tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56321998947802689392024-02-20T05:45:35.379-08:00chase your blissToussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.comBlogger124125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-78405790608808896762017-04-12T16:21:00.002-07:002017-04-12T16:21:58.925-07:00Sitting Between Paul Carter Harrison & Woodie King Jr.<div class="MsoNormal">
Although I researched the festival online, and looked into
the staff at Hattiloo, there was nothing that could prepare me in regard to the
people I would experience over the course of a swift 72 hours in town as a
performing artist for the inaugural National Black Box Performing Arts Festival
in Memphis, TN. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Several luncheons into the festival, I had wrapped up my
second show and found myself in a room full of HBCU students and older black
folks at Central BBQ just before we headed over to the National Civil Rights
Museum to catch Antonio Lyons’ one-man show. Pinned between a gentleman wearing
a paperboy cap and silver-maned bloke both as dark as my dad, I went in on the
BBQ with the voracity of a starved musician… as I was. The silver-maned bloke spoke
to the woman next to him, opposite of me, about Panama. I interrupted with,
“Just watched Hands of Stone- y’know the movie about Roberto Durand”. The
silver-maned bloke stared at me for a second and nodded...<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He went back to whatever conversation he was having with the
woman next to him. I recoiled, reset, and checked just how much clout I had to
lose in this affair (which was exactly none). If anything, I had negative
clout, I meant little to nothing to these people and could only gain (or work
my way back to zero) in this room. Aye, I wouldn’t be boxed out of this man’s
world, and persisted with the Roberto Durand reference- seeing it’s the only in
I currently had upon the conversation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He gave in, we discussed the 5 youth that were shot &
killed during a protest outside of the U.S. Embassy in Panama, then onto the
question a few others had already asked once they heard I was from Minneapolis-
“Oh, you know Lou then?” <i>Lou Bellamy, the
former Artistic Director, of Penumbra Theatre in Saint Paul, MN was inescapable
even though he wasn’t anywhere near the zipcode. </i>“Yeah, Lou!” I responded,
even though it had been damn near 10 years since I’ve spoke to the guy.<i> I might’ve burned that bridge with the
Black Actor, White Theatre article I posted a year ago, then again only 3 folks
read this blog, so probably not.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before knowing someone, their accolades and falls, or even
their name, you get a presence about them. The silver-haired bloke emitted this
energy of having literally dealt with and seen it all, and being entirely ok
with it. If he were in the Marvel Universe, I’d have him pegged as the Watcher
or one of the deceased Black Panthers that walks the astral plane. He’s here,
he’s created a mass of art & action, and now he observes… to what I’ve
briefly gotten from his demeanor from the 30 minutes we sat next to each other.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He explained his retirement to Panama, having once lived in
New York as a director, and that was all we really expounded upon- Mostly
Panama, which seemed to be the most exciting part, and was also the present
tense of his life. I couldn’t get a read on how old this man was. He could be
70, he could be 80, dear lord not 90. Alas, he was somewhere in the winter of
longevity and bucking it quite well. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our dinner wrapped up, the silver-maned bloke called over to
the gentleman with the paperboy cap now sitting a few seats away from me.
“Woody!” he called, and then said something along the lines of their
familiarity betwixt each other. I had taken up enough of this man’s time and it
was upon the crowd to go watch Antonio Lyons’ one-man show at the National
Civil Rights Museum. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, you goin’ to the show at the museum?” I asked him, on
my way out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m going to get a ride back to my hotel. And then I’m
going to <u>bed</u>.” He said powerfully with emphasis on the “bed”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d taken it this man was tired and had perhaps seen enough theatre
for several lifetimes. I, on the other hand, have not. I got a quick picture
with him and bumped on down the road to Antonio’s show. Little did I know the
man I had been speaking to the whole time was Paul Carter Harrison, legendary playwright, professor to Phylicia Rashad and Debbie Allen, and much more. And
the gentleman with the paperboy cap was Woodie King Jr, founder & director of the legendary New Federal Theatre in NYC. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I may never get
another moment like that again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, if I’m lucky, I’ll live to see 90 and
have some good-looking young artist try and start a conversation with me about
a movie I haven’t seen yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-48229326510915041382017-03-05T12:21:00.000-08:002017-03-05T12:21:13.579-08:00Flight of the Para: Young Boris & The Medallion<div class="MsoNormal">
I am going to write of the first grader Young Boris before I
introduce Honeybrook’s first grade class. The temperament of the Honeybrook
First Grade populous is a story unto itself, filled with the intricacies of a
moving car’s engine or Infinity Gauntlet saga. Characters and pivotal role
players sprint the narrative of the first graders’ present legacy, bending the will
of the school building into a multitude of stories. No other grade in
Honeybrook wields the power to do this. The first graders alone are the only
students that can manipulate the school’s direction from straight to cyclical,
and more powerfully while the older 4 grades above them commit to a singular
story, the first graders have mastered the art of directing multiple stories
all at once. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On this particular Tuesday, the paras and I decided to throw
a medallion hunt for each grade during recess. We hid the medallion in five
different places, and read them a clue at lunch before they went out hunting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Young Boris sat at a table with a red cup atop it. The red cup
means your table is last to go out to recess, indicating some means of
punishment or restrain applied to the students. From simple observation, you
can see the public shaming of the red cup in the joints and gestures of the
students that actually apply meaning to it, and then there are the others. The
students that look at the red cup with the same stare they would give a green
cup, the good cup. The color of the cup, the depth of the punishment, the weight
and tone of an adult’s voice moves them none. They are the brightest, most intelligent
students in the building as they have mastered the observation of emotion, and are
able to bend even the strongest will of a teacher with a sleight of hand and misdirection.
Young Boris, no stranger to observation of emotion, gave negative f---- for the
red cup, and ate his lunch contently.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Upon reading the first clue for the medallion, I noticed
Young Boris’ eyes light up with the subtlety of switchblade being drawn in the dark.
My surface attention only noticed it for a moment, and thought nothing of it.
<i>Perhaps, a jolt of competitive spirit overtook him, or maybe he was putting on
for the rest of the table. Aye, it was neither. Looking back on it now, Young
Boris’ eyes had lit with the blueprint of his plan to break recess. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recess had begun, the first graders bolted to the field,
then the playground, then the blacktop, then to the hill in urgent search of
the medallion. If found, the student would receive a prize from the carnival
and a small prize for their entire home classroom. Ms. L and I stood on the black
top where we maintained a view of the entire recess sprawl. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The erratic speed and direction of the search groups spun
off like bats swirling amongst trees. Again, the first grade is a plethora of
individuals all following their own narrative, and shooting from the hip
whenever they feel like it. Time, space, gravity- the first graders laughed at
these concepts. Suddenly, the speed and direction stopped. It was as if someone
had freeze tagged the entire grade and left them standing. Young Boris walked
from the playground to the hill. “Sweet Baby Josiah, what did he do?” I thought
to myself. As an adult, my ego immediately shouted “Hey, he can’t do that”, and
then the rest of me answered, “Hell yes he can, and we will grab popcorn and
watch”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Young Boris ascended the hill, now running with perfect
form, and on his command, jilted the entire (all 100+) first grade student body
to chase him up the hill. The first graders formed like a disorganized Voltron
and swarmed toward him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The kids lacking cardio fell first. Their inability to keep
up with every single student in the first grade class, taking nothing away from
them, easily separated them from the herd. The quicker students now reached the
top of the hill only to find Young Boris making a dash for the smaller hill.
Screams of excitement and “He’s got the medallion!!!” streamed through the cold
air. Young Boris, now descending the small hill toward the blacktop, was in
full stride until… he slowed and was caught.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The grade surrounded him to what looked almost to be a
soap-box sermon gone wrong. Ms. L walked toward the commotion, as I stay
standing on the blacktop wondering just what the hell happened. <i>Did he have the medallion? All the other
students that found the medallion, just brought it to us paras. Why would he
take it and run?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Questions of logic could not be applied to Young Boris. He
was several dance moves ahead of even the choreographers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Young Boris broke away. The grade, now in hot pursuit once
again, was lead to the field and then back to the playground. Several students,
who had now given up, came to me exclaiming, “Boris has the medallion! He won’t
tell us where it is!” Dear lord, he’s broken the game. Young Boris didn’t have
the medallion, he had an appetite for entertainment and he damn sure took his
fill. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The free time soon expired, and the grade retired to the
building. After watching all the other grades glom together in organized search
parties and find the medallion, Young Boris had no interest in the game
provided. He desired breaking the game and watching the grade and staff dance
at his will.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>That</u> is the kind of kid who will change things.
Although, there is massive potential in each student, Young Boris possesses a
creative mind hovering just above all of us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Arriving for literacy and classroom support, an episode of
The Magic School Bus played on a white screen in Ms. Zelda’s classroom. It was
snack time, usually the time I check in with a few students and talk about
dogs, what we ate for breakfast, and favorite colors. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pulling up a seat next to Young Boris in the dimly lit room to
avert the students’ gaze toward Ms. Frizzle playing on the wall, he kept his
eyes forward paying no attention to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know why I did that?” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t even know what you did?” I sarcastically replied. <i>I don’t usually hand out sarcasm to 6 and 7
year-olds, however Young Boris is an exception… because he gets it.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I told everyone I had the medallion, but I didn’t.
Honestly, I just wanted to get a work out and have them chase me while I did
it.” He continued.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well then, Boris. You definitely got a good workout in” I
agreed with him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Got a great workout” He one upped. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hot skittles, this kid belongs in Xavier’s school for the
gifted. We’re gonna have to raise our game if we’re to operate anywhere near
this kid’s level.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-75438495857741684242017-03-01T17:31:00.002-08:002017-03-01T17:32:37.720-08:00Flight of The Para: An Inconvenient Return<div class="MsoNormal">
All school names, student names and city names have been
changed for privacy and anonymity. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last I was here, Mel and I were confined to a room within a
room, a 3-walled cove of sorts that rested right between the resource room and Room
100. <i>Every school has a Room 100, it’s
where you take a timeout, detention, timed punishment, or all 3. The teachers
can phrase the reasoning however they want, and it doesn’t fool the students.</i>
At that particular juncture, Mel wasn’t a fan of anyone. He wanted out of
Humbolt Middle School and to go back to the old middle school he was originally
placed in, Armstrong. I, a paraprofessional, had little to no power over where
Mel took his education. My position is simple, please the teachers, support the
students. If it comes down to one or the other, I side with the student.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, entering a new school for a new adventure, I couldn’t
shake the imagery of Humbolt, the 3-walled cove, and Mel. With each step I took
toward this new school- this entirely different scenario I’ve never worked
before, I flashed back…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The resource room hosted a dozen or less students, all
ranging in a gradient of behavioral issues, mental illness, and histories of
potential violence. Most the white students in the resource room had autism and
were there for extra support and help. One white student exhibited behavioral
problems, and that was it. Every black student in the resource room was there
for behavioral reasons. 95% of the staff was white, so you can apply the reasoning
to the resource room. Mel’s skin was a shade darker than my own, his hair
texturized to tight curls, and his eyes brown like mine. Had it been up to me,
I’d flip the resource room into a black leadership space, and turn the entire
program inside out. Outside of my reach, I focused on what I could control: The
relationship between the black students and the immediate world surrounding
them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mel, fiercely screamed during this particular episode. It
was like no other tantrum I’d seen him throw. It was a moment that little
reflected Mel, and more so the resource room. The program had failed this young
black boy, and he was shouldering the frustration. Ms. Finley, the lead teacher
of the resource room, assigned me to Mel until he cooled out. Alas, there was
no cooling down for Mel. The tantrum persisted, the screaming continued… and
then… the tears. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t bother applying reason to him his ears in a moment
where reason wouldn’t be had, so I simply blocked the opening to the room until
he dealt with the reality of where he was at. Inversely, I’d collide with my
own reality as well. As he tears rolled from his eyes, he breathed deeply. He was
exhausted, and lost his breath from screaming so intensely. In that, he left an
opening, and I stepped through it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sitting next to him, we both leaned against the wall. “I
want to go back to Armstrong…” he murmured in defeat. “I know, but we’re not
there. I need you to breathe, control your body, and show that to Ms. Finley.
If she doesn’t see that you can do that, we’re stuck here for the day.” The
thought of controlling his body was one thing, but to display it to a white
authority figure in the next room was another. He looked away and gasped at an arrhythmic
pace, slowly gathering sense. Piecing his consciousness back together, he
acquiesced, looked down to his lap. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right there, it hit me. I was in the foxhole with this young
boy, as we both struggled to make sense of a program condemning people of color
to rooms to control themselves. Humbolt meant to claim his body. Tears welled
up in my eyes, and began to roll. Mel’s head still perched downward looking
into his lap. “My middle school was called Windom. It was a good school, but…
the detention room always had faces that looked like yours and mine. Dudn’t
that seem weird to you?” I said to him, riding a streamline of clarity and
conscious. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah” he murmured through his tears.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I want you to get out of here. This room ain’t a place for
any young person. You just… you just can’t let them put you back in here, y’know.
We gotta figure out a way to not come back here. Ok?” I said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ok” he whispered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our chests heaved, I wiped my face, and took note that our
breathing had synced up in some weird way. I couldn’t tell Ms. Finley what I
told Mel, it’d be my job. However, in a moment of truth, I wouldn’t lie to Mel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mel and I walked back into the resource room, settled the
difference with Ms. Finley, displayed her definition of a controlled body, and proceeded
into the day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that room still haunts me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I’ll never forget Mel. I’ll never forget a second of
that day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eyes opened, opening the door to Honeybrook Elementary in a
3<sup>rd</sup> ring suburb of Minneapolis, it felt strangely unfamiliar. The
culture was nothing like Humbolt. Could the unfamiliarity be due to the fact I’ve
been out of the game for so long? Had I been working with kids on the spectrum so
long outside of a school that it warped my perception? Or was it that
Honeybrook presented an entirely different operation and budget than Humbolt?
Whatever it is, or was, I welcomed the challenge. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Looking back to that day with Mel, I vowed to never be complicit to
a student’s solitary confinement or controlling of their body. We’ll see how
that works out here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-2019632090569320582017-02-22T18:15:00.002-08:002017-02-22T18:15:43.619-08:00With You Into The Next<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d never done this before, and now was the time to start.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aborting work to a coffeeshop nearby my mother’s house, I
placed the next thing-to-do in the back pocket of my mind. Studying a film
schedule and list of scenes for this weekend’s music video shoot put me in half
the state I needed to be in. I wasn’t fully there. The mocha was ok, and
beckoned of sugar I had abandoned in the last month. Why the hell did I buy a
mocha? Possibly because the caffeine rush hits me softer than straight coffee-
maybe because I wanted something that felt like a reward for making it this far
in the day- making it this close to a gesture I’d never given any living thing
before. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mom calls, “I’m here. You wanna just pull up and get her with
me?” I comply because it’s what I drove down here to do, and backing out now
would… well, it’d sever a few well-worked-on ties my mother and I have sewn
over the past month, and it would put me in a hole I’ve had one foot in for
some time. The past months have winded through my chest with the fervor of a
whirling dervish and hasn’t stopped. I’ve been riding the proverbial lighting, and
if I back out of this now, then surely I will have bucked myself off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will not be bucked off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I arrive to my mother’s house, silent and still in my mind,
I walk in. Henry, the family Golden Retriever, hustles head first into my knee
cap. I stave him off and take him to the front door where he’ll utilize the
front lawn as his personal public restroom. I walk to the basement door, open
it, and- “Raaaaahhhhhhh”, she cries. Stashi, our family cat of 17 years looks
distantly into the basement stares, withered and outside of herself. “Hey baby”
I speak softly to her. I pet her lightly as her back arches and tail coils like
petting is the last thing she’d ever wanted on this day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I put Jack in the box to go to the vet, he yelped and
meowed so deeply & loudly, it damn near wrought me to tears. His passing
was untimely after being stricken by a car and then having to be euthanized
when the surgery didn’t help. However, with Stash… she knew. Somehow she just
knew. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I placed Stashi in the traveling cat box, and there she sat
silently. She’d brush her nose up against the sides of the box for some form of
pressure, but that was it. The brushing of her face was unconditional- she
brushed it against the doorframe, my sleeping face, tree trunks… Henry’s
sleeping face. She was fearless like that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pick up the box and bring it to my mother’s car. What
feels like an hour of traffic later, I land to the vet a few minutes after my
mother. The woman at the front desk points me in the direction to the room my
mother and Stashi are sitting. By this time, I’d almost put it out of my mind that
this was happening, that we’d scheduled the visit, that it’d be the last moment
with our own lil’ squirrel terrorist and rabbit chaser. And then the walls of
any hospital, whether it be for humans or animals, are inescapably singing a
harmony of your mortality. Things become just things as you give into the song
of the hospital walls, and meaning for fruitless thoughts dissolve into
oblivion. The walls keep you true, and this final moment with Stashi will bring
my mother and I closer together, as it will bring me closer to an inescapably
authentic reflection of the man I am. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The room is small, box-like almost. One couldn’t fathom this
room serving any other function than what we are there for. What matters most,
is that we are there. Throughout my lifetime, my mother, bless her soul, has
made this voyage 5 times. And 5 times she has placed a last kiss, spoke final
words, and given an ultimately ending caress to our families pets. For me, it
was easy to say goodbye to our past dog and cats. I’d walk in the house, say
goodbye, and then leave them. My final interaction was seeing them alive in the
family house, or playing with something. The reality and responsibility would
have to be confronted, and today was no better day than the last to do that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A knock at the door came. Stashi delicately tipped to the
door as it opened. Her left eye half shut, back left hind leg limping, and her
back as skinny as a malnourished street cat, Stashi meowed at the doc. Placing
her on the table, you could see the energy and light missing from her eyes.
