Party Animal

I locked the car, shut the door, and slung my backpack over my shoulder. 

It was a sweet spring morning. The kind of morning where everything smells like wet grass and pine. 

As I walked toward class I heard music in the distance. It sounded faint. Far away but loud enough for me to make it out. Somewhere some party animal was seriously blasting there music at 9:30 in the morning. I thought, hey more power to them. They were listening to Pearl Jam’s "Even Flow". A 90’s classic that I was very familiar with. 

Eventually I reached campus and started climbing a huge staircase toward my classroom.It was an early morning History class. There were a maximum of 10 students at any given lecture and many students felt the class to be boring but I enjoyed myself.

In the distance I could still hear the music. Faint. As if really loud but from somewhere far away. The song had changed now. I couldn’t make it out, but it sounded like some hip-hop; maybe Reggae. 

My teacher had been lecturing about American pre-Civil-War history for so many years that he just spoke off the top of his head. No notes. I appreciated his enthusiasm.He rambled about quirky facts that he found amusing and once in a while he’d crack a good joke. He felt so comfortable in his endless monologues that he easily tuned out the distractions caused from late students or people talking in the hallway. He just kept on lecturing, locked eyes with anyone listening, and never lost a beat. 

For a moment I looked out the window and realized that I could still hear the music. Loud enough for me to hear it but from really far away. 

Damn! I thought. This dude's kinda rude blasting his music all loud like that! 

I still couldn’t make out the song but I knew it must’ve been really loud for me to hear it all the way up in my classroom. After a few more minutes of lecture and still able to hear the music, the rebellious part of me started to envy whoever was out there listening to their music so carefree. 

Well. I thought. I guess that’s kinda awesome. 

...And then I heard it. The next song.

No! I thought. But it was. 

It was the soundtrack to movie “Hook”. 

There's only one stupid ass who would have the soundtrack to the movie Hook on their fucking playlist.
And that’s because it was my playlist. 

From my phone. 

On its lowest volume. 

Choosing a Path

Every time I begin, I wonder why the hell I like doing this. 

I can’t breath. The sun is hot. My pack is heavy.

There’s dust everywhere and horse shit too. 

And most of this misery comes from traveling on a trail. It sucks on a trail. 

Better to travel across granite. To get there, you must leave everything behind. No trail. Just you. 

Commit to your wits and begin your own path. Up, and step, and up, and rest. Heavy steps. Each one bringing you closer to the top. 10,000 feet high. 

Through eons of time the glaciers warped and polished the rock. They formed smooth mountain sides dotted with megalithic boulders. The mountains are layered like thick cake batter and dolloped with granite peaks. 

Continue climbing. 

The dust clears and there’s no more horse caca. You can see the sky again. You’ve reached the boundaries of the Tree Line. 

Enchanted colors painted with the most deep hues thrive in this land. Tiny magenta-violet and orange-pink wildflowers bow with every gust of wind. Turquoise dragonflies and white butterflies with orange faces flutter like magic fairies. 

Look around you. 

Laser-straight veins of pink quarts, giant rocks teetering on their edges, and crystal clear tarns nestled between cliffs host mountain trout. 

All of it unspoiled. All of it right.

Camry Perspective

Shabazz

                As visitors stepped through the entrance, a pair of rusted iron shackles welcomed them into the historic gallery. The shackles looked warped and twisted as though someone had tugged and pulled on them. Once upon a time, they had bound men through the Atlantic Passage and into slavery, today they sit encased in glass under a showcase spotlight.

               

                Mounted on the walls were black and white portraits of slaves that hauntingly stared back at me. Nearby, an old copy of Fredrick Douglass’s autobiography sat on a podium; also encased in glass. The book, pristine and untouched, had biblically thin pages and showed no signs of wear. I wondered if anybody had actually ever read through it.  

               

                As I walked through the gallery, I caught glimpse of a framed letter. The letter was written with an old-fashioned typewriter and had a stationary with a crescent moon and star.  The stationary had Arabic style letters that spelled the name Al Shabazz. I immediately knew who the letter was from. It was a casual correspondence between Malcolm X and his autobiographer, Alex Haley.

               

                I used to idolize Malcolm X when I was young. His autobiography was a story of transformation and conviction. His book helped change how I valued education. He taught me to love books again; to love the dictionary. Carefully, I read the contents of the letter and there it was; his signature. It was written in blue ink. I pictured myself in his presence as he signed it.

                ...The year was 1964. Malcolm had signed dozens of papers that day. It was late and he was exhausted – he hadn’t eaten much. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up just passed his wristwatch. The same wristwatch he always wore. The other people in the room were having a discussion about President Kennedy when outside in the hallway, the phone began to ring.  He looked up and saw me.  I was there with him.

