The Hunger for More

I’m one of those people with an insistent and persistent voice in my head that tells me, “It’s never enough!” Though this whimsical voice residing in the folds of my brain, penetrating my every thought is constant, it presents itself in various ways. There are times when the voice is a gentle whisper reminding me that dreams are to be pursued and other times it is a nagging, ear piercing scream forcing me to get off my butt and never except mediocrity.

I’ve been blessed and through these blessings I’ve also been cursed. You see, the proverbial clock is ticking and as I crawl through my thirties with an uncomfortable urgency, I realize that the longer I wait for something to happen – the longer I’ll wait for something to happen. God has invested these “talents” in me and I struggle daily with whether or not I have the audacity to tap into them and use them. It takes a lot of courage to multiply and not bury your gifts in the sand for safekeeping.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve also been surrounded by the most incredible and supportive people in the world. It doesn’t stop me from wondering if my words fall on deaf ears or even worse ears attached to mouths wondering, “just who the hell does this guy think he is?” My goal has never been to be all things to everyone, just everything to me. One of my FB friends posted a quote from Bill Cosby, “I don't know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody.” These are truly some of the most profound and prolific words ever spoken!

The funny thing about having the desire for more is that it is a lot like buying a new car; once you make the purchase you start to see your car everywhere! I have friends in my life that are doing some pretty amazing things.

I have a friend that is attending law school after recently losing her mother, a friend who has turned pain that no man should endure into the most thought provoking and engaging music I’ve ever heard, a sister who has started a whole new life in another state, a cousin who is serving in Iraq along with his wife but has not lost a single drop of love or admiration for her, a friend who recently got married but had words of encouragement for me, a fellow blogger who is changing the world’s perception of children with Down’s Syndrome, a friend who has just been commissioned as an officer in the Marine Corps and whose wife is pursuing her Master’s degree, countless single-mom friends who have sacrificed everything for their children, a friend who has not let recent incarceration steal his thirst and hunger for life, friends who have dedicated their lives to educating children and the list goes on and on.

To list all of the accomplishments of the people in my life would be impossible, the one thing that they all have in common is that not one of them have allowed life to dictate their definition or pursuit of happiness. My desire is to constantly strive to adhere to the instructions of the voice in my head and take my place amongst the incredible people God has encircled around me. My goal is to be a blessing and make a mark on this earth that can be seen from heaven.

One of my favorite Shakespearean quotes is from the play Twelfth Night:

Be not afraid of greatness; some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.

I’m ready!

Character, Crime, and Punishment

Recently, I was forced to perform as the subsection, “Disciplinarian” under the broader role and responsibility of “Father.” This is a hat that although fits me quite snug, I absolutely hate wearing. It breaks my heart to discipline my kids and to be the one to teach them the life lesson of consequences. The irony is that I’m about to use the World Wide Web to discuss the nature of my son’s offense when, as a child, I loathed the fact that after not sparing the rod my mother would get on the phone and tell her girlfriend’s about it. I understand now that she wasn’t bragging about her physical prowess over me, instead she was looking for confirmation that she did the right thing because her heart was breaking.

Currently, I’m writing from a hotel room in the Midwest and my son is nestled in Southern California, living, playing, and apparently practicing skills I hope he never uses again. I received a phone call a couple of days ago that was obviously prompted by his mother. I could hear her voice in the background encouraging my son to “Tell your father” what he did. The next voice I heard was that of my oldest, Jordan trembling as he informed me that he forged his mother’s signature on a homework log that was supposed to be signed by a parent and turned in earlier that morning. I was furious! “Off with his head” was my first reaction. This is one of those situations that, as a parent, you punish out of fear more than anger; both are equally dangerous.

Hypocrite, thy name is Anthony.

So I began to verbally chastise my twelve year old on the immoral, illegal, and downright disgusting behavior he engaged in. As I spoke, I could hear his breathing quicken and I could only imagine that he was terrified of the pending consequences. I even hit him with the coveted, “I’m so disappointed in you.” What I did not tell my son was that when I was around his age I too dabbled in the art of deceit known as forgery. I remember getting a poor grade on an assignment and rather than give it to my mother for signature I practiced her difficult autograph in my room late into the night. So late, in fact, that I fell asleep with pages of evidence scattered all around me. When my mother came into my room to suggest I get in bed she reacted out of the same fear.

His mother got on the phone and we both were extremely upset. I have to say that I am very lucky because my ex-wife and I are still very much partners when it comes to raising our son. We see eye to eye on most things and respect each other enough to confront the other when we don’t. I had already handed down the punishment before she took the phone. We have been planning a camping trip for the past couple of months and I decreed that Jordan would not be able to go. The camping trip being his idea, he was devastated. His mother agreed with me that not allowing him to attend the camping trip was just. I was still reeling at the fact that he would do something so devious and asked her exactly how it all happened.

Here’s where things get sticky.

Periodically, Jordan receives a “homework log” from his math teacher that shows all of his recent assignments and the grades he received, including incompletes. The idea, of course, is to keep parents informed of their child’s progress throughout the semester. Jordan had some missing assignments, which his mother and I knew about and turning in the log was an assignment as well. Before he brought home the log to be signed, we warned him that we were not going to tolerate another missing assignment. Now I must explain that my son is the king, well let’s be honest, the prince of procrastination. The king is typing these words on to this page. He failed to get his mother’s signature and when faced with turning the log in that morning he made a decision that showed a complete and total lack of judgment. He knew that if he didn’t turn in the log he would receive another missing assignment and be punished. Because he waited so long to get a signature he signed it himself, copying his mother’s signature from another paper she had previously signed. He turned the paper in and his teacher wasn’t aware that he was handing in a forgery.

That same evening, Jordan and his mother were sitting at her kitchen table doing homework. After making her promise that she wouldn’t get mad, Jordan confessed his sin. He confessed without prompt or even the threat of getting caught. As a matter of fact, we later would learn that the teacher would not have even suspected him of a crime. Part of his punishment would be to go to school the next day and confess to his teacher as well. His mother told me that she had to look at the paper he signed again to realize that it wasn’t legit.

So here is my dilemma. The crime my son committed was wrong and needed to be dealt with severely. The character he displayed was refreshing and quite impressive. As judge and jury was I to take into consideration that his conscious wouldn’t allow him to get away with it?

At first, I stood my ground. I reasoned that just because someone has a conscious or moral obligation to himself doesn’t mean that the punishment shouldn’t fit the crime. Or does it?

I wrestled with this quite a bit. Melissa, my current wife, disagreed. She called me later that night and informed me that she was suffering from the same guilt that I was. She reminded me that Jordan knew what he did was wrong as displayed by his unsolicited confession. She also believed that if I came down too hard on him it might deter any future confessions. I might inadvertently teach him to ignore his conscious and roll the dice. So, I relented. Jordan will go on the camping trip this weekend and I thought of a more creative way to punish behavior I never want repeated. The punishment is still harsh enough to correct but lenient enough to reward his integrity.

I want my kids to understand that in life consequences are inevitable. I also want them to trust that their parents are understanding, yet firm. I only hope that this experience was enough to teach my son the lesson he was supposed to learn. I know I learn valuable lessons in patience, gratitude, and trust.

