Easter Eggs

You cannot teach a man anything.  You can only help him discover it within himself. --Galileo

I only just started reading The Black Jacobins, devouring the foreword, introduction, prologue and first chapter over the weekend.  I'd had the book in my house for at least eight years now.  My mother's copy, a valued copy if the presence of her signature on several random pages is any indication.  She wanted to ensure that no one ever got away with stealing it, or at least pricked their conscience if they did.  I never saw the use of it.  The cover was impressive.  The dark skinned man in Victorian style refinements spoke to an underdeveloped black pride within me every time I saw it.  But my mind, up until now, was not prepared to take on the the tiresome (as I saw it) task of actually reading it.  Its a matter of maturity.  I had to wait until now.  Until I was ready.  And even so, I didn't know I was ready.  I simply couldn't find the book I'd started reading in time to pack it for the trip to Flores, and instead decided to grab it off the shelf, just to see what it was all about.  When I opened it and started reading about C.L.R. James, and about his ideas, and about Haiti, I realized that it was time.  Had I read it at any point before now, before those very same thoughts came to life in the cultivated garden of my own mind, I wouldn't have really cared about what it had to say.  I wouldn't be sitting in my office, as I am now, with the presence of the book in my messenger bag glowing like a bright beacon in the back of my mind.  I wouldn't have the appreciation and hunger for it that I have now had it been forced upon me in high school.  If I had read it at any point before now, I wouldn't give a rats ass who C.L.R. James was.

This is a universal thing.  Perhaps it might be a generational peculiarity, but I doubt it.  While my upbringing has instilled within me an unconditional respect for my elders, my own self-education efforts actually revolve around breaking down those things that were instilled in me, and not taken on by my own volition.  Also, I've come to learn that all things have conditions.  To this end I can say that previous generations were no more enlightened or prone to enlightenment than my own.  Those who came before me were no more or no less hungry for knowledge than I am.  However, perhaps they had more barriers to that knowledge and in their youth, they had just the same amount of rebellion as I do.  So while I have the information at my fingertips, acquiring it isn't as exciting as it was back then. 

It's just a theory. 

But things work a little differently now.  Now we have to present knowledge like we do Easter-eggs: Paint them conspicuously, and hide them in plain sight.  For instance, there is a street in Harlem, a boulevard actually, named Adam Clayton Powell Jr Boulevard.  Navigating Harlem, you're main allies are the broad bordering streets named after Black heroes and famous personalities.  Malcom X Boulevard.  Frederick Douglass Blvd.  Martin Luther King Boulevard.  Adam Clayton Powell Jr Boulevard?

"Hey man, Who's Clayton Powell?"  I asked one of the neighborhood guys that worked at the Hostel.  He was younger than I was, but just barely.  A handsome guy who was just growing his dreads and 'trying' to be vegetarian.  They were either the first, struggling signs of someone seeking some kind of enlightenment, or a complete poseur.  He admitted that he didn't know, and the pretty Puerto Rican girl who worked at the front desk made a disgusted sound and elbowed him, saying "Don't you live around here?"

"I live ten blocks that way!" he retorted, pointing in the direction of the rest of Manhattan.
"So?"  She replied.  "You're supposed to know this stuff."
"Why, cause I'm black?" He asked sardonically.
"Yeah!"  She said, sounding perplexed that he even had to ask.

The next day he brought me a pamphlet about the heroes the streets were named after, and had highlighted The Reverend Adam Clayton Powel Jr., first African American elected to congress.  It may be that he'd just missed learning about Adam Clayton Powel Jr. in class.  He might have matriculated just before it was decided to add that information to the public school curriculum.  Its also possible that former senator Powell was right there in his history books, but a congressman who, among other accomplishments, dined with a contingent of black constituents in the 'Whites Only' House restaurant and passed a record number of bills in a single session of congress, doesn't shine as brightly beside his Harlem Boulevard contemporaries.  "If the Law is wrong, change the Law" perhaps doesn't resonate in the heart as much as "By any means necessary." or the 'I have a dream.' speech.  But that Easter-egg was hidden on a street walked my thousands each day, and painted brighter than the grey of the city.  All it required, all it still requires, is for someone to point it out, and let young, hungry curiosity handle the rest.

