Did I fail religion - or did religion fail me?

I remember when I was a young boy attending a parochial school in West Philadelphia.  School at that point in time was more trying than anything else, and I remember feeling like I didn't fit in.  It wasn't that I hated school or the Catholic Church associated with it.  I just remember feeling like I was always standing just on the outside of my class...not fitting in but wanting to.  I didn't like sports but I had to play.  I sucked at softball and was even worse at basketball.  I guess I didn't know then that my talents were geared more to reading, writing and literature.  But I think my teachers should have seen it.  After all, I was a superior speller...or at least if I wrote the words down on a piece of paper first I was.

I had deep faith in church at that time, but it wasn't because my mother forced me to go to church.  It was knowing that there was a God that loved me.  He loved me despite the fact that I perpetually struck out when it was my turn at bat.  He loved me when I played a game of "Rough Outs" and never made a basket, or if I did, it was completely by accident.

As I grew up and realized that I had a choice.  I didn't have to go to church on Sundays if I didn't want to.  There was no one around to make me.  I did attend church every now and then but I didn't have a church home.

It wasn't until I reached my late twenties when things changed.  I had lost someone...someone that I loved very much.  And I was devastated.  I remember walking around the streets of Mt. Airy feeling lost.  It was getting dark, and I didn't know where else to go, so I went to a local area church.  I walked up to the rectory door and rang the bell.  A young priest answered the door and asked if he could help me.  I responded by asking him if I could talk with him for a few minutes.  He let me in and we went to a small office and he closed the door and motioned for me to sit across from him.  And then he asked me what was wrong.  I looked at him for a minute, and it was as if everything that was weighing me down came pouring out in one instant.  I couldn't stop crying.  So he sat there, looking at me with compassion.  When I finally got it together, I told him that I just wanted it to stop.  That's all I wanted.  The pain that I was carrying was too much for me.  All I wanted it to do was stop.  We talked for about an hour after that and I remember coming back at another time to speak with him again.  Eventually, he was transferred to another parrish presumably, but I will never forget what he did for me then.  Now, you would think that this would be the end of the story and that I would tell you that me and the church was always on good terms, but I would be lying.

Later, I joined a church and served there happily for almost 12 years.  And then something happened that eroded my faith and I never got it back.  No...a priest didn't attempt to molest me, but I bellieved that one lied to me.  You may ask yourself what is the big deal, people lie all the time.  But it wasn't the fact that he lied, it was the fact that he didn't think that I was entitled to the truth.  It's not worth going into the specfics of what occured, but it is important to know that at the time, I put a tremendous amount of faith in the church and it's diety.  I trusted it with the same understanding that I am a man with my faults and shortcomings.  I readily admit that.  I also realized that if  a leader of a church could not care about being completely honest to one of his members, then how could this man effectively lead me?  I mean, aside from studying theology and dedicating his life to serving God in a way that I never could, was he really that much different or better than me?

Well, I wound up leaving that church, and ever since then, I haven't been able to find a chuch home.  To be honest with you, something inside of me died once I left that church.  I never stopped believing in God...or at least God as I understand Him to be, but I did leave the church.  I realized that many churches interpret the Bible differently.  They preach love, peace and humility, but in the end, we are men (and women) and we all fall short.

Maybe that's my problem.  Maybe I expected too much.  And maybe I'm not willing to open up my heart and trust the way I did before.  I think about that from time to time.  People have asked me to come with them to church and I always seem ready to go and then I back out at the last minute.  I guess that I'm not ready to deal with anyone else's faults except my own.  I mean, I know what religion is and grant it, it does have it's place in society today.

But for me, I have to love it from a distance.  Now don't get me wrong, I talk to God more now than ever.  Maybe it's because I know that I don't have a church to go to that I feel that I have to pray even harder to keep those communication lines open.  And in the end, God is the only one I trust.

Still, at 12:37 A.M., the thought still came to me:  Did I fail religion, or did religion fail me?  I think the answer to that is it's both.  I think that in the end, we failed each other.

When is it okay to judge?

Recently, I got in touched with a friend that I had back in high school.  I hadn't seen him in about 35 years, yet through the magic of technology, we connected.  We weren't exceptionally close back in the Seventies.  At best, we shared a few classes and maybe exchanged a few words to one another in passing.  We didn't sit at the same lunch room table, didn't congregate outside during break and we didn't run in the same social circles.  But he grew up to be an amazingly tolerate man.  We text each other from time to time, but the messages are never the short exchanges that people commonly use on the phone.  As a matter of fact, maybe texting is the wrong word.  Maybe the more appropriate word descriptive is "email exchange".  We have had many long email exchanges...mostly because we have so much to say to one another.  I'm learning more about my friend now because I realize that he has become so much more than what I remember him to be back in high school.

As time marches on, we all change.  We're not the same person we were last year much less 35 years ago.  But if you are true to yourself, the good in you is still there...or what I would like to call, the essence of you.  One of the things that he said to me in one of our exchanges is that he doesn't judge anyone regardless of race, creed, political affiliation, religion or sexual orientation.  His viewpoint is very simple.  You can miss out on knowing someone spectacular if you refuse to get to know someone because they fall into a category that you either don't want to understand or made yourself believe that you don't need to.

I've been fortunate enough to have had people come into my life that have rolled with me...stood by my side in my darkest hours and carefully evolved from being an associate to becoming a friend.  There are people that do this not because they have to, but because this is their nature.  They welcome differences just as easily as they take their next breath of air.

It made me think.  Where have I fallen short in adopting this ideology, since its that very thought process that would make this world a better place.  Do we as a people look for reasons to hold each other at bay instead of opening our arms wide and letting people in?  Is it easier for us to remain wrapped up in ourselves as opposed to saying, "I wish to get to know you BECAUSE you are not like me" as opposed to limiting myself to people that share my viewpoints.

As I write this, I keep thinking of my friend, wondering if I can ever become the man that he seems to be.  I wonder if those qualities are in my blueprint because I have a tendancy to hold people at bay, not because I'm not welcoming.  I've been accused of being too welcoming and too trusting...and then the damage is inflicted.  I've done something that may have been misconstrued or someone that I allowed to get too close turned out to be everything except what I thought they were.  And then feelings are hurt...and we all know that with each hurt, a scab has to form.  During the healing process, the area is tender and prone to infection.  So you take the necessary precautions to protect it in the hopes that it will never be hurt like that again.  People are like that.  But sometimes, we protect ourselves so much that we miss out on some great opportunities to meet some fascinating people as we embark on this journey that we call life.

I listen as some people talk about others as if they have no value; that their very existence somehow casts a blight on humanity.  I've been guilty of that thought process but more times than not, I have been the victim of it...yet I should know better.

I've always said that people judge others because somewhere deep inside them, there is a sense of insecurity that needs to be protected.  Instead of letting the insecurity go, its easier to hate and condemn.  I think about that too, because many of us spend time thinking of more ways to judge others than to simply live and let be.  We think that the people that we don't understand will somehow take something from us if we validate their existence, but the simple truth is that it's your own bigotry that takes away from you, not the presence of the other person.

In my walk to becoming successful in this industry, I'm learning how to let go and let God.  And maybe...just maybe, I can be a little bit more like my high school friend.

Another Piece of the Puzzle

Another Piece of the Puzzle

Tony felt oddly satisfied as he climbed the steps and entered
his home. He closed the door securely behind him and then
scanned the room. He remembered the tattered couch and
matching loveseat as furniture that his mother had purchased from
a second hand thrift store. The cushions had seen their better
days. Every piece of furniture needed to either be replaced or
repaired. They had a second hand entertainment center that had
fallen apart last year. He had managed to nail the shelves back
into place, not really paying attention to the way he aligned them.