Walking Away

Walking away from anything is difficult, even if walking away means preventing a devastating and disastrous result. If I may be allowed to insert a bit of contradiction, walking away can sometimes be easy; dealing with the consequences of walking away rarely is. It is a simple truth I attribute both experience and ignorance to the hesitation we display when faced to walk away.

Imagine being intoxicated and standing at your car, keys in hand facing the decision whether or not to drive yourself home. To remove the inebriation excuse, imagine you are tipsy, not drunk. The obvious choice would be to walk away and find an alternate way home. Here’s where experience or ignorance can complicate the situation. Though not ignorant of the consequences of driving while intoxicated, it is possible to not know how those consequences will affect us emotionally or psychologically. I know that a DWI will bring with it a hefty fine, possible jail time, and I could lose both my job and my family. Unfortunately, for some, knowing isn’t enough. Experiencing a DWI, however, seems to have a much larger impact on future decision to try to “make it home.” I believe that unless there is some psychological or emotional defect, most of us learn from the painful lessons we endure.

So let’s talk specifics. Why is marriage so easy to walk away from? I believe the concept of marrying for life is a fallacy as long as divorce is possible. I carefully chose not to use the phrase “divorce is an option” because I know that some have professed that it isn’t. Although it may not be an option, it is still very much a reality.

I dare make this very controversial statement: I believe that marriage is plausible because divorce is possible. I also believe that if divorce was somehow illegal or impossible, we would see a decline in marriage.

Now before you scoff at my theory, consider this: people rarely enter into endeavor without an escape route or a “plan b.” Think of the decisions you’ve made in your life, regardless of the impact, and consider that at some point you considered a worst-case scenario. Even decisions made without thought are easily made because an egress is possible. This is just a theory.

I was married once before my current marriage and standing at the alter for the first time I dreamed of forever, but I knew in the recesses of my mind I had a way out. I knew that I walk away but I was ignorant of the impact walking away would have on my life. I walked away. I walked away believing that leaving would my marriage would offer me an alternative life. Not true. Marriage truly is for life, whether you stay married or not. My first wife will always be apart of my story and she will always be apart of my life. Aside from the fact that we have a son together, her existence is the byproduct of my decision-making.

I learned a lot from my divorce. I learned that leaving a marriage is the same thing as mourning a death. Too much focus is placed on deciding who murdered the marriage or if the marriage committed suicide. The fact remains that the lifestyle that we once shared is now dead. After a time the details of the demise no longer seems relevant.

So now I am married again. My current wife was carefully chosen based on the deep intense love I have for her and her compatibility with my lifestyle and desires. That is not to say that this marriage is easier, but I now have experience. I still believe in the forever I vowed the first time I got married but this time that forever is more feasible. I can’t walk away from this woman or this life because I know the consequences of those actions. Don’t get me wrong; I am not staying with my wife to prevent the pain of divorce. I am with my wife because I love her. The experience of going through a divorce has helped me to compromise quicker and choose my battles more carefully. I’ve learned that winning an argument at the expense of losing my life partner is not a win at all. Though it may sound a bit disturbing, walking away once before has made it impossible to even consider now.

Lucky for me my first wife is now a very happy woman and we both are in relationships that are more suitable for each another. We’ve developed a friendship based on the common goal of ensuring our son lives a life of unfathomable joy.

I’ve had friends approach me asking me my feelings about divorce. Though I would love to take a stand and say that I’m completely against it, I feel it would be hypocritical. I am very much an advocate for staying together, but I’m more of an advocate for being true to one’s on self. My advice to anyone considering divorce is to ensure that every opportunity to reconcile has been explored. Once you walk away, there is no going back. Even if a couple finds away to reunite the damage is permanent.

Ironically, I put more effort into ensuring that my friends understand the true nature of marriage than divorce. I’ve been asked, “Tony, do you think we should get married?” My answer is and always will be, “yes, but only if you understand that forever means just that.” I thank God for all the experiences in my life because they’ve shaped and formed the man that I am and the man that I hope to become. If nothing, I’ve learned that there is no alternative to life and walking away isn’t an option.

Dream a Little Dream

I travel quite a bit for my job and I’m forced to stay in hotels for a week or two out of the month. I've grown accustomed to the false sense of comfort that hotel rooms provide. For a few days most hotels are extremely inviting and almost "homelike". That is until you've been there for more than five or six days. Suddenly, having no refrigerator to open and close, or your favorite pillow, or even a spouse who creeps on to your side of the bed become the pathogens that lead to homesickness.

Strangely, a symptom I suffer from while traveling is vivid, Technicolor dreams that I only seem to have in hotel rooms. I’m not sure if I get a better sleep at home or I have more mental stimulation in unfamiliar places.

Before going into the specifics of the dream that prompted this entry, I would like to start with my interpretation of dreams. In his book The Interpretation of Dreams, Freud surmised that dreams were the “day residue” or a byproduct of the visual, auditory and thought stimulation of the previous day. Though this definition of dreams has been challenged by other psychology professionals, it has been a source of reference to explain the dream phenomenon.

I agree with Freud. I believe that our lives play out much like a movie. Our five senses act as camera and projector, recording and displaying the events of our lives in our minds. There are certain thoughts and feelings that we express without censure and others that we keep to ourselves. This is the stimulation that doesn’t make it pass the “director’s cut” of our lives. The cutting room floor is what feeds our dreams. I believe that order and logic are left out of this film and we just “see” rolls of tape in no specific sequence. Sometimes we get lucky and we dream in a sensible fashion. There are other times our dreams are left to individual perception. While trying to figure out my own dreams, I retrace my steps to get a more accurate explanation of the film I watched while sleeping.

Last night I dreamed of Armageddon. My first thought was to search my memories for conversations, recent television shows or movies, and anything that would bring me to the thought of the world ending. The Armageddon I dreamed of wasn’t the world but my on singular demise. In my dream, I was sitting in a classroom and was suddenly overcome with a feeling of urgency. My mind was racing and in a moment the world seemed to smear and blur right in front of me as if I was watching a videotape while fast forwarding. I dreamed in a sort of third person watching myself but my thoughts were the thoughts of the person in my dream, not the dreamer. I began to instantly think of my afterlife knowing that the end was moments away. In a flash, all the mistakes I had made throughout my actual life ran through my mind. I remember becoming overwhelmed by the guilt of pain and agony that I’ve caused. Guilt gave way to fear as I realized that I was about to die and there was nothing I could do about the next second or the years that preceded that moment. As my dream identity began to blur with the world around him, I suddenly felt a sense of complete and utter peace and tranquility.

So what was that about? I want to believe that I lack the ability to make premonitions in the dream world. For whatever reason, I believe that subconsciously I’ve been punishing myself for my past mistakes and I was sending myself a message. My dream was about the second leading up to the end of my world. What I realized was that death was not the time to contemplate life. There was nothing I could do about my demise and it was only until I accepted the inevitability of dying did I receive peace. In essence, I taught myself to atone for my mistakes and continue to live; changing only the things that I can actually change.

Is it possible to learn life lessons from ourselves? That’s up to philosophers and psychoanalysts to decide. I believe that I’ve lived long enough to avoid my past mistakes and write the script of my life everyday while enjoying the leftovers during a deep, blissful, sleep.

The Men I’ve Loved

Now that I have your attention...

I have always been envious of the relationships that women are able to make with one another. Women are extremely talented at making life long friends that they lean on and glean from on a daily basis. They show exceptional loyalty and kindness to one another and rarely do they allow anything to infiltrate or destroy their bond. It is truly remarkable. The levels of intimacy that women share with their girlfriends’ rivals the relationships that some develop with the men they love.