And if there was no Adam Clayton Powell jr Boulevard?  If it were forever to be called ' 7th Avenue'?  Then obviously it would be just another gilded street in an increasingly gentrified Harlem.  And with no knowledge of the true history of the neighborhood, why would anyone want to stay somewhere they're not wanted?  The argument against gentrification and the tools for combating it is another conversation all its own.  But we are talking about knowledge, access to knowledge, and the drive to educate oneself.  Again, I've only made it through the preliminary text and the first chapter, but being a long time fan of all kinds of narratives, I can tell that its these very same factors on which the plot of this story; the liberation of Saint Domingue, and the creation of Haiti; hinges.  The same factors, perhaps, presented the Easter egg of Marxism to James, and inseminated within him the idea to share history to the Caribbean and Black Communities.  The same factors that now lead me to explore, stumble upon, and learn from James, his writing, and the history of the region.  And if there were, perhaps, a library in a predominantly black neighborhood somewhere that, all of a sudden, was no longer called the CLR James Library?  Then we will be left with those still waiting to stumble over brightly coloured enlightenment hidden in plain sight, and all we'll be able to tell them is: 'It used to be there.  But now its not.'

---

Inspired by: CRB • Antilles • Transformative reading
Please sign: Save CLR James Library

Ninth Night

It was all planned out!  Weinerfest, we'd dubbed it.  Backyard Shenanigans!  It was a breakthrough idea!  Well, it was for us anyway.  Let me give you some background.

You see, my roommate Alexis and I are perhaps the only ones in our group of friends who do not live with our parents.  This makes our house the de facto party house.  Any big shindig or hullabaloo or even minor get-together that didn't take place at a bar or club or restaurant happened at our house.  And it was always a mess.  The house, that is.  The parties were great but there would either be something in the kitchen like a pile of unwashed dishes or a counter still dusted with flour or sticky from some spillage; that we would hope everyone could just completely ignore, or the kitchen would start off clean and come to be in some disastrous state through the course of the night's events.  And do you think anyone showed up to help clean?  No.

But its still our place.  And we still want to chill out there from time to time with our friends.  So, one breezy day we got the bright idea to invite a bunch of people over for drinks, but lock the front door!  We took tables and seating from inside and placed them in a convenient, conversation friendly circle.  We took baskets and emptied them of their display fruits, and instead filled them with peanuts and cheese puffs.  We took the cooler and spread down a bed of ice, and propped the bottles of rums and mixers and beers in it, and another pitcher that held just ice, and we set that in the center of the circle.  And it worked.  Like a dream.  The first few times were all guys, so there were even a few odd instances where I wound up begging them to go inside.  Don't piss on my wall just outside my bathroom or bedroom window, please?  And for the love of God, don't continue talking to me while you're doing so!  I know the conversation might be rich and engaging, but unless we're in some kind of intimate relationship, you should let the conversation pause while you attend to your bodily functions.

And that goes for you too, ladies.

And so, as weekends came and went, the intricacies of the Backyard Shenanigans developed.  Until finally, September was upon us.  And this time, instead of a completely random gathering, we had a reason.  Ninth Night!  The eve of the Celebration of the Battle of St. Georges Caye!  The eve of Carnival Weekend!

When I came home I set out to sweeping.  Then mopping.  Then cleaning the sink and toilet in the half bath near the living room.  Then changed exterior light bulbs and making sure there was toilet paper in the bathroom.  Then I filled a pitcher with ice and let the ice maker take its time in replenishing the fridge door stock.  You will notice, I did nothing with the kitchen.  That is the beauty of the outdoor party.

