Artist, mogul, and American icon Jay-Z once said, “Being born black is like being born with a presumption of guilt.” As a black man I can say that this statement holds true, but in more ways than the struggles of the African American race. It can be applied to how the world presumes whites, athletes, politicians, fast food workers, and any other title or category that one might fall under. As a soldier (though National Guard) people tend to presume that I am a person of high values, someone with standards, an enforcer of justice and the law (although I have an unpaid parking ticket in my name, but lets not focus on that) although I tend to agree with those presumptions, I recognize that perception isn’t always reality. Through my short seven months of training with the United States Army I’ve learned that though the uniform gives off a certain image, there are a number of men and women who wear it that come from different backgrounds, and have different ideals that break the preconceived notions that many have of them (myself included). The most prominent example being the homosexual men and women who protect our country; more particularly the men.

          President Barack Obama made a bold move by repealing the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy implemented through the Armed Forces in regards to open homosexuality. It stated that gay men and women serving the country were not allowed to be open with their sexuality, because it was argued that it would be a distraction among troops, and bring down the overall morale needed to complete the missions (the same argument used against minorities and women). With that said, I’ve ran into a number of gay  soldiers (I was unaware about many of them until they told me) and none of them have ever made me uncomfortable, in fact some of them have received multiple awards due to their ability to work with other and display of leadership among their peers. Yet even though they have proven their worth, many of them are still treated as if they are less relevant than their comrades. So I decided to interview a gay soldier (who will be referred to as Private X) in order to get his point of view on being gay in the Army.

How are you doing?
I’m fine, how are you?
Im chillin’ man, just chillin’. So how long have you acknowledged yourself as homosexual?
I never really had an intrest in men or women when most were starting that phase where they realized the “new feelings” of puberty. All I gave a damn about was computers and Star Wars. It wasn’t until I was around 16 that I started to feel emotions towards men.
How did you feel about it? Were you ashamed?
Well naturally I was ashamed because it wasn’t normal. At the age when all you want to do is fit in, and a time where my feelings where alot less understood or accepted than now. I was a mess.
So when did you finally come out?
In all honesty I never really ever came out to the world like “Hey! I’m here. I’m queer. Lets Party!”
(I interrupt with uncontrollable laughter then apologize.) Continue Please?
But my eventually my parents found out and once that pill was swallowed I really never thought about it one way or the other.
So were you brought up in a Christian or religious household?
Yes. I was raised Southern Methodist.
I didn’t know there was a such thing as Southern Methodist, I thought they were all the same. Well I assume it isn’t too different from the whole “Baptist and Southern Baptist” thing right?
I’d imagine so.
So how did that go over with your family?
Of course they told me it that they believed it was a sin, and I shouldn’t act on it. But they also told me that alcoholism, lust, and greed are sins too, and my family is filled with sinners by those definitions.
With that said, how do you feel as a gay man in the Army, I know it isn’t just a lust fest for you, but do you ever find yourself attracted to any of the men here?
Of course. You find yourself attracted to the females no?
Yes…..there are a select few females in the Army I’ve found attractive (laughing).
Ok then, but I’m sure you respect them, and don’t just harass them, especially after all the HR and sexual harassment classes and all.
True. True. So if we’re being honest even though you don’t advertise your sexuality, you do display feminine traits at times, so I wasn’t totally surprised when you told me.
Well congrats Sherlock. [He laughs but I can tell he’s a little annoyed]
How do you feel about the things that others say to demean openly gay soldiers? I feel sorry for both parties. I feel sorry for the idiot that can’t let it go because deep down he’s covering for hidden insecurities. And I feel sorry that the victim has to deal with the ignorance. I’m sure you feel the way when somebody is being a jackass towards you because of your race or accent.
Si.
Your Spanish is subpar at best, lets not exploit that too much further.
I appreciate the compliment.
Denada. Ok I’m done now.
Thank you. Now do you feel like the Army does enough to enlighten soldiers on Equal Opportunity?
Hell Yes. Hell No.
Explain?
In regards to rascism, sexcism, and even suicide prevention, the Army is very good as far as information and guidance is concerned, almost too much. But the homosexual issue is so new and taboo, it’s almost ignored.
Like, it’s more implied than than addressed?
Exactly, and that leaves the door open for us to be harassed. No it’s not on a hazing or even Scarlet Letter type of deal, but things definitely are said or done that wouldn’t fly in other instances.
So do you feel like gay is the new black?
Yeah! In the good and bad way. Some people try too become part of the culture because they think it’s the cool thing to do. While we are still fighting for rights that are given to us by God.
And if not by him, the Constitution.
Well done young padawan.
Speaking of, Disney is going to be behind Episode VII. How disgusted are you?
I can’t tell you how bad I cringed when I first heard, but let’s be honest,  “Pirates of The Caribbean” isn’t that bad. And JJ Abrams is the director, he also directed the show LOST, did you watch it?
No but I heard it’s good.
Yeah, you like weird shit like that. Invest in Netflix and thank me later.
I’m pretty sure you’ve heard me refer too situations as “gay” when I didn’t like them, and I’m not the only person who does this. Is this generally offensive in the homosexual community?
Well when I become the president of the gay’s I’ll let you know. But I really don’t care. When we listen to rap songs I don’t skip saying “nigga” do I? You don’t have a problem with that?
True.
So it’s the same way, some people take offense to it more than others. some black people would try to fight me, some gay people would do the same too you.
We aren’t too different you and I?
Cliche much?
You have a really snappy attitude guy (while I laugh in slight embarrassment).
What can I say, I am gay you know.
I don’t really know how to respond.
Stop being gay and laugh.
(Reluctant Laughter)
Thank you for your interest in how I and others feel.
It’s no problem man. Anything else you wanna’ say?
I’m just one voice, but I want to say that if no one speaks up, no one will listen to our story. Yes we’ve come a long way, but we have a much longer way to go. If you recognize that your arm has been feeling funny for the past few weeks, ignoring it won’t help once you for u have a stroke. With that said, I really can’t think of anything else to say.
Well I thank you for your time.
Thank you for listening.

I got questions!!!……

Why

Must I, be the catalyst that drives

the wedge of disagreement between you?

I act in ignorance

Yet the ramifications are serious to the young boy with a sling shot and the giants that he’s dealing with

If only, if only….

I wasn’t such a hindrance

So I hit a 163 degree turn into the comfort of loves arms

But she’s a constant reminder of dreams to far and unreachable for some one as worthless as I.

Still, I struggle in a toe to toe battle every time our eyes meet to keep mines from producing tears

Because every reunion between us is a beautiful gesture of a love so dear

But also evidence that every time we say goodbye,

The end is getting near

So as I sit in the rear of this classroom

I stare

Just for escape

And with each gaze

To my Lord I pray

His Mercy! That he will spare

This young love

LOVE!

Not infatuation

Carnal cravings

Or feelings diluted with saturation

But LOVE!

And even if we do make it

I pray that

Others (kids) will never cause the mayhem

That I’ve created between you and your holy matrimony.

God delivered your companionship into the inner most depths of my lonely atmosphere

One masked by clouds of joy and grounds of pride

That shadowed despair unseen to my eyes

You are the savior from the monster that lied within my soul

But why is it?

When God giveth,

Man tries to take away?

They said that love is blind

But few believed it

Because many tried to come between it

The so-called gape between you

And this love of mine

It’s black and white that paints the grey seeds of doubt within our hearts

From the start

We knew this race would

Bring an uproar among races destiny

And fuel the fire in the hearts of racists

And the so-called debaters of the social order

I sit and converse with God when the skies of the night are darker than the never ending glow of my exterior being

Waiting for his respons

The key to the meaning

Of the tribulations we face

Locked away by…somber days and grieving 

Only God can set the verdict of our

Of our dreams, our hopes

So when we stumble together,

United we float.

“Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete? 
Proving nature’s law is wrong it 
learned to walk with out having feet. 
Funny it seems, but by keeping it’s dreams, 
it learned to breathe fresh air. 
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.”

-Tupac Shakur

As a human, I am imperfect. As a man (well at least in a legal manner), I am prideful and arrogant. As a son, I am defiant, ignorant, and sometimes obedient. As a Christian……ok as a curious mind in regards to the workings of the universe…..I am sinful,I am a narcissist I am loving, I am self conscience. All these attributes and a shit load of other characteristics make up the person typing this right now. Paco. PacoDeLaJoya. Michael. Alexander. Paco Suave. Pretty Ricky. La-La (as called by my mama and ONLY my mama). Banks. Mike. And as of late a Denzel Washington or Michael Ealy look alike (as said by a very drunk female 2 days ago…. I’m still claiming it tho’).

With all this shit going on it’s only natural that without the proper exertion of these emotions I would be some sort of crazy….crazier. I acknowledged this at a young age and sought different avenues to channel my feeling. I tried sports but Basketball was really just to try to please my father, Baseball didn’t interest me until I was 18, and Football just wasn’t my calling. (Yeah I was a bench rider but don’t get it twisted, I was athletic, just didn’t give enough fucks). *That was a manly disclaimer.* So me being the “Hip Hop” head that I was…lyrical expressions was the natural route of attack, and lets be honest, the females love poetry. Any who, I began to write…alot. I began to skip social events…to write…I began to skip class….to write…I quit football…to write….I wrote to escape depression. I wrote my self into depression. I wrote about love. I wrote about heartbreak….alot. 

With all these secrets in notebooks that seemed to be piled everywhere, I still managed to keep up with every one of them, even though I’ve literally lost everything that I’ve owned in my life until then. I guarded my notes with my life. Like….I almost fought my big ass father when he tried to read one. But fore the some reason, I’ve decided to share the most intimate thoughts that I’ve ever had. People often tell me they admire my honesty, yet they hate how I never tell them how I feel, I still really don’t understand it but what ever. Alot of people may read these, and then again Dionne might be the only person who cares enough. Cool with me either way. So long as I know that I’ve made myself available in a way that I haven’t before, I’m content. With that said, here are the proverbial roses from the “Concrete Garden” that is my mind.

I arrived in this world as a statistic. I was technically a bastard child, born out of wedlock like 70 percent of the other black kids in my generation (and almost 85 percent of the people that are in my family). There was already a 11 percent chance that I would end up in jail, a 35 percent chance that my standardized test would be well below that of the average white kid, a 24 percent chance that I wouldn’t make it to high school (if I did there odds were that I wouldn’t graduate), a 17 percent chance that I wouldn’t live to see 25, and there was a snowball’s chance in hell that I would make it to college and make something of myself without playing some type of sport. The picture of my future was painted before the frame was even developed. And it would probably not turn out to be a masterpiece. At least that’s what the statistics stated.

I was born on March 18, 1993 at ll:50 a.m. in Birmingham, Alabama at UAB hospital. I was 7 lbs. and 6 oz. My mother and my father were both there the second that my life started, and contrary to the future prophesized by the all knowing statistics, they both remained in my life. My parents named me Michael Alexander Banks, Michael after my father and Alexander could be from the singer Alexander O’Neal, but I’m not really sure. My mama says that she gave me a name that I could take in front of a job interviewer of a teacher and not be ashamed that they can’t pronounce it. Contrary to the JaQuan’s and Defarian’s that became the identity of many other black kids. The name on my birth certificate was a slight reprieve against the statistics that were formed against me. But it was not an exactness of me and my entirety. I needed and identity, a nickname.

Paco. That is the name that my father gave me while my mother was pregnant with me. That is the same name that almost got him stabbed by a very frustrated and with child woman. That is the name that everyone in my family referred to me as. It originated because I moved and kicked my mother so much while my mother was carrying me. So my father named me Paco, in likeness to a Mexican jumping bean. A sheer definition of who I was and what I was about. I really couldn’t understand in what way, but I knew it was a good fit for me. No one else had a name like it, and no one else could make me forfeit the particulars that came with it.

 I walked around in an atmosphere that was as bizarre to my eyes as it was to the eyes of those that could not stop observing me. I had no idea why I was not at my regular school, and why most of the people that I saw were surprised to see me, but I didn’t like it. “Who are all these people,” I thought, “and what did I do to make them not like me?” I found out that I was at a place called elementary school, and it would be my new source of education. I was to start kindergarten in a couple of days but I first had to register. I hadn’t liked life much since we moved into this new neighborhood and out of my apartments.

“Don’t worry Paco,” my father tried to calm my restless nerves, “when one door closes, another one opens. Just because you are in a new place, it doesn’t mean that you cannot make the best of it.” His words of comfort put me at ease, and I was suddenly ready. I was unknowingly ready to take on the trials of the world and the walls that the statistics have put up against me. There was a sense of confidence sublimely placed in my mind, by the reassurance I had received. I would be able to take on anything because I was different. I, was Paco.

I sat in my desk; heart full of boundless excitement as I told my parents “I love you too,” while they left the classroom with the guardians of my class mates.

“Hello class. My name is Mrs. Lewis, and as your first teacher, I would like to welcome you to kindergarten!”

I was captivated by the exotic appearance of the woman before me. For I could not recollect the last time that I had seen a white woman in real life. She continued to talk; and I continued to look in awe and astonishment, clinging to every beautiful word she released. For it was okay for me to openly like grown women, they were the lone exception to the he man-closet female-lovers club.

“This is the beginning of the rest of your lives. Soon you’ll be in middle school, and before you know it, you’ll be going to college, and getting jobs so you can help to shape the world of tomorrow. And it is my job to help prepare you. Does anyone know what the word prepare means?”

Eager to show my intelligence and desperate for attention (especially Mrs. Lewis’). I shouted “When you……..uh……..when you get ready for… for a thing you…. you want do!”

She looked with an angelic face that was masked by an assortment of confliction. She was unsure of how to respond; it was the type of uncertainty that a religious parent would have when trying to show compassion towards their child after he or she has completely abandoned their morals. “Very good Michael….” I was beaming with joy when I realized that she knew my name without introduction. (I didn’t pay attention to the name tags that everyone else in the class room was wearing).

“But next time you need to raise your hand and give others a chance to answer. What you did was very impolite.”

And just like that, my exuberant state of being was crushed, in addition to my fragile mind, and my fragile tear ducts. Tears were swelling deep within my eyelids and began to increase with each punch my eyes received from the stares of spectators.

Cornered and out matched, Mrs. Lewis came to my rescue. She asked “Michael, what are you preparing to do when you grow up and change the world.”

I raised my hand timidly, and after her confirmation I said “I wanna’ be a rapper!” Suddenly it seemed it seemed as if the punches I felt before was falling upon me once again. All but three people (my teacher and the other two black kids) either laughed at or judged me. I was confused. A bell rang and Mrs. Lewis lined us up in the order of our last name. I hadn’t yet grasped the concept of alphabetical order, so I just assumed that I was in front because I was the smartest.

When we got to our destination we were told that we were in P.E. After our teachers left us, the boys immediately migrated away from the girls, and we started to converse with one another. Our gym instructor made us play something called the name game. We each had to state our name and tell something about ourselves.

It began slowly, with some kids trying to think of what to say and some kids just not wanting to speak in front of others. But eventually everyone fell in tune and was ready to speak the moment their predecessor uttered their last syllable:                                   

“My name is David. And I like Alabama football.”                                                                         

“My name is Jerry……… And I like Alabama football.”                                            

“”Hi! I’m Steven, but I like Auburn football!”

Some people booed, while others yelled “War Eagle!!!!” That was when I realized that I should pick a football team. But I’d have to find the time for that later. I was faced with a more important issue at the moment. There was one other guy in front of me. I hadn’t talk to him yet because he laughed louder and longer at me that anyone else in class.

It was his turn next; he held his head high and said “My name is Gene Jackson. And I’m named Gene because my daddy says that two of the greatest men to live in Alabama had that name…….. and cause also cause’ I’m gone’ be as great as them one day.” He posed as if someone was painting a portrait or creating a bust or a statue in honor of his greatness, “Your turn brown kid.”

Pleased to find out that Gene did not in fact dislike me after what I thought was a playful acknowledgement, I decided to join the game he initiated. “Sure thing white boy.” I chuckled until it appeared to me that I wasn’t supposed to say that. He stared at me with eyes that stole all the comfort from the bowels of my soul and replaced it with a fear that lurked into the inner most remnants of my brain. I was in a trance.

“Hey kid! It’s your turn.”

“Hi…… my name is Michael. But everyone calls me Paco.” I felt proud of myself. The type of pride that I had when I would receive a compliment for comprehending things that were supposed to be out of my mental grasp.  “No one else here can top my name,” I thought. At least until Gene let out one of the most maniacal laughs that I’ve heard up to this very moment.

His voice was gaudy and shrill, “Paco is such a stupid name! It sounds so black!” He slapped me across my back as he addressed how dumb I must be for having such dumb parents that would give me such a dumb nickname. The strike he laid upon me externally looked identical to that of a celebration between athletes on the same team after a good play at a pivotal moment. But I felt a deep fusion of fear and shame as his five fingertips connected with my shoulder, waiting for the palm to catch up. He continued to laugh and mockingly asked “What’s your name?”

“Michael!” I shouted with cheeks that were as wet as the Atlantic ocean that my ancestors were shipped across.

He hit me again. It felt as if each of his fingerprints where yanking out the things that I was most proud of. My kinky hair, my love for rap music, and my beloved nick name. “I know you got a better name than that.”  This time, the contact his hand made with my back created an earsplitting whipping noise. I can only imagine that it could be likened to that of a bull whip. Or a slave whip.

 “Muh……..muh…my nuh…..name is Alex.” I sniffled, cried, bellowed, and stammered as I made up my new identity. I was a new kid. Far from the individual that I arrived as. There were three boys name Alex in my classroom (not including me). I was an Auburn fan at home, but at school, I was a future Alabama quarterback like most of the other boys that I knew.

That year I got in trouble only four times. Each time I and Gene Jackson were “counterparts”, and although we worked as a team in our bouts of mischief, I was the only one getting in trouble.

I never saw Gene again after kindergarten was over, but for some reason I remained Alex. There was something about it that felt like it would be accepted a lot more among my peers than Paco would. I kept out of trouble and didn’t see a grade below an A until the last week of my 5^th grade year. I ranked within the 90 percentile every year that I took the SAT. I had defied the statistics. Or had I?

As time went on I began to wonder was it really worth me changing my whole identity just to fit in with my peers. I came to this realization when I was weeping my eyes out in the principal’s office one day. I tried my hardest to look at her but my tears created a barricade that screened my clarity in vision. I had been profiled something serious.

What started out as something that I believed to be flirting between me and two of the girls in my classroom got twisted into me being a threat to my whole neighborhood. (Two white girls saw me outside my house one day and came over to talk to me. we chased each other around and after a while they went home. When we got back to school there were messing with me and said that next time they would beat me up. I responded by saying that I would spray them with a water gun and laughed. Somehow it was rumored that I had threatened their lives with two rubber bands, batteries, and my cousin named Pee-Wee.) When in all actuality, I never threatened to harm anyone, and didn’t have a cousin or relative at the time, that I knew as Pee-Wee. But the odds were against me…….again. There was no way that I would be believed even though the allegations about me were totally outrageous. Even though I and everyone else around me called me “Alex,” I was still Paco in their minds, and most of them did not even know of the name Paco. I would never be able to be them; no matter how much I wanted to. I could change my name, speech, the style of my hair, choice of clothing, and love for rap music 100 ways to Sunday afternoon. But on Monday morning, I would be Paco.

It was when I then realized that I had lost myself. I had allowed myself to become victim to the very thing that I prided myself on not being. I had overcome the hindrances that the statistics put in front of me; but I hadn’t done it as myself. Not as Paco. I decided that day to never allow myself to fall victim to what others tried to make me be, no matter how much I wanted their companionship. I will be Paco, nothing more, nothing less. But there was and only one problem with this desire; I was and still am unsure exactly who Paco is. And in the grand scheme of things, I had become the casualty to most of the statistics that I thought I had overcome. By losing myself, I had in fact become a prisoner. At one point in time I was a captive, a slave if you will to the will and desires of others. And once I became free from the chains of conformity, I became a convict within the confines of my own confusion and desire to find myself. It seemed as if I had mastered every subject of every standardized test known to man at one point in time, but I failed in my ability to master my emotions and with that I have failed many of the ordeals that life has thrown my way. I made it to high school, but to what avail? I have the highest diploma that my state has to offer, but even that won’t create an escape from the turmoil that I now face.

I believe that inner peace is the real key to success at any level, the ability that one has to be comfortable in not only the decisions they make, but in themselves too. Maybe I’ll be able to obtain the gall to believe in myself and my choices as I once did, and in turn I’ll regain the inner peace that I had as a child, the feeling of bliss and serenity I had before I knew of the world and its evils. The feeling I had when I was Paco.

Man I promise

I’mso self conscience  

That’s why I gotta get drunk before I got to a party

Cause when a nigga sober

I be thinkin shit over

Girls would motion me to come over

But I be too shy to approach em’

Yet drunk me is an asshole

Who rambles and babbles

Sweet nothings to a big girl

While kissin’ on her earlobe

“Hey baby girl. Let a nigga rock you world. Lemme lick them lips below yo hips until yo toes began to curl. Come back home wit me. Lemme love u til u sleep. And awake u in the morning with some toast and grits with cheese. And I promise that I’ll text u, or send u a couple DM’s. Nd i might walk with u in public but thats only in the PM. Cause to be honest Im that nigga when I’m sippin on this liquor And u just another number in a plethora of bitches. “And I can have whoever I like…..” Thats right…so u prolly gone get left if yo decision aint that right…cause honestly u aint that bad…Im too good to even chat with u. So u better bend that back while im at the back of u, if u want me to get back wit u…”

And as I dance with a girl drenched in sweat

That I really dont respect 

With her extensions on the floor

And my palm upon her neck

My niggas chant my name

Nd I let my ego influence me

That Im really bout something as I partake in this foolery…….

I wake up to shame the next morning 

Unsure how I got to bed

As I lie

I promise God that I wont do that shit again

But we both know that Im lying

As I utter my amen

Nd hit my niggas up on twitter to plan the same shit all again.

As a man it is only natural….instinct if you will, that I try to relate with my peers when we sit around and have round table conversations about the different females we deal with and the situations we find ourselves in. As I sit in admiration I feel like an outsider most time for the simple fact that that shit really ain’t me….because when push comes to shove…I’m an emotional ass dude. Yeah I retweet shit like “We don’t love these hoes,” or occasionally chant “Fuck these hoes then duck these hoes;” but in reality I’m a “Fallin-In-Love-Ass-Nigga.” I love love. I love the thought of love. I love the thought of being in love. No diss to all of my boys who live the lifestyle of the promiscuous and carefree, because a part of me wanted that…I just never could fathom the thought of being involved with more than one girl after a certain point. I want the type of shit Lifetime makes movies about….some old “Notebook-Die-With-Ya-Lady-By-Ya-Side” type shit. With all that said I wrote a letter to my future wife….whoever she may be (Jill Scott, Elle Varner, Solange or Oprah after I get her pregnant). Im also sleepy as shit so…..yeah this prolly wont be off the wall or nuthing.

To My Dearst Wife,

I want to thank you. Thank you for being the type of woman who is willing to put up with a nigga like myself. Thank you for being the mother of my unborn children, for teaching our daughter to be as graceful and lovely as you, while showing my son the compassion that only a woman can posses when I refuse to show sympathy. I can only pray that I show you how much you mean to me….until the end of my days…

This is one of the first pieces I ever wrote when I was around 15 years old, and it highights how I felt as a black man trying to better myself. Enjoy,

A compellation of other shadows creates the darkness around me.

And there’s only one thing that could ever be a boundry,

For the ignorance and excellence of the darknes that surrounds me.

Some shadows call it the light,

Some call it white,

Some shadows see it as evil and some the only right,

That a shadow like them, or a shadow like me,

Is ever gone see!!!

Some shadows view it as a beast,

While in the mean time it’s what other shadows strive to be.

Why I gotta be a shadow??

How vome I can’t be me????

I’m encaged in darkness, but I don’t wanna leave.

I’m scared of what that bright light might make out of me!!!

If I leave and come back,

Will outshine the others???

If I come back brighter,

Am I still their brother?

So I often ask my self,

Which path is right??

Do i stay in the remnants of the dark,

Or venture out into the light???

I know shadows who left, and came back…..like other shadows expected,

But they indulged in the light…. so in darknes they are never really accepted.

I know shadows who left, and came back…..like other shadows expected,

And while they despise thier time in the light……… they’re partially rejected.

Some shadows sneakout…… in hopes of never being detected.

But when they return

They soon learn

Of how other shadows expected…….

Them to come back into darkness,

And in return they’re neglected.

But this shadow has a theory,

I think I just might!!

I think I’m viewed in the darkness of other shadows…….

So they can’t see no light!!!!!!!

And I can’t explain my story,

Cause in the light, I’m only a shadow…..

So they ain’t ever gone see no right!!!!!!

And I think them other shadows couldn’t be mo’ right,

They told me,

“NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO…. YOU AIN’T EVA GONE BE NO LIGHT!!!!”

But can a light, or a shadow, solve me this riddle?

Is there a place where the shadows and the lights can sonverse in the middle???

No??????

So now I got me a group of shadows,

And we’ about to take action,

They can brighten up the “darkness,” but they can’t take our passion!!!

We gone storm into the light in such a dilligent fashion!!!!

They gone see the light dimmer, and then question

“What happened?”

And I’ll head back to the the darkness,

Just me and my crew,

And shout, “Look!!! Look at the path we’ve recreated for you!!!!”

And venture into the second path me and my shadows have created,

While the pioneers before us will shout,

“Happy Belated!!!!”

Congrats young shadows we’re glad that you’ve made it.

You’ve awaken us from the night mare of a dream that has faded……

But be sure to share with others what they need to do to save it……..

Cause history is a cycle,

So other shadows will destroy it just as quick as you’ve made it………….

So I find my self asking….

Why???

Why do I even try???

Cause I was born in the darkness………………………………..

And that’s where I’ll die.

“Give me your tired, your poor,
 Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

These are the words inscribed in the bowels of the foundation of the iconic Statue of Liberty, the very same work of art that serves as one of the most vivid symbols of patriotism in the history of the United States of America.  Immigrants that sailed to Ellis Island in New York in the 20^th century were graced with the opportunity to see a torch burning over the horizon while slowly watching the Statue reveal herself and all her glory to the virgin eyes of those who were parting waters to make it to the “Promise Land.” Yet many of them were met with opposition by the sons and grandsons of America because a land of so much promise was reserved only for those who were of the “Founding Fathers,” (who were also immigrants for those who learned history in public school like me). But even with my limited amount of knowledge in history, I can tell you that America was less than receiving of the “poor and huddle masses,” and as a young black man, I’m aware of the strife that those who were considered less than “American” had to endure. With that said, I don’t know whether to be more concerned or disgusted with the current views in regards to Mexican Immigration by Americans, especially those of the mass majority of African Americans.

          From Conservative radio shows, to Urban barbershops, the topic of  “Illegal” immigration is a mainstay of conversation, and some of the sentiments that are shared by the two are absolutely revolting. “Make em’ work for free then send them away to spicsville….I wonder when hunting season opens by the border, because I’ve done killed enough deer this year.” Those are examples of the comments that I hear on conservative radio almost every single morning that I try to leave the house and get to work before getting profiled and harassed by the police. While I sit and hear family members and those I once called friends utter statements like “Lets just get an electrical fence and put it up so they can’t get in alive,” or “Man…..a Mexican ain’t nuthin but a sand nigga.” These are actual phrases that black people recite in conversations; in support of being the top minority. Not being the best person that they can be, just better than any Mexican (which includes ANY one of Latin or Hispanic decent because “They all look alike.”)

          I don’t believe that all Republicans or Conservatives are extremist and racist like the drunk idiots that phone into morning shows, but the comments and the overwhelming number of instances that they go uncondemned doesn’t surprise me either. Although, the sudden wave of amnesia that blacks generally have about the principles of equality and who are entitled to them is alarming. Many of us act as if it wasn’t just a half century ago that we were sitting on the back of the bus, eating at the back of restaurants (if we could get in at all), and getting sprayed by a fire hose just to be considered a second rate citizen. Fifty years later, we treat Hispanics like our ancestors were treated; lesser than equal. As if the dream the Dr Martin Luther King Jr. had was entitled exclusively to blacks, in the same light that the framers of the Constitution didn’t mean that every man was equal, just white ones with land (there’s that public school education hard at work again). All kidding about the lack of quality in American public schools aside, there is no plausible reason for us [Americans] black or white to show the sense of superiority and entitlement that we do.

As a relative of Alabama I must honestly say that I support some of the ideas in our new immigration law, but there is not one moral bone in my body that condones the problems that they have the potential to create. For the most part, many cops won’t stop  and harass a person for the color of their skin, but it has happen before, and it will happen again. This law will just serve as an excuse for those who wish to harass minorities without punishment. Even in public schools we were taught that learning History is vital because we don’t want to repeat the same mistakes that we have once made, so most Americans should be concerned of how they are treating those of Hispanic decent. Especially since Arizona was taken from Mexico and the relatives of the Indians that lived in Alabama mostly reside on a hell hole of a reservation in Spokane, Washington. I guess my public schooling is good for something after all.