Kunta-Kente is Pissing Me Off!

I’ve been working out for about three years now and I love it. I’ve made some new friends and I’ve even become somewhat of an expert in weight training. 

Whenever I’m on the treadmill, I always end up seeing the same people, too. There’s this one guy who runs ten miles a day. I keep telling myself being in his present is going make me a better runner. I’m not exactly sure if that’s the case, but I sure as heck like the movtivation he brings.

And when I’m in the weight room, it’s the same deal. There’s always the same set of guys and we’ll always say our usual “what’s up’s” and “good mornings”. It’s like a little weight room family, with all of us adding to the collective pool of motivation. (And if you workout, you know how important being motivated is.)

This past year, however, a new guy has joined the gym and, quite frankly, he’s starting to take the fun out of weightlifting. I’ve never in my life met someone so interested in how much I’m benching or how many sets of shoulder presses I’m doing. He’ll just come over and start talking, like we’ve been in the middle of a conversation the whole time. It’s so awkward, too. Usually, he’ll make some random joke or say something like “Hey, I can’t stand when that girl does that”. And I’m like, “what”! I have no idea what girl he’s even talking about, let alone care to partake in such a random conversation. I’m trying to workout!

Now, my life isn’t so busy that I don’t have time for the occasional small talk, but when I’m at the gym, I’m not interested in “life in Africa”. Yeah, the guy is from Africa and I kid you not, I have no idea what he’s saying. His accent is so thick. I swear I think he’s speaking a mixture of English and whatever his native tongue is. You know how Mexicans speak Spanglish? Well, this guy is speaking Afriglish. (That’s the best combination of African and English I could come up with. Sorry. Not very creative. And, yes, I’m well aware that African is not a language.)

And, to make matters worse, he wants to workout together. Keep in mind, I don’t know this guy from Adam! I’ll walk into the weight room, praying like crazy he doesn’t show up, and start my chest work out. Suddenly, like clock work, her comes Kunta-Kente himself. And instead of shaking my hand or giving me the usual head-nod, this guy will come over and grab the freakin’ barbel – while I’m lifting. Yeah, you read that correctly, he actually grabs the weights. And he thinks it’s funny, too. I just keep imagining him being in Africa, asking his English teacher the best way to make friends. I bet that guy was like, “Do something funny. Americans love humor.” And this idiot took that shit and just ran with it. I promise the next time he does that I’m going to punch him in the face.

Oh, and another time, I was doing triceps extensions and, once again, idiot African comes over and jokingling pushes me to the side. Now, by the this point, I’m pretty hip to his “sense of humor”, so I don’t budge. I do my best to put on my most serious, most I’m-not-in-the-mood-to-play-right-now look; and still, Mr. African doesn’t get it.

I think I’m going to have to resort to desperate measures. Unfortunately, though, I’m still not sure how I want to deal with him. Do I just flat-out tell him he’s annoying? Do I start doing the same vexatious things back? Do I do like my dad used to tell us and just punch him in the face?

As you can see, I still haven’t quite figured it out yet. When I do, though, I’ll be sure to let you guys knows.

Poor Uncle Charles

Uncle Charles was funny. The man had a natural ability of making anyone laugh.  He joked. He danced. He sang.  He did whatever he could to brighten your day.  And, man, was he good at it. He was a natural. With perfect comedic timing and a flawless sense of wit, it seemed bringing a smile to my face, or anyone for that matter, was his sole purpose. He was a good guy. No. Wait. He was a great guy. 

Unfortunately, though, Uncle Charles was also an ex-convict.  With six felonies on his record, he was constantly worried about his future. “Who’s going to hire a black man with six felonies?” He’d say. And at 42 years old, he was single, never married, a father of three (who, by the way, he rarely saw) and an ex-drug addict. Crack. Cocaine. Marijuana. You name it, he did it – and sold it. His life was far from idyllic. Actually, it was pretty sad. Child-support payments, court appearances, and unwavering thoughts of an eviction notice placed ever so carelessly on his door plagued him constantly.  Jobless and with no money in his savings, he was stuck.  Stagnant.  And there was nothing any of us could do to help.

My Grandma was fat!

My grandma was a large woman. Known for cooking some of the best soulfood in town, she loved feeding anyone she could. She’d make fried chicken, pinto beans, cornbread, collard greens and a shit-load of other stuff. Her house stayed packed with visitors (and free-loaders). I remember one time, she even let a homeless guy and his wife stay with her.

She was a huge christian, too — both literally and figuratively. Just think of the most stereotypical “Big Mama” from any black exploitation film and voila, that’s my grandma. She fit the mold perfectly. And every Sunday morning, she was in church — rain or shine. Pentecostal, that is. And for those of you who know nothing about the Pentecostal church, let me explain: they’re known for their unique style of worship. They “speak in tongues”. (It’s definitely a disturbing sight if you’ve never seen it.)

