I Am A Writer

It has taken me 44.49 years to say those words. I've been writing creatively since I was 7, but never considered myself a writer. Have you ever read anything I've written? Well you're reading this aren't you? Have I ever been published outside my blog? Yes, I used to write a column back in the 90's and I even had a (potentially) award winning article about Michael Jackson published in a small newspaper in St. Louis a few years back. I am a writer.

Writers write. And I write. I'll write about anything. Politics, romance, love (and yes love is different from romance), war, family, money-it doesn't matter, I'll write about it. Ask me about the great writers of yester-year and I'll admit with confidence that I've hardly read any of them. Who did Mark Twain read? Shakespeare, who did he read? Don't know do you? Well neither do I-which is why I don't read anything the people they read wrote, nor do I read anything Twain or Shakespeare wrote. I'm a writer, not a reader-didn't you read the title of this blog?

Writing is something that was gifted to me. It was recognized in me at an early age and cultivated by those along the way who discovered my ability to poetically express my thoughts through words. Am I a great writer? Hardly-I'm just a writer. That feels good to say-I'm a writer.

I don't know why it took me so long to muster up the courage to say those words, I am a writer. And now that I've said them, I can't stop myself. I am a writer. Will I ever finish a novel? Perhaps, I started one years ago and never completed it-but there is plenty of material to encourage me to continue. I think the very reason I quit was the very reason it took me so long to admit what I've always known-I don't like talking about myself, therefore it was difficult to admit that I was a writer. And what was said novel about? Me. About my thoughts, my hopes, my dreams, my wishes, and I couldn't bare the thought of looking foolish in the eyes of those who mean so much to me. So I shelved the damn thing. But perhaps it's time to dust off the old manuscript and breathe life back into it because I am a writer.

A couple of nights ago, I watched my only brother die. Literally. I was there when he breathed his very last breath on this earth-when his heart beat for the very last time. I watched my mother, a woman whom I love more than life itself, place her hand on his lifeless body, searching for a heartbeat in a chest cavity that would no longer have one. I heard her subconsciously utter the words, "He's still warm." And in the ensuing hours, amidst all the pain and misery I experienced, what did I turn to? Writing. I wrote-emoted, expressed, shared. I laid bare all of my feelings with a momentous fervor I'd never experienced before in my life. I turned to the one thing that could provide me comfort-writing. Did I care if anyone read what I wrote? No, not at all. I just wrote and thought and wrote until I felt better. And then I wrote some more. If you ask me what I feel now I would simply tell you peace. A comforting peace I never thought achievable through writing. Sure, I've written about my life experiences before, but there is something about the finality of death, and it's affect on people that makes you take notice of things you've never noticed before. Why did my brother have to die? The answer lay silently in the thoughts and words that floated around aimlessly in my head. And when I sat down at the keyboard and began carefully selecting the letters and words and nouns, verbs and adjectives and arranging them in sentences that answered the painful questions that plagued me, I realized that I was a writer. Perhaps the greatest gift of all my brother gave me was the gift of writing. Not so much because he taught me how to write, but because in death he showed me why I should write. His death taught me that I should share my world with those who would take the time to step into my shoes and allow themselves to experience life through my written words.

I am no longer ashamed or afraid to utter those four very precious words, I am a writer. I've watched my older sister pursue her love for writing with a passion unmatched by me. She too has the gift and she has decided not to let it go to waste. I am a writer. Will the words that I write ever feed me? I don't know, nor do I care because if I did, that would make me something less than a writer-that would make me a hack. I am a writer and writers write. And from this day forward, if someone asks me what it is that I do, I will look them squarely in the eye and say to them in life what my brother taught me to say through his death, I am a writer.

TPOKW

Things Borrowed

I'm 44-in 6 months I'll be 45...another 12 months I'll be 46, and so on. Last year I experienced a major loss-my wife and I separated....I lost my wife. Less than 24 hours ago I lost my only brother. He succumbed to lymphatic cancer. From where I stand I begin to wonder what really belongs to me. Is it really my life if one day I'll have to give it up? Was he my brother or was he just a life on loan to me? I mean, yes, he was my beloved brother, but what really belongs to us? Or is it that nothing really belongs to us. It's not our life; she wasn't my wife; he wasn't my brother-they were just on loan to me-things borrowed.

One day my mom called me to tell me that my brother was ill-he had cancer. It hurts too much now to discuss the details, but writing has always been my catharsis and I write now to put this all into perspective. My brother and I hadn't seen each other for quite some time-his life was his own and he chose to live it privately. But he was still my beloved brother-my big brother-my only brother, and now he's gone. My mother said that she was going to fly up to San Francisco and spend some time with him and I told her that I too would come up to visit. She left Wednesday and my plan was to come up after work on Friday. But my brother needed me sooner. He didn't say it verbally, he spoke to me in ways I cannot explain. I specifically scheduled my flight to leave on Friday. When I looked at my itinerary, by some twist of fate, my flight departed Thursday morning at 8:05 am. I was angry at the time, but now I regret being upset that I didn't get what I thought I'd purchased. Had I left Friday morning, my mother would have had to experience my brother's death alone. Fortunately, the gods, my mom, and the will of my brother brought me sooner.

