Off the Deep-End

When I was around eleven years old, my siblings and I went on a day trip with my mother’s church congregation to Bear Mountain in Upstate N.Y. This being one of the rare moments in my life when I was actually out in the world with my mother, I remember a lot about the trip fondly; me, my mother, and brothers walking the entire perimeter of Bear Mountain’s lake; the men in the group firing up the Barbecue grills and becoming paternal to every child who passed them with concerned, furrowed brows, and “did you eat yets”; my first baseball glove, a black leather, Lousiville Slugger, Wade Boggs autographed -in gold, thank you very much- work of art and craftsmanship that started me on my love affair with the defensive side of American Rounders that I still carry to this day; and the pool I almost died in.

I know, I know. We can definitely unpack that.

Weirdly, I don’t remember much leading up to the line for the diving board. I do remember it being early midday. My mom, showing the usual amount of faith in her children not to get lost or kidnapped, delivered the two words my eleven year old mind had already begun to link with adventure, “Go play.” I’m positive she added the loophole of the First Born Son clause, the dreaded “and take your brothers with you,” but I’m also sure she called me a “little fucker” when she realized I was already gone.

I’m sorry Mama, but you gotta be quicker than that.

From that moment to reaching the Bear Mountain pool things are a blur until I am standing on the line to the diving board. There is, of course, a kiddy pool for children, but at eleven, I have convinced myself I’ve outgrown it.

My adrenaline pumps panic, fear, and excitement into my veins so steadily that all four feet, three inches of me is covered in goose pimples despite the ninety degree weather I’m being baked alive in. I crane my neck around the person in front of me on the line to get a better look at the diving board; I’ve never seen one in person. The thin, white plank seems both unable to support my weight and unnecessarily high above the water. Realizing, while the line shuffles forward steadily, that I can’t see the bottom of the pool sends a chill up my spine I pretend not to notice.

I don’t know how to swim, but have been watching little white children cannonball off of diving boards on tv and in movies since I was a pup, surely it isn’t that difficult. However, to be sure I’m not in over my head, I poke the teenager in front of me on the line in the ribs to get his attention.

“Hey,” I begin in my pip squeak South Bronx accent, “is diving scary?”

He turns around and looks at me with the know-it-all smirk of adolescence, a perfect tan that only comes with being a beach bum, and tousled hair that says he can’t be bothered to take anything seriously. Kismet has given me my very own Mitch Buchannon and I thank my God for it’s timing. Seeing the fear in my eyes, Baywatch loses the smirk and replaces it with a look of concern before responding.

“Dude, it’s really easy, believe me.”

“But the water’s really deep.” I observe nervously, never taking my eyes off of the pool’s surface.

“Yeah, but you’ll float, Little Dude.”

“I will?”

“You will. The trick is to get a really good bounce off the board, then swimming like hell towards the light once you’re under. Y’see how everybody just pops back up?”

Baywatch had a point. Every person who jumped off the diving board disappeared for a moment, no more than two mississippis max, before breaking the water’s surface easily and swimming off towards the edge of the pool, but his confidence didn’t give me confidence. His surety, I knew, would not suddenly transform me into Aquaman. His confidence came from knowledge of self. My lack of came from lack of.

This moment has been on my mind a lot in my thirty-fourth year. That feeling standing there, a fear of the unknown mixed with stubborn resolve. It’s the exact same feeling I’ve been having when it comes to my romp through Higher Education. As I edge towards graduation, week after week, paper after paper, exam after exam, I don’t know what awaits me when I do graduate and dive off the deep end, but I can’t bring myself to leave the line.

To be honest, I never wanted to go back to school. I never want to go today. But I did for two reasons. First, looking around at the world a few years ago, I realized there was so much about it that I didn’t know. Granted, I’ve made my way in this world by having a not-too-shabby level of common sense and an ability to ask the right questions. Enough of these questions, mixed  with personal experience led, naturally, to a pretty decent set of conclusions about my environment. But a Black boy was killed in February of 2012 for existing, and in 2015 another hung himself after the world put him in prison for three years for that same “offense,” and all before, between, and after these two instances, stories like these took place as my son, a little black boy in his own right, grew older. Learning the “why” behind these atrocities and what, if anything, I could do to ensure my kid didn’t experience these things became a personal imperative.