Men are very different. Most men never know the joy of developing a strong and meaningful relationship with other men. Many men rely on women to provide them with a place of comfort and support. No matter how intuitive a woman may be, it is virtually impossible for her to understand the pitfalls and triumphs of manhood. Truly, she can only lead a man towards her individual understanding of the ideal women. The inherit flaw in this guidance is that most women learn everything they know about men from other women.

With all of the opportunities that men have to bond, one would think that friendships between men would be an effortless endeavor. Choose any state in America and you will find men congregating on basketball courts, golf courses, poker tables, and pool halls. These masculine meeting places are actually serve as a one of many causes for poor male bonding.

Men compete.

This is a two-word sentence that falls in line with all of the rules of grammar and social life. Men compete in every aspect of their lives and they’ve been competing since (pardon the crass observation) before the beginning of their own creation. I need not go into detail of the very first “race” that every man breathing has claimed victory. Even after conception, men were born to compete and conquer. Though probably not the first words a man utters, “I betcha” is a phrase that every man is familiar with. This constant state of competition makes it extremely difficult to find companionship beyond the realm of allies. A man doesn’t even need a competitive nature to understand the value of winning and the follies of losing. How is it possible to divulge my deepest darkest secrets to a man who will at some point serve as my adversary? Secrets serve as weapons when chasing the same victory, woman, or job. A man who divulges too much of himself to another man will only be devoured by that man when they inevitably face one another.

Another hindrance of men creating mutual relationships is the stereotypes that we have accepted that define a man. As a child, both men and women taught me that strength was my principle attribute. I was told repeatedly that in order to be a real man I would have to hide my feelings for the sake of the woman that would depend on my strength. Even during the transitional period of my teen years, the idea that a man is a rock is constantly reinforced. Unfortunately that rock was not the source of support it should have been, but a rigid, immovable object. The man has been defined in movies, sports, and music erroneously for years. He has been typecast as a misogynist, a sexist, and worst of all completely dependent on himself. Men are rarely taught to depend on each other but forced to lean on their own often-distorted views of life.

This is not to say that as men we are all stumbling through life, however it does mean that when we stumble we find ourselves alone in the fall. In my own life God has blessed me with men who have served as mentor, confidant, and friend. Though at times seemingly fleeting, I have known the bonds of brotherhood well. I’ve been lucky to be introduced to men of great morality and strength. These brothers have listened as I’ve poured my soul to them and have helped me to correct but never judge my behavior.

It would seem that my experiences contradict my previous summation. Unfortunately, the men who have shown me brotherly love have been few and far between. It also has taken time and life changing events to free ourselves of the solitude that many men imprison themselves in. It isn’t that a caring relationship between men isn’t impossible, however, it is incredibly difficult. Even the feminine overtones of this essay suggest that men shouldn’t be engaged in engaging one another on a more intimate level. I believe that a host of catastrophic events in the lives of men can be attributed to this lack of male intimacy.

In my own life I’ve dealt with an inability to cope and have turned to negative outlets in an attempt to work through my frustrations. I found myself confined within a revolving door searching for a way out. Though I had women in my life it was hard to explain the pressure of manhood that I felt stifling me. It took the encouraging words of a close male friend to bring perspective to my situation. He was able to explain to me that manhood was a journey filled with expectations. He taught me that the strength of a true man was not in his brawn or brains, but in understanding his limitations. Could a woman have given me the same advice? But in my situation the horse’s mouth served as more realistic vessel for advice.

Aristotle developed a concept known as philos a type of love that is dispassionate and virtuous. As men we must not be afraid of the word love nor should we be afraid to love one another. If it were possible to tell a brother that you love him and prevent the rampant acts of suicide, spousal abuse, drug and alcohol abuse, and depression wouldn’t it be worth it?

For the men who were man enough to love and help guide me through life I want to say I appreciate it. I also want to say that I love you brother, I love you friend.

Loving the Proverbs 31 Wife

Proverbs 31:10-31 or Eishes Chayil outlines the ideal or Virtuous wife. It describes what a woman should strive for, perfection is never assumed. Regardless of your belief system, you have to respect an industrious and faithful woman or even one who aspires to be. Loving a woman that is living by a certain code of ethics whose goal is to please both God and her husband is certainly attractive and ideal.

So what happens when a man stumbles upon a woman who is in relentless pursuit of these virtues? How am I to handle the pressure of a woman who puts God and her family before herself? That is pressure.

It’s funny; it is almost easier to love a woman who has no ambition to be pleasing in God's or my sight. It’s easier because it provides plenty of excuses for the ambitious man with shortcomings. It had to be a simple undertaking for Adam to blame Eve for his disobedience. As a matter of fact, Adam blamed both God and Eve!

“Then the man said, 'The woman whom You gave to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I ate.'” Genesis (3:12)

The virtuous woman gives the man no opportunity for excuses. She is not easily tempted because her focus is on what is important in her life. This puts the responsibility on the man to do the same thing.

I took the liberty to break down the Proverbs 31 wife and how my own wife ascribes to these principles. I also show how I have come short of deserving such a blessing.


A wife of noble character who can find?
She is worth far more than rubies.
Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value.
She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life.


But what of him? Does he bring her the same? Loving this woman of virtue who supplies physical and emotional needs is indeed a difficult task. It is as if a woman who is constantly taking provides a better backdrop for excuses for failures. Having full confidence in my wife and lacking nothing that has value gives me the freedom to pursue my dreams without fear. I have no one but myself to blame for my shortcomings. How tragic.

She selects wool and flax and works with eager hands.
She is like the merchant ships, bringing her food from afar.
She gets up while it is still dark; she provides food for her family and portions for her servant girls.

Who said that a woman’s place is in her home? Has she left the home to better it? Has she ventured into the world to bring comfort and beauty to a home that you both enjoy? It is quite possible that God equipped women for this purpose. It has always amazed me how my wife, a Marine, can work for ten to twelve hours and still find time to come home and make me feel like she’s been waiting for me. I stand in awe on a Saturday morning when she wakes before I do, makes coffee, and then makes the entire house seem as if it has been dipped in pine oil and lemons. The very least I can do is pick up my clothes off the floor and do a load of laundry or two.

She considers a field and buys it; out of her earnings she plants a vineyard.

She makes smart decisions that bear fruit and doesn’t need a co-signature. My input is welcomed but not necessary. This type of strength and consideration multiplies my hands and allows me to be in more than one place a time. While I’m about my Father’s business, so is she!

She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks.
She sees that her trading is profitable, and her lamp does not go out at night.
In her hand she holds the distaff and grasps the spindle with her fingers.
She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy.

All day she works but yet still finds time to volunteer. I stayed home with the kids while she gave her time and talents to a shelter for abused woman last weekend. She knows her worth and helps other women to find theirs. She is a blessing, a blessing that I sometimes treat like a curse.

When it snows, she has no fear for her household; for all of them are clothed in scarlet.
She makes coverings for her bed; she is clothed in fine linen and purple.

All of our needs are met. She makes sure of it. The children never leave the house in anything that gives the perception that they are not well taken of. She ensures that are basic needs and our elaborate wants are considered. Whenever we are together she is dressed so that I am the envy of all men while still portraying the mother of my children.

