Men That Beg: "I miss you"

It was in one of my previous post that I randomly said “art is pain.” I declared that I would do an entire post with that quote as the focal point. I will, but that time is not now. Today I refer back to that quote because as I sit in my apartment listening to The Chi-Lites “Have you seen her”, I am reminded that it is that pain, that raw emotion that brings a smile to my face. Oldies warm my heart. They take me from my current situation of observing too many men take too many good women for granted, to a place where men pour their hearts out for them. It’s like they bled on those records. They bleeeeed. They bled in a way that rappers who prematurely say “I’m going to bleed on this track” can’t even fathom. It’s exactly that back in the day “rapping” my mother refers to, when she talks about men knowing how to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment. She calls it rapping. I call it begging. And while I’m not fond of men who beg, I am favoring of men strong enough to be desperate for an incredible woman.

I have long established that I am generationally misplaced in a way that leaves me feeling like my old soul is being compromised by this modern age. I often wonder how I would have been “courted” if I dated men blessed enough to have the “oldies” as their generation’s music. Oldies, the kind of music that gave men a reference point on how to appreciate and treat women. Plainly, this music had an effect on how those men regarded women. I would even be willing to bet, if this kind of emotionally charged music was blaring from men’s radios today their hearts would reflect it. Life would imitate art. They would be better men for it.

The only genre of music I label, hesitantly, as comparable to old school soul is Rhythm and Blues* (R&B). Actually, this was the blanket label that all Black music received in the twentieth century. Sadly, even contemporary R&B is being phased out on mainstream radio. In its place, rap is monopolizing. To make matters worse, the pop like songs that fill the nominal place of R&B do not remotely scratch the surface of what soul sounds like. Erykah Badu, whose music I have recently discovered an appreciation for, I heard took to twitter recently to verbalize her disgust with the current state of the soul in music. I share similar sentiments. Where is the soul? Even when I hear songs that express feelings of love it seems so artificial and contrived when you place it alongside oldies from men like Marvin Gaye.

For several months I have contemplated the difference in the quality of emotion showcased in R&B compared to the oldies. It doesn’t make sense that these male artists seemingly pour their hearts out, and the end result is still-- flat. I listen to a Brian McKnight cover of Marvin Gaye’s Distant Lover and I literally laugh at his poor rendition of it. The fact that he would even try to cover a classic like Distant Lover is laughable, but more-so the way that he thought he could cover it without committing to the song was what really tickled me. His cover though, is a perfect indication of the current state of what use to be soul music—these men are trying to be cute with it. These male singers are putting artificial sweetener in the tea, and like artificial sweetener it taste bitter. There is nothing pretty about soul. An attempt to make it cute is going to be a failure on its face. Soul is a combination of desperation, pain, and bliss. An emotion intensified is what it is. This kind of exaggeration is not pretty. It’s ugly. You don’t smile through soul.

I watch people regard Trey Songz like a modern-day Marvin Gaye and it’s funny to me. Instead, I see him as an overgrown boy. He sings about sex often but the way he sings about it reminds me of an inexperienced boy mimicking what his older brother said on the subject. I’m not saying Trey Songz is a virgin, by any stretch of the imagination. I’m just saying that his attempt at trying to sound passionate and sexy comes off hoaxy. To be sexy and passionate when you sing about sex, I would think you would need to intimately know the soul of the thing. He obviously doesn’t know the soul of sex.

And this is what I have come to believe is the problem with male artists today. I don’t think they sing with any soul because they haven’t found it yet. It is my belief that soul is created through hardships. I think soul becomes visible through the evolution of that adversity. On both points, I think modern day men are lacking. Further, I don’t think you hear the soul in these men’s voices when they sing about losing a woman because they don’t know the pain associated with losing one. In order to feel that kind of pain he would have had to place a lot of value in her in the first place. I think that goes to the deeper reason for the absence of soul—men’s decreased value in a sole woman.

