G. Eric Francis's Blog, page 8

A story about me, the finale

Ain't too much to say after that.

Underachieved, kids are unique, dreams are near death like a house across the street from a graveyard.

But, it is an odd void.

I smile most days. I don't get to talk to many of my old hanging partners. Get a Facebook poke here and there. And the silence from the East Coast hurts a lot.

I cause self controversy, and I inflict many of my own wounds.

But there are others worse off.

This will be short.

The one with the way with words have run out of pathways.

A new president or an old one will sit in victory 35 days from this date.

We haven't learned much in 236 years.

I have learned some in 43.

I wish for things...but don't know how to realize them.

And my son thinks I am mean.

But so do other sons.

This is the story of me...convoluted, kind, loving, and the funk.

A Story About Me Part II

I remember the "pop" the sponge-like ball made when it hit the wall.
I also remember the bit of wind that I made whenever I swung through one of his curveballs, sliders, and fastballs.

Baseball swing discipline was never my strong point. But, ever so often, he would leave one down the middle of the plate...

...and I'd still strike out.

I remember one year, spring to summer (even tho sadly, I couldn't tell you the EXACT year, except it was in the mid 1980's) where a boy who lived across the street and I did battle, back when baseball didn't have folks shooting drugs so that they could extend careers (note, they probably did, but we didn't know about it), and kids still wanted to be the next slugger or great pitcher.

We'd get together, play one or two games a day, and then hang out (mostly at his mom's; I have no idea why he rarely came to my house - I think he was at my mom's probably 5 times b4 I went to college).

But those ball games..those were games of legend...battles between a free swinging slugger (and I use "slugger" lightly) and a complete player that, if life didn't direct him in a different way, would of just have retired recently after a stellar professional career.

He knew how to control that sponge baseball, throwing with different arm angles, pitches dodging left & right, up and down. We played on the side of my building, a white structure with cement terraces, a strike stone etched in chalk. Nice thing about that is when you hit the corner (well, especially when it was wet) of the strike zone, there were no arguments.

There was a torn down building behind where we used to play, and all that was left behind a fence that separated our mini "playing field" was a lot of bricks, and other things dumped there that I probably didn't need to know about when I was a teen. When it was your turn to pitch, you tossed your pitches with a bench in front of you. It made for an interesting dynamic, but that was NYC for you.

During our "season", I only beat him twice. Usually I got blown out, because while I was one dimensional, he was a complete player.

However, ever so often (well, about 43 times that season), I got him. I took him deep.

Now, a home run was anything that got over that "brick graveyard" behind us. Now, I had some power in my youth, and when I connected, I CONNECTED. Put it either on the street beyond the junkyard, or "out of the park" on the street across from the bricks.

It was our bonding, our time, something that built what turned out to be a 33 year journey together....well, sort of.

For about 4 years, we lost contact, he getting married, I going off to college. Now if I can count, he lived (and still lives) in a building across the street from where we played ball, raising his kids, enjoying a long marriage, and growing up to be a pretty decent human being.

Now, when I see him, things are the same...yet things are quite different. Our philosophies are, well, quite different. At times, whenever I think about the "thwap" sound of that rubber/spongy baseball, and how I thought he was so cool...the guy who grew up to be a great dad and husband (and uber nerd; he collects figurines of superheroes and movie characters, reads graphic novels, and hits Comic Con regularly; however he would qualify as the the coolest nerd of all time; brilliantly sarcastic, and in a lot of ways when I was a kid, I looked up to the guy).

Sometimes, when I think about my friend, it brings back memories of happier days...yet at the same time, it makes me a little sad.

But as in all relationships, you take the good and the bad.

Had a "Facts of Life" Moment. Wow.

We all have them, don't we? Some of them good, some of them quite crappy.

But for those good times, those home runs, those 2 victories, and even all of those losses on the side of a white building in the Bronx that still stands, any price would of been worth it.

A story about me...part 1.

Hello.

I wanted to take a moment to tell you a story...this one in two parts. It is a personal one, and the name of the innocent and guilty may or may be changed.

