Where My Homegirl At? Right here... (part one)

It’s only taken a year, but I’ve finally found a gal pal whose company I enjoy. And to anyone who ever told me that smoking was bad for you, I’d say they probably never had a chance meeting over a cigarette build into a dope ass friendship. A couple of months ago now, I was having a smoke when my co-worker asked me for one. She’s relatively quiet, so I had never really heard her speak before. Come to find out she is from “Elle-A”, and by the way she said, “L.A.” I immediately asked if she was Mexican. She responded, “of course.” I smiled, knowing that was probably enough to make her certified good peoples, and man was I right.

Mexicans and I go back like eight tracks, all the way back to 2000 when I stayed on the black floor at good ol’ USC. There were two Latino floors above us in the dorms, and it didn’t take long for me to find out, that our friends from South of the border know how to look out for a brotha. I would go up to the floor and be smoked out, get my Spanish homework proofread, and a group of girls from the Latino floor would routinely go to Trojan Grounds (the on-campus convenience store), game the cashier into giving them bags of free candy, and they would bring the bounty back to my homeboys with smiling faces. To get that kind of love off the bat was cool and always reminded me of old Tupac records where he would appeal to black and brown unity. But, as is typical I digress.

Back to my newfound homegirl. In keeping with the tradition of her commadres, she is cool as fuck. As we got to talking, I learned she was, “about that hood life,” which made me smile even more. Even though I’m not from the hood per se, I still feel like I was uprooted from my urban roots and shuttled out to the burbs, before it was my time at the age of five (though I still remember my older sister and I being babysat by a hood caretaker who would smoke weed on the balcony, while “watching” us). People from the hood, or those who have dealt with adverse circumstances in general are typically more giving and know how to look out. It’s a different kind of feeling I get connecting with them; in short I feel the love more than I do with other people, and as it concerns my homegirl, she is no different. Case in point, we were having lunch at work, and I asked her if anyone she knew was selling a car on the cheap. Well as luck would have it, she has a civic that she doesn’t need that she was willing to give me, even after I asked her what she wanted for it. Yes, that’s right, I said give. I don’t care what’s wrong with it, if the engine is gone, if the muffler is dragging, or if the windshield is busted out, it’s a car, something I haven’t had since parting ways with the Boxster in 2007. Even if she doesn’t run, I already have a nickname for her: “plan B”, cause that’s where I’ll be sleeping should anything ever, ever happen to the $500/month, off-the-books apartment (which still seems to good to be true). To put her more than generous donation to the poor-negro-on-foot-patrol in perspective here’s how the family responded to my request for whip assistance:

My father’s cousin had an older Corolla that was well-maintanined, and was even the same color and roughly the same year as my first car, also a Corolla. Needless to say, I made countless inquiries to him about it, but was told more than once that it wasn’t for sale. Recently I found out that the cocksucker, donated the car to a non-profit, because his mechanic wouldn’t work on it due to rust issues. That’s right, he gave away his car that I’m sure still had miles on it, instead of keeping it in the family. Good lookin’ out, man.

Then there’s my older sister. My mother either went half on her circa 2000 Corolla, or paid for the whole thing (honestly, I’m not sure), only thing I know is that it’s a Corolla that she’s had for close to a decade. When I asked her to hand it down and get herself in something a little more new, she all but laughed at my request (understandably, as it was a lofty one).

Then there are my mother and my younger sister. I pulled up to my mother’s house in a ’99 Passat that I was test driving from the dealership up the street. They were practically giving it away for $999 (and I negotiated it down to $750 at the first meeting with the salesman). Instead of offering to throw down some ends to getting me driving again as she did with my sister’s new car, my mother, who is always swearing she is broke yet blows money like a hurricane, simply asked, “do you have a thousand dollars?). I liked that car, and even though at that price point I’m sure it needed something major done to it, I decided to ask my little sister if she would loan me three bills to make it happen. Keep in mind she has two jobs, and at one point very recently worked two weeks in a row with no days off, so I figured she’d have something to donate to the cause. Nope she told me she was broke (one of my pet peeves; when people front like they ain’t got it). This was made even more frustrated knowing that she chipped in not four hundred dollars, but four thousand, when my mother bought her car (which she still has never, and probably will never let me drive). Yep, that’s my family for you.

