That Warfighter Spirit

Given the nature of war and the injuries sustained by our Warfighters, specifically mental injuries, it is understandable that we are constantly inundated with stories and messages of more than distressing nature. And that is perfectly fine. I do not belittle those stories or those struggles at all, since I have my own stories and have fought those battles-and in many ways-still fight them. It is only rarely, though, that we hear survival stories, testimonials of those Warfighters who have beaten the odds, or are at least in the process of overcoming them.

We all understand that nothing will ever be perfect. We will never be the people we were before we went overseas. We will always have to deal with some of these issues and fight some of these battles the rest of our lives. Too many of us forget that we are Warfighters, Descendants of Sparta, and that we have an indomitable spirit capable of great things. Our Warfighter spirit gets beaten down and broken by our government, by the media, by the civilian next to us who inaccurately and inappropriately judges us, by the everyday struggles of BEING a civilian that we do not comprehend, and most of all by the terrible battle of the mind we inherit after war.

No politician can call an end to the war of our minds with the stroke of a pen. We do not come home from this war, we carry it with us. There is no counting down the weeks and days until it is “over.” And it all takes an abysmal toll. We fight it. We bend. We break. And some of us sadly lose the war. But sometimes, sometimes one of us wins a battle in that war. One of us advances the lines. One of us remembers that Warfighter spirit and drives on. One of us plants our feet and proclaims to the Fates, “I will NOT die today!” and presses onward, even if it is just the smallest of gains.

A couple weeks ago, I put out a 911 about a fellow Warfighter, Frank, in need of assistance. Many of you answered with open ears and arms. Due to the nature of his situation, I was not able to have a legitimate conversation with him and get the full story until tonight. Without disclosing his personal/sensitive information, I will tell you why my own spirits are lifted…

Frank, like many of us, has been fighting the war of the mind. And he, like many of us, has had a rough time of it, to say the very least. Because of the nature of his situation, he went off the grid for quite a while, like I tend to do. I would periodically check in on him-with no response. A few weeks ago, he replied, giving me the short version, stating that he needed assistance.

Fast forward to today, when I had a phone conversation with him for just over half an hour. Despite the asinine system of the VA, despite government interference, and most of all, despite the debilitating and taxing effects of PTSD, the quiet, but sturdy determination in his voice touched my own heart. Though he is having some medical issues, he remains strong willed to beat PTSD and drive on, with the sole goal of making a better life for his family. He has living arrangements with his mother. His girlfriend is significantly supportive. His church has banded together to help him find gainful employment. He has someone walking him through the convoluted intricacies of the VA system. What is most important, to me at least, is the fact that when Frank got to the breaking point, the point of no return that so many of us continue past, Frank planted his feet and defied the Fates. He remembered his Warfighter spirit and training and did what many of us do not do, he made the call.

One call, a few words, a few minutes. It does not seem like much, but that one call can, and will, save a life and transform it. For a few minutes, Frank grasped hold of that Warfighter spirit and pushed back one last time before giving in. More than that, Frank admitted the truth, which in most of our cases, is the hardest thing to do. “I am NOT ok. I need help.” Seven monosyllabic words, but seven words that make all the difference.

Frank made the call. He got-and is getting-the help that he needs. Not just for himself, but for his family. He understood that in order to make things better, he needed to get better. And to do that, he needed to make the call. Making that call is the hardest thing most of us can do, because we think it makes us weak. We think we are supposed to push through it, forget about it, and ignore it. If we admit that we are not ok, then we have failed. But it is not failure. It is a sign of strength and courage.

The ironic part is that Frank words encouraged me. His spirit and determination inspired me. He is the one who is at one of the weakest moments of his life, yet I drew strength from him.

Frank is just one example of the resilience of our Warfighter spirit. We were broken down to nothing and rebirthed into Spartans. We have the power to win the war. It is not simple, it is not easy, and it certainly is not quick. It is a day by day engagement. But as Frank put it, “It’s just another mission.”