Later Alexis brought over the grill.  Then the coal.  Then a bottle of rum and a pack of 'Sausage on a Stick'.  I balked at it and ran out to get spicy itallian which, cut to the right length, made an awfully good foot long.  By the time I got back Alexis had the grill lit, the coals getting ready for their night's work.  Meanwhile I cleared some stuff out of the yard and chained up the dogs.  By the time I was finished putting food down for them our first guest, J, had arrived.

Oh, the simplicity of the Backyard Barbecue.  Why didn't I think of this sooner?

I offered J a drink.  She only drank beer.  I was about to get her one of the Amstels we got specifically for September Celebrations when I realized...she's gonna drink them all.  I must hoarde.  I must keep my beer supply safe.  There are twenty other days in September, and about half of those are days when I can sit back and enjoy a cold one.  I had to pace myself.

"I'll take a quick shower."  I told her.  "And we can go get some."
"Get some?"  She asked, and gave me a bit of a smile.
"Yeah, some b--" I started to say and then suddenly realized...this could be a very good night for me.

After my shower we went in J's jeep, stopped at the bank, and then to the only store I knew of that still sold alcohol after nine.  I'd only found this place a few months ago and in fact it had only opened a few weeks before that, but in walks J and up goes the proprietors mood!  "J!" called the Chinese woman behind the counter, as if Jam was some relative she was glad to see.  J also calls her by name, Miss Helen, I believe.  Its impressive, not only for the fact that its actually happening (I hadn't started drinking by then) but the fact that she called her Miss Helen.  Miss Helen.  Not just Helen.  And certainly not China or Chiney Gial.  There was an affectionate, respectful tone to her voice as she tacked on the that universal Belizean title of elderly respect.  I liked that.  A lot.

Then she slid a fifty dollar bill across the counter and said 'How many Heineken can that get me?'

We headed back and put another bottle of rum and some soda water in the cooler, along with J's eleven Heineken (just in case you were curious).  Coming out of the store I'd seen my friend Keino, who'd just gotten back from studying medicine in Cuba, and basically told him to head over to our house.  By then others had arrived too; Leon and his date for the night, Diane.  And Leanne and Jorge, one of the cutest couples I know (when they aren't fighting.)  And, as they were instructed, each of these people brought a pack of hot dogs, whatever they wanted to see on the grill for that night.  And the grill itself was quite loaded.  The party was in full swing.

But it wasn't enough, was it?  So I sent a text to all the folks I knew in town.  Male or female, it said the same thing.  "Weinerfest at my house!  Come on over if you're hungry for some sausage!"

Because who doesn't love getting a suggestive message after nine o'clock?

We drank, we ate, we talked, about nothing in particular.  At some point I realized I'd had too much to drink when I stood in the middle of the yard with Leon and Timo arguing the merits of the Barbados economy and workers unions at the top of my lungs.  We were the last three there.  The party was over and i didn't even realize it.  But there existed within me a sense of something incomplete.  "Should we head to Cabana?" Leon asked suddenly.  The yard had gone silent.  Sausages cooled and shriveled and the very last of the coals glowed orange in a bed of ashy white.  I nodded once, firmly, and then began putting all our yard paraphernalia back into the house.

Now, I should point out that I'm really rarely this eager to go out, but it was indeed a really nice night.  I wasn't fall down drunk.  I wasn't thinking of depressing, sober things.  I'd been flirting all night with a girl I would slot neatly into the cute category, and in fact, here she was at the Cabana.  J found us out of the crowd and immediately started grinding her short, chubby body against mine, in particular her sizable ass.  She pumped her arms in the air when they weren't holding on to my belt loops pulling me closer, and flung her red, orange, and yellow dyed hair around.  She was on fire!  Alive and young and fully aware of it.  And it was exciting to be around.  Sexy without trying to be alluring.  Just like her nose ring.  She went to join her friends after that, and one of my friends came over, goading me in her direction.  "No."  I explained to him "I'm not gonna chase her.  I'm just here to have a good time."  And I wasn't gonna chase her because I wasn't going to give her the idea that I wanted her.  Or more to the point, that I wanted to keep her.  I like having her around, that much is obvious.  And if something were to happen...well.  But I'm single now.  I'd rather not get involved with something as fiery and volatile as that just yet.