Anyhow, over the course of the past month my homegirl from work and I have gotten to know each other, mostly over facebook chats and our shared love of the “caffeine and nicotine” vaccine (read:coffee/cigarette breaks). It’s been cool since I haven’t had a local, go-to, gal pal in Boston, well, forever. Throughout my travels, I’ve managed to make good female friends who have been cool companions in the other three locales, but never at home. Boston girls. Wow. What can I say. Besides being voted the worst dressed city in America, I haven’t enjoyed their company since high school. In addition to being style-adverse, they for a number of reasons (the hideous Boston accent being one of them) aren’t my cup of tea. Though Boston is feeling more like home than ever before these days, LA was the first city where I felt at home, so to have gotten cool with one of her daughters, so to speak, on the east coast has been a welcomed surprise. And she wasn’t playin’ when she said she was about that hood life. From turnin' it up in skrip clubs, to playin’ bones in the wee hours of the morning, to getting the boot from different high schools back home, to hearing stories of holding her man down, I quickly learned she is officially my kinda girl.    

She Still Reminds Me of a Westside Story

     I’ve been thinking about the "other" her lately. I heard through the mutual friend who hooked us up in the first place that she is getting hitched in December. I remember while we were doing the long-distance thing years back, I described our relationship to my then shrink, Heather. She said, “she sounds like your magnet.” As much as we did attract one another, there was also a repellent quality to our bond, or lack thereof.

     I miss her sometimes, but the most loving thing I ever did to her was let her go. Although our relationship was the definition of rollercoaster with the dizzying highs and scary lows, I will always love and respect her for trying and loving me the way she did. The Llloyd Banks song, “I Don’t Deserve You,” would be in heavy rotation on days when thoughts of letting her go prevailed. 

     Instead of continuing to pursue the original her or go after the "other" her, I decided to go straight between the two paths as Frost admonished, and that has been making a lot difference. 

How Much Can One Body Take...Let's Find Out!

I just set a personal, “best” by smoking an entire pack of cigarettes in about seven hours. Not that this is anything to be proud of, and not that I was particularly stressed out (in fact quite the opposite), but you see I’m broke. Even if I had money, part of me cringes with the new Massachusetts tobacco tax, which brings the total for a pack of smokes to just under ten dollars. “Crack prices!” as Chappelle said.

I’ve also been waking up with chest pain lately. There is a tightness and discomfort in my chest, and at times it feels like there is a small anvil resting on my sternum. These symptoms subside after an hour or so, but it’s something to mention to the doc when I have my annual physical in the coming weeks. At 31, I feel like I should be taking better care of myself. You know, exercising, eating healthily, putting the smokes down etcetera. Instead I’ve started downing two liter bottles of soda like they’re water again, eating whole large pizzas in a single sitting, and smoking like a chimney. I also have started (well a while back) relying on coffee at work to get me shifts. I still drink, but it's gone from a nightly, seemingly necessary thing, to the occasional beer or two here and there (though I was feenin' for a forty today).

On a positive note, I’ve only bought one bag of weed in the past six weeks or so. This marks a grand departure during the winter, when I thought I had added Mary Jane to the list of vices (Alcohol being the third).

My energy levels are still as unpredictable as ever. Some days I can’t get enough sleep and hardly feel rested, even after a  full night’s sleep preceding a day full of intermittent napping.

All of the above makes me think that at this rate my days will be coming to an end sooner than they should be. Whether the curtain falls on this play prematurely or not, I hope it doesn’t anytime soon. I feel good these days, and I ain’t ready to check out yet. 

On loss and in Memoriam

A friend of mine from high school lost his brother recently, and as is often said it help put things into even better perspective. I have a friend my age with multiple sclerosis who is slowly losing her mobility, my sister is at risk of eventually losing her large intestine if her meds don’t take, and my old mentor has almost completely lost his vision due to a degenerative retinal disease. Though the, “it could be worse” way of framing things can be problematic, in certain instances it illustrates the magnitude, or lack thereof, of certain grievances. Stated differently, your problems could easily be seen as blessings to others. As it concerns myself, at present the only thing I have to “complain” about is the dental situation, which next year’s tax refund could easily solve. Problem? Me thinks not.

But allow me to take it back to the impetus for this post, my friend Phil’s brother, Arthur. Though I have fond memories of playing video games with him during my high school years, whenever I think of him, one anecdote in particular stands out.

In middle school I was smoking one of my first cigarettes in the woods, with my best friend at the time, and a couple of acquaintances, one of whom was named Alex. Before the cigarette, which was being passed around like a joint, found itself between my eager fingers, Alex was quick to warn me: “Don’t nigger-lip it.” Though infuriated by the epithet, it’s always been in my nature to internalize anger, and play it cool rather than to get visibly upset, let alone do anything physical, however badly I may want to. The memory, however, remained ingrained in my mind as my humanity and innocence was accosted by his crude admonition.

Fast forward to the high school years. The “nigger-lip” incident had been pushed to the psychic recesses, until I heard that this same Alex had stolen something from Arthur. As the story goes, Arthur went to his house, politely knocked on his doorbell, and then proceeded to knock him with a right hand directly to the bridge of his now broken nose. Alex was left concussed, and I smiled thinking that Karma did indeed have a name, and it was Arthur, my avenger.  