A friend of mine, who will smile as he reads this, is one of the best quality men I know. If I have a daughter one day I would feel comfortable with her loving a man like him. I asked this great quality man what he thought on the issue of modern music compared to the oldies. He told me that songs are different now because women have made men different. He thinks that the value of women overall has diminished in men’s minds because there are so many bad quality ones that allow men to run amuck. Although we go through different avenues we both arrive at the same dead-end road. The songs sound different because men feel differently about women. And again I say, this comes from one of the best quality men I know.

I try to do at least two miles of cardio a day. What takes me to three or four miles is when Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes I Miss You randomly pops up from my shuffled play-list. It gives me just the burst of energy I need to go another thirty or forty minutes. Its takes me to a whole different level. It excites me, inspires me. (Full disclosure: it sometimes makes me teary eyed, leaving me trying to camouflage the tears as sweat). And if the incredibly beautiful pitches and perfect harmonic tones are not enough, towards the end of the song he stops singing and just talks to her. He talks for five minutes of the song. At one point he begs“If I could just/If I could just see you/Can’t really say what you mean or what you want over the phone/I swear I miss you/You’ve done heard it ten times or more but/I swear I done changed/I swear I done changed.”

Listen to those words. It’s not the validity in what he’s saying that is so on point for me. Has he changed? Probably not. This man is saying whatever he can to get back into his woman’s good graces. He goes from “I’ve changed”, to” I’ve got a gig” to “I won the lottery”. Nothing in what he is saying logically flows. The point is, his words don’t have to necessarily be perfect. With perfection though he completely humbles himself for her. He puts his pride aside. I swear on this blog, if a man that I remotely still had feelings for just played this song for me because he was unable to find words of his own, without a second thought he’d be forgiven. I make this promise, so freely, because I know that men of my generation will never call my bluff. Men of my generation wouldn’t think to do this for a sole woman. Even if she is a soul woman.

* Neo-Soul definitely came to mind but it does not have the historical implication that R&B does.

**Please if you don’t know the songs I am referring to listen to them here, here and here. Even if you do, just go for the reminder.

And on The Seventh Day There was Light

Just days ago I wrote another entire post. As the sun beamed in my window this morning I knew that I would have to abandon that piece until a later date. To be fair, I feel that my readers should catch some of the sunlight that has been cast upon me. I’m not just talking about the sunlight that beautifully filled my living room this morning. I am talking about a light in my spirit. A light that enables me to internally close a book in my life without the impulse to open it for the millionth time, peek and see if the story gets better. I guess, this was the “peace of mind” a wise woman once spoke of. I was going through a relatively difficult experience and when she said it I did not understand how I was to find this hidden abstract place of solidarity. And today, as I write saying that I have found it, I still couldn’t say how. Luckily my purpose in writing this is not to tell others how to find it. That kind of peace of mind is either divine intervention realized or the natural progression of pain evolved. I write about my light because I want people to know that this light I am experiencing is at everyone’s window they just have to remove whatever it is that is obstructing it.

I find that wherever I go a literal break of sunlight always seems to find me and dances playfully on my face. There is no other time that I feel as content as when sunlight is near. Without it my spirit dies. It is not surprising then that other people sitting in a room with me would be blessed enough to catch some of my rays. What I have discovered though, is that if I don’t have the right person in that room with me, then they don’t understand a spirit like mine needs something of equal luminosity to balance it. They don’t understand me and therefore don’t understand the necessity of the light. So, they somehow make themselves over to my window and stupidly stand there, cutting off my light. And my spirit dies. And I am stifled.