I arrived and my brother was in extreme pain from the chemotherapy. We talked. Surprisingly, he didn't look too bad for a man who had cancer throughout his body. I walked through the door and his first words to me were, "Little brother!." He rarely called me by my name. As far back as I can remember I was always "little brother." My visit was brief. It wasn't long before my mother summonsed his doctor, his vitals were checked and the prognosis wasn't good. His medical team went into action trying to stabilize him. We still had no idea that he would leave us so soon. He was rushed to have a CT scan and then to intensive care. The doctors spoke to us-telling us that he was in really bad shape and that they were doing everything within their power to save him, but they didn't give us much hope.

My beloved brother died at 1:56 a.m. January 25, 2008. By his side was my mother and I. I watched as his blood pressure dropped to dangerously low levels and his heart rate slowed to a fatal 30 beats per minute. He was dying. But he was sedated and in no pain. I remember sitting in the chair next to his bed and having a wave of emotion rip through my body so strong that I could no longer contain it and I weeped uncontrollably. I was angry at myself, I'd come to be a comfort to my mother and here I was being comforted by her. My brother was dying and there was nothing I could do. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him. I wanted to tell him that he'd always been my great defender when we were younger-no one touched his little brother.

My mother told me that he held on long enough to see me and I love him so for hanging in there so that I could see him one last time-to hear his voice; to hear him say those precious two words to me one last time, "little brother." I promised myself I wouldn't "what if" or "if only" myself to death over his demise. I would accept it for what it was and help my family and myself heal. My brother held on long enough to give me the gift of his protective cloak. As long as I was his "little brother" I had nothing to fear. There were nights when I was a kid that I would be afraid, and I would climb into his bed and he'd always move over to make room for me. He was 7 years older than me and he watched over me and my sisters like a doting parent.

I'm going to miss knowing that I have a big brother in the world-just a phone call away. But I now understand that all things are borrowed, up to and including my own life. One day I'll have to return it to it's rightful owner. Our stay in this world is temporary and those who cross our path are on loan.

My mother and I have been comforting one another. She's talking non stop and even she knows it's to keep herself from focusing on my brother's death. From time to time she'll talk about it-she stops herself, and I encourage her to continue. One thing I do know, she is going to need me more than ever now. Fortunately I can devote the time. She told me today that I was her Ace. When her mother died, I flew out to Louisiana to be there by her side. I told her last night that we have to stop vacationing like this. I want her to know that she can rely on me come what may. It's a never ending circle. When I was a newborn, she took care of me, and now it's my turn to be her rock.

I don't want to preach to or lecture anyone. I just would like to ask everyone to take a look at the people who you've borrowed, or those who've borrowed you. Take a look at those who are on loan to you and appreciate them, for nothing truly belongs to us. Our wives and husbands, brothers and sister, mothers and fathers are simply on loan to us-and us to them. Cherish every moment.

Lamarr Marcus O'Neal
April 21, 1956-January 25, 2008

Rest in peace my beloved brother.

TPOKW

MLK & Greed

Martin Luther King fought for more than just civil rights for black people. Watch below.



It's real simple people-we have to buy back America. We outnumber them. We have to get together financially and buy the country back-otherwise, they'll strip the place and nothing will be left.

TPOKW

Watch This Before April 15th-But Still Pay Your Taxes

Slave Day Trading

Every now and then an errant memory will pop into my head and I'll wonder what the hell were any of us thinking at the time the actual event occurred. Like the time my three friends and I were at Disneyland in Anaheim, California and we were watching this 3-girl group onstage. The girls seemed to be staring right at us as they sang their songs and we were all blown away that these 3 beautiful young ladies were showing us all this attention. It never dawned on us that we were the only people watching them, so who the hell else were they supposed to sing to? Young minds are easily led astray-anyway, that's not what I wanted to discuss. Around about the same time, maybe a few years prior, my 2 friends and I were in junior high school and one of the annual activities we'd have was slave day. Yes, you read correctly, slave day.

On slave day, we'd all go to the assembly area and we would auction off certain students (of all racial make up) to the highest bidder. Of course the cute guys and girls usually went for the highest price. There would be chains manufactured out of construction paper, and the highest bidder would retrieve their slave for the day.

