To VH1 Executives by way of the Washington Post:

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This show looks like a load of crap, straight from the gate. There was a saying, which stated, “Do not allow the court system to introduce you to the relationship with your child.” I think that needs to extend to reality television. These men, who to me are social eunuchs, are being rewarded with valuable airtime to do what? I’m missing the boat here and I really want to be on board. I am a father, in the middle of a separation. I had to fight for 50/50 joint custody of my child because I realize the significance of my presence in my son’s life. Admittedly I may be overly educated to watch this show. That said, as a cultural critic, particularly that of media, VH1 and Viacom for that matter, have to me, hit a new low. Programming like this represents negligence and to me borders being socially irresponsible. Who’s fooling whom here? Are these “contestants,” going to truly walk away being model dads after the stimulus of this pseudo baby boot camp? Better yet, will VH1 find their newest reality break out star and build a franchise around them? At the risk of being cliché’ lets get real for a moment. We all remember how VH1 bought The Surreal Life from the WB. From the Surreal Life, came Strange Love, which followed the kooky relationship between Flavor Flav and Bridget Neilson. From there, Flavor Flav got his own show Flavor of Love, which spun off into I Love New York to Charm School to I Love Money. Talk about mileage. As an audience, we are expected to fall for this repackaging of all these other reality shows and a few others I failed to mention. No, what we are being asked to watch, for our consideration as an informed audience mind you is, “Jackass-with a conscious.” Enough already, please. If you really want to create a reality TV show that makes a difference, create a show that works to reduce the unemployment rate. How about this, why not put together a reality show that follows those who need health care but can’t get it? At least that type of reality programming offers the audience some type of constructive water cooler talk.
Just my opinion.

Confessions from a Professed N-B-

Man, life can get all up in your ass, baby you better work it out…
Never have more truer words been spoken from the genre of hip hop. Thank you DeLa Soul. Today has not been as productive as what I would have preferred. Of course I did the basics, I woke up, ate, checked for communiqué, applied for more jobs via the web, probably need to do more following up on some things. This week I had a pretty rough scare. The good doctor, Dr. Jean, gave me cause for alarm. The reason, well, allow me to back track for a second. In my marriage, there, I would have to say I was hesitant. I shied away from conflict. At this point of self-critique, I can freely admit to myself, I latently had some self-esteem issues. I don’t know why this is coming out so freely now but it is. I was so romanticized by the acceptance from my wife, that I slowly morphed into a person I now recognize as what I would consider my anti-self. I was a sacrosanct. I would go along with anything, for the sanctity of being in my marriage plus the added luxury of peace and quiet. Why: I think because I was in competition with a ghost, maybe a series of them. There was my living dad, my deceased grandfather and my deceased step-father. I wanted to demonstrate to all three, that I could be a loving husband and a dad with a presence. For me, to be happily married satisfied that need. That added to my list of anxieties: rejection, failure, inability to provide, fueled what in hindsight might have been a gas fire I couldn’t stop. I grandly bought so much into the concept of marriage, where I forgot, that I too, needed to be happy. There were many opportunities which presented themselves for me to vocalize my objections to certain decisions but instead I bought into the notion that a still tongue makes a happy life.

A large part of the issue for me centered around my returning to school full time. As I valued that, she and I think members of her family and mine too for that matter rejected the idea. What man is going to go back to school while his wife supports him? That was the white elephant in the room. As they offered their opinions, I began to view myself as a second-class citizen within the marriage. Because Jean was the “financial breadwinner” I felt a great deal of my opinions were valued at only ½ in relationship to her 1 and ½ vote in our marriage. I think negative self-talk also reinforced this image. In short, I bought into the idea of being a social eunuch. That’s how I saw myself. I lacked value. I felt I wasn’t worthy of being loved because I wasn’t the “bread winner.” I wasn’t the provider. Consequently, that made me more vulnerable to emotional abuse. Oh I don’t think it was intentional, but looking back at the whole thing, I was being punished and didn’t know it. This is the sad thing about the duality of being African-American and male in the middle class society. Returning back to the question of financial stability, in our culture we (black folk) equate one’s sense of socially constructed manliness to ones means to economically provide. The social cues are there. We buy into them every day. The materialism, the keeping up with the Jones’s. If our friends had a house, we had to have a house. If our friends were in a certain daycare, we had to be in a daycare that was comparable. If our friends were going on a cruise, we had to go the Europe. It was like a grown up game of follow the leader and I felt penalized because my life for the next five to eight years was to be a Ph.D. student, not Cliff Huxtable. But I felt forced into that modality of thinking because I wanted to keep my wife happy. We played the game but the roles were reversed. I didn’t have the full time 9 to 5, but she did. She made more money than I did. Put simply, I was not the man in my marriage. This was never more thunderous when her brother called to “put me in check.” I was branded irresponsible, lazy, lacked motivation, you name it; I wore the brand.
My aunts even reminded me of this when we were pregnant. You cannot go back to school. If you go back to school your wife is going to leave you. The messages were so threatening, that I had to put certain members of my family on mute. I just couldn’t take it.

I easily remember the time I had a severe nervous breakdown in the fall of 2003. It was one of my worst panic attacks ever. My immediate 360 degrees personified a paralytic storm of emotional debilitation, thus forcing me to take a medical leave of absence. Basically, my manager, who was as racially sensitive as Steve Urkle was socially graceful, reached me at a point in my life when I finally decided, enough was enough regarding her white superiority-complex. The bullshit had to cease and desist, and my early to mid 30s would initiate my new state of racial consciousness. Before you I present the back-story. Our professional relationship was tumultuous, and that was on a good day. I’ve never been one to back away from a social stand. In 1997, I came to the aid of eight African American boys who decided getting admitted to one of the top HBCUs in North Carolina on free rides mind you, thrust them into manhood, ergo placing them into a celebratory mood and a state of public drunkenness. Loveable jackasses they were, they brought 40 ounce malt liquor into their residential halls which of course was state run. I and other black people on the campus saw the writing on the wall. It was so clear Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles could see it. These boys, loveable jackasses they were, who were at the flagship high school in North Carolina, were looking down the barrel of expulsion. Now, the administration was not stupid. In fact beyond the handwriting on the wall, they saw the newspaper headlines. Eight African American Boys Expelled. No, this would not be a good admissions tool. Instead, the administration targeted two. When I saw how one boy who really didn’t have a strong African American male role model come to is aid, guess who did. After a month of going to meetings with his mother, his lawyer, the court you name it, he and his co-conspirator were able to stay in school. Now, its not everyday that black people step to white folk and live to tell the tale. Hence, a new white female supervisor who pretty much was told, we (the administration) have got a price on that niggers head became my bounty hunter. Get that nigger dead or alive. We prefer he be dead.

Round One: Fall of 1997, out of nowhere, I am getting written warning after written warning. I had no back up to help me do my job. Round Two: Spring 1998, I am suspended for two weeks (an attempt without pay). Learning that my rights of due process had been grossly violated, I was still suspended, but my pay was re-instated. Round Three: Fall 1998, I experience my first job related panic attack. I resign, only to rescind the resignation 24 hours later. I also realize I do have a voice and discover the EEOC and file complaints. Round Four: Fall 1999, after getting another written warning, and learning that my supervisor was attempting to fire me, I learned later that because some previous written warnings had expired, I just had to get another written warning. Round Five: Fall 2000, I filed another complaint with EEOC about what I interpreted as intentional attempts to create a hostile work environment. Its here where I am called into a meeting with the president of the school to come up with a way to peaceably get me to leave. By this time, I’ve learned that when an EEOC complaint is filed, it puts the breaks temporarily on any human resources process because the federal government is now involved. Round Six: Spring 2001, the most climatic battle between my supervisor and myself takes place. By this time, I am accused of tampering with a computer system as well as poor job performance. Again, she was trying to force me out, I wasn’t trying to go. In the Spring of 2003, I am admitted to Howard University and my boss is giddy. He’s going to leave and go to school at the end of the 03 school year. After careful consideration I decided no; I needed one more year of savings. On top of that, Jean was not happy with me relocating without her, right after we got engaged, so I followed my heart and my wallet. Round Seven: As I made the decision to stay at my job for one more year, my manager, suddenly found problems with my job performance. One day, I was called into a meeting behind closed doors she basically called me Nigger without saying the word. Defiantly pointing her finger at me, raising her voice, I felt was threatening let alone condescending. Me, attempting to assert my rights as a human being, let alone my feelings of being racially disrespected, I lodged yet another complaint against her behavior. What I failed to learn, after all these bouts, was that I was in violation of certain social contracts.

Breach of social contract one: you as the employee are never, ever, to question the actions or motivations of your direct superior.
Breach of social contract two: as a black man employed in North Carolina State Government, regardless of your training and education, you are still relegated to a stigmatic classed existence. You are (at least in 2003) forbidden, to assert your state of being, be creative, take initiative and in general, be considered equal to your white folk counterpart. I discovered this after learning of a study where the state even admitted; we have done black men wrong in state government.