I was even talking to Merri's dad at one point, and she swooped down as if from the sky, booty shaking and hair throwing and fist pumping.  All in good fun, he seemed to take it.  He laughed and gave me a slap on the shoulder.  "You have a good night."  he told me at 2 in the morning.

I didn't intend to meet J at Club Twilight after that.  It was, once again, one of those things that just happened.  The music was so loud, and the drinks kept coming, and she kept up her manic fun-time dance.  She dragged at my shirt collar until my ear came to her lips and shouted what sounded to me like 'My eggs are in my side and it hurts.'  Later on, when my ears stopped ringing from being crammed inside the giant speaker box that is Twilight, I realized that what she was saying was probably something like "My ex is here tonight.  Lets flirt."  There goes another train I missed.  No matter.  There's always next time.

Somehow I wound up on top of the highest hill in Belmopan with Dianne (Leon's 'date') and Karteek.  We watched the sunrise, tried to identify which direction it was coming from through the cloud and fog.  Instead we just noticed the gradual brightness.  Felt the heat descending on us like smoke from the sky.  It really wasn't as romantic as I make it sound.  We were still drunk, and kinda tired, and acutely aware that there might very well be a pit of vipers lurking somewhere in this knee high grass. 

"You wanna get breakfast?" I asked the others.  Dianne looked at me incredulously and asked "Where the hell do you get breakfast at this hour?"  Karteek nodded knowingly.  He smiled at the thought of hot beans and hotter fried jacks.  Eggs.  Cheese.  Piping hot coffee.  No one else around to bother you.  "Market."  He intoned, and headed off to the cars.

Only, as we descended, Karteek took off like a flash, racing down the hill ahead of us.  And by the time we got to the market, he wasn't even there.

"I guess he went home for his own breakfast", Dianne said.  We laughed about it, stopped circling and parked, and made our way past the bleary eyed fruit vendors just setting up, ourselves still bright and smiling and slightly tipsy and smelling of club smells.  Cigarettes, booze, and sweat.  We found one woman who was open.  We asked her if she had breakfast.  She said it would take a while.  I frowned and asked her if she had tacos or burritos.  That would take a while too.  "Well then we'll wait for the breakfast."  Dianne said, taking charge.  The little while was hardly a little while at all.  It was just enough time to scald my tongue on some coffee and have her laugh at me for it, as well as get to know one another a little better.  When you've watched the sunrise with someone and moved on from there to coffee, modesty sort of flies out the window.  We asked tough questions, getting right to the meat of things.  And the alcohol and lack of sleep tends to make you honest.

Sadly, it tends to make you stupid too.  By the time I'd finished breakfast I'd already started yawning every three minutes or so.  By the time I dropped Dianne off, my brain had gone sent every part of it that didn't need to drive home into shutdown mode.  Which is why I sat there for about five minutes while she asked for my number.  And why I didn't think to ask for hers back.

Sleep never felt so good.  But damn, that was a good night.

The Sky is Still Blue

If you read through this blog, over most of the entries going back a year, two years, more, you might get the impression that I'm a terminally sad, angry, morose fucker.   I mean, just look at the labels list.  Other than the catchall label of 'emotion' and the nearly the omnipresent honesty (And Merri) there's mostly labels like fear, shame, loneliness, risk, and of course 'the last thing that made you cry' (Though, that's really not as depressing as it sounds.  Honest.)  I realized that this is because when I'm happy, I'm not writing.  At least not here.  When I'm happy I'm either too busy actually enjoying life, or even too busy with other writing, to come up with anything I feel I need to share here.  This is bad therapy.  Especially since, for those that actually read this blog, I'm not only sharing events, but emotional weight tied to those events.  (See, emotions already)  It can be a pretty heavy load for me to bare on my own, and that's why I share it with you all, but where does that leave you?  Its been selfish of me not to think of this until now, and I'm heartily ashamed (Shame.  Right there.)   As a way of apologizing, allow me to tell you about a pretty damn good Sunday.  One in which I was happy!

