me non-judgemental, unbiased love that I respect as a man and father…Well, I would call that man Unc.
Because I choose to.
Today I say goodbye to a man that helped shape who I am without realizing it, without me even realizing it. Today I will sit next to my mother in the church I grew up in as our family says goodbye to her brother, Leslie E Little.
My Unc.
the words
I went to church yesterday.
This is a rare thing in my life.
I learned a wonderful lesson while there, but it had nothing to do with the sermon, the message or the word of God. It happened when a singer performed.
The church I (randomly) attend is not a big, machine-like place of worship with hundreds to thousands of members and a pulpit full of clergy. It’s a small, intimate group where everyone knows the person sitting next to them on some level and I am (literally) related to one-third the congregation.
The soloist was asked to sing with no notice, no rehearsal and no knowledge the request was coming. Yet, when asked, she dutifully headed to the microphone without a moment’s hesitation. I was struck by that alone. I wondered if I could ever have such blind allegiance to any one or anything and quietly hoped in my heart that I could, that I will.
As she began to sing I was moved by her voice, but could not help but notice the flaws in her performance. At times she was off-pitch, off-key and sometimes a little flat. She was obviously talented, but seemed to lack formal training. This made it all the more impressive to me that she would be brave enough to get up there.
Then came the mistake that everyone noticed – it was kinda hard to miss.
She forgot the words.
The singing stopped, the music ceased and the room went quiet. My eyes went to the drummer of the band – a relative of mine that I’m rather close to. He and I share the same dark sense of humor on many levels. As he, and the rest of us, waited to see what the soloist would do a smirk appeared on his face. It was obvious he was suppressing laughter, as were a couple of other band members. I then felt something bubbling from the pit of my stomach and realized that it might just be contagious, his laughter. I felt guilty, but damn if it wasn’t a bit chuckle-worthy.
That’s when it happened. That’s when I learned something.
The soloist apologized to everyone for stumbling and struggled to regain her composure. As she stood nervous and unsure before us she was given help from an unlikely place. The pastor uttered loudly and clearly across the room the next several words to the song.
This confused the singer.
So the pastor repeated them. There was no judgement in her words. There was no anger, no frustration nor disappointment. She merely placed the words in the singer’s lap for her to pick them up when she was ready. Which she did and went on with her song, with trepidation at first. When she finished those first words the pastor tossed her the next line, then the next, then the next. Her confidence grew with each assist. The band resumed playing and the soloist finished her song to much applause. And more importantly no laughter.
I felt like a jackass and found myself asking a fundamental question:
How many times have we laughed at someone falling on their face when we could have helped them stand? How many times have we wondered How the hell could they DO that, when the question should have been How can I HELP them?
Now, I am not judging anyone – the truth is I am one of the worst offenders of this. I just hope that the next time I find myself in a position to feed someone the words I will do just that instead of laughing my ass off. Cuz let’s face it, we are all gonna need the words at some point.