After bringing this matter to the attention of a white supervisor, a white human resources director, a white administrator, and of course, a white executive director, I was viewed as the Negro Problem of 2003. Sure enough, after I vocalized what I now knew was my racialized experience, I found myself in the midst of another, in now what I considered an absurd list of job disputes with my Lilliputian tyrannical, Napoleonic, cookie making desperate housewife boss. After numerous attempts to discharge me for cause, I had been brought into a pre-disciplinary dismissal meeting for of all things, a damned walkie talkie. Trying to be professional about this trumped up discharge, she gives me a notice, Friday evening, telling me that Monday morning, I am to come to a pre-termination meeting. We’ll disregard the fact that I had been elected to the post of Staff Council President, (the youngest one). At the time, I’m calm. I’m cool like Shaft. I ask, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Gleefully she said yes this is what I want to do. So, in my mind I am getting ready for another installment of “The Terminator.” At Jeans apartment, as I am preparing for my mounting defense, I suddenly go numb. I can’t speak for an hour. My body is stiff. OK, not only can I not speak, I am now paralytic. On the next Monday, the doctor tells me that I have had a panic attack, and what I need is some time for lack of a better term, to reboot myself. So after making amends with my psychologist of the moment, I elect to take what is called emergency family medical leave. Its here where I am diagnosed with Anxiety Disorder. So for the next three months I am out of work, trying to figure out what has happened to me. Now here is where the line starts to become a circle. Being one who believes in total disclosure, when the, to-be, in laws come to visit, I feel the need to be up front with them. I tell them everything that’s happened. Her father is pretty much from the old school saying in so many words, “Sometimes when you are working for someone, you’ve got to take what the boss gives you, even if it is crap.” My family wasn’t much better. One of my aunts was of the opinion, “You know you know how to work with that white woman. Just keep your mouth shut and do your job.” So in short, I felt as though I was in the middle of a conundrum. Yes I have a job, but am I predestined to a life of racialized second-class citizenship, in order to get a pay-check? Apparently, I am. So everything I was taught about being a man, self advocating, being racially conscious, being the man who would risk his neck for his brother man, going to the million man march to say I am my brother’s keeper, is only to be practiced during Black History Month and every first Sunday. My racial and gendered state of efficacy is now in a crisis of conscious. Wonderful. Those who were of the generation of the civil rights movement were now hypocrites. In the words of Prince, I wanted to smack somebody because I felt as though the people I sought out for guidance and inspiration were cowards. Oh no. Where I worked, regardless of my academic achievements, regardless of what I had done over the past 8 years there, I’m was supposed to know my role and shut my damn mouth. In other words, roll over and play the role of nigger/bitch and I regain my masculinity. Be all you can be, be the nigger-bitch, and proudly, be the best damned nigger-bitch you can be. Yep that’s me, your friendly neighborhood, nigger-bitch. Capitulate, sell-out, and then you will walk like a man my son. In the words of one of my deceased associates, I’d rather lick my own vomit. To me, to capitulate socially at that level, in short is congruent to self emasculation. That, I could not and will not do. But in the eyes of the traditionalist, their view distinctively represents an oppositional gaze.

I could hear the commentary from the sidelines. He’s going to lean on this woman for life. He’s going to loose his damn job and become financially dependent on his new fiancée. Well, by 2004, I was married; I left my job on my terms and went back to school. The wife in essence was making the bulk of the money but in all fairness, I took my retirement from the state and subsidized a great portion of my first year of graduate study. Here is where the arc becomes 3/4s of a circle. Regardless of the fact that I was paying for my education and not asking my wife really for anything except a ride to and from the airport; I paid my portion of the rent, I paid my share of the utilities. That said, as I was doing all of that, I still felt afraid to vocalize my opinions. I would allow myself, to deny myself. I represented a work in progress, not instant husband, just add water. Its interesting how that level of corrosive thinking, distorts your self image. You see, because I was not viewed, even through my own eyes, as a providing partner, I resigned myself to a second class status in my marriage. One could say there was a genderfuck within our home. Through the eyes of patriarchal hegemonic constructs of the American marriage structure, she, culturally and symbolically was wearing the pants in the family because she culturally personified what we in our society view as what a man is suppose to do. She was making the money with her Ph.D. where as I, was just the Ph.D. student; what was I contributing to the marriage? That type of negative self-defeatist that I allowed myself to buy into, made me silent. I was afraid. I was afraid to assert myself to my wife, my mother, her father and her brother and even her friends. I was afraid to lead. I think also what needs to be mentioned is that it takes two for the process of domination to be complete and fittingly my circle comes full. Domination is a two-person process. Now I am not saying Jean was a bitch. What I am saying is that she was not cognizant. Was that her fault? Not at all, I take the blame for that. I take the blame for that because I bought into a system that perpetuates the myth and lie combined. One has to enable domination and one has to assume the role of the dominator. Now over the course of time, anyone is capable of learning from trial and error. I sincerely believed that Jean did begin to learn from her experiences and thus took control to a certain extent from me. Every person has a price, mine was peace and quiet. I wanted a tranquil home. That said, there is another word that comes from tranquil, tranquilize. How do you have a tranquilizing home without crossing the line to being anesthetized? I was afraid of her throwing fits, withholding affection, going into a funk. These things were bargaining chips or points of currency if you will which had me in check. Whatever you want baby you got it. I’ll do it. Because again you see I wasn’t bringing home the bread so I didn’t have much say so over what went on in my home. So the cycle of domination was pretty solid. Even when I was making decent coin, it was only ½ of what she was making and guess what, I still bought into it. And guess what, she left anyway. The good thing about this, and if you go through this yourself, all ways look for the good, even in the most horrid of places, going through my deepest fear regarding my marriage, I haven’t done anything destructive to myself, nor to anyone else. Oh I’ve been depressed, but dysfunctional and depressed aren’t in the same category. When this is all done, and I recognize I still have a long way to go, I can say with my head held high, I am a man and I am setting a damn good model for our son. I may not always win, but even in our defeats and losses, how we react, absorb and learn from the lows, without question is a testament to our real character. I was a man in tact when I came into my marriage and damn it, I am going to be a man, a bigger man as I exit this marriage. I know I know how to love and I am worthy of someone to share that with. Do I have everything together today, no.. Will I have everything together tomorrow? Probably not, but what’s most important, and I hope you take this with you as you read this, I am showing up ready for practice, getting ready to play. If you can do even that, just by showing up, think about what you can do, when you learn the rules of the game and actually play it. Not only will you be a player, but eventually, you will be an owner of your own team, the team called yourself.

Richard Pryor and And his take on Equitable Distribution of Property

Divorce and separation without doubt is no fun. However, the late Richard Pryor had the uncanny gift to take life’s tragedy and make you laugh at it, even if it was at his own expense. That said, I am happy to announce that I have not practiced any of his divorce coping techniques. Note to brothers who may read this: You can think about it, but please, God please, don’t do it. Here’s how he navigated through the tough issue of what divorce attorneys call, the equitable distribution of property. When he was going through his separation/divorce drama, and his wife tried to leave him, in the brand new Cadillac, he bought for her, he said this to his soon to be ex spouse, “The only thing you [are] going to leave here in, is them hush puppies you rolled in here on.”
To prove the point, he got his brand new, chrome plated, 357 Magnum. Took aim, not at her, but the car. Pulled the trigger, the hammer came back, and click, the bullet races from the chamber, tearing the V8 engine out of the car. If car engines could talk I’m pretty sure it said, “OHHHHHUUUGH! Damn man! What the hell did you shoot me for? I ain’t done shit to you man! That shit is tween you and her! What the hell do I have to do with it! I ain’t had shit to do with it man! Come on Rich, DAMN! I thought you and me was tight. You bought me off the show room floor, cash money! And you do, this, to me!” Of course there is no telling what drugs brother Richard was doing at the time. He said it felt so damn good, he shot the Cadillac again! By this time, I’m sure the car said something like, “F*ck you Rich! You Black Mother F**(&)ker! I hope they roast your black nuts in hell!” In case you’re thinking, no Richard Pryor’s Cadillac does not have the voice of KITT from Knight Rider, no his car probably sounds a lot like Max Jullian from The Mack. Of course, in the end, the L.A. Police Department came to his residence and promptly took him to jail for killing his Cadillac. Again, if the car could talk, it would probably say something like this, “That’s the mother f#$%#er that did it. No damn her, lock that damn nigger up for premeditated Cadillac homicide. And I hope your black ass gets the damn gas chamber, high-test!” But of course in the real world where real people do go to real jail, Richard rationalized the fact that it was best for him to voluntarily go into police custody. You see, the LAPD have Magnums too. He stated, “they don’t kill cars, they kill nig-gars.”

Every Success Story Must Have A Beginning

The IRB is on my case. If I plan to be a self sufficent Ph.D. I've got to become my own proofreader. At least the revisions they want now ate more typographical as opposed to conceptual. The other good thing I can consider is that there revisions are only 1/2 of a page. I hope, trust and pray that after these revisions I'll be able to go back into social scientist mode. I pray to God there will be minimal distractions. However, in my sitcom called life, I know the writers have got something planned. On a lighter well heavier note, I am now five pounds closer to my goal. Today I deadlifted 365 lbs. Just 35 more pounds and I will be where I want to be fitness wise. I can say by my 40th birthday I deadlifted 400 lbs while weighing 175. I actually had someone conduct a body fat composition test on me and guess what, @179 lbs my body fat is at 18%. They say that's in the good to excellent category. Those who know me, know that if I see the higher bar, I won't be sastified until I reach it. So guess what will go back into my routine, high intensity cardio. No I'm not going to run a marathon, but I will put running back into my workouts. In fact don't laugh, but I am givng some thought to learning the Olympic lifting technique. It's fast explosive and will wear your ass out fast. Deadlifting really isn't that hard, it's more so about technique. Just as squats, technique is key. In fact one of the trainers at my gym paid me a compliment saying he was impressed with the amount of weight I was squating after deadlifting thre sets of 315. The other thing you learn is controled breathing. When you pull six 45 pound plates and a 45 pound bar you learn quick to take all the air you can so you can explode off your heals, your quads, your hams, your calves, your glutes just to get the bar off the ground. Your lower back and glutes along your shoulders, forearms, wrist tricepts finish the job. Oh don't forget the abs, you can't forget the abs. Doing that, better yet mastering that, which can take a long time, really to me is the ultimate stress reducer. It's just a physical challenge, but mental as well. You must be focused because one wrong turn of the hip or back can easily put you down. You learn quickly from mistakes like that because repeating them means more time out on the sidelines. Ok enough for my philosophical banter on weightlifting. I'm off to pickup the Red Chief read some books and as I laugh about it, probably cook some more brownies.
Cheers