I continued to think on this sunlight motif as I sat at one of my favorite brunch spots. I was enjoying some alone time, just me and the November issue of Vogue Magazine. I was sitting at the bar because Sunday brunch is obviously booming in the area and there were no available tables. As I sat there for a few moments the sunlight, once again, found me. It was there only for me as it put itself right in my face. I even did a once over of the room to see if the light was saying hello to anyone else. It wasn’t. The light and heat were so intense that I had to move over to the seat beside me. I hated to abandon my light but it was just too much in that moment. I then realized that the sunlight beaming through my window, that constant light that stays with me, is not for everyone. Just like I had to move because it was too intense and blinding maybe sometimes others feel similarly. The light that comes with me can only be tolerated by people that appreciate and value it. I grew continuously peaceful in spirit as my sun taught me that those leaving my room were not of spirit conducive to remain there. Understandably, if the heat is too hot, the light too piercing then they should leave.

As I sat in my living room this morning and thought about that sunlight and why I had been missing it I realized that it was there the entire time. I was missing it because I allowed a large figure to stand in front of it, not remembering that I need that light. Instead of saying “excuse me mam, excuse me sir, could you please stop blocking the window.” I just sat and let their shadow cast down on me. And in their shadow was my demise. They were soaking up all of the light, intended for me, and greedily letting me remain in darkness.

So, while I am happy for finding my light again, I hope it is inspiring to others to find theirs. It is just on the other side of that big brooding figure in front of you. The figure-- a person or something metaphysical. Whatever it is you should just ask it to move a little to the right. “Excuse me sir, could you please stop blocking the window.”

Aside: I worry that with this renewed spirit my pieces will lack heart. I find that I am most creative when my heart is heavy. Just know, I am bright in disposition but eternally dark at the core. I will have some heart wrenching stuff too. I’m just enjoying the light right now.

Slow Motion and Other Random Thoughts

So, my material has been a bit heavy lately. I’m in need of a light post! I am really trying to be consistent with my postings and do at least one a week but I am coming off a week that was way too much! Too much going on. I am physically and emotionally exhausted. Anyway, this would be a great time to do another rendition of “random thoughts” (also known as: something light). If you didn’t check out the last installment you can find it here. I will be back with something juicy and probably just a little inappropriate in the next week or so!

1.Life would be better in slow motion. It’s so romantic. Sometimes (and by sometimes I mean often) I imagine life in slow motion. It would have a real ethereal feel to it. I think our creator (whoever that may be) got this whole real-time thing messed up. Real-time, how vanilla is that. I mean, really. Just vanilla.

2.There is nothing more sexy than jazz. I die for it! Die! Even if a man is as flat as juice, I think he could just put on some jazz, add a glass of wine and we’d be good. Really good. More specifically, the saxophone is an aphrodisiac. There is something so exhilarating about it. There's an implied pain in that instrument that is so moving that it can't help but create intimacy. It’s rich and meaningful and still seductive. Just sexy.

3. Art is pain. I love pain for that reason alone. There is a beautiful quality to it. There's no emotion more raw or true than it. Art exists because pain exits. I know I’m dark—I’ve accepted that. I’ll probably do an entire post on this. Probably.

4. I have a problem. Well, actually I have a lot more than one, but we are only talking about this one right now. Everyone says they have a shopping problem but I think I really might. I was in Nordstrom recently, talking to mommy on the phone about yet another pair of shoes I was considering buying (she made me count the amount of shoes I’ve purchased since the summer. When I went to my closet and counted her response was: “it’s disgusting Erica.” I was very taken aback by that kind of rude response). She asked how I thought I was going to pay for these new Nordstrom shoes. I told her that I could just not go grocery shopping the following week. I was serious. I’m trying to remember if she hung up on me, at one point she was doing it on a daily basis, she kind of calmed down with it though. Anyway, if she didn’t hang up that was probably the time to do so. I don’t know if it’s shopping that I’m obsessed with or fashion. I think it may be a combination of both. I just know that when I get around clothes and shoes I become like a junkie rationalizing another purchase and calculating what I’m going to sacrifice to have it. I mean, but maybe that’s normal. I doubt it.

5.Speaking of fashion, I would have died to be at the Marc Jacobs runway showcased at Mercedes Benz Fashion week, last week. It was pure ecstasy. Ecstasy!