On second thought...

On second thought, the feelings expressed in the, “I miss her” post, may not have been totally indicative of and consistent with where I am now Though losing her was the most difficult thing I’ve had to deal with, that once gaping wound to the heart, has closed up. I’m scarred up but still going, and am more removed from those sentiments than ever before. I’m not quite sure what prompted that post; I might have been feeling nostalgic or may have simply wanted to remind myself of the perks that relationships have to offer. It’s been so long that I’ve been doing me, that it’s quite hard to entertain the thought of making room for someone as things stand now. Where would they fit in? What purpose would they serve? The long-term goal of most hetero-normative arrangements is marriage and children. I hardly feel suited for the former, and the jury’s still out on the latter. The immeasurable responsibility that comes with child-rearing doesn’t scare me as much as procreating with the wrong woman does. Having to deal with any type of drama at this point, let alone that of the baby mama variety, is exactly what I’m trying to avoid. Things are stable, food is on the table, my mind is sound, and my body is able. Let’s keep it that way.

Write Where I Left Off.

During one of our recent sessions I told Francis that I felt like my life wasn’t particularly interesting or exciting enough to blog about. Ever one to point out the positives, he replied by saying something to effect of, “look how far you’ve come over the past year or six months even.” He rose a valid point, as the “get right, stay right” campaign has taken me from the hospital, to a homeless shelter, to functional stability.

I have now resided at the same address for a little over five months. For someone whose residential history is something that would make a tribe of gypsies jealous, this is worth mentioning. In Atlanta I had four different addresses in eleven months, then came home to my mother’s house, which, of course didn’t last long. Through it all Whole Foods has been the anchor and one of few consistencies (the other being Francis’ presence) that I can think of off top.

Back to the point though. To someone afflicted by bipolar disorder in particular, or someone going through it in general, I suppose this is evidence that things do indeed get better. When I cannot say, but my own positive trajectory is case in point. I am slowly starting to rebuild. I’m sitting on my bed typing this looking at my closet, and there are a decent collection of jeans hanging in the armoire as well as eight pairs of shoes. The return of the shoe collection is a good sign. Though I only really wear two or three pairs max, this is what it used to be like back in the day, when things were on point. Though I may not ever been as materially overloaded as I was, it does feel nice to ever so incrementally be working my way back to “normal.”

My main goal is to just maintain and improve from this point forward. While I flirted with the idea of returning to grad school, it was more of a whimsical thought, as fleeting as it was impulsive. Aside from the massive debt it would require accruing, my heart was never really into it. I fancy myself a writer, and if external opinion is any indication it’s where my greatest strength, or gift, if you will lies.

All pertinent signs from educators, to friends, to career placement tests have pointed me in the writing direction. I want to inspire and be inspired while doing so. None of this requires a degree or a return to the pasture that in some respects I feel I may have outgrown. I understand that people far older than my 31 years return to school, but in some respects it would be like putting a ladder against the wrong wall than climbing up. A waste of precious resources namely my time, energy, and money. I could be a pretty decent clinician, but I feel most at home writing. Though it may take some time to get the rhetorical ferocity and creative inventiveness back, it’s just a matter of getting the rust off. I look at it like being out of shape, and getting back into top from through concerted diligent effort.

Though getting an MSW would certainly help me be of service to others, I’m not even sure if I’d excel at it. While I can be a great listener when I want to be, I can be as aloof and spacy as others when the mind drifts. Furthermore, being a therapist takes a lot of objectivity and patience; though I’m sure this is part of their professional training, part of me is already knowing my first instinct would be to shake the shit out of non-compliant or frustrating clients. 

I just edited/updated this post then Chrome decided to crash on me. Hate it when that happens, may or may not revisit this post. 
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The Write Way

I’ve started to write again, not just here on the blog, but an old co-worker/mentor/friend tapped me to ghostwrite the foreword for a book he’s working on. It feels good to get the juices flowing again, as it had been some time.

Left to my own devices, I’m not always sure what to write about, but when given “a beat” so to speak, it helps. By beat, I mean it’s like a rapper having something to go off of, as opposed to rhyming a capella. That’s something I do miss about school, was the external motivation it gave me to write, and typically do my best work. Intrinsic motivation can be hard to come by, for whatever reason.

I applied for a writing job, which would have paid considerably more than Whole Foods, enough to make the commute to the financial district worthwhile. Besides, in would have put me in a better light to shine; to make use of what others told me is my greatest strength. I’ve pretty much capped out as a cashier at the Register. I done learned all of the produce codes, I can. What I’m doing at work, isn’t exactly making a difference in anyone’s life, and isn’t that what we are all most ideally put here to do?