The carpeting was a drab olive shade with a huge rip that showed
the worn wooden floor underneath. He had tried to hide the tear by
strategically placing furniture over it, only to have to move it to
make room for more furniture that he had picked up from the street.

He crossed the room, stepping over a stack of old magazines and
newspapers that he had meant to throw out some weeks ago. The
walls were in need of spackling and a new coat of paint. Water
damage had occurred in the upper left corner of the dining room
some time ago. Last year, the toilet had flooded, and went without
being repaired for several months. In that time period, the dining
room walls warped and buckled.
Depression crashed in around him. He looked to his right at
the stairway that led to the second floor. Part of him wanted to take
the steps two at a time and head straight to his back bedroom and
get high, but the other part didnʼt want to deal with his mother. She
would be up there, waiting in her room, wanting him to do
something for her.

*******

Maybelline Johns had been confined to her bed for the past
two years. She was a diabetic who didnʼt bother to take care of
herself. Most of the time, she remained in her room, watching
television. She was a heavy woman, but Tony knew that most of
her weight gain was from inactivity. She wasnʼt always heavy
though. The house hadnʼt always need to be repaired. There had
been happier times. He began to take the steps one at a time,
trying to remind himself of the step that creaked the most under his
weight. One day, he would fix it before Maybelline stepped on it
and took a deadly plunge down to the floor below. As much as she
weighed, he could easily see that happening.

Maybelline had been a stocky woman in her younger days.
She had cared for him, his brother Andre and his sister the way a
mother should take care of her children… that is, until the drugs
invaded their home. He could hear the television blaring away in
her room as he bypassed her bedroom door, but she either didnʼt
hear him or need anything, which was good. He didnʼt feel like
doing anything for her right now.

He pushed open his bedroom door, which was hanging on by
a single hinge, reached under his sweater and tossed the brown
paper bag that he had received from Mook onto his bed. His bed
was a simple box spring and mattress with unmade sheets. He
lifted the door slightly, aligned it with the doorway and pushed it into
place. The walls of the bedroom, like the rest of the house, needed
to be painted. Tony kicked off his sneakers and removed his
sweater and collapsed onto his bed.
It had been a long time since the house had the true sounds of joy inside of it.
As he opened the bag to prepare his hit for the night, his mind swirled around a single
thought. If his mother hadnʼt been such an addict, would he have
wound up being one? Could he have made something more of his
life instead of what he was right then? It was hard to say. He knew
that Maybelline had done the best she could. He just didnʼt want to
admit that her best wasnʼt good enough. Had she not become a
junkie when she was younger, things wouldʼve turned out
differently. He recalled once that she had tried to get clean. He
doesnʼt remember exactly when, that memory was lost in a haze of
forgotten “play uncles” and “pretend daddies.” Maybelline used to
drink heavily at first, then graduated to marijuana and ultimately,
heroin. When she had stopped for a period of time, it was the first
time that he and his brother Andre got the chance to see what she
couldʼve been as a mother. She was a kinder woman; a woman
with more patience. She still had a mean temper that you didnʼt
dare cross, but her temper didnʼt burst out of her like it did when
she was high.

There were a few times when he and Andre had money to get
lunch at school. He recalled many times living off a box of cereal
because Maybelline didnʼt cook that night.
He was young, perhaps about twelve years old when
Maybelline became pregnant with her last child; a daughter that
she had named Corinne. Then, she immediately went back to
using drugs. Corinne never had a chance. When she was born,
she was born with severe brain damage and the state had to take
her away. Soon after that, he and his brother Andre went to live
with their grandparents in a run down Southwest Philadelphia home
for a few years before Tony returned to live with her. His heart told
him to stay because he felt sorry for Maybelline. By this time, there
were no more uncles or play daddyʼs; just his mother in this old
broken down house in her old broken down body. She welcomed
Tony back without tears and there seemed to be no remorse for the
pain that her addiction had caused their family. She never talked
about Corrine, not even once. It was almost as if the very mention
of her name would open a vicious wound inside of her. And if it
were opened, it could never be closed.

As Maybelline continued to age, her drug use and her drinking
had finally begun to show. She lost her figure a long time ago. She
became content just having her occasional whisky. He was the
one that had to go to the state store to get it as well as anything
else that she needed. The only thanks that he received was the
roof over his head that she provided with her monthly government
check and a few dollars to put a little bit of food in the refrigerator.
As the heroin that he injected took effect, he collapsed onto
the lumpy mattress, and drifted to the last great Christmas they
shared as a family. That year, Maybelline had hung a string of
lights in the window and brought a pitiful looking tree. He and
Andre where excited because they hadnʼt had a tree in some time.
On Christmas Eve, a few people came to the house around eleven
oʼclock, dressed as Santa and his helpers. He and Andre were
ecstatic. Whoever these people were had gifts for them. They
carried them in a green plastic trash bag. Tony remembered
distinctly that he and Andre received four gifts each. Santa and the
helpers placed them under the tree, laughed with them and drove
off in a light blue van. He had no way of knowing that these
people, teen-agers really, were part of a high school club called
ʻCommunity Service Corps and their primary function was to help
people less fortunate than themselves. Maybelline had been sitting
at the table drinking when they arrived. The next morning, he and
Andre had awakened to one gift each. Maybelline was nowhere to
be found. The gifts that were left behind had been partially open. It
didnʼt matter though. That Christmas morning, they had gifts.
That day, he and his brother had something to celebrate.
As the drug took over, Tony closed his eyes and said aloud to
no one: “Good day. Was a damn good day.”

Somebody's got to be poor!

I've often heard the saying that "Somebody's got to be rich; and somebody's got to be poor".  I still have a difficult time wrapping my head around that ideology because what it really means is there is a certain part of the population that will always know poverty.  They will always need.  They will always lack some basic fundamental that would make life bearable if not pleasurable.  It's those people that may choose other means of escape.  They may try to escape through drugs, sex or even religion.  They may try to even the playing field by taking from someone else to even the score for them.  The problem with that is that eventually, tomorrow comes...and they will still be poor.

I'm not a big fan of some of the rich, but it's not because they're wealthy.  It's because for some, in the course of them having every single physical need met...and in some cases, over abundantly, they lose their humanity.  Some begin to buy into the fact that they have the right to dictate what rights some other folks should or should not have.  They believe that because they are wealthy, they are somehow entitled to that wealth, and that translates them to being deserving if not out and out better than their fellow man.  This is not the case for everyone that has extreme wealth, but it is definitely true for many.  And I don't subscribe to that thought process.  I can't, because if I did, that would go against my own personal belief that we were all created equal in the eyes of God.

There are many people out there hurting.  I, myself am one of those people.  But if I wake up every morning with the air in my lungs and can give thanks for what little I have, then indeed, I am blessed.  Because to some people, I have a lot.  To some people, I have been given much, and to them, I don't know suffering.  I beg to differ.  My life experiences have taught me to try to rise above my circumstances and not become a product of them...unless it's going to enrich and empower me.

I've met some wonderful people in my lifetime and have yet more to meet.  I've also met some not so great people in my lifetime as well.  Some of those people had much and some of them didn't have enough.  I've met enough of both types of people to understand that people that seemingly have it all can be just as bad and self-centered as people that don't have enough.


My wish is that one day, everyone has just what they need.  No one has too much and no one has too little.  I think if the playing field were even, that would be one less thing that people would use to justify division and prejudice.  Oh I'm sure that we would think of another reason, but the lack of abundance or over abundance would not be a factor.