6.I love defiant women. Period. It’s as plain as that.

7.There is nothing (and I do mean nothing) more sexy than a man in sweatpants. That might be an “Erica” specific turn-on, but someone else in this world has to have seen the power of a man in sweatpants. I have never told any man that this is my outfit of choice but it is. It so is. I don’t know what it is but a man could live in sweatpants for all I care. Close second: a man in a nicely tailored European suit.

8.My soul mate probably is a woman. I just don’t see a man ever being multi-faceted enough to be a match with my soul.

9.The perfect date begins at an Alvin Ailey show, an interlude through a garden, and finishes with us in our most expensive classy duds at some hole in the wall restaurant with the best food and the most lively, colorful bunch of people. That would be picture perfect. Sheer Perfection. Sigh.

10.This song, this song,this song, and this song are like sex for the ears. I play them all day! Death Letter should probably be the soundtrack to my life not because of the words but because of the sound(add me in slow motion).

Europe. Passion. Sex.

Her nail polish was orange. Tangerine orange. That’s what I noticed first. “Can I please sit this here?” she asked. I was sitting outside, under a table with a huge yellow umbrella. The umbrella was so massive it threw a glow of yellow beneath it—onto me. That’s what she did too, I guess—she threw her light onto me. I motioned that it was fine for her to sit her cup down while she used her cell phone. She was beautiful—radiantly so. I knew there was something different about her from the moment she came within my line of vision. I stopped what I was doing just to watch her. I was captivated. “Where are you from?” I questioned. It wasn’t just the accent that gave her international origin away—it was the lucidity in her movement. She moved like water. She really moved like water, without hesitation. And when she smiled it was without limitation. She smiled from a purely joyful place. It was as if she had never heard an unkind word or nothing unpleasant bestowed upon her eyes. As she stood there, talking to me, every word she spoke she breathed life into. There was meaning behind those words. Her entire body had an organic uninhibited breath to it. She was expressive and animated. There was nothing superficial about her. I adored her in that moment.

And just as quickly as she walked over to me and we began our exchange she was gone. Abruptly. She said, “You have a nice day,” and she was gone. And that was that. It wasn’t rude it was direct. She obviously had somewhere else to be. Maybe if I didn’t intimately know where this woman was from I might have been put off by her straightforwardness. When she left she was gone—there was nothing of her that lingered. The yellow glow was still cast upon me from the umbrella, but her light—she took that with her. She possessed all that she had. That’s what Europe teaches you though, it teaches you to live for you—no one else. I learned how to do that in Europe. I learned how to live in Europe. I learned how to walk down the streets and just laugh at nothing in particular. I learned to walk down streets with no end point in mind, stopping for gelato along the way. I owe my life to Europe. I owe my renewed spirit to it too.

After she left I grew nostalgic. I grew nostalgic for the place that, without exaggeration, taught me how to live. Taught me the difference between living and breathing. I miss that place. I had forgotten how much so until this woman approached me. I lived in Italy for four months. I was twenty years old and I don’t believe there will ever be a time in my life that will ever touch the caliber of that experience. I don’t think anything or anyone will even come close. Prior to me living abroad I was truly American, possessing all of the collective hesitations that come with our nationality. Watching the woman with the orange nail polish reminded me of all the limitations we embody. It reminded me of the limitations I place upon myself when I’m here.

The limitations of American women are difficult to describe. Instead, it’s something you can’t quite understand until you see it, when you look at them in comparison to European women. In addition to being nostalgic after the European woman abruptly left, I also stopped reading the legal transcript that I was working on. Instead of reading, I began watching the other women passing by. I watched these American women to see if there really was a difference between their dispositions and that of women living only an ocean away. I wondered if maybe I had confused this particular European woman’s beauty and radiance with something that American women seem to collectively lack. I hadn’t confused anything though. I watched these American women and I identified an oppressiveness about them. They seemed bogged down. Even through their smiles there lived strain on their faces.