Somehow she just knew. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the final days, or damn near past year since Jack passed,
there was something removed from Stashi. I don’t know if it was because she
missed her homie Jack, or because the last Summer was just a pain in the ass to
move around at the age of 17, but she had slowed considerably. Now, she’d only
meow for food, and incessantly meow more even after her feeding. I took as her
trying to tell us that she wanted to go, that she wanted to move on to the
next. Perhaps Jack had spoken to her in a lucid cat dream of the paradise that
lay on the other side, and Stashi knowing no other was to communicate that by
way of meow was somehow telling us that she longed to not only be there, but to
be there with him. Yeah, that’s definitely it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before she was euthanized, we chose to have her sedated.
Finding a vein in a cat ain’t easy, and it sure as hell isn’t a pleasure for
the cat. The doc lay a tray of delicious food in front of her. <i>I have to see this, I have to be here.</i>
As Stashi feasts, the doc injects something of a tranquilizing nature in a
pinch of her back skin. <i>I must see this,
I must be here.</i> Stashi continues to feast until her hind legs give out. Still
licking the tray, her front joints dullen to the ability to carry her weight.
Still licking the tray, the doc removes the tray, as she looks out at us, now
licking the air. <i>I will be here, I will
see this</i>. And that’s all she wanted… food… and peace.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I kissed her on the head with tears falling from my face, and
stepped out of the building. My mother and I hugged at the car for a little
longer than a usual hug. She passed on the experience to me. 5 times she has
been here to do this with our family pets, and now for when I raise my family,
I know I will be the one to do the same. There is an amazing honor in being with
a living creature as it passes, a humbling solar-plexus shaking power you
submit to. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so today, Stashi passed on to that paradise in the sky with
Jack.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s all I ever wanted for her… food… peace… and to be
with Jack.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Goodbye Stashi. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All my love forever and then some,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Toussaint<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-27229221849685968902016-08-28T07:52:00.001-07:002016-08-28T07:52:07.439-07:00The Prytania Registry, Part 2<div class="MsoNormal">
Amidst the melee of sleep deprivation and getting to New
Orleans, it almost completely evaded me that my aunt from Detroit, my aunt from
California, and my cousin from Detroit are visiting as well- All to celebrate
my father’s 70<sup>th</sup> birthday with the added event of Father’s Day. My
cousin implored- <i>eh, that’s not the right
word</i>- my cousin directed me to host my aunts as they arrived the same day
as I. I somewhat understood what he was telling me, but I don’t believe I’d
ever done this “hosting” thing before with family. Usually my mother put on
Thanksgiving, my Uncle Chuck set up our schedule when we got to California, or
my father navigated us through Detroit when we arrived. This- I had little
understanding of exactly what I was supposed to do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two voicemails and several texts buzzed the moment I landed.
A piece of my brain awoke, “Sweet Jesuits, Toussaint. Get the rest of your ass
into gear. You’re the one who suggested the father’s side of your family be out
here. Act accordingly, my man!” And so, I acquiesced accordingly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The messages were to meet with my Aunt BB at baggage claim.
This was what my cousin was referring to. Host, direct, entertain, something.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rushing from the terminal to a baggage claim stretching a
football field in length, I called Aunt BB. “I’m here” she said. I wanted to
shout “WHERE?”, but as one does not simply enter Mordor, one does not simply
knee-jerk question Aunt BB’s statement. “Ok” I replied. Power walking the
length of baggage claim thrice, I couldn’t find her. Nice, my first duty of
hosting and I’m producing an fng F
minus. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, entering a hall unbeknownst to my initial entry, I
fly thru it to find Aunt BB on the phone. The moments where I have the good
fortune of encountering my Aunt BB are all-together too infrequent. Every
family has a rock- a pillar- a monolith to bridge the gap of communication,
potential emotional collapse, and little reassurance families move without.
Aunt BB is nothing short of that. Like my grandmother, you can learn a thing or
two about a thing or two simply by observing Aunt BB in discussion. Her social
pacing is timed to that of a veteran social worker- she sees the matrix. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Greeting her soon as her conversation wrapped, we hug and
get straight to it- how are we getting Aunt BB to her hotel?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shit, I just landed here, and not only am I aloof on what
I’m doing in regards of entertaining family, I’m seemingly of no help.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sweat it for a second and then jump to asking the
information desk the easiest way to get to the hotel. A clerk directs us to a
strip of concrete where the hotel bus will pick us up for free and take us to
the hotel. Easy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Exiting the baggage claim, the New Orleans humidity muffs me
so surprisingly hard in the face, that I think I winced or murmured some
guttural “Ehhhhh” under my breath. Sweet mother of mercy, I haven’t felt high temps like this in a damn long time. Aunt BB cuts through it like the heat
shouldn’t have stepped to her in the first place. Not wanting to look like I
couldn’t keep up with her, I muster forward to the concrete strip. Alas, we are
picked up and dropped off to the hotel. We bid adieu until dinner later that
night, and I exit the hotel to New Orleans… by myself. And here the adventure
begins, in the suburban swelter of Kenner, LA… just me, my bags, and bus fare
for the ride to the Crescent City. <o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-58430540257423924642016-06-26T11:57:00.001-07:002016-06-26T11:57:59.475-07:00The Prytania Registry, Part 1<div class="MsoNormal">
I had slept 20 minutes and awoken from some strange lucid
dream, as one does when only having rest for 20 minutes. The alarm hadn’t gone
off yet, so I assumed it was near time for my departure. I rested for what
dreamt like hours. When I had awoken again, I’d felt the static shake in my
muscles from believing they were experiencing something. My body was trying to
trick itself into sleeping, but my brain knew better and kept waking me back to
consciousness. It set my body into a rattle of shitty unrest and thick distrust
of my brain now that it had completely lied to the rest of my body several
times in the past hour of unrest.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Arriving to the airport, I make my first stop at McDonald’s.
I don’t eat McDonald’s, I don’t pursue soda, and I for damn sure do not order
my Chipotle burritos with sour cream- However, when at the airport, I always
make a point of it to reward myself with McDonald’s breakfast (#2 meal) for
making it to the airport without fail. The meal is delicious- more than I
anticipated. More than the last time I was at the airport. I am alone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last time I was here, I was with a significant other,
and a different significant other the time before that. Perhaps the discourse
between my brain and body kept it from surfacing, but I’ve just realized I’m
alone on my first trip to New Orleans to meet my father. For a moment, my legs
find rest, my right shoulder isn’t nagging, and my backpack looks like a bag of
adventurous holding instead of a ball & chain. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear lord, this is
happening. The greatest city on the planet, and just me: Up as late, out as
far, writing as much, and defaulting to impulse as quickly as I want to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It might have taken me several years too many to get to this
point, but the “getting here” was all worth it. So, now, slightly hungover, fueled
by Mickey D’s breakfast and operating on 30 minutes of sleep, I will enter the
arms of my mother land once again. As flawed, damaged and beatin’ up my soul
may be, she’s always taken me in without question.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, off I go to a connecting flight in Dallas.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
By now, I would have speculated my unrest-ridden limbs to
be- well, resting. They’re not. I close my eyes to sleep through the deafening thought of disintegrating by some means of tragic plane crash. "I'll close my eyes, and we'll just shut'er down for the 120 minutes it takes to get to Texas." I reason with myself. To no chagrin, my nerves buzzed back, "No, ol' boy. There will be no sleep ‘til Nola."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-50894043619428382272016-02-21T16:57:00.000-08:002016-02-21T17:19:31.266-08:00The Fight That Never Was<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">I can
thoroughly say that New Year’s Eve ringing in 2016 was one of the best I’ve had
in some time. There are two routes you can go for the Amateur of all Amateur
Hours. #1: Play it chill, go to the VFW, stay at home with your boo thang, or
work and make duckets. Either of these options plays into no part of devil that
is New Year’s Eve. However, for me, New Year’s Eve is one of my favorite
holidays- and I opt for #2: To betroth the devil for at least a few hours. Now,
whether you’re mindful of exactly what you’re getting into, is another story
entirely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">The night
started out at a jogger’s pace with a stop at the best friend’s house, then to
an art gallery turned makeshift bar with balloons tacked to a ceiling for the
midnight drop. We promptly left, and hitched a ride to the house of bad
decisions and impulse. Having fully committed a week ago, I dressed to the
nines and readied the crew for a VIP/Balcony soiree. The risk was it all
turning into Bronanza Douchefest 2016 starring us. Alas, it did not. Half past
midnight, I could feel the liquor burning through the common sense of the
ballroom we stood in. Drinks spilled, potential fights brewed, and I stood to
have a better chance of finding our server on the back of a milk carton or TMZ
video. We needed to get the hell out of there, and fast. I called our ride, blitzkrieg’d
the server to pay our tab, and we vacated the imploding ballroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Off to a
northeast bar where nearly everyone knows our names (Cheers ref: check), we
leaned against the bar, 12 sheets to the wind, and wished “Happy New Year!!!”
when the impulse struck us. Unbeknownst, a bar stool away, two men held a
conversation at the bar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">The
gentlemen furthest from me, sat draped in a black leather jacket, his wispy
black hair barely touching his shoulders. His frame sat fragile as a glass
menagerie. In my drunken stupor, I recall his shoulders as meatless knobs only
badass’ng it by proxy of the leather jacket. The gentlemen closest to me,
holding dialogue with the other gentlemen, sat at least 6 inches higher than
the other. I couldn’t tell if his back was actual muscle or just proportion to
the whole of his giant body. His shoulders, as far as I could tell, were
bulging almost too big for his own frame… and sweater.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Our lives are made up of flickering
moments- simple flickering moments that somehow line up and make sense because
one precedes the other.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">I turned to
my friend, James, for a moment to talk about something I’ll never remember due
to drunkiness and the split seconds that proceeded it. With my back turned to
the two gentlemen, I hear “What the fuck did you just say to me?!?!?” Turning
to the two, the shout evidently came from the gentlemen closest me… the large
gentlemen… the gentlemen now planting his fist repeatedly into the smaller
gentlemen’s face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Sidenote:
I’ve been attacked by dogs in my life. When it happens, you have little to no
time to react. The flash of fangs are for sheer ceremony before a quick twitch
of violence lunges toward you. I have seen this same quick twitch in a few
PRIDE FC fights, and one fight in particular at a party, but never in my adult
life up-close. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">The large
gentlemen arose with the urgency of a hurricane, and began to punch the other
man’s face faster than a cocaine-addled E. Honda. In my drunken state, it
appeared this man had gotten off two dozen straight jabs in less than 10
seconds. Before he could set off another barrage of hits, my mind said,
“Toussaint, we should help this poor smaller man, now being publicly executed
by this larger gentlemen. Right?” I agreed with my mind, so I drunkenly- yes,
I’ve used this word many times in this story, because I don’t want you to
forget how drunk I was- stepped toward the punching assassin. On my last step,
I crossed my left foot over my right leg to squeak through the crowded
barstools and tables, and reached out my hands to effort breaking up the
ass-whoopin’. Just as I reach out with off-balance footing, the larger
gentlemen reaches his left arm back to deliver another blow. His elbow, at the
peak of pulling back to then move forward and propel his fist into this poor man’s
skull, grazes my hands reaching out to break up the fight. So off-balance, and
so incapacitated with alcohol, my momentum was sharply shifted backward… and
now, I’m falling the opposite direction of the fight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Just the
faint touch of the larger gentlemen’s pendulum blows, sent me flying into a
gaggle of barstools, a waitress (my good friend, we call “Sharon Stone”) and my
best friend James.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Seconds
later, the bar staff removed the larger gentlemen off the would-be corpse of
the thinner man. I lay on the ground… still. James offered to help me up. I
turned away his offer. I just wanted to take in the moment. Although I was
proud of myself for stepping up for another human getting assaulted like a
newly colonized strip of land, it was all overcast by a knee-jerk reaction to
laugh aloud to myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">I’d like to rewind and tell you that
this fall was a perfect fall. I mean, I effing hit those barstools, waitress,
and other dude with the precision of a well-timed tackle. It was like one of
those falls, where you hit the ground and shit just keeps falling around you. I
physically impacted a 10 ft. radius with that folly.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, accepting a hand to rise to my feet again, we
laughed, drank more and uber’d back to the crib. To answer your question, “No,
I don’t speak in 3<sup>rd</sup> person… I write in 3<sup>rd</sup> person. And
welcome to 2016, Toussaint Morrison. You’re a brilliant idiot with a heart too
big for both sleeves”.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><br />
<br />
Post Script: Sharon Stone, the waitress working that night, reported to me that the thinner man entered the bar the next day with his girlfriend, who demanded an explanation as to what happened to her man. Apparently, he was so black-out drunk that even upon exit and waking to his wounds... he had forgotten how he got them. The bartender relayed last night's events, and as they exited, a patron turned to Sharon and shared the sentiment that if anyone deserved that ass-whoopin' from last night... it was that thin guy. "He had it comin'" she said.<br />
<br />
Lesson: The universe speaks. Don't be blackout when it does.</div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-68288570671395578682015-12-15T13:13:00.002-08:002015-12-15T13:23:32.226-08:00An Old Fashioned For Carol<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Preface<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I have an affinity for
elderly white women solely based on the universal fact that my grandmother was
an elderly white woman. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Carol, my grandmother,
baptized me in a kitchen sink in New Orleans. I don’t believe there’s any other
way to define my entrance into this world, than the kid how was spiritually
ordained by faucet water and an Irish Catholic woman in the Big Easy.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>St. Paul, MN 2008<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eyedea sat in the distant corner of the Glockenspiel, talking on
the phone. It sounded to be a conversation between him and an old friend or
someone that might’ve needed convincing on the other end of the phone. I always
imagined it was a scorned lover who was easily rattled with jealousy, and
Micheal was the only guy in 100 square miles that could give her the right
words. Hell knows, he was the guy within 1000 square miles that had the right
words, why not over the phone with a scorned lover. Alas, I retreated my
wandering imagination back to the bar I was tending to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Glockenspiel was a German restaurant and bar resting on
a gorgeous stretch of urbanity we call West 7<sup>th</sup> St. That year of
bartending 8 hour shifts and making little over a hundred bucks per shift, I’d
give up for nothing. The characters that walked through the door each day &
night were enough to fill several comic books, horror films and hallmark
movies… or just enough to fill a Vulcan’s Fire Truck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While serving the mostly empty bar, I’d frequently call my
grandmother for advice on how to make drinks. I distinctly remember being
inundated with orders and someone yelled out, “I’ll take an old-fashioned!” The
look on my face was that of absolute horror- relative to Clark Griswold finding
out he’d receive no holiday bonus check this year, or the eternal look on
Bender’s face, from Futurama. I swiftly ran to the kitchen, sat in the
staircase and called Carol. She not only filled me in on how to make an Old
Fashioned, we ran down the specs for a Cosmo, Gimlet, and Hot Toddy over the
course of the 60 second phone call.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once the night crowd had died down, I called her back to
thank her. We chatted for a minute or so. She would go on to tell me a story of
a night her and friends went out to paint the town red, and took down one too
many Old Fashions while my grandfather played the trombone at a jazz gig. The sight
of my grandfather performing on stage while my grandmother swayed back &
forth to the tempo- well, that would be something.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Thanksgiving 2015<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pick-a-biscuits lay strewn about a pan, disconnected from
one another like shrapnel after an explosion. My mother truly put her time,
energy and soul into replicating the feat of our family’s signature dessert.
However, the recipe evaded her skill of kitchen in the most defiant manner.
Whereas I’d usually take several pick-a-biscuits before dinner began… this time,
I stole only one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My family is made up of a hodge podge of personality and
attitude. It’s taken us decades of not only understanding one another, but
coming to know who we are in the same space (or dinner table) with one another.
There have been holidays, or even years, I’ve distanced myself from them, and
only to find myself in their arms again. Only a fool speaks for himself in the
future- However, I foresee no circumstance that could drive me away from them
permanently.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We sit to a long make-shift table in my sister’s living
room. Her 8 month-old son, Benjamin, and my cousin’s newborn son, Cedar, take
shifts crying loudly into the air. The infants’ wails bounce to and fro the
walls, accompanied by clangs of dishes being passed clockwise around the table.
We talk over the natural soundscape. Conversation fades to the inevitable
feasting on an abundance of wild rice, squash, beets, broccoli soufle, and
pick-a-biscuits… we are together, and we are filling ourselves with each
other’s presence as much as the food. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By this point, there had been no mention of her. The babies mere
presence might’ve stricken that subject out of discussion, but I don’t have a
child, so I can’t say for sure. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She’s gone. I can’t hear her voice. She’s not at this dinner
table right now telling me to get car insurance, move out of my mother’s house,
asking me about the next dance (acting) job, or checking in on my relationship
with my mother. Even the absence of the nagging upsets me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This wild rice is bomb. I owe it to whoever made it, to
finish it before I go to the basement and cry in the bathroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I eat the last portion of the wild rice, knowing there will
definitely be a sequel between the meal and I. <i>Don’t think I’m done with you, wild rice. We will have our time again,
in a very short while.</i> For now, I wrap my napkin, push myself up a little
bit to stand away from the table- I take a few steps toward my nephew Benjamin,
kiss him on the head, and walk toward the basement door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one notices. And that’s exactly how I wanted it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Down the stairs, my sister and brother-in-law, have a
bathroom tucked away from the television space next to the washer & dryer.
It has the feel of a room from an episode of Doomsday Preppers.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I enter, close the toilet lid, sit on it, and place my head
in my hands. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is how you do this- how you handle your first
Thanksgiving without your grandmother.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I blow my nose, promptly trot up the stairs and am back to
the dinner table. Feeling as though a weight has been lifted, I delve back into
the wild rice sequel. Again, no one notices. I prefer it that way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>December 2015<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The walls stretch further and further away between myself
and the bodies corralling themselves into the bar. Politicians, lawyers, news
anchors, business owners, 6-figures, 7-figures, 8-figures belly up to the
marble bar top and kindly ask me to fill their cup. I gladly serve them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My new-old vocation of serving alcohol couldn’t have come at
a better time with the holidays around the corner and an old friend entrusting
her reputation to me as I fill in a bartending role for what might’ve gone to
someone else less familiar. The bar has the makings of a well kempt, but
antiquated, speakeasy. My great grandfather would’ve easily frequented this
place after his dance (music) gigs. I would serve him a whisky, call him a cab,
and attend his next show with bells on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s undetectable at this point, but what is about to strike
me is going to possibly put my employment at risk and send me into an
inconvenient emotional moment of catharsis. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I am of the ilk that
we are not at the mercy of our minds or hearts, but that we are at the mercy of
our very own authenticity. We know when we’re kidding ourselves, out-kicking
our coverage, or flat out not engaging with reality. Working with Pre-K
students suffering from mental illness, the first thing we establish is “we are
not our illness, expectation, or even our own body”. We are who we believe we
authentically are. Engage with that, and you will never let yourself down…
inversely, never let anyone down as well.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bar begins to clear. A few stragglers, regulars and
couples remain at the bar. We can breathe easy for the moment and log in tips
while the storm rests… and in walks my authentic moment. Someone enters the bar
at sometime while I was dealing something, which is all arbitrary up until the
point Louis Armstrong began singing “What A Wonderful World” over the venue’s
speakers. I pause at the register, take note it’s the song played at my
grandmother’s funeral and take a deep breath. Serendipity is relative. The damn
song could have nearly the opposite meaning to the next man. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What would you like?” I wrap up the someone and I’s
conversation after greeting them and chatting about this balmy December weather
we’re having (enter MN Nice smile here). “Y’know, I’ll have an old fashioned.”
They declare.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smile to myself. It’s what she would’ve ordered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gladly make the beverage, I gladly serve the beverage, and
because every now and then I discover my levy isn’t perfectly capable of
holding all of the feels at bay… I excuse myself to the employee bathroom
downstairs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s nothing like floodgates. It’s more a moment of acknowledgment.
Carol would have absolutely loved this place, have been proud of the man I am
right now, and easily would’ve sang along to Louis as she sipped her drink.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I lean against the bathroom wall with my forearm, and
cry it out. Nothing loud or blubbering- just sniveling and nose-blowing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only downside to having a good cry is the fact that without
super-charged vizine, it’s damn near impossible to cover the red in your eyes.
People can see it once you get back to public. Thankfully, the lights are low,
the attention is sporadic, and the laughter is loud. No one notices, and I
prefer it that way.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whether they be smiles, tears or words, I let the moments
flow through me. It’s how she would’ve wanted me to process her death, and so
it will be how I journey through a world without Carol. <o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-48111097483013288212015-11-12T15:42:00.000-08:002015-11-12T15:42:01.476-08:00Six Minutes And Back<div class="MsoNormal">
It was 5 years ago, the last time I stepped foot into a
downtown St. Paul hospital. I was there to see my grandmother after they had
placed several stints in her heart. Trooper she was, her cadence and wit
remained just as sharp after she went under the knife than before. Although
Carol’s socialite skills always impressed, it was her unflappable confidence to
take stake in her loved ones that awe struck me most throughout her time on
earth. Sprawled out on a table after heart surgery, she still was able to
reprimand me for being at odds with my mother and not having a place of my own
yet. One can care, but to express that feeling under duress falls into the
realms of unconditional.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember sitting in the waiting room, watching Good
Morning America, half asleep. The other half of me couldn’t shake the idea that
this might be it- this could be the end of the road for Carol and a long life
of family, Irish Catholicism and compassion. In that moment, I wanted to curse
the wallpaper for being such a drab color, blame the rug for not holding a more
hypnotic pattern to trap my attention- everything in the room spoke to me… and
all it would whisper was “Deal with this”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a hospital, there is no room for escapism. Only reminders
of why you’re here, how you handle grief, and our undeniable mortality. Waiting
to see Carol, I flash grinned at a passing thought of hospitals reminding us we’re
human.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, entering the atrium, Carol is almost a year passed
away- there is never a day that goes by that I don’t think about her- and I am
entering, yet again, a hospital in downtown St. Paul. Under quite the contrary
of circumstances, a new life in our family has blossomed. To what degree of joy
and happiness the new life has brought us all, the moment is also accompanied
by a complication and reminder that we are fragile as ever. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Barring details to my reasons for visiting- Entering prenatal
care is something I never imagined I’d have to do in my lifetime.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Curvy stars, of different colors and sizes, speckle the path
to the next door after I receive my badge to pass thru the first entrance.
Something of a yellow brick road, the walls and windows of the hospital entertain
the eye as anything & everything in a children’s museum. Unlike the whispers
of the waiting room five years ago, this building is cordially smiling and
attempting to empathize with its visitors.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Passing the first colorful hallway, entering the 2<sup>nd</sup>
entrance, the room goes cold and pastel. Chairs line the walls. A woman at a
desk asks me a few questions, checks my badge, asks me a few more questions…
and then gives me an elevator look. <i>The security
in any prenatal care is triplicated beyond any standard hospital, due to the potential
circumstance of infants being stolen. I can’t imagine the pathology that runs
behind such an act, but apparently it’s a thing.</i> The woman at the desk
gives me the go ahead and points me toward a hallway vividly opposite the last
I passed thru.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Double doors open and spill me into a world humbling my senses
to taking a deep breath just to make it to my new family member’s room. Doors
ajar or partially creaked open reveal glass cases containing newborns. Machines,
producing high-pitched beeps and low-toned pumps of air, breathe in and out of
the cases. I struggle to keep it all in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Turning a corner, I panic that the room number, the woman at
the desk gave me, isn’t here. I’m lost. I stumble by a family, crowded around a
room, in thick focus. I could spin a thousand stories from the picture of them.
My imagination unravels.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, arriving at my new family member’s room, there he
is: A beautiful child and miracle in his own right. It is at this moment, in
this place, betwixt the joy of life and woe of potential untimely tragedy that
Carol finds my heart to remind me a family does not decrease in size, but grows in compassion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cedar, welcome to the family. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
May this world offer you every opportunity and joy it has to
give.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-63894222154679022052015-10-25T16:44:00.001-07:002015-10-25T16:44:58.510-07:00Classroom Catharsis<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Then</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The walls littered with academic social justice posters and
historic reminders of disparity maintain a sort of welcome mat when I see them.
I usually take a deep sigh to notice a teacher who has taken the time to put up
a Malcolm X poster. Not Martin Luther King, not Booker T. Washington... just
Malcolm. A strange quirk for me: It’s a sign said teacher fully grasps the
difference between prejudice and systemic disparity. Her walls exhibit the
such, and would have me attend her 6<sup>th</sup> grade class for the entire
week to lead a slam poetry workshop within the realms of Minnesota history. The
history part works, as she’s laced the entire syllabus for the slam poetry
workshop with equity, racial disparity, classism, and an all-around breadth of
sociology.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Now</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Egg white walls stretch as high and far as I care to see.
The thing about art and design schools, for me, is the dead silence. Passing by
several classes of capacity auditoriums and paint labs, while walking the 2<sup>nd</sup>
floor, you can hear the welcome desk person typing from the floor below. Dead.
Silence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had been requested to step into an art and design college
to speak about my process as an artist, touching on the themes of community and
social responsibility. By now, having traveled the country for over a decade
discussing racial prejudice and systemic disparity, I have no problem standing
in front of a group of 20+ year old white students and telling them their
privilege is one thing, however not communicating it through their art is a
failed responsibility on all accounts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, here we are: Friday morning, 30 junior/senior students with
emphasis from animation to film directing to sculpting, me, two poems, and an
hour to kill before we all disperse into the weekend.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Then<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For 5 days, 5 classes a day, I circle up with the tykes to
discuss where they’re at with their slam poems and level of confidence in what
they’ve written so far. Some display an unrivaled passion for academics I can
see their parents have encouraged, and have pages upon pages sketched down of
what they’ll present the final day of the workshop. Other students, who have taken
animosity with school and disdain for authority, express a page or shorter of
absolute brilliance. I can quickly see the disparity of house income,
ethnicity, and perceived self-image from each student. It’s amazing how quickly
their deepest insecurities can surface once given a space designated for
expression.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Now<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At what first felt like a time-killer, the first slam poem I
delivered to the class brought about the elephant in the room: money and art.
If your art is a piece of your soul, can it have a price tag? We barrel through
that and a litany of other subjects regarding school, working with youth, and
soon the dreaded… race and art. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So far, the class has been mild to luke warm on the subject
matter we talk about, until I asked, “Do you feel the overwhelming presence of
white people and whiteness in Minnesota affects your art?” The auditorium
erupts in a collective of agreeing gasps, sighs, and laughs of “no shit”. The
ball is rolling, and I’m going to make for damn sure I don’t push it too much,
otherwise whatever precious momentum we have could be ruined.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of the 30 students and faculty in the room, 4 to 6 were
non-white. The room equally chips in to the discussion on whiteness, to my surprise,
scaling a gamut of defining white art to whiteness in Minneapolis hip-hop. The
conversation is jilting to the point several students begin to speak on the
subject out of turn, overlapping one another.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Then<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The 3<sup>rd</sup> to last class, on the final day of the
workshop, enters the classroom to present their slam poems. The class is
daunting in size as our circle begins to creep into the other half of the room.
Students deliver impassioned poetry from historic subjects as foreign to me as
the great typhoid outbreak in St. Paul, and the not-so-foreign-to-me lynchings
in Duluth. Some of the poetry is personal, some of it not. Uniform to all,
their poetry is delivered with conviction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rounding the bend to the final portion of the circle, a shy
student stood to speak his poem. Brown skin, Spanish accent, and standing no taller
than 4-and-a-half feet in height, he began his piece with the softest voice
yet. Hard to hear under the acoustics, I lean in from my chair, as does the
majority of the class.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the life of me, I can’t remember verbatim what his poem
spoke, but he began with listing…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I am Mexican. My family is Mexican. My people, are Mexican.
We work the jobs you don’t want to. We roof your houses, we clean your dishes…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sweet Jesus on a Klondike, I think to myself at this moment.
What was presumed to be another innocent declaration of one’s newfound interest
in MN History, turned into a personal essay with a resounding emotional boom
slowly working its way through everyone’s solar plexus. Tears well up in the
young man’s eyes, his voice bubbles through the excess saliva choking him up, I
quickly look about to the rest of the class- White students unknowingly
spectating with their jaws dropped, while each Spanish speaking student began
to tear up in unison with the young poet. He continues…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How would you feel if… How would you feel if…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He cracks. A part of him can no longer hold back his heart’s
momentum. In his youthful mind, he hasn’t quite connected the dots that it’s
perfectly ok to speak with conviction, cry, and be human all at the same time,
so he turns his back and begins to release more tears, haulting the poem. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At this point, every brown student in the classroom is
tearing up or fully crying. Another student, races from an arc of the circle to
hold him. In solidarity, they hug, communicating “Hey, it’s ok. You can make
it.” And over all gestures, the embrace says “What you have to say is
important.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With his back still turned, he reads on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How would you feel if your parents could be taken away from
you at any moment and deported to another country”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Annnnnnnd we lost it. Now the teacher, the teacher
assistants, and myself are caught in a wash of tears, unbridled empathy, and a
fervently shaken control to keep it all in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Now</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrap with my testimonial on my entrance into college at
St. John’s, then to Hamline, then to drop out, and then to the University of
Minnesota. Illustrating how I found my footing as an artist, and reconciling with
Minnesota that I will forever be heavily viewed as an artist of color before
anything else of my being or work is taken into account.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A white student raised his hand to ask, “As a white person,
how can I touch on racial disparity in my art. I mean- how do you talk about
that”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I respond, “I don’t know, because I’m not white. I wanna
know what you feel like though! When you walk into Spyhouse and see dozens of
white people on expensive laptops typing & clicking into the day,
meanwhile, an old homeless black guy is passed out in one of the chairs next to
all of this- How the hell does that make you feel??? Privilege is invisible, so
I want to know at what point is it unavoidable? We’re in Minnesota, where a
white rapper can go an entire career without having to see one person of color
in her or his audience, go without charitably donating one song to the fact
that he’s a white artist participating in an art originated by an entirely
different ethnicity and culture, go without having to acknowledge race for a
fiber of a second- I wanna know how that makes you feel?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time’s up. The hour is away from us. We adjourn. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Students line up to the side of the stage bestowing thanks
and questions to me they weren’t able to quite get to during the discussion. A
brown woman stands waiting for 5+ minutes while I converse with a student on
what exactly the air of the school is like when a student tries to bring race
into their assignment or project. Our dialogue goes on longer than I expect.
The brown woman stands diligently still. Wrapping up, she took a meager two
steps to greet me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hi” I introduced myself basically.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hi, I uh…” she stifled. “I- Ok, I was fine, but now it’s
happening again.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tears surface to the bottom crescent of each her eyes, so
thick they’re even noticeable behind her thick black-rimmed glasses. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s up? You alright?”, I tip toed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, I’m fine. When you were talking about race up there.
See, I'm from South America- I was born in South America, and I was adopted…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She goes on to divulge her background of adversity with being
presumed too white to be accepted by people of color, and too brown to be
accepted by white people. The line is ugly, and I’ve lived it all my life. I
can still remember Bridget from the 4<sup>th</sup> grade screaming at me during
recess, “Nigga I’ll slap the black outta you! (Laughs) If there’s any black in
there (More laughter)”. I can tell her experience is filled with moments that
have moved her as an artist, human being and potential activist. Continuing her
story, “And, it’s when you try to talk about that (race) or present it (race)
in your project, other students just harp on it so hard and dismiss it so
quickly”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again, I can’t recall what she said verbatim, but I can recall
the way it made me feel. As the tears continue to surface, I ask her a question
I don’t think I’ve ever asked anyone before. Almost tearing up myself, I ask, “Do
you want a hug?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not even giving her a chance to answer, I take a half step
toward her, stretch out my arms in tandem with her own, we hug it out for a
quick few seconds. In that moment, I can recall just how many times I needed a
hug like this in my earlier days. The days of cradling my head in my hands
trying to figure out just why the f writing, performing and acting felt like
skating uphill- felt like I was speaking to an audience that hadn’t a shred of
empathy- felt like I was giving my best to Minnesota, and only receiving apathy
in return. That hurt, that pain, that struggle is what has made me the artist I
am today. Not fully, but definitely a fair part of me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We chat a little longer, and draw comparisons to her final
project and a show I did recently at the Bryant Lake Bowl. The entire lecture,
the talks afterward… all of it humbling. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never expect tears on such occasions, however when you
designate a space to speak freely, express truthfully, and value your neighbors
thoughts and ideas as much as your own, I can think of no better place to give
someone a hug. <o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-26368779233129120052015-06-23T11:28:00.002-07:002015-06-23T11:29:38.685-07:00Oddly Closer Than I Thought<div class="MsoNormal">
To say I knew Joe Sodd III, would be fairly accurate. It
wasn’t an acquaintanceship- it couldn’t’ve have been. It was more than an acquaintanceship,
but definitely shy of friends. If we saw each other on the street, there would
have been immediate recognition in the form of a two syllable handshake- <i>you know the kind where you clasp palms
wrapping the thumb, then clasp the four fingers without the thumb- who knows,
it might’ve reached the third syllable of bringing it in with the pat on the
back. It was the early 2000’s, the sun seemed bolder then. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The connection between he and I, lives in the vivrancy of my
sister, Annie. Now, a mother, wife, and impeccable occupational therapist with
far more (or just different) responsibility than I could ever imagine taking on
myself, but back then: an exceedingly fearless socialite with the propensity to
call the shots, stepping to the most courageous of frat bros who might’ve said
something politically distasteful and shutting down whatever liquid bravery
they thrived on at the moment. My sister was, and is, an amazing force to be
reckoned with. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Annie and her group of surly female confidants traveled evening
parties like debutantes social-circle hopping a gala in the Hamptons. They didn’t
give you’re their presence, they graced you with it. Standing opposite to them,
more than not, were the male division of my sister’s friends. What appeared to
be lead by a tall ex-hockey prodigy by the title of Nick, the two groups of
young folk combined seemingly like a
homemade Voltron. They biked day and night, took friendly to newcomers, and
were the antithesis of MN Nice in that their circle always had a spot for you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Joe occupied an arc of that circle. I had run into him on
numerous occasions during evening galavanting. In that time (2002 – 2008), I was
known for throwing parties that would soon turn into remakes of Animal House.
In these events the cops were always on cue (3am), the obligatory fight betwixt
a Minneapolis South Side division of large white gentlemen and a Minneapolis
Southwest Side division of large white gentlemen arrived religiously before or
after the cops, and always- seemingly always, love would find its way amidst two
college campus wayfarers that would never have acknowledged the others
existence had they not stumbled paths at said party. Friends, Love, &
Fights (Beats, Rhymes, & Life) These occasions served like wedding
receptions. As my run-ins with Joe became more frequent, my understanding for
his character became more familiar. <i>You come
to understand people differently amongst chaos rather than a controlled
environment. (i.e.: house parties, special education classrooms, concerts,
sociology classes, yelling at a dinner table, school buildings, a coffee table I’m
sitting at, etc.)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He would greet me, usually at the beginning of the night
whilst the Annie & Nick Gang funneled into my apartment building. Standing
short, but solid as a fire hydrant, Joe had the physical makings of an
unbeknownst Peter Parker. <i>If news hit the
next day that a real-time Spider-Man was seen webbing thru downtown St. Paul, I’d
take no surprise in finding out it was he.</i> Beyond the aesthetic, his
demeanor and cadence struck me genuine as friend or family would. <i>I’d like to think perhaps he and I were
somewhere nearer to friends than acquaintanceship, alas…<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Summer 2008<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I awoke in a closet I rented from a large house in
Dinkytown. Always on the road or crashing in another city or campus, I didn’t
necessitate much, and a closet was pretty much all I needed at the moment for
me and my belongings. While clicking & photoshopping away furiously on a
poster for an upcoming show, my mother called for the 2<sup>nd</sup> or 3<sup>rd</sup>
time. <i>I can screen the first, where the
call is usually about taking the dog out or a leftover dirty dish after family
dinner. A 2<sup>nd</sup> or 3<sup>rd</sup> usually prompted something more
urgent… naturally. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sobbing sordidly from the get, my mother poured out to me “You
remember Annie’s friend, Joe??? He was found killed on a street outside the Triple
Rock!!!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She fills me in to a few more details I possibly could have
done without, but nonetheless assisted the understanding in what the fuck just
happened. My heart ran a furious several beats and then subsided. Our
conversation ends, I go back to the photoshop at the same pace I was before being
informed of the disaster. I’m able to focus for a few minutes more on the graphic
design before me, beaming off an antiquated computer screen. I stop. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing is flat. Everything plays on a spectrum. Joe Sodd
III’s death expectedly struck me as the loss of a family friend. I take no
pause in the expected if I’ve already experienced such a loss or event. What
blindsided my nerves to a boggling hault was something else. The murder struck
me as something oddly closer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I quickly gathered one of the two pairs of shorts I owned,
put on my Adidas, hopped onto whatever fixer-upper bike I was riding at the
moment and sped to Riverside Plaza. I cruised near the area Joe’s life had been
claimed. Locked up the bike and walked the entire neighborhood- every level of
the plaza, as if I’d find out what the hell happened the night before. Nothing…
it was as it always was… as the West Bank and Riverside Plaza had been my
entire life since I arrived to Minneapolis in 1986… it still wreaked of home. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The familiarity in every crack, crevice, hint of racial
disparity and socio-economic suppressant conjured damn near two decades of my
existence on earth. Today, it sounds absurd, but then I felt an accountability
to figure out the “why” in the equation of Joe’s life being taken, due to the
trivial fact that he fell where I was raised. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a specific tragedy in knowing the street, the past
friends that used to occupy that stretch of road, and the past friend that was
murdered on that same surface. I've always known this, however it bares little to no resolution being reminded backdrop of my childhood
rests on a hairline trigger and a thin halo. No one is ever truly safe, and we
willingly take the risk everyday by simply daring to live.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I digested the event to a summer of reckless abandon, while misunderstanding
my own processing of death with heavy exchanges of booze, coffee, writing, and
impulse. There’s never a moment you need to tell someone you don’t give a fuck.
When the life of someone you know is
untimely ripped from the fabric of tangibility and left only as a memory in
which time does its damndest to fade with each passing second, I’ve found
myself to fashion a glaze of apathy to the world… until it strikes me while
sitting in front of a laptop or piece of paper, to write. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Summer 2015<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have no place to bare the tattoo of “III” in memory of Joe
Sodd III, because I didn’t know him like that. However, I find myself still
dealing and walking with his memory to better understand him and the events
that transpired. On day’s baring absolutely no hint of him, my mind will
sometimes sharply turn to thinking “Shit. I swear I’ll see that kid biking
around the corner any day now.” I can say now, that unexpected death is
unbelievable to an extent. There isn’t a day or moment you’re truly over it,
and there isn’t a day or moment you should be over it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Loss is something we live with, not something we move pass.
It’s in how you live with loss that defines who you are and the legacy you will
lead. Honest to Godly, I have no effing clue as to where it will lead me, but I’ve
come to grips with the fact that there will always be a part of me that won’t
go without writing about that kid. <o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-16772918386729356802015-04-09T15:12:00.000-07:002015-04-09T15:12:01.956-07:00Masterpieces Of My Mother<div class="MsoNormal">
In high school, my first break-up left me so viscerally
dismembered, that I had to seek out the school counselor for hour-long
counseling sessions twice a week. She would later on create a sensitive student
group. I was part of it. Experiencing loss has transformed me in the most
ridiculous ways I never thought possible. Over time, you create a mental safety
net of truths that comprise laws of physics and parts of you. Example, I know
that anxiety for me has increased with my level of success. When I come into a
role or job that requires a larger world of me, the anxiety I may be feeling is
a sign that I may be fearing the success I’ve just achieved, or could achieve.
You find simple signals and alerts your body will send off, and quickly respond
with “Oh, that’s just me getting in the way of me. Insert retro-action, here”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before that first break-up left me in an emotional puddle of
pheromones and serotonin, I experienced a material loss unlike anything I’d
ever experienced before. Unlike the time I lost my toy alligator out of the car
window, at the age of four, while my mother drove my sister and I away from New
Orleans in the initial step of the divorce; Unlike the time I had torn so many
holes in my blankey that my mother had to throw it out; And unlike the time my
mother decided it was time for all the He-Man figures to be thrown in the trash…
it was something different, and I don’t know why.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had just fallen into a newfound fanaticism with Marvel
Comics. My friend, Tony, had nabbed Spider-Man 2099 and Ravage 2099 for me in
exchange for a few dollars for the first issues. The covers were thicker than
the usual flimsy paper covers. It was a thick kind of cardboard with gleaming
letters outlined with silver tones. “Spider-Man 2099- Peter Parker in the
future! This is fng crazy! But 2099 is like over 100 years away tho!!! How
could they conceive such a time???”, I thought to myself. It was the coolest
thing I’d ever come across in the 5<sup>th</sup> grade.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A year later, 6<sup>th</sup> grade, my best friends and had
the decision to either step into the 6<sup>th</sup>, 7<sup>th</sup> and 8<sup>th</sup>
grade department of Windom Open School, or remain big fish in the 4<sup>th</sup>,
5<sup>th</sup> and 6<sup>th</sup> grade hall of the school. We collectively
embarked on a journey to the senior side of the school and make due with the
big kids (6<sup>th</sup>, 7<sup>th</sup> & 8<sup>th</sup> graders). The new
rave was less comic books, but comic cards. I had spotted a few cards last
year, but this year the big things was a series of cards titled “Marvel
Masterpieces Series 1”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The little pieces of paper were gorgeous- absolutely
brilliant to my eye then as much as they are now. Joe Jusko painted each card
in a daunting series of over 100 characters, including a special set of foil
cards that gleamed similarly to the Ravage & Spider-Man 2099 comic covers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over months of collecting, I was 2 cards short of retrieving
the entire set of Marvel Masterpieces Series 1. Archived in numerical order, I
kept each card in a 3-ring binder full of Ultra Pro Platinum Storage Pages of
plastic slips carrying 18 cards per page.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was obsessed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At first, it was the colors and beautiful art, but later it
became more an intrigue with how Jusko captured each character- The Blob
catching a cannonball with his stomach, but less that and more the expression
on his face as if he enjoyed absorbing large mortar from weapons of mass
destruction- Bullseye stretching a menacing grin while shooting a gun, casually
pointed in the distance. A shadow in the background showing blood spraying from
its head- Cyclops unleashing an optic blast from his eyes, where you question
the pain streaking his face is due to the amount of power released from his head
or his resentment for who or what his targeting in the still- Jusko captured
moments that made you question the spectrum of good and evil. Who was born into
this, and who had a choice. The answer, after observing every piece of the
series, was simple- there are no heroes or villains, just human beings and
organisms navigating what they can mean to the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I carried all the stories and pictures with me everywhere I
went in the 6<sup>th</sup> grade… until one day… they were stolen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My entire 3-ring binder was stolen from my desk and
disappeared into obscurity. I’d never find it again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The amount of anxiety, sadness and what small 6<sup>th</sup>
grade depression I fell into, was the deepest I had felt throughout my decade
on earth. My mind tried to recall the details of each picture- Blade, Blaze,
Nova, Quasar… - I began to forget the colors and miss them. I cried for nights
on end. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother… observing all of this, didn’t have the money at
the time to try and recollect an entire set of a child’s comic cards. <i>Collecting a set is difficult as it is, who
knows what the hell you’ll get in a pack of cards, doubles, triples, etc.
Finding the one card to fulfill a series is expensive and tough to find enough
packs after the series had stopped selling. Shinder’s ramped up its prices of
the series after they stopped being supplied with Masterpieces Series 1. </i>So,
my mother took me to Shinders to buy the next best thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We surveyed the box sets of comic cards that lay on the
folding table at the entrance. Mounds of Baseball, football, basketball, Dark
Horse Comic Book characters and everything that wasn’t Marvel Masterpieces
piled high on the table. “Pick one” she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I damn near cried at the sight of my choices. I almost opted
for nothing. <i>Looking at it now, what a
first-world-troubled child I was. I mean, seriously- fucking comic cards!?!?...
But, to be easy on the kid I was then, it was less the possession of the cards,
but being able to read the stories on the back of them. The feeling that I could
conjure such knowledge at the opening of a page- I loved it.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alas, in the mountain of box sets, I pointed out a dark box…
a box that read “Ghost Rider”. It was a box of Ghost Rider cards that fully
surrounded the origin of Johnny Blaze, his commitment to sell his soul to Satan
and then return as the Ghost Rider engulfed in hellfire. The story, like the
phoenix, was relative to the redemption I was seeking from the absence of my
Masterpiece Series 1. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother bought me the box, and replaced what I thought was
irreplaceable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5 years later, she’d purchase my first weeks of acting
school at the Brazil Acting School with Mary Allette-Davis and Bob Davis, who
rooted the foundation for my passion for performance art. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
12 years later, I would move in with her for the next 3
years as a grown man, where I was able to take care of her through several
major surgeries, and take my time to churn out the most writing, touring, and
music I’d ever produce in my lifetime. Those years would later serve as 90+
songs, 5 mixtapes and multiple scripts I wouldn’t have been able to write under
the worry of making rent. Looking back, a tad more stable, her in better health and eyeing box
sets of comic cards on Amazon.com, I just don’t know how I could’ve made it without
her. I’ve experienced some of, what I felt relatively at each time, were my
greatest losses in life with my mother beside me. I love her and thank her for
being there. Happy birthday, mom.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-29765306003798769892015-02-08T14:38:00.000-08:002015-02-08T15:10:22.309-08:00She Is Everywhere<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>1989, Summer<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew little of my cousin Evan, except that he was 7 days
older than me and reveled in being a rambunctious boy of a single digit age as
much as I. He was from a distant land my mom called Canada and would visit
Minnesota infrequently with his brother Hugh. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This particular summer, Evan visited Minnesota… for good.
His father passed away in a work related accident, so his mother moved back to
Minnesota to be with the family. I remember being elated to hear that they were
moving back to Minnesota for good, and that I’d have a friend to romp around our
grandmother’s back yard with.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My younger mind couldn’t grasp tragedy. Although Evan, his
brother and mother were undergoing the woes of a vicious, untimely death- I
simply understood it as “Yay, a new friend in town”. My relationship with my
father, at the time, was stewed in absence and somewhat of a mystique. I took his
circumstance to be the same as mine: Living with a sibling, mother, and no
father. My understanding couldn’t have been further from the truth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>1993, September<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Evan and I sit on a dark couch in a room full of weeping
family members. Our grandfather, Doc Van Deusen, had passed away and we were
now attending the funeral home for the viewing of the body. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything in the room seemed dark. I swear it was night
out, but it was most likely in the throws of daylight, nothing held color in
the room. The walls ran muddy, the lamps conveyed as cryptic antiquities, the
window curtains hung like last minute buys at Dracula’s garage sale. I hated
this place. Evan and I were forced to dress in tandem with the room- our Sunday
best, as one would perhaps have it. Little boys, we were, dressed in slacks,
dress shirts and little dress shoes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ceremony of it all made no damn sense to me. At the ripe
age of 11, I took these people for madness. “Who, in their right mind, would
want to view the dead body of a family member?!?!?” I continuously thought. My
mother, emphatic in her sobbing, asked me to stand up and attend the room. “It’s
that last time you’ll get to see him. Don’t you want to say goodbye?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I entered the room… for her. I didn’t want anything to do with
the display of my grandfather’s dead body, but I knew my mother would never
forgive me if I didn’t go to see him. I’d rather sit on the dark couch with Evan
than enter the room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Upon entrance, I looked down and away. Perhaps my mere
presence would suffice my mother’s heart… but I was curious. What would he look
like? How would he seem? Would their be a strange smell? What if he jumped up
and yelled “Surprise!”? My mind reeled.
I must look at him, otherwise I’ll never live it down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Averting my gaze… I first saw the right side of his face. I
approached slowly to a view revealing the entirety of his horizontal posture,
fully laid out in a casket. <i>My mother
reminded me he was on a cot, but I distinctly remember him wearing a suit in a
casket. I don’t know why, but memory might serve me differently than the reality
of it. </i>That moment- I will never forget. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The room filled with tears and inconclusive sentences. He
looked like him, but not. Something was off. He looked smaller than before. Of
course, suffering from ALS will literally atrophy the body to something quite
smaller, but his face… there was something in his face that looked off. It was
him and not him at the same time. My younger mind fumbled with this paradox of
viewing my grandfather’s lifeless body… as a stranger.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He meant the world to me, but at 11 years of age, I just
didn’t have the tragic swell to cry or be upset. I’d known some of him, but by
no means all of him. Doc was a complex man with a litany of layers and walls.
All for good reason, but none of which I could understand at the time. <i>I remember, at the age of 18, writing to my
father that I no longer wanted to see or speak to him. However, running into
him a year later, we broke bread, chatted… I referenced the “break-up” letter I
sent him to which he conjured a glint in his eye, grinned criminally, and
shortly said “You’ll understand when you get older”. I get it now. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doc’s body was saying something. There was a statement there
muddled in the reality of his death and physical departure. Something was
there, and it would take a lifetime to understand it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>2015, February<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother texts “Do you still want to view grandmother’s
body at the funeral home?” Inversely to 22 years ago, I have the choice. No one
is mandating I sit in an antiquated church-smelling room to take a gander at a
lifeless body in relation to me. I reply “Yes”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This will be easy as it was before”, I think to myself. “I
have the wherewithal of an adult mind, I can come and go as I please, and I can
control my emotions as a grown man”, I expound.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I arrive early. The building is empty. Silent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The acoustics of main entrance room swallow any sound made
between the walls. Nothing can be heard. It feels to be a liminal space trapped
between reality and the stars. Something is off here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A man comes out to greet me. His tone is soft, his posture
is perfect. “I’m here to see Carol” I tell him. Most assuredly the last time I
will be able to say it. “Yes” he replies, “We’ll wait for your mother”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I figured I could maybe go it alone since my mother wasn’t
already there, and I could possibly get “this” over with. “I had visited grandma just a week ago, I remember what the woman looks like.” My mind reeling again.
I grab a pamphlet from a kiosk and sit with it. “How To Cope With The Loss Of A
Loved One” reads the pamphlet. The literature drags me through a roster of pitfalls
in dealing with death. I get it. I’m ready.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother arrives, the soft spoken man leads us to the
basement, and it hits me: This is the same funeral home Evan and I impatiently
waited in our Sunday best outfits for our grandfather’s viewing of the body.
The same church-scented air wafting through open space, I can’t help but scowl
in its presence like revisiting an old enemy. I immediately regret coming back
to this place. My veins course with fear stricken intimidation, I almost freeze
in place and resist the march to the basement.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Descending onto the room, that same couch standing there, I
feel everything- the air, the absence of sound, the dark walls, the vampiric
curtains, my mother’s ease with the entirety of it all, and my own heart…
beating slower and slower. This is it, this will be my mind’s undoing. All the
anxiety, sadness, and deflation of the past 24 hours will come to a complete
epoch in this next moment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything will rage, and I can feel it already stirring.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Standing in the room, every cell of me wants to run. The
soft-spoken man opens a door to another room. “You can take time to process in
here. Through that door, there is a hallway, she is there.” Respectfully, he
exits.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother goes in first, I follow close after. And here it
is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The crying is uncontrolled at first, as my eyes fill,
release and repeat. I look up and away, but the reality of her is inescapably
chasing me down. Her body demands my eyes. I acquiesce. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have loved no one more than this woman. I have loved no
one as uniquely as I have loved this woman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To me, she was and will always be the truth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For her life, I would give my own. And bearing all of this
in a hallway next to her lifeless body is a pressure my soul is crumbling
beneath.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ground shakes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The walls move.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I recall my mother, not asking, but telling me to reach out
and touch my grandfather’s arm or hand during his viewing of the body. I thought
her to be a mad woman. I reached out to touch his arm, as my uncles and aunt,
one by one kissed him gently on the forehead. I wanted nothing more than to get
“it” over with. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But here. There is no evading the circumstance through
innocence, youth or naivety. Everything in me and around me is shaking
violently, and I cannot make it stop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My vision blurs. The tears continue to pour.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whatever my mother is saying goes mute beneath how loudly my
grandmother’s body is filling the hallway. Against every fiber, cell and ounce
of blood in me, I take a step toward her… and another… and another, until I am
standing next to her. I reach my left hand out, and touch her forehead. And it disappears.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time stops. The walls pause. My tears hault. Everything
ceases.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In this is the purest moment I have ever felt in my life.
She is with me, she is everywhere, and she is in me. Carol wanted nothing of
the pageantry of drama or over doing anything. She had mastered the simplicity
of joy. Her daily practice was compassion and not holding concern for which she
could not control. She was peace… and in this moment, she is giving me that.
The tears would run again while entering my car in the parking lot outside of
the funeral home, but in this pristine moment as I am touching her forehead on
this final day before she is cremated, there is pure and simple peace… and she
continues to giving it to the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The scene mirrored that of Doc’s where she didn’t look to be
herself. Something foreign about her face- something that wasn’t her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother dialogued for a few seconds. The tears subsided
for the moment. I kissed my hand and placed it on her forehead once more. “Ok”
I said. “It’s time”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We exited the hallway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once caught in the folds of the hallway, the undulating
walls and thick air, I thought I’d never want to leave my grandmother’s side.
But now, the peace swimming through me… it spoke too clearly. It was time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I returned to my car, and wept for what felt like an eternity.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I called Evan later that day. We talked about the passing.
There was a calmness in the tone of his voice. He had visited her hours just
after she passed away at the intensive care unit. Seeming unwavered in his
posture, a part of me presumes it to be his experience of losing his father,
and parts of me believe it’s because he has to be. Each of us plays a role in
our family, and everyday I’m finding the connections between us are infinite. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Carol meant life to me. Now, she means that and more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was just a week ago she was playing with her great grand-daughter
cracking jokes and telling stories of Doc’s uncles and aunts. But now… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Departing with Carol wasn’t the same as departing Doc’s
viewing of the body. With Doc, even my younger mind was able to grasp that
something was entirely unfinished with him, like the adventure had several more
chapters to it. Again, it’ll take a lifetime for me to understand what that all
means. However, with Carol, she knew- She was aware when death was upon her,
and what it meant. She left everything behind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before her passing, and now after it, she means the world to
me. And as sad, loud and heavily it weighs upon my heart, we must carry her
legacy to the best of our ability and potential as a family. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
To Carol. I’ll see you again someday. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With love, and nothing less than my heart,<o:p></o:p></div>
Always your grandson, Toussaint Morrison<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-17405943641514395912015-01-05T16:32:00.002-08:002015-01-05T16:35:40.878-08:00Sociology At Night<div class="MsoNormal">
The Kitty Cat Klub perches with deep velvet colored décor
and vampiric lighting. It had been some time since I’d performed a show there,
however it felt like home. The placement of lights in the dark- always the true
mark of a well versed venue. It reminded me of the Blind Pig in Ann Arbor, MI.
Regardless of the time of day, it always felt like night. I feel that way about
the Kitty Cat Klub.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Brock and I had texted a few times earlier that night to
meet at a house party yonder. Collecting my cash, and gathering the merch, I
hit the door for my car. Already wounded, leaking coolant from a tube near the
manifold, Honda was running on 70 to 60%. The single-digit temperature saw to
it the engine didn’t immediately overheat until 10 minutes into the drive. I
hopped in and made my way to the house party Brock was already in attendance. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stepping in, the apartment delivered a similar ambiance to the
Kitty Cat Klub. Wax candles melted to their placeholders, tie dye patterned
cloth draped along the wall, the look of a domain of holistic healing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We sat and watched the television for what felt like 10
minutes, but in real-time clocked over an hour. Brock leaned back in a vintage
cream-colored chair across the room, while Hannah and her friends lounged the
couch producing multi-colored clouds hovering eye-level.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Time blurred to what felt like a slow crawl, but was
creeping on 4am at this point. The ambiance and conversation (or lack thereof)
almost put me to a slumber. Bordering on half-asleep, I recognized a sound
persisting from the television. An annoying bright whine from its speakers beat
into the air like an injured car alarm. Turning to the television set, I
realized it was now the 3<sup>rd</sup> Iggy Azalea music video Hannah had
playlisted. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ahh, she’s so bad”, I said without filter. “She’s a musical
genius” crooned Brock. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hannah quickly pointed out the “genius” in Iggy reproducing
the movie Clueless into one music video, and that this particular work of hers
was brilliant. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I nearly gagged. I don’t smoke. I don’t smoke anything, not
cigarettes, not weed, not crack, not anything. And I never have. But if there
were ever a high I was experiencing, it had been at the moment, and was
currently being ruined. Yes, my high was getting ruined, and I was going to
defend myself to the highest degree.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you serious, right now?” I asked Hannah. I continued, “Iggy
is appropriation in a bottle. That’s not even the way she talks- it ain’t her
voice. She has a song where she says “when the relay starts, I’m a runaway
slave master”. The woman is ridiculous!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hannah retorted, “ She is the best white female rapper out
there, right now”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This portion of the debate could have been perceived as
civil, and most definitely would have if I hadn’t held Ms. Azalea so near and
dear to my heart. However, Brock began declaring that her business model is
flawless.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Her manager is T.I.! He’s a minstrel on a VH1 reality tv
show where they exploit the fact that his wife can’t read. He’s on record
saying people need to get over race!?!?” I slammed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The tie dye’s on the walls began spinning counter clockwise,
while the music from the television speakers seemed to climb in treble- daring my ears
to bleed, whilst the resin in the carpet started swimming with the rest of the
inanimate objects on the ground. This is what it must feel like to think you’re
going crazy. Looking up, I’d realized what I just said and that no one was
going to empathize with the term “minstrel” or “appropriation”. I was screwed,
and I just did it to myself. The discussion could end there and we could go on
speaking of our Top 5 rappers of all time and make a civil love-in of it… But
hell no. <i>Once a brown guy in a room full of white people brings up appropriation…
he’s solidified his place as “that guy” and will be given no such leniency to
be anyone else.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hannah held a calm face just as Brock and I hit a pause in
our exchange. “Toussaint, it doesn’t have to be about race” she soothed. Ok,
maybe she has a point. Maybe it can be the fact that our opinions just differ
on the talent-level of Iggy Azalea and we can agree to disagree. “I just treat
human beings as human beings. I don’t see a black person or a white person, I just
treat people like people”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you stood close enough, you might’ve been able to see several
atom bombs mushroom cloud in the reflection of my eyes. About my tired and
sedated brain, a committed voice took over. There would be no helping anyone in
this room to learn more about me, sociology, appropriation or hip-hop for that
matter. It would be only one way, and that is mine. It was at this succinct
moment in time that I knew I was going to say exactly what little to no people
have told Hannah throughout her lifetime… and although it might mar her future for
dialogue regarding race, I simple gave nil fucks at this juncture. I would be
selfish, I would be fed up, and I would have none of what she just said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oooohhh, I live in a post-racial world! I’m Jerry Garcia’s
daughter, and I don’t have to see race because everything is fine and Disney” I
sarcastically played about, and continued “Are you kidding me? Racial disparity
in this city alone is top 3 in the country, and you’re going to sit here and
refute a fact of socio-economics with me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
… “You can leave” Hannah pierced with slight head jerk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Gladly” I responded immediately. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once she claimed that she doesn’t see race (skin tone), I
knew my response was going to be followed with an exit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grabbed my gloves and hit the road, carried the merch from
the car to my house, and hit the bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
… then it could have ended there, but for me it would not.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My stubborn, die hard, brick thoughted, (insert more here if
you’d like), incredulous self, insisted on making a facebook post about the
incident- <i>because that’s what you do when
you can’t have the moment any more, you look to the internet to revive the
already dead corpse of the conversation.</i> I thought nothing of it, until
waking at the crack of noon, several hours later. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Checking my phone, I was notified there had been 15+
comments on said post. To my chagrin, I feared the commentary were to be barbs
calling for my head, or worse yet, my social credibility. Alas, the comments
referenced my use of the phrase “white privilege”… however after the 3<sup>rd</sup>
contribution, the commentary turned in on itself like a self-loathing Cerberus.
A litany of verbal shots and slashes marked the post to a literary clash of
clans. People were now calling each other out, passively exercising low-blows
and cuts that strayed further and further away from the post’s initial intent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had created a monster.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I zoomed out from the facebook page, scrolled to my newly acquired
Boom Beach app game and began to liberate islander slaves held captive by the
Hammerman army. It was easy. I could turn away from the facebook commentary
collision just like that and pretend it didn’t exist. I wouldn’t think about
the commentary for the rest of the day... or until I had to deal with human beings again. Surely someone would stop me later to ask "Just what the hell was going on with that post you made yesterday/today?"<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Regardless of the post, the discussion or experience of race is a life long dialogue for me. I once heard a man of color quoted "asking me not to deal with race is like asking me not to swim while I'm drowning."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Going back to Hannah’s apartment, Brock sitting across the
room, the white women perched on the couch sedated and subject to a non-white
guy clamoring of appropriation & white privilege… it must feel nice to tell
him to leave the room soon as his words got under your skin- soon as he struck
a personal nerve ending that wouldn’t be satisfied until he got the hell outta
sight. The room could go back to its peace and not have to discuss a single
article of race, let alone think of it. I wondered if it felt anything like
zooming out of an online commentary and switching to the next app…<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-5901294058669119452014-10-30T12:14:00.001-07:002014-10-30T12:22:13.366-07:00Paul & I Are Going To Arm This Laser Cannon, And Then I'll Tell You "I Love You"<div class="MsoNormal">
It was the alien invasion one again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It starts at night- it always starts at night- and it never
turns to daylight no matter how much time spans throughout the dream. Daylight
is not welcome. Christ, if only once there were sunlight during these things,
there’d be the off chance I’d wake up knowing immediately that the pending
death resting overhead like a mothership wasn’t actually real. I’d be able to
differ the lucid and reality even before I woke up. Alas, the alien invasion
dream has never operated on such terms.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It begins at what seems to be an outside bon fire in a cabin
district. My family and I sit outside of our home log cabin, where seemingly the
dozen of us all live- <i>The damn thing is
tiny and barely looks to fit a honeymoon, but apparently dreams make space for
the incomprehensible</i>. My friend and old co-worker from the Old Spaghetti
Factory, Paul, is there for what seems to be perfectly natural in him joining my
family. Ok, first indication this is not reality- Paul joining my extended
family for a bon fire in the cabin district. But no, I’m still suspended in
belief that this is real.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The aliens never show themselves. It’s never a “boo” or a
hop out from behind the bush with a laser cannon- it’s a known. Our dinner
round the campfire dissipates under the general understanding that “Oh shit, it’s
about that time. The aliens are coming.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A television lights up in the cabin with news reports of what
we already know… because we’re psychic like that. The first to leave are my
uncle Dave and his house members. His wife and kids somehow scurry into the
bushes like snipers blurring with the background. Myself, Paul and my
mother have no such skills. My sister and her husband go ninja vanish into the
night air, while Paul and I remember the giant DIY laser cannon, the aliens left
behind from the last invasion, is in the cabin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I should remind you
that I’ve only had this dream one other time, and I distinctly remember this
device being left behind from the last invasion.</i> Poor suckers, Paul and I
were going to set this bitch off and give these bastards a taste of their own
medicine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dragging the device near the fire, it looks to be an
oversized propane tank. The liquid inside is yellow from the tint of the
see-through shell, while the bottom half is pure metal with a vent outlying. Of
course Paul muscles the thing to what he believes is the this-side-up way of
setting it. “No, look at the directions, dammit Paul!” I yell. I look at the
device closely. Broken English written backwards appears on the shell of it. <i>One of two things is happening now- I can
read alien, or the alien’s written language is that of backwards broken English</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mind you at our moment of deciding which half is the bottom
of the device, motherships are floating 400m overhead. Their lights bursting at
the sight of earth’s surface dwellers, ready to colonize our cabin district, I
fumble with the alien device and bump the top (or what I believe is the top)
nozzle and it turns out of its own volition. It speaks to me where only I can
hear it, Paul stands by. “Device now on, get ready for detonation” it murmurs.
I hated the device now. We stored the damn thing from the last invasion, held onto it like a gun bestowed from Jesus in case the 2<sup>nd</sup> coming were to arrive, and this is how it repays
me- in a miscommunicative nozzle nudge that’s now going to take me along with
it in its detonation. <i>Born for one thing: to shoot a lazer skyward.</i> For a
moment, Paul and I stand next to the device, now pointing up at the motherships
hovering above, and feel a sense of union.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Elizabeth Kubler-Ross said patients on their death bed
have the profound ability to say “I love you” unfiltered with 100% compassion
and presence. Living under the presumption you’ll live another day, confuses
the words and intent. If it all went down tomorrow- fuck it, if it were to all
go down in a few seconds I’d be able to look a few folks in the eye with
undoubted contrition and say “I love you”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Knowing we were about to go down with an alien laser cannon
detonation, Paul and I didn’t say “I love you”, we just stared at the
oversized-propane-tank looking device like it were a newly attached limb to our
body- a necessary heart or artery soon to explode. We needed it, but it would
be our undoing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A yellow hue glows from the rim of the cannon. “You have 5
minutes” it murmurs in a female robotic tone of synthetic voice. The kumbaya
moment shatters, Paul and I make a fucking break for it. He, one way; I, the
other with my mother who was apparently somewhere nearby the entire time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I run alongside my mom, who hobbles in stride with me. She’s
keeping up amazingly well for the age of 60-something. Others, from the cabin
district, scurry in our direction, passing us up, bumping into my mother. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Long jumping down a staircase, my mother and I are sprinting atop a portion of the cabin district made from wood bridges, pathways and
steps. <i>I easily adopted the underground
Goblin Village from The Hobbit movie as the backdrop for this in the recess of my mind. </i>Her
leg goes through a faulty board while running down a staircase. People are in
full sprint, now. The swarm of humans coast around us like flooding
waters would a tree trunk. We’re stuck- well my mother is stuck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s at this moment I realize the world is going to end. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing is going to matter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That damn device is going to fire off and take out at least
one of the alien ships… but not enough to stop the rest of them from colonizing
our planet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The interstellar foreigners will whitewash our history from the
galaxy, and not a single fucking thing will be remembered of the silly humans
that thought they had a grasp on this thing called life and imperialism. We’ll
be forgotten.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that’s ok.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What isn’t ok, is if I leave my mother stuck in a floorboard
before it all goes down. We’ll be forgotten, but I won’t forget this moment. I can
make a break for it and suffer the world’s end for a few seconds more… alone,
or I can suffer it a few seconds less
and help my mom up and try to keep up with the crowd.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I choose the latter. She springs up, almost damn near twice
as fast than before, and we find shelter in a cabin on the edge of the district
near a body of water.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I peer my eyes open to a room. My room. Sunlight bleeds through
broken shades onto unopened boxes and comic books. The alien invasion is a
dream. Possibly a reoccurring mind-fuck to remind me that nothing is promised,
and someday you might have to tell someone you truly love them when the time
isn’t called for.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the apocalypse strikes, bless it, nothing is going to matter
after it goes down. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, for now, a few things matter to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-51790940686368061882014-09-08T14:00:00.002-07:002014-09-08T15:14:01.448-07:00Deal Breaker: When Talking About Race With Your Significant Other Leads To Resentment<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I recently wrote a
song titled “<a href="https://toussaintmorrison.bandcamp.com/album/edo" target="_blank">Kolvoord Startburst</a>”. In it, there is a short story I rap over a
single verse. A few friends asked me about it, so I’d like to put it in prose.
It’s been awhile… for me and prose, but I’m going to give it my best. And
furthermore, hopefully bring you stories as frequently as I once did.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a time one of us would have said we were in love.
And then there was a time where the other would’ve said we were in love. Our
timing was often so off that it played like a game of love only while the other
hates… <i>now change roles</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a Minnesota Saturday, just like any other, we
strolled about the Walker Sculpture Garden speaking of the future and places we’d
love to visit. I’d always admired her for the stretch of her imagination beyond
the small town-demeanor of the Midwest. Chicago is nice, but what about Ibiza-
Segovia- Tokyo? Nothing was out of grasp, everything was attainable… it felt
like sometimes, when you were with her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As couples do during talks of the future, they get the
talking about themselves. <i>The dialogue
can go one of several thousand ways- civil, resentful, futile, simple, basic,
etc. </i>How the conversation turned into what it was- well, I’ll never quite
remember how it got there, but I can tell you about the surge of blood and serotonin
that occurred as a result. I can tell you about the realizations that color
your brain as the words pierce deeper into your pride & principles as a
man. And sadly, I can tell you about the denial that you’ll blanket over the
wound as the quickest means to healing- <i>healing
in the sense of duct tape over a severe laceration. It covers the injury now,
but gives no means for long term rehabilitation.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I believe one should
ask themselves everyday “How did we get here?”… as well as couples. The question
is fair, and therefore the answer will be fair as well. “Fair” does not mean
kind or nice, it simply means it will balance what there is that needs
balancing, and if there is something completely out of whack, the answer will
bring about some clarity.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After discussing visitable cities across the globe, we
turned to our jobs. She had previously visited my job as a youth worker at the
West 7<sup>Th</sup> Community Center in St. Paul. And after watching a litany of
bi-racial youth, from a low income neighborhood, jump about the outdoor
festival we had thrown, we- obviously- began talking about ourselves. Her
curiosity and intrigue from the West 7<sup>Th</sup> visit spun her to monologue
a streamline of consciousness...<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I mean, it must be so confusing for them [bi-racial
children]. Who do they ascribe to? Are they white- are they black? Do black
children accept them or do the white kids?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I interrupted briefly, “Well, my sister wrote a paper about
this when she was in high school, because her and I are-"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I mean, I can’t imagine how tough that must be, and the
picture of a family like that”, her consciousness continued vocally.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The tone turned from intrigue to pity for bi-racial youth.
Unto this day, I can’t say verbatim how the conversation went from there, but I
can tell you standing in the eye of someone you love while they question your existence
as a person of color- there is no better way to break a heart. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I held my breath… because holding your breath isn’t half as
painful as biting your tongue.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She continued on as if I wasn’t there. Although she knew I
was there, she didn’t know she was speaking to a bi-racial man that came from
the exact family picture she held in question. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Yes, it’s now appropriate
to ask yourself, “How the fuck did we get here?”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was, in every sense of the word, defeated. I shamed myself
felt most of all because I couldn’t find the words or timing to explain to her
that what she said had hurt more than any deliberate attack of racially charged
chutzpah. So, there we were. A blonde gal and a brown guy slowly disintegrating
amidst the fertilizer in Walker Sculpture Garden.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later on, I’d try to drive home all the sociological points
I knew to be true, but she would have none of them. The simple nature of
speaking against her misinformation was insulting for her… And it was then, I
realized I could not have children with this woman. As awesome and kind hearted
she could be, there was no way in this universe that I’d allow it. Because if
it happened to happen, I might one day have to sit a bi-racial kid down and
explain to her (or him) why mommy just said some over the top racially charged phrasing.
<i>If you can avoid that conversation, do
it.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then came the shame. Questions of “You’ve been with her over
a year, how did I not know she felt like this about people of color?”, “How
have we not had this conversation yet?”, and “Was the West 7<sup>th</sup>
Community Center relative to Fear Of A Black Planet?!?!?!” My psychi tumbled
until I made it stop. I told myself it was a fluke. We went on for 6 more
months and then broke up. I resented everything from that point on, and will
say not a shred of it was worth it beyond the sculpture garden. Sometimes you
have to find out, to understand what’s at stake for you in the future… that’s
my hope.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Furthermore, beyond her and I, much of the city- much of
hip-hop in Minneapolis withheld the same misinformation as her. And so, I was
to continue into a community of artists and people that I’d have to manage to
have the same conversation with. Some hold it better than others- some are
willing to remove personal insult from it and take the reality for what it is (that
we don’t live in a post-racial society), and some have been able to sit down,
have a beer, and hold a civil exchange. What I learned that day in the Walker
Sculpture Garden, is that she might never have to have the conversation again,
and lord willing I hope not. But, that conversation- whether with friends,
cops, significant others, or even family- will be inescapable for me for the
rest of my life… and I wouldn’t have it any other way.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-87555326041814389842014-06-02T05:24:00.000-07:002014-06-02T05:29:00.892-07:00Missing Patrick<div class="MsoNormal">
Upon a weekday morning somewhere between Tuesday and
Thursday, the three of us walked from the showers to the Richfield Middle
School pool. Patrick, Bryce and I begrudgingly made a slow strut to the damn
cold pool for a morning swim practice at an ungodly hour only stock brokers,
coffee shop openers, and swimmers were privy to suffer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was my first morning practice in months, so I didn’t mind
the extreme circumstances. However, for Patrick and Bryce, they had been
attending morning practices the entire season. How they managed to fit school
and a social life into a season full of two-a-days was beyond me. I didn’t have
the threshold to love the sport and endure 6am practices at the same time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sun still rising, the city still asleep, Patrick stood
at the edge of the pool- a tall, lanky sophomore with a gift to gab and a
butterfly stroke to merit a state top-10 ranking, he made the toughest practice
look easy. “Hey, Bryce. Know why swimming sucks more than every other sport?”
he said while snapping his goggles into place. Bryce slugged at the edge of the
pool, stretching/stalling before jumping in. “No, I don’t know why” Bryce
returned. “Because you don’t have to jump into a cold pool at 6 in the morning”
Patrick punchlined, sprung up from the edge of the pool and cannonballed into the
deep end.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whatever pain and patience the pool asked of us, we gave it.
We swam for the city of Minneapolis that year, representing South High School.
We were the last great swimmers the city would ever see, and a year removed
from the greatest swim team (1998 – 1999 Minneapolis South H.S.) to ever
compete for Minneapolis. It was the final year before all the public high
schools would be collectively mashed closer and closer to one another until it
was one swim team amongst all the schools. <i>This was large in part due to the
school board’s lack of funding, ability to recognize athletics as a prominent
aspect of education, and overall inability to perform their job... but I digress.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pushing and pulling through a 3000yd+ practice, Patrick may
have joked on the deck, but his actions spoke differently in the pool. He and
Bryce seemed to be somewhat of training partners throughout that final swim
season. The monotony of staring at a straight, tiled line on the bottom of a
pool can make a modern man go insane. We leaned and fell upon each other for
the inspiration to keep competing, more than we would admit then. Without Bryce
or Patrick for my senior season, I don’t believe I would’ve ever qualified for the
state meet that year. They set a bar and example beyond words or school pride.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Almost a decade later, 2010, Patrick passed away for circumstances
unknown to me. I can’t say I was close friends or even a strong acquaintance to
him, but there was a time we were teammates… and that was all it took to reduce
me to a puddle of salty tears and uncontrollable weeping when I received the
news of his death. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s 2014, and I still miss him… as much I miss the comradery
and foundation of swimming with your best friends and teammates for seasons at
a time.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-42125508644821469212014-03-10T12:07:00.001-07:002020-05-17T16:07:04.854-07:00Unleashed The Dragon<div class="MsoNormal">
A team of young gents decided to take on the costumes of
super heroes for Hamline University’s International Dodgeball competition. They
were down to two competitors in the 2<sup>nd</sup> round of their game versus
the Rag Tags. <i>I wouldn’t assume their
team name was the Rag Tags, but due to the amount of tattoos, lean muscle, and
gray hairs, they had the look of an aging gang from The Warriors.</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had the time, as I waited with my team to compete in the
championship round. The Rag Tags were down to one player against the two
costumed super heroes. A lone 40-something year-old woman with a dark shirt and
yoga pants steadied herself on the short side of the court ready for the heroes
to unleash, what they hoped would be, the final throws to out her from the
game. When a team is down to one member, the rules state that the opposing team
can cross the middle line to a red line that marks ¾ of the court. Least to
say, the 40-something was in dire straits. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her dexterity maneuvered her through the first onslaught of
three dodge balls from the teen-boys. They were all high- the woman literally
matrix’d back, leaning to her tailbone, bending both knees in an awkward
position and then rolling over back to balance. The teen titans regathered
slower than molasses. They reloaded for what felt like the length of a Will
& Grace episode, and returned to the red line. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see, the Rag Tags were up a round on the costume
crusaders, so if this 40-something woman were to oust the young gents, she’d
have won the game for her team of tattooed dodge ballers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The teen-boys, lethargic in their pursuit, made a
game-ending mistake. The kid dressed in superman tights, dawning superman
underwear over them, took his sweet-ass time to wind up his throw. Just as he
prepped back, he hesitated. <i>Poor sucker,
I couldn’t feel bad for him by the time he’d realized he’d been moving too slow
for the game.</i> She’d already unleashed a small ball high enough to dodge,
but superboy was already caught in his own fear of missing. He’d dismissed the
fact that she’d had a cannon on her, and as the small ball pegged him in the
elbow, he stood there for a moment. It looked that his brain was lagging behind
the actual real-time event. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Super-teen dropped his head, looked off to the upper-right,
shamed himself with a small murmuring from his lips, the crowd cheered… and before
we (the audience) even knew it, the woman had unloaded the final blow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s important to take note, here, that these people didn’t
just mosey into a dodgeball tournament on a Sunday in the middle of St. Paul
for absolutely no reason. They’d entered with intent and the deliberate goal to
end every other team against them. So, there would be no reason to throw a
middle-aged woman to the wolves unless she was able to wipe the smirk off your
presumptuous face with a foam ball across the jaw.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wearing an X-Men t-shirt, super-boy’s compatriot was the
last one standing on his team. His prep was even slower, he’d reacted so poorly
that the woman had enough time to grab another ball, wind up and release. By
the time he realized what the hell was going on… he was out. She struck him
with the same blow that had taken out super-teen beforehand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The crowd erupted in absolute hysteria.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt compelled to run out and do cartwheels until my arms
gave out, grown men jumped up and down as if the Vikings had just surprisingly
won the super bowl (or anything), the other festively dressed teams fist pumped
and gathered round the woman. Her team began cheering a chant that seemed
pre-scripted before the game. And as the super-teens pathetically lowered their
heads in a state of disbelief, and other teams hoisted her into the air
cheering her, you could think nothing outside of how much that could make
someone’s month, let alone year. Any of us would be privileged to blast two
super-hero dressed 19-year olds out of a dodgeball competition… at any point of
our lives.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-60225015637357175152014-03-02T13:29:00.000-08:002014-03-02T14:30:44.595-08:00A Missing Element To The Rhyme Scheme<div class="MsoNormal">
Cast deep into the back of the Spyhouse on Hennepin Ave,
across the street from Fifth Element, we sat at the room’s center table. His
girlfriend checked in and out on her phone while he and I wrote the final 4-bar
exchanges for a song. In what felt like two hours, but was only a half, we
finished the final verse of our song. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wrapping up, he asks “So… why are you letting me… even be on
this?” <i>This, meaning the mixtape.<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was an obvious question, and should have been a given
before we sat down to go to work. I stand absolutely nothing to gain by letting
some kid from the burbs feature on a project of mine. I could’ve easily reached
out to collaborate with a more staple name and brand, but it might’ve gone
redundant in the features already amassed on the past mixtapes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What it comes down to is the kid's brimming with potential talent. and if I throw my name in the hat of assholes who have limited his
opportunities, then I’m no better than the whitewashed hip-hop elitism coursing
through Minneapolis already.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Good question…” I watched my words carefully. This isn’t a
question I wanted to answer, because I knew if asked, I’d be cornered into a
brutally honest response which I wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear. “After I
taught the workshop you participated in, you reached out to me to feature on
your song. I turned it down. So, figured to put the offer out there to
collaborate on this, because when I was in your position, I emailed, called and
reached out to artists in town as well- to maybe open up for them at a show,
feature on a track, or something, anything. I’d reach out to a lot of artists
for help and support, when I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing… and hardly any of them ever got back to me. Begrudgingly, every single one of them that didn’t
get back to me… I never forgot. This city is the exact opposite in regards to
what I’ve experienced in other artist communities. In Brooklyn, we’d
collaborate, exchange numbers, commiserate, give each other guidance. In
Milwaukee, everyone is seemingly down to offer help, or willing to book you for
something at the drop of a hat. But here… it’s this.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p>Detail wasn’t necessary at this point. We had an
understanding of the “this”. I forwent the racial connotations, did delve into
the politics, and left it at a point of “it’s up to you”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Regardless of another community’s proactivity toward
assisting artists, Minneapolis might damn near break your spirit to take
another stage. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If this kid has any sense he’ll either remain in town to make
the scene a better place than it already is… or run. If he wasn’t white, I’d
advise him to take up the latter.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-47717527451695785942014-02-23T11:17:00.000-08:002014-02-23T11:17:37.919-08:00Fifth Grade Guns<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I was in 5<sup>th</sup> grade when my first classmate was shot to death. He
was a year younger than me and had the grave misfortune of discovering his
parents’ handgun. Playing with it, he mistakenly shot himself in the head and
died instantly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The school response met with a few tears shed from
teachers while they thought the students weren’t looking, but none more than
that. There was no candle light vigil for the poor Mexican kid from a rock
bottom-income& government neglected neighborhood. We, the students simply
went on about our lunch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Benny was his name. I’ll never fucking forget it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
-</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Years later, I’m fifteen sitting on a bus bench outside
of Riverside Plaza waiting to be taken home by the city bus on a hot summer
afternoon. I began recollecting Benny for some strange reason. The moment
sufficed it, or rather demanded it. I simply submitted to it. Sometimes I
can negate a thought or memory at will, but in this state, it just seemed like
the right time to think about him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A drunk East African kid swung wildly at the air while
talking with his friends, emulating a past fight where he had knocked someone
out. They passed around a 40 in a brown bag, notoriously intoxicated during the
day- if they had been white, this close to campus, you would’ve thought the
Gophers had won something. Alas, it was the side of campus the middle-class has
begrudgingly titled the “crackstacks” or the “ghetto in the sky” where no
Gopher victory would warrant the toss of a single piece of confetti.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
An old friend, B, crept from the right side of the bus
stop accompanied by an older gentlemen wearing a tank top. I hadn’t seen this
friend in about a year, but he had somehow grown several inches within the
lapse of time. The older gentlemen next to him looked to be on something and
severely agitated to a steaming repressed anger. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“B, I don’t like the way these niggas is lookin’ at me”
the older man said to B. He was referencing the drunk East African kids on the
bus bench.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“My brotha, my nigga, you got somethin’ for me to drink
my nigga?” the braggadocio leader of the drunkards asked B and the older
gentleman. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The older gentleman with the tank top postured himself
slowly- ever so slightly leaning back like a serpent. He lifts his shirt to
reveal a large pistol tucked into his already sagging pants. How this man was
able to even walk halfway down the block without grabbing a hold of the damn
contraption, is beyond me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The sun gleamed off of the pistol handle. It seemed to
nearly inch past his belly in size, giving evidence that the damn thing could
fire off a bullet the size of a bowling ball. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I froze. My head reeling from what would actually happen
if this man were to air out these East African kids in broad daylight. Surely,
he’d have to kill all the witnesses (me) and make a break for it. The equations
and possible scenarios sped through my mind, until… I stood up, held my breath,
and sat down on the curb closer to Palmer’s Bar, still in sight of the bus if
it came.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I began to cry. My psyche buckled under my own mortality
and that of everyone else within shooting range. Wiping my tears from my 15
year-old face, I began to shame myself for emoting such a response. I thought
myself into a pep talk of “toughen up you pussy!” and other motivational
phrases you’d possibly hear from an alcoholic football coach.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The bus arrived. I hopped on, sat down, and stared out
the window ruminating of what I’d do with the rest of my time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
-<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Years later, at a party on the south side, I ran into a childhood friend of mine named
Carmont. I hadn’t seen him in what felt like
four-plus years, although it had most likely been one year, we commiserated on
life after high-school over keg beer in a basement. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Chatting for awhile, Carmont divulged that he’d come into
a sizeable amount of cash after running drugs over the summer. “Isn’t that
dangerous?” I naively asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Carmont grinned ear to ear, “Na, nigga. All I’d have to
do is post up on said corner and deliver. Simple.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I immediately began to fathom a summer of drug running, and
the potential thousands of dollars I could make. Silly 19 year-old Toussaint.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“But… “ Carmont interrupted my moment, “One night, I saw
a nigga get fuckin’ shot in the face”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My dreamscape faded to reality, “Wait, what?!?!” I
replied. “How the hell did that happen?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Was on the corner one night. Niggas rolled up with the
window down and just pop pop pop! Was all I heard, and this nigga went down… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
… It’s funny though, cos’ when you hear a gun go off that
close to you, it dudn’t sound like it does in the movies. Sounds like muffled
cannon, you know like the ones at Fort Snelling.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Whatever small notions or presumptions I’ve had about
guns throughout my life have all been grave underestimates. And I accept that I’ll
never understand the need to wield one.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-45387994854348257332013-09-17T11:32:00.000-07:002013-09-17T14:38:08.621-07:00Big Math, Bad Numbers 4: The Prick & The Photographer<div class="MsoNormal">
Metal clanged and squeaked as our bus tumbled downhill to
the North Central Avenue of Duluth. Double Bogey (our bus) must have been akin
to Keith Richards in that it looked to be knocking on deaths door at every
angle of its appearance, but somehow defied reality and all logic by living/driving
on. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/TheBlend" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">The Blend</span></a>, my band, was on their
last year of motivation to tour as broke and independent as we had been. The
night would prove our final show in Duluth, a cursed and cold town housing the
most recent lynching of an African-American in U.S. history.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It wasn’t the lynching
or blatant prejudice toward people of color that made this our last run to
Duluth. Honestly, the place was just too damn cold.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Arriving to Beaner’s, a warm-lit and well-taken care of
coffee shop, the audience of a dozen or so people waited to either leave once
we started blaring our amps or to stick around to see just exactly what the
hell we were about. Without fail, as in the past several Duluth shows, a young
white guy with his hat flipped backwards persisted in snapping shots with a
high-powered camera worth as much as our drumkit. I’d met him once or twice,
but would only recall his name when seeing it online next to the albums of
live-show pictures he would post. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The show mule’d its way to the finish. We took our cut of
just enough cash to cover half the gas it took to get there, and drove a lonely
path back to Minneapolis in a short bus devoid of heater, full of fading
spirits. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in the city before the night was finished, the
fraternity was abuzz with whatever socialites dared conjure past midnight.
Doug, fatefully nicknamed as Doug E. Fresh by our fraternity chapter, always
held an open door at the house. Seeking anything other than Duluth, and just
checking to make sure we didn’t drive through a wormhole on the way back to
Minneapolis landing us in an alternative universe where Duluth was the last
town on earth, I stopped by Doug’s place to chat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So…”, Doug said mid-conversation, a little confused how to
even phrase what he was about to say, “Where do you get your money from?” It
was an honest question, admirable in a way as Doug isn’t really the type to
break etiquette and push an off-the-cliff rude natured assumption. More so, it
was understandable. I hadn’t held a full-time job since knowing him, and only
ever really talked of touring with music and theater troupes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I- uhh, I do music… I just travel to different cities and
do shows” I answered. My retort was delivered sheepish as the question was asked.
Doug and I were on foreign water. No one had ever asked me how I make a living
up until that point, but it forced me into an immediate recognition of my
purpose and career. <i>Sadly the two of
these don’t fall into the same pot for some people. I know many to have passion
for a career outside of their job. The fear of stepping into undisclosed
financial waters weighs a Westerner down- down far enough to take on a job
& boss they loathe, but a paycheck that would repress rage from setting
forth.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Checking the internet later, I saw the pictures from the
Duluth show posted on Facebook. They weren’t bad, they looked almost as
expensive as the camera that took them. Click, copy, paste- now, one of’em is
my Facebook profile picture. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No more than five minutes passed- my inbox rang with a new
message. “I appreciate you posting my photo as your new profile pic, but could
you please credit me in the description on the pic? Thanks, Cal Carlyle.” Aha!
The photographer from the show… Cal Carlyle. A name I had forgotten several
times over, but would remember it from now on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Easy enough, I credited his name in the picture, moved on…
but not quite. It tumbled in my mind “Who asks a question like that? Does he
seriously think people will look at my profile pic description and say “holy
shit I wanna hire that guy”? I guess he’s trying to get his name out there, but
what does it matter if I credit him on Facebook (the community enquirer, the
local star, the gossip girl of little to no credibility)?” None of it mattered
no matter how I phrased it. What lurked in the deeper recesses was far more
simple than what I was asking: How did he know I changed my profile pic within
five minutes of it happening? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Months later at a Blend show in Minneapolis, there he was
again surveying our live performance, snapping shots with an even bigger camera
than last. The lens protruded from the camera’s base as if he should be
courtside at a Lakers game more so than our show. It was clear, Cal Carlyle
wasn’t fucking around. Photography was his game, and he made for damn sure you
credited his name. His business grew and flourished online dawning a website of
wedding photos & crisp snap shots from live music shows to beautiful
cityscapes. Between Cal and The Blend, one was swimming above water.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cal Carlyle & I would make acquaintance a few times after
his move to Minneapolis from Duluth; he helped me buy my first camera and
traveled with The Blend on tour to document our life on the road. Time passing,
shows accumulating, audiences growing and dissipating at the same time, Cal’s
name began to dominate the Twin Cities for live show photography. What remained
in the background that most of us musicians didn’t see was his wedding photo
work. A hired photographer can charge a minimum of 3000 for a wedding, while a
live band might make 1000 performing at a festival. <i>Trust me, I was offered it for a festival on the east coast this year,
no flight included.</i> The disparity between the paycheck of a freelance
photographer and a blue collar, independent, unsigned musician is Grand
Canyon-esque, and was clearly out of my mind’s grasp as Cal & I began to
drift apart… in business, and in good standing.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Blend had finished recording its most recent, and what
looked to be final, album “<a href="http://theblendmusic.bandcamp.com/album/breathing-without-a-pulse" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Breathing Without A Pulse</span></a>”. The project lay unmixed
in a northeast studio where I would need at least 2000 more to get it mixed and
mastered, and possibly another 800 to get it printed. I couldn’t kid myself
anymore, the guitarist had vocally expressed his want to leave the group, the
bassist was as elusive as Edward Snowden and the drummer had moved four hours away
from Minneapolis. I had to pull the plug. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Biking from the studio on a ratty 18-speed back to my
apartment, the conversation with Doug bounced off the walls of my skull. If he
had asked me the same question now “Where do you get your money from?”… I would
have no answer for him. Something would have to give, otherwise I’d have to
find a 9 to 5 and put writing on the back burner. I didn’t want to do it, and
me being the stubborn asshole I am, I wouldn’t.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I reached out to Cal for a possible favor to shoot the cover
of The Blend’s final album. We lined up a model and a concept, however the
restaurant I worked at once-a-week called me in at the last minute detaining me
from showing up to the shoot. Cal was pissed, and how could I blame him? I don’t
know a soul that wouldn’t find it distasteful that I’d schedule a shoot at the
same time I was on-call. I could have skipped, but getting fired and losing the
extra hundred bucks a week would’ve pressed me against a wall I had no business
being near in the first place. <i>The shoot
came out ok. However, when “Breathing Without A Pulse” was finally released, I
went with a shot from a <a href="https://twitter.com/Kjworkinger" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">different photographer</span></a> for the cover. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A text shot through the day to twenty some phones… one of which
happened to be mine. I can’t recall the words in the text, but I remember the
picture associated with it: my sister’s left hand with a giant rock tied around
her ring finger. She was engaged… oh, and how we all knew it would be her
before me (I look back, wink, drop on the shades and hit the gas to the motorcycle,
here). As any good brother should do, I posted my congratulations to her and my
future brother-in-law on facebook. In similar fashion to his photo credit
inquiry, Cal Carlyle texted me less than 24 hours later “Never knew you had a
sister? Sooooo, if she happens to need a photographer for her wedding, let me
know.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Always the business man Cal Carlyle was and still is. When
all other options fell off the table, my sister took my advice to check out Cal’s
website and covet him as a potential photographer for the wedding. My sister,
blown away by his work, decided to go with him. The price tag was 2000 or more,
but I knew Cal was worth it. Watching his work evolve over the years was a
privilege and special opportunity I’d never had outside of music. To see an
artist go from college freshmen to being hired year-round as an entrepreneur
was a beautiful thing. <i>Cal relayed a
story to me of how he couldn’t even listen to his photography professors at the
U of MN – Duluth for the sheer fact he knew more than they did. “If I’m sitting
in your class, and I already know more than you about what you’re teaching…
what does that say about you?” Cal exclaimed in a moment of humorous
braggadocio.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Months passed, the wedding still on the horizon, I had
started solo work rapping & singing over mixtapes with an producer/friend
of mine Dr. Wylie. The solo project was reaching across the globe and catching
online momentum faster than I had expected. In need of photography for the
release of the 2<sup>nd</sup> mixtape, I decided to call Cal. He responded via
facebook message- <i>The bane of distancing
yourself from anyone. You want to stay in touch, email. You want to get in
touch, text. But if you want to convey “I don’t really have the time or want to
expend energy on dealing with your ass… So, what’s up?” go with facebook
message. </i>Even without the prompt of facebook messaging, Cal made it clear
his fees were above my head at this point in his career. He simply messaged
that I most likely wouldn’t be able to afford him. “Christ man. Not even a
number- just a “you can’t afford me”. Blasphemy!” I said to myself. I retorted
with “try me”. Cal responded with “700”… and then hours later resent the
initial number with “Actually, not even 700 pays my bills anymore, we’d be
looking somewhere in the 1000 range.” And there it was, the nail in the coffin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Give a man a week and he can come up with a G. It may not be legal or pretty, but given a week a man can get it. The number he threw out
didn’t offend me, it was the condescension. Cal had a natural tone for talking
down whilst talking casually, but this was the first time I could tell he was
speaking it with intent. I cared nothing for it and wanted only to throw cash
in his face like P. Diddy at any club in the late 90’s. To say the least, that
shit hurt- it stung because it was a taste of the world passing you by while you
do your damndest to keep up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cal was a fan from the start. There was no press inquiry or
invite for him to take pics at all The Blend shows he did. He was there because
he dug the music- now, he was anything but. The flight of a photographer during
the plight of a band… it was a beautiful thing to watch both creative trains
pass in the night, one crashing into oblivion, the other off to support a lifestyle,
a family, a future. However, if I’m to become as much a prick as Cal became with
that kind of money & work… then I want nothing of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyone can grab a mic or a camera and self-proclaim
themselves an artist, but it takes talent to be a working photographer or
musician. The devil between the two is the photographer is already an efficient
entrepreneur only having to depend on him or herself, working jobs with one
piece of equipment (a camera), and already at a vantage point for pricing. The
photographer can slip in and out of any environment while chalking up their
client’s tabs. Cal might’ve mistook the opposing natures of music and
photography as something of the same. He could not have been more misinformed.
I responded to his final message “I’ll pass on the thousand-dollar photo shoot.