The characters "Crazy Tony" and Maybelline Johns are two such characters that don't have enough.  Indeed, they may not ever have had anything to rejoice about.  But as you capture a glimpse into Tony, you realize that he never had a chance at a normal prosperous life.  Indeed, you may even feel a bit sorry for him.  In the chapter entitled, "Another Piece of the Puzzle", you will be introduced to two people that clearly come from the "have not" part of society.

The downside of writing!

Nobody tells you the things that you need to know when you embark on writing for a living.  In many ways, its like attending the school of hard knocks; you take your lumps, keep it moving and hopefully, derive a lesson from the points where you stumble.


Writing is a very ego driven line of work.  The average writer looks for validation whenever he or she can obtain it, and when they get it, it's euphoric.  When someone tells you that you are good at what you do, you almost go deaf because that's ultimately what you've been longing to hear.  When someone within the industry tells you that you're good, you begin seeing things that you've never thought of before; things like book tours and dollar signs.  You begin to think that you're one step closer to living your dream.


And then reality crashes in around you.  People begin telling you things like "you're good, but for this price, I can provide this service for you".  "I can edit your manuscript but my rate is $$$".  "You're good, but you need to be promoted; now if you sign with me for $$$, I can guarantee that your sales will double".  And you believe it, but it's not because the person making this pitch to you is so great.  It's because you believe that your work is good, and you know that you have to invest in yourself, so you figure, "why not", and you move forward.  More often than not, some folks  just can't deliver on their promises.  They give you "something", but more often than not, it's not what was promised.  So what do you do?  You really only have two choices; you either give up on your dream, or you keep it moving.  And sometimes, that may mean setting yourself up for the next person to come along and tell you, "You know, you're good...but for $$$, I can do X, Y, Z"


It can be maddening and oftentimes frustrating.  You cling to the dream that you are good...and there's nothing wrong with that.  The challenge is in weeding out who can do what for you in this industry.  These are lessons that I've learned the hard way.


Sometimes, the answer is as simple as posing two questions to the person that is pitching you visions of pie in the sky, books on every shelf.  Can you provide me with your references and can you give me examples of your work?  If they are legitimate, they will be able to give you both...immediately.  If they can't then you keep it moving.  Thank you but no thank you.  Many people will "say" that they can edit your work, but have they ever edited before?  What have they themselves written?  If they have a company, can you find they're presence on the internet and can if so, can you do any additional research to ensure that they can do what they say?


I realize now that I could have saved myself so much money if I had just bothered to ask those two questions and then did my homework instead of "going deaf" because someone paid me and my work a compliment.  There are dream-bandits out here; people that see what you need and then suddenly decide that they can do it for a high price.  Sometimes, they genuinely think that they can provide the services they lay claim to and other times they promise something that they knowingly can't deliver.  In cases like that, instead of fulfilling their promise to you, they give you "something".  This way, they can keep your money and go to sleep at night.  They don't feel as if they ripped you off because they delivered you "something"...just not the "something" they promised.  And we all know that once money changes hands, people find it difficult to give it back because you aren't satisfied with what they've done.


Be careful whom you reveal your need to.  If you ask a friend or associate if they know of anyone that can provide a service that you are in need of and they suddenly offer to do it for you, ask them those two important question:  Do you have references and can I see examples of your work?  Or better yet, if they are a friend or associate, stick with a die-hard rule of never doing business with friends or associates because you don't want to risk compromising the friendship in case something goes wrong.  Ultimately, the choice is yours.


The bottom line is this:  Research! Research! Research!  Continue to "do you", but make sure that before you sign a contract, make sure that the provider of service can give you what you pay for.  It will save you dollars and time in the end.

Jai

Jai

The music of Miles Davis drifted through the speakers of his
minature shelf-unit sound system. He leafed through a stack of
papers before setting them down in the bin that sat on the edge of
his desk. His comfortable office was small in comparison to the
other lawyers at the firm of Jenkins, Banks and Walsh. The walnut
colored walls were decorated with various awards and certificates
of achievements. Jai was proud of them and if given the
opportunity, he could probably tell you the exact date and time that
he received each one. He hadnʼt expected to work so long this
Sunday afternoon but the upcoming deposition was too important
to leave anything to chance. He wanted to have all the details of
the case in place before going into Judge Miriam Wallaceʼs
courtroom.

He sat behind his desk in stocking feet while reviewing the last
of thirty-two documents associated with the case. He didnʼt
necessarily mind putting in the extra hours although he knew that
Taylor did. Each time he had decided to put in additional time to
prepare for a case, Taylor would give him what he called, the
“Black Womanʼs” version of the silent treatment. This usually
meant that she would express herself, sometimes loudly, followed
by a few hours of silence accompanied with the occasional
slamming of a door. Normally after a few good slams, she would
pick up the discussion where she left off. This would be followed
by more silence, usually the length of silence running in direct
correlation to the intensity of the argument.

She was headstrong; he had to give her that. She had the fire
that complimented his easy-going nature and for that he felt truly
blessed. He knew that Taylor would be honest with him no matter
what. If she were pissed about anything, he knew that she would
tell him. There would be none of the head games that some
women played. He disliked the kind of game where they wouldnʼt
say a word to their husband or boyfriend, but when asked what was
wrong, the reply would be one simple word….“nothing.”
Taylor wasnʼt like that. She had no problem in telling him or
anyone else what she thought. She knew when to express herself
and she knew when to say nothing, especially if she were angry.
This was the primary reason why she and Thandi got along so well.
In many ways, they were very much alike.

He looked down at his watch. Four fifteen. It was time to head
home to play with Joshua and maybe catch part of a basketball
game on one of the sports channels. He hadnʼt realized how long
heʼd been sitting. What time did he get to the office? Nine? Ten?
He wasnʼt exactly sure.

He was a tall man; six feet, four inches without shoes. His hair
was tapered short and cut even over his head. His eyes were
hazel, the same color as his mothersʼ and his brown skin was the
rich shade of coffee with just a little bit of milk added for flavor. He
was lean, almost lanky. And it was for this reason why most
people mistook him for being younger than his thirty-nine years.
He slid his feet back into his black leather shoes. He had
dressed for church, expecting to be in the office for only an hour or
so. But after reviewing the first ten documents, he decided to finish
what he started. He didnʼt realize that it would take him the better
part of his day to get the work done. One of the things that he had
hoped to accomplish was to take Joshua and Taylor to his motherʼs
church. Thandi had invited him a few weeks earlier and he
accepted with a bit of hesitation. He wanted to talk to Taylor about
it first before making a commitment. As it turned out, the idea was
well received. She wanted to bring their son up in church and
agreed whole-heartedly with Thandi that a child should have a
strong sense of God, starting at a very early age.

“Enough work.” He said to himself. He had plenty of
information for the deposition, at least for now.

The cell phone in his jacket pocket rang interrupting his train of
thought. That was probably Taylor wondering how long he was
going to be at the office. He reached into the pocket of the sport
coat that was draped over the high-backed office chair.

“Hey.” He said, expecting to hear his girlfriend.
“Hey boy!” It was Cleo.
“Whatʼs up Baby Cakes?”
“Now, I told you not to call me that.”
“Awww shut up.” He chuckled while shutting down his
computer. “Whatʼs on your mind?”
“I need a ride to a friend of mineʼs house. My car is actinʼ up
again.”
“Where do they live?”
“She lives in Chiselhurst and I know that I can take the train
there but Iʼm already late and Iʼm right up the street from your
office.”
“Oh, so you planned this?”
“More like calculated.” She replied, her voice coming out
feminine, light and cheery.

His chuckle became a low laugh.

“So how quickly can you be outside my building?” He asked.
“Funny you should ask. Iʼm actually right outside your front
door.”
“So what…you were going to ambush me when I walked out?”
“After I found out when you were leaving for the day.”

He laughed.

