Mother of the Earth:
[to the west]
I call on your spirit
to watch over all of us,
to protect us
[to the north]
i ask for your forgiveness
for the suffering i’ve caused others
may you watch over them
and heal their wounds
[to the east]
i wish for safety and peace
to the victims
oppression, inequality, and injustice
[to the south]
i give myself to you;
in spirit, energy, truth, and love
may you guide me;
live within me
breath by breath
step by step
every time
i come home
there is something
new
a shade of green
a street gone bad
a crane in the sky
a shop closed down
there is
newness to the truth
that what
was new
is now old
there is newness
to the air
an absence in our breath
people we love forever
now gone
disappeared
these disappearances
float through the wind
and rush
in a wave of heavy gusts
blow down the trees
that tried to stand still
that tried to move on
like the seasons
of their leaves
always coming back
always changing colors
yet these
these disappearances
remain
holes without soil
for filling
this photo
serene in its appearance
joyful in its pose
love on full exposure
has withered
the edges are folding
more stains
the yard
in the background
has gone from spring
to fall—
suddenly
the smiles seem forced
the embraces feel false
our eyes playing tricks
on me
will there be an antidote
a cure to fix the blood
or was it all illusory
a veil to mask the drug
is there ground for planting
or has the dirt gone bad
or have the disappearances
ruined everything we had
Irrfan Khan, a truly one-of-a-kind actor passed away yesterday. He was mostly known for Bollywood movies, but came over to America later in his acting career and certainly made an impact on me. Off the top of my head, I can only think of three movies that I remember seeing him in, but in each one there is an engraving into my memory that would be impossible to forget. The first was “Life of Pi”, the second, “Slumdog Millionaire” and the third (but the first movie I saw him in) was “the Namesake.” I believe in “Life of Pi” he plays the adult version of Pi, the narrator and the protagonist. In “Slumdog” he plays the officer in charge of holding Jamal before he answers the million dollar question. And in “the Namesake” he plays Ashoke, the husband matched with a wife, before they leave India to start a life anew with children of their own in America. Now, truth be told, Tabu, who plays Ashima, the wife, is absolutely incredible in this film, as well, but it was in “The Namesake” where I was first exposed to the undeniably singular quality of Khan. A viewer could highlight so much. The softness of his speech: a patience to talk at his own pace, with such gravity that you could never stop listening, almost like you couldn’t resist leaning in to catch all of the subtleties. Maybe it was the way he moved: slowly and peacefully, almost hypnotizing. Or how he didn’t move, how he stood still. A way with stillness in cinema is something so few people possess. He also had this gaze and these sort of sad, weary eyes that were impossible to look away from. He could be sweet, as he was so often in “the Namesake”, just as quick as he could be severe, as he was for most of “Slumdog.” I will undoubtedly revisit these movies and without question seek out his other films.
A few years ago, when I used to work the front desk at a gym in Columbus Circle, he came into the gym. I can’t remember the details of his visit—not sure whether he was working out, taking a class, or just wanted to go the sauna/steam room, but it was an absolute pleasure to see him, tell him how much I enjoyed and appreciated his work, and maybe most of all, to experience his aura face-to-face. His calm was otherworldly. A calm that could make you calm.
It was a privilege to meet him and it will always be an honor to remember him and see his work in the years to come.
Rest easy, Mr. Khan.
i didn’t know—
didn’t know
that an animal could shake
spasm
and lose control
fall down
helplessly
seize up
from a sudden spell
the five of us
watching
with eyes wide of fear
the father inching closer
to calm
the sharp jerks
convulsing
us waiting
in hushed breaths
for the bout to subside
for the shock to be over
[his brother nearby
wishing it would stop
hoping
that his own shocks would not come]
could he think
could he remember
could he move
could he...
or was he rendered
defenseless
nothing to do
but let the waves rush over
a moment made longer
a black spot stretched farther
rearing its head again
i had never seen
a dog cry before—
[to know one’s history
is not to have seen
a history unfold]
the spread of tears
turned to snot
his scrambling eyes
looking lost
scared
wandering and wondering
another blank space
another day
mired in black
and to return…
but when?
as he looked around
paws shuffling
aimlessly
his hiccuping brain
wondering
i take you for granted
i drink your wine
i get lost in your words
and romanticize your vision
you’ve always had your way
with me
always
had your way with me
inducing my movements
a thick hypnosis
slurring my speech
disrupting my focus
talking me to sleep with your
saccharine kisses
injecting me
with
insulin
why do i wallow
in the wonder of your past tense
why do i melt
in the sun i cannot see
why do i why do i
why do i why
the glare of my stance
blinding my eyes
fleshing me out
with your slow pulling string
you are the beast
that i wrestle with—
lose to
fawn over
day dream
hold breath
talk through
settle down
choke on
break neck
sit down
talk out
pacify
pacify
a passive death
where is the middle man—
will i find him again?