Of course, I took the time to intellectualize the foundation of our collective differences. I began to think back on my experience in Europe and the women that I encountered while there. I thought back to how I was different. And I was quite different in Europe. While some of the differences of me had to do with being a stranger in a foreign place, no one knowing me and therefore no expectations or limitations placed upon me; still, part of it had to do with just the culture of Europe.

In Europe there seems to be a culture focused on this pursuit of happiness. They seem to have the interplay between work and play mastered. I use to love walking in the evening around Italy; like a little girl looking through the glass of a candy store I would press my face up to the window and steal moments watching families eating at restaurants. They were laughing and so amicable that I longed for the days back in the nineties when I replicated that scene with my own parents. As I sit here now, I wonder if this cultural difference, the way Europeans slow down and take time for the truly important things in life could have saved my broken home. In America there seemingly is a staunch difference, a culture focused on the pursuit of happiness, but through monetary gain. We wake up to work and do it all over again the next day. The dichotomy between the lifestyles of Europeans and Americans in itself is so implicated that there lies one of the substantial differences of the spirit of the people living in the comparative countries.

Add on to that, that Americans are so muzzled at the mouth. America ironically is a country prided on citizens speaking freely. Yet, we are so unequipped to do so. We have opinions about everything, constantly talking. Talk. Talk. Talk. However, if you ask us to verbalize a difficult emotion or an unpopular sentiment we are at a standstill. We are so fearful of offending people. We are so fearful of our own feelings. What’s more, we even restrict ourselves in the way that we engage others. We stay at a surface comfortable level. I was reminded last week of just how finicky Americans are about invasiveness and a fear of being inappropriate. European women don’t shy away from invasiveness, they embrace it. They say what they want to whomever they choose. It’s a sexy quality. They are direct. Even with their directness, though, Europeans are not half as rude as Americans. We would rather hide our true feelings behind the most disrespectful behavior of all—passive aggressiveness.

Speaking of European women and a “sexy quality.” Let’s not even get on their sexuality. They own their sexuality in a way that even if they were oppressed in every other aspect of life, their sexuality alone would give them one over on American women. They aren’t raunchy about sex but they possess it in such a way that it’s pungent, but still classical. If I had to describe European women I would simply say—sex. It’s interesting how American women have been so sexually exploited that even our liberation of that oppression is still—oppressive. American women many times don’t know the first thing about sex, pleasure and passion. It’s understandable though, we aren’t taught to passionately indulge in many other aspects of life.

Europe is no utopia, don’t get me wrong. If it was—I would be living there now. I have played with the idea of how it would be to live there permanently. Still, America is my home. I went to Europe fleeing from a college that I was quite positive was stunting my growth. I grew so much aboard that when I came back to that same college I realized that I had outgrown it. I had the European spirit within me then, so even though it was inappropriate during my last year of college to do so— I abruptly left. I didn’t care about the ramifications of my departure or my friend’s disapproval of it. I was living for me and on my own impulses. I, like the lady with the orange nail polish, had somewhere else to be. And that was that.

Dont Let Me Fall

“What goes up must come down—but don’t let me fall, don’t let me fall.” I have heard these lyrics for months but last Friday as I listened the meaning of the words changed. Initially when I heard B.O.B sing “don’t let me fall,” I thought it was as simple as someone saying that while it was granted that they would fall, from fame, out of love, whatever, they didn’t want to. On Friday the message was more substantial. And I must say I don’t scout B.O.B’s music for anything substantive. The message I got though: everything has its cycle, and nothing stays the same, if something goes up by definition it must come down. Still, it doesn’t mean that thing has to fall. Instead the demise of it could be a little more subtle, a little more graceful. Maybe the message I got from the song was not the intended one. Maybe B.O.B. really just wants to defy gravity and not come down at all. I, on the other hand, expect that I will come down—I’m o.k. with that. It’s the falling part. I just wish they wouldn’t let me fall.

