The N-Word

Recently, a “friend’s” Facebook page posted a status update including the N-word. I, being the loud-mouthed smartass that I am, felt the need to post a response on her comment. Because of Facebook’s settings (even though I removed her from my friends) I still got updates when others commented on her wall post. I was, frankly, depressed by the number of people who defended her use of the word. One person even responded, “…racism and segregation are over…” and suggested I just needed to get over it.

As I made my way home, I stewed over the situation and decided to break down all the arguments so that people will, hopefully understand why the N-word pisses me off so much.

1.) "It's just a word."--True, it is just a word, but words have power. The things that we say have an effect on others, and if you're going to put words like that out there then you need to be ready for the reaction you may receive.

2.) It's in rap song"/"People say it all the time."--True. The word is featured prominently in rap songs, and quite a few people use the word in everyday conversation. That doesn't make it any more right. People have jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge before, but does that mean I'm lining up to take the plunge? Nope. Which brings me to my next point...

3.) "Black people use it."--True. Nevermind the arguments about taking back the word or taking the sting out of it by using it liberally. That's another coluimn. My answer to this argument goes back to response #2: just because someone else uses it doesn't make it okay for you to.

4.) "Racism isn't around any more, so it doesn't matter."--False. Let's not kid ourselves here. As long as there are human beings that judge others for superficial reasons, there will be racism and discrimination. While we can mandate people's behavior, there's nothing we can feasibly do to change the hearts and minds of others. At least not overnight.

5.) "Well, it doesn't bother me..."--I think it's awesome that you're so highly evolved and open-minded but you're not the only one who hears the things that you say. You don't know where I've been or what I've been called, so don't go throwing around loaded words and looking shocked that I'm pissed off.

Now that I’ve gotten all that off my chest, I feel much better. Thank you for listening to the ramblings of an angry Black man.

Friendship is like herpes...it's forever.

Sometimes I wonder what people think of me. Don’t get me wrong—I long ago stopped giving a damn about people’s opinion, I’m just curious about the impression that I leave with others. I like to imagine myself an outgoing, passionate, funny person, but I know that others might interpret those qualities as being loud, pushy, and obnoxious. My sensitivity may come across as moodiness and my…. oh, let’s just call me a whack-job and be done with it.

But my point is this: no matter what my flaws, I’ve managed to surround myself with a group of friends gracious enough to overlook them. They welcome my contributions and forgive my transgressions. Their only request of me is that I be the best and happiest version of myself possible. And in return, I only have to offer the same consideration. In order to have a friend, I have to be a friend. I have to be just as slow to anger, and just as quick to forgive. Fortunately I’ve had good examples to follow.

There’s my friend, Ashley, who used her connections (not to mention talking a big game about me) to get me a job when things were looking a bit bleak on the employment front. There’s also Lauren, who realized I was having a bad (horrible) night at work and pulled me aside. She made me repeat some nonsense phrase until I started laughing and the proverbial clouds were broken. There are the friends that got me cleaned up and kept me from getting bounced when I threw up in a bar on my birthday. I should especially mention my friend John, who wound up with some of my dinner on his right boot. My bad. There are also the people who’ve gotten out of warm beds to come pick me up after I was “over-served” (yet again, at a bar) while downtown. Speaking of rides, I’ve been picked up from schools, jobs, gyms, detention centers (I’d rather not get into that one), and morning-after walks of shame. And each time, it was made perfectly clear that the friend was offering the service because we were friends, not because anything was expected in return.

The best thing I can do is be that kind of friend to others. I need to be just as generous with my time and talents. I need to be just as open with my own heart as my friends have been with theirs. I’ve been blessed with great friends, and the best way I can repay that is by being a great one myself.

Jessica's Daily Affirmations (click the title for the link)

I ran across this online and had to share it. It just lifted my spirits so much, so here you are....

Trey Pound Looks at Life

A friend once asked me about my luck. I kid about having bad luck, but the truth is, I’m one fortunate sum’bitch. I’ve never had any life-threatening illnesses that couldn’t be managed; I’ve managed to avoid major jail-time/sentences; I have a large network of friends and family that love me for me. All in all, life is pretty freaking good. And I think that’s in no small part due to the way I look at life. I’ve always believed that we get back what we put out into the universe. Not in a “karma” kinda way, this is a little different. Whatever Higher Power you believe in—God, Vishnu, She-ra—wants you to be happy. As such, your Higher Power stands ready to give you what you desire. So if you go into the world expecting to find misery and sorrow at every turn, guess what you’re going to encounter. However, if you approach life with an attitude of gratitude and consider yourself blessed and highly favored, then the blessings you expect will come your way. I’m not getting all hippy-dippy or Bible-thumpy here, I’m just stating my opinion. If you expect to go out and find misery, you’ll find it; if you go out expecting to find joy and happiness, you’ll find that, too. So be careful what you go looking for, because you might just get it.

A Trip Down Pot Lane

I’ve always wondered about my fascination with marijuana. I never experimented in high school—both my parents taught at my school, so that was out of the question. In fact, I led a rather sheltered existence until college. And like people that go a little crazy in college, when I went, I went big.

My first time smoking weed was with my freshman year dorm-mate, “Greg.” “Greg” was from a town about an hour away and had led as sheltered an upbringing as my own. He’d bought a bag of weed from a cousin of his, and wanted to get high. However, like me, he’d never rolled a blunt/joint before, and didn’t know how to proceed. So we figured we’d both give it a shot (this was in the days before YouTube.com) and between his efforts and mine, we’d get high somehow. We managed to roll two of the sloppiest joints I’ve ever seen but the mission was ultimately accomplished.

