I am angry. From the exterior you look at me and I don't offer the façade of an angry man, but believe me when I tell you, I am angry. I'm angry because my parents were angry. I'm sure they didn't intend to pass such a negative trait down to their son, just as their parents didn't intend to pass the very same fire-filled anger down to them. But, they did. And

so the vicious tradition continues.

Why am I angry you ask? I don't know for sure...but I know that I am. I feel it in my bones whenever I look into your blue eyes and wonder: are those the very eyes my great-grandmother stared into as she was raped; my great-grandfather, as he was hung?

Generations removed, but painful nonetheless.

I know, I know. I shouldn't fault you for the mistakes and misdeeds your forefathers inflicted on mine. I know, I know...but I can't help myself, especially as I witness your continuous RISE, and my inevitable fall.

Fall I must, for every time I think I've made some great accomplishment---some astounding new revelation, I realize I am right back where I started, no-where...

Instantly my knees begin to buckle, as my legs become weak---for it is impossible to stand where there is no ground.

Again, I see your eyes.

Eyes that belittle, and make of me less the man that I am. Eyes that---

Please, for your sake and mine, do not look at me.

I am angry because you cannot begin to understand my pain, my suffering, my tears. Tears I weep for my mother whose life began all too soon, and has ended much too early. She lives, but there is no joy. She gave that up a long time ago for a life filled with bro-ken promises and empty dreams.

I promised her I'd make her proud one-day.

She's still waiting…

But she's not disappointed because she understands what it's like to fall, only to get back up, and fall again.

I see the pain in her eyes as she watches me struggle from day to day. At night I hear her weeping, wishing, she could have done more. But what more could she have done to prepare me for a world filled with fictitious justice? What could she have done to prevent me from embracing the knowledge that I am still confined to the rear of the bus?

My anger heightens, and corrodes what once was a heart full of dreams---and still you look at me, and dare question my life. Question my existence. Question my purpose. Silently, you shake your head and wonder, where did it all go wrong…

I'll tell you: It happened the day you took what did not belong to you: the heart and soul of my ancestors.

Today through your eyes I look at my daughters, my sons, brothers, sisters, father and mother and I weep. For I see lives hopelessly lost; searching for acceptance; seeking validation from a world that has long ceased to embrace them.

Oh my lord, a people forgotten...

What's up black men? Warriors? Keepers of the Flame?

When are we gonna do it? When are we going to stand up and embrace ourselves, and each other? When are we, like the late great Essex Hemphill once urged, going to start an organization to save our lives?

We're dying----I'm dying!

What are you going to do about it? What are we going to do about it?

If black men can't come together in brotherhood, then I'm afraid all is lost.

If we can't recognize our differences and embrace each other nonetheless, then I'm afraid all is lost.

If we can't get passed the light skin, dark skin, I'm gay, you're straight, upper class, lower class bullshit that's keeping us isolated, then, I'm really afraid all is lost.

Or is it?

I don't know about you but I'm tired of being an invisible man. I'm tired of being linked to statistics and stereotypes that define me, even before I am allowed define myself. I'm tired of the chains that bind my mind, spirit and soul limiting my ability to enjoy the freedoms they say I have. I'm tired and I'm sick. I'm sick and I'm tired.

Shit, now I sound like my mama…

Picture this: a beautiful spring afternoon, Brooklyn, 2003. After much debate my boy and I decide to make the trek to the local Pathmark to pick up a few eats for the week. Our hesitation is partly due to my slight hang over from a party I'd gone to the night before, and my boy's return that morning from a weekend college retreat with a group of his high-school students.

We're tired, but at the same time realize that if we don't hit up Pathmark today we'll most likely have to eat out for the rest of the week.

Once we hit the streets we realize it's a beautiful day and it would have been wasted just lying around the house all day. And so almost instantly our mood heightens. We decide to not only pick up some groceries, but some kicks as well. About an hour later we arrive at our intended destination. After debating whether or not we needed a shopping cart or a basket we head directly to the fruit aisle (I'm a vegetarian) . I see the grapes and immediately my mouth waters; I pick a juicy one and pop it in. (Before I spend $2.99 a pound I need to determine if the shit's sweet or not.) However, before I could fully savor the splendor of the fruit a voice blurts out: "God! I would never buy any grapes here. You're the third person to come up and pop one in your mouth."

I turn and find a young woman, maybe in her mid to late thirties fondling a barrel of Granny Smith apples. A number of her dark colored dreadlocks are neatly pulled back, while the others hang just about her shoulders. Her skin is wonderfully dark, and to my delight natural. Its easy to see why, her skin is flawless, not a scratch, blemish or hint of irregularity is anywhere to be found. But, as I study her I try to match the voice, a condescending, I would never, how dare you , type of voice to the calm, spiritual-looking soul standing before me.

"Excuse me?" I squint trying to understand her blatant attack.
"I said I would never buy any grapes here with you people constantly putting them in your mouth!"
"But they're grapes!" I reason.
"Yeah, but you're not supposed to eat them until you buy them." She snorts loudly.

Okay by this time I'm getting pissed. Maybe I'm not supposed to test the product before purchasing them. I'm sure somewhere there's an undisclosed rule about this--but for as long as I could remember my mother always tested grapes before purchasing them. And for as long as I've been shopping on my own I've seen hundreds , if not thousands of people test grapes. Now all of sudden the Grape Moral Patrol was out to govern the illegal sampling of the fruit before its purchased?!