i almost forgot i knew you—
it had been that long;
days and weeks and months
and years
without so much
as a peep;
making me wonder
do we even really know each other
or is right now convenient;
have you been busy—
have i been caught slowing down
when you’ve been caught
advancing;
no
no i don’t believe it,
the same way i don’t believe
that i was on your mind
or
that you were thinking
of giving a call
or reaching out;
see
if i hadn’t seen you
you wouldn’t have
seen me
visibly or mentally—
no dots to connect
no jogging of your brain
to embarrass yourself
to realize how long its been;
how long its been since
i became an ant
and you became a termite
since i became
a dead plant
a nice picture
for you to feed off;
your words
are like dead seeds
there is nothing there
for sowing—
no sun or water
no dialogue
no substance there
for growing;
so
let me cut you off
before you stroke your ego—
i’m not sure its worth it
for us to remember
again
set yourself free
from me
from the memory
of darkness
impossible not to see
where i turned over
to pitch black
eyes with no iris
pupils
no whites
ovals fully dilated
you made a commandment
and i
had gone deaf
abandoned existence
muting your breath
a nightmare
in real time
recurring in day
forgive me, unleash me
let laws do your bidding
please
please
please
take your redemption
pull on the rope
watch me rise up
both my hands shackled
my ankles tied up
remove your blindfolds
and see
a gun
a knife
a golf club
a bat
swing
and swing
until the piñata falls
and don’t stop
until
there’s none of me left
i wonder
if i will find another
place that feels
like home
fogging up my visions
projecting all my thoughts
opening its misty prism
when i feel free
when i realize
you’re the only one
i’ve ever truly been
married to
divorced from
cordial with
when we get together
lay up with
rest in
finger rolls
it reminds me
of my parents
the parents of my friends
who severed ties when
time was up
but slowly, like gravity
deflated balloons
coming down to speak again
day by day
amends
i don’t love you all the time
but angst, impatience
expectations
wither like seasons;
spring in the rain
cherry blossoms in bloom
fall;
summer begins
bye bye honeymoon
each time we meet again
i notice
something different
about you
a new shade
a new thing
a new…—
but your eyes are the same
reflections in the union
ripples in the sound
your fields of green
pastures of plenty
your volatility
calming
will you
be here
if all else fails;
will you
be a safety net;
will you
always have your name;
be the constant;
will you
i’m becoming you
despite my best attempts
to stop it
i hear the cynicism in my voice
and tone
i hear the ambition
and the idealism
lofty in volume
sit and watch as the days go by
the pitter, patter of dreams
falling to the ground
i notice it when i fall in love
with a new memory
from a romantic past;
i caress it
as if i could manifest it
sink deeper and deeper
in the affection of it
lose a day in all
the thinking of it
i think we think
similarly;
obsess over small things
lose sight of the big things
trust our gab
to get us out of trouble;
it’s our little game, i guess
and so far
we’ve done alright
i don’t talk much anymore
but you still do
and you don’t listen much anymore
but i still try
sometimes when i’m alone
i wonder if it’s like you
when you’re alone—
lots of looking around
thinking to ourselves;
me, wondering if i’m lost
you wondering
when you’ll be found
why am i so critical of you
just waiting for you to fuck up
at every turning second
so eager to whale on you
lash out at you
beat you down
find something wrong
stand in the middle of you
and your life
while you stand in the middle
of me and mine
i resent your train of thought
because I can’t seem to follow the tracks
i make note of when the subjects change
pay close attention to your isms
the way you deftly place a trailing thought
and laugh it off with a resounding clap—
that’s your neurosis but i have mine
a similar type of ADD
one rooted in less fever and passion
one rooted in feeling overwhelmed
one rooted in distraction
[in my brain]
my train veering off the tracks
when i hug you and you hug me
i can feel the way you were embraced
and the lack thereof
it’s disjointed and unknown
it’s slack and imbalanced
fleeting and wondering
impatient and uncomfortable
but there is a yearning there
and this is how i know
that when i look at my reflection
i see you looking at yourself
wondering the same things
will you be you or will you be him
will i be you or will i be me
once there was a house
of solid wooden blocks
secure in its arrangement
at the bottom of a hill
to the north there was the sky
to the south there was a cliff
the pictures on the wall
shifted the scale
once there was a war
that split the silhouette
he should have seen it coming
the cracks were in the floor
now the wood is wearing
and now the paint is shedding
where was the inspector
to see what lived beneath
illusions have four corners
common tongues are foreign
poor designs leak
the ink onto their hands
each one to brace the other
one sister and one brother
one father and one mother
with splinters in their skin
My dad mentioned to me in the car that it was strange to hear the birds. It was strange to hear sounds you don’t normally hear, but that was the case now as the cars stopped driving and the people stopped walking (most of them, at least). You could hear the birds, he said, who were still living, still going on with their normal day-to-day lives. I wonder if they felt as if they ruled the world now.
Later, when I was walking alone in my old neighborhood of withered clay, I heard the songs and put meaning to my dad’s observation. There were more birds it seemed: crows and chickadees, stellar jays and robins; perched in the highest trees, tiptoeing the highest rung on the chain link fence. And now, in this afternoon jaunt, my internal compass must have heard the calls and led me to the diamond between a 3rd and 4th Ave. on 43rd St.
I was drawn to the scoreboard in left with the standalone totem up above, a huge leafless tree in the spring of its branches, bigger to me in my youth, where a tall prince of a ghost had belted a ball so high and so far that it scaled the top of the tree and never landed. The crow dove from the fence and soared around the bases, crowing and laughing, before it returned to its post.
I witnessed the ghost of mischief, thrown out trying to steal. “He’d do it again”, he thought, as he returned to the dugout, but not before the head coach scolded him for being foolish. An anxious robin went from center to left, where another robin drew a line in the sand, putting the visitor in its place. But worry not about the visitor. Tomorrow was another day.
I couldn’t help but notice, circling the dirt in bliss, the liberated spirit, the independent ghost. Who ran without aim. Without care. Without concern. Chasing the dust that he was creating. Hair covering his eyes. The mohawk on top falling down on the sides. A roadrunner blurred from one side to the next. Covering the bases in 60 feet bursts.