Her husband is respected at the city gate, where he takes his seat among the elders of the land.

It is through her diligence that I take my place at the head of my table and earn the respect of my peers. Behind every good man is not the actual woman but her virtue. She stand besides me but pushes me to achieve all that God has in store for me.

She makes linen garments and sells them, and supplies the merchants with sashes.
She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.
She speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
She watches over the affairs of her household and does not eat the bread of idleness.

A constant go getter, she is a joy to be around and to be near. I have to force her to take a break, to relax. She believes that her job is stay busy and keep the home intact. She forces me off the couch with her relentless pursuit of perfection. How can I not lend a helping hand?

Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her:
"Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all."
Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the LORD is to be praised.
Give her the reward she has earned, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.

I constantly remind my beautiful wife that she is worthy of my praise. She belongs on the pedestal I placed her on, but not to be left there alone. I slip. I forget at times that this was my blessing, she was my gift, and proof that God favors me.

Demons

And He asked him, “What is thy name?” And he answered, saying, “My name is Legion; for we are many.” Mark 5:9, KJV

I’ve always found this passage of the bible extremely interesting. Jesus is speaking to demons from hell that has occupied the body of a man from Gadarenes. The fact that Jesus both recognized and addressed the demons is inspiring.

In my life I too have a legion of demons. These are mistakes I’ve made in the course of my life and the effects of those mistakes. The errors in judgment become demonic when they consume my thoughts of future endeavors. For instance, after divorcing my first wife I allowed the idea that I was not worthy of love to haunt me and engage in reckless behavior. I treated women horribly because I was convinced that I was a horrible person. I felt that I deserved the pain that would be birthed of the pain I inflicted. The funny thing about demons is that they are virtually harmless. It is the whispers and suggestions they make that are harmful, more accurately; it is our acceptance of those suggestions that can be catastrophic.

My demons have names and are a part of the supporting cast of the play that is my life. Regret, Pity, Apathy, Self-Loathing, and Envy are all unique characters that make script changes if I allow them to. Just the other day, Envy had taken center-stage and convinced me to covet the life of men that I assumed had more than me. Luckily, God has given me a leading life that reminds me constantly of how much I’ve been blessed. She entreats me to take inventory of my life and realize that God is not through with me. She also reminds me that I have children that are watching to see if I live life to the fullest or succumb to it.
I want to believe that my demons can be used for a better purpose. If I can use Regret to help me to consider other people’s feelings before making a decision, then maybe I’ll experience him less. If Apathy reminds me that caring for something other than myself breeds empathy then he has served his purpose. When I realize that Self-Loathing is a decision that can easily be changed to self-worth, then this demon is a little less terrifying.

Jesus recognized that the man from Gadarenes was not evil but was possessed by evil. He was able to see good though it was masked by iniquity. I don’t think that this a trait Jesus alone possessed. I believe that we were all blessed with this unique ability to look beyond what our eyes see. Sometimes the sheep is forced to don the wolf’s clothing hoping that someone can see through the façade and rescue him. As a sheep who constantly finds himself in costume, I thank God that He has made me more powerful than my demons and that He saw fit to bless me with people in my life with perfect sight.

My First Time

Though it will probably break my dear mother’s heart, I have to confess my first time was shortly after my twelfth birthday. That’s right I was twelve years old and so was she. It almost seems perverted to say this now considering I have a twelve-year-old son; luckily he seems to be more focused on sports than girls.

My first time was everything a first time should be, confusing, awkward, and terrifying. She was just as scared but we were both determined to go through with it. There was pressure from our peers because it seemed that everyone in the seventh grade was doing it. Everyone but me, but I was going to change that.

Though I had seen it done in movies and in magazines, I wasn’t exactly sure about the mechanics of the process. She was no pro either. I guess we both just assumed the other would know what to do when the time came.

We discussed it at great length before the actual act. Even speaking about the subject to her made me quiver. I remember how beautiful she was and how special our little relationship was to me. I was happy that my first time would be with my girlfriend. Back then we called it “going together.” Which was a bit of an oxymoron because we were too young to go anywhere together except class. This made privacy extremely difficult. I offered my mother’s house (sorry Mom) because she worked late and we wouldn’t be interrupted. My girlfriend suggested that we find a spot at the school where we could be alone. We were both student atheletes so we had a reason to stay at school late without alarming our parents. I would tell the football coach that I wasn’t feeling well and she would tell the volleyball coach the same. That would give us about an hour and a half of solitude from the rest of the world. We set a date. We decided Friday would be best, that way if things didn’t go well we would have the weekend to recover before seeing each other again.

There were so many questions. I had heard from the eighth graders that if we weren’t careful or if we did it too long we could accidently make a baby. I definitely didn’t want that. The people in the movies just did it. I wanted that type of boldness and fearlessness. The morning we were going to do it I woke up earlier than usual. Although there would be eight hours of school before our inaugural experience, I began to prepare. I brushed my teeth twice and used some of my mother’s mouthwash, the kind that stung when you swished it. My father was a fan of Drakkar cologne so I slapped some on my face the way he did. I wore my only Polo shirt for the special occasion and picked one of my mother’s roses to give my girlfriend at school. We saw each other in the cafeteria at breakfast and could barely make eye contact. I asked her if she wanted to call the whole thing off but she assured me that she was ready. We only shared one class together, which was homeroom, the last class of the day. Our homeroom teacher was very laid back so we had a chance to talk before the last bell. I noticed at some point she had put lip-gloss on her lips, which I very much appreciated. I also remember her eyes had a tinge of color to them that afternoon. I felt so special that she risked punishment and wore makeup for our special day.

The time had come and my stomach was turning flips. My feet felt as though I were walking through quicksand as I made my way to the school’s auditorium. She was a member of the audiovisual club. Her teacher had entrusted her to be the sole student with a key to the A/V room where the televisions and camera’s where kept. Our code was for me to knock on the door three times, pause and then knock twice more. The pass code was received and she cracked the door to ensure that our secret had not been compromised. I stepped through the door and she locked it behind me. Standing in front of her, thousands of thoughts raced through my mind. Was I supposed to grab her or let her touch me first? Should we talk before we start or just do it? How long should it take? Was she supposed to go first or was I? Even though we knew why we were there I still felt the need to ask permission before we started. I wanted to say something witty but the only thing I could make out was, “I’m nervous.” She reminded me how much I liked her by offering a comforting, “Me too.”

When we started we fumbled and stumbled until we suddenly reached a moment of bliss. In the little over a decade that I had lived to that moment, I don’t remember a more pleasurable experience. Honestly, now twenty-one years later, I can only think of a handful that could compete. It seemed to be over before it started but that didn’t make it any less incredible. Immediately after we finished I remember looking in her smoky brown eyes searching for a semblance of approval and satisfaction. Like most men, I worried that despite my efforts the encounter was anticlimactic for her. She smiled. It was the most salacious smile I had or will ever witness. Her smile whispered to me that everything was okay and that she had no regrets. Also, still keeping in true form of my gender, I immediately wondered when and if we could do it again. I remained silent because at that moment, I was beyond content.

Throughout my life I would repeat the enjoyable act I shared with my first girlfriend with many more including, of course, my wife. A gentleman would never rate the quality of present or past women in his life but I can say the overall experience of my “first” will remain memorable. I’ve gotten better over the years and have managed to add a few tricks and treats to my repertoire. Though my wife proudly serves as my only judge she has mentioned an improvement over the years.