“Youʼre a piece of work girl. Sure, Iʼll run you out there. But if I
hear any static from Taylor, Iʼm going to direct her to you.”
“Iʼll deny everything.” She joined him in his laughter.
He shook his head, crossing the room to turn off the stereo.
“Iʼll be downstairs in five minutes.”
“Iʼll be waiting.”

Ten minutes later, they were cruising down I-95 while Cleo
rummaged through a CD case that sat on the floor in the back seat
of Jaiʼs BMW X5. She found a CD, looked it over thoughtfully and
then pushed it into the CD player. After a brief moment, a melodic
saxophone solo filled the SUV.
“Thatʼs unusual for you.” Jai said while glancing down at the
CD control panel. “Not listening to male vocalists today?”
“Itʼs Sunday. Iʼm low key on Sundays.”
He shook his head smiling. “So where exactly am I taking
you?”
“Mandi Ricciʼs house. Sheʼs going through a thing right now
and I promised her that I would come by.”
“What kind of thing?” He asked.
“She and her husband are going through tough times. I think
that sheʼs just feeling a dose of the ʻwhy meʼs?ʼ So what weʼll do is
talk a little girl-talk, eat some pizza, watch a couple of DVDʼs and
before itʼs all said and done, sheʼll feel better and I wouldʼve done
my good deed for the day.”
“Isnʼt this the blonde girl that youʼve been friends with since
high school?”
“You remembered.” Cleo seemed genuinely surprised. “Sheʼs
the only one that I really kept in contact with since we graduated.”
“Yeah I remembered her. I used to call the two of you ʻfrick
and frackʼ.”

Cleo smiled warmly. “So tell me something, are you still taking
Joshua to your momʼs church?”
“Umm hmm.” He nodded. “Wanted to do it today but I got sidetracked
with this case that Iʼm working on.”
“Thatʼs cool. I take it that Taylorʼs all for the idea?”
“One hundred percent. We both want Josh to have that sense
of God and letʼs face it Cleo, we need Him.”
“Who you telling? I go to church. You think Miss Winnie
would have it any other way?”
“Well, youʼre grown now girl. You can do what you want.”
“I know that. I use my mother as an excuse but the truth of the
matter is, I donʼt know where I would be without God. Just canʼt
imagine it.”
“Maybe you should educate Nate then.”
“Nate?” Cleo glanced at him disbelievingly. “Youʼre kidding,
right?”
“No. That boy needs something.”
“He barely listens to Aunt Thandi. What makes you think heʼll
listen to me?”
“It couldnʼt hurt.” He shook his head humorlessly. “He seems
to be going down the wrong path. Every time I see him, he seems
to be distant, like heʼs pissed off at the world.”
“He probably is.” She turned in her seat to face him and
unbuckled her seat belt.
“Hey, put that seat belt back on. Itʼs the law you know.”
“Ok, fine.” She swiveled back in the seat to face the
windshield. “So tell me something, do you think heʼs working now?”
“No. I think that he went for an interview on Friday. I donʼt
know if he got it. Iʼm hoping that he did. Still, he does have a way
of making his money stretch.”
“I suppose. But he needs to keep on keepinʼ on like all of us. I
get the impression that he thinks that working at an entry-level
position is beneath him.” She said while looking out the passenger
window.
“Nate thinks that just about everything is beneath him. Thatʼs
part of his problem. He wants the finer things in life and heʼs smart
enough to get them but he doesnʼt want to work for it. He thinks
that what he sees on TV is real life.”
“Well, it is real life…for some folks. Some people were born
rich. Being rich is their reality. Some people are poor and
unfortunately, being poor is their reality. Anyone can change their
reality but the greater the extreme, the more time itʼs going to take.”
“But Nateʼs not poor.”
“Maybe he thinks he is.” She said while closing her eyes.
“Maybe. But for someone that doesnʼt have a job right now,
heʼs not doing badly. He has a roof over his head, clothes on his
back…and not cheap clothes either. He drives a car thatʼs paid for
and he always seem to have some money in his pocket.”
“That would be fine if he were willing to settle for that being his
reality. I think he wants more.” She said while opening her eyes.
“Then heʼs going to have to learn to work his ass off like
everybody else.”
“Preach on Reverend.”
“Donʼt make fun of me.”
“Iʼm not making fun of you. Hell, I agree with you but getting
Nate to do the right thing isnʼt going to be easy. He has to want to
do the right thing first of all.”
“Yeah, I know. And I do agree with you that he just seems to
be too angry. If you get rid of the anger, youʼll find the smart
brother thatʼs inside of him.”
“Probably.”
“Okay, enough about Nate and all of this seriousness.” She
looked at the CD player. “And enough of this sax. Iʼm ready for
some edge.” She pushed the eject button, reached into Jaiʼs CD
case and removed a Maxwell CD. For the remainder of the ride,
Maxwellʼs voice served as their companion as they continued down
I-95.

Does it pay to be the good guy?

There's a saying that goes something like this: "Every woman likes their man to have a little bit of bad boy in them"  On some rudimentary level I think that's true.  If it wasn't, why do so many movies made throughout time have the good girl falling head over heels for the bad boy?  This poses another question:  Does it pay to be a good guy...especially in this day in age?  Does the good guy always get the girl?


I guess the answer is contingent upon whom you ask.  Most women (in my opinion) want the good guy.  The good guy is the provider, leader, comforter and breadwinner of the family.  He is dependable, loyal and most times, puts his woman and his family first.  But some women don't find this quality attractive in a man initially.  Instead, they go for the man that has that hint of danger around him.  He's the wild beast that needs to be tamed, and after the woman meets him, she hopes that she can change him into the good guy...the good guy, that is while still having him keep a bit of that bad boy image.  Is it realistic?  Probably not.  Just ask any woman who fell for the bad boy only to find out that he's always going to be the bad boy.  There is no evolving into a good guy, or even a good man.  He is what he is.  Most men don't change until they're ready to change, and no amount of good loving from a woman is going to change that.  It's how he's hard-wired.  The bad boy does things on his own terms.  And sometimes, these bad boys grow up to be bad men if they ever grow up at all.


Still, when I wrote the character of Jai, I made him the good man.  I made him strong, intelligent...the one that truly puts his woman and child first.  He's all about family and for the most part tries to do the right thing.  He makes mistakes, but they are never deliberate.  He believes in God and his faith runs deep.


I thought that it was necessary to write a character like him because like I said earlier, he seems to be the type of man that most women would like to wind up with.  I mean, if a woman had to choose between Nate and Jai to marry, who do you think she'll pick?  You tell me as you read: "Jai"

Ryan

Ryan

She waited patiently for him at the front desk, occasionally
glancing up to see if he had made his way out of the menʼs locker
room. She could hear the steady clank of the weights being used.
Two super-muscled, young white men walked in and ascended the
two steps to get to the desk. Her deep brown eyes danced over
the larger manʼs perfectly rounded rear before looking up to see if
Ryan had finally emerged from the locker room. He was
descending down the steps with gym bag in hand. He smiled
instantly when he saw her, revealing a perfect set of Hollywoodwhite
teeth. She shook her head slowly and returned his smile.
She couldnʼt help it. He was an extraordinarily good-looking man.
He stood six feet and was just as well muscled as the men that had
previously entered. His eyes were an unusual color combination of
hazel, earth and honey. He was wearing a white form-fitting tee
shirt and loose-fitting denim jeans that complemented his glutes
and thighs. He had a deep cut chest and unusually large shoulders
that tapered to a small thirty- three inch waist.

“What took you so long? Did you take a bath?” she picked up
her own gym bag.
“Donʼt you wish?” He laughed.