…
The day grows and the birds keep singing. Ghosts with new voices. Perched atop the highest rung as they watch over the diamond.
sprawling days
the minutes hand replaced
the hours hand fled
and the seconds ran away
where have you gone
oh, time
oh, memory
the shadow that I outgrew
is coming back to play
i cleaned my room
364 days later
just in time
to make it dirty again
i put the squares in stacks
never-ending towers
tossed the receipts
[monetary memories]
i tucked my sheets in
swept the floors
noticed the walls were blank
accumulated dust
somehow the getting-rid-of
always takes-more-in
and the lone dresser
which we had such high hopes for
is getting bogged down by weight
a dresser’s worth of homeless clothes
adopted children waiting
for their name to be called
i’ve made do with the bland
faux wooden floors where the bugs sneak through
a window leading to nowhere
but an alley where the garbage grows
before i fall asleep
my eyes look to the sky
a foreign ceiling of mixed messages
that i’ve still yet to decipher
among them:
those five questions that
my teacher used to ask
one, more than anything—
“why?”
i take for granted
that my heart still beats
that my soul still skips
running for something
running, running, running
from nothing
the skies cried today
but who knows—
if the ones that are now wet
were disrespected by providence
or blessed
to no longer be
dying of thirst
it was a while ago
when the kids squinted
peeked into the lens
directed
to speak what they saw—
organisms splitting
futuristic swimming
subconscious wishing
to make meaning
one day
pt.1
just last week their see-saw stopped
realities accepted
realities reversed
stomachs holding cells
stomachs that were quelled
now she feels she’s starving
and the food won’t help
pt.2
today i saw a memory
i had left at the front desk
years since I’d seen her
i’d been permanently dismissed
she watched me leave, apathetic
her belly full now
i could have said hello
said congratulations
i didn’t, apathetic
it’s the most wonderful time of the year
when the homeless neighbors fill the streets
asleep, laid out on subway cars
in the lost art of a dream:
[a home containing many rooms
a family
a mother
a father
a baby in a cradle
a grandfather clock
a window for the sun to shine in
a carpet on the floor
and pillows on the couch
smells that resurrect the dead
food to put them all to rest
their tummies teeming to the brim
with emptiness
each swallow leading to an end
of sustenance
one more bite—
one more hit—
one more breath—
no more left—]
“excuse me, sir.
you’ll have to exit the train”
…
but, i’m already dead
Disclaimer: I am a white man of privilege. If this alone gives you reason to not want to read the following, I understand.
Over the weekend on Instagram I posted a photo of me a while back (early 2018) with two braids. There wasn’t too much intention behind it. I posted it with the caption, “I can’t wait to get these back during the time of the year when it makes the least amount of sense.” I was alluding to the fact that the only time I had had braids previously was during the winter when I would assume most would elect to grow their hair out and let it protect their ears, keep them warm, etc. as opposed to keeping your head fully exposed to the cold. I didn’t get much response and that was totally fine by me.
I did get one, however, from a woman (of Dominican and Italian descent) that I had met through work and had been on a date with before. Her response was, “smh” (shaking my head) and I told her that it “was sweet of her to judge.” She followed with “you’re being ignorant and it’s appropriation,” alluding to her idea that I was appropriating black culture or, in this instance, misappropriating black culture. I told her that I disagreed and that I hoped she would have a nice day. Then nothing for about fifteen minutes. And then later, she posted two long paragraphs that read as followed:
“Have you ever been to a protest protecting the lives of Black or Latin people? Have you ever participated in a black lives matter or a protest about Puerto Rico? I doubt you have. I'm sure that you have good intentions because you admire the Afro-Caribbean culture or the Black culture, but you can not wear your hair like that like it's no big deal when you have never experienced what we have and have never participated in our cultural struggles or chose to be a part of it all. You know you can have all your Black friends and Latin friends and like Black girls and Latin girls, but if you're not participating in their struggle or having their backs and just wearing your hair in braids because you like it or you think it's cool, that's appropriation. Like you are a Jewish guy from Washington benefitting from being Jewish and being a gentrifier. There's nothing in common with you and the black community and if you're going to wear your hair like that you better back it up because otherwise it's offensive to the culture that you claim to love. That's all.”
I admit that initially I was pretty defensive to what I interpreted as an attack and I even told her that I wanted to attack back and defend myself, but that I was electing to say that she was operating out of a place of not knowing me very well and assuming she did. Ultimately, as I told her, I respected her opinion.
Later, I told her that I was very taken by what she had said and that I wanted to include other voices in the conversation and see how they would respond—all of which would be done anonymously, however I would include their ethnic background in order for viewers to have some context of the responses. She said that would be fine and then added:
“Like I said, I know you had no bad intentions and you feel close to the Black/Brown community, but in this society right now, it can really offend someone of color. You can appreciate and celebrate a culture all you want, but you can't BE something you're not. There are some things that are just not for you, but for us, and it's OK to stay in your lane.”
The responses started to pour in from people of all different backgrounds and the conversation continued.
Disclaimer: My hope in mentioning each person’s ethnicity is to provide some sort of context. There are also some which I don’t know for certain, so I have elected to say mixed race or Latinx. (If those of you who I have used your quote recognize that I put your background incorrectly, let me know, and I will change it). I hoped to provide background, but still maintain their anonymity. Also, please know that none of these individual opinions from any one of these races express the opinion of all peoples from that individual background. They each have their own experience.
…
Some were offerings of support.
A Latinx woman mentioned that she thought “the aggression is very misplaced.”
A woman of mixed race said, “It’s a hairstyle. You’re fine.”
A black woman mentioned, “I love them. I saw other posts, but do what you feel…there will always be one that will go against you…keep doing you.”