To the Civilian

There is an attitude that annoys (to say the very least) the ever-living shit out of me. But, a little back story first:

I recently found out that someone I went to high school with, a fellow Warfighter with multiple tours under his belt, had killed himself. As my chosen field is psychology, more specifically, working with combat veterans, and as most of the organizations I am associated with are veteran centered, this event hit significantly close to home. That night, I wrote an impassioned letter, directed to all my fellow Warfighters, and pleaded with them to reach out and let us help them before they make that choice. The first sentence was, “Stand the f--- down. I say again, stand the f--- down.”

Out of over 100 commenters, one person, and the only negative one, said, “The language in this is awful. State your point with a better vocab.” Unfortunately, out of over 650 shares, 500 likes, and 100 comments, this one person is the only one who failed to understand the message of that two page plea. She failed to understand it, not because it was incoherent, not because it was not clearly stated, not even because of the profanity. She failed to understand it simply because it did not fit into her pretty little sensibilities.

First, I will say that I am well aware of the intensity and vulgarity of profanity and that it has no place in certain circles. That said, the Army is a different world. We have our own language, which, admittedly, is not well translated into civi-speak. We are the dirtiest, most vulgar, raw, uncut, unpolished, and uncensored SOBs you will ever know. And that’s fine for us. It works in our environment. We can curse each other out and scream and yell, and five minutes later be sharing a beer. We can curse each other out while giving the best compliments. Most of the time, if we don’t curse at someone, then we really don’t like them. But more importantly, that is how we stress a point. I am not saying it is right, I am not saying it is wrong. But that is how it is. That is how we are. I say this simply so you can have a better understanding. I wrote that letter as if I were speaking to my own soldiers. Because that is, in effect, exactly what I was doing. As I said, we have our own language.

I was speaking, not to the civilians, but to the boots, the Joes, the Warfighters, in a manner we all read loud and clear. I was speaking, not to that civilian whose politically correct sensibilities are easily and quickly offended, but to that soldier who has lost his way. I was speaking just as my PSG spoke to me when I lost my way.

To have this woman completely bypass the entire point of the message and zero in on my use of three curse words didn’t really offend me as much as disappoint me. It disappointed me because it is an attitude I see all too often in my work. My brothers, my soldiers, my Warfighters feel alone, misunderstood, like no one outside the uniform can understand them. And with attitudes like this woman showed, it is no wonder why.

Civilians tell us they want to know, that they want to understand, that they want us to let them in. They complain because we stay to ourselves, that we only open up to each other, that we shut them out. Yes, we do. Because the majority of the time, this woman’s attitude is the same one we receive. When we do come to you, when we do open up, when we do let you in, we are judged. We are condemned. We are castigated for being who and what we are.

We are dirty men. We are vulgar men. We are unpolished and violent men. We are those men because it is you, the civilian, who asks us to become those men. You see the drills and the parades and the ceremonies. You see the shiny brass, the crisp uniforms, the in-step marching. You see the show, but you do not see the reality. And when we come to you, lost and broken, you condemn us because we present the reality of who we are and not the show that you have come to expect. You ask us to become these men, to do deeds that you have not the heart to do. To dirty our hands so yours may remain clean. To travel to environments you could never imagine in your most horrific nightmare. We live your nightmares for you. Your worst dream is a good day for us. Yet you condemn us for becoming what you asked us.

It is not pretty, clean, or tied with a little neat bow. We are vulgar because our lives are vulgar. We are dirty because our environment is dirty. We are battered and hardened because we have been purged in the righteous fires of warfare. We have become the unholy hammer of the gods against the evils that hunt you in the night. And yet you condemn us because after we have lived in Hell and bedded Death herself, our armor is not sparkling and shiny. You, the arrogant and pompous civilian, have asked us to walk through the fire without getting any scorch marks.

You expect us to be like you. And when we are not, we are railed against and convicted of assaulting your fragile and faltering socio-moral sensibility. None of this is to say that vulgar and profane actions are permissible at all times, because they are not. However, we do certainly set ourselves apart because the civilian has yet to accept us for who and what we are. Instead, the civilian turns us out and turns his back because we are not who and what he expects us to be. That is all we ask; meet us where we are instead of where you think we should be. Jesus himself said, “Come as you are.” So we come. But we are turned away because we are not perfect and you are not Jesus. We don’t ask that you like it. We don’t even like it. All we ask is that you accept us where we are.

