The Boy from Virginia Weathers the Storm -Part 2- (The Concrete Chronicles)

After my week from hell, I’d managed to summon enough energy to start my (unpaid) training at the Harlem restaurant. Though my serving skills and shorthand were rustier than I’d expected, I’d proven competent and friendly enough to be among the staff there. I’d even met the owner of the restaurant who made it her business to remain warm and friendly with me during the busiest of times: Sunday Brunch. I was thrilled to be surrounded by good food, and hard-working people, but I also felt that the work being done was much harder than it needed to be.

In London, I worked diligently as a waiter, even setting a record for most tips received at my particular branch during my second month there. Serving comfort food, however, to greedy Harlemites after church or foreign tourists getting their voyeuristic fix was more taxing than serving the high end, suburban clientele I’d once served on the murky, yet lovely Thames River. Still, I gave it a go…for free. Deep in my mind, I’d believed I’d been given this opportunity to train because it would eventually become my new -hopefully lucrative- job. I mean, it happened so quickly that that had to be the reasoning behind it, right?

The next week, I wasn’t on the work schedule for my day job as much as I’d been before, and I was okay with that. Soon, I’d be out of there. I’d be making enough tips to pay my bills and save up for dance classes or theatre classes or that gym membership that I’d signed up for the previous month and hadn’t yet used. Not one to languish in idle time, I managed to acquire quick side job: cleaning an apartment.

I’d mentioned to a new New York friend the month before that I’d had a background in domestic and janitorial work and I didn’t mind cleaning as an occupation. Knowing that I wasn’t at full financial capacity and wanting to help me out, she allowed me to clean her apartment, which, oddly, helped me clear my mind. It also helped put a much needed $40 in my pocket. After hurrying home to buy some items for my empty section of the shared fridge, I hopped on my laptop to revise my resume. It was high time I applied for a job in a field that I could manage. The first month I moved to New York, I discovered a small cleaning company that needed “Cute Guys” to clean houses, paint walls, organize shelves, etc. As dubious as I was about the company, I quickly learned that judging a website by its homepage wasn’t particularly appropriate.  I read their mission statement and got the feeling that they were quite friendly and legit. And hey, people referred to me as “cute” in the “puppy dog” way so I figured that adjective would suffice until I could become cute in a “sexy” way. What I truly cared about was that I didn’t need to take off my clothes to clean a house.  I indulged people’s fantasies on stage. I refused to do so while cleaning a toilet.  

I sent my cover letter and resume via e-mail and prayed for a response sooner than later. In addition, I’d sent my resume out aimlessly to other retailers looking to hire soon. If I could manage two jobs in New York City, I would. No sooner had I clicked “send” did I hear a large ripping sound followed by a soft thud and what sounded like trickling debris. It came from the bathroom, which was situated immediately next door to my room. The guy who roomed next door to me stepped out of his room moments before I decided to step out of mine and I dreaded the origins of his subdued “Holy. Shit.” 

IMG_1465

Upon exploring the bathroom, myself, I concluded that I had, indeed, heard falling debris. It had been preceded by the bathroom ceiling caving in over the tub; the only tub that was shared between the 5 people who occupied the apartment. Dirt, ceiling, dry wood, and probably one hundred years of dust/dust mites layered themselves like lasagne inside the tub, with remnants of the recipe powdering the bathroom floor. I managed to speak an underwhelmed “wow”, and my roommate began to rant while simultaneously laughing incredulously about how “this has happened before but not to this extent.” (I wish I had known this before moving in.) He made some phone calls to our other roommates while the lead roommate (a British guy who was never home due to flying all over the world), made a call to the super.

Within an hour the super was surveying the bathroom and speaking at the glacial pace Miranda Priestly mentioned while she was being all devilish in Prada.

The tub

“It looks like the ceiling came down,” the simpleton said. Ya think? “I don’t know how this could’ve happened.” Part of me wanted to say, ‘we’re not concerned about the how, but instead with the where are we going to shit and shower now?’ My next door roommate had reached a moment of calm and decided he would give his diagnosis.

“You see,” he began, “I think if you look right there (he pointed at the piece of ceiling that was hanging). I think that the tape you put up, wasn’t strong enough.” (Hold on, our ceiling was put up with tape? What kind of ramshackle apartment was I living in?)

“No. That’s not it,” my super said matter of factly, still sloth-like. (Was he high? I understood he was West Indian, but I hate to feed into stereotypes, even when they are true.) I didn’t have time to answer my own internal question because the Roomie was now reprimanding the Super for his shoddy job and storming out and down the hall to his room. I’d actually witnessed a hissy fit but lemme tell you; if they don’t look good on two year olds, they’ll never look good on a twenty three year old. Kids these days, huh?

I gave up trying to rationally explain to our Super that I thought the ceiling caved in because the ceiling was old and the shower condensation caused whatever adhesive was there to fail. He nodded his head, considered my evaluation, and then said, “Nah. There’s flooding or something. A leaky pipe somewhere.” Some people prefer their own truths.

Shenanigans aside, my roommates and I were left with one option: in order to shower and use the rest room, we would have to go up to a vacant apartment on the fourth floor of our building. This would last for about two weeks, the Super told us, while they completely renovated our bathroom. At least we’d be getting a modern room in this ancient apartment of ours.

I figured now was as good a time as ever to become invested in my personal health. I had no acting gigs, no agent, no connections in New York. I had a job I’d soon be leaving for another, and more importantly, I needed a place to shower. My gym had shower, steam room, and sauna…and I was paying for it anyway. So unlike my roommates, I made it my mission not to climb up to the fourth floor, unless it was for exercise -and my bladder’s- sake.

*          *          *

The week was swimming by fast, despite little activity. I was becoming addicted to cardio as the weather was starting to change. Our bathroom construction was driving me insane. Hammering and drilling began every morning between 9 and 11am. On the first day of renovating, the Super managed to put holes in my bedroom wall: the curse of living next door to a faulty room. My day job was becoming more tolerable and, dare I say it, I was building an attachment to the friends I had made there, even though I was on my way out the door. Just as I’d started coasting on the new vibe that was settling in…I got a rude awakening.

At the end of my third (unpaid) training session at the Harlem restaurant, I was told that someone would be in touch. The hiring manager who previously showed an interest in me before beginning my training had become distant and rarely engaged with me at all. It couldn’t have been because I was doing an awful job, was it? (I had made some mistakes, but I was rusty and I was literally thrown on the floor as if I’d been working there for years.) I was being trained by a veteran waitress who knew the ropes and who had expressed that they were in dire need of someone like myself since they’d recently fired a guy for being drunk on the job. In addition, the hiring manager was never there when I was working. Regardless, it was she who’d stopped me at the door when I inquired about being put on the work roster.

“Thanks for coming in, but we won’t be needing your services.”

The sentence was simple and sharp. Like a box-cutter. There was some half-hearted attempt at mentioning that my information would be kept on file…but everyone knows that’s the new version of “Don’t Call Us, We’ll Call You.” Then she walked her pug face and animal print blouse back into the restaurant. Hungry Hungry Harlem folk started to line up outside the door and I turned swallowing my rejection to walk past their growling, expectant stomachs. For the second time in New York, I left a job site confused and wondering, What next?

