The R.E.A.L. Burden of the Gifted.

R idicule

E xpectation

A lienation

L amentation

Credit due to Mr. John Austin (better known perhaps by his stage name, Ras Kass) for inspiring this post. Austin wrote/said, "Ridicule is the burden of genius," in a song entitled, "Reelishymn," off of his seminal, West Coast Classic, magnum opus, Soul on Ice, a title borrowed from Black Panther member, Eldridge Cleaver, who wrote a book of the same name, while incarcerated, presumably in federal prison, for his activities were oppositional to the directives of COINTELPRO, a federal program created by former FBI head and alleged (read: all but confirmed) transvestite, Hoover (J. Edgar), who despite his ignominy, ignorance, and obvious prejudice, had a federal building named after him. #NP Nas, "Breathe."

In There Like Swimwear

After speaking at to my therapist, Scott, at length and in depth about family dysfunction, I decided it would be best to impose a unilateral moratorium on all toxic relationships, starting with family. As the middle child and only son, I’ve been between a rock and a hard place trying to balance my sanity with my familial duties in general and my filial duties in particular all while trying to make something of myself. As Kenny Rogers once said, however, you gotta “know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.” As far as that prescient admonition is concerned, I’m folding like laundry on a Sunday afternoon. Trying to impose my will and impart a modicum of orderliness and regularity has literally driven me crazy, more than once. Not even attempting to do so again, as any more such effort would be tantamount to straight masochism. As the Wolf in Pulp Fiction said to Jules and Vincent after cleaning up the unpleasantness at Bonnie’s “Lots of luck to you, gentlemen.”

Less than a week after I completed my USC MSW application, I was officially accepted into the program. I am close to ecstatic about this and learned of it on a Monday following a Friday, during which I bought a Playstation 4 with three games (the obligatory newest edition of Madden, NBA 2K14, and Call of Duty: Ghosts). This serious retail buzz needed to be smoked off with about half of a pack of Newports that same day. Damn near orgasmic, I tell you. That night I was antsy, and didn’t feel like being in the crib by myself, so I headed out to visit the old man. I compounded this mistake by twelve hours later going to visit my mother. As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, seeing your parents, who are supposed to be beacons of guidance in a place where they can’t teach you much except about what not to do (e.g., marry the wrong person) unsettles the old psyche a little bit. Perhaps I’ve been desensitized to the chaos I perceive to an extent, but it still bothers me to the point where avoidance absolutely makes the most sense. 

Le Sigh

Familial fragmentation and dysfunction makes me indescribably frustrated to the point where getting away sounds like it may just be the best option. To that end, my applications for both MSW programs, at Boston College and USC (fight on!) have been completed. I should hear back within a couple of months, and while BC struck me as the most logical choice as it obviated the need for a cross country move (insofar as I thought geographic stability would influence overall stability), the tide has swung back to the alma mater. I’m in an even better place than I was when I began the application process months back. Despite the progress I had made, I felt somewhat drained, like “fuck, I gotta move again!?” Now that winter nears the halfway point with, spring around the corner, I’m starting to feel the energies of the seasonal change affecting me in a positive, rejuvenating way.

The first step is to get into either school. While the young woman who graduated a rank below me in undergrad went on to Harvard Law I’m hardly presuming an acceptance after going three for ten during my black studies graduate application gauntlet in 2007. I suppose those admissions committees don’t take too kindly to a bunch of dead, non-enriching space on the resume. In any case, as things stand right now, if I were to get into USC, and the financial aid package was in order, I’d have two words to say to Boston, and the people in it: “I’m gone.” Aside from the torturous winters, there’s just too much static here for me to look past.

Sometimes, I allow other peoples’ nonsense to get to me. For example, the on again off again estrangement from my father is off again. He stopped by on Christmas in what I took to him finally receiving the olive branch I extended over a year ago. I thought that was decent of him, so I stopped by his house (he is living at my deceased grandparents’ home, the same one he grew up in) to drop off a couple of pieces of mail the other week, and stopped by just because two nights ago.

