h. Play

My dad asked me what had happened in the past fifteen days. Like, that was his question. When he knows we’re in a pandemic. Knows that there were protests against police brutality against black folks all around the damn planet.

I’m just listening. Trying to see if there will be some kind of care toward me or something. Nope.

After I answer “you know murders, protests” he jumps on to explain to me that he “knows” police brutality because once… I mean you know it’s not comparable at all. A blonde, blue-eyed boomer cannot understand (without some research) what we, I am going through. He doesn’t have dead names and dead faces floating in his soul, leaving scars for decades. He doesn’t even know what looking for a job is.

I’m listening and trying to see how or where my parents made any progress toward race relationships comprehension and so forth. They will never do that. I’m realizing this. That would kind of ruin their achievements, wouldn’t it? There’s no acknowledgement of that singular black pain whatsoever. Even with footage of crowded streets and headlines in French. Even with a black son.

So I’m sitting here in California with my white parents in France ignoring the part where I am a black man, talking to me about how the police “can be” bad. They’re not getting it. They’re soft. They don’t want nor have to face anything. Privilege.

So I’m watching them on my computer acting up about shit they don’t comprehend, while they hose me with vast amounts of disrespect and traditional love (“this shirt looks good on you”).

Once they were done with their weak diatribe, I thought “how do I know those people?”. And it’s just really painful to go through the memories. I don’t.

It’s excruciatingly hard right now. Everything but pain looks like an illusion. To better days.

We’re getting lynched in the streets of the world.

Black men are an expendable thing out there like tissues during the flu season. So when one shows up and is adulated by virtually everyone on earth? Yeah, it’s something you can never forget.

We never talk about it maybe because it’s obvious but Michael Jordan is who he is also because he’s a goddamn handsome man I mean fuck:

There’s just a perfection in there. The Perfect Black Man. The Perfect Black Man Joy. The perfect You Can’t Do Anything Against Me. None.

We all forgot how revolutionary it was when Michael shaved his young head. How much “IDGAF” it was and how inspiring this was.

But I think the biggest achievement was him being black black.

All the biggest stars before him were not. Wesley Snipes hadn’t made it yet. Grace Jones was blackity black but it hit different. Nile Rodgers was hiding. Michael made me want to be darker. That being darker is the Final Form, and the first one.

When you know how much hate darker skin people get to this day (look at women in Black American music, all shapes but very rare dark skin), you understand why him being dark AND completely above everyone in his field, was dramatic and beautiful.

His dark ass scoring 63 points against the Hall of Fame white Celtics looking like Decepticons? Absolutely disgusting and enjoyable.

Michael Jordan made me want to do better, to be free, to not fear. Things that as a  black man are not only extremely intense, but necessary. Because the systems in place are more often than not, not helping. The systems in place are still killing us in different variations, at high rates.

Representation for black men is so bad these days. We lost so many. Michael still stands there, timelessly iconic, with the reputation of being addicted to winning.

I don’t really mind that. We’re still getting lynched in the streets.

My foster brother had those three shirts, back in the mid 80s. He would be posting up at the end of the driveway, smoking Marlboro red with the neighbor’s daughter from across the street. Trying to look slick and smelling like he had just jumped in a cologne bottle. He loved wearing those at that time.

I forgot to mention, he’s a 6’6 tanned white man with green eyes.

He played basketball. With his size, he used to lift me on his feet while laying down on the dining room carpet. I sure thought I was flying.

Anyway as a kid, my favorite was the Magic one. I had seen a few no-look passes on the news and he looked like he was the best basketball player ever. I didn’t think much of MJ. I didn’t think anything about Larry Bird. He looked like the past.

It took a few more years for the Michael-mania to start take over the world.

The fact that my foster brother is the same size as MJ was never lost on me. Because I didn’t have any black folks in my life, I kind of decided to make MJ my other older brother. The one that’s really good at basketball. The brother I wish I had.

This is me these days. I’m still hoopin’ like I play against someone I can’t stop. On a good day though, I can look like a 1984 Chicago draft.

It’s dead quiet besides my mellow funk in the background. I’m watching this sunset, breeze flowing in my face through the tiny squares of the screen. A couple explosions. A siren. Summer in just a few weeks. Wow.

I saw about David McAtee.

Some friends are breaking down, going through a lot. I don’t know how I’m holding on. I keep at my routines like a cop macing a protester. I drink a lot of water before jumping on social media. I tell myself that no news is still good news, it’s the truth. I send mental messages to the people I think about. Pretty sure they’re receiving them, it is science after all.

I’d like to say I love you to all of my beautiful black people out there.

I love you.

They profit from us and then they kill us.

Get the fuck off social media. Use it for the lolz and move on.

Get yourself a self-hosted blog, website, photo gallery, streaming site etc.

Take care of your content, your Intellectual Property, your Brand.

They profit from us and then they kill us.

Get the fuck off those services. Minimize the shit out of them in your life.

A self-hosted solution is $15/month. Learn, build and keep going.

You need to plant the seed now.