I never bid on anyone (I don't think the slave would participate in the events that existed in my deviant mind), nor would I allow myself to be humiliated by being auctioned off. The day always left a sour taste in my mouth. And this morning it dawned on me, (some 30 years later), how ridiculously insulting such an event was. How could you actually have a school in America, with approximately 3/5 of the students of African descent, participating in such an awful event. Yes, I know it was in fun. But to me it would be synonymous with having a Holocaust day where we put students on trains destined for concentration camps, and conducted simulated exterminations of students in gas chambers, all in fun. There's not a Jew on the planet, not one, that would stand for such ridiculousness. So why is it that we had almost 100% participation in this event? I'll answer it for you, we're an unconscious people. I admit I didn't care for the day at all, but I wish at the age of 13 I would have launched a protest. I was a pretty Afro-conscious kid. I once challenged my history teacher to an impromptu debate in front of the entire class regarding America and her supposed unblemished war record. I summarily reminded Mr. Rhett Gray that America had just had her ass handed to her in the Vietnam war. The impromptu debate abruptly ended. Final score- Young Black Impoverished Student-1, Uninformed Propaganda Spewing History Teacher-0.

In retrospect I do know why I didn't launch a protest. First of all, I didn't really understand how systematic racism was. I thought it was based solely on individuals. For instance, Mr. Gray is a racist, but Miss Brandsberg isn't, (that's because Ms. Brandsberg was too busy being a pedophile...seriously, but that's an issue for another blog). When you slice racism up into small bite-sized pieces, it's much easier to swallow isn't it? You have this notion that you can pick and choose the people you associate with. You can work for companies where racism is nonexistent. But what the mind of a 13 year old doesn't realize is that racism is built into the very fabric of American society and the only way you can get around it is to a). leave, like so many did in the 60's when they emigrated to Europe, or b). dismantle the entire racist system.

It took years for me to accept that racism would never go away in this country; that it would always be a part of my every day living. I would always have to be conscious of the fact that my skin is dark (beautiful, but dark), and that my actions would always be judged based upon a perceived notion that black people are all lazy, shiftless, unintelligent, criminals steeped in anti-social behavior. When I walk into a department store, I'm going to be watched. When I sit down at a restaurant, the assumption is that I can't pay for the meal I am about to consume-and everyone (including myself) breathes a sigh of relief when I pay. I will always have to answer for the crimes of other blacks and the level of trust I might of earned from my coworkers and non black associates has been reduced to zero because Johnny Cochran got O.J. off, or the Rodney King riots, or the Jenna 6 were released. I will always be viewed with an air of suspicion because to be black and accused of a crime in America is as good as being guilty.

When you infiltrate the minds of young people at an early age, it's easy to get them to accept certain things in life-be those things positive or negative. Just as easily as we participated (without protest) in the slave day festivities, a young mind can be persuaded to start a business or focus their attention on the more positive aspects of life. Those early years are extremely vital. Although I didn't protest the slave day, I definitely didn't care for it. I can see the difference between some of my former classmates and myself-we definitely have entirely different views about the world. They seem to have accepted their station in life, whereas I've always raged against the machine. I've always tried to rally people to institute change. Maybe not so much in the world in general, but at least in the small world in which we live. Alas, I've exhausted myself trying to not only drag the mule to water, but also have him drink. Now, I'd like to simply walk away from it all. From the slave days; from the Jenna 6 situations; from the racist mindsets that compel white people to scream "OJ did it!" when it was the very system that they designed that freed the man.

I get exhausted when I think of how ignorant and naive the majority of us all are. Who knew that our big brains could be so flawed? How is it that in the 70's, not long after a decade of intense struggles for civil rights, that we would voluntarily participate in mock slave trading? How could this happen? We were supposed to be the successive generation to further the struggle-and there we were, participating in a mockery of the tragic events our ancestors were brutally forced into. To this day I am ashamed. Not so much because I participated, but because I didn't stand up to the establishment and tell them to knock that fucking shit off! No matter how you sliced it, this event was an abomination.

Perhaps the 44 year old me is being too hard on the 13 year old me. But if you knew me at 13 you'd wouldn't agree. I was a militant and I had my ideas and beliefs about the establishment-and often I voiced them. I remember once when I was about to whip a white classmates ass, an African-American kid intervened...on behalf of the white kid. I never looked at that boy the same. To me, he was a race traitor and at the age of 13, I decided if ever I was in a position of power, I would imprison him for his treason. Fortunately for Noble, that day never came.

It makes me wonder at times exactly what the black students of today are experiencing in school. What else have they slipped under the radar that is a mockery of our experience here in this country? What I do know is this: we've definitely been tarnished by our experience here. It has shaped us in ways we don't realize. It might not have changed our physical appearance, but mentally, we've become something other than human. And we don't even know it.

So today I am officially announcing my plan to expatriate myself. I'm not sure where I will settle, but within the next 5 years my goal is to leave the United States. Europe comes to mind, but I haven't decided. Paris or Spain would be my initial choices, but there might be a place in a warmer climate that I might prefer. One thing's for certain, I have no intentions of being buried on U.S. soil.

TPOKW?