As much as they say opposites attract, it seems as if both of my parents thrive off chaos to a certain extent. My mother self-admittedly hoards and is forever trying feebly to get organized (when she isn’t busy chauffeuring my younger, non-driving sister to and from school, work, the mall, etc., she somehow manages to occupy her time doing everything but de-cluttering).

My father’s”home”, a term I used loosely, is in disrepair. It hurts me heart, to see my grandparents old dwelling in such decrepit condition. The two bum-ass, do-nothing, father-son carpenters he has living with him are leeches of the highest degree, but there’s also a certain symbiosis operating as my father has always seemed to find people in need to lean on him; I can only assume it gives him some sense of power, in what, otherwise is a pretty meaningless existence. In any case, the first thing I said after seeing the house in its entirety to the old man was, “are you living here or squatting?”

Playing middle man between two parents whose relationship is essentially non-existent can be taxing. Aside from that, they both seem down and defeated in their own ways. That shit can be depressing to see your parents, who are supposed to be your guideposts, in such a light.

TBC…

"Gunz and Butter" (in my Ving Rhames from Baby Boy voice)

I have re-re-re-re acquired enough butter to make Land o’ Lakes jealous, and while the material gatherings still pale in comparison to yesterday, the accoutrements of basic adulthood hold little to no meaning to me. I have developed into a man of very simple tastes; I desire very little and require even less to be happy. Some decent gear, edible grub, and a place to call home. As it regards the latter I am still very much concerned with and preoccupied by my primary goal of closing on a one bedroom condo in Atlanta.

Over the course of the past few years especially I have rediscovered that I’m at my happiest, best, and most productive when I can isolate and engage/interact with others at my choosing. Over the course of my twenties, I fell victim to many a housing crises, to the point where cohabitation made me its whipping child. While I have no desire to recount the entirety of the history, most of which has been well documented in and alluded to in previous posts. In 2006 there was ex-girlfriend number two. Of course as most young couples do, we fought more frequently than is healthy. After blowing up at her one day (and I mean really going off in a way in which few have seen), she quickly beat me home and did her best Beyoncé, “to the left, to the left” putting my shit out before I even had a chance to do so myself (which I had fully intended to do and would have, but before heading back to the crib I happened to go for a long drive and an even longer chain smoke before I headed back to our shared spot. Then, in Atlanta, there was the personal misfortune, which befell my best friend, and at the time roommate; eventually his problem became mine, and there was soon an eviction notice posted to the door, and I was left bargaining with the leasing agent more times than I would have liked, which only prolonged my unwelcomed occupancy. And then, of course, perhaps the most outstanding among my expulsions was that from mom’s crib, which literally left me out on the street and between homeless shelters (again, this is well-documented in previous posts, and the point of this one is not to rehash old drama or reopen old wounds- that said, I won’t be regaling you with details any more than I already have.

Which brings me back to this overarching goal of being the proprietor of my own property. Here I am reminded of the cult classic movie Baby Boy, when Ving Rhames (I forgot his character’s name and am too lazy to IMDB it) is speaking to his um, illegitimate, ne’er to do well stepson Jody, played by Tyrese (word around the campfire says the director, John Singleton, had the late Tupac Shakur, pegged for that role, by the way) if you will, and says the following:

“You know the problem with you little niggas, you think you know everything about the damn world, but you don’t know shit. I see you got yourself a little business going well that’s good, that’s good. You make that paper, but when you making paper, you gotta learn some rules to go wit’ it .You gotta learn the difference between guns and butter. There’s two types of niggas in the world the niggas with guns and  niggas with butter.  Now what is the guns; the guns that’s the real estate, that’s stocks and bonds, that’s artwork, you know shit that appreciates with value. What’s the butter? Cars, clothes, jewelry all that other bullshit that don’t mean shit after you buy it.  That’s what it’s all about, guns and butter, baby! Little dumb muthafucka.”

