The TMass Chronicles

The Hunger for More

2010-06-29T12:51:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-01T02:54:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-28T19:11:00.001-07:00

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

2010-03-26T05:46:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-16T11:27:00.003-07:00

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

2010-03-09T11:06:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-16T10:30:00.000-08:00

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

2010-02-08T06:00:00.000-08:00

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)

2010-02-04T15:35:00.000-08:00

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)

2010-02-04T15:06:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-26T18:38:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-22T20:55:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-20T16:53:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-19T17:27:00.001-08:00

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!!

Random Acts of Prose

2009-10-02T06:50:00.000-07:00

I saw this woman walking along the beach alone and very deep in thought. Her thoughts didn't appear to be worries but more deep contemplation. She stopped once and sat down staring at the ocean. Though I captured that moment, her stroll seemed so much more powerful. It seemed almost as if she was accompanied by whatever had brought her to the beach and was consuming her mind. The story is my interpretation of what I saw through my lens. Enjoy this random act of prose...

The Beach

Gay? Evelyn repeated the word over and over again as she walked along the beach. The gritty sand occupied the space between her toes giving her the only source of pleasure she was capable of feeling. Gay? How could he be gay? How could that be possible?

Evelyn retraced the steps of her life in her mind hoping to find a clue that would explain or rationalize the events of that morning. The sound of the small waves creeping up the shore brought back memories of playing on the beach as a child. Her brother, Charlie daring their parents to rescue him, would stealthily creep deeper and deeper into the ocean. Her father would warn him in his most authoritative tone, “Charlie, that’s far enough!” Ever the rebellious child, Charlie would slip further and further away from their sight. The last day that Evelyn would step foot into the ocean was when Charlie went a half a step too far and was swept into the under current. Evelyn remembered how quickly her father moved from his beach chair to the ocean. In what seemed like a second, her father was holding the limp body of her brother in his strong, tanned arms. She remembered standing and watching her brother’s lifeless body and the tears between her mother and father soaking the sand beneath them. She remembered being completely incapable of feeling anything after Charlie’s death for what seemed like forever. The broad shoulders that held Charlie comforted her during her years of mourning. Her father allowed Evelyn to glean from his strength as she struggled with God’s decision to invite Charlie into heaven so soon. Had it not been for the strength of her father, Evelyn was sure she would have never made it and would have never allowed herself to feel or love again.

Gay? How was it possible?

Kevin never pushed her to return to the water. He was so patient that way. Even with their two boys, Kevin would persuade, rather than push. On the day before he proposed, Kevin sat her down and gave her what felt like a sales pitch on a life spent with him. It was unnecessary because since the very first day they met, she was completely sold. She was walking along the same stretch of beach when he went whizzing by on his first daily run. He had just bought a condo in the area and decided that it was the perfect place for him to get exercise. It took about two weeks of running before he finally stopped and initiated what would turn into a whirlwind courtship followed by a picture perfect wedding. She was so proud to introduce Kevin to her mother and father. The two men hit it off instantly because of their similar personalities and strengths. Kevin was everything her father hoped Charlie would have become.

Their two boys would follow shortly after and for sixteen years they worked diligently at keeping their vows. She told Kevin all about Charlie; she also begged him to not allow her fear of the water to affect their sons. He was so gentle but firm with them both. He always held their hand but allowed them to venture safely away from him to develop their own sense of independence. Now at fifteen and thirteen, they were becoming men. Much like her father's paternal instincts and expertise, Kevin now played the roll of "rock" in her life, giving her a safe and stable place to lean upon.

Evelyn thought of her sons as the word spun around in her head. She sat on the sand and thought of how she would feel had one of them associated the word with their lifestyle or their sense of identity. What does it mean? What would it mean to her? She never had to deal with the impact of homosexuality though she had friends who were openly gay. She was uncomfortable with the harshness that the world treated gay people but never thought for a moment she would have to confront her own feelings toward homosexuality. She feared becoming a bigot and feared even more that her experience would shape her feelings about people she didn’t know. During the elections, she voted against gay marriage only because her friends influenced her. In all honesty, she had no idea how she felt. She believed in God but also believed in people’s right to choose. She believed in the sanctity of marriage but also believed that it was hypocritical for a nation that has destroyed marriage to use it as a means of exclusion. So what would she do if one of her boys approached her and boldly said, “Mom, I’m gay.”

Evelyn wanted to believe that she would understand. She wanted to believe that she would embrace her son and comfort him. She wanted to be assured in her mind that she could remove any feelings her boy may have of rejection or disappointment. Could she continue being a mother to a son who had, in effect, walked into the firing lines of bigotry, stereotyping, and hate? Could she accept her son and understand his lifestyle though she wasn’t sure she understood the lifestyle. She only hoped that her instincts of being a nurturing mother would supersede her confusion about being gay.

Secretly, she wished that it were one of her boys that had confessed his secret desires. She wished that it could be so easy. The man who admitted his past after so many years couldn’t be mothered. She couldn’t protect him from judgment because she was so tormented by her own. Did he not know how many people would suffer in the wake of a secret he kept for so many years? Did he not know how this secret would rock the very foundation she and her family stood upon? So many years, so many years of lying wouldn’t allow her to discover her feelings about what it meant to be evolutionarily different. Evelyn forced herself to believe that the hate she felt had nothing to do with the lifestyle he chose but the manner in which he revealed his decision. This was a man she respected and admired, a man who had been there for her in her time of vulnerability. Now she felt betrayed. She felt the world, as she knew it, was filled with untruths. Evelyn stared out into the blue ocean that had taken her brother. She closed her eyes and heard Charlie’s laughter harmoniously singing with the swaying tide. She prayed that God would give her the strength to once again accept what she could not control.

Random Acts of Prose

2009-09-27T13:11:00.000-07:00

In attempt to display my love for all things creative I humbly submit the following:

A Coffee Shop on 5th & Vine displays my love for poetry, music, and photography. The picture was taken in Del Mar, California a small, posh beach town of San Diego. The music was created on my computer (my apologies to the instrumentalist) and the poem was inspired by the photo. Please enjoy this attempt at marrying my passions and as always your comments are very appreciated.

-TMass

Random Acts of Prose

2009-09-18T07:00:00.000-07:00

When I took this picture my intent was to focus on the small creek. By chance, I was able to capture the road and the yellow lines that seem to suggest infinity. I love this picture because it reminds me of the beginning and middle of possibility. I created this story to illustrate that possibility the photo has captured. Enjoy this random act of prose...

The Road

Ten miles. It took Erving Wilson almost one year to reach the ten-mile goal. It only took six miles for him to experience the fabled runner’s high. It was intoxicating. He could feel adrenaline pulsating through every vessel in his body. He could hear the sound of his heartbeat pounding over the music in his headphones. The music became irrelevant. His breath suddenly became rhythmic and calm. His head was so clear and focused that he could literally visualize his thoughts. Sweat poured from his temple, cooling and soothing his entire body. For the next four miles Erving stayed in this perpetual consciousness of exercised induced bliss. It felt so good that as approached the last half-mile of his run he made a decision that he would impact the rest of his life.

Most of Erving’s life he was overweight; overweight and depressed. Running was never an option; it wasn’t even a consideration. It wasn’t until Erving found himself in a hospital bed resting after having been intubated and resuscitated that he realized that a life-style change was inevitable. At the young age of thirty-two, Erving Wilson suffered a heart attack. His doctor informed Erving that his five-foot nine-inch frame couldn’t handle the two hundred and ninety pounds that he had put on it over the years. His heart had doubled in size to compensate for the extra work that heavy drinking and excessive eating had caused. His arteries were clogged and his cholesterol was the same of an unhealthy man twice his age. Lying in the hospital bed, Erving became acutely aware of the fact that his life was not what he had dreamed of. He looked around the room and saw no flowers, no cards, and no remnants of any visitors. There was no one to wish him well and no lover to soothe the literal break of his feeble heart. Erving secretly wished that his heart attack were fatal.

Erving found himself staring into a mirror a week after being released from the hospital. He stared at glasses whose black frames could barely hold their thick concave lenses. Beneath his glasses were almond colored eyes that seemed to have a constant pink hue from enlarged veins. His mustache grew wildly out of control and seemed to seep into the corners of his mouth. His brown thinning hair was already sprinkled with grey. Despite, what he professed to himself, it did not look distinguished. Erving’s ears were simple and slightly protruded from his head and beneath layers of fat sat a jaw that should have been square. His father’s was square. His father’s face and life were immaculate. Erving was not the image he had of his father; he was far from it. As he stared at his reflection, Erving decided that he would have to make a decision. He decided there had to be a reason that he was given a second chance at life. He decided that he would follow the doctor’s orders, his new diet, and would start to exercise.

The first day was the toughest. With every step he took Erving could feel the weight of his body being tossed around like a rag doll. His breathing was audible and labored. Every few steps he would stop running to nurse an aching back and throbbing knees. Erving looked down at his shoes and couldn’t help but laugh. They were the best that money could buy and the guy at the sporting goods store assured him that they were perfect for “heavy runners.” One mile; that was his goal. He just wanted to complete a mile without stopping and without feeling as if his heart was going to explode. He walked. It was the international sign of defeat for any runner, the realization that running was more of a challenge than he prepared himself for.

It took thirty days to achieve his goal of finishing a mile. It was the best feeling in the world to cross the threshold of one mile from where he started without stopping. The image he saw in the mirror slowly began to change and so did his outlook on life. Erving stuck to his diet and sought every opportunity he could to exercise. At work he opted for the stairs rather than the elevator and he even managed to get his hands on a few dumbbells. Things were finally looking up for Erving and he was committed to slowly and carefully changing his life for the better.
Five miles down. Five miles, no stopping and no heavy breathing. Running became more than a hobby, it became a lifestyle. Erving identified himself as a runner and pursued it at all cost. He would not allow the rain or anything to stop him from his daily run. Food was no longer an indulgence it became fuel for running, a necessary component of the bigger picture of a new life lived on the road.

At mile six he saw her. Over the course of the previous six months Erving would increase his route by one mile in the same direction. He loved the familiarity of knowing the distance of each step. Every time he added a mile it was like the world had revealed itself five thousand, two hundred and eighty feet at a time. She was approximately thirty yards in front of him and she was moving quickly. Her legs were as graceful as a gazelle but not as long. Her body were muscular but agile; her frame was compact and efficient. She wore a ponytail in her hair, the tip tossing back and forth with each length of her perfect stride. Everyday he saw her in the same spot. She became his motivation. Just the thought of seeing her pushed him past milestones that usually took weeks to accomplish.

Erving was on the top of the world. His whole life had changed since his brush with death. His body had transformed into a sleek and muscular frame. Erving’s life’s centered on his passion for running. He was able to transfer the tenacity he approached each mile with to every facet of his life but one - The woman who had unknowingly helped him to break through the plateau of eight miles in record time. Her route was slightly longer than his and he could tell that she was very much an advanced athlete. Erving didn’t care. A healthy heart and a long life was no longer the motivation for exercise, she was. She, a woman he knew nothing about brought him to that road every single day without fail. The very first time he reached the halfway point for his first ten-mile run, he noticed a small creek about a half a mile away. As he turned to head back he noticed her stretching.

She was only a half a mile away. Erving hesitated. His priority was to always finish the distance of the goal he set for himself. He realized that the only way he would be able to speak to his motivation was to increase his run, one more mile. He finished the ten mile run and planned to complete it at least two more times before setting a new goal and finally introducing himself to his running muse.