Recovery--Take Nine: Group Therapy Day 1

I sat next to a felon, guess what: she, like myself was human too. I have already attended one of my six parenting classes and this was one of the many parenting support group meetings to come. I had an interesting experience maybe interesting is too broad. Allow me if I can to paint you a picture. The room is a small 15x20 that seats, I’d guess, could seat 8 people comfortably. Its dusk, and the leader of the group introduces me to everyone by way of reverse introduction. As we went around the room, I was apprehensive at first; maybe it was my Black Bourgeoisie snobbery coming out. How did I get here. I am in a room with one who looks like he’s going through the downside of a midlife crisis. The other seems to be a walking talking living breathing example of why you need health coverage. She was in a cast for her arm, just recovering from knee surgery. Then there was an older man who by profession was a reverend and then there was this Texan who was high spirited who was just coming off of parole, and then there I was and yes let me not forget the one who brought us together, the social worker who is the head of my parenting class. How did I ever wind up here? There were parts of me that were scared, pissed, irreverent and of course, just down right indignant. Why was I here? Could be, because I drove myself here and asked to know was there anybody else out there going through what I’m experiencing. See as an only child, you have a rather narcissistic view on life. You are the world, nothing and no one else matters. That is at least, until life pulls the rug out from under your feet leaving you flat on your ass and your world, which incidentally you though was yours, now up side down, turning you inside out.. That’s why I’m here; life is giving me (maybe a much needed) wake up call. The world doesn’t revolve around me and I am not the only one going through this cesspool I’ll call the family court system, otherwise known as the 13th hell. Like the rhyme of the ancient mariner, I again tell my story yet to another group of strangers who look at me and chime in with their own opinions. The body language says it all. There are grunts of disbelief, one shakes their head while the other says, Dr. Phil is looking for new people to go into the Dr. Phil house. Your story would be great! In essence, I am in Bob Newhart Group Therapy. Lovely, life is grand: NOT! My friend from Texas she gets straight to the point. “Your problem is,” she exclaims, “You are too nice.” Ok, maybe she is right. I am too nice. Looking at it in hindsight, when my co-parent cries broke, while I’m eating peanut butter and baloney, she’s got the nerve to ask me for money. Like a damn idiot, I give her cash and while my back is turned, I see the damn molly maid cleaning crew cleaning the residence, I used to call home. Right now I am thinking its time for a forensic financial audit. That’s right, I need to go find Quincy: F.E.: financial, examiner. Chalk one up for my friend from the red state of Texas. Strangely, I realize, I’m not on this raft ride alone. Turns out one guy’s crazy ex just blew his world all to pieces. After he got temporary custody of his children through a restraining order, she got more crafty. She took their kids to another county; had them hidden for days. When he finally did track his children down, turns out one child who wasn’t potty trained, went potty on herself when she first saw her daddy. Thinking he could take custody of his kids, turns out his name was not listed on the list of people who could have access to the children. Sound familiar? Damn. Bubububut wait it gets worse. What I was apprehensive about happening to me (sexual allegations), unfortunately became his crucible. The Wake County Child Protective Unit had him under a magnifying glass, vis-à-vis a fabricated allegation of child molestation, all compliments of a scorned ex. I thought I had it bad. Not only did he have to endure the criminal mindedness, of a criminal justice system, which by the way is more criminal than just, but he too, had to face the labyrinth known as child custody. Never mind the fact that a judge had assigned him temporary custody in his home county; that same judge revoked it, deferring the case to family court. Further down the pile he goes. With his team of lawyers and social workers, he endured the indignities of video taped child custody evaluations, which in the end, did in fact conclude that he was fit to parent. We won’t talk about the dent, hell lets call it what it was and still is, the train wreck these custody evaluations had with his wallet. We won’t talk about the inordinate amounts of dollars, he or anyone for that matter, will have to pay to a third party facility, so that he could visit his children at a rate of $30.00 per child per 30 Minute block. His story, one of I dare to say millions, represents the cacophony of chaos we call our tax dollars at work. I am reminded of a quote again from my good friend from the state of Texas when she says, what you considered private, now is public. You become a fish in the aquarium. Some days you are offered bait. If you’re not too smart, you become the fish out of water. If you are unprepared, you easily become prey, to the shark-skinned lawyers. But if you are careful, patient, you will live to fight or die another day. All for your sanity, all for your state of independence, all for your children. Returning back to the episode of my comrade in arms, after he is cleared of all child molestation issues, the case manager from Wake County returns to him basically saying , congratulations, you’ve one the first 12 rounds. We’ve decided to change the rules, welcome to “The Texas Death Match” where we don’t count rounds; the winner is decided by your mortality. Maybe that’s a bit too much, but its fitting because, the case worker said that he was now being investigated for emotional abuse. In short, after going through this tortuous task, if you haven’t decided to take out your hostilities on someone else or yourself, then you should consider yourself the heavyweight champ. See, here is the sad thing about it, if you are a man, one who is black or brown, one who is under employed or unemployed, the classically trained mis-educated negro, and we might as well add deviant to the list, if you get trapped in the web of the DV and, or the family court system, you are presumed guilty until proven innocent. Innocence costs. Right here, the wallet is where you start paying. If you have money, the better chance you have for a good defense. Even if truth is on your side, which it was in my case, lawyers easily can play the game of Chess with your life. A competent lawyer vs. and incompetent lawyer easily dictates if you will or will not see your children. Will bogus allegations be the scarlet letter on your record for life or just a zit you will have to explain at a job interview. A competent lawyer vs. a hack could mean the difference between you having a criminal record because you unknowingly violated a restraining order vs. you having the opportunity to explain to your child who incidentally asks, Daddy, are you ever going to leave me again? You, will, fight back the tears—and if you’re lucky, you’ll have no other choice but to face the road and not your child. Fighting back the tears, it is mandatory you say this! “I never left you. I will never leave you. And even in this complicated thing called death which you are too young and innocent to comprehend right now; know even then, if the word death and my name are mentioned in the same sentence, know this even, on, that, day, I will never leave you.” Granted it may sound dramatic, may even be the lines uttered in some academy award winning motion picture, but its real. I said it. I’ve had to say it on more than one occasion. I’ve had to say it when I went to go walk our dog in the dark of a December night. Red Chief was crying in the arms of his grandfather, scared shitless not knowing if Daddy was coming back. In the eyes of Red Chief you see, his dad, mysteriously vanished. The explanation given to him was this, daddy was sick. Daddy loves you but he can’t take care of himself so he had to leave. Hellish mind games to play with a child. Extending, divorce and separation can be a hellish fireball to ride. On this journey through divorce and separation, you may think some ungodly things of your former spouse and their family. This cancer, like any cancer in the body, if not abated, let alone monitored, it will spread, in this case to your children. If that happens, tell him what he’s won Johnny! Ok, Bob (as in Barker) you could win an all expenses paid trip to Hellacious Acres! You and your guest take off to Hellacious Acres compliments of Hell in a Hand basket Airlines. You will enjoy a life long stay in the pit of white lava, where you will burn for life! Now certainly I realize I’ve taken it a wee bit over the top. However, to put your child in the middle of a grown up dispute, because you and your ex spouse act like adolescents in side of grown peoples bodies, doesn’t demonstrate maturity but the exact opposite, and seriously you need, a beat down, maybe a few of them. This probably why I am going through my shit right now. We both are catching it but won’t admit it. Denial is a wonderful drug. We didn’t act like adults about it. To anyone thinking about separation or divorce, there is a right way and wrong way to do things. Weaponizing your children, against your spouse, that’s simply evil. Allowing your lawyer to use your children against your spouse, that’s evil, to the second power. Even in the gangsters rule book, children are off limits. So back to what I was saying, as a parent if you ever have to counter parental alienation, from their side or even in your own, you commit that speech to memory. Put in brail, know how to sign it, shit put it in any foreign language your child may one day learn. It sounds deep. It sounds profound. It is the truth and must become, as it has for me, a way of breathing. Within the course of our meeting I have to say, my story represented the anomaly. I was able to successfully secure joint physical and legal custody of our son, despite the many attempts to do otherwise by my co-parent. As I went deeper into my back-story, my suspicions of bipolar disorder rose to the surface. As I do here, I qualified my suspicions by saying that I am not a doctor and no there has been no firm diagnosis. But as I replayed the various episodes, the numerous plates, cups, and flatware in our bedroom that would sometimes be there on weeks, the apple cores which started to grow fungi, the soiled sanitary napkins that would overflow out of our bedroom waste basket, I began to wonder about the wedding vows I took; wasn’t I supposed to be there through sickness and health. Its then when the one in the cast said to me, she knows about manic depression from first hand experience.. My ex boyfriend had it and died from it. She elaborated about how he would go through moments of bliss and then erupt into three-week splurges looking for drugs. And as she spun her story, my head went down on the table like a cowering dog. You did yourself a favor and saved your son by leaving. Unfortunately, only those who have experienced the signs of what you have said, and I too am not a doctor, I just happened to love someone who didn’t love themselves, before it gets better for them, it only gets worse. By this time, the dog came up. They began asking, she didn’t put the dog down did she? No, but she took him to the vet with no intentions of getting him back, which in turn could have resulted in him being put to sleep. It was then the room got quiet, dead silence. The felon who I sat beside, told me point blank, you will have bad days, you will have good days. You will have bad days again. You will be to the point of wondering if all of what you are going through and yet to go through is worth it. There will even come a time when you will just want to walk away from everything because it seems on the surface, it will be the easiest thing to do. You will go through more money than you thought you ever had , and guess what, you will find more money. My legal fees are in excess of $30,000.00 That’s just for the custody battle. We’ll not talk about the criminal legal fees but lets just say, you don’t ever want to do business with bail bondsmen. Do not cut anyone out of your life who is family or friend. What you are going through and will continue to go through is a typical day in the park. One morning you’ll wake up accepting what has happened to you and then incidentally you will say oh yes, divorce, does suck.