Instead of continuing to recycle and churn butter it’s high time for me to acquire some figurative guns. While I did invest in some artwork years back, I ended up giving it the the homegirl Tiffany, as it’s never really been my thing (and I was disappointed with the amazing artist’s half-assed effort, but that’s neither here nor there).

But back to the butter for a second, which rapper Nas once described with the following line: “Fuck the cash the ice, Ferraris with 220 (MPH) on the dash, when your life ain’t right.” And the choir says Amen!

Cars. Check. On number three. Clothes. Been had the fly suits (which I never wore and no longer have, of course as they were purged during manic instability). Jewelry. I used to keep a nice pair of solitaire studs in each ear, and a very modest gold chain around the neck (I also ended up giving the jewelry away, but again, that’s really neither here nor there.). Bullshit. Had, and have reacquired some of it (e.g., the newly copped Playstation four)

I have zero attachment to any of the butter. It comes with hard work, goes easily, and comes back even more easily granted you are willing and able to put in the necessary grind for it. Back to the “guns” though. In my 31 years, I have never owned property of my own. This bothers me.

Call me an extreme introvert with loner tendencies, but I hit on all cylinders when I am afforded to the opportunity to be hermetic. I enjoy cocooning if you will, being alone, and practicing self-mastery. Prime example. When I did I have 1000 square feet to myself in Atlanta, though it was only for a few months I used that time to quit smoking (something I only dreamed of prior to actually doing it), get in the best shape of my life (173 lbs with 11% body fat—yes I get kinda obsessive with these sorts of endeavors), and go a blogging tear. Though my time was limited since I knew the funds would expire soon, I wondered what would happen had I been afforded to opportunity to be recluse at will and for an extended period of time. Socializing, or at least forced socialization slows me down. One thing I remember my mother telling her frustrated son (that would be me) growing up was "Chris, not everybody is like you," pointing to the fact that sometimes others aren't on the same page or plane. To stop and explain certain thought processes and movements of mine often become a bothersome chore and an exercise in futility and frustration on my end.

It has also become obvious that oustiders looking in own my situation with their obvious concerns and queries, and worse yet, doubt and discouragement frustrate to me to no end. This is precisely why I really don’t choose to involve myself with many people, let alone share my dreams with those who may have nothing to offer towards their achievement.

I know what some may be thinking: “Chris you’re in massive debt, have atrocious spending habits, make a pittance of a salary ($10.50/hr. for those curious), half of which goes to rent, how are you going to ever going to procure the means to become a homeowner?” In short, nigga are you crazy?” Well yes, if you hadn’t pieced it together from the title of the blog, I am, in the clinical and colloquial sense and have the professional and personal references that will corroborate this truth. That is just what it is. Furthermore, please leave the “how’s” up to me, and here I am reminded by great line by one Curtis Jackson (bka 50 cent). “It’s like I told niggas I’m a hustler, they keep on forgettin’/ 36 mil’ in eight months, still think I’m bullshittin (Yes, I will stay quoting rappers when I damn well please J. While I hardly feel the need to stack 36 M’s, the rougly 50K it would take to acquire the aforementioned dwelling is a measureable, attainable, realistic, and time-sensitive goal (this adjectives are derived from the S.M.A.R.T. acronym by the way- I always forget what the “S” stands for, and alas I’m too lazy to google).

The plan is in full effect, and for the doubters, naysayers, inquisitors, and interrogators, I humbly say it’s just a matter of time (40 is the deadline I have set for myself) and execution. Outsiders may think they the hand until the cards are on the table. If there’s one thing I do know how to do, it’s work, and work hard. Chill. Then work ever harder. If it’s a slow, incremental grind towards a down payment, then so be it. If it’s accelerated by my working smart, a self-propelled windfall, or a combination of the two, then so be it. It will be. Some have too it to believe it, whereas I have seen it, and know how to be it.

And once I have it, aside from my HOA dues, property tax, and insurance, the rest will be all gravy a they say. A nice, buttery, gravy.