I’d just closed the door to my room when the veteran waitress called me to ask what had happened. She’s seen me come to the restaurant and asked why I wasn’t going to be joining them. “I don’t know,” was the only answer I had. I really didn’t know. I didn’t know why I couldn’t manage to get a new job. I didn’t know why I wasn’t good enough to serve food at that restaurant. I didn’t understand why my apartment was falling apart and I hated that I couldn’t seem to get my life in order. Something needed to be done. So I did the only thing I could think of: I emailed my manager to ask her for a private meeting.

*          *          *

When a person puts in two weeks’ notice at his job to find another, and then that other job opportunity falls through in a big way, there’s no choice but to use your last dime to buy a margarita with a friend. It was a Sunday and not only was the drink welcome, but so was the company.

Erin had contacted me a week beforehand to reconnect. She was a fellow thespian who I’d met in college and whose work always captivated me. I was sure that she’d be living the best life there  ever was in New York City. So when we hugged each other on the corner of 43rd and 8th, I’d figured, from her smile alone, that she was living the dream. It wasn’t until we got to Blockheads that the truth came out for both of us. Life hadn’t been a crystal stair for her either and she was only just starting to climb her self-made staircase.

We caught up over nachos and much needed frozen margaritas (though it was approaching 30 degrees outside) and I discovered something: Every little interaction in life counts. Erin and I weren’t the closest of friends in college, but we’d always been pleasant to one another, and as I said before, I thought she was a stellar performer. I kept thinking to myself, ‘why hadn’t we been friends back then?’ Yes, we shared a department major, a circle of creative folk, and now a profession that would send us on the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Still, the ease of our conversation made me feel that our reunion should’ve occurred much sooner. I felt I was speaking to a kindred spirit who knew my plight, and like me, was successfully surviving. I was both comforted and inspired by Erin because I knew, in that moment of eating guacamole and chasing it with frozen tequila, we’d definitely be the sort of friends to call on one another in times of emotional hardship. More importantly, she wouldn’t judge me for my negative/insecure moments, because like many other creatives, she’d probably already been there, done that, and gotten a souvenir.

God had decided to put the person I needed into my life at the exact moment I would need them. Funny how the Universe works.  

Our conversation -as well as the margaritas- gave me clearer insight to the environment I’d infiltrated. I’d come into New York trying to find peace. What I’d ended up doing thus far was shifting my emotional balance. If I didn’t actively try to salvage my situation and turn it around soon, I’d fail in this city. Failure isn’t a brand to which I happily subscribe. 

Life only works if you stop bullshitting yourself, and lend it a helping hand. So, the next day, with a clearer head, a plan of action -and more humility than I thought myself capable- I decided to ask my manager for my job back.

IMG_1881

The Boy from Virginia Starts Over

Final two weeks of July 2012

My impromptu, yet necessary trip to New York had been more than successful and I came home with both dread and anticipation in my heart. Dread because I’d have to figure out how to navigate being in a house where negative energy had become a tenant, yet I brimmed with anticipation because I would soon be away from the familial shenanigans. It also helped that I had a gig that would help make the time go smoother as an extra on adocu-drama about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.

Me as an "uncredited" Union Soldier in Killing Lincoln

Me as an “uncredited” Union Soldier in Killing Lincoln

During that small job, however, I said a tiny prayer to myself:

“Dear God, I ask to never play another slave or underprivileged antebellum man again. We both know there are more stories to tell that are more interesting than being on the periphery of someone else’s history. Please and thank you!”

 

            Once that gig was finished, and once I’d handled all of my paperwork for my job, it was time to hop another bus to the Big Apple. My only regret was leaving on my mother’s birthday. Having not been in the country to celebrate it for the previous 3 years, I’d wanted to at least plan a huge outing or give her a  huge gift, but her celebration money soon turned into moving money and next thing I knew, I was saying “I love you and I’ll call you when I arrive at my new place.”

            Nine hours later, I arrived back at the Port Authority (a station that was becoming more and more familiar to me) with larger luggage, a backpack, my smaller wheelie luggage…and no one to meet me upon arrival. One of my new (temporary) roommates has texted me the information I would need to find the place in Bronx, and lucky for me, I had my map app on my iPhone, but I was still hoping that someone could assist me with my luggage. The last thing I wanted was to let go of my bags for a second and have them snatched away from me as quickly as I let them go. Little did I know, I had nothing to be afraid of, except blocking the doors of the “2” train, which I couldn’t help given the size of my luggage and my not wanting to over exert myself in the sweltering heat.

            I enjoyed what little dribble of A/C the train decided to distribute and ended up at Intervale Avenue. It was when I departed the train that I realized there were no elevators here…and the escalator was broken, and that I was way too dressed up for what looked like “the hood.” (No lie, I was in dress pants, a button down shirt, dress shoes, and, if I recall, a tailored button down vest) ‘I guess I won’t be fitting in today’, I thought to myself. After a deep breath –and a prayer- I dragged myself and my luggage down the stairs and huffed and puffed…about three blocks…in the wrong direction. It didn’t take me long to call my new roommate and ask her to meet me (something I felt she should’ve done, anyway. But hey, I was in New York, from here on out, I wasn’t expecting any hand-outs or any manners).

            A girl with a Texas accent greeted me and though I couldn’t get an immediate read on her, I knew we’d get along as she led me in the right direction to the apartment and to the room which I’d sublet for the next month. I spent the evening trying to get acquainted with the local bodega (which closed a bit too early for my own liking) and then I slept as work began the next day.

Sunset view from Intervale Avenue station

Sunset view from Intervale Avenue station

 

August 2012     

            For the month of August, I would accept whatever hours were given to me as well as take other shifts if no one else wanted them. I just wanted to keep busy and re-learn the art of selling soap and lotion (among other things). Coming back to a job you thought you knew well can be daunting. I constantly found myself knowing that I was capable of doing a fantastic job, but feeling like I wasn’t quite up to par, given the differences between working for the company in the US versus the UK. All I could do was compare what I’d done overseas to what I was doing on home soil. Still, I’m a hard worker and I wanted to make sure I could actually do my personal best, regardless. If I can recall, I believed I worked 8 days straight with no complaints, just a strong desire to make money and refocus myself.

            It had been the end of a week of long shifts, acclimating myself to Manhattan, failed attempts at apartment/ roommate searches, and to top it all off, I’d discovered some news that made the ground tremor. It had come to my attention after my final shift of the week, that back in Virginia, I had been disowned as a family member. Actually, being disowned would have been a privilege. I was told that I did not exist. A source close to me informed me than an uncle on my father’s side claimed that he didn’t know my mother had any children, though he’d met me on multiple occasions when I was young. What baffled me wasn’t the fact that he could say this with conviction. I wondered how he could’ve brought himself to deny that I was alive because I’m sure it’s not something he came up with on his own.

Then it hit me.

The only way that anyone could jump on board with saying that I didn’t exist was if the seed was planted by another source: a familial source that could’ve been angry with me. That source had to have been my father, who I’d not spoken to since before returning to the United States. It only made sense considering he was none too pleased when he learned I had arrived back in the states and hadn’t contacted him. (That was due to his lack of help when I needed him most back in January 2012 when I was basically being detained in Britain and had exhausted all of my funds trying my best to return home.) If, indeed, he had disowned me, and succeeded in having others jump on board with this foolishness in which he would deny his own progeny, then I guess I’d have to follow suit and continue not existing in his world.

