Write, Mind

     You know, I had a violent, insulting post all mapped out. It was going to call out fake friends, real enemies, and the like. But this last year has taught me the only thing I ever need to focus on is my goals and they'll fall like dominoes. I don't care about anything else.     For the record, if you ever said I had no honor, Magna Cum Laude with ANOTHER Honors in the subject of Sociology itself. Whatever you said doesn't matter.     For the record, if you ever called me a thief, you probably paid me handsomely to rob you. Whatever you said doesn't matter.    For the record, if you ever disrespected my name and it wasn't to my face, whatever you said doesn't matter.     For the record, I'm living my dream and it terrifies me, but I'd be more frightened if I wasn't at this point in history. Whatever you're doing doesn't matter.      I had a friend greet me with the salutation "The realist nigga in the streets!" t...

  Once I was 7 years old… My Nana told me, “Boy if you don’t put down that damn comic book, and straighten up this room…” And I did, quickly. After, I went right on reading, such was my love for the Amazing Spider-Man.  In the story, he was battling the Prowler. Imagine my shock when Spidey unmasked the villain and he was a black kid. A teenager named Hobie Brown with a chip on his shoulder who’d turned to a life of crime. The backstory for this turn, to me, was wax paper flimsy. He’d been fired from his job at the —wait for it— car wash and jumped the tracks into a life of crime to make a name for himself. Compared to the origin stories of Norman Osborn, Eddie Brock,  Adrian Toomes, and others in the Web-Slingers rogue gallery, Brown’s left much to be desired. But Spidey convinced the kid to go straight and narrow, The Prowler became a hero, and for the next 28 years I saw most black superheroes my eyes came across with similar back stories. Luke Cage, the first Bla...

A large white room. A mahogany desk sits along the far wall with two leather chairs (behind and in front of the desk, respectively). The desktop is empty except for a marble ashtray. Jack is sitting behind the desk, his feet up on its top. He holds a cigarette in his left hand, opens and closes a gold zippo lighter with his right. On the floor along the walls are various paintings. In the center of the room sit two duffle bags surrounded by clothes and random items Jerrald is packing haphazardly into one of the bags. Sirens can be heard faintly in the distance. Jerrald: Y’know, you could help pack. Jack: (takes a deep pull of his cigarette; he leans back in his chair and exhales the smoke towards the ceiling, continuing to perform simple tricks with the zippo lighter) I mean, you look like you’ve got it handled. Jerrald: More hands, less work. Jack: Maybe. But what if I have arthritis? Jerrald: (stops packing, but remains hunched over staring up at Jack) Do you have ar...