In order to understand this Sunday, I have to start from Saturday night.  This, I think is what really set my Sunday into gear.   I don't usually like going Cabana, but it probably is Belmopan's only place for late night entertainment.  And this night, for a change, I only had to pay 15 bucks to go in and pay again for over-priced drinks, an acceptable discount from their usual twenty dollar door charge.  And once inside, there would be no wandering around, tapping your feet under a table to whatever stale musical selection the bartenders wanted to hear.  There were guest DJ's there.  Entertaining ones too!  With fresh music, some of which I hadn't even heard before. (Side Note: I don't get what the big deal is about that 'In my Cup' song, but whatever!) There were also friends there, already assembled.   Friends that knew one another and knew me!  Friends that had no problem sitting at one big table together, so that I wouldn't have to play that tiresome game of wandering from one segregated, non communicative clique to the other.  I even danced a little.  With other people.  Of the opposite sex.  And then, when Saturday Night started turning into Sunday Morning, I danced a lot.  By my self.

Here's one last interesting highlight from Saturday Night.  The Intern asked me if She was my girlfriend.  Now, this is the same intern who, just a day before, stood at my office door asking me a question.  And as the air around her wafted toward me, the scent of her struck my senses afire!  My heart was racing and behind my eyes but before my brain I could only see myself grasping her in my arms and tugging aside the bothersome fabric of her clothes to root out the source of that sent on her flesh, where I would set lips to kissing and tongue to tasting.  A moment later she was out of sight, and after that, the smell had gone, and so had the urge to ravage her.  She is a beautiful creature, and dangerously so.

We are also talking about Her, who I've repeatedly had similar compulsions toward, but based more frequently on the things she said and the way she angled her supple limbs.  This, however is balanced by our miscommunications and my more frequent lack of communication.  And, sometimes, its overridden completely by the occasional realization that we're not as compatible as we want one another the be (because, by now, I'm certain the feeling is mutual.) 

Now, I'm not gonna lie and say she is something that she isn't.  At the same time I didn't want to give the impression that I was only saying no just because the intern was asking, which is exactly what i did when I hesitated before saying no.  Why did I hesitate?  I honestly can't tell you.  Though...perhaps the inquirer and subject have something to do with it.  Or my mind was clouded once again by the smell of her.

The night was extraordinary in that nothing really happened.  I didn't get too drunk, and I wasn't sober enough to sense any great disappointment at being shot down several times that night.  It was the ideal Caribbean Night out:  Good Rum, Good Company, Good Music.  In the theater of my mind, that's just the way it ends too, the lights dim on the scene of close to a hundred people swaying, and grinding, and jumping, balancing perfectly their multicolored drinks, and continuing that way until the curtains close.

The next day I woke up at ten.  Six hours sleep and a clear head, I started on breakfast, but didn't actually finish it until almost twelve.  By then  I'd already showered twice, and walked the dog.  All this stuff is secondary, of course.  B-roll stuff.  If the club scene from the night before was the ultimate fade out, then the ultimate fade in would have been a blue sky peeking out between green and brown branches, and the sound of cicadas singing in the heat, coupled with distant laughter.  The only trouble with movies and plays is that they lack the fully emmersive sensations.  I think that if more people managed to spend a few hours every weekend floating on their backs in pristine rivers and creeks, letting the water wash over their entire bodies, then we wouldn't be so damn cruel to one another. 

Cities.  Cities cause cancer.  And stomach ulcers.  And strokes and heart attacks before the age of fifty.  I was once asked, if I could choose the moment i died, what would it be.  My Sunday afternoon is exactly what I chose.   Soaking in cool water on a hot day, staring up at the beauty of creation, and feeling...happy.   What a blessing it is to have the privilege of choosing to become lost in the wilderness upon occasion.