I tried to be nonchalant about the statement, but it vexed me. I thought to myself ‘Wait a minute. People who I’ve known, but may not have dealt with much, are saying that they do not acknowledge me as my father’s son? Better yet, they state that they, indeed, know who my mother is, but are convinced that I’ve not existed over these past 27 years? I’m HERE! And I’m sure those people I interacted with have the factual knowledge of my being a product of my mother and father’s love.’

Obviously love wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to keep my parents together and it wasn’t enough for me to “exist” after all these years.

The news shouldn’t have been as heartbreaking as it was, but I couldn’t help but feel jilted by this man I used to champion for his charm, joie de vivre and genuine loving nature. Who knew he would grow to become so dilapidated in his mindset and disdain for me; his blood, who has only done his absolute best to do right in this world?  In the aftermath of that news, I was beyond disappointed in this man who, at that point, would hold no weight with me beyond the circumference of where he grew up.

I’d have to ask God for healing, to grant me the power to forgive, and to push me to be greater. I promised myself not to subscribe to poor examples of leadership. Then I thanked God for the many powerful men that had been placed into my life; some older than me, but the majority of men were my age, who I’d met in high school, college, and overseas. If you can’t emulate your father, the only solution is to emulate the Holy Father you see in the spirit of others. Thank God, I’m blessed with many fine examples of men who love, uplift, and inspire and who acknowledge my existence.

Patriarchal tangents aside…

On my days off, I had to reward myself with things that would make me feel like a competent human being. On one day off, I linked up with a friend from high school and we managed to go see Valerie Simpson perform live under the stars. Nothing like a bit of old school to make one appreciate the good things in life.

Brandy

Brandy

On another day, I swapped shifts with a young lady at work so that I could go meet Brandy Norwood (my absolute favorite vocalist) in person at BET’s 106th and Park. Despite feeling like I was way too old to sit in the audience of that show, I was happy I waited in line for 2 hours with the 18-24 year old fans (called STARZ), to see an artist who I respected and admired for her never-ending desire to be what God made her: a supernova of positive energy and light. The highlight of that experience was getting the chance to see Brandy debut her first video in years, “Put It Down,” and having her push a fan aside so that she could hug me. I’d hurriedly yelled to her that I traveled all the way from Virginia to see her (this is a true story) and she left the person she was with and gave me the hugest hug saying “Thank you so much for coming. I appreciate you so much.” If I ever get fans in this lifetime, I’ll have to keep in mind that appreciating them at all times is how you keep them.

 On other days off, however, when I was frustrated with myself for thinking that I wasn’t good job at my new job (or led to believe so by some in the all-female environs I was in), I found another activity to bring me peace: Walking.

            I’d had bad day at work and it was the customers who were giving me a hard time. But I was so incensed at feeling like I was perpetually doing something wrong that once I left work, I couldn’t go home. So I commenced walking downtown. As the numbers on the New York streets decreased, my heart sank below my ribs, past my abdominal organs and sauntered in tandem with my trudging feet…until I trampled upon a smidgen of joy: The Donut Plant in Chelsea. I thought to myself, ‘The people in this section of town probably don’t even eat donuts. Probably trying to watch their figures. Well, fuck them; they aren’t in need of gourmet salvation as much as I am.’ Uncharacteristically, I didn’t indulge in my donuts immediately. Instead, I allowed myself to be lead to the Chelsea Piers, which would soon become my favorite place in the city. It was where I  eventually devoured my donuts. It was, also, where I found the most peace. IMG_1115

            Open water. Something about it soothes the shit out of my soul. Can’t swim a lick, but boy-oh-boy, I can listen to lapping, waving water for hours. I imagine that it’s God having a conversation with only me. Once the conversation is over, I imagine mermaids reassuring my existence with their serene smiles…and then I envision an asshole of a prankster pushing me into the water and me drowning. This drowning is further aided by the appearance of an octopus which suction cups me to death and drags me deep into the ocean-y abyss. (Yes, that is how quickly my spiritually enlightening situation turned ridiculous because my imagination ran wild.IMG_1118Once I pulled myself out of Imagination Land, however (looking around suspiciously to make sure no one was trying anything sneaky), I walked back into my New York life, from Christopher Street to 72nd Street. From there, I took the “2” back to Intervale Avenue.

            The final two weeks of August I decided to be more proactive in my apartment search as my month of subletting was rapidly coming to an end. Looking for housing in New York has to be one of the most frustrating, strenuous, and unsatisfying acts in the world. Things started well. I’d found two potential roommates online via one of those “We’re artists and we’re looking for roommate/sub letters” groups on Facebook. Everything started fine. We all got along, and we were looking for various apartments in various places together. We were mainly looking to stay Uptown, and in or near Harlem. We saw a perfect apartment, but at day’s end, the price range was completely astronomical for our artistic budgets. Also, there was the little thing about guarantors, and filling out an application that was longer than a work application. “Tedious” isn’t a good enough descriptor for what we went through.

Eventually, one roommate decided he’d want to live in a different environment while the other lucked up and had her leased renewed for the same low price she’d been paying…and I was left with no one to live with. I had no leads on affordable places to stay and about 5 days left before my sublet was up. Had I been given a false sense of security about my circumstances? Was I truly working hard enough to survive in this city? Where was my focus? How had I allowed myself to get to this point with no safety net whatsoever? Was my beginners luck coming to an end? By the final day of September, my clothes were packed and in the living room of the sublet, but I hadn’t moved out because I still had no other alternatives…and that was after seeing roughly fifteen different options and almost being scammed by one Craigslist posting. Things were not looking good…

Waiting on the train...

Waiting on the train…

The Boy Virginia Made Breaks the Silence

I was hoping that I would never have to write a blog like this. Ever. I never wanted the information that I’m about to share to come to light in this way or at all even, but it seems like pent up anger inspires me to articulate my feelings in a more controlled fashion. If you are not in the mood to embrace reality today, CLOSE THIS ENTRY NOW. It would be of no benefit to anyone if you decided to read this and give up halfway through because it changes your mood.

My purpose with this blog: to attack ignorance, to inform that all actions have a consequence, and to encourage discussions about tolerance. Otherwise, this world’s future is in danger. Now, where do I begin…I guess it all starts with a sweater and ends in abuse…

September 3rd, early morning (between 2:00am and 3:45 am)

The whole day had been filled with anticipation. It was the day when I would go clubbing with my best mates; people who, in this huge city, would take the time out to acknowledge my existence in a genuine way. We’d been planning since Monday that we would finally get together (after not hanging out as a group for over 4 months). I decided that I would do something different with my clothes. There was a pink sweater in my closet that I had only worn three times that I could remember. Once was during my Master’s Program, the other was when I saw Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in London, and the final time was earlier this February when I went clubbing. The sweater was always complimented by others as they thought it made my skin look good so I figured what the hell, I’ll wear it. And as a recent wearer of shorts (I’d boycotted them for years)I decided to bare my calves to the world. To top things off, I threw on my signature hat, which all my friends, family, and admirers love. My firm belief: If you are wearing something you really like, you’ll feel good about yourself. And for the bulk of my evening, I did!

My night was filled with loads of spontaneity (which I actually did attribute to the sweater and my mood) I caught up with someone who gave me my pink slip (in the romantic department), bumped into an old colleague from my former job, had dinner, and finally, after meeting ¾ of my friends in central London, we decided to head out to the club.