When I was a kid, she’d bring me with her. Her church consisted of three elderly black women — including my grandma — who congregated every Sunday in an old, beat-up building the size of an African hut. Yeah, even the word “small” would be too big of a description. I’m talking, had they doubled the “congregation” they would’ve needed a bigger building — it was small, people.

The first time I saw them worship, those old ladies scared the shit out of me. (Now keep in my mind my grandma was a rather robust women.) Before then, I had never seen my grandma move quickly, let alone run around the sanctuary screaming “hah nuha nuha”. While she had the holy ghost, I had the giggles. There’s something oh-so funny about seeing my morbidly obese grandma run around  the church like a chicken with her head cut off (especially when you’re five). Sweaty and panting like she had just ran a marathon, my grandma praised the lord.   

And, then came the singing. I had never in my life heard three people destroy a song as badly as they did. You ever heard a cat when it’s really hungry, you know, the way it meows? Well, take that sound and multiply it times infinity, that’s how those ladies sounded. It was horrible.

When we finally got home, my grandma would take off her shoes, change into something more comfortable, and, then, start cooking. Chicken, corn bread, pinto beans…

Yeah, teaching ain’t easy!

When I graduated from college, I decided I wanted to spend the rest of my life teaching underprivileged youth. At the time, it made perfect sense. I had just finished volunteering at a school that specialized in educating drop-outs and I loved it. So, after graduation — and instead of pursuing a career in medicine — I taught.

And it was by far one of the most challenging experiences of my life. The hard part is trying to inspire seemingly incorrigible students. What I didn’t realize was my students in the previous program all wanted to be there. In the new setting, however, most of them didn’t give a damn. Fact is, when a child’s parents are both addicted to crack, I can almost guarantee you the kid isn’t going to give a damn about mitochondria.

What’s more, I spent most of my class time trying to discipline, which if you’ve ever taught, you know that it’s impossible to get anything done that way.

They resisted — all of them. It seemed like their sole purpose was to do everything but earn an education. And as much as that saddened me, I did leave with a new appreciation and understanding. (The irony here is, I grew up just like those kids. And, yet, when I returned to my “roots”, I couldn’t relate. I had been so far removed from anything remotely close to that world that I forgot what it looked like.)

For starters, I learned people are people; we learn best from experience. No matter how many times I say “don’t go down this path,” I realize that I cannot change the mindset of most students. There is something innate about us wanting to experience things for ourselves. And as a teacher, one who is supposed to share wisdom and insight to those who follow, that is a tough lesson to learn. Matter of fact, it’s downright discouraging – at least for me.

My problem was, I wanted to change the world; not realizing, of course, that just wasn’t going to happen. Truth is, we don’t change overnight. Change can only come when we are in a constant search for something different, ideally, something “better.” The trick is not to be stagnant, which means, we must not be afraid to live a little. It means, not being afraid – as my good friend J. C. puts it – “to fail big.”

And in realizing this, I’ve come to terms with my role – or should I say my limitations. I know, now, that I probably won’t break through to every single struggling student. Fact is, they have to learn on their own. My role is to simply teach.

And I’m okay with that.

Teenagers think they know everything!!

 

Growing up, my dad would always say, “Son, you’ll get it when you’re older.” I hated that phrase, too. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why things didn’t make sense then. I just thought that was his default answer whenever he couldn’t express his thoughts clearly. “I know more than he does,” I’d say.

Well, boy, was I wrong. As an adult, I totally get it now. Fact is, somethings you just don’t get as a kid. It’s not that you’re dumb, it’s just that you haven’t quite developed the depth and cognition needed — in science jargon, the reason is due to a lack of frontal lobe (the part of the brain that sits just behind your forehead) development.

Take dating, for example. Everyone knows, two people who are dating are more than likely going to partake in some type of sexual activity — whether it be full-blown sex, or just, say, oral sex, something is bound to happen. It’s normal. Thing is, though, how many times have you tried to convince a teenager this? Countless, right. They don’t understand the reason we don’t allow them to be alone with their boyfriend or girlfriend isn’t because we don’t trust them, it’s because, fact of the matter is, sexual behavior is almost inevitable in those conditions. Teenagers, however, just can’t see it — hey, I was one of them. And how many times have they said, “I’m different. It won’t happen to us.”? Probably just as many, which only supports my point even more.

And to make matters worse, there is a total lack of appreciation for anything you say. Take this one, for example. How many times, in an attempt to make kids see it your way, have you said, “If I knew then, what I know now, my life would be so different.”? We’ve all said it. But teenagers haven’t lived enough to even begin to know what that means. The sucky part is, they think they have. (They think they know it all!)