Relapse: Back to Zero

If my boy David Hassellhoff can relapse and bounce back, so can I
Shit, I have had a bad moment. A lapse of judgment. Now I have to go back to zero. I am so not vibing with my co-parent right now, which probably explains why we have chosen to re-define the terms of our relationship. What’s even worse is that this person still has a certain control over me, which I shouldn’t allow to happen. I mean right now I am PTFO, if you have to ask then you are too young to guess what those letters mean. I think what just has me upset is our most recent exchange. I try to establish boundaries, she gets pithy, I give an inch, this one takes an entire continent and asks like Steve Urkel, “Did I do that?” I think during the course of our marriage if I had responded back once or twice with a “WTF do you think you did!” “Oh it wasn’t you, it was the fairy blanking godmother.” Again, I was raised differently. I have always been taught to give people the benefit of the doubt. It’s not giving in, it’s working to make things calm and peaceable. Calm and peaceable my BLANK. I feel like the late Heath Ledger’s Joker, “What we need is a little anarchy.” I think what also has me disjointed is as I am emerging from my funk, I have become more upset at the crap I went through. This one put me and my family on a rollercoaster ride worse than anything at a sin filled city amusement park. It was the one way ticket to the other side, it was the Dr. Jeckle and the Mr. Frickin Hyde. One of my friends asked me the other day would I ever consider marriage ever again. I think the way I am feeling right now, I’d rather take the Gene Simmons approach; just buy her a damn house. It’s the same thing with less pain. Just cut the check every month, give her the deed and scram! Now I can change, as my late Grandfather would say, but right now, that’s the way I feel today. What has me agitated the most, is that we have a child. He didn’t ask to come into this world so why is it because we aren’t vibing he has to suffer. That’s not right. Again for the best interest of the child. God bless the child who’s got his own. I must have loved this person pretty damn much because I feel like Kellis. I think too, when the families got in the mix, especially when this one’s brother inserted themselves in our family business, I took the high road, and didn’t say BLANK. I chilled, I even thanked him for his service to our country. But to be abandoned, not once but twice. To be lied on, not once, not twice, but three times by this particular lady, OMFG I’m now invoking the damn Commodores. You know you are beyond upset when you start making Lionel Ritchie say what YOU want him to say. Saved by Red Chief. As I was spouting out venom, its almost like God sent him into the room. Its amazing how our boy can calm me down. I look at him and I see myself and I see him and I say, he’s worth it. I’ve got to chill. I can’t let this person reduce me to less than being a person, less than being myself. This person isn’t worth that anymore. So I’m going to calm down, apologize to his mother because I know, she probably too has been going through some things. I can’t even pretend to ride the little red pony of righteousness. Thank God, and even his mother for Red Chief. Lets see, how many days since the last moment. Lets see, I think 30. Alright, I am going to count for real this time.

Whiteness from the other side: Wal-Mart

I experience yet again another random act of kindness from white people, where I would have never thought possible. Remember, white people and white folks are two different organisms. As opposed to elaborating on my definitions, I will share the detail of two different but still related experiences.

My day at Wal-Mart.
Me and Red Chief were doing some Friday evening shopping at the Wal-Mart. We had to get some basics and some restocking items for the Penthouse. Well as I have said before, money and I these days are not on the best of speaking terms. I talk, rarely does it listen. But I am happy to say that we are in negotiations so that our communications will be much better in the near future. Being a single parent will force you to have those conversations with Mr. Franklin, Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Washington, etc. As we get to the check out counter, I think I have enough money to cover my purchases. Damn, $5.00 over. OK, I say to myself, embarrassed, yes but its not the end of the world. At the check out counter I am forced to perform an immediate needs assessment of what I want vs what we need. So lets go over the list. whole wheat bread, we need, tooth brush and tooth paste, we need, juices, we need, can opener, we need, chicken, we need, mixing bowl we need. Brownies, we need? Olive oil, we need? Cutting knives, we need? Trash bags, we need? Mixing spoons, we need? Now as I am saying this to myself, the elderly woman, who was running the cash register at the Wal-Mart was looking at the bill. And simply put I was not even going to act like I had forgotten any extra money. $30.00 is what I was going to spend, period. She, as humbly as she could, kindly said to me, your knives are four dollars. If you skip that, that should then bring you down to about $30.50. Ok so the cutting knives had to go. But, as I was still going deeper in the pockets, I was still coming up with lint. This indicates yet another item would remain in the custody of Wal-Mart. “Do you need the wings,” she asked. I shook my head yes because that was going to be our dinner. “What about the olive oil? “ This was $5.00 and I knew where I could get it cheaper for three. Hence, their olive oil had to go back. But then we came across another conundrum, the Zertyc. That was a necessity because both Red Chief and I both have bad sinuses at this time of year, so yep, we need it. Ok that put me back at 30.50. Taking the mixing spoons out, got me down to 28.10. I didn’t feel ashamed; in fact I felt this was some good customer service. If forced me to think again about establishing a harmonious relationship with my money as opposed to a chaotic one. I took out another $15.00 and bought gas and then headed off to the food lion to buy the last items needed for snacks and cooking. The Olive oil was 3.04 and the PBJ for the sandwiches were 1.97. Damn, I was still under regarding the money, but again the manager of the day who had been so enamored with Red-Chief, asked was he being a good helper? He was shocked but happily said yes. Looking at the register, again I was thinking to myself, hell, not again. However, the manager kindly said, don’t worry about it, I’ve got you, So even though I was literally a dollar short, I wasn’t a day late for a blessing. She covered the difference with her discount. I was floored. I had never experienced this much kindness from white people in one day since my trip to London. I got the Obama speak “Twofor” two good deeds by white people in one day. I think the denominator here is that these were working class white people who day to day, try their hardest to make ends meet like most of us. In contrast, when Red Chief and I inquired about how do we get involved in the kickball league in Briar Creek, (mind you, this was from one of the players and not an administrator of the league) I felt as though my inquiring about entering the league would be a turn off. I think I could see a prejudicial stereotype in his mind. Again this is pure conjecture and speculation, but I felt his mind and his body language said, “Shit, can’t we have anything to ourselves? If you come in the league and play, then we have to up our game 10%...” In short, I felt as though I was the victim of reverse athletic discrimination. See that’s why I like weight training and lifting. I have a deceptive build. When folks see me coming, I’m easily dismissed. But when I then start deadlifting sets of 315lbs as a warm up (I call this checking in) white folks become intimidated. Black folk on the other hand are like, “that’s right, you represent!” Frankly I find it annoying by both parties because there is this false ideology being generated by both sets of folks. I just like lifting and running. And if I do say so myself, I do like the results in the mirror.

But back to the issue at hand, we all have been kicked in the ass and in the family jewels pretty damn hard by the wasteful spending of governments and oligopolies. When I saw a family of white folk being taken away in cuffs for shoplifting at the Wal-Mart, I was like my God, this crazy ass economy has simply driven folks to edges of ignorant stupid ass conduct. I think I made a small twitter post about; the Beverly Hills actually let me correct that for geographical sake, The Briar Creek Hillbillies got busted for stealing a microwave box full of DVDs. It was an ugly site to see. Five cop cars, two hillbillies per car it was just weird but, that’s also a reflection of the state of the economy in which we reside. Maybe I might write a letter to the president, the governor of my state and the mayor of my city; it’s sad that I have to celebrate buying a .97 can opener. Its sad that we have a society that regulates “panhandling.” For me, race is a component of economics, but more so, the economic system in this country represents more of an caste system where the symbolic reminders are constant.

New items for a kitchen

Having to start from scratch one really doesn't miss the warter until it's gone. I never took forgranted so much when I had it. But with every new acquisition, I can say I have taken another baby step. Yesterday, Red Chief and I collected some minor items for some long overdue brownies. Note to single dads: Make Super Walmart your new best friend. When you are working with a shoestring budget, where the string looks more like a thread, you really begin to celebrate the small things. I got a can opener for .97 and a mixing bowl for $1.50. Let's
see eggs for .67 and 3 2 liters minute maid juice for 1.00 each. To me that's grand. Learning how
to shop smart is essential for the single dad. I was about to buy a $3.00 knife set but getting to check out counter, I was like I can make the knives I have at home work. Another thing one learns is to buy in bulk so you learn how to make leftovers work for you. A good example of this came in the form of chicken. $8.00 for a big rack of 18 wings. Ok after we cut them up, we save want we don't cook. Hence, the freezer is getting stocked. More later. The Red Chief is calling

Recovery--Take Eight: Who do you call when you can't call anyone else?