I’ve always found it a bit of a dangerous undertaking to reminisce too deeply about the past. However, every once in a while, I like to close my eyes and travel back to that A/V closet and privately enjoy the exhilaration of my first kiss.

Random Acts of Prose (Part II)

I saw this pine cone sitting on a rock and immediately grabbed my camera. Julian has a large cemetery protected by towering pine trees. Walking through the grave yard, one can see the stories of people who have walked the steep hills and wrote the pages that make up history of the town. As you continue to read this story, I hope you can find a story in your surroundings that will tell whatever tale you would like the world to know. Continue to enjoy this random act of prose...

Julian (Part II)

When I met her I was overwhelmed and completely in awe. To describe her as beautiful would be an erroneous use of the word. She was incredibly stunning. I wanted nothing more than to be everything to her that she was to me the first day I saw her. I knew I wasn’t an ideal for any woman but I figured if I could find a way to make her love me I would be happy forever. Luckily, sometimes life gives you just enough to accomplish your goals.

Opportunities like Desiree rarely presented themselves to me. I met her in a grocery store and I knew that she was the key to my happiness. She wasn’t impressed with me from the beginning but I was persistent. My life was actually pretty drab until our first date. I was in the produce section when she smiled at me and it honestly took me off guard. As a matter of fact I was standing in a mountain of onions when first said hello. (It’s a long story.) She actually started the ball rolling to change my life forever. She suggested a few changes in my appearance that I reluctantly accepted. Who knew a haircut and new clothes could make a man feel so good. Not since I was awarded the “Innovator in Bio-Engineering” award at Cornell had I felt so complete. She even talked me into having lasik surgery on my eyes ridding me for good of those thick glasses I hated. I was so impressed with my new image in the mirror; I decided to give Desiree a few thousand dollars to start the clothing boutique she had been dreaming of. It really was the very least I could do for her.

I was a new man. I took a few trips up to Julian after meeting Desiree because it was my favorite place to think and I decided it would be the place that I would make one of the biggest decisions of my life. I made hotel reservations hoping that a nice, quaint place would ease both Desiree and me into this crazy phase of our relationship. I knew she wasn’t completely sold on the idea of being with me, which made my decision so urgent. I brought along everything I would need for the ultimate seduction. I brought a radio with a mix tape of slow songs, chocolates, champagne, and strawberries. I bought sexy lingerie that I was sure would fit the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. I left no stone unturned, I even arranged a limo for the drive home.

Desiree wasn’t exactly in awe of the Julian Hotel but it didn’t matter. I was focused. When I saw her that day in the grocery store, I knew she would be perfect in everyway. I needed her and I spent the last three months trying to convince her that she needed me. When we made it to the room I knew I had to act fast. I couldn’t waste any time. Luckily, Desiree dropped her bags and disappeared into the bathroom. I took her bags and placed them by the door. I opened the dresser drawer and placed a single red rose in the top drawer. I had written a note to Desiree well before the trip and sprayed a bit of Tea Rose perfume on it, hoping her favorite perfume would make it easier to read. I knocked on the bathroom door and told Desiree I needed to pick up a few things in town and would be back soon. She said okay and I grabbed her bags and sprinted down the stairs.

When I made the reservations, I instructed the limousine driver to meet me outside the hotel an hour after our calculated arrival time from San Diego. He was early which was perfect. I gave him an extra fifty dollars to wait and put Desiree’s bags in his trunk. I opened the cabin of the limousine and opened a bottle of champagne and poured a glass. Just as I finished I saw her approaching. I closed the door and felt the same sensation I did when I first laid eyes on Lacey. She smiled when she saw me and walked over to me looking confused.

We said our hellos and she took a step back to admire the new me. We hadn’t seen each other since my last trip to Julian, a few weeks before. I could tell she was impressed. I informed her that I had something special for her in my room and asked if she would join me upstairs. She hesitated but agreed and followed me to my room. My plan had been set in action.

I first met Lacey about two weeks before I met Desiree; she was working at the front desk of the Julian Hotel. Though I had been to Julian a few times, it was the first time I wondered into the hotel. I knew she was way out of my league but I was obsessed with the idea of being with her. The day I met Desiree, I knew she would be exactly what I needed to get Lacey to like me.

I reached out my hand as we walked up the hotel steps and she grasped it and smiled. I was so appreciative to Desiree for helping me blossom into the confident man that I had become. As we walked towards my room, I was confident that Lacey would take one look at how beautiful Desiree was and be impressed that we were together. My plan was to show Lacey what I was willing to give up for her and she would be so honored that she would fall madly in love with me. Since Desiree wasn’t that into me anyway, I figured she would be happy to head back to San Diego in a limousine with champagne after serving her purpose. I also assumed that she had read the note I left on her pillow explaining all that she had done for me and how she had helped me get closer to Lacey, my one true love. I approached the door and whispered to Lacey that she would love what was on the other side. I grasped the handle and turned…

The conclusion? You decide...

Random Acts of Prose (Part 1)

Julian is about an hour, beautiful drive from my home in northern San Diego. I've traveled to this sleepy, mining town a few times over the years and really enjoy it. I saw this hotel and just had to take a few snap shots of it. I thought the sign spoke volumes about the town and the people in it, a subtle contrast that couldn't be ignored. Hotels are intriguing and extremely provocative. Because of their large turnover there are several hundred stories in each room. This story is a lot like the town of Julian, a tale of perception. Enjoy this random act of prose...

Julian (Part 1)

The drive to the Julian seemed to take forever. I sat on the passenger side of Everett’s two-seater trying my best to appear that I was amused. I was actually fighting the nausea of the twist and turns of what seemed like the most winding road I have ever been on. I honestly still couldn’t believe I agreed to the trip in the first place. Everett promised me that I would have a blast and that he knew of the perfect little bed and breakfast for us to spend a romantic weekend. Unfortunately for Everett, we are well beyond bed and breakfasts and way beyond spending a romantic weekend together.

The whole relationship was absolutely stifling and I wanted nothing more than to be free. If it weren’t for the nature of our arrangement I would have left a long time ago. My fear was that Everett planned to “pop the question” while I was planning to finally break it off.

After what felt like a lifetime, I finally saw a sign for Julian. In the company of anyone else, I would have been excited about this little mining town that time forgot. I would be elated to walk in and out of little quaint, knick-knack shops, and feasting on the apple pie it was known for. Looking over at Everett, the only thing I could feel was my breakfast creeping up my throat.

The day Everett and I met, I was in a bad place. I had just caught my boyfriend of three years cheating and I was desperate to just forget about the pain of being deceived. Everett was doing a poor job of discreetly eyeing me in the grocery store as he perused the produce section. He was not the type of man I would notice but he became increasingly familiar because I had managed to see him on every aisle I walked down. Tall, lanky, and completely strange looking, I felt sorry for him more than anything. He was wearing these ridiculously thick glasses and his skin looked as if he were a thirty-year-old revisiting puberty. I was impressed with the Cornell t-shirt he was wearing but my admiration was short lived because he paired it with oversized, stained sweatpants. He was a mess and so was his hair. It was in that awkward phase that was too short to call long and too long to call short. It fell scrappily over his ears and looked as if he had dipped it in oil. At first glance, I wanted to look away. Maybe it was my broken heart or the fact that I needed the validation, but something made me smile at him. Now any other man would have taken this as a green light to come and say hello but not Everett. He just stood there with a pathetic grin on his face as if I were the first woman to offer a pleasant gesture to him. I realized I would have to take the lead and walked over to him and introduced myself. He sputtered and stuttered his name to me and managed to create an avalanche of onions to fall at his feet. Suddenly, Everett became a poor little puppy that I just couldn’t walk away from.