She loved the sound of his voice, deep and rich like that of a
late night deejay. She ran her hand through her long, thick hair,
catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she walked out of the
gym with Ryan by her side. Her hair was dark brown and tightly
curled, standing high on her head like the crown of a Nubian
queen. She had voluminous lips…lips that she was proud of. The
lips of a true black diva she used to say. She was built like an
athlete with sculpted arms and an impossibly flat stomach. She
possessed long slender-muscled legs…legs like that of a distance
runner.

“Not if I have to wait on you Baby Boy.” She responded as
they emerged into the bright sunshine. “So do you feel like
grabbing a cup of coffee before we head home?”

He nodded.

“How about ʻAfter Twelveʼ?” He suggested.
“Iʼll buy if you rub my back later.” She was teasing him again.
“You just want to get me naked.”
“And?”

They both laughed as they crossed 12th street.

“So are you going with me to my auntʼs house for Sunday
dinner?” he asked as they approached Walnut Street.
“I thought I told you I would.” She looked up at him. “And you
promised me that you would go for drinks on Friday. Right?”
“I donʼt know Tamra. I donʼt drink that much and Iʼm not crazy
about the gay clubs.”
“Ryan, you promised.”
“I never promised. I said…”
“….youʼd think about it. And you did think about it and you told
me that you would. Tell me Mr. Man, are you backing out?”
“Youʼre not going to let me out of this, are you?” He asked as
they headed towards the popular coffeehouse.
“Oh please, you know better than to ask me something so
stupid.” They walked past several of the patrons seated at the
tables that lined the sidewalk.
“Besides, Iʼm going to your auntʼs dinner. That should count
for something.” He said.
“Tit for tat, huh?”
“Pretty much.”
“Guess my timings off.” He shrugged and looked at her face.
He loved the little tiny diamond nose stud that she wore.
“You got that right.” She said in a satisfied tone.

They approached the glass door that led to the seating area.
He grasped the clear handle that ran the full length of the door,
noticing that it had been filled with coffee beans. He had never
noticed that before. They entered, his eyes going to the menu that
was posted on the walls above the serving area. Her eyes took in
the large, modern paintings that decorated the restaurant, and then
she turned to him.

“You need a trim.” She said while running her thumb against
his chin and jaw-line, feeling his thin beard. The beard actually
complimented the extremely short, tapered bald fade haircut that
he wore.

“Coffee?” he asked, approaching the counter.
“Grand Latte and Iʼll get you the usual garden salad with
buttermilk dressing and tell them to add extra eggs.”
“You got this?”
“I told you I would. Go find us a place to sit while I pay for
these.” She patted him lovingly on the behind as he turned away,
taking her bag along with his. Turning to the counter, she found
herself face to face with a peppy waiter with bleached platinum
hair, who couldnʼt have been any older that twenty-one.

“Ready to order?” he asked politely.
“Iʼm ready. Can I have a Grande Latte please with a little less
coffee in it? I would also like to have an extra-large garden salad
with some extra eggs thrown in for measure.”
“Will that be all?”
“For now…if he wants something to drink then he can come
and get it himself.”
“Give us a moment for your order. Weʼll call you as soon as it
comes up.”
“Thanks.” She flashed him a slight smile and walked to the
opposite side of the room where Ryan was seated at a semi-round,
sofa-like chair.
“Our food should be up in a moment.” She said while seating
herself across from him. “Is now a good time to talk about your
brother?”
He shook his head. “It never is.” His voice was barely audible.
“Youʼre going to have to deal with the issues that you two
have.”
“So what do you propose?” He said, slightly annoyed, “A night
of bonding? We go out and hit the strip clubs and throw back a
couple of shots?”
“Not quite like that. But what about you and him just sitting
down outside of each otherʼs environments and hashing out your
differences?”
“Itʼs not gonna happen.” He said in a tone that almost cut the
conversation short.
“Sure it can.”
“Look, I know that youʼre big on family but I canʼt force Nate to
be my buddy. In fact, I donʼt even want him to be my buddy.
Heʼs my brother…thatʼs it.”
“It doesnʼt have to be like that.”
“Heʼs not cool with me and I donʼt like the people he runs with.
Heʼs got a lot of growing up to do.”
“Maybe so but …”
“Garden Salad, Large Grande Latte up.” The call came from
the counter.

Ryan stood to get the food, silently thanking the waiter for
interrupting the conversation. He didnʼt want to talk to her about
Nate. He just wanted to get her to drop the topic so that they could
enjoy the rest of the day.

“Hold that thought.” He said, “I donʼt think youʼre gonna drop
this anytime soon, but when it does get dropped, itʼs done.”
He started towards the counter.
“Meaning what?” She asked, stopping him in his tracks.
“Meaning that when this conversation is over, we donʼt talk
about it again. Cool?”
She nodded her head with a slight smile. “Cool.”

Somewhere overhead, Anita Bakerʼs voice drifted out of
speakers linked to the storeʼs three disk CD Changer. She glanced
at the large television that hung suspended from the ceiling by two
steel cables. Ryan placed her drink in front of her before taking his
seat.

“Okay,” he began while putting salad dressing on his salad.
“Letʼs make this short and sweet because weʼve had this
conversation too many times. Nate and I are not going to act like
weʼre poster boys for brothers of the year. We havenʼt been friends
in about ten and I donʼt miss him.”
“But….“
“AND heʼs all about the wrong things in life. He wants to be
everything I donʼt.”
“How much of this is just him not understanding the ʻgayʼ
thing?”
“Donʼt know.” He dug into his salad. “Donʼt care. He seems to
think that heʼs the deciding factor in how everything in this world is
supposed to be. Iʼm supposed to be straight otherwise, Iʼm not his
family. Well, Iʼm not straight…and anyway, who gives a fuck?!”
“You do, I suppose.”
“Well, I donʼt.”
“Thatʼs what you say.”
“Whatever.” He mumbled while chewing his food.
He swallowed, looked out the window facing the street for a
moment and then back at her. “One day heʼs going to learn that it
ainʼt about him.”
“And until he learns this lesson, what are you going to do?”
“Eat the rest of my salad and drop this conversation.”

She leaned back in her seat and watched him eat.
She understood what he was saying. He and Nate have never
been close. At family functions, the atmosphere between them was
lukewarm at best. She knew that most of the problems stemmed
from Nateʼs inability to accept his older brotherʼs gayness.
They almost came to blows at a previous family dinner with Thandi,
Jai and her coming in between them. She didnʼt understand why
she had taken the rift between Ryan and Nate so personally.
In retrospect, maybe it was because her own younger brother had
been killed years before; a victim of a robbery attempt that had
gone tragically wrong. She sipped her drink and watched him eat
the last bit of his salad. She knew all too well that life was just too
short.

“You may find this hard to believe, but I really care about you
and your family.” She said watching him closely. He appeared
agitated.
He nodded.
“Why would I find that hard to believe?” He said. “I appreciate
it, but understand that thereʼs nothing that you can do to change
whatʼs going on between me and my brother. He is what he is, and
I am what I am. For now, thatʼs going to have to be good enough.”
“For whom? Your mother? You canʼt believe that sheʼs happy
with the way things are.”
“No, but she would be even less happy if she knew what Nate
was really up to.”
“Like what?”
“I donʼt want to talk about him anymore Tamra. Iʼm done.”
She felt a sigh slip between her lips.
“Ok, if you say so.” She said finally.
“I say so.” He said as a slow smile crept over his lips. “Look,
youʼre my best friend. I know you love me and I know you care.
I love you too. But this is a me and Nate thing…” His voice trailed
off. “Weʼre not going to have the type of relationship that you think
we should have. Itʼs that simple! Cut and dry. Black and white.”
Tamra took another sip of her drink and fidgeted for a moment.
She turned to look out at the street just in time to see a bus rolling
by, half-loaded with passengers.