I am tired. I mean I am so worn out, but it’s a productive worn out. This week I feel as though I’ve gotten some items accomplished. Some, for the good and some for the well for the sake of being in motion. Let’s begin with Monday. Regrettably, but again out of obligation I made another payment on the furniture which I cannot use. I also paid my phone bill and stocked food in the pantry and fridge. Additionally, I am happy to say that I was able to bring my checking account to a positive status. Again, the recovery process is not about the giant leap, but instead, the preparation and practice required to successfully make those giant leaps. After picking up Red Chief, we did our father son activities, I got him ready for school the next day. Tuesday. This was one of those leap of faith days. I planted myself back at my virtual office and constructed the cover letter of cover letters to get my job back. When the posting became available, I figured what the hell do I have to loose. In fact, part of me feels that this was a good exercise preparing for other potential job opportunities. I completed the letter, filtered it through the multiple series of error checks and I have to say, I was impressed with my effort. I will have a job by July, end of discussion. I will have a job by July. I don’t mean a nickel and dime (though it too would be nice) but I mean getting back to what I do best, taking the weakest of minds and putting them in flight. I am going to go back to teaching and research. I have a little boy to feed. Just as important, I have a grown man to feed. I have a car that requires gas and of course the payments associated with it. I can’t say that I have fought hard but I will say that my spiritual force is reemerging and is the process of re-imaging my visage de vita. I don’t know where or how, but I feel myself gaining strength back to face the world again. Here’s an example. Tuesday, as I was heavily absorbed in writing my cover letter, I lost track of the time and forgot to reschedule my appointment with my therapist.. One of two shrinks I keep on my payroll. I called and left a message on his answering service, apologetic, asking to reschedule our meeting but also hoping that he would cut me a break and not ask for the full payment (his cancellation penalty). Well of course he calls back and takes the offensive believing that I was attempting to maneuver around the payment of his cancellation fee. Again, this is where I could feel my voice going from being sheepish to one of being equally direct yet being calm and controlled. Realizing the dynamic, in this case, I, being the customer am paying you for your knowledge, skills and abilities, took charge. The tonality of my response said, “I recognize that I did not call you as per our stipulated agreement, that said I did call you not because I was negligent, but I am looking for a job to support my family and if you still wish to be on my payroll, then you will cut me some damn slack.” See, what I am noticing here is that, being that my back is pushed to the wall, I am now in a position where I can no longer allow myself to be pushed. In fact, I had an aunt tell me of a possible job. I got her text message about it, politely said thank you but I can’t apply for this job. Instantly, a return text came up with a big W-H-Y. My response, unapologetically was this, the job is in Charlotte. Again, I didn’t go into detail, I just kept it moving. But now, I think I do want to go into some detail. The operative phrase here is, consider the source. I know my loving aunt was trying to be as supportive as she could. I really appreciated her concern. But again, from my perspective, this is something I have to do on my own. That said, after looking at everything that has happened to me, in retrospect, I have fought too, damn hard to be in my son’s life, only to now, just up and turn and leave him. I have spent, inordinate amounts of mental energy, thrust into the throws of a court system, that would just as soon leave separated fathers dead in a ditch, with the swing of a gavel. I vehemently refuse to contribute to the fodder feeding the myth of the problematized absent black father. Red Chief is my son and I will not abandon him, even through death. I refuse to be ejected, alienated from my son be it by the means of my co-parent, my family, or anyone else. In reading one of the many books now I have put in my library on divorce, separation, single parenting, co-parenting etcetera, they all share a common denominator. Dads too, can be caregivers and custodial parents, just as well as moms. Revisiting my family history, the considered source here, is a single mom, who successfully raised her daughter without the presence of her dad. So in my mind, I see my aunt’s standpoint as a single black mom being quasi valid. I’m a traditionalist. I strongly feel it takes two parents to raise a child. The two parents may not be in the same home, and that is ok. Maybe the mother and father weren’t equally yoked. That could represent a host of opportunities for the child provided the parents do the right thing. Blended families are more common now than the single parent. It would be nice if Dr. Gray and I were to restore our marriage, but that’s going to take more effort from her perspective and that’s if she wants to do it under the proviso I want to do it. I digress. Right now, for me, I will not retreat or surrender from my parental duty and privilege. In fact I, like other dads who don’t get the credit they deserve, am choosing to embrace it and nurture it to its fullest. Again, at the advice of one of my other shrinks on my payroll, it would set a bad example for Red Chief to see his dad ship out and suddenly become a fly in dad. That to me, just represents the ultimate disservice to him. It will just jack his small world up for years to come. That’s a challenge I’m negotiating constantly. That behavior personifies the toxic which I have to shield him from. The best hiding places are these: for a book, a library, a man, a city, a leaf, a forest—a quote by the late Raymond Burr out of the fictional character Chief Robert Ironside. I can’t afford to be a man in hiding when it relates to Red Chief. Lastly, I had to also demonstrate my new courage to the mother of Red Chief, Dr. Jean Gray. Again, practicing hard to be a quality parent, I am learning it requires predictability and patience. Enter the legend of Red Chief and the asparagus spear. He and I arrived back at the penthouse last evening to begin our dinner. The dinner routine is as follows: we come in, go to the kitchen, wash our hands. After, we then get some olive oil, our magic skillet, frozen vegetable medley and tilapia. I bring Red Chief into the kitchen, give him a chair so he can watch what I am doing. I talk him through the entire cooking prep and he even asks to help. Ok, after the meal is prepared, Red Chief’s job is to set the table. So he takes his plate, his cup and his flat ware and places it at his part of the table, then he does the same for dad. Dad brings out the cooked food with the beverages in tow. We say grace and I prepare his plate. Red Chief thinks the tilapia is chicken. I’m like cool, lets roll with it. Note, in the course of our dinner, there is no television. No distractions. Its quiet time where he and I talk, laugh and learn. This night, Red Chief was going to learn a greater appreciation for vegetables.
“Can I have some more chocolate milk please,” he asks with a toothy smile. I smile back at him and say, “I am so delighted in the manner you chose to ask me for your chocolate milk. That is so diplomatic! How about we eat some vegetables and we can get some more chocolate milk, what do you say?” Now remember, this is the flesh of my flesh, bone of my bones, so I know already ,this is only a prelude to a bigger means. “Daddy, I said please.” There is a hidden benefit to having kids when you are older because as the parent, you’re quicker with the comebacks. “Red Chief, I am pleased that you said please. I need you to please be understanding. Will you please consider eating your vegetables?” Again, using parental projection, I could see his puzzled look on his face saying, that wasn’t supposed to happen. Daddy’s got skills. Let me regroup here, ahh, I know. I’ll try play. “Daddy, lets play hide and seek.” Again, I maintain, “After you eat your vegetables.” I’ll give him some cool points because he tried some deflection. He gets an A for creative strategy, but a C for actual execution of the task. Dad is not budging from the vegetable plantation. In fact, base has entered Daddy’s tone. “Boy, you are going to eat these vegetables. How you eat them, is the only position, from which you have, to negotiate from.” There are two things I find interesting here. The first being this; I refuse to allow the topic of the vegetables to exit the conversation. Three things are key at this point in time, vegetables, vegetables, vegetables. The second element in this conversation I find amusing is how I go from being Ward Cleaver to James Evans in three short steps. See at his daycare, they really try to encourage him to make good decisions. I think that is a positive approach to teaching. However, when it comes to parenting, at least in my three short years of being a dad, sometimes, a little friendly persuasion and firmness is required to obtain compliance. So what happens, eating the vegetables became a game. First the vegetables are a train going into the tunnel. Next the vegetables are a plane going into a hanger. Then the vegetables become a helicopter. I think by the time we got to the F-22 Raptor, the vegetables, I am proud to say, were in his stomach. Never let my co-parent hear me say this. That said, despite my best intentions, occasionally, just like the CIA, you too, will have to negotiate with terrorists and toddlers. Welcome to your walk on role in your version of Mission Impossible. Uggggg! So anyway, Dr. Jean Gray calls, alerting me to the obvious, she’s running late. Understanding and knowing her patterns when it comes to matters of the clock, I still allow for our family outing to take place. Committing, I’m still conflicted. In the back of my mind, it’s going on 8:30. According to my schedule, 8:30 initiates the bedtime dance for Red Chief. Logic and common sense are trumped by opportunity. What I am having to learn is that to be a good co-parent requires flexibility. Never, ever, would I ever deny Red Chief a chance to see his mom. With the power of Professor X, I easily foresee the coming future. True to form we get to the spot, the book store. Red Chief sees his mom, and before I know it, Red Chief is going home with his mom, against my wishes. But as I have said before, we as parents have to embrace the reality that our children, now take the center stage. So even though on the books, I may have a scheduled night, that can easily change on the immediate needs and desires of Red Chief. What remains essential is that the child is comfortable. Parental comfort, through the eyes of the child, simply put, is secondary. That by itself is a bitter pill to swallow. But like with any medication, it may be bitter going down. Just like a laxative, swallowing that pill enables the detoxification process to begin. Detoxing, isn’t easy, in fact, some days, it can take the form of literally being, just plain, down, right, shitty. Your shitty days will turn into some shitty weeks. Your shitty weeks may become, some sorry, non productive, shitty months. Before you know it, you’ve had a shitty year! Congratulations on your shitty achievement! We can’t let that happen. Instead, like Diogenes we have to grit in and bare it, sometimes allowing ourselves to laugh at our own mistakes. So when the shit hits the fan, visualize it more as a cleansing process. You don’t have to like it, because I sure as hell don’t. If infants cry when their diapers are soiled, think about the adult who just soiled their pants. Hell, we’ll cry bloody murder. Instinctively, you’re not going to like it. But, we have to take that approach. Why? Because, again, that is in the best interest of your child. That said; I’m still bitter. Maybe pissed is a better word because I was pouting. My lip was poked out from here to Maine. We’re only human, not the endomorphic cybernetic organisms we aspire to be. Further exasperating for me, is the fact we are out and about at 10:00 at night. Instinctively, this is flatly wrong; but guess what, I already bought a ticket for this rollercoaster ride. I’m strapped in, passed the first deep plunge down and about to go through the second corkscrew of the night. Its now 10:30 and I’m going in and out of the grocery store so we can make this abrupt transition and again, our 3 year old is in tow. By the time I get home I am thoroughly disgusted. Not at his mom, but with myself. Being a co-agent in my psychic destruction; for allowing this manipulation and usury to continue. Returning to where I find peace and solace, the dragon’s tongue is channeled through my fingertips, onto my keyboard, transcribing my disappointment, in now what appears to be, yet another episode of our serrated parental debacles. Truly accepting the cold reality that I cannot change her; for the first time in a long time, I am open to receiving the message I have fought so hard all my life. I am cognizant of where the essence of true change begins; the revolution of self. So once again, I chisel another, in now what appears to be episodic declarations, of my ever evolving, states, of independence. This one, more pointed than the last. “What happened, happened. I own up to it because I allowed it to happen. That said, tonight the past is done. Period.” I can say that now with even more confidence after attending my first parenting class. It is irresponsible on both of our parts to have our toddler son out and about at 10:30 PM at night. Its unacceptable. Contributing to my bitterness was the fact that I, in good faith was attempting to be more relaxed with enforcing my portion of our custody agreement. Chalk one up for no good deed goes unpunished. Again I see my co-parent refuses to reciprocate. Adding further insult to injury, again, to assuage her guilt, she attempts to buy me off with a box of ice cream from the grocery store. I can’t be bought out of our son’s life with a box of Bryers. Do I look like I have the word, dummy, tattooed across my forehead? To me, actions like these, represent another form of emasculation. Even worse, this ball-ectomy, is being preformed in the presence of our son. Just as there is the colonized and the colonizer, there is also the compromise and the compromiser or let me say it this way, there was. I was direct and firm and I think I even had to beat my chest for a little bit because again with my back against the wall, I simply can’t be pushed any further. I was not ever a sperm donor. I was your husband. I am his dad. You will not undermine my rights to parent and to be an active present dad in his life. Nobody, particularly, you, is going to change that. Get with the program. Get therapy. Most important; get use to it. Now in hindsight, I know putting this in writing and sending something like this via email can easily be considered cowardly. I don’t like confrontation. But what is worse than confrontation? Being emotionally, spiritually, and financially compromised. With my back against the wall what are my options? Who do you call when you can’t call on anyone else? You call on yourself.

