Overcoming My Homophobia

Before I get into this story, let me say that making a conscious decision to embrace all lifestyle choices didn’t mean that I instantly stopped using words like “faggot,” “queer,” “homo” and the like as pejoratives. It meant that I went through a process of ever-increasing awareness that those words and the intent behind using them carried far more weight than I ever realized. That's what happens, that’s what’s happening, now and everywhere. We are experiencing civil rights history here, take it in, enjoy it, participate. This had to be how it felt when decent people made the connection between their use of words like “nigger,” “coon,” and “spook” and the weight those words were carrying beyond who they were saying them to. You start to realize that you’re in one of those moments in history where the collective consciousness just sort of decides on a particular path, and you have to decide if it’s the right one for you. In the span of a couple of years, I went from feeling very little when I used those words to feeling like…no…knowing I was choosing the wrong way to express myself when I did. That’s not to say that I still don’t use those kinds of words on rare occasions, but the context is much different, I’m very careful when I do and I completely understand if someone wants to take me to task upon hearing me say them. This is kind of similar to my relationship with the word “nigga” as used by my white friends. The word will always invoke a certain feeling or reaction, but that feeling or reaction will always depend upon the person’s intent and the context. It doesn’t always give me a negative feeling, actually, among white people who are close to me, it rarely gives me a negative feeling. However, I think that they should always be prepared and accepting of the fact that any black person has a right to a more adverse reaction upon hearing them or any or white person use the word. Words like “nigga,” “homo,” and “faggot” are heavy and if you aren’t prepared to carry the load you assume when you decide to use them, you shouldn’t pick them up.

I used to be a school safety agent at a really tough high school, Adlai Stevenson in The Bronx. I went into the job with big, bright naïve eyes and ideas, and I exited with a layer of hardened skin I’ve since been thankful for, but didn’t enjoy earning at the time. Everything went on there, drug dealing, sex, gang activity, low achievement/expectations, all the good stuff that’s since been effectively tackled by NCLB, Race To The Top and Teach For America. I was 21, meaning at a school like that, there were students my age. I’m from the ‘hood, I lived less than a mile away, and nothing that went on there was out of my realm of experiences, but having to help police it all was something else entirely. I was just trying to hold up my end of the rent for my first apartment, and working for a division of the NYPD meant a city gig with good benefits and security. I wasn’t thinking much past that, even though we heard horror stories in school safety academy. I knew how to talk to drug dealers, flirtatious females and various ne’er-do-wells because I was raised around them. But supervising them, with the main objective of trying to get them into class and care about their education, was a skill set my ego made me believe I had at an age where I hadn’t even began drinking. Add in the fact that I have a baby face and had a chronically pleasant demeanor (even students warned me that I smiled too much), and you can probably deduce that this wasn’t the job for me.

There were many clicks, ethnic clicks, nerds, thugs, the artistic kids, the goths, etc. There was also a click of gay students and a click of Jamaican students, mostly male. If you know anything about Jamaicans, then you know that those two clicks weren’t exactly sharing a lunch table. Incidentally, Jamaican dudes have never felt me much throughout my life, for reasons I still can’t quite put my finger on and won’t even attempt to ponder at this stage in life, it just is what it is. It’s not all of them, but I’ve clashed with them enough times to realize that there is just something about me that they don’t like. One crew in particular hated me and went out of their way to annoy me, usually by straggling when the bell rang and during dismissal, or making remarks about me in patois. I always had the advantage, being the “adult” backed by 15 other agents tasked with keeping them in order, but they did get under my skin. Once, in a not-so-empty hallway, one told me that I better be happy to be able to “see Christmas” as the winter holiday was approaching. I took that as a major threat and followed him through the hallway, using the kind of language the NYPD doesn’t officially approve of, trying to provoke a confrontation I didn’t need.

So what does any of this have to do with me realizing I need to chill with the homophobia?