We arrived the bed and breakfast and I was immediately impressed. It looked inviting and for a moment I actually almost convinced myself that this would be slightly romantic. We walked inside and were greeted by a heavy-set woman that was almost cliché in her demeanor and speech. She checked us in and escorted us to a Victorian-style room that was equipped with an actual canopy bed and ornate vanity. Everett’s excitement irritated me and I wanted nothing more than to fall asleep and hope that this was all a sick and twisted dream. As he unpacked I disappeared into the bathroom plotting for a way to let him down easy and without a scene. I decided that I would probably have to wait until Sunday considering he had already paid for the room. Besides, I figured what the hell, I needed a vacation. I stared at my reflection in the mirror and saw that time had started its hellish waltz on my face. Deep wrinkles around my mouth and eyes seemed to suddenly appear and the youthful gleam of my brown eyes began to fade. The clock was ticking and I was feeling every second. I would be lying if I claimed there wasn’t a part of me that appreciated Everett’s attraction to me. To be honest, it seemed at times that he was the only one that still lusted after me. I can remember being the object of many men’s desires but it seemed that attention was beginning to diminish. It may be remnants of vain youth, but I refused to believe that Everett was the pinnacle of my attraction to the opposite sex.

I stepped out of the bathroom completely over my pity party to find that Everett had completely unpacked and put away all of our clothes. I wasn’t sure what he did with my bags, but knowing him he probably put them in the car so they weren’t in the way. It sickened me to think he was so confident that I would stay long enough to gain any sense of comfort. He told me that he needed a few toiletry items and would look for a place to eat dinner. I relished the thought that I would be alone and have an opportunity to figure a way out of this mess.

Everett really wasn’t a horrible guy. In all actuality his major flaw was that he was painfully ordinary. After our encounter in the grocery store I agreed to go out with him and wasn’t surprised that he lacked the social graces and seductive qualities of most of the men I’ve dated. He was like an overgrown pussycat, afraid and seemingly incapable of boldness. He quickly became a project of my boredom and a challenge. I figured if I could take this raw piece of clay and sculpt a masterpiece, at the very least I would always have a means to entertain myself. I now know why artist sell their art; overtime your creation becomes the bane of your existence. Basically, I dressed him up and knocked of the ridiculous. I got his haircut and changed his wardrobe. Everett’s rawness made it easy to transform him into the appearance of my ideal. He needed only a few weeks in the gym to bring out a musculature stature that was hiding beneath a lackluster thin layer. I convinced him that it was time for laser surgery on his eyes and we got rid of his telescope glasses. I even taught him how to care for his skin revealing a smooth olive tone that tanned very well. In an Armani suit, Everett was quite the looker. If only the department stores sold personalities.

Over the course of three months, I learned that Everett had a small fortune saved up from his work in biogenetic engineering. I still have no idea what that means but it did offer us both a pretty comfortable lifestyle. Though we didn’t live together, Everett happily supplemented my income and even funded the opening of my clothing boutique. This, of course, is the tie that now binds us. I can’t help but to feel indebted to the man because he provided the seed money for my dream. The boutique isn’t doing as well as I hoped and I have no desire to go back to working retail for someone else. Regardless, I’m so unhappy with a man who sense of spontaneity is to carefully and meticulously plan a trip close enough for us to drive home “in the event of an emergency.”

I decided to use my time to take a long hot bath and formulate a plan to end the trip with the least amount of drama possible. I opened one of the drawers and noticed that Everett had placed a single red rose on top of my clothes. I smiled. I even noticed that he bought me new lingerie for the trip. That was one of things that irritated me about Everett; he really did have the ability to be very sweet. It made it hard to be mad at him and even harder to replace him. I’m not one of those women who want the “bad boy” I just want a man who takes control and displays a bit of authority in the relationship. Everett had the tendency to be a bit of a pushover, which drove me nuts.

I retrieved a pair of panties and passed on the sexy lingerie and opted for flannel pants and one of his t-shirts instead. I didn’t want Everett to get the wrong idea. I walked over to the bed hoping to catch a few minutes of sleep before Everett returned. On the pillow was a small note with my name on it. I was sure that when I opened it I would find some thoughtful note from Everett expressing his excitement for the weekend. I held the note close to my nose enjoying the scent of Tea Rose, my favorite perfume. Suddenly, something came over me that I wasn’t ready for. Suddenly, my eyes began to water because I realized that Everett was a good man and I was about to blow it.

The man I was dating when I met Everett was abusive both mentally and physically. Everett wouldn’t dream of saying or doing anything to hurt me. In an instant I decided that I was tired of sabotaging good relationships and believing that drama was equivalent to love. Everett was trying. He still went to the gym regularly and even bought designer clothes on his own. He actually made every effort he could to prove that he wanted to be with me. I, on the other hand, gave him very little credit for his efforts. I decided that I would give Everett and myself another chance at love. No more being impossible with Everett and no more treating him like a child. Maybe if I gave him the respect he deserved he would be the man I’ve always wanted. I ran to the dresser and changed into the lingerie. I sprayed Tea Rose on all the places I wanted Everett to kiss and put a little lip-gloss on, hoping to entice him to kiss me. I turned on the radio he brought and was impressed with his choice of music. I got under the covers and slipped off my panties. I held Everett’s note on my chest and decided I would have him read it to me when he got back to the room. When the doorknob turned, I was excited about a life with the man I was creating…

To be continued

Truth: A Consequential Casualty of Friendship

Once, I found myself in a precarious situation I prayed I would never have to face again. Till this day I can say that I've been spared the discomfort and embarrassment of that position, but honestly the decisions I made during that period haunt me to this day. I think we've all been there.

I was once asked to provide a friend with a long-standing alibi for his deceit and dishonesty. It became a bit of an impromptu lie that I was constantly prepared to tell.

Let me be clear that I have not and am not always the most honest person. I've told my share of lies and have even found myself tempted by the lure of infidelity. This made my periodic tasks even harder to do when asked. Here's the story.

My friend, I'll call him Larry (I don't know anyone named Larry and it was the first name that came to mind) was what is known as a serial monogamist. He enjoyed relationships, especially the courtship. Larry was truly gifted in the art of wooing a beautiful woman and weaving her deep into a web of his seduction. He was smooth and debonair in his approach, and women absolutely loved it. His ruse was that he and his wife were constantly going through various stages of divorce and she refused to understand his needs. I've always found it fascinating that a woman would not only believe Larry but also fall for the idea that she was the antithesis of his dutiful wife. It worked and it worked often.