I’d managed to sweat through my sweater and hat by night’s end. My friends had managed to find other ways to entertain themselves as one got treated to drinks and the other got a treat to take home. I, feeling a bit worse for wear -and a bit down even- decided to take a stroll to the only restaurant I know that stays open late on the weekends: Balans in Soho. First thing on my mind: ‘It’s been over a year since I’ve eaten their blueberry pancakes and they were the bomb!’ So off I went, legs against the breeze, to eat where the food was delicious and the service was…camp.

It was 2:52 am that I realized, over my maple syrup-saturated pancakes, that the couple in the booth next to me was on a date. Here I was, sadly scarfing down breakfast and washing down the memories of my evening with milk. I thought to myself ‘Just like my favorite fictional literary character, I will never win at love.’ (Sometimes, I love a pity party, I must say.)

“What has you so down?” My waiter had crashed my party without an invitation.

“Oh, nothing” I sigh forlornly, wiping my mouth as to cover the dribble of syrup that’s oozed down my lip. I explain that my mates have gone their separate ways for the evening. I somehow end by saying, “But my friends are great looking. Of course they are going to have post-club fun.”

“And what are you?”

I think, making sure to squint my eyes a bit to make the pondering look more effortful. “Normal. Nothing spectacular,” I offer with just the right tone of humble blasé-ness. The waiter leaves. I cut my pancakes and prepare for another blueberry-filled bite when in comes a foursome of friends. My iPod Touch tells me that it’s after 3am, and I’m very concerned with the amount of energy one-half of the couple is exuding.

“Oh my God!!! This is crazy. We met right here in this booth!” squeals the enthusiastic party. I roll my eyes and chomp my pancakes to bits, hoping quietly that the rest of my meal won’t involve their shenanigans. For the next 15 minutes, I’m treated to watching the couple make-out in front of me. Their friends constantly reprimand them for being “all over one another.”

“I’m an Aries! He’s a Taurus!” the other half shares. That ain’t gonna last long, I think. But then I remember…they met in that booth, God knows how long ago, and it’s still lasting. I just wonder if that initial meeting was filled with as much tonsil hockey as it is now…

A thought suddenly enters my head: Maybe I’m on the wrong mission. Could it be that I’m going about life in the wrong way? What if my calling isn’t art? While I begin to get all existential on myself, the couple across from me begins to devour each other and I know at once, that kind of love definitely ain’t what I’m looking for. I’d rather ravenously devour the things I love at home out of public view (call me old-fashioned). My mission is clear: go home.

I take my hat, which is cold and damp because of my dance-sweat, pay my bill, and leave the restaurant. Onwards and Upwards, I think, though I know good and well this is a mantra that would take some convincing. One thing was for sure, I would not be taking myself out to eat at 2:45 in the morning again…

I crossed Shaftesbury Avenue to do my usual journey through Chinatown to catch my bus.

Before it even happened, I sensed the ominous air. There’s nothing like a good old dose of harassment to put you back on your guard after a successful evening on the town. I immediately felt a twinge of fear (let’s be real, the London riots were not that long ago) and as someone walking alone, I felt that the slightest retaliation could cause me to end up stabbed on the street. In my mind, I told myself “keep quiet, don’t say anything, avoid eye contact, keep it moving.” The hope was that I would blur right by the group, compiled of ten to fifteen black men in hoodies (and whatever else current urban fashion suggests), with as minimal contact as possible.

My legs were feeling the cold as I zoomed by but my heart raced faster than my feet as one of the thugs screamed out to me, “Ay! Ay!”

Oh, shit, I think. He’s talking to me.

“You gay?”

My arms were folded, and I was walking with purpose. I hoped they couldn’t see my shivering. Granted, it was cold, but I didn’t want them mistaking it for fear.

“You gay innit?” His mates sniggered. Some mumbled insults that I couldn’t hear, but they slowed their speed expecting a response. I looked up at them, kept my eyes neutral, and looked back down at the ground thinking ‘Fuck!’ and hoping to God that this would be the end of it. I was still blurring by.

“You gay!” It wasn’t said as if it were a question anymore. That upward inflection had disappeared. This sentence was declarative. Fact. He was labeling me. I kinda rather have been stabbed.

“Yeah. You gay.” His confirmation statement.  More laughter. “…And you need to take that hat back to the shop!” Roaring laughter this time.

Not only had they felt the need to question my sexuality (based on what, I still have yet to discover) but they insulted my favorite hat, the hooligans!

If I were in a sitcom, there would’ve been a close up on my face as my mouth dropped open in genuine surprise at the comment, and I’d have touched my hat as if petting it to give it comfort from the mean insult. Instead, my face was terse and my head was hurting. My stomach was in knots and I’m sure it had fuck-all to do with the pancakes. Instead, the pancakes were to blame. All I could think was ‘Fuck me for wanting blueberry-fucking-pancakes at 2:45 in the fucking morning. If I hadn’t…’

But was the problem pancakes? Was it me? Was it my pink shirt? Was it my demeanor? Was it the gang of hyper-masculine dudes? Why me? Would it have been someone else if they’d chosen to walk down that street in Chinatown? But what was hurting me the most was that people who looked like me (young, black, probably intelligent men) felt I was so different than them that they needed to call me out. They (all ten to fifteen of them) needed to feel what? Better than me? More manly than me? Stronger than me? No matter how you put it, bullying/harassment is not a tool for making people feel better about themselves. It is the result of a very intolerant mindset. But my belief is that no one should have to stand for intolerance at all.

I deserve respect, not juvenile taunts from a group of cowards who felt the need to prove their masculinity. I mean, for fucks sake, all I was doing was walking down the street, wearing a sweater and a pair of shorts and a hat! My arms were folded because I was cold, and while I was thinking “these shorts are no good against this London cold,” these hoodlums were thinking….well…they weren’t!  That’s apparent. Why couldn’t I walk down the street without being left alone? Am I not allowed that luxury? Instead, these men would chortle away at themselves and their awful deed and I was to be left with the burden of mixed emotions.

Ever felt angry, powerless, sad, and guilty all at once? I have. I was angry because I said nothing. I know that saying nothing prevented me from the threat of unnecessary violence, but I felt like I committed a crime by doing nothing. I mean, this is the second time in the UK where I’ve encountered some sort of harassment (most people remember me being called the N-word in Scotland last year). For some strange reason, I thought -for a second time- that because I was in London, that I would be exempt from such behavior. (I mean, London is considered a cultural Mecca!) It is also the second time I said nothing. Last year however, I sort of laughed off the situation. Maybe because racism for me has been less frequent in my life. This Chinatown type of situation, however, has reared its monstrous head on more than one occasion with me over the course of my entire life.

I can recall so many instances in my life where I’ve been taunted/ teased/ disrespected whatever you call it. Funny enough, my effeminacy as a younger kid was to blame, I guess. I am willing to admit that flamboyant wasn’t accurate enough to describe me. I was constantly being told that I “acted like a girl.” And the moment it was said, something was sucked out of me and I went into fits of momentary depression, where I’d spend about 2 hours thinking, how can I change this or that about myself. I have a swish when I walk. Oh, no! Change it! I talk like a girl. Stop! Change it!  In other words, when my “otherness” was pointed out to me by others, I decided that “me” was the wrong way to be. When I look back on how many times I’ve had to adjust myself, I think, ‘who in the hell am I, now?’