Recovery--Take Seven Mastering Pain

Yesterday, I went to the house of pain, also known as the gym. Some of you have said--give the gym membership up!!! It's too expensive, etc etc. As I do welcome and entertain some of those comments, I have to say this, part of recovery means finding solstice in other things while you are working through the hurt that has invaded your immediate 360 degrees. Like Diogenes, I've taken a slight vow of poverty, though I have not reverted to begging in the streets as a means of income. In fact, strangely, I applied for a job not too long ago. It was at the same institution where I was wrongfully terminated. According to the press, the said person who said he was not responsible for my dismissal, said he had nothing to do with it. So that being the case, I look at this as an opportunity for a clean slate. That said, in the event this individual does wish to for lack of a better term, drudge up the past, well, it would only be self destructive to this individual so it might be to his advantage, if I see him to sit down and be quiet. This is one example of mastering pain. You take what you have been hit with, internalize it, and then re-direct it with superior force. I learned this in martial arts demonstrations. You see, when you watch people breaking innocent pounds of concrete, they are taught to go through the brick or slab and not just merely break it. If you don't go through it, the force generated, regrettably will return back to the sender of the force-- this is a natural law of physics. The return of this force can actually throw that person backwards like a recoil. So why not apply this in life? No I am not the late David Caradine aka Kung Fu wandering through the desert barefooted, but I am one who is a grain of sand on the beach called life. For me and my big ass ego, that is a humbling recognition. So back to my day at the sweat box. I got in kinda late but I made up for it with intensity. I did the following:
3 sets of dead lifts at 315 pounds each. It was like this-- 5, 5, and 3.
3 sets of leg squats at 235 pounds. 8, 4, and 4.
2 sets of front squats at 135 pounds -- 10 and 10.
3 sets of leg step ups with 135 pounds on the shoulders -- this strangely is a good cardio exercise.
In the break of these sets, I preformed abdominal exercises from sit ups, to leg extensions.
Then took a break from my legs and worked the arms and back a bit.
2 sets of the standing military press at 100 pounds, that was 8 and 8.
3 sets of the push press at 135 each 5, 5, and 5.
2 sets of seated dumbbell shoulder press at 45 pounds each, lets see that was 2 sets of 10.
3 sets of lat pull downs between 180 pounds and 160 pounds.
Then back to the legs:
4 sets of leg extensions at 100 pounds each alternating between 8 and 6.
3 sets of calf raises,
and of course a light set of leg presses where my feet are in a ballet stance. Don't laugh, it works the inner thigh like you wouldn't believe.
BTW, if you do this DRINK PLENTY OF WATER or they will be calling 911 for you. For me that is a leg day and it's light. I am not attempting to sound cocky but trust me, thats a light day. Dead lifting 315 pounds is not my max. I've actually pulled 355 pounds and the goal is to pull 400 by my 40th birthday. Needless to say, when one lifts weight like that, you will get sore, especially in the back. Yepper your back and even your legs, particularly your muscles where your knees are, they will be a little sore. Then I discovered it how to master the pain. I nice hot bath. I don't mean lukewarm, I mean piping HOT. At first, that water burned like hell. But as I lay in the tub and allowed the steam and the heat to do its thing. Oh God I felt so much better. I woke up this morning virtually pain free. That's a blessing. Now, why won't I ditch my gym membership? Can you imagine what I would do, let alone look like, if i didn't at least take care of myself. Even my mental health care providers are like, keep doing what you are doing. Exercise releases natural anti-toxins. Those same anti toxins release stress and we all know, when you hit 40, shoot your late 30s you have now crossed the threshold into mortality. That’s heart attack and stroke range. On my dads side of the family, heart disease is common. So why not head it off at the pass? In fact the next physical challenge might sound a bit, well, crazy. I've decided to sign up for an 8k road race. The 8k is five miles. This will be brutal but it too like any challenge is not to be feared but embraced and conquered with the exception of my fear of fish. The leg strength I am not worried about too much but the oxygen, that might be a problem so i have to figure out how to train outside without getting my sinuses jacked up.

Ugly and then DAMN Ugly

Its late. I'm up, part due to the fact that I may have had a little too much prune juice. If you don’t know what that’s like, try it. I promise you, it will be an unforgettable experience. Channel surfing, I come across Geraldo at Large on Fox and I see something that is just, plain, startling. There is this video which is just too shocking to believe. At first I thought it was just two kids fighting in school. But why would that make Geraldo at Large at 1:30AM. Then I see the reporter cut to a shot of this young brother anchored with a white lawyer to the left and a white lawyer to the right. The reporter is saying something to the effect that he is the victim in the video. ?Victim? to me it just looked like a regular street fight. Thug vs thug. Oh, no, the bomb shell hits. The one who is just clocking this kid is a teacher. This is not like the thuggish hulking male gym teacher we all have seen at one time or another; but a 120 pound light weight, 40 year old female, who looked like she was having a DMX moment.


You know the verse, Yall gone make me loose my mind, up in here, up in here, Yall gone make me go all out, up in here, up in here, Yall gone make me act a fool, up in here, up in here, Yall gone make me loose my cool, up in here, up in here. Even worse, this is black on black crime. Yes. I said it, the teacher is black. If ever, there was a clear cut way, to successfully terminate your teaching career, this is it! This reminds me of the asswhipping I got from my mom, the Queen Mother. Its hard not to look at that as a parent, let alone, as an educator, and not react. Please allow me to put this in writing. I think my co-parent and I are on the same page when it comes to matters of our child. If any teacher puts their hands on RedChief, she will put her hands on them. If anybody else puts their hands on RedChief, in a way that is not life preserving, I will just simply release the co-parent on them. That having been said, if I have to get involved in it, let there be no mistake, there will be some sad singing and flower bringing. Admittedly, I am extremely prejudice in matters of our son. I'd rather be judged by 12, than have my son carried by six. Now all that said, I also feel the need to add, the little-big man in this video did in fact need to be disciplined. Listening to the raw tape, it appears as though our little angel did cross the line to the point where his wings needed to be clipped. You don't pick on mentally challenged people. Its obvious to me, at least that is what turned this frail looking teacher into the bionic, she-hulk . I mean she ripped the desk out the floor, threw it in the corner, then got low and went to boxing on this kid. The type of asswhipping delivered here I dare say was a classic 1982 asswhipping. She had on Vans sneakers, blue jeans I mean she was dressed to deliver a beat down in a pizza box to your front door. Its so ugly you have to laugh at it to some degree because its just so ridiculous. Many teachers I am sure have thought about going over the line. Hell, I've destroyed students cell phones if they didn't get the message when I took their call in class. I've closed and locked the door on students who were habitually late for my classes. Hell, I've shredded student's 15 page papers in front of them when they tried to give them to me late. I admit it, I'm probably like the late Buford Pusser when it comes to teaching. My class, my time. Do not waste my time. Do not try to clown me on my time, because in the end, I'm giving the grade and i'm getting my check at the end of the month! In the words of one of my frat brothers, there is no way, NO WAY, a child will keep me from my dollars. Now granted my stunts i did with grown ass college students who for the most part know the code of the streets. For the uninitiated, that means this: don't start with me, and I won't start with you. Even if you do start with me, I'm going to still be professional. I'm professional not just for the knowledge, skills, and abilities I bring to the table, but also for my ability to remain calm under pressure. This means there will not be fights breaking out in my classroom. This means as the teacher, my knowledge of the content shuts you down in the event, you the student choose to act up. This means, I have speed dial to security and the local PD on my phone and will evacuate the room to have said disruptive student removed. Now that said, I hope to God this teacher learns from her mistakes. I hope she is given an opportunity to earn a chance at redemption. But right now there is the bad, the ugly and this, the damn ugly.