I feel bad for that woman, because she missed the entire message of that letter. It’s got nothing to do with the fact that I wrote it. It has everything to do with the fact that of the 1000+ people who read it, she is the only one who could not see past her own short sight and opinion. That is the attitude I am talking about now. It is a common and frequent occurrence. The military-civilian gap is large and widening. It should not be so, but it is. When we hide those parts of ourselves, the bloody, battered, and vulgar parts, you ask us to show them to you so you “can understand.” But when we do, you give us the looks we have come to expect and you turn us away, condemning us for being what you asked us to become. Our lives, our stories, our words do not exist to cater to your glorified, clean cut, Hollywood interpretation. They exist to bear witness to the failures and flaws, the struggles and triumphs, the sacrifices and victories of the human condition. 

We are not perfect, nor do we claim to be. We are not better, or worse. But we are different. We are men apart. We are men of courage, of valor, of honor. You will never truly “understand,” because you weren’t there. But we can close that gap-it needs to be closed-we can do it. All we ask is that you accept us for who we are, where we are, when we are.

Ps. If you don’t that’s your choice. Above all, we take care of our own.

Nevermore-1

To My Warfighters...

To all my Warfighters,
Stand the fuck down. Do not do it. I say again, stand the fuck down. Spit out the pills, put down the blade, unload the weapon, take the keys out the ignition, take the noose from around your neck. Do not fucking do it. You did not survive that shit over there only to be defeated back here.
I don’t care if you’ve never seen my face. I don’t care if we’ve never shared a brew. I don’t care if we’ve never bummed a cig from each other. The shit we did, the shit we saw, the shit we endured, that makes us family. I don’t care about the “family” you come from, THIS family leaves no one behind. It doesn’t matter if we have to carry your ass the rest of the way, that is what we do. We take care of our own. But you have to let us.
You have to be willing to let us speak for you when you have no voice. To lift you up when you cannot see through the pain and anger and guilt. To pick you up when you cannot walk. You have to be willing to reach out to us, your family, when you falter. You have to be willing to trust us that it is not the end and that we will get each other through to the other side. You don’t even have to be strong. All you have to do is make a phone call, send a text, bang on a door, throw a rock through a window if you have to. But let someone know. We will do the rest.
We’re a dirty, uncivilized, rowdy, alcohol infused, crazy ass family. But we are a family. Each one of you that takes his own life leaves a hole in this family that all we survivors feel. I want to be mad at you, but I can’t. I want to be rip-roaring, hell-shaking, earth-shattering righteously pissed at you. But I can’t. I can’t because I have been there. Some days, I am still there. I’ve downed that bottle of pills. I’ve sliced through the skin and the veins. I’ve driven, like a bat out of hell, down the highway, hoping to lose control and smash head-first into a barrier. I’ve wanted it all to end. I’ve wanted to be free of the pain, the anger, the guilt, the remorse, the depression, the blackness, the nothingness.
I don’t have all the answers. None of us do. But I do know that taking your life is NOT the answer. That ain’t the one you want. I can’t call you selfish, because unless they have been there and done that, no one can know the sheer weight of what we endure. I cannot fault you for just wanting it all to go away. But I can ask you, I can plead with you, do not do it this way.
Please, Warfighters, brothers. Please let us put that 360 security around you. Let us protect you from the demons, even when the demon you fight is your own self. “I will never leave a fallen comrade. I will never accept defeat.” Warfighters, brothers, we took an oath, an oath that remains valid even after we step off the field.
Please, I am begging you, stand the fuck down. Let us have your six.

Your brother,
Nevermore-1

Enough!