I was born in 1969 in Manhattan in NYC. I lived in the Bronx for about 19 years or so, before my folks moved out to the suburbs. Before that took place, I attended elementary school around the corner from a 16 floor building, in which I lived on the 14th floor, Apartment D. In my years in the Bronx, I have been in 7 fights, winning 6, losing one (with an old friend, no less; years of watching pro wrestling taught him much). I never was the popular kid, being called everything from "Gaylord" (a stupid slang for homosexuality, because my ass was better formed than other kids, and it shook when I walked) to big head (because well, I have a big head, which contributed to that 1 loss in a fight).

I grew up loving baseball, cheering for the Yankees since they won a title in 1977 (even though during the 1980s, when the Yankees were terrible, I applauded when the Mets won in 1986). In the city, stickball was the sport of choice, even though, as one would face my old building (a tall white structure) on the left side, a boy and I started a 33 year (and hopefully counting) odyssey by tossing a rubber ball at a box drawn on the wall, representing a strike zone.

That'll be told in part two of this story.

Getting back to that lack of popularity, I had a desperate need to be liked by anyone...especially girls. There was a girl named Myrtle, who was my first crush. I remember writing a letter in pink crayon (it was the only one handy), talking about "tongue kissing." It's funny...due to later issues in life, I couldn't tell you more than 3 of my teachers that I remember by name, but I remember that note...downstairs in my elementary school (CS 92), as we were about to go home for the day.

The next great (failed) crush was Cynthia, who I chased from about 5th grade till 7th grade. We are actually still friends today, even though I haven't spoken to her in a couple of years. She was a bad ass Latin chick, and I thought she was beautiful. This was the begininning of a journey that would lead me to marrying a white woman. Not that there was a problem with that (she is a great woman), but sadly, not too many black females gave me the time of day (hiding their watches in the progress). But more on that later.

Other girls followed, but the 2 biggest ones (that I actually dated!) was Juliet and Stacy (more on her later; and for those who follow the blog, have mentioned her b4). Juliet was Jamaican, and while I find my wife beautiful, she was universally considered hot by most who saw her in the 1980s. Physically perfect. Got my first kiss from her...at 16. First sexual experiences (not intercourse, but practically everything else). She was the rare combo of beauty and a good heart.

Then, I got greedy, and fell hard for another girl (sadly, not the first time I would screw up a good thing). Serena...a girl who I would love to see what happened to, because she ended up being a better friend than anything else (note, I not only struck out with her, but at my 17th birthday party - better known as the biggest disaster in the history of teen-hood -Juliet was there, and I told her goodbye. Truly the dumbest thing I've ever done in my personal life).

The final woman of color I dated in this life was named Shantel. A light-skinned hottie that I got with the summer before I went to college. Now, I went to a mostly white church...and white girls (there was one there, who had a brother, and for the life of me, I can't remember her name). This is where they began to catch my eye. Now don't get me wrong...I talked to plenty of girls of color...and beyond Juliet, I struck out every time.

I wasn't black enough.

I listened to too much "white" music (last time I checked, music was universal, but well, we human beings, including myself, can be quite flawed).
I wasn't "hard enough" (not penis wise...to quote Eddie Murphy - I dare you to find which movie I got this from - "There's nothing wrong with my yang!"). I guess I wasn't "hood" enough (before "hood" was even a slang).

So between the porn I watched back in the day (my libido, as I learned later in my 20's, would end up being my undoing many a time) that put the idea that white women were more free in bed, and my continuous striking out in my teen years, a journey began where a black woman would have to be Halle Berry hot to get my attention.

Sad, I know....but i am getting off the trail here, so let me move on.

My obsessive need to be liked followed me to (and through) to college, and beyond my last year in college where I hit the bar scene hard, I spend most of my days either sleeping through class (chasing many a white girl, and striking out more than Reggie Jax till the aforementioned Stacy)or playing pool, the last 3 years with an old friend, whose future plans actually partially inspired my first novel.