             The museum employee (probably witnessing my deep gaze into space) asked if I had any questions and in the blink of an eye I returned back to 2013. 

______________________________________________

                I understand everyone does not attempt to connect with the past as I do. For me, this connection is a chance to travel through time and empathize with the past – I try to imagine what life was like. I try to connect.  Without this connection, I fear our past will become nothing more than distant relics of a forgotten history, enshrined and untouched, encased in glass.

The Hawk

We went up to the neighborhood hilltop and found a nice perch. I suppose there were lots of days like this back then. I spent a lot of time on that hilltop. Bernal Hill. Such a noteworthy hill that its even got its own family of hawks living on it.

My friend was young like me. He wore a red 49ers jersey with a matching cap. His cap’s bill was kept straight and it still had the stickers on (I hated it when guys wore the sticker. Always thought it was stupid). I don’t remember his name. Jesus, it must have been over 15 years ago. Somehow we knew each other and decided to kick it. We had both grown up in San Francisco but his personality was much more thuggish than mine. You see, San Francisco before the dot-com boom was much more working class. Some neighborhoods had (and still have) dozens of rundown apartment complexes that were quite rough with aggressive mobs of youth running around - not all of them were exactly “gangs”. The result was a diverse breed of tough street kids who learned to navigate through a fairly ghetto urban environment. - This guy was an example of this world. He was a white kid who talked with a New Yorky kinda accent and sagged his pants. (The sagging pants annoyed the shit out of me too back then but whatever…)

As we sat there he told me about himself. He saw himself as being really hard core and felt that he had to “grow up at an early age”. He wasn’t a gangster as he didn’t claim any turf, but he seemed to be affiliated with them. He went on to explain to me all the crazy shit he’d seen and how that made him super ghetto. I’m not sure how we got into this conversation, but that’s pretty much all we talked about. Apparently, he wanted me to know just how hard he really was.

It was almost sunset. And the raptors who charm that beloved hill began to hover our heads in search of their next meal. We both looked up at the same time and saw the hawk. Its wing span curled up at the tips and it flapped only minimally. It sailed right in front of the sun.

“Oh shit blood! Lookit that bird!” he said.

He paused.

All of a sudden his smile faded and his face went completely relaxed. His lips were serious. Staring at the hawk, his eyes weren’t stern anymore. They had softened. His eyebrows arched into a look of wonder - almost concerned. Desperate.

“Hey blood…”

He paused again. His eyes still fixed on that hawk.

”..I wanna be a bird blood..”

A Start

I suppose my first memories start at age 4.  

My family lived in Los Angeles.

There were tennis shoes hanging from the telephone wires.  Dozens of them.  It perplexed me how they got them up there - A ladder perhaps..

I spent much of my playing time with my cousin Ernie. Ernie was my closest cousin.  My earliest memory of him is going to his house and realizing his toys were more macho than mine.  He had muscular Rambos, and Ultimate Warriors.  I had stuffed animals.  Either way, he was my age and we got along somethin’ awesome. 

That same year I stood awake past midnight for the first time during a New Years Eve party.  My Uncle Tony gave me 5 dollars for winning the family Limbo contest that night. Five…whole…dollars y’all.  

I remember almost drowning for the first time.  I jumped in after seeing my dad swimming in the pool.  He made it seem so easy. - Just move your arms, right? I attempted one stroke and sank to the bottom. My dad ran over and saw me holding my breath at the bottom.  He reached down and grabbed whatever he could. In this case it was my massive amount of curly hair…Rescued by a hair pulling, I henceforth would remember this day always. Thanks pops. 

I remember visiting my grandfather. - The only memories I have of him before his funeral.  His front yard had tons of plants and lawn ornaments.  The skin on his face was thin and wrinkled but underneath you could see strong handsome bones.  His jaw, and eyebrows looked particularly strong.  He was tall and had slender legs.  At his funeral there was a smell of a musky cologne that I still associate with him and that day.

Next door there was a girl named Susie.  Her parents were immigrants from Armenia and she was also my age.  All I remember of her was that she was obsessed with me and obsessed with balloons.  She had short blonde curly hair, big eyelashes, and little lips.  I remember she reminded me of Madonna from the music video “Open your heart” - The one where that boy watches Madonna striptease and she kisses him…Well, I didn’t really like that music video and kinda thought it was weird.  Either way, I remember being totally overwhelmed by little Susie and her constant requests to “gimme balloon”.  Susie’s mom, who had an adorably thick Armenian accent would always rave about how much Susie was in love with me…

One day I woke up and walked to the living room.  There were dozens of roaches scattered all around the house. I was scared and closed the door and pretended to go back to sleep…Shortly after, our family moved out of that house.   I’m not sure if I ever said goodbye but once we moved away I never saw Susie again.