Second, I told myself I’d never go to school unless I knew exactly what I  wanted to do. The only professions I ever took even remotely serious as a child, the only professions I thought I could do with any semblance of lifelong passion, were writer and carpenter. I’ve always believed I was good enough in the former to avoid needing any formal training past knowing how to use commas properly, and the latter? Well, Ikea became a thing, and video killed the radio star all over again.

Still, I looked around at the world in my early thirties, realized I thought I knew it, discovered I had no idea about it, and sensed I finally knew what I wanted to be in it. I’d join the ranks of the chosen few who can look at this wad of dirt and chaos, parse it effectively, then explain it to others who have neither the time, inclination, or both to do it themselves. I would become a Sociologist.

First hand clap gets back slapped.

You want to know a secret?

Of course you do.

You can’t know, and I mean really know and be happy. I’ve learned a lot from studying the world and it’s institutions these past three and a half years. The things I’ve been taught in the classrooms and lecture halls, mixed with the knowledge I’ve obtained living in the world have led me to two conclusions; there are two types of ways to use and prove one’s power, and both boil down to “Because I can.” That’s the secret.

I know, it isn’t a very good secret when you stop to think about it. 

Instead, think about this:

Picture a handicap parking spot. Now imagine a person with no discernible handicap, parking in this spot and walking away, leaving their car there and taking up this space for hours. Now imagine a cop passes by and notices there is no handicap sign dangling from the rearview mirror of this car. They proceed to write out a ticket. As the cop places the ticket on the windshield and begins to walk away, the owner of the car walks up and tells the cop to remove the ticket. Ninety-nine percent of the time the cop is going to refuse and go about their day, but in this instance it turns out the person who so blatantly flouted the rules is the Commissioner of this cops Police Department. Of course the cop can stick to his conviction and prove no one is above the law in this moment, but what if they know this Commissioner has a penchant for retaliation that has led to at least one officer being let go from the force for crossing him? It is much more likely that the cop is going to tear up and toss that ticket than not. The Commissioner has power here. He knows this and doesn’t care about the repercussions because the repercussions can’t affect him. Because of this, he will continue to park in the handicap spot, because he can. 

This power makes millions of dollars at the expense of the health and safety of the only planet it will ever inhabit, because it can; This power makes laws that destroy individuals and the communities they're from, then with the audacity of the kids who deny the Trix Rabbit a bowl of cereal his image graces the box of, tells these same communities it’s their own fault opportunities are withheld from them, because it can; This power kills people. On camera. Unjustifiably. And gets a decade long desk job, instead of being fired immediately with an understanding that clearly “protect” and “serve” are concepts that have gone over the heads of some people tasked with both, because it can; This power is every utterance of “because I said so,” every “do as I say, not as I do,” every “fuck you, pay me”; This power is what fuels the rat race, or rather, the idea of this power is what everyone running in this race covets. This twisted idea that grants you freedom specifically and purposefully while suppressing everyone else’s. I do not want this power anymore.

In my younger days, when I fancied myself a world renowned rapper in the making, I wrote a line that started, 

“There’s a certain selfishness behind selflessness that I can’t get behind…” 

Imagine, being so averse to giving of yourself to others that you label those with the capacity to do so as selfish. To be fair, I had my head down, sprinting forward as hard as I could in the race, hoping happiness was somewhere past one of the ever recurring finish lines. 

I realize now that happiness is in the marathon itself, in cheering on and encouraging people who run the race with you; in lending a helping hand with nothing expected in return, not applause, not slaps on the back, no “good jobs” or “way to gos,” not even “thank yous.” And here is where I want my power to grow; helping because I can.

We’ve all been suckered into believing that we need more to help more, but has that ever been the case? I ask because nothing’s ever trickled down from Mt. High onto this life I’m leading and those at the top of that mountain have plenty. But the systems were all designed with exploitation, not humanity in mind. If that’s true, and I believe it is, then I have to also believe that where I’m able to help, I should help, because I can, and for no other reason.

Eleven year old me on that line for the diving board was frightened because he didn’t know what he was capable of. I’m frightened now because I know what the world’s capable of, and in this knowing, is the fear that I will lose myself caring for a thing that won’t return the affection given, or worse still, that I will lose myself in a quest to obtain the worst kind of power believing it can help in making the world around me a better place. As I stand here at 34, staring into the unknown, unable to see into the depths of my own future, and fearing that future because of my uncertainty, I think about eleven year old Jerrald’s resolve. Despite his fear he stayed on that line, he shuffled forward, and as best he could, when the time came, he took what he’d seen and learned, and took a leap of faith. Because he could.

When my time comes, I will as well. Because I can.