Another Latinx woman agreed, “Wow. I don’t feel that way at all.”
A woman of mixed race said, “This is ridiculous. Wear your hair how you want to wear it. You’re not offending anyone.”
A man of Nigerian descent said, “Nah bruh. You solid to wear your shit however the fuck you want.”
A Dominican man said, “Bro, you good. Whoever this is is buggin’.”
A mixed race woman mentioned, “Do not agree with that sentiment. You’re good. Someone’s just going out of their way to find something to hate on.”
A Paraguyan man offered his thoughts, “Really? No tiene sentido amio! Esta totalmente equivocada. Ella está viendo el lado negativo y creando un conflicto totalmente innecesario por algo que realmente no tiene ninguna intención negativa, al contrario, yo como Latino me sentiría muy feliz si alguien apoya, disfruta, y comparte mi cultura. Tu intención suma mucho. El comentario de ella resta y divide. Abrazo!”
Another woman, of Haitian descent, continued, “I think the fact that you sincerely care is good enough for me. Sometimes in our quest to change the grand scheme of things we forget about individuality. You have chosen to be an ally of a social movement and it will not be easy. Change/progress is never easy, not for the groups who demand it nor their allies. But when it matters, like when your peers choose to wear cornrows or their fros to work you will not make them feel self-conscious or as if it’s inappropriate. When/if you become a person who hires others you will appreciate hair as an expression and will not use it as a tool of oppression. If you have mixed children you will be better prepared to raised them in a world that may question everything about them. And I think that’s what matters most. Your intentions, how you treat others, and how you will raise your kids to deal with the same situations.”
…
Others alluded to their own personal experience.
To one woman of Irish and Japanese background it was “the first she had heard from that stance.
A white man responded, “I’ve definitely had my hair braided before and it had no intention of any race or disrespect.”
…
Several agreed that the discussion was extremely layered and complicated.
One white man said, “I don’t know, bro. It’s complicated…there are a lot of factors at play.”
…
Many expressed a sort of split reaction due of the history of our friendships—alluding to what they believed my intent was, but how they ultimately felt about the entire situation.
A black woman offered her take: “Hmm…this is tricky. One, those [the braids] are fresh. But I understand what this person is saying. But I also know you and it’s who you are…I don’t think it’s you INTENTIONALLY trying to ‘be down’ or ‘act black’ or anything like that.”
Another black woman thought, “Man…it’s a lot. I may be biased because I know you and appreciate you, but if was anyone else I might push the line especially since the discrimination a lot of people of color face regarding their hair.”
…
Others were more critical of the woman who expressed her initial displeasure.
Another white man simply put, “Too much.”
A woman of Guyanese descent said, “It’s a reach.”
A Latinx woman thought, “She didn’t have to go that far.”
One white man thought, “Classic attempting to portray themself as in the right, yet in reality is just finding any way to make the situation about them. That person’s ego is out of wack. It’s sad because their intentions are probably right, but the means with going about it are horribly misguided.”
One black man said, “I think this person thinks that culture is one person, i.e., them. I’m not sure if you should post a disclaimer saying you should support people of color if you wear it, etc., in that way. I think cultural appropriation is deeper than whatever you did.”
Another mixed race woman mentioned, “I have so much to say to this, but let me start by that’s straight bullshit that people judge you based on your hairstyle. Second, it’s 2019 stop making this culture go backwards. We are living in a time when we have equal rights. There’s issues in this world that need to get fixed but this isn’t one of them. Also ... something in common, but how about being a fucking human! We have different color skin, but there’s not a difference in our DNA. That statement disgusts me…people still see color and people still separate other human beings by the color of their skin. Get over it.”
A woman of Ethiopian/Eritrean descent said, “Outta pocket. Overly charged, misplaced and misguided. POC who can’t differentiate between an oppressor and exploiter. I advise you to find the proper (and abundant) resources out there to properly heal before you speak. Respectfully and compassionately so because otherwise this fake ass socially conditioned “woke” triggered shit is fucking it up for the rest of us who are actually doing our homework…this wasn’t really meant for you. Just another hurt one needing help.”
A woman of Puerto Rican descent said, “They’re not actually interested in having a dialogue about who you are and your intentions. Anyone who wants to regurgitate talking points but refuses to engage in civil discourse about something they claim to care about isn’t trying to learn anything because apparently they know-it-all and probably isn’t worth your time…I don’t want to add any more to this conversation because it’s become so complicated but I think everyone, and I mean EVERYONE has the responsibility of gathering more information before allowing themselves to get incensed by social media posts. In my honest opinion, maturity comes when you can educate while refraining from assuming someone else’s intention and also expressing yourself respectfully. We’re all so quick to react that no one bothers to inquire about anyone’s heart anymore. It makes things so convoluted.”
…
Others were also more critical of me.
One Latinx woman said, “They’re right. And even if you were attending ‘Black Lives Matter’ rallies, it’s still appropriation and you shouldn’t do it.”
(She later sent me an article entitled “7 reasons why white people should not wear black hairstyles” with a thumbnail of Kylie Jenner taking a selfie of her wearing braids)
She continued, “This conversation is not just about hair, really this conversation is inherently about race, power, and privilege. I don’t expect you to know everything but as a basis, if a person of color says something is problematic, offensive, and/or racist, your job is not to disagree with them, it’s to believe them. Because for you it’s an “opinion”, but for them it’s a reality and a lived experience, either by them personally or some in their community. This is important because not being able to accept a conversation about hair even lets me know that there probably hasn’t been a lot of thought about your position and how you benefit from race and white privilege.”