Then Stacy showed up...and well, let's just say beyond about 6 weeks of total bliss (I think it is, beyond joking around with my wife, the only time in my life where I didn't give serious thought about another girl), my senior year was a living hell, including an attempted suicide attempt. This was followed by graduation, and me spending the next year swallowing all my pride chasing a woman who wanted me as much as an STD.

The 20 or so years following this was a combination of a bad relationship (better friends again), hurting a great gal due to that libido of mine, and then running into a tall blonde (at the time) girl who I ended up getting married and having 2 boys with.

Now, I am sitting here today, September 23rd 2012, wondering why I am writing this for folks to see.

I think I have a couple of answers for that.

In my late 20s, I went from a shy, socially clumsy kid to an opinionated, brash, piss off most folks to the point they don't speak to me anymore man. Even the folks that I thought were down have mostly kept their distance. Now, I have never said anything malicious (well, I made fun of my son's clumsiness, becoming my father in the process...don't worry, I've stopped since then); I love to debate. But I guess folks didn't want to get out of their comfortable "all is OK" shells, and they cut me off.
Now, fault goes both ways, and I accept that. My sense of humor is at times x-rated, I talk about uncomfortable subjects at times, and the list goes on and on. My phone never rings beyond people wanting money that I cannot give them, yet I keep upgrading to new tech (my obsession, probably to fill the emptiness in my life). Most people I know are, at least financially, more successful than I am. Most people, including those in my own household, do not respect me in any way, despite me never intentionally hurting them.

Oh, I wrote a book that in 3 weeks has sold 12 copies.

Not good to burn bridges.

The other reason is that as that I cannot afford therapy, writing, which is one of the few things that I have been blessed at being OK at, serves that purpose. I put words to computer (beforehand, paper), and I feel better for a few minutes before life kicks me in the booty again. I will never retire, my children have mental issues of some sort (wonderful as they are), and while I can go to my grave knowing that I at least put my work out there, more than likely I won't be able to make a living at it.

But I get up most mornings and smile.

Probable insanity, to be sure.

But from this story, even though I took 2 and 1/2 decades to learn this, I figured that every day I get up is a chance to make things better. I figured that being miserable just makes the crap I deal with all the time worse. I try to teach my sons and my spouse this lesson...haven't been successful yet, but I'm trying.

(I just realized I haven't even talked about my up and down - mostly down - relationship with God yet. One thing I have learned as that one cannot get help if they are not willing to help themselves...but that's another post for another day...maybe I'll make this 3 parts).

So at this point in life, whether I am near the end or at the 1/2 way point, I am an early 40's underachiever, probably having to take a low paying job so he can keep his house. A lot of folks are like me...some feel sorry for themselves, others are glad to even have a chance.

I guess I am in the middle...still secretly wishing I could pull a Sally Filed and say "You Really Like Me!"

Problem is, that is part of me...a big part, but minority. In this ride, I just want my boys to survive this world, my wife to finally have joy in her heart, and for me personally, just for folks to read the book before they believe the cover.

Now, this message.

The Boogie...Downed.

I am in my home state as I write this, and as I was walking out this morning to run some errands for my female parental unit, I, for whatever friggin' reason, starting reminiscing on my childhood.

I was a child of the 1970's and 1980's, and especially in the 80's, I experienced, well, mostly crappy memories...:)

However, I remember some things fondly...

Striped Lees (and the following parody of Tears For Fear's "Shout" when the fashion played out)...

Kangols, hats, that in hindsight, looked better on old white men (or recently, Samuel L. Jackson).

Sheepskin jackets that I never owned, because one my family couldn't afford them, and two, I have this allergic reaction for bullets (folks got shot a lot for them in the Bronx).

Shell top Adidas (never owned those either, but I did have suede Pumas; different colors as well, and I kept a toothbrush in my back pocket to try to keep them clean).

I listened to hip hop when it was, well, hip hop. I also listened to Bon Jovi, Poison, Whitesnake, and all the other "hair bands" of the day.

Folks said I was a sellout. As a black man, I didn't have many black friends. My best friend to this day (even though at times we are not as tight as we once were) is of Latin descent, and most of the folks I hung out with were the same.

A few years ago, that same friend was driving me and my wife around (I believe this was before I had kids) and when I said something about being home, he said bluntly..