Hope my sister’s wedding can pay your bills”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Months later at my sister’s wedding, carousing a ballroom
floor in a tux more expensive than my car, I paced from the bar arm-in-arm with
a woman to my right and a whisky-coke on my left. We stopped at a table with a
laptop displaying photos from earlier in the day taken by Cal- He was still
snapping shots throughout the night. “Ooooh, those are beautiful!” the woman on
my arm swooned. She was right. Cal may be a rapscallion son of a bitch, but that
man can take a picture.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-64568779217906830102013-07-28T13:10:00.001-07:002013-07-28T13:10:24.032-07:00It's One Thing To Take A Crap, It's Another Thing To Lie About It<div class="MsoNormal">
The sun blotted out by a hefty overcast, it seemed some kind
of cold front was moving in. According to weather.com it should have rained
several hours ago, but we didn’t give a huffle puff. We’re PMT (Paco,
Morrissey, and Toussaint). <i>Paco and
Morrissey are two young men I mentor and work with for the summer. Since our
inception last summer, we’ve lead a trail of definitive adventure, argument,
and accolade.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Given the option to go to Valley Fair for the day, or wait ‘til
better weather and take it up next week, we opted for the former. Trashed on
overpriced funnel cake, mini donuts, and a sweltering vertigo from the Power
Tower, I am not the man I used to be. There is a time in your life where you
will abandon every activity and action from your childhood, and suddenly be
wrought back to life with the simplicity of swinging on a swing at a park. Soon
after that, your body will revolt with headache, stomach curdling, and
questions of how old you really are. At this point, people usually stop, bid
adieu to the swingset, and revel in content that they at least went back and
tried it once. In hanging out with Paco and Morrissey for my summer job, there
is no going back after that point one usually retreats from. I’ve developed
caluses on my hands holding on the monkey bars too long, a distinct sense of
balance from walking the tops of the swingset to escape during games of
Sandman, and a stomach for any ride this carnival can throw at me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Temperatures dropping to 60-something, we had to depart Soak
City. It was just too damn cold to be dawning a bathing suit and inner-tubing
down lazy river to not get hypothermia. Retreating to the food stand to eat for
a few minutes, our conversation took a sharp turn from the sarcastic-potty-mouth-joke
rants we go on to an actual topic.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Morrissey, what do you think of the hall of fame for
baseball. You think they should let those guys in if they used steroids?” I
asked across the concrete picnic table.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Morrissey is 11 years old, and is a natural when it comes to
baseball. Yeah yeah fn yeah, everybody’s dad says their kid’s a natural at
somethin’, but I ain’t this kid’s dad, and I will be the first to tell you that
an competing athlete is less than talented if they are. However, in Morrissey’s
case, I’ve watched him throw a pool toy ball at a speed that just wasn’t
intended for 11-year olds to be able to do. The kid displaces objects with his
arm through the air at an accuracy I can’t keep up with. Attending one of his
games, a little league style of play with actual pitchers and regional
competition, he smacked the ball every time he stood up to bat. He’s the kid
that pisses off all the opposing-team parents in the bleachers because no
matter what over-hyped suburban talent is pitching to him, there ain’t a damn
thing they can do to get the ball by him for a strike. It’s too early to say if
he’s a phenom, but for now I differ to him for any baseball inquiries.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t think they should be let into the hall of fame,
because y’know- if a guy walks into a bathroom and takes a small crap, then
walks out and tells his team that he took a big crap- y’know- it’s lieng.”
Morrissey casually answered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few moments pass as Paco and Morrissey still eat, while I all of a sudden froze from the answer Morrissey had just given to my question.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Caruthers & Christ” I
thought to myself, molliwhopped at the mere feat of trying to interpret the dialogue that had just gone down.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I processed what Morrissey had said as: a player on
performance enhancing drugs could only exist as a lie. I’d never thought to
interpret lying as more than an instance, whereas Morrissey was suggesting that
the player, the player’s statistics, the physical movement of the player… was
all a lie. There is no part of the player beset in truth long as he is on
PEDs…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, let’s go to the Wild Thing one more time before we
leave” Morrissey announced.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know. The line looks kinda long.” Paco replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I finished my meal and affirmed with myself that I had the
best job in the world… and woulnd’t trade it for anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-25272946227944956022013-07-14T14:58:00.000-07:002013-07-14T14:58:22.222-07:00The Zimmerman Debt<div class="MsoNormal">
A coffee shop will be whatever you want it to be as long as you’ve
paid for something. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He sits with a blue-collar bronzing tan along his arms next
to a Mountain Dew and round of chewing tobacco atop the table in front of him. He
stares at the table with seemingly nothing going on for the Sabbath, but to
partake in being out of the sun for a few hours.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the cash register, a man chats with the barista about the
Zimmerman trial while shuffling about. The chatting man looks stifled and eagerly
discontent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A new customer enters the shop. The barista must bid the
chatting man adieu. Turning his prattle toward the sitting bronzed man, “Yeah
man, I’m from Florida where that boy got shot” says the chatting man.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ya don’t say” replies the sitting man, somewhat endeared he’s
made a new friend aside from his Mountain Dew.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah man, my mom was in a Wal-Mart out there when the
verdict went down and people started flippin’ out. They had to take all of the Caucasian
customers and line them up in the back storage so they wouldn’t get hurt”
continues the chatting man. “Everybody wants to jump to a conclusion y’know.”
He looks over to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a moment I expect he expects me to chime in on his rant.
Perhaps because he and the sitting man are white, and I am not.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sitting man leans back from his table, “Yeahhhh… it’s a
crazy world we live in” he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ain’t it the truth” the chatting man replies, and then
opens the door to exit the coffee shop.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unlike him, I don’t need a publicized act of sociologically
charged injustice spattered across the headlines of every social media to know
America can be whatever you want it to be for the right price. Unfortunately,
for the less privileged, that price is our lives.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-64861385139520498762013-06-30T12:52:00.001-07:002013-06-30T12:52:44.661-07:00The Ride Home With Roger<div class="MsoNormal">
Reception to my T9-embarrassment phone in this basement bar
is non-existent as the Vikings’ Super Bowl ring. It’s just not gonna happen
right now. In the company of Mack, Francis, and Daniel, making crude comments
to each other betwixt talking 90s baseball greats, out of the corner of my eye
a man stumbled into a bar stool in the middle of the floor. I know this man, I’ve
known this man, he’s visibly drunk. It wasn’t a pedestrian-passing move where
it seemed his brain was cognitively avoiding the stool, it was a sliver of a
second that his attention disregarded the presence of the chair. Not acknowledging
an animate object in front of you is forgiveable when moving at a fast pace and
an fng deer jumps out in front of your car, but this was plain-sight action
that couldn’t be regarded as a mistake.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His next movements gather his balance, to which he then
directs himself toward the nearest female. Whereas his face is smiling, the
female’s is not. For a moment, I imagined the two knew each other and just now
ran into each other after searching the bar for minutes on end. In reality, not
my imagination, this is not to be. This woman clearly doesn’t know this man,
and it is now clear that he’s blacked out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Ahhhh yes, that region of the brain one has gone to upon
over-consumption of booze, perhaps just one shot of tequila, or maybe just too
little to eat paired with too much to drink. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What is intangible in this equation of 21+ adults, evening
wear, peanut shells cracked about the bar floor, and spilled alcohol, is the
bond I share with this blacked out gentlemen directing his solar plexus toward
the nearest woman in sight- any woman in sight. Him and I were part of a
fraternity in college, and aside from learning the cliché dos and don’ts of
joining a house, you develop a connection beyond classmate- beyond brougham-
beyond a friend… you bond with them as extended family. <i>We can get into my
entrance to a fraternity, later. Tis another story for another time, but
nonetheless a good story.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, as any brother to the house, I have to take care of this
man and get him the fuck out of the bar ASAP… rocky. The first thing I make
sure of is that he doesn’t get into a fight. If it comes to violence, I will
undoubtedly throw down for him, but it’s the last thing anybody in here wants.
I’ve seen this guy get brazen and it wouldn’t be pretty. Whereas most men talk
until the fight comes to them, this man is the type to throw a hook at your
buddy next to you, kick your other friend in the nuts, and then come after you.
He’s a fighter, and nobody wants the tiger to get out of the cage in a basement
bar. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Roger, buddy, let’s get you outside.” I say to him, tugging
on the underside of his elbow. “Hay hay! Let’s talk to these girls. C’mon, let’s-“
he turns his head to look at another girl, breaking his attention mid-sentence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, racing to the bar’s entrance to exit to my car, where I
can drive this man to his house, Roger paused at the sight of girl’s cleavage
bursting into public eye. The damn things were calling more attention than a
fire truck on the move. Roger places his hand on her back and smiles, she turns
and giggles at the sight. Any longer, and the situation wouldn’t be funny. It
was a novelty. She read the picture of a friend helping a friend to the door of the
bar for reasons of belligerence bordering on the problematic. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Roger, homestyle, we’re almost there. Keep up” I call to
him. He paces away from the girl. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pray now that every woman on our way to this exit is
wearing a turtleneck. Any more cleavage and it’ll take more than me to get
Roger out of here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Vwooosh” goes the entrance door as we barrel into the
sidewalk from the bar. “Hahahahahaaaahahaa! You high yet homie?” Roger says. I
can’t even understand the subject matter this man is inferring. We’ve now left
the black out and are in the Twilight Zone. Beyond drunk, Roger’s mind is in a
floating aquarium of random memory and impulse. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, how do I get to your house?” I ask Ned on the phone.
Ned’s a mutual friend, and was hanging out with Roger earlier in the day before
they all split up. Plus, Ned lives near uptown and would be an earshot away to
drop off Roger and for me to get the f home. “Yeah, we’re near Hopkins” Ned
answers. “Sweet Agatha Fng Christie” I thought to myself. “Ok, just text me the
address, and I’ll be dropping Roger off in 15”. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unable to imagine how far Hopkins was from where we were, I
just began driving in the general direction. “Hahahahahaaaaa, man we high! You
high yet?” Roger bantered. “Could really go for some food. I’m hungry. Hey… hey…
Hahahaaaaaaa!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sheer ridiculousness of him made me snicker a bit. How
can you not laugh at a grown man broken down to sporadic laughter and
obscenity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey… hey… remember her?”
Roger toned down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Her who?” I said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Roger then said a name that I have not heard for a damn long
time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, I remember her.” I said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know what… you know what, man?... She fuckin’ loved you…
a lot” Roger said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And right there, every memory, every story, all the colors
of the past came rushing alongside my car as Roger and I steam rolled to
Hopkins. The recollection of an ex-girlfriend, or someone speaking for them
wrought the past up to speed with us on the highway. Along with the memory,
came every reason why you had to part, why you had to move on, and why you love
your life the way it is now. I could’ve thanked Roger, but he won’t remember
this moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
We coast to Ned’s. I drop him off to where he’ll wake up and
wonder how he got there. They’ll tell him Toussaint brought you, but what they
won’t tell him is that even in his state of blitzkrieg drunken madness, he was
still able to recall a genuine feeling and share that with a friend… making the
ride more than worth it.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5632199894780268939.post-35734851328638493732013-04-28T20:11:00.000-07:002013-04-28T20:11:04.713-07:00Good Night Train Outta Crown Heights<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw him earlier today talking to a brick wall, walking at
the pace of a cripple, taking intermissions to turn his speech toward the
sidewalk… and now, he’s sleeping on the bench next to where I stand. It’s 2am
at the S station in Crown Heights. If you had asked me a month ago that I would
make it this far, I would’ve said “not a chance in hell”, however… apparently I
have a chance in hell… and as well as here standing next to a man sleeping at
the S station at 2:10am. New York is in this man more than anyone I’ve seen
thus far, and vice versa. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The weather’s identity crisis wrought a beautiful 70 degree
mid-afternoon yesterday, and quickly turned to blustery cold speckles of rain
at sundown. This man and I are the only two left awake, it seems, in Crown Heights.
He’s also the only stranger I’ve run into twice at different times during my
stay in Brooklyn. The scene is a surreal living picture, a moment of calm, you
can nearly feel your soul waning from your body and a few centimeters outside
of it. He doesn’t know it, but we’re sharing silence, and even with a complete
stranger, sharing silence is a means of commiseration. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The S station at Prospect Place is a regal one at night,
standing a floor above the street like an urban throne 2<sup>nd</sup> in
command to some higher decree. The S is late… almost 20 minutes late now. Shit,
did I miss it? Corina told me, once the S (southbound) passes you have
approximately 10 minutes until the (northbound) S arrives. It’s damn late, or
maybe I am.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These episodes throw my entire gravity off. I begin
questioning if I’m even at the right station, the time of night- are this man
and I stuck in an eternal limbo to wait for a never-to-arrive S train… guess
I’d be ok with that. Tour for long enough, and you can feel the dissociative disorder
set in- “Where am I?”, “What’s your name again?”, “What day is it?” The details
smear to a gosling gray bearing little meaning and priority to your stage time,
set length, and pay for the night. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can still smell Doylestown, Pennsylvania in my hood.
Performing at one of the last bars to go under the indoor-smoking ban, the room
was a billow of poison with only the clientele to make up for its wrath of
invasive nicotine. The people in Doylestown were damned nice. I’d take 2<sup>nd</sup>
hand for that crowd any day, however later that night I had a dream that I
smoked ¾ of a pack of cigarettes and then cried myself to sleep from shame… in
the dream, not in real life. <i>I’ve never smoked in my life, so you can
imagine the amount of unreasonable drama this dream took a turn for.</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SHHHHOOOOOOM!!!! The southbound S passes, stops, continues
on its trail. It’s now a fact, the northbound S to Laguardia is late. Not me,
just the train. My flight leaves at 6am, boards at 5:30am, the motto is be
there 2 hours early (4am), and it’s now brimming on 2:30am. I’d usually get a
fit of anxiety from the sight of a situation like this, but if google maps is
right, then I’m easy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m beginning to wonder how this guy is sleeping through it
all. The mere mention of living in New York City strikes a chord of
intimidation in even the most adventurous of social butterflies, and this man
doesn’t seem to be bothered by the slightest danger of sleeping at a station
‘til sunrise… outdoors- SHHHOOOOM! The northbound S arrives. Finally. I board.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was something eerie about New Jersey. I couldn’t find
a single coffee shop during the stay there, just beautiful strip malls of
salons, bagel bakeries, and grocery markets. Everyone at the show in Long
Branch, NJ was extremely nice to the point of suspicion. Coming from Minnesota
Nice, I had to question the authenticity of these people’s generosity and good
nature. <i>Horrible, isn’t it. Get raised in
a state of kids taught how to smile while attacking, and you hold everyone
suspect</i>. Na, they had to be good people. Those kids from the band Climax
Race were jolly as you could get for a Tuesday night. Their damn bass player
drunkenly fell off the stage during sound check, skidded across the floor on
his belly like Mario 3, and popped up like nothing had happened, all in stride
to gather something from his bass case and scurry back to the stage. Strangest
part is nobody from the band flinched in the slightest. Shit, that was a
Tuesday too. <i>Again, losing track of the days.</i> SKREEEEEEE!!!!- just like that,
I’m at my stop for the Q. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s cryptic dark in this station, cold too. I drop my bag
to the ground just after its strap began cutting into the side of my neck. 3am,
not bad timing, but am I on the right side of the station to get to the N? When
lost, naturally, I look up. Perhaps to catch a sign or some kind of symbol
that’ll assure me what I’m doing is right. I pause at the sight above me. Stars…
the moon bouncing light directly off a tall warehouse in the distance. There is
no ceiling to this station, hence the dark and cold. Truly geeked by the view,
the picture reminded me of a scene from Final Fantasy VII or Chrono Trigger. <i>Feel free to be utterly disgusted by the
video game reference, and then kindly go screw yourself;)</i> This is a sight
I’ve seen in dreams when I was a kid. The picture would lose its detail as I
moved into adulthood, but I could never forget it. Even at night, this view is
absolutely resplendent. If this voyage had
ever shed any response to every time I thought “wait, what the f*ck am I doing
out here again?” this is it. Entrapped and hypnotized by the sight, like Fievel
fresh off the boat from Russia staring at the sight of America, it took a
minute to pull away- wait, no “N” on these signs. <i>I would find my way to the N on the other side of the station and ride
what I dubbed as the “good night cloud train” atop Queens and Astoria to the
bus stop for Laguardia. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is hard… to say goodbye. Corina and I literally crash
coursed the country on an epic journey starting in Austin, TX, trekking all the
way to Brooklyn, and now back to Minneapolis for me. The concept of time has
left me to a perspective and focus of what’s important: people that support and
uphold your greatest interests, and the brief time you have with them on earth.
<i>Christ, I gotta visit my grandmother
first thing when I get back. I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t the first and
last thing I thought before I board a plane. Weird? F*ck that noise, you’re
weird if you’re not thinking of the oldest living woman in your life when you
board a steel bird to take flight across the country… I digress. </i>Corina,
and nearly every damn person I’ve met on this trip, has some kind of purpose in
the grand scheme of things. Searching for that meaning is senseless. It’ll work
itself out at some point like any mellow drama soap opera, rpg game, or Final
Fantasy sequel… <i>I take that last one
back. Final Fantasy stories are religiously epic, but sometimes end in fatal
and/or absolute disaster.</i> However it ends with this (my) existence on
earth, there isn’t a single part of this path I would regret. Riding a train in
the sky between dense, urban township and cloud, back to your home- the
scenario is too beautiful to leave room for something as menial as a regret.<o:p></o:p></div>
Toussaint Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166917587593159769noreply@blogger.com2