Well, like I said, the school had a click of gay kids, some of who were pretty cool with me, some who didn’t dig me so much. (One time a girl who had a confusing crush on me said to me, “Man, I wish you were a lesbian, I would go with you.” There’s so much I’m confused about regarding that. Moving on…) People like to spill their guts to me, and I find peace in helping them sort it all out; one day one of the gay kids did just that. I can’t remember why or how, but I do remember that having good talks was a good way to past the time or jolt myself out of the mental prison I had to put myself in just to resemble an effective SSA. I listened, because I’m a much better listener than I am a talker, and I think her appreciated that. One thing we found common ground about was how annoying (I guess that’s a euphemism; when we’re talking about what that one said to me, and about how they followed this gay home and threatened him in front of his sibling, I think annoying is putting it mildly) the Jamaican kids were. (For the record, I have some good male Jamaican friends/acquaintances, not all of the Jamaican male students were bad, or even from Jamaica, and I idolize Usain Bolt, so don’t paint me anti-Jamaican. Everyting irie over here, bredren.) He told me about their constant harassment, among other personal things, like touching on the difficulties of being openly gay at his age and his dreams of becoming a dancer. From then on, we were pretty cool.

Fast forward a couple of years later, I’m still living in that neighborhood but I’ve quite school safety to resume my studies more consistently. While waiting at a bus stop across the street from my building, I see someone who looks like this same kid, except he has further embraced his gender identity, and has in hair extensions, and maybe make-up on. As he started to cross the street, obviously to wait at the bus stop also, I got really nervous really fast. It was then that I realized just how homophobic I was. Talking to this kid at work was one thing – it was easy, it was in the job description, no one would attach any meaning to it that mean anything to me, everyone knew who we were. But in the street, out in the world, I got scared that strangers might wonder how I knew this guy, why we were talking, and if we were of a similar flock, him willing to show his feathers, me not so much. I wasn’t going to leave, I mean, I needed to get the bus, and I couldn’t just ignore him if he decided to speak to me, I don’t do that. Funny enough, I could tell that he sensed my apprehension (no doubt, he had experience with such situations) and walked over but not too close, and not looking my way, almost as if he was offering the option for me not to have to interact with him. I was instantly brought back to an incident from my high school days, when while taking the train home from summer night school with a bunch of my peers, an extremely flamboyant gay dude from my block entered the train to much laughter and ridicule from my classmates. I prayed to God that he wouldn’t reveal that he knew me, and as he walked through our subway car to get to another, he just gave me the slightest acknowledgment and never missed a step. He’d been in those situations before, trying not to embarrass straight people who could only bring themselves to treat him like a normal human being under very controlled circumstances, with his presence. I felt incredible relief and not a small amount of shame.

More than six years later, at this bus stop, I should have grown enough to expect more of myself. In a split second it hit me – Was I, StarPower, the guy known for saying/doing the most outrageous things on stage because I don’t embarrass easy and didn’t give a soaring crap about what anyone thought of me, scared of what some STRANGERS might think about my sexuality if I held a conversation with this dude while waiting for the Bx22? Really?? The absurdity of the thought hit me with the force of logic, reason, and common sense. Before he cold comfortable turn away from me, I reached out to him and began conversing. After a minute or two, I was completely relaxed, and he seemed to be also. Maybe someone was watching from a window, wondering if we were two gay guys having a conversation. So what? Why was I afraid of that? It was the kind of moment in which you do something you should have done, and then realize you should have done it not only because it was the right thing, but because it would’ve been so EASY to do the right thing.

My journey away from homophobia is ongoing; just a couple of years ago a close friend of mine, a teacher who is a lesbian, was quite disappointed with me when I said that I didn’t think I could bring myself to go to a gay rights rally. I considered myself a supporter of civil rights, but there was my boundary. I used all the logic I could and believed to explain why it was alright for me to feel that way, and we eventually agreed to disagree. I’m sure that affected what she thought of me afterwards to some degree, but true friendship is patient so I’m also sure that if she thought I was the person she hoped I was, that I just had some growing to do, something I admitted then and I do now. Now I realize that you can’t draw a line on where your support lies when it comes to equal rights. It’s not for us to decide who gets to do what in what way, we aren’t smart or civilized enough, and if we were we’d probably just come to the same conclusion. Maybe I’ll always let a smirk or chuckle escape when I hear what I take to be a clever racist, homophobic or sexist joke/remark. Maybe one day I’ll stop thinking such things even have the potential to entertain. The only thing I know for sure is this:

“Change, shit, everybody goes through change. As long as you change for the better, I don’t see how anybody can be mad at ya.” – 2Pac

Mario Van Peeples and Peepak Chopra Over Here

Here they are this morning, peeping and creeping:

My Peeps

Tower 25

See that? That's a building under construction about 10 meters across from mine. (By the way, take any estimations I make using metric units with a grain of salt; I’m trying to be international when I use terms like “meters,” “kilometers,” Lionel Messi and “the lift,” but the fact is, I’m probably just being internationally incorrect.) I previously assumed this building was empty because every time I’d glance over there, there’d be no one inside. Then one day about a week and a half ago, I saw 2 or 3 guys standing in the window RIGHT ACROSS from mine, just staring. Why do I assume that they were staring in my window and not, say, a window on the 14^th or 17^th floor? Because we still don’t have curtains! Even when we do have curtains, we love to have as much light flood the apartment as possible so we rarely keep them closed. And with no curtains at all (we’re going to buy some this weekend), the workers in that building rarely keep their eyes closed.

I don’t blame them; I look in ANY and EVERY window I can whenever possible because I’m constantly trying to relive the glory of that Dominican woman’s nipples I saw looking out of my bedroom window at 12 years old. I won’t, like, climb on something to look in someone’s window, but if there’s a view, trust me, you’ll have at least one viewer. Even though I understand the mentality, I would think they would exercise a little couth, a little discretion. They just stand in the window, in duos and trios, and stare right in long and hard (I swear that wasn’t intentional; leaving it in after editing was, however) unless I meet their gazes with equal intensity.  They don’t seem to be working in the building all day (due to heat, I assume) or even every day, and when they are they don’t always look into our window, but it happens often enough for me to know that they don’t just happen to spend a lot of time clustered up in that one apartment across from mine, with their bodies positioned in a way that suggests they are waiting for a show to start.

"Pero papi, you didn't have to peep through the window. 

I would've showed you whatever you wanted to see, 

then made you pernil and flan," said no Dominican 

milf to me, ever.

What do they expect to see? Come on, they’re guys. They are praying to Vishnu that they see one or all of my wife’s killer b’s - boobs, butt or bush. And come on, part 2, this is Doha. They’ll settle for a bare shoulder, a few centimeters of unexposed hip or a nice knee shot. I get it. They’re creeps, not necessarily a bad thing in my book. The problem, and I mean for them, not us, is that my wife is not the type to walk around exposed, but I am. Sometimes she goes to bed in more clothes than I wear to the supermarket. She almost always has on a full outfit (albeit a light summer get up), usually a shirt, underwear, not-so-short shorts, a black girl hair-preserving wrap of some sort, a sheet over her as she is always chilly even though she’s the one usually responsible for putting the aircon on “tundra,” and she rarely goes to the window or keeps the door open to rooms that allow intimate views. This isn’t by design, it’s just her nature. I, on the other hand, jump right out of the bed in my designer birthday suit each morning and usually I go straight to the window to look at water. I poop with the door open (when she isn’t home, of course; come on, I do have some behavior). I walk back and forth naked to loosen up and when I do put on clothes, it’s usually one garment, and not necessarily bottoms (could be just a robe, a surgical mask or my WWE championship belt). That’s how I’m comfortable in my house.

Tsk, tsk...naughty pussy.