But still, I fell. And it was like the world stopped for me for that moment. It was tenth grade year, weeks after humiliatingly being broken up in an unequivocally unforgivable way. I fell. Literally. I could blame it on the rain. I had just walked into the building—the floor was wet and so were my shoes. Therefore, it had all the makings for a good fall. That’s probably the most logical explanation of why I took a tumble down a flight of at least fifteen steps. I think it was something much deeper than that though. It was deeper than just “I fell because my shoes happened to be wet”. I know it was more than that because as I landed at the feet of my ex-boyfriend and the girl that he broke up with me for, the fall was a literal crumble of all the facades that I had put up post break-up. I literally crumbled at the feet of the two people that every day I was trying to prove how fabulously well I was doing—despite them. And so there we were—the three of us, no one else in sight. It wasn’t the rain that brought me to these people’s feet though—it was the way the person that I trusted and knew so intimately—abruptly let go of my hand. He let me fall.

I have had many relationships that have ended. Contrary to my more recent antics—I don’t kick and scream at the conclusion of each of them. I do hate to see the various men go. But I willingly, sometimes encouragingly let them. I have figuratively fallen twice since that rainy day back in tenth grade. The first time I broke my own fall, quickly bouncing back—priding myself as resilient. The second—I laid there like a spoiled child waiting to see if someone was going to take notice and pick me up. Then after an eternity of laying there on the floor, waiting, I begrudgingly pulled my own self up. I didn’t fall because these relationships ended though—relationships end that’s probably one of the most natural aspects of life. I fall because I am caught off balance by how quickly the hand that was once in my palm goes back into the person’s pocket. More than the missing hand though—I am more devastated that the warm body that use to walk beside me, with me, has decided to just mid-step stop and walk in the opposite direction. So, even if the lack of the hand doesn’t throw me to the ground, the comprehension that someone would rather walk alone than with me is enough to slam me, face first, into the ground.

In previous posts I haven’t scratched the surface of my own contributions to my disappointment and heartache. It would be disingenuous here, however, to make statements of not understanding why someone would not want to walk with me. I understand. I would want to stop walking with me too. I am exhausting. Seriously. I literally demand all that a person has. I want to hold all that a person has—good and bad. I am all consuming like that. I am challenging and combative. And I am constantly trying to pull from people—from a deeply unrefined place, an untapped place. I am constantly touching places in people so deep that it’s almost inappropriate for me to be there. I know how to bring out the best in people but through my own motivation to do so can bring out the worst. I live passionately—and when I love—I do so with abandon. To be around that kind of tumultuous frenzy of intensity can turn a person inside out. To boot, I choose men that have their own complexities. In fact, it was here that I labeled them as “complicated” and “damaged”. And they are, I don’t take that back, but that’s why I’m attracted to them in the first place because they bring their own level of intensity to the equation. I give just as much as I get though, so if he is labeled as difficult I am no walk in the park either. So, while I may make references to the hurt that has been inflicted on me, I also know that to live like I do, jumping head first—I hurt myself just as much if not more than anyone could ever hurt me. I jump high therefore the impact coming down has to be of equal proportions.

And it could be said that I make it impossible to walk with me. I will do everything in my power to have the hand if I only have the warm body. I always want more. But still, even If they can’t hold my hand, or walk beside me, even if I make doing that impossible can’t they just walk behind me? Just walk behind me. At a safe distance—letting me know that they are far—but aren’t gone. This in itself would keep me upright. Just don't go completely. And after some time—when I have tired of sulkily stomping around then we can resume walking together—peacefully.

Still, why go through all the trouble just to ensure that I don’t fall? Why go through it just to walk with me? The answer is easy—because without a second thought I will get down on the ground with you when life has knocked you down. I won't just help you up, I will lay there with you for a while. Don’t let me fall because life is too harsh not to have someone like me around when you do.