I think I’m the man I wanted to be when I was younger. I’m definitely living a life that will not be lead by anyone else. Happy and sad moments aside, I’m living the life I worked hard for. But I can’t help but think…the only reason I work so hard is to overcompensate for the fact that the way I’m perceived (as far as my assumed sexual orientation-something undefined-) is considered my biggest flaw.

When I had to make “adjustments” to my behavior as a child (as to not embarrass or bring shame to my parents/family, or to gain friends in elementary/ middle school, or to deflect conversation away from me in college), I overcompensated by reading loads, immersing myself in schoolwork, watching loads of television, and finding a story in every single thing I saw. The Arts was my ultimate escape (and I guess the reason I’m an actor has something to do with this).

I also became very observant. I watched women work hard to keep their grace while being single mothers. I also learned how they felt about the world they were living in and how everyday, they lived with a bit of caution as they walked down the street, drove a car past a certain hour, or fell in love. I grew up around these vulnerable, yet strong women who educated me from their perspective.  I watched the way men talked to one another, about women, and about topics in their lives. I watched my father, my uncles, and other men who came and went in my life and I found them ALL disappointing in some way. Adultuerous, dilinquent, disrespectful towards women (because society told them they could/should be), materialistic, unreliable. I vowed to never be like them, but I also told myself that whatever masculinity they had, I needed to get as their version of masculinity meant survival. Survival to me meant less teasing and harassment by others. But these men didn’t teach me. Therefore I had to learn, over many years, to find a masculinity that was acceptable, yet didn’t compromise my spirit. Still, there was the little fact that my behavior was rooted in “otherness.” So…when I would slip (as I guess I did by wearing my pink sweater on Friday evening), I would get brought back into the harshness of this world by having someone try and ostracize me, usually publicly.

What I have failed to speak about thus far is the fact that the bulk of my shunning has come from members of the black community. Let’s be honest, ALL of it has come from the Black American community. If any of it has come from the white community, I have yet to hear about it, or I laugh it off (as I, personally, do not measure myself to the same standards as white Americans. White commentary is usually to do with the question surrounding my “mysteriousness”). Therefore it pisses me off to no end that the people I work so hard to make proud, the people who I hope I’m helping by living a very non-stereotypical life, the people who I grew up trying to help out in as many ways as possible, will never ever be proud of me because of how they see me in one word.

This fact keeps me working diligently, but it also makes me feel that my work is in vain.

You see, for those of you out there who can’t seem to understand why I should care that anyone is trying to label me, you do not understand that the issue IS “being labeled.”  The argument is that labels makes people feel comfortable, but I think that someone stamping you with a seal of their approval is nothing but a declaration of power. It is someone saying, I know who you are already, and I didn’t need to get to know you. At all.

I have never understood the psychology behind being so preoccupied with someone’s “otherness” to the degree that you need to harass or taunt them about it. What I do understand is that this awful behavior begins at a young age. I believe that many parents, especially very ill-informed, intolerant, ignorant parent do not discourage their children from bullying others. In their heads they go “That’s wrong” and reprimand their child only because society tells them that that’s what they should do as parents. Yet, they don’t tell their kids about the consequences of their actions; how another child (the victim of the harassment), no matter how strong he appears on the outside, will go home one day and hang himself because his peers at school never accepted him. Or he feared his that his family would never look at him the same. Or he feared he’d never be able to move further in his life without being labeled first, and then taken seriously later. I’m generalizing a bit, but I can say this…when you are constantly teased, every single instance remains etched in the front of your mind for an eternity. You never forget the rudeness, the harshness of tone, the disdain, or even the disgust that hateful words can bring. Here’s my proof:

History of Harassment:

Age 5 (one of the youngest memories I can recall): I could scream in a high pitched voice. I did so a lot if I got excited or was playing outside. I remember before church one Sunday I’d screamed high pitched one too many times for my mother to handle. Her words to me: “Do you want me to put you in a dress? Because only girls scream like that. I can put you in a dress if that’s what you want!”  Lesson learned: a lower voice makes you a man and keeps you out of dresses.

Between 5 and 11 all the taunts were the same from boys and girls alike. “He acts like a girl, talks like a girl, ugh! This statement was normally followed by laughter. Lesson learned: something about me was “not quite right.”

Age 11: I depart the after-school bus on an autumn day. I’d just gotten a new outfit and I was happy about it because it was red and I thought red was cool. The walk home normally takes 10 minutes from the bus stop and as the bus pulls off, I notice a car driving towards me. The car drives scarily close to me.

The teenage boys inside laugh, “Faggot ass!” The car zooms away, carrying their laughter with it. I say nothing. I keep it moving. Until I look up and see that the same car has circled the block and is heading directly for me. I run up on the sidewalk and the car follows me onto the sidewalk. I realize that this car is about to hit me. Or either they are trying to scare me…

They swerve away, laughing as if BET’s Comic View was playing live on their radio. The 4 of them in the car are screaming insults at me, but I am in tears. I wait for the car to round the corner and then I bolt home just in case they decide to circle the block for a third time. It took me 5 minutes to get home that day.

I tell my mother that I think a gang tried to hit me with their car because I was wearing their color: red. It was a lie. Lesson Learned: Lying can come in handy, sometimes.

Age 12: I’d gotten into a fight with my best friend over a girl who once ‘went out’ (if you can call it that at 12) with me and then him. She found out he was cheating and somehow, I was blamed as the one who’d told of his adolescent infidelity, when I clearly had no clue. The day after the fight, all of his friends, who were also mine spent an entire school bus ride sitting within earshot of me. “Oh you know that gay ass n*gga right there? Don’t talk to him. Faggots always be trying to fuck up your life”

I was talked about from the start of homeroom -as my once-upon-a-time friends ridiculed me- until I was able to sit down at my desk. That encounter made me so depressed that I sought counseling with a very important woman, who eventually introduced me to an option that would free me of my closed-minded community: private school. If I could escape my community, I could escape feeling like shit every day. Lesson learned: Being smart could take away the pain, or at least help you run away from it.

Somewhere between 12 and 14: I recall going to my godmother’s house. At some point, talks of careers came up, to which I remember saying I wanted to be a model. “They make lots of money and all they have to do is take pictures.” The smile on my face was huge. While I was being encouraged by my god-mother…my mother threw in her commentary.

“Models ain’t nothing but faggots. Why you wanna be that?” I didn’t understand where that comment came from, but the harshness was there. Even if it was meant as a joke, it was a sick one that put a knot in my stomach. Uncomfortable laughter from the outskirts. The smile I had faded into oblivion. I felt like I’d been hit with a ton of brick and could say nothing back to the tyrant who’d birthed me. Humiliated isn’t an accurate enough word to describe how I felt. Lesson Learned: Model behavior was not to be coveted.

Age 14: During a Spring Break from high school, I’d gone home to visit a childhood friend. I discovered that my friend was friends with someone I considered my worst enemy: a short, twerp who hated every single thing about me, yet always needed my help when it came to academics. I saw him and retreated into the living room with the adults. I did not elect to play Playstation or hang out with the guy who represented what I hated most about middle school. My mother went to speak to my friend at some point, and when she came back, she had a look of calm on her face, but her eyes masked anger.

On the trip home, we have a conversation:

“That boy. He’s the one you don’t like right?”

“Yup.”

“Is it because…he think you gay?”

Silence.