I have to say, I’ve noticed a dip in frequency of peepers over there. I guess brown eggs and frankfurters don’t appeal to them. *Shrug* I’m just waiting for them to finish construction so I don’t have to see a bunch of hard hats over there much longer. Anyone know a Dominican family who prefers open shades to closed curtains looking to move to the Middle East? I know of an available apartment or two…

Hair and Now

If I don't cut my hair again,
I'll be back to this length in abooouuut...um...never

Time to cut my hair. Good thing I’m feeling adventurous because going to the barber can be quite the experience for me and I can only go when I have the energy to put up with the unpredictable nature of most Doha-based activities. Remember, my first trip to the barber was at Bin Omran. I had a Tunisian barber who didn’t have a pair of sharp clippers and shaped up my hairline in a way I’ve never seen before. I had the Indian wrestling fan whose lights went out and had to finish my haircut by the light of cell phone. Then I finally arrived at a guy who gets me over on Al-Saad, unfortunately, I no longer live on Al-Saad. But I’m willing to make the trip. Barbers are plentiful here and most are very good because being well-groomed is very important in the Arab world. And a nice population of black African Muslims means that there are some barbers who know how to cut a black man’s hair (the difference in texture makes all the difference). 

My Doha barber's good, but has NO IDEA
what to do with my sideburns.

African-Americans are famous for being particular about their hair, men and women alike. It’s imperative for us to put our heads in the hands of those we trust. In our communities, it’s one of the things that define us, a crown of sorts. I’ve experimented with all kinds of hairstyles over the course of my lifetime, probably more than the average black dude.

Lookin' like Theo Huxtable at 19.

Most of my friends kept it pretty basic: a neat, low cut with a sharp line, sometimes with waves (if you have the patience), with occasional forays into afros, braids, tapers, flattops and dreds. I’ve had perms, I’ve dyed and twisted my hair various ways, I’ve had s-curl and baldies. I’ve enjoyed having a variety of “dos” over the years, but the end result of a lifetime of experimentation is a head of slowly-thinning locks with a weird hairline that dances a careful dance with my rather large forehead. Fate accepted; experimentation continues, however.

I don't know what this was;
my girlfriend was my stylist.

I’ve been growing my hair out for a coupla months in hopes of being able to adopt a new hairstyle that I discover somewhere along the way. As a youth, not cutting my hair for two months would result in being mistaken for one of the Jackson 5. As a 33 year old victim of ever-decreasing rate of growth, it’s barely noticeable.  So here I am, 7 weeks after my last trip to the barber. My last cut was by a Dominican dude back in NY; I wish I could transport him here.

My dude was NICE. You just can't teach that, can ya?

I currently have more than a few hairs on my head, but not quite as much as I hoped I would have. Right now I’m rocking one of those hairstyles that safe, older black dudes sometimes rock. I wouldn’t call it a “’fro,” it’s more like a “’fraux.” A nice little self-maintained field of black hair covering my sphere, not too sharply lined up, never brushed or combed too neatly. It says “I’m not very vain, but I have to maintain the ability to look presentable in a dress shirt at a moment’s notice.”

It was either a haircut or a bottle of wine.
Priorities, people. Priorities.

It’s not enough to go too crazy with, but enough to satisfy my urge to do something interesting. I’m thinking of getting a Mohawk (a fauxhawk? A StarPohawk?). I’ve wanted one for a little while, and usually chickened out because of how damn weird it’ll look with my oddly-shaped dome. But now that’s kinda the reason I want to get it. I’m firmly back in my artistic zone, and I like to be a visual representation of how I create and feel. As an artist, I’m fearless, risky and innovative. Just having a Mohawk is none of those things, but walking around here with one is something like it, and seeing myself with such a different design up top is just outside of my comfort zone enough for me to feel that sense of being off-balance a little bit that is important to me. I’ve only seen my guy do one style that was close to a Mohawk on a black guy. I’ve seen him do fresh Arab and Indian versions. I’m going to go in with an open mind. The worse that can happen is I don’t like it, and I have to have the heart to tell him to just cut it all off. Eventually I’d like to grow dredlocks anyway, and I think time may be running out on that idea, so if the StarPohawk doesn’t come out looking right, maybe it’ll jumpstart my way in that direction. Stay tuned.

Really Just A Sibling Revenge Plot?