Screw These Homeless People

Screw these homeless people. Well, that’s a quite inflammatory statement. That’s literally what has come to my mind on several occasions within the last couple of months. The first was months ago as I was yelled at by a homeless person in the middle of Friday afternoon five o’ clock traffic. The gentleman, and I use the term loosely, approached a woman who was directly in front of me at a stoplight. The woman kept her window rolled up seemingly not taking notice of him. The homeless man looked a little disgusted but in the end left her alone. He left, walking right in my direction. I knew I was next. I braced myself.

Typically, being the courteous person that I am, I will at least sadly shake my head at homeless people when they come to my window looking like lost dogs wanting a bone. This time I figured I could avoid even doing that if I, like the woman in front of me, just ignored him. I was just going to follow suit! Welp, obviously following in her footsteps wasn’t a successful move for me.

The man came over to my car, I saw him in my peripheral vision. He just stood there at my window for what seemed like forever. I kept my eyes straight forward. I even went in my purse to get my cell just so that I could distract myself with it. He watched my every move. We were far pass him waiting for me to notice him—and me pretending I didn’t see him. We both knew what was going on. We were both holding our ground. It was uncomfortable. I even contemplated breaking my frontward gaze and looking at him just so that he would leave me alone. I didn’t. I held out. So did he. I began to get nervous feeling like something major was taking place. I was defying the standard civilian/homeless person protocol. As I continued to sit there (light—still red)—I began to embrace this defiance. I felt liberated. Then he began yelling. Or at least that’s what I now recall—this recollection quite possible could be a delusion from the trauma of the situation. The homeless man finally walked to the back of my car (I honestly thought he was going to pull out a gun and shoot me) and then he walked to the other side of the street and continued to stare. The light finally turned green. I drove away---he remained on the side of the street. I questioned my choice for days to not look at him. I figured he deserved that bit of common decency.

As luck would strike---approximately an hour after this altercation my friend’s black berry messenger status read about an altercation with an ingrate homeless person. She had given this man five dollars---he was pissed she didn’t give him ten. I immediately called her up so that we could exchange “homeless man” stories. Yep, it was the same homeless man. Not an hour after he accosted me for not looking at him---he harasses my friend for giving him five dollars instead of ten. Huh? I was completely shocked, amused, and disgusted all at the same time.

I’m all for equal rights—yes, even for the rights of homeless people. I think that they, like myself, should have the opportunity to embrace this capitalistic society that we live in and profit form it. That being said if I can’t harass someone out here at my place of business neither can old buddy with the holey white tee. I am not making light of indigence in the United States. Actually it is something that has always poked at my heart strings. I once contemplated trying to find a homeless person to give some food that I was unable to eat. I say that to say---I am not a heartless bitch. I am just disgusted with how it has almost become commonplace for these homeless people to assume that if they stand out on the corner long enough people are just going to give them money for free. Prostitutes sell sex---and they still have slow nights. I am sure they aren’t getting mad at every john who comes along that doesn’t want their services. Instead, they may shorten the skirt a little, or get an implant or two. They do something to make themselves more desirable for their customers. Now, homeless people on the other hand are a new breed of bold. I am giving you something for nothing and you (homeless person) want to get mad because that transaction doesn’t set well with me. Yeah, ok.

Even more unsettling than the homeless mentality—because in actuality we could just chalk that up to their hustle, is the mentality of the people who have homes and cars. We, in some way feel like we owe something to people that are less fortunate. Owe it. I later thought about myself feeling bad for not engaging this random man who came up to my car in the middle of the street. In some way does his homelessness make him less of a stranger? Less of a threat? No. I don’t make a practice of just talking to random strangers on the street. That’s dangerous. So, then how would it be less dangerous for me to talk to him. And back to him---as a man how could he not understand and respect my safety precautions. And moreover, how can he (as a man) stoop to the level of screaming at me—a woman—for not giving him—a man---money. Worst than me though, is my friend. She gave this man money, and I’m not talking about a dollar. She gave him more than you give your own child for lunch money. Yet, she was asking me if she should feel bad that she didn’t give him more. She had officially been guilted by a man she didn’t even know.