“I had a brother Ryan.”
“I know.” He said softly. “Itʼs not the same though”
“No.” she said in an equally soft tone. “But the dynamics are.”
She stood to leave. “Just because heʼs not living doesnʼt mean that
heʼs any less my family. I love him and I miss him. I donʼt have the
chance to have the relationship that I was cheated out of. But you
do.”
“It takes two people to make a thing work.”
Tamra nodded her head slowly.
“Thatʼs right. It does. But youʼre older than Nate. That buys
you some responsibility. You have to take the upper hand and
work through this thing. No matter what he does, heʼs still your
family. And God knows, your mother believes in family.”

She paused, waiting for a response.
His gaze shifted from his empty salad bowl to the huge picture
window that faced 12th Street. She had hoped that what she said
made sense.

“Are you ready to go?” He finally asked.
“I suppose.” She said and grabbed for her gym bag.
She hadnʼt won the argument, not this time. But she smelled
victory and it was just around the corner. All she would have to do
was be patient and wait.

Why is it so tough to talk about gay?

I was sitting at my table at the Collingswood Book Fair a few weeks ago with my publicist beside me.  A woman approached our table and initiated a conversation with my publicist.  China (my publicist) began telling the woman about the story including describing the characters.  When she got to the character of Ryan, the woman looked at both of us and began to shake her head.


"Now see!" She said quickly, "Why do you have to talk about that!  I'm sick of that!  Why does that have to be in the story?"


China answered the woman's question by stating that the character of Ryan is gay, and that gay people exist.
The woman looked at both of us again and said, "I know that but why does the story have to be about that?  We hear it all the time.  I'm tired of reading about it!"


The first thought that came to my mind was, "Well, don't buy the book if you feel that strongly about it!"  Instead, what I said to her was, "Well, you know that gay people exist.  The character wasn't created to upset anyone or jump on a 'gay bandwagon'.  It's just life."


Gay people are part of society...always have been and always will be.  So what's the problem?  Why does it upset some people when the very mention of the LGBT community pops up?  I never understood it.  When
Ryan was created, I wanted to bring some issues to light that maybe a small part of our population don't know.  For starters, Ryan hid from himself.  Or rather, he didn't know that he was gay all of his life.  He had a girlfriend whom he loved but for reasons that are revealed later in the story, she leaves him.  It wasn't because he was on the "DL" or had cheated on her.  I think that when you see gay men depicted in movies or on some television shows, the character may in some scenarios be on the "Down Low" and that he is perhaps stigmatized as a person that doesn't have high moral character.  I wanted to take Ryan's character and remove that stigmatization.  I wanted to paint him as the man that he is: someone that wants to give love as well as receive it.  He wants to share his life with someone that loves God as much as he does.  That is his valueset.  That's who is and that's the type of family that he comes from.


He has a closefriend named Tamra that loves him deeply.  They share an intimate, non-sexual relationship that at times may be confusing to her as much as it may be to him.  But they love one another and their friendship is built on honesty.


So what is it about gay people that some heterosexual people find so disturbing?  Why is the very subject of man loving man so challenging for folks to wrap their heads around?  I wish I had an answer.  All I can do is raise some issues and bring people into the mindset of the character Ryan Whitfield.  Maybe through him, you'll find some answers.  And even better, maybe those answers may make sense.

Nate

Nate

Nate lay on his back, smoking a cigarette while watching the
young woman quickly getting dressed. She was fine…although not
as fine as she had appeared some twelve hours before when they
were at the club. As he watched her zip up the hip hugging red
dress, he thought that he didnʼt remember her ass being quite as
big as it was. She looked great the night before; a sweet, darkskinned
beauty in a tight red dress with legs that seemed to go on
forever and a cleavage that wouldnʼt quit. He had found himself
getting lost in the promises that her cleavage held for him.

Approaching her hadnʼt been difficult. He never had a problem
approaching women. They were commodities that he could afford
without sacrifice. She had been sitting at the bar, her luscious legs
crossed invitingly; drink in handwith what he assumed to be
girlfriends on either side of her. He sipped his cognac between
sentences, not remembering exactly what their conversation had
been about, only knowing that the flow had been smooth. It had to
have been. Why else would she have come back to the apartment
to lay down with him? Surely it wasnʼt based completely on his
sexy bald head, dangerously dark brown eyes and seductive smile.
They had danced that night, mostly towards the end of the
evening when the club was about to close. The last couple of
songs had been slow and for that, he assumed that she had been
grateful because it had given her the chance to savor how good his
chiseled body felt. He had pressed against her deliberately,
allowing himself to lengthen and expand freely in the silk boxers
that he had worn under his two-piece Italian cut suit. She
responded by holding him tighter. He vaguely remembered
thinking that this was going to be easy.

Sometime between the club closing and their arrival to his
apartment, he found time to do a few hits of cocaine. This woman,
whoever she was, had no knowledge of this and it made no
difference to him one way or the other. This was his night, as every
night at the club had been in the years before. The car ride back to
the apartment had been brief. He set the Sirius Satellite station to
his favorite Hip Hop station and let it play at a near-deafening level
while they cruised up the nearly empty Schuylkill Expressway
towards Bala Cynwyd.

Once at the apartment, he wasted no time getting her into bed.
He gave her a drink that was clearly out of obligation…something
that he thought he should do if he wanted to get what he wanted.
He remembered thinking that she seemed tense at first, but she
came around. He entered her without thought. Between the
cocaine and the alcohol, all he could think of was immersing
himself as deeply into her as humanly possible. It was as if the
cocaine took all of his emotions and put them into the tip of his dick,
inflaming it to the point where he had to extinguish it by any means
possible. She had stopped being a woman at that point. Once
inside of her, she was only a means to an end. He thought at one
point, that she had wanted the sex to stop and was trying to signal
him to get off her. It didnʼt seem to matter…he wasnʼt finished. He
moved like a machine, pistoning in and out of her without thought
or intention. He only needed to put out the flame that seemed to
engulf his loins. It seemed as if he had her locked in a vice grip
against the sheets, pinning her down, holding her in place, almost
forcing her legs to remain wrapped around his hips. He fucked her
for what felt like two hours but in reality, it was only fifteen minutes.
Once he exploded with a savage moan, sweat streaming down the
sides of his face and chest, he simply rolled off her, asked her if
she wanted anything, lit a cigarette, smoked it and went to sleep.
The cocaine in his system didnʼt stop him from doing that.

Now he was watching her with something that could be only
construed as disdain. She had applied her lipstick, brushed her
short, Dutch-cut hair into place and was preparing to walk out the
door.

“I suppose Iʼll see you some time at the club, huh?” she said
.
Nate took a long drag of his cigarette and gave her face and
body a look. She definitely didnʼt look as good as the night before.
Her lips were just a bit too large for her face and earlier, he had
thought that her eyes were beautiful. Now, he could see nothing
that would set them apart from any other womanʼs eyes.

“I guess.” He mumbled. “Leave your number on the living-room
table if you want.”
She shook her head slowly.
“Iʼll just see you at the club.” She slung her purse over her right
shoulder. “See you around sometime.”
“Leave your number.” He called.