• When will it stop? When the hell will all the loss, suffering, and death finally be enough? When will one loss of life be enough for them to finally say, "No more!"? How many more have to die? As if losing men overseas on the field of battle isn't enough, why do we have to lose more in one day here at "home" than we did in a month over there? With the stroke of a pen and a well groomed appearance on national television, a war is started. Men, our men, our brothers, sons, fathers, uncles, husbands, boyfriends, best friends are sent to die. We are trained, torn down, broken apart, cleansed, purged, and reforged into what they need us to be to do the job. And we have become very proficient at our job. We have become Zeus's lightning bolt, Poseidon's trident, Apollo's arrow, Achilles's sword, Leonidas's spear, and the thundering judgement hand of God. We have become the hounds out of the very depths of hell. And we have accepted it, embraced it, come to love it. We have accepted that, for our deeds, Hell doesn't want us and Heaven has no room for us. But what they don't tell you is that the war never stops. Not for us. With another stroke of a pen and another manicured appearance, the war is declared over. For them. For the ones who never stepped foot in the sand. For those whose shield and sword were suit and pen. For those who shall never know what it is to find the true measure of your character amidst the carnage. For those who shall never know what it's like to embrace Death as a lover. For those who shall never know what it is to fall in love with the most savage environment imaginable. For them, sure, the war is over. They rant and rave about the value of our lives while they are the ones throwing away that same value like a fiend in a whorehouse. And it is all in the name of spreading Democracy, under the guise of Patriotism, and with the stamp of Freedom. But it is never enough. Like a drunk in a bar, they want more. And they never tell us that while they go on their vacations, play their games of golf, attend their formal dinners, entertain their celebrity friends, and lie straight from the teleprompter, they never tell us that we will still be fighting the war forever. Only now, it's beneath the facade of "home." They beat us into being and then expect us to automatically un-become. But that change we go through, it's not a switch we can turn on and off. It becomes the blood flowing through our veins, the air we breathe. It becomes our genetic code. You can put your hands to the plow, you can bury them in soil instead of blood. But your hands will always remember the rifle. They don't train us for that. "Go to war, be this, do this. Now come home and forget all about it. Don't be like that, don't do that. The war is over, didn't you hear?!" But we can't, because it's not. The only time a Warfighter ever truly leaves the field of battle is when he dies. And still, it's never enough. "But we won!," they say. What did we win? What prize could be worth the blood price we pay, everyday, for you? What could be so valuable that it makes our lives seem like pocket change to you? Have you not yet learned, 10,000 men only need one general. But one general needs 10,000 men. The prize we fight for is the sanctity and preciousness of American life, yet, to you, that is the least valuable mean, and you throw it away like pennies. But, even enough pennies will make you rich. So, when will it be enough!? When will we stop having to die!? When can we rest easy, knowing that our sacrifices were not in vain!? We have seen enough death in the midst of war. That is acceptable. But when will we stop having to see it in our homes, in our streets, in our alleyways, and in our bedrooms? When will enough finally and forever be enough!?

  
  

"Time keeps on slippin, slippin, slippin..."

4 years ago, today, I died.

Obviously, I didn't STAY dead. Call it a miracle, which it was, call it the concerted efforts of the emergency personnel, which it was, call it nothing but the hand of God, which it certainly was.

4 years ago, today, at around 0200, I was walking home and was run over by a drunk driver, who promptly sped away from the scene.

I was at Starlite Station, where I could be found almost any given day of the week, with the same people, the same music, the same dances, just like any other week. What started out as a good night turned into anything but.

I used to have a horrible habit of drinking and driving, and one day, I realized how stupid that was and how much I was risking.We only lived about a mile and a half from the bar, so I started walking to and from, as opposed to driving. A lot of my friends were not comfortable with that, as they thought it was highly unsafe, which, in retrospect, they were right. However, walk I did. It was just like any other night at Starlite, go in, have some drinks, hang with the crew, dance with my favorite partners, have fun. Except that night, I got into a really bad argument with my girlfriend, whom, admittedly, was not a wise choice of dating material. Pissed off, and knowing that my temper and alcohol do not mix well, it was time for me to leave. I made my customary rounds, giving hugs and high fives, and walked out the door and down the steps. That is the last thing I remember from that night.