…
There were those that used their personal opinion/attachment to the history/role of hair to inform their response.
A Trinidadian woman followed with, “This makes no sense. Cornrows aren’t exclusive to the African-American community. They’re dragging it now. Wear your hair however you please.”
A white man continued, “No. Fuck this mentality. You can do whatever you want. If people dislike it, that’s on them. Having a certain hairstyle isn’t ‘appropriating a culture.’ You’re not trying to sell anything. This is 100% counter to multiculturalism and is stupid.”
…
Some people were more cautionary about the layers to other ethnicities wearing/rocking hairstyles predominantly associated with a specific culture.
Another Latinx woman said, “i don’t know. I don’t know enough about you to agree that that’s what you’re doing, but I also know I personally wouldn’t pull up anywhere with cornrows or a hairstyle that is meant for black hair because I am aware of how it can offend people…I feel the deeper meaning lies in how much discrimination black people have received because of their hairstyles/hair in general..like when the Kardashians did it and they called them box braids and there were articles about it and how trendy it was, but people have lost their jobs over stuff like that…do what you do, but know it may come with that reaction. It is what it is. Can’t please everyone.”
…
There were those that wondered about a specific criteria to wearing your hair a certain way or whether the opinion would have been different if I had worn them in an alternative style.
A white woman followed, “I have so many issues with this. So if you went to protests you could wear braids? And also what does you being Jewish have to do with this?”
Another woman wondered if there would have been a lesser response had the style of the braids been different.
A woman of Salvadorian and Egyptian descent mentioned, “This is so crazy. The notion that a culture owns a hairstyle is absurd. In addition, how are we to understand each other and appreciate each other and ultimately love each other if we have all these false boundaries? Does that mean you shouldn’t eat rice and beans either?”
A Dominican man offered his take, “Tell them Fuck Outta Here with that bullshit. There are no requirements to culture if you identify and fuck with it genuinely like I know you do. You are already supporting.”
…
Several saw this as an opportunity to show support without aligning to a specific side while also educating me.
A man of Ethiopian man said, “Only you know who you are. Yes this can be offensive to black people and whoever wrote this has a point but if you know yourself, then stay true to that. Don’t feel a way. Listen. Take it. Reevaluate and keep it pushing. Love.
He later responded to someone else’s response, “It can be offensive. Black people have dealt with a stigma around braids. But when white people take that same style in their hands nothing really happens. I can’t just pop up to work rocking that without being judged the wrong way, but if you were to wear that style it might be the talk of the office with jokes, compliments, and nothing more. The next day you can rock your curls and we’re past it. But hair is very sensitive in the black culture, so you benefiting from it can be a slap to the face of a black women or man who is looked at sideways for wearing all he or she has. Not to mention it’s something that can hold me back from getting the same job or opportunity as you…No one can tell you what to do or wear. It’s your choice, and I personally like them braids on you, but whoever this person is is not coming from a bad place. There’s some irrational people who wouldn’t even give you the time or day and those who are supporting you heavy can be questioned, too. Especially if they benefit from being a type of black person…I’m just keeping it a hundred with you. All love though!
A woman of mixed race said, “I think the biggest takeaway is understanding how people are discriminated against because of their hair styles. There are just now becoming laws that allow people to wear their hair exactly how it grows out of their head and it is 2019. That is crazy, but however you wear your hair has nothing to do with that…it also is not your job to decide if someone feeling offended is valid. You can apologize for offending them and continue to live your life. Their experiences may have made them feel that way. You know your heart you don’t need to explain that to anyone.”
A woman of Nepalese descent mentioned, “I don’t belong to the African-American/Black community, but I am a person of color and I think as a white person you always have to be aware of your white privilege and how that plays out when you’re wearing different cultural outfits or hairstyles…I think especially with the history that black peoples have in this country, from slavery to police brutality, that community has been marginalized so much…so when you as a person who has so much privilege based on the color of your skin wears a hairstyle, you’re kind of picking what you like aesthetically about their culture, while not being subjected to the same treatment/discrimination.”
A white woman concluded, “I think when you get pushback from a person of color as a person benefitting from white privilege, the best thing to do is to look at it as a gift that person is giving you - clearly they are not the only one who feels that way, maybe just the only one willing to say something to you. They are the one supporting you, not the people telling you you did nothing wrong. As a white person trying to be anti-racist, I get how hard it is to hear these things. But maybe reframe this criticism as a form of love and respect that people are willing to tell you when you’ve crossed a line.”
One woman mentioned, “I think if someone is offended because they feel you’re appropriating them, it’s enough to know that you probably did. Black cultural appropriation is particularly a difficult subject because it has become such a normalized part of culture. I can see why someone would be upset by that.”
…
Some of my friends also directed me to certain articles about the subject. One linked me to Jeremy Lin’s Player’s Tribune article on his experience wearing braids and dreadlocks as an Asian man. A few others, to the aforementioned article entitled “7 reasons why white people should not wear black hairstyles” with a thumbnail of Kylie Jenner taking a selfie of her wearing braids.
…
All of these responses transpired over the course of about 24 hours. I know I will be digesting the conversation for a long, long time, maybe my whole life, because I don’t think any of this is black and white (is anyone really pretending it is?).
I think the above information will provide enough for those of you deciding to view this editorial and those who are interested in this topic. I don’t think my opinion, experience, or response holds more weight than anyone else’s either. This whole conversation has only educated me more on how I have a personal responsibility to respect, attempt to understand, and be empathetic to everyone’s opinion, background, and experience.