Relapse: A Flashback

Yesterday and not too long ago, I have to say I experienced a series of flashbacks to my childhood. RedChief was experiencing a slight cold of some sort and I had to pick him up from school. The daycare informed me that his temp had risen to the magic number of 101 degrees. Therefore, he needed to go home and rest. Ok, nothing too traumatic about that. They stated that they did, try to contact his mom, but to no avail; hence the back up parent was called. Namely, moi. Promptly, I get in the Knight Automated Tactical Transport (aka KNIGHT3K) and head off to the school. There, he did appear to be a little out of it; so, I quickly took him to the drug store to get some of the basic cure alls. Pedeialight, Ibuprofen, some Benadryl and of course fluids and fish. In this case the fluids consisted of Fruit Punch and Prune Juice. Prune juice was suggested by the pharmacist. According to his daycare staff, RedChief, hadn't had a BM all day. So as opposed to giving him a dose of fleet, prune juice would be much better. So we get back to the PentHouse, the new nickname for my current place of residence and let the medications begin. I even cut on some Scooby Doo for him because ironically, that is his favorite cartoon character of the quarter. Last quarter it was The New Adventures of Batman and Robin. Don't ask me, because I don't know why, but its like that, and that's the way it is. 6:00 PM, the phone rings. It’s his mom. Thinking this will be a friendly call: Unfortunately, I’m wrong. We commence with the interrogation, already in progress.
How is RedChief?
Did you take him to the doctor?
Can I come get him now?
Being peppered by these questions, I am flooded. The term flooded is one learned from our marriage counselor. Wait a minute, slow down, I say. He's fine, everything is cool. From there, the questions creep, bordering a hyper-extension into the category of demands.
OK, I want to pick up my son. By this time, I am consciously controlling my emotions as best as I possibly can. Though I choose not to articulate an immediate reaction, despite my best intentions, I’ve already mentally employed defensive tactical maneuvers. Quietly I'm thinking to myself, "what in the hell is that suppose to mean, your son.” …NOTE TO PARENTS: This is how separation and divorce can easily become toxic, potentially lethal. Allow me to qualify my definition of lethal. No, I am not singularly considering the term lethal in the physical sense of death, but more in the incarnation of a spiritual and psychic death. When parents begin to use the ultimate weapons of mass destruction—specifically our children, weaponized children can become everything from human shields, to landmines, IEDS, predator drones and of course smart bombs. Word choice is key. Timing is key. As parents, we know what the buzz words are. In psychology (note that I am not a psychologist, just one, like you going through this maze of human debauchery also known as a legal separation) they are called triggers. When the trigger is pulled, a projectile is launched, traveling faster than 432 feet per second, faster than sound, faster than light. From there, destructive thoughts come to the mind and guess what, children become collateral damage. In the words of military parlance, the casualty risk is too high. So not to be preachy, but to offer some unsolicited advice, put your child at the center of every breath you take, every thought you think, every word you say. Then, you and your partner/co-parent/spouse work to sustain the life you created. Now: back to our program. I attempt to maintain a sense of calm and control because 1) I can only control me. 2) How dare I allow another individual to have that type of power and level of control over me again, and finally the most important reason is this: Red Chief is in my presence. In the grand scheme of things what is more important to me is his well being. The constant mantra dictates "what is in the best interest of the child." I have a ZERO tolerance policy to exposing Red Chief to toxic situations, even when if they do involve me. So again, rather than debate from emotion, I try to evoke some since of logic.
I say to Jean Gray (member of what in my world personifies the Xmen) "Jean, he's already medicated and needs to sleep." However, Jean is persistent, "I want my son, and I want him now. Can you please have him available for me to pick up?"
By this time in the conversation, I can feel the calm trickling stream within my internal pond, slowly erupt, turning into a whirlpool of choppy waters. Why is this? Has our son become objectified, like a laptop computer, or a projector one reserves and checks out as they would a piece of equipment? Has the flesh of my flesh, now been reduced to the flesh of my flesh on lease? From my perspective, again at that moment in time, those were my feelings. Again I re-emphasize the potency of social linguistics, rhetoric and non verbal sub-cues. As you could easily detect, I was angry, again because of the triggers. I was emotionally flooded yet I still was cognizant of the control and power I had over myself, and trust me like my inner power, your inner power will be tested too. In my mind, regrettably now, I allowed Jean control over my mind and perceptions of our child. So that said, I forfeit any awards for dad of the day. Our son, according to Jean's interpretation, from my perspective (that’s labyrinthian isn’t it ?) is indicative of a rent-a-child. It’s a hard thing to say, and I know its got to be a hard thing for any parent to read. Again, I try to humanize the situation,
"Jean he hasn't eaten dinner yet; Is it an unreasonable request for him to at least have dinner? Again, the needle is stock on a broken record,
"I want my son, I want him now."
By this time I am done with the conversation. I realize that my attempts at being; not a co parent, but just a parent have again been thwarted. I simply surrender. Maybe surrender is too strong. I resign myself to the simple fact that I am a co-parent, and damnit, I am, regardless of anyone else’s opinions, I am doing the best I can, with the resources I currently have. My situation right here, right now, at this very moment is a temporary setback. And setbacks are set ups for come backs; look at Robert Downy Jr. Academy award nominee one day, state property the next, divorced the next, remarried the day after and now has one of the top grossing films of the decade. If he can loose it all, in the public eye and get it back, I can do that minus the drug abuse. So in short, I say this with all humility: To hell with anyone who has the audacity to stand in the way of my or my son’s progress. This includes family, ex family, friends, and especially enemies or as we say in the 21st century, “haters.” Be advised and be warned, your chances for success are better, standing on the third rail of a metro train. NOTE TO READERS: Sometimes you, like I have just done, have to reissue a personalized declaration of new found independence. This is where that strength you don’t know you have until you have to use it comes out. Get strong, get aggressive, get what is yours and get what belongs to your child. In essence get back to you. In my case-I’ve had to put the breaks on some things while taking risks I never thought I would take. I’ve had to stand up and advocate for myself in a court room. I’ve had to advocate for my son. I’ve had to advocate for myself in the presence of my mom and her sisters. Hell, I’ve even had to distance myself from a few of my friends because what is most important is being there for Red Chief. The following represents an example of how I took an already potentially volatile situation and instead made it a character-building situation not only for me, but for our son. I responded with the following:
"After he eats his dinner, I'll take him to the spot."
Enter the relapse, By this time, I can feel the tears welling up. Why: because, I again am forced to relive my past through the eyes of my son. –(It ain’t easy now)
I don't raise my voice, I don't argue, I just cooked his meal and made sure he ate it along with his hydration drink.

Just then another call from Jean comes in.
"Look, I'm sorry, I'm just nervous, You can keep him until 8:00PM." The one thing I hate is to be patronized and to me that's what happened.
"I want to make sure you get what you asked for and what we agreed to. No ups, no downs." Then again, the offer is made to 7:30. Again I say no.
You said 7:00, so 7:00 it will be.
Damn, is this really what co-parenting is supposed to be about? I don't want to set a bad example for our son so after he eats his dinner, I saddle him up and put him back in the truck and off we go to the spot. By this time I am dressed to go to the gym because by this time, I have a host of pent up of angst that must be worked out. We arrive at the spot and I'm cordial. "Where's mommy, where's mommy, Oh there she is." I smile and update her of his condition. Say what meds have been administered. I don't know why, she offered to buy me something, like a coffee or a cookie. I kindly refused. Then she again offered to allow for some family time for the three of us. Again, I politely refused. I wasn't angry, yet, I was annoyed. I was annoyed because I really felt like I was nothing more than an extension of our daycare employee. That really sucked. To me, and again, I might be reading too deep into this, I didn't feel like I was his father in her eyes, but again, just like last May, I felt like an appendage, a nanny. Not a husband, not a father but a nanny. I didn’t even feel like Tony Danza in the sitcom “Who’s the Boss?” I felt like an indentured slave who served at the liberty of his mistress. This probably explains why I elected to sleep on the sofa during the last months of our marriage. I can honestly say I felt under fucking appreciated. Not that I preformed the miracle on the Hudson or deserved to be invited to the Presidential Estate. I am Red Chiefs dad, and there are certain obligations and perks that go with the job. To make the situation better or more palatable for me or any parent in this position, a simple thank you and recognition has more currency than a cup of coffee or a cookie. Yes the episode made me angry but it didn’t and I have to emphasize this, it did not make me DYSFUNCTIONAL. That is the difference between a healthy parenting and destructive parenting. For me, I take from this slice of my life, which I humbly offer to you, the needs of the one outweigh the needs of few or the many. –OK its Start Trek but ride with me on this one: Our child is more important than a self serving custody battle. Our child (and yours for that matter too) is more important than winning a daily battle with a co parent. If I had it to do all over again, yes I would again fight to be apart of my child’s life. That said, as I have joint physical and legal custody, I don’t flex with it. By that I mean, I’m liberal and in some cases maybe over extend some of my visitation time with his mom. Why, because regardless of where the love is coming from (mom vs dad) our child is going to have the love of both of his parents. So that’s why I say, his development is more important to me than winning a battle (which translates into nothing more than another in a long series of fights with his mom) I wish my mom and dad could have seen that. Unfortunately, my history is my history—the good thing about that is this, there is no future in history. That simply means, my past, doesn't predict our son's future.
On a brighter note, I have confirmed my parenting classes. They start next Wednesday. I am excited because I actually get to meet others who are going through what I am going through while learning and in some cases improving on some skills.