She nodded, waved her hand absently and continued her walk
out the front door. He chuckled to himself. He knew he wouldnʼt be
seeing her again, even if she crossed his path at the club….what
was her name? He couldnʼt think of it. Was it Deirdre, Donna? He
couldnʼt recall and it didnʼt matter. He took another drag of the
cigarette. But she was good in bed, wasnʼt she?
His cell phone rang, he picked it up.
“Yeah?”
“Why havenʼt you called me?” The female voice was stern.
“Momma?”
“And who else would be calling you this afternoon?
Never mind! I donʼt want to know.”
Nate sat up in his king sized bed and extinguished his
cigarette in the ashtray. Thandi didnʼt sound happy and he knew
why.
“Momma, Iʼm sorry that I didnʼt call you but Iʼve been busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Just stuff Momma.”
“You say ʻstuffʼ like youʼre nine years old. I got news for you,
youʼre considerably older.”
“Well you must want to know if I went for the job on Friday and
yes, I did.” He paused. “I donʼt think I got that job. I think some
white boy got it.”
“And you think that why?”
“Because I was the only black up in there.” He responded with
a slight twinge of anger.
“And that means what?”
“It means that companies ainʼt hiring for us.”
“What did I tell you about thinking that way?”
“I know what you told me, but that ainʼt reality. Donʼt worry
though; I got other things going on.”
“Why donʼt you just talk to Jai to see what he can do for you?”
“No Momma! Thereʼs nothinʼ that Jai can do for me. I got this.”
“You got this? Nate, I donʼt want to see you make any foolish
decisions.”
“Decisions like what?” He felt the anger inside of him
beginning to rise.
Thandi paused and took a breath.
“Okay, here we go.” He said inaudibly. He thought that his
mother was getting ready to launch into the tirade of mistakes that
he had made several years ago.

“Iʼm not going to go into your past. You know what you did,
and you know how you get. I just wanted to know if you went on
the job interview because sometimes you have a tendency to say
ʻto hellʼ with everything when things donʼt go your way.”
He reached for the pack of cigarettes and promptly lit one. He
didnʼt feel like another lecture from Thandi and thought maybe he
could avoid it if he just kept his mouth shut.
“Your Aunt Winnie asked about you today.” She continued.
“We were a little concerned.”
“Yeah, I know. Well, Iʼm fine. I can handle it Momma. Youʼre
gonna have to trust me on this.”
“Youʼre right.” She sighed. God, how he hated it when she
sighed. “I canʼt protect you…not like I used to.”
“I donʼt need you to protect me.” He glanced at the clock on
the nightstand. “Besides, I gotta go. I got some things I got to do.”
“Fine. Are you coming to Sunday dinner at your Aunt Winnieʼs
next week? And, if so, are you bringing anyone?”
“Iʼll be there. I donʼt know if Iʼm bringing anyone though. Can I
get back to you on that?”
“Tomorrow. Get back to me tomorrow.”
“Okay Momma.” He mumbled.
“I love you Nate.”
“Yeah, I know you do.”
“Good bye.”
“See ya.” He clicked the ʻEndʼ button.

Sometimes, he hated talking to Thandi. It always seemed as if
she were putting pressure on him to do something. If it wasnʼt
finding a job, it was finding a place to live and if it wasnʼt that, it was
settling down with a nice girl instead of messing around with the
whores that he had become accustomed to. His mother wasnʼt
happy about him using the apartment that was rented under the
name of a friend but Hamilton let him stay there from time to time
and this weekend he was out of town. Thandi always said that he
should have his own place and not be reliant on anyone else. She
didnʼt understand that this was temporary until he found the type of
apartment that he wanted. As far as finding a suitable job, he knew
that wasnʼt going to happen because he wasnʼt interested in finding
one. He was making money. In fact, he was making more money
than his older brothers, Jai and Ryan combined! If he had been
privy to the conversation that Thandi and Winnie had earlier that
day, he wouldʼve agreed whole-heartedly that he had a head for
numbers. He was good at calculations, figuring out the odds of any
situation and managing to play it so that he always came out on
top. He wasnʼt afraid of taking risks. No odds seemed to be too
great for him. One of his uncles pulled him aside years ago and
had a talk with him. The talk had occurred at one of the family
dinners.

It was a Sunday dinner. Louis had been drinking all evening
and all of the family was present, eating, laughing and eating some
more. Louis called him out into the backyard to have a man-to-man
talk. Initially, Nate didnʼt want to talk to him, wanting instead to be
upstairs watching the game on ESPN but once outside, Louis
pulled him close so that no one else could hear. He told Nate that
he had heart and that to make it in this world heart was all that was
going to carry him through. Louis had bathed him in liquor fumes
during the conversation. He told him what he thought being a man
truly meant and that it wasnʼt about the formal education that
Thandi had insisted he should have and it wasnʼt about being a
sell-out like his lawyer brother, Jai and it certainly wasnʼt about
being a faggot like his other older brother, Ryan. Being a man
meant taking control of every situation and making it his. If he were
going to make it, then he had to control everything from his women
to his income. Anything less would be unacceptable. It was a
conversation that he never forgot.

The cell phone rang again. Nate snatched it up.
“Yeah.”
“Yo Nigga!! Where you at?” the voice was familiar, but he
didnʼt recognize it at first.
“Chillinʼ. Whoʼs this?”
“Amir man, what, you slippinʼ? Canʼt even recognize your
boyʼs voice?”
“Oh man!” Nate sat up. “Sorry Amir. Whatʼs up?”
“Money came in but it ainʼt right man. Better get it down here.”
“What are we talkinʼ?”
“We short by a five bills. Mook may be skimminʼ off the top.
Maybe itʼs time we show him a thing or two about fuckinʼ with
money that ainʼt his.”
Nate took his last quick hit off his cigarette. “Alright man.”
He glanced at the clock. “Iʼll be down in a half.”
He heard Amir chuckle. Nate pictured him, all dreadlocks and
teeth, sitting at the dining-room table in his two-bedroom home in
Germantown.
“Yo man, did you hit that ass last night?” Amir asked, sounding
as if he had taken a deep breath while talking.
Nate knew that he was smoking on a blunt.
“Bitch just left man.”
Amir laughed.
“Fuck it. Iʼll see you when you get here, Nigga!”
“Later.” He flipped the cell phone shut. Swinging his legs over
the side of the bed, he swore silently to himself. He did not feel like
killing anyone on a Sunday.

Why Urban Fiction?

One of the things that my aunt asked me when she read the book was, "Why all the cussing?"  To understand the question, you have to know that my aunt is from the "Old School".  Profanity was never tolerated in her home and barely tolerated in mine.  As she got older, she drew away from the secular world and began replacing it with God and His precepts.  Not saying that she did this perfectly, but she did it well enough.  I had to explain to her that writing a story without profanity is easy depending upon the genre that you select.  But what if your genre is Urban Fiction or Street Lit?  Both of those genre's subscribe to the darker side of urban life.  Technically, if a story involves drugs, violence, sex or baby-mama-drama, then it's typically cast as Urban Fiction.  And if the elements of the story are told in a grittier format, including language, descriptive s and content, then it's Street Lit.

Personally, I never really liked reading Street Lit although admittedly, I've read some Street Lit stories that gripped my attention.  It wasn't until the stories started to blur together and the characters became the same that I began to take a step away from it.  I am very much aware of what's out there.  I know that there are people in our society that are materialistic to a fault...so materialistic that they will and often do sacrifice their humanity for what they long to own.  We know that there are men that will do anything to make money...quick money.  They will sell out themselves, their families and their communities in order to have a hunk of it.  We all know that violence exists in all facets of life; from the very rich to the very poor.  Just watch the news on any given night and you'll see what I'm talking about.  So with all that being said, why did I pick Urban Fiction as my genre?

The answer is, I didn't.  I picked three main characters that were as different as night and day and chose to knit a story around them.  You can't have anyone in a drug culture and not talk about that culture.  You can't have anyone that is of the LGBT community in a story and not talk about that community.  However, the moment that you begin to address issues that are in the drug culture, your story becomes Urban Fiction...at least that's how I see it.  I can be wrong, and I am sure that there are many definitions of Urban Fiction out there, but this is what it means to me.  I'm just sharing with you what my thoughts are on the subject matter.