I woke up 2 or 3 days later in a hospital room, secured to the bed, in a neckbrace, unable to move anything but my eyes, my friend Nikki standing above me, holding my hand. I had no idea what happened or where I was or why I couldn't move. After the docs came in, I learned that I had been hit by a large SUV/Truck type vehicle from behind as I was walking home, and that I had fractured 3 vertebrae in my neck. The only thing I remember from that was waking up for a few seconds inside an ambulance. But at the time I didn't know it was an ambulance. I simply saw burning white light and one face. I remember hearing myself screaming, in the most unbelievable pain. That one face was one of the paramedics working on me. He had moved out of my line of sight and I screamed for him to come back, which he did. From what I was told later, I had lost quite a bit of blood from the gash in my head and the paramedics had lost me for a few seconds, somewhere near 20 or 30. This was one of the reasons they decided to call in the rescue helicopter to ferry my broken body to the only emergency center in the area capable of handling my injuries.

I only remember bits and pieces from the hospital. I remember Nikki never leaving my side. As in, she stayed with me the whole time I was there, fielded calls from concerned friends and family, and dealt with the doctors. I remember those closest to me coming to visit. I remember people I wasn't even aware I knew coming to see me. I remember the gorgeous nurses in the ICU. Of course I would remember that... :-)

30-odd staples in my head, a broken neck, and 4 years *without missing a day * of agonizing neck/back pain later, here I stand. A bit slower, a bit more stooped, a bit more stuttering, a bit more unbalanced when I walk/run, unable to do many things I used to do with ease and probably took for granted, but here I stand. I should have died that night, like many other nights. Well, technically, I did die. But by all medical and physical standards, I should have stayed dead. The chances of living through that, let alone walking, let alone functioning like a *somewhat* normal person are slim to none. In almost every other case like mine, with the same injuries, the results are much more grim.

 There is a lot I do not know, and only a few things I do know. One thing I do know is that God had his hand on me that night...like many nights before, but specifically that night. Many people ask me how I could still believe in God after all the things I've been through, seen, been a part of, etc. The simplest answer I can give is this: It is BECAUSE of what I have been through that makes me believe in God. There is no medical or physical reason why I should be able to sit here and type this story. There is no medical or physical reason why I should still be able to dance, to cycle, to play with my friends' kids, to chase the dogs around the backyard. You tell me because of the things that have happened to me, God cannot exist. I tell you, because I have survived the things that have happened to me, God certainly exists.

The second thing I do know is that time is not something we can take for granted because we never know how much time we have left. I didn't wake up that morning knowing that I would die. I didn't wake up knowing my time would run out. But for a few seconds, my time was up. I didn't have any more time to nonchalantly waste on trivial matters and frivolities. People laugh when I say "I don't have time for that shit." But I am dead serious *pun intended*. We don't have time to waste hating people. We don't have time to waste throwing away the time God has given us while we gallivant across the land, supposedly "finding ourselves," which is simply another excuse for us to be unmotivated, immature, and useless. We don't have time to waste jumping from relationship to relationship, carelessly giving our hearts and our bodies away to the next new and shiny guy or girl. We don't have time to waste being pissed off at the formerly new and shiny guy or girl for breaking our hearts. We don't have time to waste holding grudges against people who harmed us at sometime in the past. We don't have time to waste blaming everything and everyone, but ourselves, for our problems. We don't have time to waste blaming God, Allah, Fate, Luck, or the damn Easter Bunny for what happens in our lives. There are some things we can't control. But we can control how we react/respond to those things. We can control how and to what extent we let those things affect our lives. We don't have time to waste hiding our heads in the sand or running away like cowards just so we don't have to face Life and the inevitable shitstorm it drops from time to time. We don't  have time to waste being afraid and scared.

We have but only a small amount of time. Use it to it's fullest extent. Don't waste it. Don't throw it away. Live the life you love and love the life you live. Go dance with your favorite girl. Kiss the boy you love. Climb a mountain. Write a poem. Sing a song at the top of your voice in the middle of the park. Hold your loved one's hand. Finish that degree. Open that store. Write that book. Run that race. Do all the things you are afraid to do. I don't know how much time I have left. Neither do you. So don't let it slip you by.