“I heard him say it to your friend. I heard him call you ‘the gay boy.’” My mother’s tone was so calm. So comforting even. She sounded more hurt than me. Actually, she sounded as if she’d been the abused one, which proved to me that the slurs weren’t always directed towards me. Some of them were an attack on her as well.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I hate him.”

In my mind, I forgave my mother’s outlandish commentary from before because I felt, for once, she could see the harassment I was going through. We drove home with minimal conversation and pretended the incident never happened. Lesson learned: No matter how old you get, people still remember you as they think you were.

High school: I began to wonder whether or not what people had said about me was true or not…because up until then, I didn’t even know. Until I thought of killing myself during March of my freshman year of high school. A terrible winter season coupled with the loss of friends, made me consider ending my life. But one friend, who possessed a different type of “otherness,” saved my life and is now like a sister to me. There was also a teacher who gave me sagely advice. “All fiction begins in a wound.” I began to find ways of writing about my life and articulating my thoughts. I was finding my legitimate voice and possibly my manhood.

On the issue of harassment, despite one major incident of racism (I was called a “nigger” and a “black coon” on a voice message to my room), I escaped high school without one (direct) comment about my previously criticized “otherness.” I felt like I’d found me.

College: The bulk of my career is eclipsed by a rumor that I am inappropriately linked to my best friend. I have to live for four years with people thinking falsely about me and my relationship with peers. I have to actively distance myself away from certain male friends of mine, as being close to them would damage their reputation. Other incidents occur similar to the one below:

On a random night in Philadelphia, I’m finishing clubbing at the Walnut Room and the woman with me is hit on by some nondescript Philly man in an oversized t-shirt and baggy pants. She links her arm around mine.

“Yo, ma. Let me holla at you for a sec.”

“No thank you. I have everything I need right here.” She pats my shoulder, tenderly.

He looks at me disapprovingly. Up and then down. “You sure, ma? Your man here look a bit like a faggot. I know I can do much more for you.”

That good old dejectedness made a return. And while this sweet young lady on my arm went on to try and defend me (why she felt the need to, I’m not sure), all I could think about was going home and making myself more manly. But at this point in my life, was changing myself something I should actively try and do anymore? I was a man, but somehow, the type of man I’d become was not enough. Lesson learned: I am an obstacle of some sort…or I represent something that warrants a challenge/attack.

Have I brought these situations upon myself?

Today

I have sat and wondered why am I writing this blog? I’m wondering “why now?” when the intolerant comments and bullying have gone on for 20+ years. I’ve analyzed my life so many times that it doesn’t take me long to figure out the answer to that question: Silence. In every single instance that I have been verbally attacked, or called out, I have said nothing. Nothing! Instead, I’ve retreated into myself. Yes, silence has been self-preserving, but as an active means of bringing change, silence has been destructive. The true lesson I’d learned in my life was how to counteract all the negative things said about me by being extraordinary and phenomenal. You see, I have a fighter’s spirit. I get that from my mother, the same woman whose toughness on me made me the man I am today. I get it from the friends with whom I have surrounded myself; who have loved me as much as my own family. I get it from being granted the privilege of waking up and experiencing everyday differently than the one before.

My story is not an exclusive one (which may have been one of the underlying purposes in writing it). What is exclusive, however, is my outcome: who/ how I am today. I always knew that I was worth more than the value of a single, restrictive word. Unfortunately, there are people out there (adolescents mostly) who are constantly victimized by the peers. These young men/ women feel that how they are described by their peers equals who they are and will always be. These are the people who are still searching for their personal strength to live on despite abundant ignorance and hatred. I know how they feel because I used to be one of them.

There was a point, not too long ago in my life where I would’ve preferred being called the N-Word as opposed to something regarding sexuality. My logic was that who I am automatically contradicts the nature of that word and that since it’s rooted in racism, I could easily prove to people that I am not solely my race. I have a myriad of other hats I wear as a human being on this Earth. But when it comes to labels in general, I feel that no one should have the right to place a label on me just to make themselves comfortable with me. I am simply Tommy. Period. Yet, when I am labeled, and there is a perceived negative connotation attached to said label, I mostly feel like I’m combating disgust. It’s a tone I can hear beneath the taunts and the harassment, and that tone unsettles me.

What unnerves me more is the fact that there might be someone out there experiencing the exact same pain as me, and may not be strong enough to stand firm in who they are. They are the ones who feel that ending their lives is a better solution than having to live in a world full of hatred and repulsion. While there is a campaign out there convincing ostracized children that it will get better, the feeling isn’t immediate. A goal should be to tell people that it will get better with time, education, and active change. Who will be in charge of making that change?

I urge parents to start the education at home. For those in the black community, we have to stop punishing “different people” with vicious words. Yes, we all have opinions, but my thought is that bashing is the same whether it’s with words or with fists. The effect caused is still pain. Instead of only teaching things like “Black is beautiful”, teach that differences are beautiful as well. In my life, I have learned more from someone who was unlike me than from someone who was too much like me. We keep ourselves boxed within these narrow horizons when we have the capacity to broaden them. We blame or get jealous of others who have declared their individuality within society. We envy their eclectic tastes in music, style, and culture, yet none of us go out of our way to develop our own selves in a similar manner. There is a huge difference between being in a community and existing as a part of a collective. The world is the collective whole. Our goal should be to find our place in this world, but to never alienate and ostracize those who are still finding theirs. Encouraging people who pursue a different life path than what is “normal” should be the norm. Unfortunately, we have a long way to go on that front when our mentality is so deeply rooted in fear, confusion, and ignorance.

Still, I get so fed up trying to counteract the mindset of narrow thinkers in the black community. Instead, I choose to be a living example of perseverance, tenacity, and success. At the end of the day, I’m surviving, right? I’ve acquired a terrific education up through the Master’s level. I’ve lived away from home since the age of 14 and I’ve even crossed an ocean to discover more about the world and myself. In my family, I’m a pioneer. Doesn’t that make me as much of a man as any?

Today, I think about my early Saturday morning encounter with more clarity. One small incident in my present day dredged up so many instances in my past. My link between them all was equal parts anger and silence. When anger boils does it turn into steam? Mine turns into words.

Words as we all know, have unforeseeable powers. Therefore the words I’ve decided to publish are my way of regaining the power I’ve lost to others. By allowing people to define me on their terms, I have relinquished my voice. But not anymore. The blogs I write are mostly for the purpose of examining my life and where/ how I fit into this world. At the end of the day, my experiences, my emotions, my thoughts are quintessentially human. So with the words that you have read, I hope I’ve made you privy to the “me” who didn’t believe his voice was necessary; the me whose silence was a cold sanctuary from bravery; the me who felt powerless. With these words, I stand firm in my humanity and my determination to bring forth light from the darkest abyss. Can a man try and change the world? Well I am a (Hu) Man, and I think I can!

The Boy from Virginia Discusses the New Monarchy

Last week, Beyoncé released a single asking what she must think is the most important question ever: Who Runs the World? “Girls” was her answer. But today, it was quite evident that Love was running the world as everyone around the globe tuned into the royal wedding. It still amazes me how people can become so swept up in the lives of people they don’t know. Why should we care about Kate and William? They are just like anyone else, right? If this was any other wedding, it wouldn’t get this much hype, so why them? Well, simply put, they are royalty. What’s more important is that they are young royalty. With that being said, their youth represents so much. Then again, so does their obvious love and affection for one another.