I do think, however, that because I was one of the people involved in this situation, argument, conversation (however you want to slice it) that it would be right to offer some words (which a few, not all, have asked me to do).
I am not here to tell you my life story or who I am. In fact, many of you who contributed to this conversation know me very well. What all of you know is that I am a white man. And whether you know me well or not, because I am a white man, I am a man of privilege. I am afforded certain rights and certain treatment that, despite the best efforts of our hopes for modern advancement, are not shared by everyone, namely marginalized peoples and people of color. Despite having lived my entire life in the company of people from all over the world and despite attending diverse institutions of education and despite some of my most dear friends (who I consider my family) being people of color this, ultimately, and by association, does not make me a person of color. This is not a shared experience. I do not know what it feels like to be called the “n-word.” I do not know what it feels like to be told that my natural hair is unacceptable in the work place. I do now know what it feels like to be pulled over by police as a person of color. I do not know what it feels like to walk on a sidewalk and have people walk to the other side. I do not know what it feels like to be stigmatized in this way. To not be given a fair shake in so many different areas of life. These are all facts.
What I do know is that despite my best efforts to be an ally in all areas of life, there are still certain circumstances and situations in which my actions can offend people and cause sensitivity to those who have lived with the experience I alluded to above and that despite what I know my intentions to be, they might not be universally received as so.
I am a white man of privilege. As long as I am white, this will continue to be the same. I grew up watching Allen Iverson. Idolizing him. idolizing his hair. Wishing I could be like him when I played basketball. Several years ago I saw another popular figure of color, Quincy, rocking two braids (which I have now learned are dutch braids) and told myself that if my hair ever got long enough I would try to get it in the same style. One day I was able to do so. Despite knowing that they could be potentially received negatively because of the color of my skin, I wanted to still move ahead. What I knew was that, whatever reservations I had about how others would react to it, they were not as great as how amazing I felt when I had them in my hair. That was my experience. I don’t remember if there were side eyes. In fact, so many people, and mainly people of color, expressed their support—even though I couldn’t possibly know the layers of feeling they might have felt seeing me in a hairstyle that was theirs.
I know that not everything I do will be universally approved. I know that people are sensitive and that it is their right to be so. I know that every opinion is unique. I respect it. I understand it. I know that not everyone knows me to the same degree.
What I also know is that however much of an advocate or ally I believe I am there is no universal pass for anything. As you saw above, whether I am on the front lines during a protest, or behind the scenes not spewing hateful, vitriolic speech towards people of color, nobody shares the same opinion on how I fit within the POC community. The popular school of thought seems to believe that white people, as allies, don’t speak up enough against the oppression, discrimination, and maltreatment of people of color. I agree. There is room there for steep improvement individually and collectively. What I do know is that I have an appreciation and admiration and adoration and respect and love for people of color that mirrors no other, maybe even more so than my own community, as a white man and as a Jewish man.
And maybe if you knew me at all, you might agree or share that same sentiment about who I am.
I consider this whole conversation to have been an absolutely invaluable experience to me. It’s been a unique opportunity for me to try and understand. To listen. And I am extremely grateful.
I will continue to listen to the highest degree.
Love to you all.
i told myself
i wouldn’t go there
looking
searching
hoping
to find her
in that place
under those lights
at that time
of the year
the heat of the summer
a tourist jungle
the love of winter
a bundled bear
Times Square
an ugly face
no known escape
like Kaa the snake
pulling
squeezing
choking me
i told myself
there’s a formula
a way it happens
a way we meet
according to
nobody
according to
me
that time of day
on that type of street
that’s the way
it’s supposed to go
not in Dumbo
not Central Park
but a crowded train
a restaurant
not the pier
not the Upper West
but a chance encounter
happenstance
not Brooklyn Heights
not a high rise building
but the dmv
or greenwich village
are you a Yankee fan
wear lots of
makeup
do you work
in tech
do you have
a checkbook
do you frequent
oysters
happy hours
are you always drunk
tequila sours
are you Republican
have summer homes
can pack a house
feel all alone
are you
what i’m
supposed to want
the lottery
should i
feel
so lucky
i know everything
that i don’t want you
to be
i know everywhere
that i don’t want to meet
you
maybe i should sit
in the middle of Times Square
just let it be
and wait for you
if she said
“i love you”
and meant it
i’d stop
everything
and catch a plane
to her lips
so I could reside in her arms
forever
if she said
“…i love you”
and meant it
i’d probably
break
down
and look
to the sky
and find
my grey cloud parting
at long last
if she said
“j’taime”
ma belle, mon cœur
i’d dance in the rain
in the joy
of my tears
let my feet speakeasy
tip toe ballet
if she said
“i love you”
and meant it
i’d tell
the lonely things
that miracles
exist
that outstretched hands
always find touch
that
the ice
will
melt
if she said
“i love you”
and meant it
i would know that
my
i love you
i have always loved you
i will always love you
my “i love you”s
did not go in vain
they found your ears
and settled in your heart
and they will…
forever
This is a story about memory, in its full life and in its casualty. It is a recollection of “maybe”s and “probably”s and “most likely”s and “yeah, I could see that happening”s. It is a story about a stupid man living in a new city, afraid to be frugal and content with being cheap. It is a story about subways, of drunkenness, of stolen identity and, ultimately, of letting go.
And there’s enough wood in the pit to take you there.