So believe it or not, I’m teaching myself to swim. I don’t want to be among the statistics of black Americans who can’t swim. Though it seems like all of my friends and kin know how to swim (except my two best friends, funny enough), it’s a proven fact that a tragically high percentage of African Americans cannot swim and the consequences have been about as grave as you can imagine. I’ve vacationed in places where I had access to beautiful beaches and pools, and my fear of the water reached such a point where I wouldn’t even step into it. I’d either stay in the sand or on a beach chair, only dipping in a bit if I became really hot and sweaty under the harsh sun. Knowing that I’d be moving into a building that has a pool, and that swimming can be a great addition to my exercise regimen, I put forth the goal of learning how to swim, by any means. I’d previously dedicated myself to seeking lessons, but that will require energy (and money) that I’d rather put somewhere else. I COULD just wait until I’m up to it, but this pool keeps taunting me every time I Iook down from my window or go to the gym, so I decided to just give it a go myself.

The other reason I decided to teach myself to swim, the main reason, is that I felt like I could. Once, a few years back in the Dominican Republic, I asked my wife (a trained lifeguard in another life) a bunch of questions regarding the mechanics of swimming, and then I gave it a try in an empty pool. I was successful in swimming a few meters at a time. I was encouraged and thought I was on to something. Subsequent visits to the pool (I’m in no way ready to take on the beach, even though I prefer it) proved otherwise. If there were a certain amount of people, I didn’t want to look like a lame that could barely move a few of his body lengths through the water without major encouragement from his spouse. At home, I didn’t have pool access and as someone who can’t swim and has had bad experiences in public pools, that was never an option (although I did take youth on a few trips to the pool during some of the jobs I had in the summer; I would just supervise, dipping in occasionally). One time in the Poconos during a family trip, my younger brother, who is a good swimmer, splashed the living hell outta me, then gleefully swam away. I was furious and helpless. I’ve probably never wished I could swim more than on that day. All I could do was dip his towel into the water so he’d have nothing to dry off with (what a wack revenge), and remind him that I was bigger than him and that no matter how long he thought he could remain in that pool, humans need air to breathe, his muscles would tire out and a land-based vengeance would eventually be mine.

For someone who doesn’t like to swim though, when I’ve felt comfortable in a pool, I’ve really enjoyed it. I’ve always kept that fact, and what I did in DR, in the back of my mind. I have a few things I want to accomplish to round myself out and swimming is one of them. So at the first opportunity I had in our current building’s pool, I watched my wife swim post-weightlifting,  and broke down the mechanics. Then I asked her many questions and made my attempt. Since the water wasn’t very deep (maybe mid-chest) and warm (it may be very hot in Doha, which means I should welcome a cold pool, but for some reason the cold water gives me an uncomfortable shock; at night, the water in the pool is just the right temperature for me), and I’m not bothered by holding my breath underwater, I felt at ease with the initial submergence. Mimicking her arm movements and doing God knows what with my legs, I knew at the very least I didn’t sink because I was horizontal but not touching the bottom. But I had no idea if I had gone anywhere or not. As I stood up and wiped the water out of eyes in an overdramatic fashion, I looked over at my wife to see how I’d done. She had a smile on her face and pointed to where I had started. I had definitely swam about a third (maybe a fourth) of the way from one side of the pool to the other width-wise. It was the most excited I’d been in a good while. Earlier attempts to floats were unsuccessful, and while I was on the verge of giving up (I figured that there was no way I was going to able to swim if I couldn’t float) on the endeavor altogether, I figured “I’m here, might as well not waste my time.” Actually, I said to myself “Don’t be a pussy. You won’t die. Swim.” Honestly. That’s what got me to swim. I then proceeded with about 15 straight attempts after that; 4 or 5 of them saw me pretty much flop my limbs around just to stay in the same spot, haha. But some were just grand.