            Up until today I was dreading the idea of a royal wedding. I was sure I was not going to be able to get to work on time (luckily, I didn’t get called in to work),that there’d be loads of sappy, teary-eyed, hand-holding couples dressed up as the royals (if that happened, I was lucky not to see it), and the people-congestion would just make me grumpy. But, after waking up around 11am and realizing (thanks to Twitter and Facebook) that I wasn’t going to be able to avoid the royal wedding at all, I gave in. The coverage was live on YouTube, so I was able to watch from the vows being made up until they got in the horse-drawn carriage to begin their royal waves. Then I left the house to do my anti-royal wedding day activities which I’d planned earlier this week. Only, as I walked along the Southbank and eventually to St. Pauls Catherdral (friend in tow), I was no longer feeling anti-anything. I was feeling as if I’d witnessed one of the greatest moments in history. And I was very much pro- love, for once.

            Tradition is the word that sprang to my mind today. It is also something that highly intrigues me when it comes to weddings. I think so many people try to out-do or not-do tradition when it comes to the matrimonial ceremony, but as the world has seen, a traditional wedding can be beautiful, classy, and enough. Watching the expensive simplicity of everything kept me enthralled, yet curious as well. No doubt Kate was prepared for all this, but now that it was actually happening, what was she thinking about her life before “I Will” and after “I Will?” She is, as they say, representative of the common woman marrying the Disney Prince, but judging from what has been said about her relationship history, there was nothing fairytale about how they met. To be honest, it just seemed like “down-to-earth Will” met “down-to-earth Kate,” they developed a relationship, fought, made up, made it work (a key factor), and made the big decision to unite as one. Why is this so inspiring? Isn’t that what a relationship is supposed to be before marriage? I guess I’m so inspired because I do know many relationships that have such sustainability.

            I now, sit here, exhausted from a day of walking around London (and having stumbled into a very awesome street party) asking myself all these questions about love and marriage and about my romantic future because I fear, unlike others in my life, that I will not be granted the same privilege of marriage. I’m not trying to be negative or throw a pity party (because I’m sure no one would attend). But it baffles me how the art of romantic selection (i.e Love) works. God (or whichever deity you worship) brought two people together, gave them free will to flesh out a life and 8-year history together, and now they’ve sealed the deal. I can’t even find someone to make 4-week history with, let alone 8-years. But it’s a clandestine desire I’ve had for a long time: to meet someone, grow immensely, and then…well…who knows…live together forever? I never imagined getting married, but having had one of my best friends recently jump the broom made me look at things differently.

            My theory: if you marry for love, then your marriage (no matter what it looks, sounds like, or costs) will be perfect because it’s everything you both want. Or at least this is the assumption.

            When it comes to me, and living in this world, I am slowly accepting that I am becoming more and more cynical by the day. Earlier this year, I was all too ready to embrace whatever came my way. And I was also willing to water it, fertilize it, and make it grow so that my love could blossom with somebody else. After making that pledge to myself, I got a taste of what it would be like to feel bliss with someone. Everything about the development was organic and natural. Things progressed in a very friendly, orderly, and fun manner…

            …And then a week (5 days to be exact) after my birthday, I received an e-mail saying that we were incompatible and “could we be friends?” Hmm…I immediately thought to myself, This is the equivalent of a post-it note.

            Clearly, love was NOT dating someone for a month. Nor was it sharing time together and phone calls and texts. Nor was it, it seems, being honest up front. I only wish I’d have known beforehand that there would be no future for us or I’d have not wasted so much time. Investing in someone is not a process to be taken lightly and when it comes to me, I’m the first to say when you fuck up my heart, you ruin it for the next one.

            I, now, do. Not. Want. Love. But if it comes…and it’s genuine…I might change my mind.

            But people promise all the time, “ I’m not like anyone else.” Great. I know that. No two people are ever exactly the same…but it would be foolish to say that we don’t all, to some degree function the same.

            Firstly, as a rule, we must SEE someone we like (Attraction), we must have something IN-COMMON, we must know that, at some point, sex needs to be on the menu (Lust), and that TIME must be invested to make it work. Ideally, that someone will also ACCEPT you for who you are.

            Having recently been rejected, I’ve discovered that I’m not the right type for a lot of people. People see me and have a lot of misconstrued notions of who I am. People think I’m not supposed to have a deep voice. People have told me “ You’d be so much better if you had muscles.” People expect me to be shallow. People expect soooo much from me and I just want to tell them all… “I’m skinny, deal with it. I will always invest more time into my career than someone else as it’s my true passion. More importantly, a normal person would love me to death.” The question is…who or what is normal these days?

            I despise the fact that I have so many issues with love. I despise the fact that I understand love is what we all need. I hate the fact that I love making other people feel loved, but yet, I can’t manage to make one single person love me back. When it comes to love, I am powerless at creating it or taking it away, it seems. So when that awful, repetitive, kintergarden-esque tune comes onto the radio, “Who Runs the World”… I have to reiterate: the answer is LOVE. And that’s the true monarchy in this world that we should all recognize.

The Boy from Virginia discusses Illusion Day

On the 14th day of February, many couples probably ask questions along the lines of “How did I live so long without you?”, “Why did God make you so loveable?” and “Is tonight a good night for us to use the handcuffs?” Many couple will have eaten out at fancy restaurants, bought expensive gifts, or have done something ridiculously mushy because they felt they should have. But the question I tend to ask is, “Shouldn’t the mushy stuff be happening all year round? “Why relegate it all to one measly day in the shortest month of the year? What’s the purpose of a day of love when it’s clear, from everything happening around the world, that love is needed every day of the year? 

Granted, I am not one/half of a couple at the moment, so to some, my questions may come across as not so couple-friendly. But hear me out: I’m starting to notice that the usual V-Day trends (though followed by the commercial, “partnered” members of society) are being either neglected or just plain old abandoned. Gone are the days when single people wallow in their so-called loneliness. Instead, you find people reclaiming Valentine’s Day as Singles Appreciation Day. Or, there are some people, like myself, who have dubbed the day “Illusion Day” (My reason for the title: If you weren’t loved by your significant other prior to V-Day, then there is no guarantee that that love will manifest itself after). Also saying goodbye are over-the-top couples looking to invest the money they didn’t spend at Christmas into an evening out or a lavish gift for the one they love. As the world continues to make advances in technology, politics (Go Egypt!), and some forms of media, I ask: Does love ever advance? Is there a sort of progression when it comes to love, whether it be alone, in a pair, or just spiritual? Does love always continue to grow? And if it does, and if it starts to manifest itself every day, will days such as Valentine’s day soon be obsolete?

 I am of the firm belief that no one should tell me what I can and cannot do. But then again, I am single and am happy to say that I still have that luxury. However, when holidays as intrusive as Valentine’s Day start making their returns each year, it’s as if someone is screaming “LOVE LOVE LOVE SOMEONE NOW (Big scary voice) OR ELSE!” Yikes! Calm down adverts and calm down over-the-top romantics! No one is doomed if they don’t find love before the 14th of the year. It is not a benchmark or a deadline, nor has it ever been. Well…not since I was 12. Fact is; Valentine’s Day is simply a day and what happens any other day will happen on that day. People will go to work, a mother will argue with her child, a man will fumble for change as he steps onto the bus, and a homeless man will, despite his pride, ask a stranger for money and be refused. Tons of ordinary scenarios will happen and the only think extraordinary will be the behavior of people trying to show one other person what their love is. It’s almost like trademark love. What makes my love different that someone else’s?