The runner’s high. Erving was feeling it. It was only the second time he completed the ten-mile course but the first time he had been so deeply intoxicated by the joy of running. He reached his turn around point and made a decision. It was time for him to tell her everything. He would tell her about the first time he saw her and how he would lace up his shoes with anticipation that he would see her again. He saw the creek and as he approached it he could feel the anticipation growing. With every step he knew that this would be the final chapter in what would prove to be the ultimate transformation. By tapping this woman on the shoulder and introducing himself, he would completely leave the overweight, self-conscious and depressed Erving in the past forever. He would see the culmination of his hard work and perseverance transform every facet of his life. There she was standing by the creek stretching, her body was as magnificent as the very first time he saw her. She was no more than twelve hundred yards away.

Erving could feel his body and mind become a ball of harmonious anxiety. Suddenly he noticed he was no longer sweating. His fingertips began to tingle; his left arm suddenly grew numb. His legs trembled and refused to obey his brain. He ignored his belligerent body and focused instead on her. Six hundred yards separated him from the woman who he had been secretly leaning on for almost a year. His vision was blurry, even though he had gotten lasix surgery after losing his first twenty pounds. Erving wasn’t sure if he was moving. He could no longer hear the rhythmic sound of his heart. Darkness began to engulf him; he was determined to see her face. Two hundred yards, one hundred yards, fifty yards, she turned towards him. For a moment, a moment that seemed to last the entire course of his life he saw her face.

Eyes as blue and deep as the ocean were the focal point of a face that flaunted its perfection. Her smile was full and luminescent, it was the first time he had ever seen her blonde hair resting gently on her muscular and elegant shoulders. As he collapsed and surrendered to a heart that would fail for the last time, Erving was able to speak the words that he had desperately wanted to say to her for miles… thank you.

The Prison of Your Mind

2009-09-16T12:41:00.000-07:00

As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he.

-Proverbs 23:7

The other day on the way to church I saw a homeless woman on a street corner screaming violently at absolutely no one. She was holding a sign so I assumed she was a panhandler and her clothes were ratted and destroyed. My first thought was that the production she was putting on was all a ruse to invoke sympathy and more donations. This very well could have been true but the conviction she showed while chastising the imaginary person on the street corner standing next to her was extremely convincing.

The human mind is incredible. Since creation, human beings have challenged themselves to adapt, overcome and conquer the world around them. All the while, we have been developing the efficiency and quality of using our most powerful tool, our brain. The imagination has become a mere stepping-stone to reality and the world has become a smaller place because of forward and progressive thinkers. As a father, I have watched my children grow from observing the world to impacting and manipulating it to fit their needs. Being in one’s “right mind” unveils limitless possibilities for the individual and the world in general. Losing one’s mind, in any capacity, makes the impossible an unfortunate way of life.

The woman I saw had obviously been betrayed by her mind. She appeared to be trapped in a virtual prison that I can only imagine was inconceivable to live in and impossible to escape. Though it would be easy to write the woman off as merely crazy, the fact of the matter is that her brain tells lies that mine does not. My brain informs me daily to wake up, perform hygiene, eat breakfast and go to work. My mind is my guide; it helps me to reason and rhyme. It assists me in sifting through the infinite amount of information and stimulation that I encounter daily. I couldn’t imagine living in the contrary.

Imagine your mind insisting to you that there are people who exist that are not there, and that the imaginary people are rude and imposing. A life of complete and utter fantasy can be both disturbing and tiresome. The level of imprisonment for some may not be so extreme. There are those who are so overwhelmed by depression that they have been convinced that life is not worth living. There are others whose mind has bombarded them with thoughts of grandeur and power beyond that of any human being. We have all witnessed the impossible conundrum that putting faith in an unhealthy brain can create.

So do we offer a pass to individuals living in the deception of their minds? Should we understand when insanity becomes normality? To be honest, I don’t know. I find it a hard pill to swallow prosecuting and punishing a person who honestly believes that he is the risen Son of God and that his legacy includes killing his followers. I also secretly weep for the person who attempts to kill themselves so that the voices they hear so clearly in their mind will cease, if only for a moment. I find it equally devastating to allow these individuals to go untreated.

The human mind is a remarkable thing and when it is healthy it holds the tools to answer questions man has pondered since the beginning of time. Equally, it has the power to imprison its owner in a place of solitude and terror. Be careful with your thoughts because they truly will reveal the reality of who you are, regardless of what you think you are.

Wilson, Williams, West... My Heroes???

2009-09-15T15:35:00.000-07:00

With the speed of news traveling like lightening these days, you would have had to been taking an absurd amount of shelter from the storm to have missed the shenanigans of Joe Wilson (R) South Carolina, tennis sensation Serena Williams and rapper Kanye West. All of which who have allowed their passions to overshadow their good sense. I'll break their stores down briefly for those who have not seen the aftermath of each individual's storm.

If there was a disrespectful scale I would have to start with the congressional heckler Joe Wilson. During President Obama's recent speech addressing his health care plan to congress, Congressman Wilson blurted, "You lie" after the President claimed that his bill would not cover illegal aliens. Now have I no desire to get involved in a debate about health care. Personal beliefs aside, I'm sure we can agree that calling the President a liar in open congress is not only inappropriate, it shows a total lack of decorum. However, before I completely bash Congressman Wilson, I'm willing to give him the benefit of doubt with regards to the passion that fueled the statement. Believing deeply in an idea or concept can cause frustration when you feel that someone's dishonesty fuels their side of the argument. Especially if you feel strongly about the subject. I should say, I was willing to give him that benefit until I discovered that Congressman Wilson voted in favor of subsidizing health care to illegal aliens in 2003.

Who lied?

Serena Williams was recently dubbed by Succes Magazine a "champion on and off the court." The champion didn't display champion-like behavior when she cursed out a line judge for what turned out to be a very bad call. There was no foot fault. There was also no call for threatning someone on national television, especially a pro athlete. Anyone over the age of thirty knows that tennis hasn't always been the high brow, pinky in the air sport it claims to be. John Mcenroe's outrageous outbursts are not only legendary, they have become a part of his legacy. Which begs the question, is there a double standard? Is it okay for a man to lose his composure and command of the English language by spewing obscenities? Should we look the other way because of the intensity of the sport? I'm willing to give Serena a pass as well, because anyone who has participated in sports has felt the raw, intense emotion involved with trying to win and be the best. However, it must be said that there is a limit to all tirades, Serena Williams went way too far with hers.

Finally, and probably with the most audacity, is Kanye West's outburst at the MTV Video Music Awards. Taylor Swift, a country singer humbly accepted the award for best female video only to be interrupted by Kanye West exclaiming that singer Beyonce had the "best video of all time." Had it been anyone but Taylor Swift that won the award, this would probably not be such a shocking moment. Her sweet and meek demeanor made it seem as if Mr. West was picking on a puppy. When I saw this my first thought was to wonder how the patriarchs of "the music game" would react. What would Jay-Z and Diddy say about this complete and total lapse in judgement and civility? Both have been silent about the incident and West made what appeared to be a heart felt public apology on Jay Leno. Here is the bigger picture. This was a childhood antic by a man who has earned millions of dollars from consumers around the world. He has made a career out of displaying the most absurd acts of narcissm and juvenile behavior. Who is more inappropriate Kanye West for acting a fool or us for paying him well to do so? Once again... too much!

Bottom line is that all three of these public figures have done nothing that we ourselves have not either done or at least considered. Who amongst us would not have loved to curse out a police officer who pulled us over for speeding amongst speeders? When listening to our boss drone on and on about empty promises that would never come to fruition, I think everyone would love to have the courage to scream, "You lie!" The Kanye thing? Well, I don't think I've have had a desire to steal someone's thunder since junior high school, but still it was pretty ballsy. Let's be honest, is there no part of you that secretly envies the passion of Wilson, the intensity of Williams, or even the audaciousness of Kanye West? Sure, but the lack of celebrity forces regular people like us to fall within the parameters of common sense and awareness.

To prove that no one is beyond learning to subduing their passions, even the President, Barack Obama has echoed my sentiments concerning Kanye West in an off the record statement by simply saying what we all are thinking... "jackass."

Fall From (Self-Imposed) Grace

2009-09-12T07:30:00.000-07:00

"...we need people who are in office who will hold themselves to a little higher standard."

Oct/07 - Sen. John Ensign to Sen Larry Craig after discovering that Craig's involvement in a sex scandal.

"I think [Rep. Bob] Livingston's stepping down makes a very powerful arguemtn that Clinton shoudl resign as well and move beyond this mess."

Dec/98 - Senator David Vitter arguing that an extramarital affair is grounds for resignation.

"This was a sophisticated and lucrative operation with a multi-tiered management structre. It was, however, nothing more than a prostitution ring, and now its owners and operators will be held accountable."

Apr/04 - then Attorney General Elliot Spitzer after uncovering a prostitution ring in New York.

"The issue of lying is probably the biggest harm, if you will, to the system of Democratic government, representatives government, because it undermines trust. And if you undermine trust in our system, you undermine everything."

Feb/99 - Governor Mark Sanford on the President Clinton's sex scandal.

"Voters want leaders, particularly a president, who they trust and who they think is a good person. ... If you are a person of faith, i think it adds weight to that issue of whether you are a good person."

Nov/03 - presidential hopeful, Senator John Edwards to the Washington Post on values.

Then there is Mike Duvall, Assemblyman from Yorba Linda, California who has become a Youtube sensation by divulging his sexual exploits to a colleague on a "hot mic" in an assembly meeting. Duvall, dubbed a "crusader for family values" revealed all the details of affairs he (allegedly) had with a lobbyist from the Sempra Energy Group. The 54 year old was recently voted into an ethics committee to ensure his colleagues didn't engage in such immoral behavior.

The sophmoric braggadicio of men of power is nothing new. We can trace back to biblical times and see the exploits of King David and his unethical affair with Bathsheba that ended in murder. My desire is not to judge these men but highlight the hypocrisy that they spew in the public sector. Democrat, Republican, Right-winged, Left-winged, Liberal or Conservative all of these men have donned the robe of judgement with regards to other's actions.

I feel that regardless of your place in life, when you decide to pass judgement on others, you are opening yourself and your mistakes to scrutiny. Now why on earth would people who live in the thinnest and fragile glass houses be the first to throw the largest and most damaging stones they could find. I find it reprehensible to stand before people perched high on a moral pedestal while knowing full well that your foundation is weak.

Understand that I am not advocating a silent approach to impropriety. I'm not at all suggesting that men of power should just keep their mouth shut and not pass judgment if they are dipping in the cesspool of morality. I am saying that we all owe it to ourselves to look deeply into our own lives before admonishing others.

Those who know me intimately are fully aware that I have not always walked the path of rightesnous. I have not and will not always be a man above reproach and of good standings. We all fall down. The bible speaks of a just man falling seven times and getting back up again... a just man. I am fully aware that God's grace is sufficient which is why I am quick to forgive and very slow to condemn. Do not take this entry to be a public chiding of the public chiders I illustrated earlier. I am just illuminating the fact that the world is so far from black and white. All issues must have a middle ground. I am a devout Christian who strongly believes in family values and the importance of self-sustainment. However, I can understand the plight of an atheist who happens to be gay. I can also empathize with a high-school dropout who finds it difficult to find a job. Disagreement does not have to equal condemnation. Tolerance does not necessarily equal comprimising my beliefs.

We have all been placed in the uncomfortable position of elevation. Whether it is from a spouse, children, friends or co-workers we have all been showered with accolades that immediately humbles even the most egotistical narcissist. When indulgence becomes self-indulgences and eminence is self-imposed we can find ourselves floating over very dangerous ground. No one should be comfortable with being a self-appointed anything. No one should utilize the mistakes of others to advance their careers or status. God (or fate, I choose God) has a way of kicking us off those pedestals of vanity in the exact manner in which we climbed them.

I pray that our leaders will understand that leadership is actually a subordinate role in our society. We are more than happy to follow the person who shares our morals, ethics and virtues as long as that person sticks to the script. The problem is that so many have become so drunk with the illusion of power they are willing to be deceitful and judgmental to gain it. The funny thing about any illusion is that once you learn the secret behind the trick, it just seems to lose its luster. The worst phenonemon a power-hungry castigator can experience is the realization that he is no different than anyone else. Worse still is when everyone else does.

Random Acts of Prose

2009-09-11T07:00:00.000-07:00

The picture is real, the story isn't. I see this house everyday on the way to work and decided to stop and photograph it one morning. As I stared at the developed photo, this is the story I imagined took place within its pink walls. Enjoy this random act of prose...

The Pink House

Damn that house! Damn that pink house!

I see it from time to time when I decide to drive the coast to work and there it is, a pink nightmare! I haven’t stepped foot in the house for over twenty years but I can still remember every nuisance of its pink existence. My stepmother, Barbara-Jo, (who insisted that she be called Barbara-Jo) begged my father to paint the house pink. Not just pink but an eerie, iridescent pink. I hated and still hate Barbara-Jo. I hate her for her false opulence, I hate her for her over-the-top extravagance and most of all I hate her for what she put me through during the fourteen years I lived in that damn house.

My mother passed away when I was the young age of three. Passed away. The terminology seems so inappropriate for the death of my mother. I understand the concept completely, but my mother was not one to just pass away from anything. She was the quintessential busybody and over reactor. All of this I learned from her sister but I can imagine her scurrying around our home fawning over every little detail. The house wasn’t pink then. It looked like a normal house.

Images of my mother exist only in my head because I have no actual memories of her. My father kept no pictures and he refused to say her name much less allow himself to remember her. I only know of one picture of my mother and my Aunt Rose keeps it in a teak, wooden dresser drawer given to her by my grandmother (another matriarchal figure of my family I do not remember.) The picture is of a woman with auburn hair and over sized dark-rimmed glasses. She had a slight overbite that caused her lips to jut ever so slightly upward. Her smile seemed unfinished and her nose crinkled right below the bridge. Beneath her thick lenses sat eyes that were an unfinished blue like a pale amethyst. Her face was slightly freckled and she appeared no older than twenty-five. My Aunt Rose swore she was only eighteen when the picture was taken. That would have meant I would not come into the world for at least four years. Whenever my aunt allowed me to look at my mother’s picture I would compare her face to mine. The only semblance we shared was red hair and the crinkle, which I have grown to adore.

Aunt Rose informed me that my mother’s interloping was a direct result of my father. She insists that before my father came along, my mother was quite reserved and would never dream of meddling in other people’s affairs. My father, a man who shows loyalty to absolutely nothing, would disappear for days on end with no excuse or explanation. Again, my memory of my childhood with my parents is both blurred and unreadable. Aunt Rose contributes all of my mother’s bad attributes to my father. It is no secret that she despises my father and his second wife, Barbara-Jo.

Barbara-Jo. What a character. If you were to close your eyes and imagine the most ridiculous woman in the world, you would have a snapshot into the life and lifestyle of Barbara-Jo. She is living proof that my father had to have taken my mother's death very badly. Everything about her is excessive; her hair, her make-up, her perfume, everything. I learned that my father was having an affair with Barbara-Jo shortly after my mother became pregnant with me. It never mattered because to me she has always been Barbara-Jo. It seems odd that I would completely block the first three years of my life. Most people I know remember snapshots of their youth but I don’t. I only remember the time I spent with Barbara-Jo.

Every morning Barbara-Jo would make breakfast for me. Every morning I sat before a plate of eggs, bacon or sausage, and toast. Every morning except Sunday morning, when she had to nerve to make pancakes in the shape of my choice. Every day I came home from school and there she was... Barbara-Jo. She would be sitting on the porch of that hideous pink house with an ignorant grin on her face. She would ask me meaningless questions about my day as if she really cared. I hated Barbara-Jo. I hated her because she would never allow me to complete my school projects with out going overboard as she did with everything else. The solar system had to rotate around the sun. The volcano had to erupt bright red food coloring. The poster couldn’t simply read, “Vote for Candace,” it had t be ornately decorated like everything in her life. This was Barbara-Jo. I hated her. I hated everything she stood for and I hated my father for marrying her.

My seventeenth birthday was the night my disdain for Barbara-Jo grew out of control. It was night that my father, a man who drowned his failures and doused his triumphs in alcohol, stumbled into my room. He was holding a large box wrapped in red paper with a large gold bow flanked by little silver stars. I could see that it was Barbara-Jo’s handiwork. My father, a man who stood six feet, three inches when he was sober and able to stand, fell on the edge of my bed as I lay pretending to sleep. He was unshaven and his salt and pepper beard displayed more salt than pepper. His breath was both audible and pungent. I could smell the alcohol fermented on his tongue. His brown eyes were surrounded by a yellow haze and were glazed over as if he was unaware that he was even in my room. He mumbled something and shoved the box in my direction. I half-heartedly smiled and began to peel back the wrapper.

I’ve read stories that wild animals in captivity can be triggered by almost anything and violently revert back to their primitive instincts. I’m not sure what I did or said but my father went from drunken stupor to violent rage in seconds. Before I could say a word he was on top of me swinging his arms wildly, slapping my face. “Why did you leave me?” he garbled. He tore open my nightclothes and began raping me as if he had never seen my face. For what seemed like an eternity my father violated me while muffling my screams with his calloused dirty hands.

The ordeal was horrific and to this day I still shiver at the thought that my father could have violated me. Immediately after my father fell asleep, I ran into Barbara-Jo’s room and locked the door behind me. I crawled into her bed and wrapped my arms around her. I sobbed in her bosom refusing to reply to her constant inquisition, “What’s wrong?”

Finally, I mustered the courage to tell her what happened. Her face was stoic. She didn’t reply. Instead she stroked my hair, kissed my cheek and took my hand leading me back into my bedroom. She wrestled my father to his feet and drug him back to their room. She came back to my room and stood at the door smiling. It had to be at least ten o’clock at night, but I distinctly remember Barbara-Jo still wearing an absurd amount of make-up as she did everyday. The mixture of her Red Door perfume and my father’s drunken must created a malodorous stench throughout my room.

She kissed the palm of her hand and blew the imaginary kiss towards me. She turned off my light and turned and walked away. I must have cried myself to sleep because I remember waking up to the sound of sirens. Red and blue lights chased each other around on the walls of my room. I peered out my window and saw police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck. I ran into the living room to witness two men in uniform zip up a large white bag. I recognized my father’s red nose as the zipper barely traced its tip.

Sitting on the coach was Barbara-Jo, shaking but not hysterical. I listened as she told the police about a man who had broken into our house that night as I slept. She told the police that the man entered their bedroom and demanded their belongings. She reported that she screamed and the masked man fired his weapon through a pillow at my father three times and then turned and ran out of the house. She described the man with great details and paused as she thought of the terrible act he perpetuated against my father. The police officer wrote vigorously in his little notebook and once placed his hand on Barbara-Jo’s knee to comfort her. He turned towards me and Barbara-Jo stood, walked towards me, and placed her hands on my shoulder. She informed the police officer that I was a heavy sleeper and probably didn’t hear a thing. The police officer was satisfied and promised that his crew would finish up as quickly as they could.

I didn’t attend my father’s funeral, but Barbara-Jo did. She tried to convince me that my attendance would be appropriate but I refused. Three months after he was in the ground, I moved out of the pink house and vowed to never return. I’ve never questioned the validity or the details of my seventeenth birthday with Barbara-Jo. All I know is that I hate her. I hate her for not sharing with me the vengeance I believe she exacted upon my father that night. If she was telling the truth about the masked man, I hate her for allowing him to carry out a punishment that should have been reserved for us.

Fatherhood and Masturbation

2009-09-10T07:00:00.000-07:00

Masturbation has always been a private issue. It is an issue that is rarely discussed and even more rarely admitted to. There are varying beliefs and theories regarding masturbation, but as w all know it has some form of presence in all of our personal lives.

I am of the belief that masturbation is best kept in the proverbial closet with all of my other skeletons. Unfortunately, fatherhood has propped the door of this closet open far more times than I am comfortable with. This time it was my ten year old, Desmond. He approached me in a careful and inhibited manner that made me cringe. Usually when he beats around the bush what follows is a tough question that forces me to dig deep into the realm of my vocabulary to answer. I made a pact with my wife that I wouldn’t confuse the issue with medical terms, nor would I approach any answer with pre-pubescent words like pee-pee and wee-wee. Without being crass, I vowed that I would answer my children’s question about sex in a straightforward and honest manner. That was simple when they were too young to ask. Now at 8, 10, and 12 the questions are becoming harder and the answers more confusing – to them.

So Desmond cocks his head to the side and says, “What’s masturbation mean?” I froze. I took the approach that many parents take when caught by surprise by an inquisitive child… I changed the subject. I responded curtly, “Have you finished your homework?”

“I don’t have any,” he coyly replied.

My wife, my life partner, my best friend, my lover, my ace boon coon, sheepishly turned her back on me and the situation. She offered no assistance and pretended as if she was completely unaware of the conversation. So there I was abandoned all alone to face an inquiry I honestly had no desire to. I would love to report that I reached for my pipe, Ward Cleaver style and invited my son to sit as I eloquently explained a concept that he would become intimately familiar with over the next few years. Well, that’s not what happened. I gave him a short answer that quickly gave him the impression that he had no business asking the question…

“It’s something you shouldn’t be doing, no take out the trash and go to bed!”

What followed was an intense guilt completely overtaking me. I didn’t quickly fix the situation and instead allowed my son to drift off to sleep completely ignorant to a natural part of manhood and life period. It wasn’t until the next day after hours of contemplation that I fixed my inappropriate response. Before I dive into how I responded, I’d like to share my thoughts that raced through my mind…

My first thought was that his innocence was refreshing. I don’t remember asking my mother or father about masturbation. I think I just discovered it as most young men do. Of course, as most young men, I also developed a sense of shame to accompany the euphoria that touching myself brought. Second, I was actually proud that my son thought so much of me to trust his query with me. He could have very well consulted the school’s playground as a credible source (which I’m not sure he didn’t do.) He trusted that his father was reliable and that the lines of communication were open so wide that he could approach me with such a difficult question. Concentrating on my own discomfort, I never considered how he must have felt. Finally, I thought of the aftermath. If I couldn’t handle something as benign as self-pleasure could I really expect him to confront me with his desire to have sex with a girlfriend for the first time? Could I trust that I would be the one to teach him about condoms or sexually transmitted diseases? Would he come to me with his confusion about his sexual identity or his fear that his body seems to have a mind of his own?

Unwittingly, by ignoring the validity of my son’s curiosity I could have driven a wedge between us preventing future opportunities to educate and dispel myths. I could have forced him to believe that STD’s are impossible with oral sex. I could have given him no choice but to surmise that girls are unable to get pregnant while on their period and that you can tell someone has HIV by looking at them. I know these myths exist because at one point in my life, I believed them along with many other ridiculous untruths.

I realized that I had to act. I had to undo my carelessness with haste! I waited until my daughter was asleep and called my son downstairs to have yet another “talk.” I explained to him the meaning and mechanics of masturbation (without getting to explicit and without giving a “how-to” lesson.) I explained that it was perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of, however it is polite and good manners to remain private with regards to it. I explained why people masturbated and what the eventual end result would be while referencing previous “talks” about copulation. I explained that masturbation was something to be experimented with in the privacy of his room with the door closed. I also took the liberty of highlighting the changes he would be experiencing over the next few years. I cautioned him about the pitfalls of excessive masturbation. I even managed to work in a hygiene brief (a necessary subject when it comes to boys.) I answered his very thought provoking questions and tried my best to avoid belittling and preaching. He seemed satisfied and rushed off to bed. I prayed that his newly attained knowledge wouldn’t be utilized that evening and more importantly that my willingness to address his concerns would reinforce the bond that we share.

The role of father is becoming increasingly tough as I get older and my children follow. About three months ago I took a picture of my kids and noticed that they looked nothing like the over-sized toddlers that existed in my mind. These guys were becoming little men and women that I would eventually give away and watch walk their own path. It made me shutter to think that my little kids would one day ask for the keys to the car or request a couple of bucks to take out their girlfriend. I’m not sure I’m ready to handle a pimple-faced teenager ringing my doorbell requesting the presence of my daughter on a date.

I know I have no control over my children’s ascension into adulthood but I can only pray that I am able to instill a sense of right and wrong and self-awareness to accompany their journey. I also pray that as they search for the answers to life’s question they will consider me a reliable and suitable reference tool that can freely and openly use without fear. The role of father changes as much as the children in our lives. We as parents must be diverse in our dealings and in our approach. I long for the days where provider was my primary duty. Now I am being multi-task past my comfort zone but honestly, it’s a job that I wouldn’t trust with anyone else.

Dad... What Am I?

2009-09-09T12:54:00.000-07:00

Mulatto… Quadroon… Octoroon… Metisse… Biracial… Interracial… Half-Breed… Mestizo… Zambo…

The other day, CNN did a story on a group of people in America who have been slightly overlooked. There exists a whole race of people who are square pegs being forced into the round hole of census. Those people whose parents don’t look alike and don’t share the same ethnic or cultural background. The people who are the direct descendants of integration, cross-culturalism, diversity and tolerance.

As a black man in America I have quite a few racial identities. I have gone from the hardened attitude of the hip-hop culture to the artistic and self-aware mindset of the Harlem Renaissance. I have identified with Ralph Ellison’s invisible man and the militant identity crisis of Malcolm X. I have also chosen to refuse to be characterized by my skin color altogether. The latter of which is completely impossible. The direction a man chooses to take with regards to identity is a personal choice influenced by the events in his life. There are times that being a black man is the crowning jewel of my identity. There are other times that I feel a sense of embarrassment that I am associated with the black race. Though I’ve never been ashamed of who I am, I have not always been the loudest voice in the room with regards to race. The reality is that regardless of my feelings, my outward appearance speaks volumes as to anyone who chooses to see me.

But what of the person who can’t be so easily identified or classified? I have three children and my family is as diverse as they come. So diverse, that I have actually found myself in a situation while walking in the mall with my blonde haired, blue-eyed daughter being questioned whether or not she “belonged to me.” Once, a woman boldly and brazenly approached my daughter and asked her if she was “okay.” My sons are both multi-racial or bi-racial. Both have questioned their identity while staring into a mirror. They notice their full lips and wide noses but are confused by straight, silky hair and light colored eyes. Their skin resembles varying preferences of café au lait, one a slight more milk than the other. When asked, “Dad, what am I?’ I must admit I have taken the easy route and replied, “Son, you are black.”

As they get older, this reply doesn’t suit them. They understand the concept that a child is the result of both mother and father and question how their race can have only one contributor. The truth is that my sons are absolutely correct and I owe it to them to be honest… even if the truth scares me.

I wanted them to identify with the culture that the world would see them as. I believed that society would take one look at my sons and shuffled them into the “African- American category.” The truth is that the categories are getting smaller and harder to define. Even if they are sitting amongst the race that they closely resemble, I imagine that my boys would grow increasingly uncomfortable.

The truth is that being black is only one side of boys’ identities. They each have a very distinct and well defined other half. My oldest (who has a different mother than my youngest) shares African-American with Norwegian and German roots. This is significant because his mother’s family is very proud of their heritage and chooses to pass on the staples of their background to every generation, much like my family has done. For instance, every New Year’s Eve since I was a child my family has served chitterlings, collard greens, and black-eyed peas during the holiday meal. This traditional meal, as explained to me as a child, was served out of necessity because it was all the slaves and sharecroppers could afford. Their descendants have embraced the meal and have given it meaning throughout the generation. Much like a jumping the broom, it was born out of lack and celebrated in a time of abundance.

My son’s mother’s family is no different. During our marriage, my ex-wife’s mother would serve lutefisk and lefsa bread on Christmas. I have heard stories that spoiled fish tainted with lye was fed to the Norse Vikings by the Irish to kill them off. The Vikings, being men of strong will and stomachs enjoyed the dish and declared lutefisk a delicacy. The story and the meal are all now a strong part of my son’s heritage. Who am I to deny him this?

My current wife has German and Pennsylvania Dutch roots that are well guarded amongst her family. The infamous whoopee pies that her mother bakes are fabled to make Amish farmer’s shout “Whoopee!” when they are found in the farmer’s lunchboxes. My son deserves to know his heritage and not be forced under the umbrella of the most prevalent side.

My fear is that both sides of their heritage will deny both boys. As I look around, I see that diversity is not so much an issue in this country as it once was. I see more and more interracial couples and their children. I see that the lines of race have been blurred by leaps and bounds. It still bothers me when I speak to a man whose mother is white and father is black and he tells horror stories of his treatment by both races. I want my sons to embrace who they are, all of who they are.

I try my best to not inject my own feelings of race into them. It is important to me that each child is able to embrace the part of himself that make him feel good. I would love for them to identify with being a soccer player or scientist. Race shouldn’t be an issue… of course that’s easy for me to say… everyone knows I’m black.

Politics... No Place for Classrooms???

2009-09-08T19:38:00.000-07:00

“No president, Republican or Democrat, should interrupt the educational process in this manner," Kern said in a press release issued Thursday. "President Obama is always in the news, so there is ample opportunity for students to see him."

These are the remarks from Sally Kern, a Republican Representative from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. These remarks are also from a woman who is the state coordinator for the America's Legislators Back to School Program, a program that invites legislators into classrooms across America to speak to children about the political process. Same person.

Confused? So am I.

Let me start by saying I never wanted this blog to be political in nature but this is way too far. I keep my political beliefs separate from every other facet of my life to a certain extent. I am more moderate than I am anything but I am a registered Democrat. Yes, I voted for Obama. Yes, the fact that he is black influenced my vote. The fact that he is qualified was the reason I voted for him.

I wanted to get that out of the way so that the reader will understand the nature of my comments and where they are coming from. I find it reprehensible to suggest that the President of the United States of America speaking to the youth of America is anything but a wonderful idea. Even if these kids don’t agree or understand with our President’s remarks, isn’t it a good thing for them to go home and speak to their parents about the event? Isn’t this the type of round the dinner table discussions we crave in this country? Interrupt the educational process? I remember when I was in school, the President would block all of the channels on television and we would utilize his speech the next day in the educational process. The very worst are those who have the audacity to parallel this event with Hitler Youth and Nazi Germany.

The very thought that people in this country are so brainwashed that they believe that the President has the ability to brainwash their children is appalling. In order for my children to be brainwashed they would have to be completely unaware of the sound of my voice. After all, am I not their first influence? Sure there are other influences and stimulation but shouldn't I insist that I am one of them? I can remember having a mock debate during school the year that Reagan/Bush and Mondale/Ferrara were battling it out in the primaries. It wasn’t during a high school government class; it was during a third grade history lesson. Were we being brainwashed by a teacher who wanted us to experience first hand the political process in this great country of ours?

I don’t agree with everything our President does, of course, I still don’t agree with everything my mother does. I refuse to demonize either of them. I think it was a progressive move for the President to enter the classrooms on the first day of school and re-enforce what every parent in America should have been telling their kids anyway. If explaining to your kids that doing their best and working hard to get the things in life they desire is advancing a political agenda, then my question is – how can I be of assistance?

I mean seriously. It seems to me that everything our President does is put under a very uneven and disproportionate amount of scrutiny. This is too much. This has nothing to do with left, right, democrat, republican, liberal, or conservative. This is the most unique opportunity ever witnessed in this country and it should be celebrated. Has it occurred to anyone that the fact that no sitting President has addressed students on a national level is not a good thing? Shouldn’t we be appalled that the President thinks so little of the population of our country who is not of legal voting age that he would not consider that they too are Americans? Is it wrong for our national leader to address the importance of education on a national level?

Finally, I must address the fact that during the atrocities of 9/11, then President George W. Bush was not in the oval office or addressing the National Press Club or even sitting in the Rose Garden preparing a speech, no he was reading The Pet Goat to students at Emma E. Booker Elementary School. I don’t criticize his actions at all during this faithful day. I am not one to say what someone should or should not have done in a crisis situation. I do, however, find it egregious that the fact that he was there was not a headline before the attack. George Bush is not the only president to interact with the youth of our nation, Ronald Reagan delivered a speech to junior high students telling them “These days, whenever I see foreign leaders, they tell me about their plans for reducing taxes, and other economic reforms that they are using, copying what we have done here in our country.” in 1988. Where is the outcry over this obvious attempt at advancing a conservative agenda?

The national stage has always been textbook of sorts for students. During school hours I witnessed the inauguration of Bill Clinton, the spaceship Challenger exploding, Nelson Mandela becoming the President of South Africa after 27 years imprisoned, the Rodney King riots, the Waco Texas compound incident and many others. All of these events were used by public school teachers to offer real-world lessons about the real world.

My kids witnessed the President’s remarks and more over we discussed those remarks and what they meant. This is the role of a parent. For those who insist that the government should not be involved with education should really consider the extent of their own involvement.

Finishing What I've Started

2009-09-08T13:07:00.000-07:00

I have a notorious habit of starting things and never finishing them. My wife (and mother) can attest to the fact that I have project after project in various stages of completion. The problem is that there are so many things that interest me and capture my attention. I want to be the type of person who can focus on one thing and one thing only but I’m not.

I do not want this blog to become one of the many tasks in my life that go unchecked on my to do list. Sharing my thoughts and feelings with the world is important to me and I realize that I must commit to interesting and frequent entries. The problem arises when I am suddenly captured by anything that happens to grab my attention. For a long time my relationships were the same way. Reaching an age of understanding has helped me to become more focused on the tasks and projects that I have started.

For those who read this blog, I want to offer my sincerest apology for walking away, even temporarily. I understand that asking people to take part in my world is a commitment that shouldn’t be taken lightly. This blog is very important to me because it keeps me in touch and in practice with my passion. A passion is like anything in life, it requires commitment, tenacity and a strong will to finish what has been started.

All I Have in This World

2009-08-21T11:37:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite movies (most men for that matter) is Scarface. Al Pacino’s portrayal of Tony Montana, a Cuban refugee who illegally and forcefully brought himself from poverty, to wealth, and finally to a violent death was incredible. There were many lessons to be learned from that movie, one of my favorite was ironically character.

“All I have in this world is my balls and my word… and I don’t break them for no one.”

Beyond the crassness and horrible grammar, these are amazing words of wisdom. A man is his word until he breaks it. Once his word is broken the bond that he has with the truth can forever be broken. Regardless of looks, money, success or intelligence, a man’s word will take him further than any other attribute. The ability for a man to look another man or woman in the eyes and be trusted is priceless.

I am raising sons, two sons to be exact. Both of my sons often choose deception over honesty, especially when they find themselves facing the consequences of their actions. As a father I find it extremely difficult to impress upon my sons the importance of honesty and how lying can develop into a habit-forming addiction. I want them to understand that actions have consequences – good or bad. They need to understand that Newton’s Third Law – for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction- is deeper than physics. I want my sons to learn a concept that I didn’t learn until later in life- I effect other people. As simple as this concept may be, I don’t believe that many of us live our lives based on an understanding that our lives are the extension of so many others. This reality had more of an impact on me than the morality of truth.

As a man, understanding Newton’s Law has had a profound effect on my life. I was not always the most honest person. As a matter of fact, as a child, I had a very distant and strained relationship with the truth. Lying started as self-preservation, as most lies do. I found myself unwillingly facing the consequences of my misbehavior and surmised that there was a chance that I could escape punishment by removing guilt. I didn’t realize (and neither do my boys) that with age comes wisdom. More times than not, my mother was already well aware of the truth but in attempt to teach me responsibility waited for the confession. I was persistent. “It wasn’t me Mom.” I would proclaim. Her anger grew towards my deceit. I didn’t understand until I had my own children that the lying wasn’t the source of her fear. It was the fact that I was so convincing. It frightened her because she was getting a glimpse at the man I would become… a dangerous man… a talented prevaricator.

Despite my mother’s efforts, I continued to weave webs of dishonesty that persistently caught up with me. It wasn’t until my late twenties that I discovered that honesty was a choice. I discovered that a man who is upright and honest at all times is a valued treasure to all he encounters. A simple notion yes, but I am ashamed to admit not a concept that came easy to me. I didn’t realize that my behavior would eventually have a greater impact on the people around me than me. In life it is much easier to accept the consequences of our actions, however it is more difficult to accept that we are the cause of the innocent’s pain.

As with any parent, I want my children to learn from my mistakes rather than repeat them. When dealing with the dishonesty of my boys I utilize a different approach than my mother. I address more than the lie… I try to address the effects the lie has on each of them in the long run. It is proving to be a bit of a daunting task to convince my boys that the consequences for lying far outweigh the consequences of whatever infraction they lied about. Always proving themselves intelligent, my oldest queried, “So if we tell the truth does that mean we won’t get in trouble?” I actually hesitated slightly before answering this question. Though that type of leniency would appear to be a justifiable response to honesty, what am I teaching them? If you tell the truth you won’t be held accountable for your actions? We all know that’s not true. Instead I promised them that lying would ensure a swifter and more severe punishment than anything else. The problem (as the wittedly pointed out) is that this rule cannot be proven or disproven.

My boys will one day become men and one day discover what I have as a man: being a man can be tough. Now I can just hear women scoff at this statement but there is a lot that goes into being a “good man.” They will learn as I did that a good man is defined usually by the woman’s morale code and needs that you happen to be in a relationship with. There are some universal rules but for the most part each woman creates her ideal man as she goes along. I only hope that the wise words of Tony Montana ring true in my sons’ lives. I hope they can stand on their word, flatfooted and unmoved. I believe it will make it easier for them to meet the needs and desires of their future wives. I try my best to give them an example of brutal honesty when needed and gentle honesty when necessary. Though not always, now in all things I am honest… even it hurts. Manhood is a process.

The only other lesson I think they could potentially learn from Tony Montana is ambition. The following is a scene that I try to live by as well:

Tony Montana: Me, I want what’s coming to me.

Manny: Oh, well what’s coming to you?

Tony Montana: The world, Chico, and everything in it.

Now if that isn’t philosophy… I don’t know what is!

Isolation... A Photographic Essay

2009-08-13T13:14:00.000-07:00

Photography has always interested me. I am fascinated by the idea that a moment in time can be captured forever with a camera. I respect and admire a photographer who is able to create stories with his camera much like an author with her pen. Please do not accept this post as an attempt to place myself in the league of these artists. This is just a hobby that I would like to share with you...

I call these photos... Isolation. I think of my camera as a tool that I use to manipulate, create, capture, and document the world around me. I noticed all of the subjects of these photos while armed with my camera. Pushing the shutter gave me an opportunity to freeze forever the beauty that my eyes originally saw. In life we can be so enamored with one single object but our focus is blurred because the background becomes the foreground. We miss the beauty of a child's smile because of the fear that it won't last forever. The magnificence of a kiss becomes dulled by the thought that it may never be repeated. Even the sun abruptly bursting into our window is drowned in negativity because of the day it signifies is before us.

I wish that it were possible to see the world like these photos. The beauty contrasted in color and the background in black and white. The joy of our lives plucked from the fear that holds it captive.

This is my essay on isolation... enjoy.

Isolation

The gentle curve of this flower's apex intrigued me. It gave the impression that the flower was competing with it's origin, did the leaf come from the ellipses or visa versa? Are we products of our surroundings or of the desire we have to be more.

These Koi swam in sync for at least 2 or 3 minutes before I snapped the photo. The darker of two was smaller but appeared more dominant. It gave me pause that as humans we give dominance to size and appearance, rarely do we allow dominance to come from within. Our obsession with outward appearance forces us to submit to inferiority disguised as dominance.

These beautiful flowers seemed to take over the shot. I tried to isolate the flowers but the chaos of their growth wouldn't allow me to. It so true that in order to take control of our lives, sometimes we have to submit and emulate the chaos around us.

I have always been impressed with the pride and cockiness of a rooster. Unlike the Koi, the rooster has accepted that appearance is as much apart of who he is as the vibrant colors of his feathers. I can't help but wonder what secrets this animal may be keeping as he struts through the brush he calls his home.

Honestly, I didn't think this was a very good photo at first. It wasn't until I manipulated the colors that I realized how much of the shot truly is the butterfly. It made me think about my own life as I search for assurance that I am the focus. I may need to just spread my wings and realize that I am as important to the world around me as the world is to me.

These two photos are simplistic and verbose. The story they tell needs no words. The colors allow these flowers to control the photograph and force the eye to focus on them. In my own life, I have found myself the focus of scrutiny and praise. I have found that all of the identities I hide behind: father, husband, writer, lover, son, brother... they can never hold as much weight or importance as my first identity... me.

The Truth About Siblings

2009-08-11T17:28:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I can be a little dishonest. I try to never lie but at times I can be a little less than forthright with the complete truth.

I am the type of writer that rarely writes without muse or motivation. I’ve never been one to just pick up a pen or begin to type without some outside stimulation guiding my words.

I apologize that I wasn’t upfront about the muse or motivation of my last post entitled, “Where I Wanna Be.” I wrote that piece attempting to trick the reader into believing that success, or lack of success was just an abstract thought that came to mind.

Here’s the truth:

I was in my garage looking for my drill this weekend when I stubbed my toe on a large box. Angrily, I kicked the box and it toppled over spilling its contents all over the garage floor. Books. My books. My unread, unsold books. There they were, 50 of them sprawled all over the ground mocking me.

I wrote a book about two years ago entitled, Siblings. Like a father holding his newborn baby, I had great expectations for that novel. I envisioned my infant narrative growing and developing into a strong, strapping best seller. I was sure that I would carefully hand a copy of Siblings to Oprah Winfrey and she would swoon over its carefully crafted words. Alas, that was not the case. My novel became its parent’s biggest disappointment. My book was an embarrassment and a subject I avoided with disdain. I began to question the validity of my willingness to so freely call myself a writer. I vowed to put down my pen and walk away from the very thing I, for years, wanted desperately to identify with. I was sure that I would never stand amongst the great writers of our time. Who would dare mention my name along side Hemingway, Austen, Ellison, or dare I say – Shakespeare?

I fell deep into a well of self-pity and self-loathing. Why didn’t my novel take wings and fly? Why am I not discussing a possible movie deal with an up and coming Hollywood producer?

The answer is very simple. I put tons of effort into writing the book and no effort into promotion, advertising or sales. Also, I didn’t even send Siblings to Oprah, that’s probably why she didn’t read it. For some strange reason I honestly expected the word to just… get out. I approached my novel the same way we often approach our dreams, half-heartedly. We put so much effort into preparation and execution but not endorsement. We expect validation without self-promotion. Being our own worst critic is what many people are good at. Self-pity is an art form that so many of us have perfected. Self-confidence doesn’t come as easy for many of us.

Some of the most successful people in the world have themselves as their worst critic and their biggest fan. We cannot expect to world to see our greatness if we don’t one, believe it and two, tell the world! The word has to spread from our own mouths that the world is a commodity that we will soon own. It is not enough to wait for others to believe in a truth that we are unsure of.

I have started a new novel and a new plan to promote it. I refuse to believe that I lack the skill or passion to bind my words and make them so interesting that the average reader can’t bring herself to put them down. This time around, my goal is to put as much effort into selling my book as I put into writing it. I have to convince anyone who may stand facing the vast sea of literature that a book by Anthony Massey is definitely worth the read. As for the books in my garage, I went into the house and grabbed a Sharpie and began signing them – all 50 of them. I figure when I’m sitting on the couch next to Oprah discussing my sophomore effort, Siblings will be somewhat of a collector’s item.

Where I Wanna Be

2009-08-11T09:27:00.000-07:00

I can’t think of one person who didn’t, as a child, dream of the life they would live as an adult. We all fantasized and dreamed of having a life that could only be imagined. We allowed our influences in life: our family, our television, our friends, etc. to help paint a picture of what we define as the ideal.

The ideal. The ideal is nothing more than a concept that we create and emulate. If it is of our own creation, shouldn’t it be feasible that we can modify the ideal as we go along? The simple answer is yes, yes until you find yourself a bit short of ideal. I’ve found myself “short of ideal” a few times in my life. I had these dreams of becoming someone that any and everyone would admire. As I get older I become acutely aware of the fact that the clock is ticking and this is the only life that I will ever live. A wonderful concept if you are living your life at or beyond your expectations. I have been taught that my life belongs to God but the direction of my life is completely a choice that I make. Who amongst us have not remarked, “I am a good person, why isn’t my life better?” I have. I have gone so far as to judge people who don’t appear to have the same morals and values that I have but seem to be living a better life. With anger I scoff at the rich and famous, who obsess over the unimportant and celebrate the very worst in us. The materialistic and misogynistic themes of the rich and famous sicken me... Sicken me so much, I can’t look away.

So here are the lame and insignificant ramblings of someone who has yet to try and who is afraid to fail. Born with no silver spoon, my ideal was to be like those who were so fortunate. I allowed money to be my obsession and repeatedly asked, “why not me?”

Now I get it.

There has to be more to life than money or even success for that matter. There has to be a reality larger and more significant than what we have or do not have. Maturity can be defined as accepting that the ideal exists in the mind and hearts of the person who is willing to dream beyond their circumstances. Having a dream of something better is very different than defining “better” with the materialistic things of this world. Regardless of our beliefs of the afterlife one thing is for certain, nothing we have will go with us. Is it worth spending my life wanting what I don’t have only to ignore the things I do have? Better cars, better houses, better clothes don’t equal a better life. A better life exists in the love I have for God, my family and the love I have for me. I’m no cynic. I don’t believe for a moment that all of the rich are unhappy or unfulfilled. I believe that many people of means have found the happy medium that exists somewhere between having things and coveting things.

I’m learning to appreciate every moment. I’m learning to make my ideal and my life the same, or at the very least, similar. I’m learning that the power I give my regrets and failures are given freely. Where I want to be is a state of mind. I can choose to love my surroundings and embrace the life that I am living. Life is teaching me that shooting for the stars doesn’t mean that you have to lose your footing. It’s possible to have your head in the clouds while simultaneously having your feet planted firmly on the ground. That’s where I want to be. I want to constantly seek opportunities to be great while reveling in the moment, because at this point in my life, to just enough people… I’m pretty awesome. What a great place to be!

Laugh Without Reason

2009-08-06T07:00:00.000-07:00

My kids have returned from their summer vacations and with them they have brought back laughter to our home. I’m not talking about the type of laughter that follows a funny joke or a one-liner on a television sitcom. I mean gut-wrenching, awkward, milk-out-the noise joy that only a child can summon. Their wild eyes and inappropriate innocence is what every house requires in order to truly breathe.

As a father, I won’t lie; I’ve often tried to kill that laughter by insisting that my kids “grow up!” My sons have felt the worst of this wrath because, as a man, I live in constant fear that they will come short of my own journey to manhood. Desperate for my boys to be twice the man I am, I often push them rather than allow them to lazily stroll out of their childhood at their own pace.

My youngest son Desmond has an imagination that would rival the set of any Hollywood studio. He creates in his mind characters and stories that astound me with realism. His outlook on life is so naïve it frightens me. It scares me that he sees none of the pain and cynicism in the world. It scares me that his mind only processes the very best in everyone and that he and his siblings find the laughter in all situations. It scares me because the world will never allow him to retain possession of his optimism. It scares me even more that what he sees reality and I have created a watered down version of truth.

My oldest son, Jordan attempts to be a man after my own skepticism. He peeks around corners and tiptoes through situations being always on the look out for a possible ambush. However, in moments of weakness he can be found hanging out with his younger sister and brother rolling on the floor engaged in an imaginative contest with rules that are just as ridiculous as the goal. He wants to be the teenager that gets lost down the corridor of gloom but the optimism of adolescence keeps clearing a path for elation. I feel for my son because though he teeters on the threshold of adulthood having equal passage back and forth from youth and maturity, eventually one door will close forever.

I feel like a hypocrite telling my kids that the world is theirs for the taking and in the same breathe warning them of the pitfalls of the very world they can soon possess. Work hard and no one can stop you! Of course, you should be careful because there are plenty of people who will try.

I hope I have not painted a picture of grim despair while the children are not present. My wife and I have a great time together but never with the amiable and carefree approach to life of my kids. Whenever they are all in the same room a game of make believe creates a fantastical world that only they can see but my wife and I can enjoy. My wife and I have sat and listened to them describe the vivid and colorful world around them that we often only see in black and white. With broad-brush strokes they paint the world with colors such as happiness, joy, wonder, and delight. We are the audience with a front row ticket to the happiest show on earth, the pure and untouched perception of life through the eyes of children.

Tomorrow I think I will take an early day and ask my kids to show me a glimpse of a world that I haven’t in a very long time. With any luck they can teach to me to laugh uncontrollably and absolutely without reason.

India Rivers

2009-08-05T09:34:00.000-07:00

The other day I walked into a coffee shop nestled on the infamous Pacific Coast Highway in Southern California and spotted. a writer. Having traveled abroad, discovering another writer invokes the same familiarity as bumping into an American while navigating through a sea of an unfamiliar culture. I recognized her as a writer though she presented herself in what is now a very peculiar manner. She was the diamond in the rough that is recognized by a similarly unpolished gem. The environment and setting was perfect, she sat on the patio at a small metal table with a cup of coffee steaming in front of her. What gave her an uncharacteristic appearance were the spiral notebooks and leather-bound journals that surrounded her. In her mouth was a ballpoint pen tapping gently on her teeth as plots, characters, storylines, and the perfect ending swirled around in her mind.

In this day and age of "now" I was shocked to meet someone who approached the creative process the old-fashioned way. Understand I am not judging nor belittling the modern day laptop user. I am that writer. I am the writer that just had to go out and purchase the sleekest, shiniest and most innovative laptop I could afford before I could even dream of starting a blog. How am I to write without the perfect word processor and blogging software? Gone were the days of the inviting prod of a black and white, brand new composition notebook filled with fresh, white, untouched pages. The comfort of a favorite pen that made the words just spill on to the pages has been replaced with the gentle hum and peck of a powerful machine.

This traditionalist author faced writing in the most self imposing method possible. She had no delete key to erase the ridiculous storyline she had been chasing for the past twenty-five pages. She had no CMD-up arrow keys to search through pages and pages to remember if the backdrop of her novel was the beach or the river.

No, she had to do this the old-fashioned way; she had to face her writing failures head on. If she made a mistake then she is forced to either one-line or scribble out her erroneous thoughts. The constant reminder
remains until she relents and tears away the page. This is raw, unadulterated writing.

I dared not disturbed her but just had to comment on how inspiring she was. Her zeal for writing and recognition as a writer were apparent in the brief encounter we shared. Her eyes seemed to occupy the conversation as the flickered about as she spoke of her passion. She was a writer. she was afraid, self-conscious, unsure, and flattered all at the same time. She was candid and relieved when I told her I too had found myself writing three separate novels at the same time unsure if I'd finish one of them. We shared a kinship in the span of ten minutes when we confessed that we wanted the world to read our words but wanted none of the judgment that was sure to follow.

Thank you, renaissance writer. Thank you, proprietor of the pad and ink pen for reminding me of all the reasons I began writing the stories that played out so vividly in my mind as a child. I want to believe that this encounter was God's way of telling me to keep writing. I want to believe that He puts little mirrors in all of us so that we can see ourselves in the ambition of others.

Hello world, India Rivers and I are writers.

Is the Food Really That Good Here??

2009-08-04T09:50:00.000-07:00

I am a customer service Nazi. I am the type of person that believes that when I walk into any establishment that will require any exchange of money for goods or services I should be treated like I have a choice. I don’t necessarily believe that my butt should be kissed (though it wouldn’t hurt) but at the very least treat me as if I could walk out the door and right into your competitor’s wallet. I’ve been to different restaurants, retail shops, etc. and it is no secret or surprise that the more potential financial gain the better the customer service. It as if the cheaper the product the less the employees feel the need to show the customer that he or she is important. This never made much sense to me because if I was buying a Land Rover then what I want is a Land Rover. Very few people walk into a Land Rover dealership looking for just an “SUV.” However, there is a better chance of someone walking onto a Ford lot just looking for a compact that gets good mileage. This is the person that deserves your attention because literally they can find your product anywhere. Same goes for a burger, a sweater, or any other item that is sold in millions of retail and service stores throughout America.

Restaurants are the worst. I believe in rewarding excellent customer service but always feel a little empty leaving a healthy tip for someone who did what everyone should be doing. I always tip at least fifteen percent because I believe and fear the power of Karma; however I’ve been known to tip upwards of thirty percent for someone who really went out of their way to make me feel comfortable. There is no reason to disrespect or be rude to any paying customer. The customer is always right not because he is the customer; the customer is always right because the customer has the money. Now I do not agree with customer’s abusing their right to be right. The other day I went with my wife to get a pedicure (okay, I went to get a pedicure and my wife came along) and a woman walked into the nail salon claiming that she had left a bottle of nail polish at the salon the last time she was there. One of the salon employees politely asked her if she knew what color the polish was or what station she sat at while getting her manicure. The customer couldn’t answer either question but became increasingly agitated that the employees didn’t set her polish to the side and save it for her next visit. To add to this unreasonable request, when the employee asked her one of her co-workers if she had seen the bottle in her native tongue, the woman snidely remarked, “Speak English so I know what you are saying.”

This was a classic display of classicism in my opinion. I find it reprehensible when people treat service oriented employees as second class citizens. First and foremost, leaving a bottle of nail polish in a nail shop and expecting the employees to set it aside without communicating this expectation is ridiculous. Secondly, crass remarks before receiving service can alter the service that you receive. I believe we must expect great service everywhere we are served but I also believe that customers should be just as accommodating. In a crowded restaurant does it serve any purpose to repeatedly ask the maître'd or hostess if you have been called? You are seated a table with more the five people a little patience with the waiter may result in faster service. If you try on multiple garments in multiple sizes asking the employee at the GAP to retrieve clothes for you, can you understand that she may get an attitude if you purchase…nothing?

There is an unwritten rule that I am often the victim of: Horrible service forgiven by GREAT food. Now understand that the food has to be delectable and indescribable in words. The food has to give the consumer pause as it dances on their palate. I’m talking excellent chow. Very few establishments can boast of this rarity but there are a few. I had barbecue in Oklahoma at a little dive call John and Cook’s Barbecue and though the waitress seemed a little less than interested, the grub was amazing. There’s a restaurant I visit once or twice a year in Oceanside, California called the Hill Street Café that I have never received good service but the egg frittatas are amazing. Hypocrite? Why, yes I am. At those places I make the conscious decision to get my order to go so that I can enjoy their luscious victuals in the privacy of my home or car. I’ve thought of complaining but I'm reminded of the Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi. Sometimes you have to ask yourself, is the food really that good here? If the answer is yes, order your soup, have your money ready, and move on!

Author of Your Dreams

2009-08-03T12:23:00.000-07:00

There are two peers that I have encountered in my life that I considered both friend and inspiration. I don't think I have ever really communicated the impact each has had on me but individually my two friends have changed how I approach life.

My adult life has been a bit of a roller coaster filled with ups, downs, turns and of course, the occasional stand still. For years I could relate to that moment a gut-wrenching ride at a theme park sits perched high atop an apex after a slow deliberate ascent. It is as if that moment of anticipation right before the plunge has been put on pause in my life. I know the descent is coming but I just can't find the energy to get enough momentum to start the horrific and exhilarating fall.

This standstill is the result of not being the author of my own dreams. For years I have allowed other people in my life to guide my steps and create my path. I have known for years that I wanted to write but writing is not exactly the type of nine to five that brings home a lot of bacon. Years ago, I should have taken the pen from the naysayers and the people who suggested that I invest my time and energy into a more fruitful endeavor. There were those who cheered me on and said go for it, but always added "be sure to have something to fall back on." Having something to fall back on eliminates the "go for it." A shot at anything great is always one shot. Wasting a bullet on a safe target only means that the true target, the impossible target, the sexy target will continue to flap in the breeze untouched.

I know two people (well many but these two sharply come to mind) that wrote their own dreams and are now happier because of it. My very good friends Kelly and Marlow both authored, edited, and published their dreams. Both overcame odds to attend school even at the cost of ostracizing themselves from those of us who didn't understand the urgency of their goal. Both Kelly and Marlow made a decision and answered with uncompromising assurance the question that plagues many of us for years, "What do I want to do with my life?" I'm sure each of them can attest to the struggles they faced then and a few that may come up now, but I am positive that their sense of accomplishment far outweighs any discomfort that life may introduce. Kelly and Marlow both became professionals in their fields, achieving a goal that most have to been on course for from the very beginning. These two remarkable people found their way through trial and error and the occasional detour. They never allowed life to even suggest that "here" is good enough. I believe their tenacity was a result of knowing the direction of their travels. In other words, they never gave up the map.

I believe that so many of us get lost on the way to our dreams because we have no clue where exactly we want to go. Instead, we allow others to dictate our path. The goal is important because it makes the journey worthwhile. If there is no goal, the journey becomes a useless and
inconsequential trip. Kelly and Marlow have taught me through their triumphs, success and failures that what I want should be just as important as what I am willing to do to get it. I don't envy their success because to do so is to surrender to the idea that I am incapable of duplicating that type of accomplishment in my own life. I have to believe that, although they are two very intelligent people, their intelligence has no bearing on their achievement. I have to believe it is the desire and steadfastness of their commitment that brought them to their goal. Believing this affirms that it doesn't matter how smart I am or talented, it only matters that I am willing to go through to get to.

Thank you Marlow and thank you Kelly and thank all of you who have authored your dreams to fruition for giving us, who are still writing, a blueprint for our own success. Adopting your insistence for triumph has been the push I needed to get over the hump and begin my fall...hands raised, wind in my face, screaming at the top of my lungs.

If imitation is truly the best form of flattery then my goal is to imitate your inability to allow anyone besides you to be the author of your masterpiece.

The (Justifiable) Loss of Faith

2009-07-29T20:18:00.000-07:00

The other day my wife and I were in Ikea looking for a dresser for our bedroom. We both love Ikea for its simplicity and clean lines. Our place isn't very big so the furniture allows us to fill up our space without it appearing cluttered. After finding the perfect dresser, I wandered off alone to find an accessory at my wife's request.

While walking the massive halls of the Ikea warehouse, I was approached by a very pleasant couple from India. The man approached me holding a weird contraption and asked if I knew what it was. I picked it up and we toiled over the tiny silver bucket with wooden handle and surmised that it was some sort of a garlic press. He smiled at my theory and shook his head in agreement. Both he and his wife on cue remarked with a animated, "Oh..." They thanked me and immediately started a very nonchalant conversation with me. They asked if I shopped at Ikea often and what I thought about the furniture. I told them what any man who has bought any item from Ikea is sure to agree with, "The furniture is great but putting it together is a bear!" We all laughed and they continued to ask me questions. I cheerfully answered and was just as curious about their lives as they were mine. I found out that the man, Eric (changed to protect the innocent) was a small business owner and his wife Lisa (also changed) was an India-trained dentist. She was a few months pregnant and they were both eagerly anticipating (and a bit anxious) about their first child's arrival. I told them I had three and received the same response as the discovery of the garlic press.

The conversation was so genuine and so intriguing. I found Melissa and introduced her to my new found friends. I caught her up on what I learned and we made small talk before exchanging phone numbers and promising to meet up over coffee.

As we left Ikea, my wife and I remarked on how refreshing it was to meet new people who were so interesting and so interested in us. This has been a rare occurrence for us and we eagerly anticipated an opportunity to hang out with them. Then the ugly creature doubt crept up my spine and into the conversation. I quickly tamed the beast and even remarked to my wife how cool they seemed. She agreed and I planned on blogging about the encounter and chastising myself for instant cynicism.

Then, twenty-hours later the call from Eric, my Ikea friend came.

Eric: Hello Anthony this is Eric, we met at Ikea yesterday.
Me: Oh Eric, hello I'm so glad you called. How is your wife?
Eric: She's great, I called because we had so much fun talking to you and your wife, Melissa.
Me: So did we. We were just saying how cool it was to meet such interesting people. So what's up?
Eric: Well, I know you said you guys are already working but we have this very exciting opportunity we would like to share with you.
Me: I'm sorry?
Eric: Like I said the other day, my wife and I have our own business and we are looking for business partners who are interested in turning a small investment into a huge return. Anthony, many investors have seen as much as a 150% return on their initial investment. That could mean hundreds of dollars of residual income for you and your family. Does this sound like something you and your wife would be interested in?
Me: Um...yeah I guess?
Eric: Well Anthony, I want to get you involved as soon as possible so you and your wife don't miss this opportunity. When can we meet and talk?
Me: Um...let me talk to my wife and I'll call you back later this week.
Eric: Sounds good Anthony, how about you call me on Thursday or Friday?
Me: Yeah, sure.

So was I justified to believe that strangers don't approach other strangers for the rare possibility of making a new friend? Honestly, I was so bummed that our "chance" meeting was nothing more than a well executed sales canvass that the cynic in me returned. I allowed the beast to roam free in my mind and I instantly was turned off by the whole encounter. My wife and I don't have a lot of close friends and looked forward to the opportunity to make new neutral couple friends.

Ever the optimist I want to believe that my loss of faith in the genuine nature of people is temporary and completely unjustified. I want to believe that Eric and his wife are a fluke and the world is filled with people who want nothing more than to get to know new people. Of course, as most pots that point out the color of neighboring kettles, I have yet to approach an interesting looking person and introduce myself.

My wife mentioned the other day that we could use a new coffee table so maybe we'll try again at finding ourselves some Ikea friends.

Grown Folks are Talking

2009-07-27T08:56:00.000-07:00

O that ye would altogether hold your peace! and it should be your wisdom.
Job 13:5

As a child, I was taught the invaluable lesson of being seen but not heard. There was a point, as I grew, that my voice as well as my presence became equally desired. Until that point, my goal was to quietly exist without noise or interruption. I can remember looks of scorn burning through my inner soul on those rare occasions I dared to disobey a rule as old as my family's lineage.

"Hush boy, grown folks are talking," an elder would bark without the slightest bit of eye contact. I hated this rule and the oppressive atmosphere it and others like it created. To sit and listen to a conversation and not be allowed to weigh in was cruel and demeaning. Over the years I racked up piles of pennies, never once solicited for my two cents. Like most rules we despise as children we institute them in our own homes as adults.

My children, as inquisitive as their father, are always lurking around a corner hoping for inclusion in whatever my wife and I happen to be discussing. At times, one of them (especially my oldest Jordan,) will casually place himself into the conversation with the most abstract and vague comment he can. His remark, though not quite on the subject matter, is close enough to let us know he wants to be involved. That same icy glare that is handed to every parent in my family like a dowry usually accompanies the same bark, "Hush boy, grown folks are talking."

The irony of this lesson is that it has taught me as a man that sometimes my words and inclusion are completely unnecessary. I have found that in life there are more times that silence rather than responding is the appropriate response. Words should be used as if they were premium resources that are slowly drifting into scarcity. Unfortunately, many of us speak to quickly and often without thinking treating our words as if they flow from an endless pool. I thought of the lesson that I learned as a child, which was basically to not get involved with things that don't involve me.

Recently, our President (whom I voted for) spoke out of turn and caused irreparable damage to himself and his cause. While discussing his much debated and controversial health care reform plan he commented on a situation involving a friend and a Cambridge police officer. Rather declining to comment, he gave his antagonists a platform to yet again criticize him. Why? Simply because he spoke out of turn. Who is right and who is wrong is not the issue when someone places themselves in the middle of a situation they shouldn't. A reporter who wanted to engage the President and make a story asked the question; she
succeeded. In my opinion, the President should have respectfully declined to respond to the question or simply be silent. Criticism would have surely followed but at least it becomes a guessing game as to where he stands. This is a classic situation of a man who represents all viewing himself as part of a minority. Now it is not my assertion that the President doesn't have a right to speak his mind, but in this situation (like the ones from my childhood) was not for his inclusion. Much like my childhood, the President attempted to offer his opinion on a subject that he admittedly did not have the facts on. In these situations, silence is the only perfect thing to say.

The hardest thing in the world for us to do is mind our business. We cause hours of traffic delays due to rubbernecking and will stand on a street corner because we just have to see what's going on. Many of us will run towards danger while others run away because of morbid curiosity. The windows of America are constantly peered through because it is our nature to get involved and offer our opinion (welcomed or not.) Unfortunately, criticism and ridicule often accompany our opinions (welcomed or not.)

I think the President would benefit from some of my grandmother's greatest
life lessons.

Speak only when spoken to.
Don't put things in your mouth.
Wash your hands.
Clean up after yourself.
Don't touch anything that isn't yours.
Don't ask for anything you can't buy.
Don't buy anything you can't afford.
Ask yourself, do you really need this?

Quality Time

2009-07-20T08:54:00.000-07:00

Time, a seemingly immeasurable object, is constantly engaged in a rousing game of tug-of-war with me. It seems there is never enough time to do the things that need to be done and far too much time to do nothing. Splitting my time, not equally but evenly between God, my family, work, and myself is an extremely daunting task. My life is often lived based on the time. The question, “Is there enough time?” seems to be answered more often in the negative than the carefree. Enough time for what?

There’s a long-standing joke in my family about Sunday. We all agree that Sunday at 4:00p.m. is the official end of the weekend. What happens after four o’clock that will not cause us to be tired on Monday morning? Nothing. So starting on Saturday morning (a day we are very careless with our time) we watch the clock dreading Sunday at 4:oop.m. As ridiculous as the concept maybe it often has a profound effect on how we spend our time and increases our desire to not waste time. The irony of course, is that weekends were built for just that sort of thing. What could be more fun that to spend 48hrs doing absolutely nothing? Absolutely nothing.

This past weekend my wife and I found ourselves in the DINK category and will remain Double Income No Kids for the entire summer. Trips to the grocery store will be less financially and emotionally draining and no one will knock on the door at 6:00a.m. demanding breakfast. There will be no homework to work on and no reminders to take out the trash. (I’m acutely aware that my kid’s chores became my chores on their vacation.) Don’t get me wrong, my wife and I love our children dearly but the very idea of not picking anyone up from school actually excites me.

Our first weekend alone, we spent a romantic evening in a nice hotel in San Diego near Mission Bay. Our room was beautiful, it overlooked the water and we even splurged with room service. We enjoyed luxuries that we wouldn’t dare had we been with the kids. We sat in the hot tub; missing, was my wife constantly doing a “where are the kids” check by the pool. We packed our overnight bags without having to inspect the clothing choices of all travelers. We dined in a fine restaurant without a suspicious, devout carnivore inspecting her plate for hidden vegetables. We had adult conversations without the electronic hum of portable game devices. Yes, it was absolute bliss. My wife and I reconnected in way that we haven’t since… well the last time the kids went away.

The quality of the time we spend together makes it so much more enjoyable dealing with the inevitable ups and downs of life. The children are our pride and joy but there introductions and stumbles through life can be very time consuming. Time should be a luxury that we try to never take for granted. Every moment literally counts and can never be restored or re-done. For that reason, every second God has blessed me to breathe, rhyme and reason is a gift.

The Girl Next Door

2009-06-11T11:38:00.000-07:00

Thirty-seven steps, forty-two in my favorite pair of flip-flops. That’s the exact distance between 278 Killgore St and 286 Killgore St. Forty-two steps is also the exact distance from my front door and the door of the woman that I was destined to spend the rest of my life with. Our story is peculiar and particularly amusing to the both of us. It’s the type of story that prompts us to instinctively smile at one another when asked, “how did you meet?’

She was wearing blue jeans, a light blue top and a light jean jacket when I first saw her. She had placed the trash from her house in the large brown can that sat outside of her garage. My immediate reaction is the same reaction I have when I haven’t seen her all day – wow… Not wow as in “You’ve won a million dollars!!” but more wow as in “so, that’s what beautiful looks like.” The chauvinist in me instantly assumed that she was the spouse of a very lucky Marine (we lived on base). Envy crept up my spine and turned my face a tad sour. She never spoke to me that afternoon and I can’t help but wonder if the look of disappointment on my face was an instant turn-off.

A single parent, I dreaded “getting back out there” for fear that I would never find true love and of course, I would repeat the same mistakes that caused my divorce. For a long time, I refused to date anyone so that I could ensure that I worked on my issues before inviting anyone back in to my life or my son’s. Living in a three bedroom house with nothing but my son’s nine year old world to keep me company can be a bit lonely. Nonetheless, I was hoping for “the one” and I wouldn’t settle for less.

Assuming the worse, I decided to grab a bottle of wine and try and be neighborly, although the gentleman next door had the pleasure of dwelling with the most attractive woman I had seen in a long time. To my surprise she answered the door again, this time donning a set of Marine Corps cammies. The beautiful woman by the trash can was also an extremely squared away Staff Sergeant. I introduced myself as her neighbor and informed her that if her and her husband (assuming) ever needed anything that, as a corpsman, I would be very happy to help. She said thanks, took the bottle and I walked the long, arduous thirty-seven steps back to my door (I was wearing my combat boots.)

A day later, the attractive SSGT knocked on my door and for some reason I instantly panicked. I learned that her name was Melissa so I no longer had to call her the “beautiful SSGT next door” when I thought of her. She told me that she appreciated the wine but didn’t have a wine opener. With lightning speed and agility, I had the bottle open and two glasses of Chardonnay poured before she could walk away. I asked if her husband was coming over and she informed me that she too was a single parent. Our similarities didn’t stop there. By the time I refreshed our glasses I found out that she was getting out of the military the same month as me, she wanted to move back to Texas like me, she was an avid Christian (big plus) and she had two beautiful children.

When Melissa left my house and returned to her own, I felt an overwhelming sense of comfort. It was as if God had shown me a glimpse of my future. Our conversation was very innocent but riddled with a very distinct connection. Though there was no husband, there was a boyfriend. I endured. I was positive that she was a blessing that was long overdue. After about a year, our situations changed dramatically and now I have the distinct honor of spending my life with her.

Forty-two steps. Forty-two steps separated me from my destiny and now I can’t be happier. Now, I never allow forty-two steps, miles, or hours to separate us. She is mine forever and that’s exactly how I saw the very first time I saw her.

Struggling

2009-06-06T07:47:00.000-07:00

The very idea of struggling brings to mind a difficult situation that appears insurmountable by anyone’s viewpoint and definition. You imagine a single mother sitting at a kitchen table toiling over a mountain of bills that she can't pay. A man sitting in a hotel room with his face in his hands incapacitated with sorrow because he has allowed his indiscretions to remove him from his home. A family, who once lived in abundance, now huddled in the back seat of a car (their last possession) using their bodies for warmth.

What if your problems are that great? What if you knew exactly the cause and the moment that your struggle began? What if you were the cause of your perceived struggle? Most of all, what if your problems were only felt by you and the world refused to acknowledge them or show any sympathy for you?

Well, I'm there! As with most Americans finances are a huge struggle for my family and me. Were aren't losing our nest egg in the stock market. Our home isn't threatened to be foreclosed. We have plenty for our bills, just not enough for everything else. At this point, anyone who has had to be financially creative will probably stop reading...I realize that coveting is a big no-no, but it isn't the "things" I covet as much as the lifestyle or ability to get those "things". It is the desire to see exactly how green the grass is and find out for myself that the maintenance and upkeep of the grass comes with its on set of problems.

I find myself asking God why he didn't choose me to be a millionaire or a man with enough means to offer my family a comfortable lifestyle. I know what his answer would probably be - to be happy with all He has blessed me with. So am I wrong for wanting more? Am I ungrateful because my desire is for my family to live in a big beautiful house and for my kids to go to great schools?

I don't believe it's wrong but I do believe that if I measure my life on what I have than I run the risk of losing what God has in store for me. It may not be riches or fame, it

may only be the opportunity to touch a life I have never and may never meet. It may only be to address my sons or my daughter Mr. or Miss President. How awesome would it be to realize one day that this life I cursed and despised was something bigger than I would ever be?

Trust me there are times that I throw my hands in the air and wonder if God hears my pleas and sees my tears. There are times that I wonder if my faith is vain, especially when it seems that those who have denied Him are basking in the fruit of abundance.

I have to believe in my heart that my prayers have not gone unanswered and that all that I seek will be revealed to me in time. I have to believe that understanding God's plan and his infinite wisdom is beyond my feeble, earthly mind. It gives me comfort to know that I’m not required to rely solely on myself to navigate the troubled, choppy waters of life.

There was a time that the story of the man with no feet angered me. Why would I stop weeping because I have no shoes because I met a man with no feet? He doesn't need shoes! But now I get it. The point isn't to see that his need is greater but to focus on a need other than my own. Instead of weeping about my shoe problem I should reach out and help someone whose need is just as great as mine - because they too have a need! Through faith, God will provide for my needs and my heart's desire so I have better things to do with my time and energy. When I turn the focus from myself to someone else, the mountain I’m climbed suddenly feels like a small grade. Loving thy neighbor applies today more than ever. An outward focus makes an inward struggle manageable. Suddenly in the midst of being in the presence of God's awesome power and love, I find that my only struggle is the desire to be more and not have more.

Hearing God's Voice

2009-06-04T09:18:00.000-07:00

Much like the wind the voice of God can be incredibly gentle, soothing and unnoticable when compared to the hustle and bustle of our lives. If we don't pay attention we can miss the intimate conversations God so desperately wants to have with us. I have tried to remove the word coincidence from my vocabulary and recognize those incidents I have written off as chance as God's gentle whisper in my ear.

For instance, when I pray for favor on my job my boss opens my eyes to an opportunity I was previously unaware of. Or traveling to work or home I seem to hit every green light. This isn't luck but God showing traveling grace. Conversely, when I'm in a situation in which i'm not sure how to proceed God closes a door only to open another one. With this attitude how can I see any situation as negative?

So if it seems that I can't miss a red light or that a police officer is following me for miles, maybe God's hands are slowing me down to protect me from unseen danger. Maybe a disagreement with my

wife is God asking me to see a side of a situation that no one but her could illuminate to me.

Don't get me wrong, I've known God to be quite brash in certain instances. Usually he deals with me in the very same fashion I deal with my own children. There are times they require my swift hand of justice or protection, a hand they fear but respect all the same. I believe God is no different.

I believe that being a believer is a choice. God has given us the awesome gift of FAITH. To no longer be boggled down with why or how is truly a blessing. It is because I believe that "it" is. I have faith that to have an intimate conversation with my redeemer requires me only to close my eyes, open my heart and listen.

TMass

On Love...

2009-06-03T07:56:00.000-07:00

My wife Melissa is truly the person that God has put on this earth for me. She has stood by me for the past three and half years of our courtship and marriage through obstacles and turmoil that would have sent a lesser woman running for the hills. Through it al,l I believe her faith in God and the beauty and wonderment of marriage has kept her faithful not only to me but to our future. You see, my wife sees into me. She doesn’t see the me that I am, (though she loves that broken man) she sees the man that I have the potential to become. My wife understands that the only reason that a good woman is behind every good man is because that’s the perfect place to push him to the purpose and greatness that he has lying dormant inside him. Boy does she push!!

I married a woman who has an affinity for competition. Understand, when I say competition I mean any sport or contest that calls for two or more sides to face one another and one victor to emerge. Recently, I sat quietly as my small 5’2” statured beautiful wife armed with a 12 gauge shotgun shot clay pigeons out of the sky after barking pull! A strange blend of fear and eroticism overcame me as the brightly colored “pigeon’s” were obliterated by wife’s rifle and the men on her team cheered on her perfect and deadly aim.

A well spoken, opinionated, dainty, rough and tough United States Marine agreed to offer her emerald-green eyes for me to get lost in and her hand for me to marry on Valentine’s day in 2006. I would be lying if I said every day was roses, actually I wouldn’t be lying I would be ignoring the fact that many of those roses were well protected with razor sharp thorns. The word divorce was uttered more than once as we felt one another out testing the bonds of our union and questioning the other’s motives for doing “it” again. Shouldn’t it be easier this time? We’re older this time around and wiser right? We aren’t enamored with the idea of love pass the point of reason like we were when we were younger. We understand that love is more than poems, holding hands and lust…right? Wrong!

I believe every single person in this world wants the fairytales that we pay millions for in the form of movies, books, poetry and music. Otherwise, why would stories of prostitutes being loved for who they are by rich business men or a man living on one side of the country falling in love with a woman from the other side be so fantastic to us? We love the idea of love; we love the idea that love is a fall, a stumble from our normal lives and rational thinking. Love is an edification of a side of us that life tends to dumb down with our problems. Love brings hope and the freshness and newness of a cool wind or warm spring day. Love returns us to a place that, as infants, it was the only currency we had to attain the necessities of life. No child ignores the power and magnitude a smile or a hug has on even the grumpiest and stingiest of grown ups!

Love, most of all, is promise. Unfortunately that promise can often times be overstated or completely broken. I believe in love but as I mature I also understand that love is a multi-paged contract that is well equipped with fine print and corporate verbiage that can easily be overlooked. The words, “I love you” are so powerful that just the utterance can return hope to the hopeless or leave the betrayed forever bewildered. “You said you loved me!” Three words that are so complex in their meaning that any action that can be viewed as a deviation from their intent is an automatic breach.

I've loved in the past and to be perfectly honest, not very well. I've perpetuated the idea that love is selfish and unless my needs are being met, love is worthless. The reality, of course, is that love in its truest form is the most selfless act that exists. To say I love you means that I forsake myself for you. "You" become my obsession and "Love" becomes my motivation. "I" is nothing more than a directional term that helps me to stay on course. I thank God everyday for the turmoil I have felt by my own hands and my own unwillingness to understand love and the power that it has. I thank God for this because because without those tears, I would not appreciate and bask in the utter joy that I feel right now...

Blessed...

2009-06-02T13:06:00.000-07:00

For the past two and half years, I have had the pleasure and utter privilege of sharing the responsibility of parenting with my wife. We are a blended family in every sense of the word and of course, along with any blend there are subtle nuances that must be mastered in order to achieve an acceptable flow that's pleasing to the senses. I entered the relationship with one child who would eventually become a big brother, a role although he is suited for, he does not take willingly. My wife presented two beautiful children, a boy and a girl that would become my son's siblings and my "kids."

We share a sentiment that was introduced in my lineage that the concept of step-parenting would not be used in our house. I often tell my children that the only "steps" in our house are the ones that lead to the front door. This forced family oneness comes with it's own set of issues and dilemmas. For the most part we have made the smooth transition from single households to a single household. I love watching these children grow and in a often times voyeuristic fashion watching as life shapes and molds their individualism and personalities.

My oldest is the introverted jock. The kid in high school we all knew was special but he rarely spoke of such greatness and his shyness (not humbleness) wouldn't allow himself to brag or boast of his achievements. My youngest son has developed a middle child view of life that causes him to long for the spot of "the baby" while demanding the privileges of the oldest. His personality speaks for his character and his outgoing nature allows him to speak to absolutely anyone. He is bold in his demeanor and craves the spotlight by any means necessary. Our youngest and only girl is just that. She relishes in her many roles as "the only." The only girl, the only one with a t.v. in her room, the only one who doesn't have to take out the trash, the only one who...etc.

Yes, my wife and I are completely to blame for the double standards we have set in our home and we sleep at night with the comfort of knowing that life will repeat these standards throughout their lives. For now we keep things fair only because we define fairness. We act as judge, jury and unwilling participant. My wife and I have learned to refrain from looking to heaven asking God silly questions such as, "what are we going to do about these kids?" Instead, we make thought provoking statements, "Lord, you made them...teach us to raise them."

He listens and with every smile, accomplishment, goal, and gut wrenching laugh...He answers...