Once again, it’s because the wise-decision-making part of their brain isn’t there yet, which is why those teenage years are such a chaotic time, full of capricious, random behavior. Come to think of it, the frontal lobe doesn’t completely develop until around 21 years of age. Makes sense, though. Now when you think about all the asinine things you did during those teenage/young adult years, you can totally blame it on a lack of cognitive development. (Hey, it wasn’t your fault. You can’t help the way God made you, right?)

My point is, these days I definitely believe that kids aren’t ready to deal with life in its entirety. It’s our job to filter and guide them. That statement may seem like a no-brainer; but, trust me, when you were a kid — especially a teenager — that was so far from the “truth”.

I get it now, dad.

Little-Bikini-Girl

I would have to say my favorite summer memory was when I went to the beach for the first time — I was 21.

My roommates and I had just finished up the spring semester. While most of us were taking summer class, we did have a small break between semesters. So, we decided to go the beach. Now, mind you, I had never been to the beach before, so I was more than a little excited — hell, I was elated!

The trip took a long five hours, but we made it. When we got there, I was blown away. “This is the beach,” I thought. “Wow, this place is amazing.” We unpacked our bags, found a place to chill, and began to enjoy the “scenery” — if you know what I mean.

The first girl I saw was wearing what had to have been the world’s smallest bikini. I kid you not, I think dental floss would’ve covered more skin. What’s more, she couldn’t have been any more than, say, 15 or 16. I couldn’t stop wondering where her parents were. But after about ten minutes of staring — mostly because I was in disbelief — I let it go.

Fifteen minutes later, I decided to take a swim. Now this is where the story takes a crazy turn. For starters, I can’t swim. (So, when I use the word swim, it’s simply meant to inform the reader that I’m getting in the water.) Secondly, I had never been in the ocean before, so everthing that happened next was a huge learning experience.

When I got in the water I loved it. And for some reason, I felt the urge to venture further. Well, I wish someone would have told me there was a direct drop about five feet ahead. When I got there, I started to sink — immediatley.

I screamed to the top of my lungs. And would you believe not a single person moved. Not knowing how to swim, I just started flapping my arms as fast I could, desparately trying to find the edge of the cliff. And after what seemed like an eternity, I was going under.

And, then, just like that, little-bikini-girl was grabbing my massive head. That’s right, the girl dressed in dental floss saved me. And just to give you a little perspective, at the time, I weighed in at a whopping 250lbs. Little-bikini-girl couldn’t have been any more than a 100lbs, wet. And she man-handled me like I was a rag doll.

When we made it to the shore, I was more than embarrassed. I tried my best to play it off, but apparently, according to my roommates, it didn’t work. So, I sat there for a minute, thanked little-bikini-girl, and headed back to the car.

Since then, I’ve been to the beach several times and it is, by far, one of my most favorite hang out spots.

I still haven’t learned how to swim, though…

So…I prefer mild.

My best friend and I have been going to this place called Wings for several years. They serve some of the best wings in town, actually, and is by the far the best place to watch college football. During football season, we actually spend every Saturday there — from noon to closing. We’re usually drunk as a skunk by the end and always find ourselves craving even more wings — mild wings, that is.

One night, however, we wanted to try the hot wings. Only God knows why. Here’s that story.

Our usual routine consists of us hitting up the sports bar and starting off with a small basket of medium or mild wings. Fact is, their hot wings are insanely hot. No man in his right mind would ever think to eat them, especially on an empty stomach. (I don’t know about you, but extremely hot wings — or any hot food, for that matter — always comes back out the same temperature, if you know what I mean. One rule of thumb is to always eat something that has a neutralizing effect.)

So, we start off with mild wings, chips and salsa, and, of course, a pitcher of nice, cold, crisp bud-light. We laugh. We joke. We cheer. And sometime around 5:00pm, and when there is a heck of a lot of alcohol in our system, we both feel the urge to step it up a notch. And by that I mean, we want some damn hot wings.

Now, just to shed a little light on things first: Have you ever eaten something so hot that before you could even put in your mouth, the smell of it burns the inside of your nose, like each one of your nose hairs is on fire? Well, imagine that and multiply it times ten, that’s what it feels like to eat one of these suckers.

We ordered twenty!

Yeah, what can I say? We were drunk. And after about 8 minutes, there they were — hot as hell. You could smell those bad boys a mile away. We didn’t care, either. We just wanted to eat. And, boy, did we eat…and eat…and eat, every single one of them. Yep, it only took about five minutes after ingesting the last one before our stomachs started to churn. (Those gastric juices were having a tough time.)

We looked at each other and knew we were in for a long, rough night. Panic set in. Within, say, a minute of realizing we had done something stupid, every last one of those wings came right back up. We vomited right there in the bar. It was great.

After that little incident, we don’t eat too many hot wings. We stick mainly to the mild and, occasionally, we’ll eat the medium. We had a great time that night, though. And I learned something very valuable about myself: I prefer mild.