"This isn't your home anymore."

I think that memory really kick started this post. It made me remember the past, look at my present (a black man in the MidWest who is opinionated and has been alienated because of that opinion), who has come "home"...yet I am not going to see those people from that era of the 1980s.

Is some of that my fault. Absolutely.

Are memories awesome? Well, some.

They make you what you are today...good or bad, better or worse.

But the term "home" has been foreign to me for a long time.

I guess that makes me sad.

But, I keep on trekking on, figuring out what to do next...as a father, as a husband, and for those who can deal with my opinions, a friend.

Oh, as an author, two. At least I've sold 12 books in 17 days....better than I was b4.

Anyone over 35 remember the 1980's TV show "The Greatest American Hero?"

Teacher get a suit from space that, once he puts it on, he becomes a superhero.

Problem is, he lost the instruction manual on how to use the suit.

Life is sort of like the same way...cept you never got the manual to lose.

Just a passing sigh

The "dad" is in a bad way.

It is funny how life works...you start as a child, grow up, and eventually you have to become the parent to the parents.

It is a bad deal...a cruel joke that the Big Guy above plays on you.

You go through this process, and you know that perhaps one day (assuming you had kids) that they will have to do the same thing to you.

Ugh.

It is hard when the one who you once thought was omnipotent is nothing more than a shell with a soul filling, the clock slowly ticking to 12.

Don't mind me...I guess that I wasn't prepared for this life lesson...I should of played hooky today.

Free Novel! (Yeah, another promotion)...

Hola.

Here is another commercial folks, so I apologize.

But, I promise to be brief.

As I mentioned a little less that a couple of weeks ago, I wrote a book called "A Prayer For The Dying.". If you didn't want to flip back to the post before last, here is a link to the synopsis:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B009... (kindle version)

Anywho, I wanted to offer 50 copies of the book for free. All that I ask is that you write a review for the book. Just cheap advertising, since I need to get the word out on my book.

So, if interested, I would like you to email me at this address:

gffauthor69@aol.com

Hey, it is a great read (I think so), and I want some honest reviews...if you want to buy the book, great (purchased books carry more weight), but I am willing to give up some profit just to get the word out.

I hope to hear from you and remember, if you are not careful, Romney will come to get ya....:)

9/11 and 11 and 11

Hmm.

Well, obviously today is a somber one for Americans.

Today wasn't somber for me...not because I feel little of 9/11. I was born and raised in NYC. 11 years ago, I was working for a company called Cellular One/Cingular Wireless/Now AT&T that doesn't work worth a damn. My wife, who was pregnant and didn't know it at the time, called me at said that a small plane flew into the World Trade Center.

Today, I got up and got a call from my mom about my dad, who is in a nursing home.

11 years ago, my wife told me a little while later a second plane flew into the towers.

Today, I balanced my checkbook and sighed, because I am one broke dude.

11 years ago, before there were HDTV's that you could afford, a big ol' box of a TV was rolled into the call center I worked for, and there wasn't much work done.

Today I went to BW3's and had a Jerk Chicken Sandwich, Cherry Coke, and some "chips with cheese." Not healthy in the slightest.

11 years ago, I couldn't reach my mother, aunts, and a number of family members because we were thrust into the stone age, and phone service didn't exist to the East Coast.

Today, I had to pick up a mower, spending money I didn't have, so that I wouldn't be fined for having grass so high, my fat ass dog almost got in it while going out to take a poop.

11 years ago I was so upset, my boss at the time asked if I needed to go hom. I told him no...I needed the money.

Today, my wife and I rented a movie, and was surprised that the flick was much better than I thought it would be.

11 years ago...we, for a little bit, were united.

Today, before all this started, I shook my head because we are so disconnected, it's like we dropped the puzzle that was put together that day, watching it smash into all its pieces.

11 years ago...well, I don't know.

Today, I still don't.

Yes, this is a commercial

Hello, folks.

Today, I will not blast you with my political views, nor my rants about life.

I will neither bore you with my anecdotes, or try to change you to my way of thinking.


No, today I am going to be especially selfish, and definitely self promoting.

Today, I am going to tell you about the book I just published.


Yes, I am hoping that someone actually PAYS for something I wrote. I know, that is absolutely...capitalist.

Disgusting!

The book is called "A Prayer for the Dying." Copied and pasted straight from the book's website, here's the synopsis (da da dum!!!):

"A Prayer For The Dying is the story of a young boy who loses the brother he looked up to to a new, deadly strain of the Human Immune Deficiency Virus. Using his knack for biology and chemistry, he is able to discover a cure...with one catch.

The only person that the cure works on is himself.

Determined to help others avoid his brother's fate, he turns to the United States government to help further his research. Escorted by two unpredictable (but very good at what they do) agents from a special division of the Drug Enforcement Agency, he attempts to make a trip cross country to the nation's capital to continue his work.

But possessing a cure to one of the deadliest diseases ever inside his own bloodstream invites some unscrupulous company. Knowing the cure is worth billions, one powerful enemy is determined that he never reaches his destination."

I know, you are saying "where the hell is my credit card! I am buying this right now!"

But wait, there's more!

Part of the proceeds (if there are any) from sales of the book will go to the following charities...

amfar
National Down Syndrome Society (and a local chapter)
Go Red For Women
National Autism Association

Now here's the funky fresh part...of of these charities have affected me somehow.

amfar is for AIDS research...lost an aunt to AIDS 20 years ago.

Go Red for Women is for the ladies dealing with the risk of heart attacks...my wife had one on Xmas Eve 2011.

Down Syndrome Society and Autism...my 6 year old has both.

(The Kleenex is on the right if you need any).

All jokes aside, it is a great book, and you would be supporting a great cause. I see that over 6,000 people have read my blog. That's pretty cool. If we can get that many sold, a little help can go a long way for these great causes.

OK, selling crap is over...next time, I'll return with more observations that y'all will roll your eyes at.

But, at least I'll be consistent...a lot more than the U.S. Government is, right?

(Damn it, I made a political statement....crap.)

:)

Here are the links to the book, available in Kindle and Nook Formats:

Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0095BZOZQ
Nook: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0095BZOZQ
A Prayer For The Dying

I don't have a clue, dude.

I just discovered that I have no idea what it is like to be Black/African American/Niggerish in America.

I honestly truly don't.

And to be real, I don't think a lot of modern people of color have a damned clue, either.

This thought came to me yesterday, as I watched a movie, as is my want on Saturdays when I don't want my children to irritate the shit out me...which they did anyway.

My mind is a truly interesting minefield, as that the crap that pops up at any given moment frightens me from time to time.

But yesterday, while I watched my action movie of the week, it struck me that I, as a man of color, don't even know the cost of the shade in this society. Now sure, I've been called nigger a few times....well, actually less than a few. Twice. Once while driving in Columbus (I have no idea why I was in Columbus at the time), and another by some ignorant fuck in a park somewhere...who of course was far away when he said it.

But does that give me an idea of what it is like to be a minority in the U.S.A.?

Now in my house, I have sadly made fun of myself as a black man, as well as the fact that I am a fat man, a broke man, a dependent man, a negative man, a not so attractive man, and any other flaw that I have that strikes me as funny. I see it as a way for folks to feel better about themselves, as well as stop me from popping pills and downing it with rubbing alcohol...like I attempted to do in 1990 b4 the girl who was giving me the humpty dance at the time stopped me.

But...despite the fact that I have had jokes made about me smiling to be seen at night, or open your eyes in the same situation, I still don't truly have a grip on what it is like to be expected to know how to dance (I suck), play basketball (double suck), or have a large penis (well, 2 out of three being WRONG isn't bad).

My world today consists of spending 98% of my time away from people of color. My wife is white. My kids are half white, but they might as well be all the way Caucasian, because whenever they are around my side of the family, they act like the old white women who get in an elevator with me from time to time, clutching their purses. I truly have no black friends, and my best friend is of the Latin persuasion. I haven't dated a woman of color since the 1980's. Been called a sellout because I have country, metal, classical, and rock in my music list (even though more than 50% of my music is either rap/hip-hop or R&B).

So, did I get lost on the highway of blackness?

Now some folks out there feel they are "black enough" because they have been discriminated against, and I am sure that because they are not White Anglo Saxon Protestant (by descent or otherwise) MEN (ladies of all races, y'all at times have it just as bad, cuz just u were born with vaginas, which ain't right), they are hated on cuz they are simply not understood. However, there are a great number of the modern whatever term you wish to call my race that use their "blackness" to their advantage, if such a thing exists. Now I am all for advantages, but you know...if their grandmothers are still here, or even their parents, I think they have a better grip on the entire "black" mystique than they could ever grip or realize.

Their is, however, the entire "expected responsibility" of being the race not known as white. Like the music you have to like (don't dare say you hate Mary J. Blige, damn it!). Or support the president because he happens to be black. Or a myriad of other "responsibilities" that one must have because you are more resistant to skin cancer than Caucasians/Whites/Honky/Blue Eyed Devils.

It is all so damned confusing, and I think I should recommend to the NAACP to write the modern African Descendant a f'n manual, so that we can at least try to "feel" what you are supposed to feel...or understand who we truly need to be.

Anyway, I guess to conclude, I am what I am...trying to b G (not an O.G., mind you; oo old for that shit). Yeah, I am black or whatever. Yeah, I have said to folks (which have caused a lot of them, mostly white, but also my own family) that racism is alive and thriving in the good ol' U.S. of A, which has caused themto walk away, feeling that I am a blowhard, I don't have the right to speak on it, and blah blah blah (actually I wanted to say "Well, Well, Well", but my wife hates Duffy). And I know that being a 200 lb + black dude will scare some folks, while others expect me to be a comedian (what I like to call the "Eddie Murphy Syndrome). But I really do wish I knew what I was supposed to feel, as that whenever I go to my wife's side of the family, I sort of stick out.

Then again, the same is said of her.

What is it like to be white, anyway?

I'll ask Mitt Romney the next time I see him.

Oh wait...white people don't know how he thinks either.

Never mind.

4th-in

I remember one time while perusing the high quality items at Wally-World, where an older gentleman, with if memory serves was a U.S. Army hat on with "veteran" on it stopped to chat with me while I was looking at a notebook computer, which is what I have been known to do ever so often. He chatted about a variety of things, and I gathered that he simply wanted someone to talk to. My mother, who has taught to respect my elders, allowed me to listen to the man for about 10 minutes, all along trying to find a way to politely walk away, which for the first few attempts I failed at miserably, as that he kept talking.

Finally, I said in the nicest way that I was glad I had talked to him, and finally began to walk away. Now, normally I would of said "whew", but for whatever reason, I turned around, and the fellow seemed a little sad as he turned and walked in the opposite direction. 99% of the time I would of ignored it, but the dude did tell me about a time (believe he served in Vietnam, from what he mentioned during his many well spun tales) he did take a bullet...and not for dinner.

So, even tho I wanted to leave, what stared the conversation was him wanting my opinion on what notebook he wanted. He wanted to keep in contact with his son and grandkids.

I turned around, and I guess that the only reason that this came to mind to me was today happened to be the 4th.

"I would go with this HP here," I believe remember saying as I walked back and got his attention. He actually had a decent grip on computers (unlike some parental units I know....wink), and he knew about things such as Skype, emailing, and so on. Computer was a good deal; nothing fancy, just enough to handle video chat and basic computing. He thanked me, and he smiled. I smiled back, told him to have a great day, and headed out towards my other favorite destination, Best Buy....:)

I guess the only reason that this just hit me, besides the fact it is a big ol' patriotic holiday, is that well, this was a guy who grew up in a time where we were more outwardly divided that we are now. Yet, he wanted someone to speak to, and in hindsight, his stories were pretty interesting, as that I love history.

So, to all the men and women who are like this fellow, and because of his experiences I can sit here on a computer and say what I want and just have my friends cut me of (grin)....Happy 4th of July, and thank you.

And I hope that he enjoyed his computer.