He was in the Lower East Side. During his first year getting used to the lay of the land, the mostly young man had the energy to go out more often. Seattle had provided a home for the previous 24 years of his life and he had left for new beginnings in the Big Apple. Apparently growing up in a state full of them just wasn’t enough. New York’s “LES” had a street that provided a familiar backdrop to one of the many he had grown accustom to frequenting in Seattle. Ludlow Street might as well have been Capitol Hill as far as he was concerned. Same vibe. Same people and atmosphere. And the cherry on top? This particular night he was spending it with many of the same people who had attended his college and had grown up in or around the city he was raised in.
It was first and foremost familiar.
Whether they were at Piano’s or No Fun really doesn’t matter. It’s not certain whether they were at one or the other. What is certain is they were at one of them.
Debauchery. Drinks. Alcohol. Consumption. Shots. Bodily response. Seesaw. 180. Upside down. The night had begun and was quickly spiraling towards its inevitable ending. Exit Pianos. Exit No Fun. Pizza. Cheap. Dollar slices. More dollars. Uber. Subway. Transfer. Construction. Uber? Goodbyes. Subway.
As the communion of friends came to a close the next chapter was just beginning. The man walked to the train. It could’ve been the F. It could have been the M. It could have been the J. As long as he could transfer to the D at one point he would have been fine. So, that being said, we can eliminate the J.
So the man gets on the F or the M. (I still can’t decide which one it was). The trouble is I know it revolved around Delancey or Essex—but, of course it did, because the F and the M run through there.
He’s at the subway station. It’s packed with people. There’s a fight happening. People observe and, through their willingness to watch, egg the opponents on. The homeless and temporary homeless from the night of downing mixed drinks sit on the benches like discarded dolls on the edge of a bed. The fight ends and trickles out of the turnstile (was it just play fighting?) and the train arrives, leaving the station to take on a new life as a suddenly spare cemetery that would receive a new shipment from the stairs in the coming moments.
The man had the right idea on this F or M train, but then again he can thank the 2:00 crowd for that. Despite holding onto the pole for dear life, the hypnotizing say of the train was working its lullaby magic, making drowsy eyes turn to syrup and eyelids turn to sludge. Luckily, the Broadway-Lafayette transfer point provided a sudden awakening—making sure that he didn’t end up in Queens.
Did the D come soon after? It’s anyone’s guess. Perhaps if we pulled up the MTA records of that fateful day in August or September 2016 we would learn if the late night train arrived at its scheduled departure time, but the most important piece of info is that, at one point, it did come.
It was on the D train that the young man in the black Levis pants would sit down and start a conversation with the sister of Selenis Leyva of “Orange is the New Black” fame. The younger sister was very pretty and pretty tipsy, herself. The fatigue of the deepening blood alcohol level and lack of sleep was one thing, but the swaying flirtation of the pretty lady in front of him was entirely another. It was friendly. They connected immediately, but there wasn’t much to it beyond that. Cute introductions, slurred sentences, a giggle here, a giggle there, maybe a “this is my sister” at one point. Before they went their separate ways, they exchanged phone numbers. Isa, continuing on her way to the Bronx, and the man, on his last open eyes, was left to the final transfer, from the D to the A at 145th St.
The A. The goddamned, fucking A train in all its misery and glory, waited, like an imminent nightmare, to arrive. Equipped with the darkening sky outside and a screech of impending doom, the A train slid to a halt like the Night Bus from the Prisoner of Azkaban. Assuming the man was conscious at this point, he probably would have thought to himself that he had merely five stops (on the now late night local train) before his 181st St. exit. He’d be just fine, he thought.
The darkness of night was becoming the pink of dawn burgeoning like an Alice and Wonderland Rabbit Hole that had grown fed up with a world below and couldn’t wait to demonstrate a bad trip of kaleidoscope dreams and coral reef rainbows to the world above.
Underneath the man’s eyes.
155. 163. 168. 175. 181.
.
.
.
190.
Dyckman.
Inwood, 207th St.
When the man awoke he didn’t know where he was, but he did know there was no more going left for the train. All around him were mostly men, young and old, drunk and sober, but all tired, all asleep in varying positions of slumber. The man, who had been seated at the middle part of the subway car, but at the end of the row, slowly got to his feet and stepped out of the doors, which had been left ajar for the people to enter. He looked left and looked right. He had missed his stop. He was at the end of the line. Inwood 207th St. It was around 4:30 in the morning. As he was heading back to the train to grab his seat again, he remembered that his phone was dead and had been dead for quite some time. It was resting safely in his right side pocket that had been protected by the side of the row. For one reason or another this led him to his second realization, that his left pocket was no longer a pocket and had been cut open by way he couldn’t fully wrap his head around. His left pocket was dangling like a cast-away flap and what was no longer there was his wallet. His wallet. The wallet. And everything in it. Still drunk and practically sleep walking, the man semi-rushed to the booth at the entrance of the station to tell the man within the booth what had just happened.
Somebody. Somebody cut my pants. They stole my wallet. Somebody stole my wallet.
The man behind the counter was so unhelpful that it does not bear repeating what he said. Or didn’t say. Useless.
Either way, the robbed was shit out of luck. He felt exposed. Naked. Conned. Taken. And in a walk of shame that probably lasted a lot less than it felt, the man returned to the train and found a seat. Awake this time. He scanned the entire subway car. Nothing.
Inside he was hating himself. Doling out blame for being so stupid and at the same time he was spouting internal invective, cursing out all the people asleep on the train for not doing anything to help.
At one point the doors closed and the return commenced. And the sobering train stops to 181st hit like one subsequent ton of bricks that was collected and remounted only to fall again at the next stop. Right on top of the man’s head.
A second walk of shame lasted an eternity. From the train station to his apartment. Luckily, nobody was on the street to see his exposed underpants and single-pocket pants.