I still haven’t figured out how to quite use my legs right, and I look INCREDIBLY awkward in the water, my God do I look awkward. But the little bit of swimming I’m doing right now is pure joy. I’m going to look at some videos and websites to teach myself further. I’m one of those people who learn best by observing, asking questions, attempting, asking more questions, repeat. I have a feeling that this method will only get me so far and eventually I’ll go for lessons. That’s cool with me. I’m up for it and kind of looking forward to it when the time is right. In the meantime, who knows how far I can go using the self-taught method? I want to be a superhero, previously because I thought it was boss, but now that I have thoughts of making a family, I want to be able to provide a heroic, fearless example for my child(ren), in the way that I always felt I had to for my students, but in a more detailed way. I want to be able to not only encourage them to be fearless but also provide the example. I have access to a world that I didn’t quite think I would when I was younger, and it’s opened up my mind. I have a lot of aspirations, to do a lot of things that people may consider “extreme,” that will require a very sound mind, body and soul. There are a lot of opportunities you don’t have growing up black in the inner city. Opportunities to interact with nature, different cultures, let your guard down, experience things without fear of being labeled, etc. You live among caged birds and the sad thing is that much of the time, the cage door isn’t locked, or even closed. So I guess what I’m doing now is swimming as flying. I’m discovering the freedom of being under the water (I’ll write about what that feels like in another blog) and I dig it. Next time my jerk brother tries another jerk pool move, he’s going to have something besides a soaked towel to worry about. Hmmm…maybe I shouldn’t have shared this and just set him up, played pool possum and surprised him. Whatever, he doesn’t read this blog anyway, haha!

It's Ok, I'm Black, So I Can't Be Racist, Right?

Damn, all chairs in the all-male waiting room at Hamad Hospital are filling up. I've been in here too long. This is public space musical chairs.  When I walk in, everyone is giving each other about as much space as possible. A buncha seats and about 3 people in the joint. Time goes on, and every seat that isn't next to someone else gets taken. Meaning the waiting area begins to look like, person, empty seat, person, empty seat, family empty seat, person, empty seat, couple, empty seat, person, empty seat, BAG (I'm leery), empty seat, me. So the next person in has no choice but to sit in between two occupied seats. He has to choose who he's going to sit next to. Usually, among men the thought process is something like, "Who is the most hygienic/less loquacious-looking/least potentially psychotic?"  Or most of the time people feel most comfortable within the vicinity of those who are familiar looking. And I'm gonna put myself under the assumption that since I'm a black dude w/jewelry, shades, more than a coupla tattoos and a NY face (I'm working on that), I may be the last person anyone will choose to sit next to if they don't have to. My look, demeanor, maybe even my smell is nowhere near common here, so I'm probably a bit of a wildcard. Unless you're up for a little up close diversity in your waiting room experience, you're probably gonna sit next to someone wearing a thobe, an Indian driver or your more common Egyptian/Lebanese/Turkish-looking guy. I totally get this, it's perfectly cool with me (preferable, even, since I get to preserve my manspace for the longest because of this). But the seat next to me is now basically the last seat left (although, there is no one on either side of the bag, and no one has come to monitor the bag in 20 minutes, so I believe that that's potentially a free seat), so I'm resigned and at peace with the fact that any second now, the next person in will have sit right next to...oh shit! What?! Pre-emptive sit! Why the frrruck did an Indian dude who already had a seat leave his seat to sit RIGHT NEXT TO ME! He didn't have to! He was already in here sitting down!

Who DOES that?!?!

I'll tell you right now, and I'm sorry to sound racist to my Indian friends, but THEY do that. Indians here in Doha. It's something I've noticed in Doha and it drives me bats. They will crowd your manspace, which every guy should know is a big no-no. You should know that in the subway, restaurant, restroom, those kinda places that don't have assigned spacing, you should always try your hardest to leave a sufficient amount of space between you and the next dude. What's sufficient?

You should just know by virtue of having the XY chromosome. 