On Being Black

As I sit typing this, I have to ask myself, given the opportunity, who would I choose to address this to? I can think of many individuals, from family to friends. But were I able, I would sit down with the entire black community of this great country, and address to them, specifically, my following thoughts. That is not to say, however, that these words are useless to all others, in fact, it is quite the opposite. However, I, a black man, who strongly advocates personal responsibility, feel it appropriate, given the longstanding “stereotypes” and recent racial issues, to direct this towards the millions of other black (by ANY percentage) men and women in America. 

I ask you, men and women of the black community, what exactly it means to “act black” or to “be black?” The two are certainly not the same. To act something is to take on a certain persona or characteristics, whilst to be something is simply that, you are what you are. What exactly defines “being” black? What defines “acting” black? How do you “act” a color? I fully understand that the term “to act black” in intended to somehow be cultural, however it is a gross misnomer. Furthermore, with the varying environmental and demographic degrees of this country, it is inherently impossible for one black neighborhood/area/group to be a carbon copy of another, thus coalescing into one distinct cultural identity. For example, the actions, verbiage, accent, dialect, pace, fashion, etc. of a black group (for lack of a better phrase) in St. Louis is very much different from one in Atlanta, that one being different from Houston, and that one being different from Newport News. Were “black” one globally distinct culture, then I could understand the concept of “acting black,” as you would be acting according to that particular culture. But “black” is not a culture. And even in terms of culture, black does not always mean Africa. Kenya, Ghana, Zimbabwe (formerly Rhodesia), etc., all of those would are different black cultures. So, to “act Kenyan” would be understood to mean that you are acting according to the social norms and beliefs of that particular culture. But black is not a culture, it is not a country, it is not a state, it has no currency, no imports or exports, no government, no figurehead, no appointed leader. To clarify, we have a President that is black, but we do not have a president OF black. 

If you have followed me this far, then bear with me a bit longer. 
You cannot say you are from the State of Black, thus justifying “acting black.” So, is it the words, the actions, the clothes, the accent, the dialect, the music, etc. that defines acting black? This is where I lose some and piss off others. If these things do define acting black, then is that not a stereotype? And do we not rail against the government, society, the media, whoever we can, against using those same stereotypes? “You cannot use these things to define me because that is a racial stereotype and that is wrong and unfair to me. But I will use those very same things to define others of my race and that is perfectly acceptable.” In what universe is that not hypocritical? You, yes you, black man, black woman, use these same things to define and gauge the “blackness” of other black men and women. Don’t let a white man or white woman use the clothes, the verbiage, the dialect, the music, etc. to define or gauge your “blackness.” No, if that happens then it is racist and you will be calling on the likes of the Southern Poverty Law Center, the ACLU, Al Sharpton, and Jesse Jackson. If anyone else uses those aspects in the same manner, then they are stereotyping and racial profiling. Quick, call Al Sharpton to stand on a soap box made of rainbows and sunshine to make a lengthy, pseudo-impassioned speech. But when you do it to each other, it’s not stereotyping, no, in fact, it is an accurate means of identification. This is simply not true black man, black woman. How can we still sit here and blame the white man for stereotyping when we do the exact same thing to ourselves? How can we even still call it a stereotype when we live it and use it as an identifier? How dare you, black man, scream and rail against the white man for stereotyping you, when you turn right around and judge another black man “not black enough” because he doesn’t adhere to those identifiers. Ironically, great men, black men, American leaders like Gen. Colin Powell and Dr. Ben Carson have been ridiculed and denounced, by their very own black community, for as long as I can remember. They were not black enough, yet one became the first black Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the other became the premier pediatric neurosurgeon…in the world. But to you, black man on the block, black man on the basketball court, black man in front of the mic, what does any of that mean to you? Does it give you something to aspire to? Does it light a fire under your ass? Does it tell you that anything, absolutely anything is possible? Most importantly, does it tell you that you do not have to adhere to the identification pressed upon you by anyone, black or white? It should. Why, then, do we call them not black enough? 
 