Before diving to deep into truths and untruths, I'd like to spend a moment on the women he duped. Please don't allow me to paint a distorted picture of Larry. Larry was, in most accounts, a good guy. He was a loyal friend and someone that most people could trust, save his wife. He was passionate about his career and his hobbies and seemed to enjoy his life. (I speak of Larry in the past tense because I've severed ties with him.) Larry's number one character flaw was that he cheated on his wife... constantly. One particular woman knew of Larry's marital status and refused to be swayed. She believed that her presence in his life would enhance all the trials and tribulations he spilled to her during courtship. She willingly and joyfully snuck around with him enjoying the "thrill" that their clandestine encounters brought her. Too her ridiculous surprise, Larry ended their trysts deciding to "work things out" with his wife. I later learned that this was code for the fact that he lost interest and was ready to move on to the next girl. This woman's story could be photocopied and handed to every woman Larry dated. His ideal woman lacked confidence, esteem and a grip on reality.

Woman after woman, my job was to lie to Larry's wife. Every once in a while she would call me and ask if I had heard or seen Larry. Trying my best to not sound as if I were fabricating a story, I would fabricate a believable story and immediately call Larry. I've told her all sorts of ridiculous fantasies, hoping that she wouldn't believe me and demand that I put him on the phone immediately. I wanted a reprieve and an exit from the lie, but she never gave me one. Larry always had a way out and I was left to deal with a tormented conscious.

A reader could very easily cast my guilt and shame aside and profess that I deserve to feel this way. As a matter of fact, it would be easy to claim that all parties involved were equally guilty and deserved whatever punishment accompanied that guilt, including humiliation. No, I did not have to lie for my friend, nor did I have to take such an active role in his transgressions. During this time in my life my moral compass was severely off and I chose to emulate rather than chastise Larry. Birds of feather being a truism more than an idiom, I picked up some bad habits while crafting the perfect prevarication for Larry's indecorous behavior. What made matters worse is that I had absolutely nothing to gain. My friendship with Larry was a classic dependency. I needed his bad behavior to feel good about myself. He needed me to keep his wife out of his… affairs. The only thing that Larry offered me in return was a contrast that didn't require me to reach very high to attain mediocrity.

The final straw was a call late one Friday evening and a desperate request that had no positive outcome. I was asked if I would do one of two things: 1. Give an adulteress a ride to a clinic so that she could make a decision she was sure to regret or 2. Lie to Larry's wife again while he served as his girlfriend's chauffeur to an abortion clinic.

At that moment I realized that I was more than an enabler for Larry and his delusional wife. I was the cause of his problems. I was the drug dealer always willing to give a freebie. I was the money-obsessed member of an entourage, always willing to say yes. I was the parent praying that this would be the last time I would bail my child out of jail. What blew my mind was how easily Larry accepted my refusal to help out. I suspected that he had grown weary of his lifestyle and saw his omission of prophylaxis a careless cry for help. My refusal was the last words I would ever speak to Larry.

Through the grapevine I heard that he and the girl he was dating went through with the pregnancy. He divorced his wife and pursued a relationship with his mistress. All things being equal, she eventually left him for another man.

Larry taught me a lot about myself. He taught me the value of honesty and the pitfalls of wayward ambition. He taught me that a woman's heart is the most fragile collection of matter in Creation. I wish that I could say that since Larry I have not allowed a dishonest word to part my lips, but that would be a lie in itself. However, I have come to realize that lies will cause a wake of disaster that is not easily repaired. I’ve also vowed that I would never put anyone in the position that Larry placed me in. A simple lesson but one that has proven to be extremely valuable.

I still ask myself at times whose crime was greater... mine or his.

My Wife & The Lover She Introduced Me To

I have a theory. The theory hasn’t not be tested so to be absolutely pure to diction, I have a hypothesis.

My wife and I recently entered into a conversation about relationship that intrigued me. The topic of the conversation was:

“Why Do Relationships Fail?”

The conversation started after an episode of Oprah, of course, about the same subject. An interesting idea was presented regarding marriage and the perception that it is a holy union that sacristy is matched by no other institution.

Before tackling that thought we contemplated the true nature of falling in love with another person. Without attempting to define love, we considered how the feeling is derived. Here is where my theory comes into play.

I don’t believe that we ever necessarily fall in love with another person. Instead, I think we fall in love with the person that other people introduces us to. It is our imperfections that actually make us perfect for one another. The more imperfect we are the easier it is to find love. Imagine that every single person we meet is holding a mirror. The image in the mirror is always my reflection but it varies based on the perception of the person holding the mirror. For example, if I met Bob who thought I was a great guy, then in the mirror he’s holding I would see my reflection through his eyes – a great guy. On the other hand, if I met Jane who believed that I was evil, then her mirror would reflect an image of myself that I wouldn’t like. The tricky part is that there are those amongst us who will show us a reflection that has been manipulated for their own purposes.

Remember when you fell in love with your spouse or lover? Remember the feeling that the person gave you? I believe that no one can make you feel any type of emotion, good or bad. I believe that the person you actually fell in love with was your image in that person’s mirror. The person your new suitor has introduced you to is a better you or an ideal you. Relationships fail because the image begins to fade as life gets in the way. When I met Melissa, I loved the Tony she saw and reflected. As long as she reflects this superior Tony, I will continue to love Melissa. So essentially I am in love with Melissa and the lover she introduced me to - Me. Bear with me.

When we first meet someone, we make that person a priority. Nothing in life is more important than the person we are pursuing. The precedence we put on a potential lover gives them a certain self-importance they may not have for themselves. As long as we show one another an image of the very best of ourselves our infatuation grows stronger and stronger. Finally, completed fascinated with who we have become, we commit to the person who has introduced us to who’ve always thought we can be.

The breakdown takes place when we are no longer the priority. When the act of falling in love is complete bills can now be paid, jobs can be worked, children can be raised, and the mundane of life supersedes creating our lover’s best. Suddenly the “me” I see when I look into my lover’s eyes lacks the significance I once saw. Suddenly, I see flaws and shortcomings that didn’t prior exist. I’m angered by this phenomenon convinced that I’ve fallen out of love with my partner, when in all actually, I know lack the effort or esteem to recreate who she once showed me.

So what do I do? I cheat. I cheat because in the mirror my spouse is holding I see husband, provider, father, and other utilitarian titles that don’t appeal to the side of me that longs for romantic extravagance. I don’t need anyone to show me my responsible side. The woman at work or at the gym is holding a mirror that shows me lover, artist, comforter, and every other extraordinary being I long to be. I fall in love with this person – not the person holding the mirror, the person in the mirror – the better me. I leave my wife and the boring reflection she forces me to stare at day in and day out and run after the thwarted image of a person who has no idea who I am. Why do second marriages usually fail more often than first marriages? Because in both marriages the real you will eventually present himself.

Self-awareness is vital so that we are not tricked by someone’s altered mirror. When we recognize our true selves we are less likely to believe that we are less or greater than someone persuades us to be.

In some cases, the image we see is one that we enjoy so much that the person who introduces us to the image will always have a special place in our hearts. For example, my ex-wife and I no longer a share a romantic relationship, however by giving birth to my son she showed me an image of father that places me eternally in her debt. I can always be her friend because without her I would have never met the man that my son calls Dad. When I look at her I don’t see “lover” because she no longer casts that reflection of me. If she were to change the “father” image with hurtful words or actions keeping me from being a father, it would be easy to develop a disdain for her.