I've NEVER seen a group of people who respect personal space as little as they do (lost text of the Baghavad Gita?)....now ok, I know it's not all Indians. There are many of them. And it's way more likely that it's me, meaning I find it to be a problem and they don't. New Yorkers HATE for people to be next to them. Or look at them. Or talk to them. And India has like 1.5 trillion people and animals so they are probably ALWAYS next to someone. But I sweaaar, in Doha, they will LITERALLY (and I mean literally "literally," not the way people use literally now and they really mean "figuratively," I mean it like "that's exactly what the dude was doing") breathe down your neck while you wait on line in Western Union. They will cluster at the counter WHILE you do your transaction, like you're doing it together, as partners! I don't understand this and it gets me annoyed. Let's not forget how they OGLE western women in a way that would make American construction workers blush. Whether one or 50, they will pause what their doing, and stop to stare at my wife's breasts each and every time we walk by them. When we get past, if I turn around to look, just for gits and shiggles, they'll surely be staring at her ass. They don't even hide it, not all. It even disgusts ME, if you can believe that. But I do understand. Doha is majority male, Qatari women wear abayas, and Filipinas are quite common (not common-looking, just numerous). So it must be somewhat of a treat to see a woman in what we think of as having on a normal outfit, who doesn't look to be one of the aforementioned nationalities. You would think my wife walked around naked. She doesn't, if you were wondering. Not even close. But they look at her the way I looked at every Dominican female between the ages of 14 and 45 when I was between the ages of 11 and 18. I'm used to it but it's not cool man. Not cool.

Sorry, this has turned into an anti-Indian post and I didn't mean....oh what the?! Now this guy, who was kinda lunged forward (I was hopeful that he at least knew of that rule - if you have to sit next to another guy, position yourself forward if he's leaning back, sit back if he's leaning forward) has now decided to lean back after I already leaned back to create some space! What's goin on with this dude?! Why did he leave in the first place?! Maybe he left the other seat because the guy he was next to smelled bad. I don't know. I'm trying to understand why I possibly would have, or all of the reasons he might have instead of focusing on the fact that I just wanna turn to him and say "Sit in the other COCKSUCKING seat, bro." This is a meditation moment. This blog is the meditation. 'Cause this passive-aggressive stare I keep giving him isn't doing anything for me. Also, most likely he's Bengali or Pakistani, which makes my fake liberal-ass something like triple racist. But I'm black, and racism can only be perpetrated by the group that has the political power, and Dr. Kelly said that since blacks are minorities we can't be racist, "just" prejudiced.. But wait. Here, being American often takes precedence over being black. Not always, but often. And judging by my ability to skip ahead of all of the Indians at the medical 10 months ago (remember that? I was black until I was American), maybe I do have the "opportunity" to be racist...nah. Can't happen. Even the thought feels yucky. But remember my blog "We're Horrible People When...?" Remember how I said that as soon as a stranger does something that really annoys us, we instantly become the most flagrant racist/homophobe/sexist/ageist/weightist you've ever known? Yea, that's in effect right now. I'm not prejudiced, I'm annoyed.

P.S. I got up a few minutes after he sat down next to me, and wrote the rest of this blog after I left the waiting area. I just returned back to the waiting area and he's sitting IN the seat I was previously sitting in. Meaning, he got up from the seat he annoyingly sat in right next to me, just to sit in the one I was actually in. He must think it's a magical seat. Or that I'm a magical negro. He's magically testing my patience and I wanna magically donkey-kick him. Ok, he just left, hopefully for good. Back to my normal self - equal rights for blacks, gays, women and trees; eat plants, legalise hemp, something about the Keystone Pipeline that actually isn't a penis joke and all that type of shit :)

P.P.S. A non-Indian dude just walked in and saw that the seat next to me was the last empty. Know what he did? He went and stood by the WINDOW. Once that got tiring, he REMOVED THE BAG that was occupying another seat, rather than crowd my man space. But that was still kinda close, so when all the seats opened up, meaning it was just he and I in the whole waiting area, he went on, like, the opposite side of the room. Kudos to you, guy who looks like Vladimir Koslov. You know the unwritten rules. 

This is the offending guy, btw:

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It still shocks me that there is such a clear class system here. The security, maintenance, drivers, maids and nannies, they get no time off. And they have to be so measured in their interactions when they perceive someone to be of a different social status. It's really difficult for me to ask them for anything because as a black American who came up with very little, I know what it's like to be of the underclass and I still feel like I am, even though that's not quite the case here. I asked the security guard to let me know when his next day off is so we can get drunk again and he said "I don't really have those." It kinda just happens. That's rough on a different level. Yet he maintains this great positive outlook that he developed to deal with this circumstances as he plans for a better life down the road. That's important. You can't just let the time pass by until something better happens. If you have to be in the moment anyway, you might as well at least try to make the best of it. He lives by that. Kudos to him.