This is the type of story where, if a man was living on the sixth floor of an apartment, the elevator would be broken. So let’s say it was a broken and he walked up those six flights. Each floor a silent echo wailing, “Take the uberrrrr.”
The opening of his apartment, the walk down the railway style hallway to his room, the taking off of his shirt, the deriving of his pants (or, what used to be pants), the calling of his credit union. Gavels without the strength to be heard loud enough. Soft percussion that hurts inside, like a heartbeat gone quiet. Card cancelled. No purchases.
So was the wallet, which would have contained a few dollars at most, simply discarded when the thief knew the debit card would be cancelled shortly thereafter? Was there no desire to return the item, at all? Was the thief hungry or making his Saturday Night Rounds. An aged veteran simply reminding himself that he was still the best in the field. A quiet assassin. Wee hour validation.
Now that he had the time, despite really just wanting the night to end, he realized that it was not the wallet he missed, but the particular things inside of it. His drivers license and ID, clung-to memorabilia that felt snatched away like a stolen memory, his college ID (both versions), years of his life gone, random cards—business and leisure of people that mattered to him like siamese twins attached at his hip. The ten bought slices of pizza, stamped on hard paper that would earn him a free slice back home in Seattle. All that effort. All that pizza. All that excitement and anticipation. Gone. In the gutter of the tracks next to the maggots and the rats.
He woke up the next day from a nightmare that was real.
…
He kept the pants. There was something about them he couldn’t let go of. The memory. The desire to feel like he won. Like he wouldn’t be defeated, perhaps? Like he had something to keep. His mom was generous enough to sew the gaping hole and make it function as a pocket again, so he continued to wear them for the next few years. The new materialized “L” over what had been just a pocket of denim black was like a purple heart or a battle scar. A symbol of survival.
And what of it all?
The longer he thought about it the more he became impressed and scared, honestly. He had been asleep. Completely vulnerable. Like a surgeon, the thief had used what was probably an exact knife or box cutter to cut open his pocket and get the wallet from the exposed pocket. He probably would have gone after the phone too had it not been so inaccessible. He was lucky in that regard, the man thought. Although, would he have switched his phone and wallet, in retrospect? Absolutely. Phones. Replaceable machinery. And the stolen leather and plastic contents. There were—. Sigh.
What would have happened if the thief hadn’t been so professional? If the knife hadn’t been incised so perfectly? If he/she didn’t have a stable hand? I mean his penis and testicles were right there. Frightened neighbors probably trying to communicate with the brain, in some form or fashion, pleading for the brain not to wake or to stay asleep, but all in a hush whisper. For the sake of communicating at all, in the near future…
Seriously, if the man had stirred even a muscle would the minerals have been severed forever? What if his eyes had opened? Would he have had the presence of mind to simply observe and not do anything? To not react? Would he have held the gaze? And if the thief had sensed the man’s eyes looking down at him? Would he have returned it? Would a game of chicken commenced? Ah, that was the question. A never-ending list of scenarios that, for his sake, he was probably thankful he wouldn’t have to watch unfold.
Three years later his waist lane had thinned. The pants were no longer black but a faded charcoal from wear-and-tear and overwashing.
How many times had he thought of getting rid of them? Or tossing them in the goodwill bag and sending them off and elected to keeping them because they had become an invaluable garment.
It was time, he thought. He held the pants up to the light in his room and admired them. He gave them a pat down one last time and set them softly in a plastic bag, where they would eventually be worn by someone who needed them more, someone who needed impenetrable armor for a sleepy night on a subway train.
The wood was fading away. Logs on its last legs. The crisp ash levitating and crackling in the air like words of fond memories, disappearing for now, but to return again soon.
when you broke the glass
and went over and out
floating over the town
too small for your soul
where did you go
with your Grandpa Joe?
by now, Joe has passed
his shoes you stepped into
but where have you gone
where did you run off to
where did you escape to
[too big for this world]
currently—there are men
with their backs turned to us
occupied with more important things
quills that pen Old English
half crazy and half deaf
operating by a clock with only minute hands left
if, by chance, you never come back
where does that leave us?
do the souls in our pockets
contain what we need?
an oddly shaped rock
meant to be returned
the action was simple—
a turn at the door
a rubiks cube already solved
in the palm of your hand
set on the table
life—everlasting
so shines
a good deed
in a
weary
weary
world
we are in a weary world
Charlie
and it should be easy
to escape
but here we are waiting
for your return
there is no way you weren’t cool
you had to be;
it would have been
impossible
for you to have been
on that corner
the northwest corner of
50th and 17th Ave NE
at that time
(a late afternoon drive)
in that jersey
(with 24 on the back)
in that color
(the prettiest of navy blues)
and not have been
a woman of my dreams
or of a recurring one
at the very least
it is crazy
to only me, i s’pose
the details i remember:
driving west in my mom’s beige accord
the cool in the way the buttons splayed
a slight wind blowing to and fro
as my life goes on
i’ve played detective
knowing full well
that my mind’s been tamperin’
the evidence, the evidence
was this during college
or after?
were we heading west
or heading east?
(or south or north)
were you really
there
or a machination
to give that jersey
more mystic dust?
i can see your face
just not that well—
you see you see you see you see
over the years i’ve
swiped and swiped and swiped
people i know
people i’ve seen
do the faces fit
the body’s image
maybe they do (though I know they don’t)—
it’s just that deciding
is a place to start
something to go from
something to build off
maybe i’ll die a romantic’s death
waiting on that corner
for the rest of my life
waiting…
waiting…
waiting…
waiting…
waiting for the woman
in the Griffey jersey