Some people have caused so much pain with their mirrors that we are not willing to allow anyone of their gender, race, creed, make-up, or background to show us ourselves again. A woman who has been raped by a family member or someone close to her will always question a friendly face attempting to show her an ornate likeness of herself. She’s seen herself that way before; beautiful, worthy, intelligent, important; only to be crushed by the person who had created the image. What dies is the relationship between her and the violator and any future belief that what he showed her is true. In a twisted way, the person who shows her a reflection of loathing, ugly and no worth is safer, because for her at least he is showing her what she already believes.

I believe this is why it is so hard for some people to leave tumultuous relationships. From the outside looking in we see two people who are hurting each other emotionally and possibly physically. The two people see what they once coveted, “a better me.” The woman who says, “he’ll change” is actually hoping that he will once again show her the woman she fell in love with. The man who says, “that’s not who she really is” believes that one day she will show him the strong and virile man she introduced him to at the beginning of their relationship. It isn’t until some catastrophic event forces the two people to look not at the mirror but the person holding the mirror that it becomes easy to break free.

I can back none of this up with science or proof. It is only my feeble attempt at answering the questions that has plagued us from the very first, “I love you.” My hypothesis is not one of cynicism but more the belief that falling in love with one’s self should remain priority one. The next time you fall in love or even gaze into the eyes of your current lover, look deep into the mirror of their soul and make sure that the image you see is one that you have always known. Ensure that no matter who is emitting your reflection, you see your very best you.

Fatherhood: A Presidential Mandate

I am of the opinion that government should only get involved in the lives of people when it is absolutely necessary. I've learned a valuable lesson about sharing my political viewpoint, and that lesson is that I'm guaranteed to find more vocal opponents than allies. This is not about politics but the role of politics in my home.

The other day I was watching television with my kids and President Obama did a quick 30 second commercial about the role of fathers in American homes. It was a jovial, non-confrontational spot about the joys of fatherhood and how more men needed to get involved in their children's lives. My first thought was that I had no opinion about the commercial or the fact that the President felt a need to invade our television program with the information. When iCarly came back on I began to think about the commercial and suddenly became a bit sensitive to the idea that the President of the United States felt a need to tell me to be a good father.

I felt it was a violation that a man who has one of the most visible jobs in the world and has the ability to literally give his children anything they desire would lecture me on fatherhood. I mean, I remember the pride I felt when I announced to my three children that they would all have their own room in our new house. This feat was dwarfed by the President inviting the Jonas brothers to give a private concert for his girls to welcome them into their new, plush crib. Now I don't need the lecture that a man's pocketbook doesn't dictate his level of fatherhood but an iPod touch is cool - a ride around New York in Air Force One is enough to make even me squeal like a schoolgirl!!

So I pouted. I pouted because I know in my heart I am a great father (at least I make every conscious effort to be) and I'm appalled that the President thought it necessary to break from his responsibilities to remind me of mine. Right around the time I had made a decision to write a stern letter to the White House, reality kicked in.

President Obama wasn't talking just to me...

In a father's day speech at a church in Chicago, the President uttered some disturbing statistics that some of us know all too well:

"children who grow up without a father are five times more likely to live in poverty and commit crime; nine times more likely to drop out of schools and twenty times more likely to end up in prison."

I have struggled with my identity in the past because of my biological father's lack of participation in my life. To be quite honest, having a son only deepened the hurt I felt that meeting my father at 16 wasn't enough to make him bend over backwards to make up for lost time. One look into my son's eyes and I knew that we would be together for as long as life would allow us to. I immediately thought of all the things I would teach him and the exciting things we would learn from one another. God, in his infinite wisdom, sent a man in my life, who although imperfect, would serve as an usher for my journey into manhood.

I was lucky.

I was lucky because through the mistakes and setbacks of a man who chose to call me his son, I learned how to be a decent man. I've known the heartache of playing the role of husband, son, protector, comforter, and friend to my mother. I've felt the awkwardness of being forced to grow up fast while simultaneously staying in my place as a child. I wish it on no one, especially my own children.

The woman I married was accompanied by two kids that no one can convince me to call step-children. They are mine. They dwell with me, they laugh with me, they succeed with me, and they fail with me. Though I will never know the sweet joy of hearing Daddy from their lips, I relish in the fact that I've been allowed to share their lives for almost four years. I held Erin's
hand when she was fitted for braces. I videotaped Desmond as he MC'd the school's talent show. I cheered louder than anyone when Erin learned to serve a volleyball, and I donned the Coach whistle when Desmond played soccer. I've punished them both only in an attempt to impart my values and wisdom. I ensure that Erin knows that a woman should never allow a man to
hit her, and I reinforce the idea that there's never excuse to hit a woman to Desmond. Desmond and Erin call me Anthony, but not like anyone else. They have given my name a familiarity that sounds a lot like Dad from a distance or at low breath. Jordan has known me as Dad since his first breath and shares that sentiment with his brother and sister willingly. Please don't misunderstand this as bragging, fatherhood is not an accomplishment it's a never-ending expedition.

The fact that many African-American homes are missing fathers and the first black President pleads with men to be fathers is an irony that I enjoy. Whether a man has been present since conception or found fatherhood as a package deal with matrimony, being a father is the greatest joy he will ever know. The people that live in my house will eventually emulate the best of me and oppose the worst of me. My goal is to carry out my fatherly duties humbly and without seeking a reward.

This was by no means an endorsement for the current President or a notch that should be placed in his belt. It is recognition that government has every right to remind the men of America that their duties go beyond provider. The future men of America need the guidance and wisdom that only the current men of America can provide. No matter how you voted or plan to vote, understand that being a good father is a bipartisan endeavor that we
should all strive to achieve.

Fighting Tony

I can't believe that it's been so long since I've last posted. I have to put my priorities in better order and make a decision about this writing venture once and for all!

Since my last post, I've written a few things here and there but nothing that I'm ready to publish. Honestly, there is something inside me of me that's keeping me from hearing my voice. There's this overwhelming feeling that every single word I put on a page requires meaning and should provoke my readers. The vanity in the preceding statement is a bit ridiculous considering I only have 10 readers.

I've promised myself so many times that I would pursue the title of novelist again with fervency but the immediate gratification that I depend on doesn't accompany writing. Writing is a process and so is developing a readership. The quickest way for me to lose interest in a writer is for her to gives up on her craft and attempt to "write for me" the reader. The presumption that a writer knows what I want as reader insults me considering I have no idea myself.

I enjoy the selfish and provocative writings of Ellison, Angelou, and even Shakespeare. Writers who don't care if you read or not because it's not about you. Their writings are therapy for their souls that they willingly share for your gratitude not your approval. But who am I to have that level of audacity? Who am I to demand that you accept my words and provide me the validation I seek to call myself a writer? It would be just as ridiculous for Ernie Barnes to force you to frame his paintings in your home or Miles Davis to insist that his records provide the soundtrack to your emotional life. Preposterous!!

Yet we have made icons of these artist. We have created a larger than life persona for them, whether they wanted it or not. I want to believe that I possess the ability to write with absolutely no thought about the end result. I want to believe that by simply putting the words on the page, the writer in me wins the battle for my mind with the pragmatic Tony who pays bills, spends time with his children, loves his wife, and goes to work. To even suggest a peace treaty between these two powerful entities seems to be a fruitless endeavor. Regardless, I'm not ready to call myself anything less than a writer and I'm far from allowing your interest (or lack of interest) in my words to determine my worth. So if you are one of the fortunate few who look forward to these chronicles, brace yourself - I'm about to show you how incredibly selfish and grateful I can be!!