 The idea that love is shown differently is one that, I feel, is seldom discussed. Love has it’s degrees and varying stages, I guess. In my life, I’ve known protective love, distant love, feauful love, adventurous love, sincere love, and love at its. There are more adjectives that I can put in front of the word, but they would still have the same thing in common; I have experienced a form of love. It may not have been the Disney Version, or even the Shakespeare version, but love was in there somewhere and I can’t disregard it. What’s also interesting to me is that all the different loves I listed came from multitudes of people. Neither adjective was exclusive to one individual. At some point, all of my friends have felt some kind of love for me. For this I am grateful.  So why is it that, as people in this world, we go out seeing one type of love? This is a question that I don’t intend to find a direct answer to, but it has always interested me. Is there one love? And if there is one love that we can all successfully find, what exactly are the ingredients that make it up? Lastly, if we end up finding this unique, one of a kind love, what happens next?

The Boy From Virginia Turns 25

If memory serves me correctly, I was born at 10:29 at night on April 2, 1985. However, most people credit a birthday to the actual day of it rather than to the exact hour of birth, so I get the 2nd (although I should be celebrating from around 10:30pm on the 2nd until 10:30pm on the 3rd). Twenty-five years later, I make personal history by writing this blog, a piece of work that will help me begin my quarter center year. If I am allowed to sit back and think of ALL the experiences I have had that have gotten me to this point in my life, I wouldn’t be able to summarize them all. There are vivid moments I remember from my childhood right up to last week, even. Most events are positive, some are sad. Lots are humorous…but the majority of my life has been filled with thoughts. So many thoughts that I have to ask have I spent all of my life thinking? My actions would lead others to think contrary…but sometimes, I do wonder…

            At the present moment, I am sitting here thinking about how cerebral I can make this blog. Is it time for me to finally use the skills I once mastered and write a coherent blog, or is it cool that I change the format a bit? Does life ask for coherency? Am I at the point where I’d like to experiment with my personal format? I am blessed to have reached this point and not experienced jail, or being labeled a baby’s daddy. (However, I have been labeled other things that make being a “baby’s daddy” much more desirable). Though I have made it to this point in my life (i.e living in London, England, pursing my dream, and breaking so many stereotypes, it’s not funny), I still have yet to figure myself out. Ok…let me clarify this a little bit. I know WHO I am, but I have yet to figure out HOW and WHY (and sometimes WHAT) I am.

            Twenty-five years old…and no clue as to my purpose in life…or whether or not I will be capable of making someone happy (that is not restricted to the “love” sense). I possess all the characteristics of a stable human being (who has his occasional frustrations with the minor details of the world, in some shape way or form), but I still fear major things.

I am afraid of failing my family. (So many others fit the bill of doing that that I CANNOT be added to the list). I would hate to disappoint my mother in the slightest bit. I’d never forgive myself if I wasn’t a good role model to my brother and sister. On an even more personal note…I’d hate to hurt another person’s feelings unintentionally, though I think I have done so many times before. More importantly, I’d hate to think I’m not working hard enough, therefore thwarting my own chances at success. Where are these thoughts coming from? Let’s back track.

On Tuesday morning, I awoke to ants crawling over my dresser, floor, and one even made a cameo on my pillow. (This was due to me spilling a teeny bit of apple juice the day before.) I immediately woke up and started cleaning as if I don’t do enough of that. Then, after looking into new theatrical opportunities, I was faced with some serious decision making (which involved my method of removing myself from a situation and assessing it before doing something I’d regret) That decision, including the circumstances around it filtered into my work that day and I felt useless and as if I wasn’t doing a good job at managing my life. Even more so (and unfortunately) I was losing my faith in my abilities as a human being. What do I bring to the table? Am I effective? Why can I express myself on paper, but am soooooooo afraid to open up to people who love me and care about me? Why do I self-depreciate all the time? Why do I push people away so damn much? What keeps me secretive about certain things in my life? Why don’t I trust that there are some good people out there in the world who will not harm me or cast their rod of judgment upon me? When did the idea of love start to repulse me?…and so on and so forth…(see where the mind takes you when you spend your life thinking too much?)

There are so many questions I have yet to answer in my life…but for the ones that are up here…I know the answer to them all. For many of the questions I ask myself, I always know the answers. I self depreciate because I don’t think I’m better than anyone else… I think I’m quite average (yet, I do know that I am not typical). I push people away because he moment they get close I am bound to hurt their feelings or vice versa and I don’t like being angry with people or having people angry with me. (Besides, I am very afraid of what might happen if someone effectively pushes my buttons.)  I am so secretive about my life because so many people volunteer their information and get mad when people are in their business. Personally, while everyone is being “generous” with the sordid details of their lives, I feel I need to keep something to myself, and if that includes keeping mum about the things most people ache to know about…so be it (and fuck off…read a gossip column cause you ain’t gonna get no ammunition here)! I don’t trust that there are good people about until they prove it to me. My motto since college has been “you are guilty until proven innocent.” Basically, if your first impression was actually unsuccessful and you have managed to sway my vote, then you might be allowed on board the Tommy train. (And trust me; this is a good train to be on!)

When it comes to…love…well…that’s a whole ‘nother blog entirely and if I feel so compelled, I will explain. But in a nutshell…too many people relish in the idea of love and I’ve not see what genuine love looks like. It is not in a look or a glance (as books and cliché’s say), or even in the touch of a hand. Those are the things that repulse me about love…the mere announcement of it and all the superfluous fanfare. Love doesn’t have to make itself clear or manifest in traditional ways…that’s about all I will say about that for now.

 I guess one would say that I am simply self-aware…but I think there is a more accurate word for what I am;  “ME,” maybe? (My friends are always saying…“you’re just so…YOU! You’re soooo Tommy!”) My page of the day calendar has the following word listed for today: virtuoso. It means “a person skilled in the fine arts.  Or it can mean “one who excels in the technique of an art or other endeavor, especially: a highly skilled musical performer. (This may seem made up, but this is ACTUALLY what is listed for today. By the way, thank you David Fearns for my calendar; you actively listen to me). Maybe there are no words to describe me and that I will have to accept. Just like I will have to accept that I will disappoint people, but I can’t take it out on myself. People are and will be attracted to me and that’s ok. I shouldn’t run away from people who want to know me, unless I sense deception/shiftiness in their spirit (Yes, I can do that). Essentially, I must continue to do what I have been doing since it’s not been going too badly thus far. If I ain’t broke…I shouldn’t fix me. To be honest, maybe God already has me fixed and whatever else is broken I’ll leave to Him.

I will now end this blog with the text of the Mahogany card my mother sent me for my birthday (which put me in tears because she is the most important woman in my life, hands down, point blank, PERIOD!):

“Son-When I call you my “baby,” you’re probably thinking “Aw come on, Mama! Because you’re a strong man now. But I was blessed to carry you close to my heartbeat for nine months and loved you before I even knew you…

From the moment I set you on your feet, you’ve stood solidly on the ground, growing in power and confidence with the strength to let others lean on you when they’ve needed to. Even me. I’m so proud of the man you are and who you have become.

You’re  the son of my spirit and of my heart. You will always be “my baby” and a fine man. Happy Birthday!”

Yes, Momma…Happy Birthday indeed!