Obviously, that phrase does not indicate the level of pigment in your skin. What exactly is “black enough.” Again, I ask you, is it the music, the clothes, the hair, the manner of verbal discourse, the sport, etc.? Here, I shall use myself as an example. I grew up in middle class America with middle class parents in middle class homes with other middle class Asian, white, and black kids. I went to high school in the County, which is about as far from anything stereotypically black as you can get. I was on the wrestling and football teams in high school, but my real passions were your more unconventional, and not conventionally black, sports like skating, hockey, martial arts, and later, fencing. There are more black skaters now than there were 15 years ago, and it truly warms my heart to see that. You just didn’t see many black kids doing the things I was interested in. My father commented as such. I like old school hip hop, rap, and R&B, not much of any of the newer stuff. And by new I mean the last 10 years. But I have a wide ranging collection of music, from Vivaldi and Beethoven to Frank Sinatra. From the Bee Gees to 3 Days Grace. From Metallica to Michael Jackson. From Avenged Sevenfold to Bob Dylan. I’ve got David Allan Coe, Willie Nelson, Hank Sr. and Jr., Johnny Cash, Darius Rucker, the list goes on. I love rock music and country music, two genres which apparently “disturb” my family. You will rarely hear me listening to rap, hip hop, or R&B. I like going to the honky tonk, I wear jeans, t-shirts, boots, and a straw cowboy hat. I pick a blade of grass and chew on it for a while. I am a cyclist. I hate loose fitting and baggy clothes. I thought this was funny: there used to be a game on Facebook called Song Pop where you had to guess songs or artists. In the Rock and Country categories, I never scored below a 97%, but in the rap, hip hop, and R&B categories, I never scored above a 10%. When I first moved to my new middle school, a group of 6 or 7 black kids, who all lived a few streets away…in the County, approached me and asked if I knew how to “freestyle.” I followed the X-Games religiously, so my understanding of freestyling was Freestyle BMX, Freestyle Motocross, and Freestyle Skating. Oh, how wrong I was. In short, I watch NASCAR, I drive an old truck, I’ll be buried in my boots, and I’ll take a home in the country woods with a tin roof and a gravel road over the city any day. But that is not because that is what the color of my skin dictates. 

According to popular opinion, according to the identifiers that you, black man and black woman, say I should live by, I am not black enough. I like what I like and do what I do because that is what I like and what I choose to do. It has nothing to do with the color of my skin. But according to the black community, even those who grew up literally just the same as I did, even to some in my family, I am not black enough. That used to significantly bother me. It bothered me to the point that I wanted to be accepted by people of my color so bad that I tried to wear the baggy clothes, listen to the music, and I tried to hate the white man. Unfortunately, I am not a fan of pulling my pants up every 5 seconds, I missed that country twang, and my best friend is a down home southern white boy from Alabama, and I couldn’t hate him if I tried. Needless to say, that experiment died quick. I hear all the time from whites and blacks alike that I am the whitest black guy they know. It’s all jokes and we laugh over it. But it really isn’t a joke, and it’s not funny. Because I like what I like and do what I do, that makes me not black enough? After a point, I quit trying to be what I wasn’t and that’s not likely to change because, frankly, I am too damn old, to damn broke, and too damn tired to give a damn. If you can’t see past my skin color, that’s on you and there is no love lost between us. Those that I call friend, those that I call family, they are comprised of many backgrounds and colors. Their defining characteristic is that they all know me for me, not for the color of my skin. 