I've always thought that the LGBT community tells a story unlike any other community.  There are things that people that are not of the community don't understand.  Some close a blind eye to it because what happens within that community doesn't necessarily pertain to them.  They give it no more thought than they would a bothersome fly on a hot summer day.

Still, I would like to think that I didn't choose Urban Fiction.  I think that Urban Fiction chose me.  And once it did, it became my job to make these characters as realistic as possible.  One of the main issues in this book is the breakdown of the family unit as we know it.  The older characters starting with the mother, Thandi is all about her faith...her faith and her family.  They clearly come first.  She spends a great deal of time protecting her youngest son, even if she may suspect that he's not doing right.  She agonizes over the role she played as a mother, and several times within the pages of "Bruthas", she has to be reminded that she did the best she could, and that at one point, she is going to have to let her children be the men that she groomed them to be.  Thandi's brothers and sisters, Winnie, Isaac and Louis are prime examples of just how different people can be yet still subscribe to the ideology that family is everything.  Some people may not share that thought, but it's there nevertheless.

So why Urban Fiction?  Let's just say that in order to tell this particular story, I had to keep it real and say some things that needed to be said.  And speaking of Urban Fiction, let's take a closer look at Nate.

3:30 A.M.

3:30 A.M

Marquisa sat beside him on a torn up mattress that probably
served as his bed. A cool breeze blew through the broken windows
that had been boarded up but were now ripped down by addicts
and hookers who wanted a place to get high. She met this man on
The Block two hours before and even though he smelled like he
hadnʼt bathed in a couple of days, the need to get high overrode
her common sense. She could deal with a little body odor if it
meant she could get a quick hit.

They found themselves buying six caps of crack and heading
to an abandoned house where they could get high without being
bothered. She had a half-smoked cigar that she had filled with
marijuana in her back pocket and she decided she would share it
with him after they had a couple of hits.

They entered the building from the porch at the rear of the
dilapidated house. He led her into the dining room area where he
lit a candle. Marquisa watched him with large brown eyes as he
dumped half of a cap into a broken car antenna with a piece of a
wired copper scrubbing pad that served as his makeshift crack
pipe…something commonly referred to on the street as a straight
shooter. He lit the end of the pipe, inhaled deeply as he sucked the
smoke into his lungs. She leaned forward anxiously with her own
straight shooter in hand as he exhaled the acidic smoke through his
nose. He handed her a cap and watched her as she opened it
greedily, dumping most of the contents into her pipe and striking
two matches to take her hit. She leaned back as she inhaled the
smoke deep into her lungs.

The man could see her eyes widen as the crack kicked in,
roaring through her body like a freight train. She exhaled the
smoke in a steady stream and smiled to herself as her mind took
off to parts unknown.

“Did you get it?” he asked while leaning back against the wall,
taking a deep breath, the scent of damp earth, rotted floor and
unlived house filling his nose.

Marquisa nodded slowly.

“Good.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim
rubber hose, a spoon and a small packet of a substance that she
thought was heroin. “Here.” He tossed her another cap.

“Thanks baby.” She said while pouring the remainder of the
first cap into her pipe, and lighting another match.
“Iʼm gonʼ make you feel real good when Iʼm done.”

She took another hit, and then watched him as he prepared to
inject himself with heroin. She smiled again. Once he lapsed into
unconsciousness, she would through his pockets and take the rest
of the caps that he had on him. All she had to do was wait.

From the moment that he injected himself, something inside
her told her that something was wrong. She didnʼt feel right. It was
as if the very room they occupied was suddenly closing in on her.
She told herself that it was just her being high that was making her
paranoid, but she couldnʼt shake the feeling.

The man leaned back against the wall and let the syringe fall
from his hand. She struck two matches and lit the end of her
straight shooter, forcing herself to wait until she was sure that the
man was dead to the world.

She closed her eyes once again, savoring her high when the
man leaned forward unexpectedly and blew out the candle pitching
them into ice cold darkness.

In an instant, the very darkness that surrounded them grabbed
her throat, slamming her against the wall. Her mind didnʼt connect
with what was happening at first…and then she began clawing at
the blackness, trying to scream in hysteria.

She felt cold steel slice the side of her face, tearing flesh from
temple to chin. She fought hard, unaware that she had wet herself
as warm blood coursed down her neck and back. She scrambled
through the darkness screaming in terror as she tried to find the
door, but in her confused state, she lost her way and stumbled, her
foot going through a rotted piece of floorboard. The man was on
her like a black shadow, and in her last moments, she thought she
could see his horrible empty grin. A horrified scream tore from her
throat as he lifted his arm in a deadly arc and then brought it down
stabbing her in the chest. And then seemingly without thought, he
brought it up and then down, again…and again…and again.

Where it all began...

I remember the first book that I ever read because I wanted to...and not because it was prescribed reading to fulfill my academic curriculum requirements.  It was a novel written by the author Richard Wright.  Every summer, my younger brother and I would travel to South Carolina to stay with my grandparents on their makeshift farm.  On this particular journey, my aunt had accompanied us on the trip.  She had brought the book, "Blackboy" with her presumably to read on the ride down.  While we were at my grandparents home, I found the book lying around, and being a curious 12 year old, I picked it up and began reading.  I was hooked.  I think I read that book with perfect comprehension and understanding and enjoyed every word.  Indeed, Richard Wright had me at the first paragraph.

 It was around that time that I began my love affair with reading and writing.  I did it for fun...the same way that boys would play touch football and girls with jump double-dutch.  As I grew up and ventured out into the world, writing took a back seat as I started to learn about life...the easy and the difficult.

It wasn't until I got to be about 24 or 25 when I wrote a poem to someone that I was deeply in love with, and even took the time to explain the details of the piece.  What I got back was, "That's nice...now write something that says that you love me"  I put down the pen for a year or two after that.  Now forward wind many years from then, and I realized that I could not only write, but maybe...and I do mean maybe, I could make this my career.  You see, I couldn't get validated in corporate America, and it drove me crazy.  I'm sure that some of you can understand me, however, I'll save the details for another time.

The story of "Bruthas" came about because I got frustrated with the traditional job structure.  The biggest mistake that I made was going from entry level position to entry level position hoping that if I worked hard, I would get that promotion which would in turn foster that sense of loyalty for me to stay and work even harder.  When I never received it, I pitched myself into something that I knew I was good at.  I wanted to tell a story that would somehow better my community and at the same time, engage the audience.  I wanted the end result to be..."Wow!  That was a good story"  And it didn't hurt if I made some money in the process. 

 I picked the characters of Jai, Ryan and Nate for a reason.  I knew that I was writing for educated women between the ages of 26 - 52.  Jai is the successful attorney that loves his woman, child and family.  He leads when he has to lead and steps back when he has to do that but is always close enough to pick up the pieces in case someone that he loves crash lands.  He's the man that most women would love to marry.  Ryan is the buff, drop dead gorgeous gay male.  What woman doesn't know a gay man?  It's through his character that I address issues within the LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender) community.  I knew that characters like Ryan have been demonized in the past.  I wanted to put a face to this man that is reflective of many of my gay brothers.  They simply want to give love and be loved...which doesn't translate to sex.  Nate is the bad boy.  He smolders on the pages.  He's the guy that women are told to stay away from but attracts them all the same.  He's tough, demanding and at times, downright ignorant.  With all of that said, here is the first chapter of "Bruthas".  Maybe you'll see something I didn't, or maybe you'll get it completely.  Either way, here we go: