18 Til I Die

Blindly she chooses her path with an understanding that everything happens for a reason, and every flip of a quarter reflects every second that ticks that mirrors every passing moment.

But someone dared her to give a fuck. Someone dared her to care, to share herself with the world and with that, she's gone. Disappeared into the atmosphere. If she is to share herself, Earth was the bottom of the pile so the only location was above the petty frustration.

But her actions are not reflective of her behavior. She's coming back...when she's good and ready. You see, under achieving is her forte, her modus operandi, how she rolls. And it upsets those around her off to no end because history shows that underachievers are given all the attention. Although that's not her intention, she can read aggression written across the foreheads of those same silent onlookers.

The silence in the room is deafening, enough to fill the Grand Canuon many times over. And taking the seat against the back wall makes looking over her shoulder difficult, almost impossible. But she does it anyway. Instincts take over when yo're asked to fight or flee. Lucky for everyone around she's a fighter...on her own time. Pick and choose your battles wisely.

This definitely is not a battle she needs to fight, she tells herself. She doesn't need it, she doesn't feel it.

"She said the game's got your heart, the streets have got her soul..."

And for some odd reason, the past and her brain are in this battle of 'tenant and landlord', because someone is late with the rent check and after being evicted, has yet to leave the premisis.

The thing with trying to hide the past, suppress history is that learning from it becomes that much harder. Resentment sets, and that pounding in her chest is amplified and before she knows it, she's on her feet running again. Just like when she was a child. Young and reckless but scared and careful.

There is no relief in sight. Words don't relieve, people don't believe, societal standards deceive, no one can take the heat. Just breathe in, hold, now exhale. It's all gone now, and she's alone. Back to the beginning because winning is overrated, and she's never one to finish too soon. Her only hope each morning? To live and see the moon. Then it starts all over again.

state of mind july one-o

I learned how to recognize my triggers, idiosyncrasies I must control in order to remain the bigger person.

As a child, I dealt with being teased for my light skin, thrusting myself into a life of thick-skinned defensive remarks and fist fights in city parks. I got over it. I've come to terms with my triggers.

When it came to triggers, I was what most rappers claim to be on their records: fast, unforgiving, and unrelenting.

In my everyday life, I am happy to say that I have control of my triggers...


...for the most part. People ask me, "Jose, when you gonna be done with school? What's up with that degree? I thought you were smart?"

Oh shit (read: a trigger is about to be squeezed).

I draw my brain from its holster so fast John Wayne would be jealous, and inform the person asking me that I"ll be done with I'm good and ready to be done.

When am I going to be done? When the university I attend issues me the most expensive piece of paper an SANE person could ever justify purchasing. 128 course credits later I will still have a dream and more questions to ask. I'll be done with college when the education is worth getting because I can say I learned something and not because it's "the thing to do". I don't need loans that amount into the tens of thousands to occupy my time with hard-heads, dimwits and self-proclaimed geniuses.

The irony of this question is that I find it leaving the mouths of people who:
A. never went to college or,
B. have a degree but live lives that they are unhappy and unsettled in.

As Americans, we have a love affair with statistics. You're either one or the other, and we have to know which one we fall in.

Statistics on rising violence? We need to see change. Homelessness on the rise? We need to see change. Upset with the inflating gas price? We need to see change. Are you willing to change your life? Man, you MUST be deranged...

I know someone who works in an iron mill and has a degree from a prestigious university. The university system has done a great job at selling false hopes and dreams. They oerce you into debt and cut you at your knees.

So when am I gonna be done?
Obviously when I get my degree.
But I could give a fuck about 'making dollars' when it is 'making change' I want to see.

Dislike

I don't like poetry all that much.

It seems like everyone has something simple to say but exaggerates their experiences for expressionistic gain. Talking about summertime loves come and gone are like seasons that change and I can't make sense of it all.

I'm stuck wondering to and for what we are called.

They tell me, “Jose, poetry is what you make of it. It's one of the few avenues of free speech that we have left and you're criticizing it?”

Yes.

I criticize for the exact same reason people talk of world peace, revolution, change: because I can. Maybe I'll spark change within this instrument of inspiration by following one of the steps to writing a political poem minus the politics.

What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for? What are we called for?

And repeat this question over and over until it causes someone's cellphone to ring only to discover that the person on the other end had dialed a wrong number.

As a writer, what am I called for? Purpose. It's a concept that we all walk with in life, hand in hand, sometimes never recognizing it. The stories we weave with our spindle of words and expressions are great but, what are we called for at the end of the day?

Nothing has changed. I still don't like poetry. But the appreciation I have for those involved is immense. So I hope we can change and make sense of this mess.

Man of principles

There comes a time in every person's life where things start to make a little more sense to live by. You know, fighting the injustices of this world makes a little more sense than just talking about how messed up the world is. I have decided that this life may bless me with the opportunity to have children, and if I am to be a great father, then I definitely need to be a man of principle. Beyond claiming to be one, I need to do so in action. I need to live it.

So FUCK NIKE AND THEIR SWEATSHOP WAYS. I work with high school kids, and not that they didn't have a legitimate point, but what's the difference between a Nike sweatshop and an adidas sweatshop? My answer was the size (I needed to say something, y'all!) of the sweatshop and how long it has been in operation with said company. I understand that there are battles worth fighting for, and sometimes the battles we take up against one enemy only benefit other enemies we may encounter in the future. But that's a risk I'm willing to take. I am a preserver of excellence and a fighter of the good fight.

Let's keep it real.

Peace and Bless.

Looks can be deceiving

Looks can be deceiving, and all that you see is a stereotype through the light skin, good English, and different persona.

"Ay, miralo. pinche gringo."

And God forbid my English is almost flawless, speaking with an enunciation that leaves even Caucasians dumbfounded. No more, "Ay, where yous going?" or "For reals!" or "I burly got here 10 minutes ago." Oh no, not me. I fit your stereotype perfectly. So much that in the states of Illinois and Indiana latinos gave me my own store!
"...en el supermercado el guero!"

I'm in love with stares of silent judgment and the Spanish or English comments spoken under one's breath. And yet for the first time in my life, the one thing I've fought so hard I found myself wishing for: to be treated the same, like all the rest.

I just couldn't see it...was I blind? I mean, I just couldn't see nor understand why people wouldn't consider it a blessing to be colorBLIND. I got this checklist, listed characteristics by which I think I could be identified; I got the dark-haired bald head, I've got the brown/hazel eyes, and yeah my skin is light...but the question is why?

I bet the answer lies in the fact that we so often identify each other by the letters on our chest, or the marked symbols on our feet, and even the ladies marked right across your jogging pants ass cheeks!!!

And there were days I found myself hoping a teacher or professor wouldn't ask me if I was mixed. Damn. Could they see I was raised on $1 elotes and 50cent raspas? Hand-me-down clothes and sneakers and my uncle’s old chanclas? Couldn’t they feel the paisa in me, waiting to burst out???
"...y volver volver...!VOLVER!"

But mariachi music never made me darker or tough. Not even Dickies, a dego-tee and a collared shirt with only the top button up along with fat-laced Nike Cortez or Converse Chucks and hanging on the corner selling dimes for a buck or getting and giving ass-whoopins' and escaping the cops by luck...BUT the life that the movie "Blood In, Blood Out" was glorifying, I realized on second thought, really fucking sucked!

So why is my skin light? Mi abuela dijo que si le preguntas a Dios, allí hay una respuesta. Pero he esperado veintiún años y todavía nada regresa. God obviously has a sense of humor because physically flawless women are attracted to the guy who's personality is "cuter" and mean people spread rumors at inopportune times and yet amongst it all I say the same line over and over...Why is my skin light? Am I the first one it's taken over?

Or maybe...I'm just boring and egotistical whose concern with my light skin I've blown up when in reality the issue is quite miniscule and my goal in this was to send a message and I know my approach might be too aggressive and I'm tired of words, always looking for ways to create...and that's great, but trying to be a poet has caused me to lose my directive...which is finding an answer to the question:
WHY THE HELL IS MY SKIN SO DAMN LIGHT?!?!?!

You know, it almost brainwashed me, my skin. At the age of 4, while living in LA, I proclaimed there was no way in HELL I could be Mexican! God's sense of humor back at work again. But through the years I was shown my people's history through the revolutions of Villa, Guevara, Zapata y Chavez. And I was taught to love through the words of Ramon Ayala, Pedro Infante, y Vicente Fernandez. Celia fed me "Azucar!" and taught my feet to move, but those close to me know I still got a lot to learn, show, and prove. Tito never said a word yet always put me in the groove and Santana set the mood right when you wanted to chill and not move.

The light skin is a culture, a way of life, an imprint on the people who live by it, who live with it; who just LIVE it. And you can't blame Ferdinand or Isabella, or Columbus for the light skin. Hell, look at me! I think I came out pretty damn okay...maybe a little better than okay, but okay for the most part. And if history teaches us anything it is that when we choose not to learn from her, we are doomed to repeat her. So the next time you see someone with light skin, brown skin, rich skin, poor-down-and-out skin, treat them the way you would tu madre, tu padre, tus primos, tias y tios. Por que el color de nuestra piel hace nuestro juicio. Si aprendemos de la historia, vemos que nosotros no somos, y nunca fuimos una minoría. We popularized lowriders, nurturing one of the most dominant cultures in the states, worshipping our women as queens even if the only way we show it is by calling you "Vieja!" or calling you drunk and proclaiming our love for you, or when you ask us if we love you, we answer with, “Hey, where am I going?! You drove, didn’t you? Where am I going?!”...well, you understand what I mean...

In the end, I guess I may have not found an answer as to why my skin is light that is truly concrete, but I do have a greater appreciation for what lies underneath...and as for that age-old taboo about wearing white before Labor Day, or after Labor Day, well, fuck it...







...I wear white all year round...

The "roots"

They are the “basic cause, source, or origin or something”…or…”the essential substance or nature of something”. Roots. The one thing that we trace back to some country or ethnicity but never fully understand that OUR roots go beyond the bark, fallen leaves, and a family tree’s extended branches. When I wasn’t dark enough to be “brown and proud” like the poser cholos in my neighborhood and my mother’s hugs and kisses were no longer enough help, it felt like I had accepted society turning me white.

It was then that I no longer cared about the tree in our family…I cut that bitch down, and began to dig for the roots. My roots. Years into digging I realized that these roots intersected with interesting areas of life like society, the educational system, hip-hop, the city of Chicago, and my family and faith. These are my roots. It wasn’t just looking at Columbus or Cortés, Ferdinand and Isabella, or even Moctezuma or Itzamná. They went deeper. So I began to feel for these roots…touch them…hold them in my hands and allow the pulse that rang through them to tell me their story…

I called my mother this morning to tell her that I loved her, and to give a friendly reminder that the biggest pain in her ass was doing everything in his power to make her proud; to prove his worth. She raised me to say “I love you” when the sun rose and when the sun set because she taught me that all we were given was the moment in which we existed, so make the most of it. Single mother raising three kids, putting in overtime so we could do more than just live, sent us to Catholic school and church every Sunday to reinforce the teachings of God, but how was I supposed to believe that good was everywhere when life on the Southside of Chicago was so damn hard? Faith and family go hand-in-hand where I’m from…and slowly I began to comprehend that it never mattered if you praised the name of Jesus or Allah in the end. My mother raised me on love unconditional and with characteristics and qualities to be a man.

School could have been easy for me but it goes without saying that I was a “gifted student who chose NOT to live up to his full potential”. It was hard to concentrate on algebraic formulas, history projects, English material. There’s a good chance that I became a class clown simply because it meant I was left alone. If I was lucky, it meant respect from the people who surrounded but not those who mattered. That was until those who mattered gave me a Renaissance Man Award...and I didn’t understand the significance of being compared to great people like Leonardo da Vinci until I realized I was being recognized for having more than one talent. A dreamer who wasn’t afraid to dream the big dream finally had the backing of teachers and friends…a truly great support team.

As a kid, I had an itch for the “make music with your mouth” biz. Chicago gave me Common Sense, but you could easily catch Tupac and B.I.G. in my cassette player. At 14 I had no real understanding of hip-hop as a worldwide culture. I never recognized breakdancing making me a B-Boy, or graffiti making me a Writer, or penning rhymes making me an Emcee. Without any awareness, these “hobbies” were connecting me to more people than I had ever imagined, and at the same time breaking down segregation walls that separated so many people who were meant to form another kind of “family”. Yes, family. Because just as faith, society, neighborhoods and ethnicities have history and roots, hip-hop had a hand in shaping the man that stands before you. You see, life is not meant to be easy because living is a constant test. The struggle with sleeping and waking a new day, not knowing if you’ll have to suffer, so most would rather stay in bed.

“Grow older, grow in wisom, grow to love people of any color, grow to feel safe in having faith, grow to question, grow to smile, grow to care for others, see the world, grow in the moment here, be scared to grow but never show anyone your fear, you’ll grow to be more rich in life and your touch on the world will grow deeper.” These are words that, at one time my friend who is now dead, once said. So I find my roots and wealth in the events that take place in my life between every sunrise and every sunset.

Random bits of writing discovered when the cleaning bug set in.

Keep in mind, these are in no way connected. They are separate thoughts that were written on the same night sitting in Mocha Cafe in Milwaukee.

1. She bit her tongue and upon the point of pain realized why talking and chewing don't go together; making no sense brings more than physical pain of the oral region. I guess now she needs no reason to chew with her mouth open...she's smarter that way...just keep eating quietly.

2. Regret pays the mortgage here, and no plans to rent out to anyone...you can't struggle with money when you're in the business of emotions, and controlling them leaves Regret gratified and leaves us empty.

3. Seldom seen without solace in accompaniment, a person is hit with enlightenment and realizes that leaders are killed, not created. And followers are persuaded, not taught. So continues the battle of one person fighting him or herself for righteousness within.

Patience

The last thing I want to do is wait for something that I know goddamn well isn't coming to me.

It just isn't all that appealing to me. And trying to convince me otherwise with that age-old say, "Patience is a virtue", sorry but that just won't fly today. Or ever, so save your precious energy and breath for something else...like staying alive. Or save it for someone else.

You see I do not even like punctuation I think we should do away with periods commas semicolons exclamation AND question marks I do not see their purpose when sentences have somewhere to get like people do there is no sense in putting a speed bumb in the way of drivers on the fast track of life so grab a tissue and wipe your tears because I am burying punctuation in the same grace as my patience

...wait, what am I saying? Every day I wait for that same letter to come in the mail that's going to change my life. Everyday I check my email hoping for a job response from sending out all those resumes. Every day that finds me walking or skating I hope to find a $20 bill in the street. Every day I am hoping that you meet me. Every day, for 21 years...7,665 days...183,690 hours...11,037,600 minutes...662,256,000 seconds!

I waited. Shit, now THAT is patience.

Mandela waited ten unrightfully imprisoned years for the freedom he and his people deserved. "The Unknown Rebel of Tiananmen" forced mountains to halt at his disregard for injustice. Jesus is still waiting for us to follow Spike Lee's advice and, "Do The Right Thing".

Hope, I am often told, is a beautiful thing.

And I'll pay for hope so that I can enjoy patience now. Just make sure I get that super-large package of patience...you know, the kind they sell at sam's club. Waiting for someone like you might take a lifetime...or maybe a few drinks but hey, I'm stocked up on patience. Just let me know when you're done pulling the strings of my hope.

Because patience is a virtue, and hope ain't free. And I'll wait another 21 years for you to meet me.