A white cat and a black cat both walk the same, shit the same, eat the same, play the same, yet we don’t use their colors to dictate their actions. If the black cat likes to sleep on the couch and the white cat like to sleep on the floor, we don’t say it’s because one is white and the other is black. A brown oak tree and a white oak tree both grow the same, both roots dig into the ground while their branches reach to the sky looking for sunlight. If one falls before the other, we don’t say it was because of its color. I have a black Ford truck and my buddy has a white one. Same year, same model. They both drive the same, they both have the same engine, 4 wheels, 2 doors, and a tailgate. If one runs out of gas or breaks down before the other, we don’t blame that on the color of the truck. Black Mamba is a deadly venomous snake, your average black snake isn’t. But that has nothing to do with the color of the snake. Do you not realize, black man and black woman, that in all of creation, we are the only animal that dictates actions, words, and behavior based off of skin color? If the rest of nature don’t care, why should we? But we are humans and we are so smart that we create problems for ourselves that exist nowhere in all of creation. We humans are so smart that sometimes we think ourselves into stupidity. 

Now, I am fully aware of the argument about how because blacks were oppressed that this and that and the other became a part of our social psyche, etc. What I am about to say is in no way denouncing or minimizing the actions and effects of slavery and the highly charged racial issues that are about as old as this country. But take a second to think about this: people have been enslaving people, white people have been enslaving white people as long as people have existed. But why don’t we hear the white man railing against the white man for keeping him down and making him a second rate citizen? Why hasn’t the white man’s social psyche been broken to the point that he creates identifiers for himself and then gets mad as society for identifying him by those very same identifiers?

Did slavery occur? Was it horrible? Should any human be treated this way? Was the Jim Crow era disgustingly wrong? Are there problems with the corporate, educational, financial, and political systems in this country that lead back to race? Yes, on all accounts. These are all incontrovertible facts. However, as I advocated personal responsibility before, I do so again. Were I to have dropped out of high school, become a drug dealer, gotten arrested and generally lived a life of wanton crime and degradation, ending up dead on the street, whose fault would that have been? Would it have been the white man’s for holding me down? Would it have been my parents’ fault? Would my arrest for my actions have been simply because the white police man tryin to keep a nigga from makin a buck? Who would have borne the responsibility for my life? Was my dropping out because of the color of my skin? Were my choices dictated by the color of my skin? If that is the case, then every man and woman in jail should be released because the crimes they committed were dictated by their skin color, and as such, they bear no responsibility for their actions since they did not choose their skin color, and thus did not choose to commit the crime. But does that really fly? 
I didn’t think so. 
I have done things that I am not proud of, but I did them because I was a young and dumb fool, not because I am black. I have not done as well as I could have in certain things, but that was because I slacked off, not because I am black. I was not kidnapped, chained, and forced to work in a field. I was not lynched. No “White Only” signs prevent me from going into the diner down the street and having a beer. No federal or state laws prevent me from going to the school of my choice. No white man with a gun to my head is telling me I can’t do this or that because I’m a nigger. No fault or failure in my life has ever been because of the inherent nature of the color of my skin. I have nothing to blame on the color of my skin. My success or my failure is based on my choices and my actions, not the color of my skin. 

So, my skin is black, but that does not define who I am. I define who I am by what I do, what I say, and by what I stand for. I like who I am and I am proud to be me. Am I proud of all the great many black men and women who have gone on to do great things and do I hope to give other black people hope and pride in whatever I do in life. However, I do what I do because I choose to do so. I am who I am because I choose to be so. My mind is mine and mine alone. I think for my own damn self, sometimes I don’t think as much as I should, so any failures are mine and mine alone, not some far-fetched breakdown in the social psyche.

None of this is to belittle or demean any black man or woman. It is to wake you up, to call you from your complacency, to hold you accountable for yourselves, as we all should. Any other way, I wouldn’t be me. Any other way, you wouldn’t be you. That doesn’t mean you are too black or not black enough. It simply means you are you, regardless your skin color. You do what you do because that’s what you want to do, not because your skin color makes you do so. You, black man and black woman, are and always have been capable of soaring to great heights. Stop limiting yourself. Stop creating your own stereotypes. And if someone is telling you otherwise, then stop listening to them! You, your body, your life, is a blank open book. You write the definition and the story, it doesn’t write you. If you don’t like the story, then erase it and start over, or tear out the page, or change the outcome. The story isn’t already decided because of the color of the book. So, black man and black woman, define yourselves, write your own story. 

I am black, I am a man. I am a black man. But most importantly, I am who I choose to be.