You need help? Hit me up.

Take care of y’all’s chicken.

She only came to get help a few times. She’s this thin, 70s clothes wearing black woman. A nerdy one with big glasses and a soft, enthusiastic voice. I like to imagine my biological grandma to be just like that.

One time we had a great conversation about computers and the state of software. She’s a retired programmer! She was warning me about Google (that she has taken off her laptop completely), like she had to.

But anyway, this time she comes in to fix some stuff and asks me how to shut down Windows 10. There are a few more steps compared to 7. I show her. She laments that the computer shop guy took the freedom to install 10 over her 7 that she very much enjoyed. I nod furiously, this is some bullshit.

She zips up her laptop bag, stands up and says softly, bending over, “you know, I could beat his ass”

I “YOOOOOOO” really loud in my head and looking at her I immediately answer, smiling,

“let’s go”

This is a lot isn’t it.

Meanwhile my main computer is down for weeks, I badly burned my finger while making some latte and it’s pretty cold outside.

I should be able to order nice cuddles for delivery, this is outrageous.

I re-watched Mind Game. I kind of have no words on how amazing it is.

But first I have to get it off my chest: the 11 year old, breast obsessed angle is juvenile and didn’t age well. It’s just unnecessary. Breasts and ample, large ones are great and can be used in animated movies, no problem. But the obsession is just childish which is stupid because the movie’s theme –be yourself, live your life fully- is not childish at all. A little dissonance here.

Having said that, I still believe that Mind Game is the most amazing animated movie I’ve ever seen. It mixes absolutely every single technique –rotoscoping, slide show, stop motion, 3D, photos, cel shading– available at that time and everything works together. If you love graphic design, it’s a joy to watch and a must-see.

It was Masaaki Yuasa’s second movie that he directed. Yep. I’m not jealous at all.

Every shot has some of the wildest angles and crazy perspectives you can possibly get. It puts to shame so many narrative video games that want to be edgy, 16 years later. It is just phenomenal. The sound design is fantastic, the music is perfect. Especially for that scene that still gives me goose bumps. The love scene (no spoiler ahead).

The way it happens after they both laugh at something really cute and funny… The way the music starts and how it moves on screen… I think it’s one of the best depiction of making love I have ever seen (including the reference to old movies). That’s it. That’s how it looks like if emotions felt while kissing and feeling someone’s skin were visuals.

Find a way to watch it. And because it’s dense as hell at first, watch it a few times. A true hidden gem.

I saw my foster mom on video chat last Saturday and it feels like it didn’t even happen a week later.

We looked at each other without saying a word for seconds at time. Wide open eyes and smiles. Calling me with my nickname that only her and my cousin call me with. Asking me the usual questions. How are your parents? Do you have a girlfriend? I just say yes to everything, it’s easier.

She considers me her last son and I consider her my first mom. We’re joking that she’ll put all my handwritten cards in the casket when it will be time but I’m like “what time? Take your time”.

My parents and my foster family haven’t talk to each other in over 30 years. My foster dad passed away years ago. I just re-read my post when I was there. That day was so hard.

Both my family and foster family are having big (never happened before) internal fights. You know, people not talking to each other anymore, divorces etc. The thing is, EVERYONE talks to me. I’m not in bad terms with anyone. In the current context, having all kinds of white folks telling me how they feel when my black ass is in the US, mostly in Black America, in this political climate? Man, it’s beyond exhausting. Far beyond.

There are two things I will do when I finally get offered a full-time job: one, buy cigars and good wine and go up a hill for sunset.

Two, buy a plane ticket to go see my first mom and tell her how much I love and owe her.

Trolling is lucrative. Look at the current president. This is how he shot right up to the white house.

Look at this recent shit storm, Doja Cat. And before her, Emoblackthot who I still can’t believe did this shit. Fuck him. And her.

And before them Tyler, the Creator. People forget everything in 48 hours-2months max but I remember how harsh his anti-gay trolling was in 2009. It was brutal and totally not in the zeitgeist. Shocking for shocking value. It didn’t even look true.

Look at his ass today, gayer than a rainbow.

For the past twenty years mainstream culture showed that a lack of authenticity was more and more okay. Everything –reality TV, music careers, fighting the good fight– can be and sadly often is, made up. Go hard on the faux outrageously edgy, get viral, get deals, get money, feel weird and depressed. Get cancelled.

The twist is that individuals, us, still value authenticity a lot. That thing called trust is beautiful and will never not be beautiful. I cherish it like a Hobbit caressing his ring. It is still how we move socially speaking. Trust involved accountability and boring stuff like that. It works, though. It unleashes a needed peace of mind. I crave that and it looks like we all do, in some ways.

But money (and power, those two are the same) wise, especially in creative and artistic fields, we need to perform at various speed and we’re living in the “whatever it takes” paradigm because the world is an increasingly hard place (though it doesn’t have to be). We end up witnessing some wild stuff these days.

The dichotomy between performing (especially at the edge) and actually being, is hurting us so bad. We’re collectively neurotic now. I don’t like it.