It's getting up to 102, 104 degrees steady now. It's not a heat you can prepare for. Instant sweating. A sun that feels like it's angry at you. The staying indoors, the constant AC and little sunlight, the lack of trees, I know I say it a lot but I can't stress enough how harsh it is on the skin, even the heavily melanated skin. I have to maintain super eating and exercise habits to combat this. 

People here have money so they leave for the summer. The roads are starting to empty and the kids are dropping out already. There are a couple who plan to be in America. Shoot, they may be there longer than I will! I used my literacy powers to sift through this ex-pat tax code. We got some good tax people on the case, but I like to know for myself. Between this and the copyright laws I researched to protect the music I have in my friend's film, I've done some good due diligence but I must admit that the tedium of these processes make it hard for me to be thorough when I don't have access to certain thing and people over here. I basically have to stay outta the country for about 11 months my first year out or I get TAXED. This is how it goes:

Physical Presence Test

The physical presence test requires that a U.S. citizen or resident be physically present in one or more foreign countries for at least 330 days during any 12-month period. The 330 days do not need to be continuous. Further, the individual’s tax home (principal place of business or employment) must be in a foreign country during the 330 day period.

The 330 day rule is very exact. An individual must keep track of all U.S. and foreign days to properly claim the exclusions based on the physical presence test. Any partial days in the U.S. are treated as full U.S. days for purposes of this test.

There's more but you're bored enough.

Facebook helps me feel connected but not in a real way. It makes me feel connected to home like reality tv makes me feel connected to whatever the show's subject is. I know there are some truthful elements but I don't buy most of it; I'm more entertained than anything. It gives me an insight that I find valuable, and even though I can be hooked, it's not necessary. In some way, Instagram has been a more authentic way for me to stay in touch. Maybe because the message isn't manipulated as much.

The picture lies juuust a little less than the words do on the whole. But I know others would strongly disagree. 

"No one tells us about the educated and competent black man's struggle, the one who doesn't choose the high class professional route even though he can. We exist in a very peculiar space that we carve out for ourselves as we go. It's different from doing a typical blue collar job or goin for lawyer/doctor/accountant. And then it's not rapper/singer/athlete either. There's a whole world out there for the white version of what you and I do. And we get into it sometimes, e.g. that TFA job we had. But for the most part, our skill set is hard for anyone else to know how to utilise bc whites would rather hire the white version, blacks don't own enough or haven't had enough power long enough to know what to do with it, and so we have to just create our own space. When we do that, we're gonna be in constant struggle, but at the end of the day it's a good fight when you can hold your head up and know that you did it all as a man." - the kind of convos I have with my brothers 

They help me when I all of a sudden wake up like, "Oh shit, I've lived in the Middle East for 10 months" haha.

I'm a peace. I guess I've just been scared to admit it. I'm at peace more than not. Which is all I can ask for. I think that I feel like admitting it will jinx it when in actually it'll probably do the opposite. I want through HELL over here to attain this peace and it took damn near a year just to get to the point of being able to know how to maintain it daily. You don't arrive there and then set up shop, thinking you've made it. You have to create it all around you. I'm a peculiar, contradictory and awkward person. If I don't create my space everywhere I go, I have an extremely hard time acting like I'm ok being in a foreign space. Some people are marvellous at that, I'm not. Wherever I go, I have to ascertain whether it's a "me-friendly" zone, how much I have to change to make it so (if that's worth it) or what I have to do to carve out a space of my own. I don't need a sphere of influence, just a little bubble sometimes (a transparent one with an open door that has no lock; don't be afraid to knock) or once and a while, a force field.

Is the saying "once AND a while" or "once IN a while?"

Anyway, y'all be good. Got some video blogs I've been slacking on uploading. Stay tuned. Peace!