Chocolate cielo

What if God were one of us? Today my planes fill the sky to mark my return to the land of the living. Today I did the following: I put on a suit, I opened a checking account, and I went to look at the place I will be calling my home note not apartment but my home (mortgage) by 2012. I'm not back: I'm stronger!

Each One Teach One

Patterns, I function well when I have structure and patterns. With systems in place, I feel more secure. Today, I reached out to a friend to help me restore some fiscal order in my life because simply put, how things went down this month were sloppy. I hate sloppy. When things are sloppy, the message sent is this: you're not worth my best. I don't have to treat you with respect. I mean I handled my finances in a sloppy way and what hurts is that it sets a bad example for my son. That can't happen again, ever. Though I reached a millstone and paid the rent in the apartment, it wasn't handled to my expectation. So some changes will be implemented first thing tomorrow. With the aid of my financial personal trainer, a exercise plan will be drafted and put in place and lets just say this, there will be some cuts across the board. My son deserves better. i deserve better and damn it, I am probably his best teacher. How in the hell can I expect him to look to me when I can't look to myself. So i feel good about that.

This is probably one of the hardest but most critical things I can ever learn-- managing the money...

Speaking of teaching. Today, Red Chief and I went to our new haunt to watch the adult kickball games and break him into soccer practice and foot ball practice. To me, seeing him kick the ball, catch the ball and even throw the ball makes me giddy. Ok, that said, since he played my games, I played his :-) hop scotch. When you are with your son, especially at these ages, it really makes you feel proud because, we weren't watching TV, but we actually got out and played. He ran, he jumped he got to be a kid and it made me feel like a kid too. So back to hop scotch, he threw the rock and I had to jump or however the game is played. In the background I hear these young brothers playing basketball. Its all good, I mean the brothers are getting their hoops on but in the process these young guns are cursing like they been drinking act up juice. Dropping the F-Bomb, using the N-Word i mean just acking N-erish. I really wanted to leave the area but the hop scotch set was in the same area, so being a good dad, I endured as much as I could. After a while I was like enough.. this is putting a hurting on my hearing and my son is too young to have his ears polluted to this crap. I couldn't beleive I was about to pull an act out of my ex wife's repertoire but i did. With Red Chief on my shoulders as I was walking away, I thought to myself, somebody needs to politely put the brothers in check because after all this is a public facility. So, with a certain degree of caution, I stepped up to 2, 5, well 8 young cats. Now mind you this was in the Briar Creek Community Center so I knew the cats weren't like straight up Gs. At best, they were young teens living their NBA fantasies trying to act all hard like cement. This is my Will Smith Moment: So I stepped up to em, with my son on my back. I was respectful, I was like "excuse me can I holla at yall for a second?"
Immediately one rolls up on me and says "What, its about the cussing right?"
Well actually no, the first amendment, gives you the freedom of speech. You can say whatever you want to say, it doesn't bother me. That said, I do have my three year old son here with me. He's too young for that type of language. He doesn't know what it means, which is a good thing. But each one of you do. Look I'm not trying to tell you what to do, all I'm asking is that you tone it down when you see kids out here that's all."

I don't know who was more shocked them because somebody stepped to them and didn't judge them or me for having the nerve to vocalize my concern. They probaly thought I was crazy because any fool could see there were more of them than there were of me. I think what I can take from this is that respect gets respect. I didn't roll in there like Aunt Esther thumping the bible, I just rolled in as not just a dad, But a Black DAD with his son, stating an opinion, and logical request. Guess what, they conceded at least in front of me. That said, I felt good because I stood up for my son, he saw that, and the B-Boys saw a Black Man take a stand for his son. Though it was small, maybe I planted a seed for growth.

Recovery-- Take Six: Acceptance

Acceptance is a hard pill. When you accept a situation, it means you have or at least in my mind, you have resigned yourself to the current situation. I had a series of interesting talks with people recently including a few members of my family. One in particular, my aunt Pamela. Pamela is the closest in age to me being that she is 11 years older. There have been many times in my life when Pamela and I really haven't been on the same page. I like to think of it as sibling rivalry but the problem is, I have no biological siblings, that I at least know about. On to the conversation..I explained to her that my concerns regarding my feeling emasculated by my mother. As she allowed me to lament and vent, she nodded and eventually got around to saying some items that I began to give credence to. In short, she said, "You done lost your swaggar." You have lived a life of being co-dependent. If you weren't co-dependent upon your mother, you got co-dependent upon your wife. When a wife looses respect for you, it's (the marriage) over. Your wife didn't feel secure, she took liberties with your mom, you let her cuss your mom out, then you cussed us out, then you exiled yourself for six months and now basically, you are ass out. Your mother, who is 60 is mad because she is having to carry you while her husband is retired. You are 39 and you aren't acting your age but your shoe size. You have yet to accept your apartment. Your wife isn't coming back to you. She is done, your mother, she is done. You've pretty much have to man up. -- Again, this is a term I hate being used by women in an attempt to spark men into action. Could be because in my head, women should not be defining masculinity but instead men should be able to establish masculinity on their own terms.-- Side note: Unfortunately in our culture, the 21st century post modern African American culture, masculinity through the eyes of dare I say, a majority of African American women, has been predicated on the hegemonic ideal. Money[squared](2Power+2Power)/socio eco status=respect. A man is not a man if he is financial, plus cultured, plus educated-by educated meaning degreed. If you are a work in progress, you are not a man and therefore a social eunuch. -- this could be why Pamela stated I "lost my swaggar." It doesn't help either that despite the fact that there are plenty of support groups for African American women, when they hit a bump in the road-- very much like mine, synonymous to The Women Brewster Place, our sisters know how to close in the ranks to support one another. Within the context of this debate, I actually called Pamela on what I felt was a gendered double standard in the current family dynamic. Her son TJ who is 18, he too, grew up without his father, being raised by a single mother. Pamela's sister, the middle child, Cyn, has a daughter Rochelle who too was raised without her father. What I noted was that how Rochelle who is now a senior in college, sent a text message to her mother which stated this: Mommy, today I paid X, Y and Z and I did it without being dependent upon any man. Thank you Mommy. I was like, I am happy for her new found independence, that said--you are telling me that my role and TJ's role are to not only be independent ourselves but also pay the way for the newly independent black woman. In a nutshell, you are saying the black woman is a hypocrite and brothers who have our "swaggar" are supposed to buy this. Pamela's response was yes, we are funny that way. -- In my mind, I could now see how a black man would reject the black woman. With thinking like that I felt totally discombobulated. In my mind, I felt as though my wife and I were on the cuspid of greatness. I felt we were going to be among the new black elite. The super couple if you will. Here were my reasons; on the surface, after our second meeting in 2001, i thought she was fine. She had a beautiful ass, with honey blond hair. I was like man, we gonna make some beautiful babies. The second thing, she fit my chief prerequisite, she was an intellectual. I've always found the mind sexy. Three, her smile. She looked at me, while I was trying to play it off, but admittedly i was peeping her for a while. I though I was successfully in what I like to call "stealth mode." Then when she called my name -- well stealth mode had been compromised. Ok so we fast forward to the first year. I'm like ok I don't know if this is going to work. I started thinking about other options and then at a wedding, I saw this older dude talking to her. I got mad.. I was like who in the hell is this old troll with no hair a gut talking to my woman.. Oh oh-did I say that? Yep in 2002, I took ownership and was like from that point forward, this is my lady, all other brothers keep your eyes in their sockets or be prepared to pick them up off the floor. By 2003 I was ready to make the ultimate move. But like in a bad romantic comedy, stupid male ego. She felt as though I was cerebrally copulating with an Ex in Chicago. I was so mad because I was going to propose that year. Well after the male pride back fired, and i was listening to Barry White drinking a bottle of Stolli Vodka (100 proof) I realized after three weeks I couldnt live with out her-- I was in love in fact my proposal came as a slight surprise because we had an argument before we were supposed to go to Chicago for a conference. I was like, if I get to Chicago, I'll get there if I don't I don't. I already bought the ticket and I had the ring. So in April of 2003 i got down on one knee in the Signature Room on a Saturday Night overlooking the water of Navy Pier. I said how I knew the water relaxed her. I loved how the water looked at night. For me this is a special night, and I hope after this it will be a special night for you too. If you'll have me, I want to be your husband, for now and always. Will you marry me? And thats where I think things went down hill. We planned a big wedding but failed to plan a financial future. The goal was that I would go back to school, complete my PhD while she would work. I would use my retirement to support us as well as student aid and scholarships. But we did not move to DC which in hidsight would have been a better option for our marriage. The money in our marriage was funny but no one was laughing. She put up with a whole lot of crap. "If I knew back then, what I know now, If I understood the what, when, why and how, Now its clear to me, what I should have done, cause hindsight is 20/20 vision. Taking time to catch up some history, trying to figure out what went wrong with you and me, and doesn't really mater what we did before, cause I know there's no future, when you're walking out that door." George Benson and Patti Austin--1985. Its amazing how songs that you don't really think about suddenly matter when they become the sound track of your life. So anyway, my aunt was like you out here doing the James Brown Please Please Please Please, while she's singing hit the road jack. So in the words of Austin Powers, my mojo is gone and I want it back. But what do you do, After the Love Has Gone, what use to be right is wrong. Like Phil Collins, you coming back to me is against the odds and thats what I've got to face.