This is something that I think has gotten so out of hand. Again, two weeks ago I was reminded how much so, as a woman sitting next to me (at the same light where I was terrorized) was approached by her very own homeless man. I watched her as she, like I have done so many times, shook her head vigorously, mouthing “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She was trying so hard to convince him of her true regret. I’m sure she really was sorry. Well, more than her being sorry for him---I’m sorry for her. I’m sorry that she, like most people I know, have let these people that we don’t even know guilt us.

"Every truth isn't genuine..."

So I am pretty weird. Somewhere between college and now I have completely embraced my weirdness. If someone says I’m weird I take it as a compliment. Don’t get me wrong, if someone were to tell me this in a mocking or jeering fashion I would be a little offended. When friends say it, “you’re so weird” I smile. I have two friends in particular that say “You are sooooo weird…” and just when they think I am about to become salty about it say… "I am too!” And they are. Anyway moving away from my rambling on my weirdness, I go back to why I say I am pretty weird. I am weird because I write in my head. I put phrases together in my head as if I am writing it. I put quotes together. I literally talk in my head like I am talking to someone else. It was about three months ago, as I was writing in my head, that I stumbled upon this quote that I think I will forever hold tightly to my breast.

I was having a really difficult time---with understanding the difference between a lie and the truth. I was trying to find a way to wrap my head around some really complex issues. And this phrase was the epiphany that somehow eloquently found its way out of that state of confusion. I was walking around my apartment and it just hit me. “Every truth isn’t genuine and every lie isn’t malicious.” It was like it came straight from the heavens. In the context of what was going on in my life—trying to determine right from wrong, there were so many implications to that quote. It was probably the most clarity I had found for myself for an entire year. Just for that second I stopped being angry and so willing to simplify everything and actually started to really question humanity—and what it means to be human.

If someone lies and another person tells the truth then the bad guy is easily distinguishable, right? The bad guy is clearly the liar, right? I don’t think so. I’m not so sure anymore. People do crazy things for crazy reasons. The problem is that what comes out of one’s mouth is laced with all kinds of motives and intentions that we have no idea of. So, when one person tells all truths does that somehow absolve them of the manipulation behind that truth? If you tell the truth---of a life of hardship, of your true feelings, of a secret and it’s for reasons solely to manipulate someone then what does that truth really mean? It is the truth, but it’s a malicious one.

And then you have the lie. From a young age, I think we are all encouraged to tell the lies that will somehow spare the one’s we love from hurt. We call them white lies, and for some reason we make a sharp distinction between those and those other really big lies. But what happens when the black lie serves the same purpose as the white one? What happens when you’re told a big lie but it’s to spare the one’s we love from hurt? Is there any difference? I throw out all these rhetorical questions because the only answer that I was able to come up with was that phrase that I’ve already put forth, “Every truth isn’t genuine and every lie isn’t malicious.”

When I had that very eloquent epiphany—I had two people in mind--one person who, as far as I knew, had a habit of telling me the truth and another who, as far as I knew, had a habit of telling me a string of untruths. I will never know where the lines can be drawn. I don’t know if the person who told the truths was doing so because they were sure that truth would resonate feelings from me—leaving me vulnerable and ripe fodder for manipulation. On the other hand, I don’t know if the person who told the lies was trying to protect me—and although manipulative in nature was for my own benefit. That’s the thing about truths and lies, though. There is no way to tell the motivation behind either. I guess all one can do, since there’s no way to tap into people’s true intentions, is to not look at the truth or the lie but the actions before and after it. Does the person who told the truth act in accordance with being respectful and upright? Does the person who lied act in accordance and is reckless and unconcerned with your feelings? If not, then a lie is lie and a truth is a truth, but what does it really matter? At the end of the day all that matters is the motivation behind it. Now, if I could just figure out a clean quote to make that process easier.