I try to remain calm because I know once I'm wound up I'm liable to say shit I'll later regret. So I explain to the young lady the reason behind my action, and why I don't think it's as bad as she's making it out to be. Many Americans sample fruit. Why her frequent groping of the apples were her way of selecting the best fruit for her dollar. Whether we liked it or not, when it came to fruit we were and are touchy feely people.

Apparently my logic did not reach her, she continued to look at me as if I were the man who had just betrayed Jesus and turned him over to the enemy. Many of the other patrons had begun making quips about her because when she made her initial comment she had in fact insulted them as well. The shit was starting to get ugly.

Then, it happened. I don't know how, or when, but she turned the shit around. In less than a New York City minute, I went from being the victim to the attacker! All of a sudden this spiritual looking chick started throwing out things like, "You have way to much time on your hands..." And, "You're still talking about this?" And, " Wow, so much anger!" While simultaneously batting her eyes, and waltzing around like I had been the one to intrude on her personal space! That shit killed me! It took everything in me not to pick up an apple and bust this spiritual looking bitch (oops I meant lady) on her head.

My boy to the rescue...

My boy saved me from myself. He noticed that while she was playing her "role" , the innocent bystander who was unjustly attacked while defending the honor of the defenseless grape , I was growing more and more irate. He managed to get me out the aisle before I really did the unthinkable.

It took a minute but eventually I calmed down. We ran into her a few more times while shopping and still the same smug look graced her face. It angered me so much because when you first see someone like her you think one thing, and so you're not prepared for the truth. And when you're forced to see it, and deal with it, it completely knocks you out of your center. I was having a good day. Like I mentioned earlier I was a little hung over, but it was because I had spent the night at a banging mid-town party with a group of really good friends dancing my ass off! On top of that I was in love, and happy! And I had just bought some hot ass sneakers to kick the summer off! And then ***bam --just like that the shit changed! I was frustrated! Restless! And annoyed beyond relief! I had been minding my own business, doing my own thing when out of nowhere this comment , followed by the most intense self-righteous stare I'd ever witness on a black woman completely knocked me off track. It wasn't until my boy said, "She's playing the victim. She attacked you, then played it off as if she was innocent." That I fully began to understand the experience.

So anyway, we checked out and started our trek back home. As we crossed Fulton Street and headed down Marcy Avenue, this green car sped up, then slowed down and the occupant, the beautiful, dark skinned, dreaded, flawless skin woman from the supermarket spit: "Go home and fuck your man! You nasty ass Batty boy!"

I laughed. But honestly I wanted to throw down my bags, chase her down pull her out of her car and beat the living shit out of her. But instead, I laughed. I laughed because she had no idea who I was or, who we were. She saw two well spoken, well mannered black men in the heart of Bedford Stuyvesant, dressed unlike the many due-ragged, saggy jeaned, white tee-shirt multitude, and automatically assumed: Gay.

Shit, lol, how pathetic is that?

Today I got to thinking...why are we so afraid to die?   From birth, you know the day will come when you will be no more, yet we spend our entire lives fearing that inevitable moment: Will it be painful?   Will I know when its happening?   Will there be bright lights? An after-world?   Or are we really reincarnated?

Honestly, what is it about death and our preoccupation with it?   Is it the unknown?   The fact that we cannot control it----that we can't pencil it in and say: yeah, two weeks from now is a perfect time to die?

The other week on the train I listened as a fellow passenger berated the rest of us, "Get right with Jesus!" he yelled constantly, "Because your day is coming!"   

He went on to explain how his landlord, a seemingly young woman with a promising future dropped dead suddenly of a heart attack.   He used this angle to pump fear into the hearts of the passengers.   "Any one of you can die right now!   You can step off this train, and just die!   Will you be ready?"

I tried my best to understand his approach.   He wanted to convey to people the need to be ready to meet Jesus.   His goal was to save souls/lives.   But at the same time, he himself revealed his fear of dying.   He admittedly stated he wanted to live a long life, and that he was not in the least bit ready to die.   And so I got to thinking, why?   If dying meant meeting your maker, the one you're trying your best to coerce everyone on this train to turn to, then why not desire death?   Why not seek it out?   Why not count the days until you will join your almighty father in heaven? Why?

The only reason I could come up with is his humanness.   Humans, no matter their faith don't want to die.   They want to live forever.   Most would rather be hooked up to a machine for years and years and years, than risk slipping into the unknown.   They would rather lose all usage of their limbs, than to slip quietly into the afterlife.

It is my belief many fear death because of our experiences with death.   To many it seems as if death comes to soon.   "My fill in the blank was too young to die! They had so many good years ahead of them.   It just isn't fair!"

Question: When is a good age to die?  Whether the deceased was old, or young someone somewhere is going to feel cheated by thier death.   They're going to feel violated, lost, empty, and angry.

Again, I'm not sure why all of this is coming out today and maybe, I'm not making a bit of sense. But what I do know is I don't want to be afraid to die.   I don't want that feeling so many of us have about death "lurking" around the corner.  

Life is too short man...you gotta do your thang.

This is what motivates many of my peers.   Do your thing before its too late.   Rush, finish up everything you're working on before you die.   Why?   In death will you reap the benefits?   Can you carry your career, your home, your millions with you to the grave?   If not, then what the fuck is the purpose?   To have a tree planted in your honor?   An award named after you? I'm saying, in the grander scheme of things, does any of that even matter?

Do what you do because it makes you happy.   Spend your time here on earth living as much as you can, for as long as you can.   Laugh! Joke! Play!   Make for yourself a life you won't regret leaving.   Because as the old saying goes: when it's your time, it's your time.   And damn' it, there's nothing you can do about it.