I wasn’t sure what “high” felt like at first, but it didn’t take long to get the point. On a normal day, my mind is all over the place. Random thoughts (usually of a smartass nature) fire constantly and the periphery is filled with ideas and concepts for my writing. But that night in the dorm room, I felt myself completely focused for the first time in my life. My mind was absolutely and totally focused on….nothing at all. Had you been able to insert a microphone into my head that night, you’d have heard the sound of wind whistling across the deserted open plains, with the occasional cricket sounding off for good measure. And I loved it. I loved the quiet inside my head, and how little I really gave a shit at that moment.

And now, all these years later, it’s still the same. Every time I pack a bowl I still feel the same giddy feeling of Here it comes! as the flame approaches the green. As the bowl warms, and the green chars, then burns, then starts to create smoke, I pull at the pipe like a starved babe at the teat. As that funky smoke fills my lungs (smelling vaguely like a cross between socks and pine straw) I know I’m almost there. I’m only seconds away from feeling like my brain is trying to sneak out of the back of my head.

Okay, show of hands: who already figured out I was stoned as I wrote this?

Am I writing a book yet?

It started with a quote I heard from Alice Walker when describing her artistic process for Urban Style (an entertainment program highlighting Black personalities), “If I write a page or two a day, then at the end of the year, I’ll have a book.” When I heard that, it hit me like a bolt of lightning—I’ve been going about this all wrong. I’ve wanted to be an author all my life, but I’ve allowed myself to become overwhelmed by the idea of writing a book. It just seemed like such a huge thing to write a book. So I allowed my insecurities to stop me from pursuing it. But seeing someone who’s managed the task successfully—not to mention repeatedly—break it down so simply put it into new perspective for me. I guess it’s similar to Rome not having been built in a day. Anything worth doing is worth taking your time and doing right. I’m out of clichés, so I hope my point has been made. If I just take this a page at a time, I can accomplish something really special.

The problem is, just what should I write? I still like the idea of a semi-autobiographical fictional spy novel called Just Smart Enough to be Dangerous, but lately it’s been suggested to me that my daily internet ramblings could be compiled in a coffee table book. The working title is Brain Sharts from Uncle Trey Pound but that’s open to negotiation. See, with my ADD-addled brain, I’ve got ideas firing with every waking moment. Sometimes I’ll have to text myself an idea just to make sure I’ll remember it later. I’ve also been known to email myself a phrase in the middle of the night because I got an idea that I knew I’d be able to use in my writing. I’ve considered overlapping Crash-style plotlines; I tossed around the concept of a Beverly Cleary-style coming-of-age novel; I’ve debated short stories versus a memoir. Then I ridiculed myself for thinking I had anything relevant or important enough to say to justify writing a memoir. Then I beat myself up for ridiculing myself. The shame-spiral ended in vodka, and let’s just leave it at that. That’s when the genius switch in my brain clicked on (I love it when that happens) and I realized that the best way to tell a story (which is the goal of any author) is to tell a story with which I’m familiar. So that means it’s going to involve some element of my own life. And since it’s going to involve my life, then it’s going to involve copious amounts of alcohol and sexual excess—but I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. In fact, I can recall several books I’ve read (and loved) that featured alcoholism and sexual depravity as key plot components. In retrospect, that may be why I enjoyed them, but that’s neither here nor there.

But the type of book I attempt (very important word that one, “attempt”) almost doesn’t matter. What matters more is embracing the adventure. Living isn’t just about living to see another day—though some beg to differ. I believe life is more about the adventures that make said life worth living. Speaking in clichés, life is defined by the moments that take your breath away. And the idea that I could write a book takes my breath away. The idea that I might put words on paper, and that someone else might read those words—on purpose—makes me slightly dizzy.

In Memory of Sgt. Neal

There are certain people that come into our lives, and leave a definite impression. I’ve been blessed in that it’s a long list of people who’ve cared for me, believed in me, and gone out on the proverbial limb for me. One of those people was Sgt. Wiley T. Neal.

Sgt. Neal was larger than life before there really was a concept. He had a booming voice that could make you unconsciously clench, but could lower to the most confidential whisper when telling you he believed in you and everything you were capable of. He nit-picked every detail of our JROTC uniforms, but only because he believed we were capable of better.

Since Sgt. Neal and my father were both JROTC instructors at North Pitt High School, Sgt. Neal was more than a teacher—more even than a parent’s co-worker—he was like an uncle to me.

So when my mom called and told me that Sgt. Neal had gone on to answer the Great Roll Call in the Sky, I didn’t mourn the passing of a teacher. I didn’t even mourn the passing of a man who’d dedicated his entire adult life to service in one form or another. I mourned for one of my heroes.

See, heroes (in their truest forms) are rare. We tend to throw the word around to anyone that goes out of his/her way to help another. While it’s always admirable to be of service to our fellow humans, there’s something more required to earn the title of “Hero.” A real hero doesn’t act based on what he’s heard is right or wrong; a real hero acts based on what he knows is right. A real hero knows that the ones who need the help the most are the least likely to ask for it, but he stands ready to offer it anyway. By that standard (or by any other, for that matter) Sgt. Wiley T. Neal (US Army Retired) was a Hero. And he was one of my Heroes. And he will be missed.